by Dan Mayland
“Soon.”
Ayatollah Bayat showed up a half hour later wearing a gray robe, a black turban, the same cheap plastic sandals that Amir wore, and chunky oversized glasses that made his eyes look enormous. His white beard was full and long. On his left hand he wore a silver ring with a huge amber stone.
“Salaam, brother,” said Amir. “Praise be to Allah. I am sorry for this disturbance.”
The brothers embraced.
“It is no disturbance. A visit from you is always a pleasure. I rely on your wisdom like I rely on the air around me.” Ayatollah Bayat gestured with his hands in a theatrical way.
Give me a break, thought Mark.
“I would know nothing at all were it not for your guidance,” said Amir. Switching from Farsi to Azeri, he said, “This is the one I spoke of.”
Ayatollah Bayat faced Mark and attempted a smile.
Mark had dealt with plenty of people in power over the course of his CIA career. He’d lunched with the vice president of the United States—a nice guy—had downed beers with a billionaire who’d bought an ambassadorship to Armenia—an asshole—and had locked horns with half the political higher-ups in Washington and Azerbaijan countless times. One thing he’d noticed was that the powerful tended to fall into one of two categories: those who still, despite their exalted status, felt the need to puff themselves up with titles and showy displays of wealth, or what they perceived to be knowledge, and those who didn’t. He decided to do a little test, to determine which category Ayatollah Bayat fell into.
“Hojjatoleslam Bayat,” he said. “Thank you for meeting with me. I have come for information about my colleague.”
An awkward silence followed. A hojjatoleslam was a rank below that of an ayatollah.
Ayatollah Bayat cleared his throat.
“Ayatollah Bayat,” said Amir. “My brother is an ayatollah.”
“Then I apologize. I had been told otherwise.”
“My brother is frequently called on to lead Friday prayers.”
“I see.”
“He is the leader of the Combatant Clergy Association.”
“I meant no offense.”
Mark’s experience had been that the less religious training an ayatollah had, the more sensitive he was about his title. From the deep frown on Ayatollah Bayat’s face, Mark figured he’d had little training indeed.
Ayatollah Bayat said, “Is it logical to argue like this while we have serious business to attend to? Please, you must both join me in the library.”
The old man walked slowly, gripping the front of his robe with his left hand as he led them to a room ringed by mahogany shelves full of Islamic texts. The ceiling was covered with mirrored tiles, but there was evidence of serious water damage.
“Please, sit.” Ayatollah Bayat glanced at Mark and gestured to the nicest chair in the room. “I will call for tea.”
Mark was sick of people offering him tea. And of waiting. As station chief, he had listened to hours of intercepted conversations between low-ranking Iranian mullahs. Some were true believers. Some were more interested in politics than religion. Some were fond of sex jokes. But they all knew how to speak quickly and without artifice when they wanted to.
He removed the recorder and camera from Decker’s satchel. “I think you’ll be interested in these photos and voice recordings. You’re on them.”
Ayatollah Bayat took a seat in a simple chair that had no seat cushion or armrest. “My brother has told me of the content. I have no need to review the information myself.”
“He told you why I’m here?”
“You are searching for your colleague. The one who assembled this information.”
“He told you the deal I offered?”
The deal was a straight exchange—Decker for the evidence that Decker had collected.
“He did.”
“Your answer?”
“I can tell you this: last week, the dogs that patrol this property at night smelled an intruder. Who would violate this sanctuary, my guards wondered? We have nothing here of value but the work of Allah. Your colleague was discovered on the roof of this house, no doubt engaging in the very spying that led to the information you have in your possession.”
Ayatollah Bayat shook his head as though he were a father disappointed in a child. The gesture reminded Mark of the obnoxiously patronizing priests he’d dealt with as an altar boy three decades ago.
“I regret to tell you,” said the ayatollah, “that he tried to jump down from the roof in an attempt to escape. In doing so, he hit his head. I can assure you that our doctors tried to save him as an act of mercy, but he will now have to look to Allah for mercy.”
Ayatollah Bayat raised his eyes to the ceiling and said, “Oh my servants who have transgressed against your own souls, do not despair of Allah’s mercy, for Allah forgives all sins. It is he who is the forgiving, the merciful.” Looking back at Mark, he said, “Your colleague died of his injuries before he reached the hospital.”
Mark was good at figuring out whether people were lying or not—too much eye contact or not enough, odd pauses, a story that obviously benefitted the teller, forced gesticulations…his intuition in this department had been honed over the course of a long career. And he didn’t believe Ayatollah Bayat for a second. “I would like to see the body.”
“But how could that be possible? There was no evidence your colleague was a Muslim, and we did not know his name, so the body was buried without Islamic funeral rites, in an unmarked grave, in a cemetery for unbelievers. As is natural.”
“Then show me where he jumped, and where his head hit.”
Ayatollah Bayat appeared to consider the request, with unease, for a moment. Finally he stood. “Please follow me.”
Mark was taken to a courtyard behind the mansion. An eight-foot-high brick wall enclosed the small space. Ayatollah Bayat pointed to the top of the wall about fifteen feet from where it met the building, where a brick had fallen away.
“That is where your colleague hit his head.”
Mark eyed the roof, squinting in the bright morning sun. Given that the mansion had three full stories, he estimated that the drop to the wall would have been well over twenty feet. If Decker had been trying to get off the roof the fastest way possible, he probably would have jumped exactly where Ayatollah Bayat said he had.
Assuming that was the case, the distance from the exterior wall of the mansion to the broken brick suggested that Decker hadn’t just lowered himself over the edge of the roof and dropped—to get that far away from the building, he would have had to take a giant running leap off the roof. Which, knowing Decker, Mark thought entirely possible.
He gauged the distance again and imagined Decker in midair. For any normal human being, a leap from that height to a brick wall no more than a foot wide would have resulted in a broken leg at the very least. A fatal head injury was a definite possibility, perhaps even a likelihood.
But Decker was no normal human being. Mark figured Deck could have easily made that jump and hit the ground running.
“Was he wounded prior to jumping?”
“No,” said Ayatollah Bayat. “It was the fall alone that killed him.”
“You’re lying.”
Ayatollah Bayat stared at him for a while. “Of course death is difficult to accept. As an act of compassion, I am willing to arrange for a diyya to be paid to any of his remaining family members. It is not an accepted custom in our country to make such a payment for the death of an intruder, and the rate for a non-Muslim is typically not high, but rational discretion in these matters is often advisable.”
Mark took out his cell phone and pushed a series of buttons.
“What are you doing?” said Amir.
Mark pushed a few more buttons on his cell phone and then snapped it shut. “I just sent an authorization code to my colleagues. Unless I revoke it within two hours, it will be too late to stop the release of the digital files that prove you’ve been conspiring behind Khorasani�
��s back. One of the places the files will be sent is your own intelligence ministry. The only condition under which I will revoke the authorization I just sent is if I am taken to my colleague.”
It was technically a lie. His agreement with Daria was that, if he didn’t return, she would release the information if and when she saw fit.
Ayatollah Bayat looked as though he’d swallowed something rancid. “What you demand is impossible.”
Mark shrugged. “Not my problem.”
“Your life is your problem, my son.”
The threat was delivered awkwardly, with little conviction—a weak attempt to bully by an old man who was used to others doing his bullying for him. And it was ineffective to boot. Mark had long ago come to accept his own death. He figured his life wasn’t so great anyway, and no one was dependent on him. He could afford to gamble.
“You have a choice to make. Either deliver my colleague, or face the consequences.”
Ayatollah Bayat turned, as though he were going to walk away. But then, with his back to Mark, he said, “If we were to agree to your terms, how would you propose we conduct the transfer?”
“When I have my colleague alive and in my custody, and we are at a safe distance, a messenger will deliver the original tapes to the guards outside your estate.”
“If I bring you to my brother, if we satisfy your demand, how can we be sure that you will honor your commitment to destroy these files? And that you won’t tell the Americans of their content?”
“My priority is retrieving my colleague. And I no longer work for the Americans. But the truth is, you can’t be sure.”
“We have seen your face; my guards have taken your picture. We know you are an American. We are a large group. Even if my brother and I were to be arrested, the group would hunt you down were you to deceive us.”
“I know it.”
“In or outside of Iran. For days or years, however long it takes.”
“Understood.”
“I cannot guarantee the condition of your colleague.”
“If he’s alive and likely to stay that way, you’ll have your tapes.”
63
Tehran, Iran
MOST OF VALIASR Street—the main thoroughfare that bisected Tehran—had been turned into a one-way street going north, the better to accommodate shock troops who might need to speed through the city at a moment’s notice to crush a popular uprising. But up in the far north, the traffic still flowed both ways. Or trickled, as was the case now.
It was six thirty in the morning. Amir Bayat drove. Mark sat behind him. Ayatollah Bayat had chosen the passenger seat in the rear of the car, next to Mark, as though he were used to being chauffeured around.
Giant sycamore trees, planted over a half century ago, formed a wall between the road and the trendy cafés that lined Valiasr’s sidewalks. Paralleling the sycamores were joobs, deep street gutters that, when they weren’t clogged with garbage, brought water down from the Alborz Mountains. Today the joobs were full and running fast, as the spring heat melted the mountain snows. A stiff wind had blown off much of the smog that usually blanketed the city, rendering the mountains visible to the north, and sometimes to the east as well. The mountains were massive, as high as eighteen thousand feet, their tops shrouded in cloud and snow.
Daria called Mark after a few minutes. “You’re being followed again. One lead car, I can’t see it now, but it’s a gray Saipa. He was behind you when you pulled into the estate and he pulled in front of you on Valiasr just after you left.”
“I have him,” said Mark.
“There’s also a guy on a motorcycle, about fifty feet behind you. He showed up just after the Saipa.”
Mark glanced in the rearview mirror. “Got him too.”
“I’m two cars behind the motorcycle.”
Mark told the Bayat brothers the news. “If they’re your men, call them off.”
Amir and the ayatollah denied that either of them had ordered a tail.
From the worried look on both their faces, Mark was inclined to believe them. “Could they be VEVAK?” Mark asked, referring to the Iranian secret police. “Looking into what you’re plotting behind Khorasani’s back?”
Amir admitted the possibility.
“Then we’ll have to lose them.” To Daria, he said, “We’ll be able to ditch the lead car, at least momentarily. But we’ll need you to help us ditch the tail. I’m looking for a place—a mall, a park, whatever—where we can park out front and meet you on the back side before—”
“Hold up,” said Daria.
All traffic had come to a stop. “I’m held up,” said Mark.
“The motorcycle is approaching.”
Mark wasn’t sure whether it was the same sixth sense that had kept him alive all these years, or whether he’d just read too many reports of Iranian nuclear scientists being assassinated by bomb-wielding killers on motorcycles, but the news that the motorcycle was closing in was like a punch in the gut.
At the same time, he realized that the only reason traffic wasn’t moving was that the gray Saipa five cars in front of him had stopped in the middle of the road. People were starting to honk.
He looked behind him. The motorcyclist, wearing a yellow helmet with a black-tinted visor, was moving up fast between the concrete barrier in the middle of the road and the line of stalled cars. One hand was on the handlebars, the other inside his leather jacket.
“We’ve got a bomb.”
Mark spoke the warning a second before he actually saw the metal disk in the rider’s hand.
He popped open the door to the Peugeot, ran three steps, threw his shoulder into the approaching motorcyclist, and knocked him off his bike.
The metal disk left the rider’s hand and sailed high through the air. It landed on the trunk lid of the Peugeot. There was no bounce, just the loud thunk of a magnet attaching itself to metal.
Amir Bayat yanked open his door. In the backseat the ayatollah was trying to unlock the rear passenger door, but it was a manual lock and he couldn’t get his old fingers around the knob. The motorcyclist sprinted toward the gray Saipa that was blocking traffic. Mark ran after him.
The flash came, blinding white, and was followed by a deafening bang.
Mark’s first thought was that the actual blast wave hadn’t been that bad. Then he realized he was facedown in the road, several feet away from where he’d last been standing.
The motorcyclist was already climbing into the Saipa at the front of the traffic jam. Mark caught a fleeting glimpse of the driver. He looked Chinese.
Mark turned back to the Peugeot. The windows were shattered, the trunk lid had been blown off, the rear seats were burning—and half of the ayatollah’s head was missing.
All around Mark, people were screaming, leaving their cars in the street and running for safety. Mark stood, looking for Amir Bayat, then stumbled back toward the car. Amir Bayat lay facedown in the joob. Water and bits of garbage rushed over his head.
Daria ran up and started pulling Amir out of the water. Mark gave her a hand.
The Iranian’s right leg was in shreds. Mark saw bits of bone and cartilage.
“Help me get him to my car,” said Daria.
Bayat left a slug-like trail of blood in his wake, but halfway to Daria’s stolen Paykan, he began to cough. Daria yanked opened the rear door.
Mark heaved Bayat halfway into the car, stuffed his legs in the rest of the way, and jumped in next to him.
Daria threw the car into first and took off as fast as she could.
Mark ripped a manual-window handle off the side of the door, stripped off his shirt, tied it tightly around Bayat’s wounded leg, slipped the window handle under the shirt, and began to tighten the tourniquet.
Bayat moaned something about a hospital. He banged on the window of the car with his fist, but in a weak, dazed, halfhearted way. Mark wasn’t even sure Bayat knew what was going on with his leg.
After eight twists the bleeding slowed to a trickle.
Mark used the knife strapped to his ankle to cut a long strip of fabric from the Paykan’s upholstery. He used that strip of fabric, along with another window handle, to fashion an even tighter tourniquet.
“He’ll live,” Mark said, when finished.
Daria had turned off Valiasr and was rocketing down an empty alley. “I’ll get us out of town.”
“I need a hospital.”
Bayat had passed out after noticing that half his leg was gone. Then Mark had taken a blanket that had been covering holes in the Paykan’s upholstery and placed it over Bayat’s legs. Bayat was now awake and more lucid than before.
“Who hit us?” asked Mark.
Bayat’s turban had washed away in the joob. His wet hair was dripping into his eyes.
“VEVAK would never do something like this.” Bayat’s breathing was labored. “Not to my brother. My brother, is he—”
“He’s dead.”
“I need a hospital.”
“If you don’t know who ordered that hit, how do you know you’ll be safe at the hospital?”
“I know a doctor—”
“What about your Chinese friends. Could they have turned on you?”
“No.”
“You’re going to take us to my colleague. Now, as we agreed. After that we can talk about a doctor.”
Bayat stared out the window for a while. “There is a house, in the mountains,” he whispered, laboring to speak. “Drive first to Karaj, then north toward Dizin. After an hour the road will split. Go west. Soon you will see a private road, down this road is the house. I need a doctor.”
“I heard you the first time.”
64
Alborz Mountains, Iran
AFTER HIS BRIEF burst of lucidity, Bayat slipped back into a netherworld. His eyes were closed, his head hung limp on the back of the seat, and his face was contorted by pain. Every so often he’d let out a string of whimpers.
They hurtled through Karaj, and then sped north through a series of dumpy little towns with small houses clinging to steep hillsides, through green valleys filled with tall aspen trees, past little concrete roadside mosques where travelers could pray, and across the flanks of several barren hills. A half hour outside of Karaj, they passed a lifeless reservoir. After an hour, Mark smacked Amir on the cheek.
