Whiplash d-11

by Dale Brown

  Nuri asked for some eggs and tea. The waiter disappeared into the back.

  The waiter working the other side of the room approached Tarid’s table with a platter of food. Nuri rose quickly and went over, intending to knock something onto the coat. But Tarid chose that moment to get up, and before Nuri could provoke a spill, Tarid headed for the restroom.

  Frustrated, Nuri followed. A dozen possibilities occurred to him, but the presence of an attendant in the restroom ruled all of them out. Nuri smiled at the man, then went to the far stall, hoping some opportunity would present itself.

  It didn’t.

  Tarid hated public restrooms. He held on tight to his jacket, finished quickly and left, not even bothering to tip the attendant.

  “This isn’t going to be easy,” Nuri told Danny over the Voice communications channel.

  “We have all day,” said Danny.

  “What are you drilling?”

  “I’m fixing the buttons. Relax.”

  “Buttons? More than one?”

  “We have a couple just in case. We’ll match it exactly. If you can get us more time, we’ll use the original.”

  Nuri looked up and saw Tarid leaving.

  “Tarid’s coming out,” he told Danny.

  “What?”

  “Yeah.”

  Unsure whether he had been spotted or if someone was working with Tarid to check for a trail, Nuri went back to his table. His tea and eggs had just arrived.

  The Voice gave him a running commentary on what Tarid was doing.

  Not much: He simply walked back across the street to the hotel.

  “Meet me around front in five minutes,” he told Danny. “I have another idea.”

  * * *

  Tarid had decided that he would collect his things, take a drive and look up an old friend before meeting with Aberhadji. It was something to do; he hoped the trip would divert his mind from the horrors it kept suggesting Aberhadji would inflict on him for skimming money from the Guard. He thought of calling his friend, but decided not to bother. The diversion was what was important.

  “I’m going out for a while,” he said loudly. “Do you want the key?”

  His heart fluttered when she came out. Her eyes met his for a brief moment. His resolution began to melt; the temptation to linger was too great.

  “Will you be gone long?” asked Simin.

  “I’m not sure.”

  Their fingers grazed as he handed over the key. Simin flushed. She took the key, slid it into the box behind the desk, then rushed back into the office.

  “Simin, wait—” Tarid took a step to follow her.

  She slammed the door. For a moment he hung suspended between his desire and his fear of being punished. Aberhadji would be even more angry if he found out that he had seduced the girl.

  On the other hand, Aberhadji might be planning to kill him anyway, Tarid reasoned. And in that case…

  Tarid started around the desk. But as he turned the corner, he walked into another woman, a little older, and if not quite as pretty, certainly beautiful in her own way:

  Hera.

  Who slipped a small razor blade out from between her fingers and snapped it through the middle button on his jacket as she fell backward against a plant next to the wall, then stumbled to the ground.

  “Where did you come from?” said Tarid, momentarily confused.

  “I’m looking for a friend,” she said.

  “I meant, how did you get in my way?” said Tarid.

  “Oh, your button.” Hera picked it off the floor. “I’m sorry,” she said, holding it up.

  Puzzled, Tarid looked down for the spot where it had been.

  “I’ll fix it for you,” Hera said, getting up. “Give me your coat.”

  “I’m fine,” said Tarid, on his guard.

  “No, no, I insist.”

  Hera held out her left hand, keeping her right, which still had the razor, behind her back.

  “Who are you?”

  “Maral Milian.”

  She bowed her head slightly, as if too timid to look him in the eye, but then reached up and put her fingers on the inside collar of his coat, gently starting to tug it off.

  Tarid resisted for only a moment more; the desire that Simin had provoked saw a potential outlet.

  “Maybe we can go up to my room,” he told her, forgetting he had dropped off the key.

  “I can fix it here.” Hera folded the jacket over her arm. “I’ll just get a needle and thread.”

  “No, no,” he said. “Just give me my coat back. Never mind.”

  “I insist,” she said. “Let me fix it for you.”

  “I have an appointment.”

  * * *

  Outside, Danny Freah and Nuri were looking at each other, realizing that they were going to lose another chance, probably the last, to bug Tarid. Hera had marked him when he bumped into her, so there was no question that they could continue to follow him. But having gotten this close to him, it seemed a shame to give up the opportunity.

  “I’m going in,” said Danny.

  “He’ll recognize you.”

  “I’m counting on it.”

  Danny rounded the corner quickly, practically leaping up the block to the steps and the entrance to the small hotel. He bounded up to the door, then forced himself to take a breath as he opened it.

  He came in just as Tarid was taking the coat from Hera’s hand. The Iranian stopped, stunned, staring at Danny as if he were looking at a ghost.

  “Well, isn’t this a surprise,” said Danny in English. “What are you doing in Tehran?”

  “You?”

  “Yeah, it’s me,” said Danny. “You didn’t think I was dead, I hope.”

  “Why are you here?” said Tarid in Arabic.

  Danny glanced at Hera.

  “Use English,” he said. “We don’t need women with big mouths listening to what we say.”

  Tarid wasn’t sure what to make of this at all. He was worried about Kirk’s English and loud voice. If the hotel keeper was informing on him, this would be something more to add, another nail in the coffin.

  “I can fix your coat,” said Hera, her hand touching his.

  “What’s wrong with the coat?” asked Danny.

  Tarid frowned. “Nothing,” he said, in English.

  “Have her fix it while you and I talk. Let’s have some coffee. There are restaurants across the street.”

  “Fix the coat right away,” said Tarid, handing it to Hera as if she were his employee. “I’ll be across the street.”

  50

  North central Iran

  Bani Aberhadji had scheduled his meeting with Tarid for the afternoon because he had more important things to do in the morning, the primary one being to arrange for the assassination of the country’s president.

  He had pondered General Taher Banhnnjunni’s reaction for many hours, praying until he reached what should have been an obvious conclusion: Banhnnjunni was as guilty as the president. The fact that his fellow council member did not return his call in the morning made the conclusion even more obvious. Aberhadji decided, therefore, to act without him — and then move against the general to oust him from the council.

  The task itself was simple. The president was flying to America in three days. A small bomb, located strategically in the aircraft, would accomplish the task very easily. Aberhadji would have no difficulty getting the bomb made or placed. Two members of the Khatam-ol-Anbia, the engineering division of the Guard, who worked with him on the nuclear project, had already volunteered to fashion it in secret. The men, brothers, were highly competent weapons engineers; they had helped fashion much of the warhead’s metal structure, working under the direction of the Koreans. They were also old friends, having served with him on the battlefield.

  Security at the airport was shared by a Republican Guard unit, and the Guard staffed most of the departments there, including the maintenance facilities. There were at least two men Aberhadji believed had acce
ss to the plane and would gladly plant the weapon.

  More difficult was what to do about General Banhnnjunni. While the general did not control the council, he certainly controlled enough Guard units to make things difficult after the president was assassinated. He could even conceivably take over. Aberhadji did not want that. So he decided to enlist another old friend and general, Muhammad Jaliff, who commanded the Guard units based in Tehran. His support would neutralize Banhnnjunni. In fact, Jaliff would make an excellent president after the revolt.

  The men had known each other since boyhood. While their duties now meant that they had little contact with each other socially, they still spoke at least once or twice a month. They were committed Islamists, fervent both in faith and in their support of the Revolution. Aberhadji considered Jaliff among his closest friends.

  Which made Jaliff’s reaction to his plan all the more shocking.

  “It is an imbecilic idea,” said his friend, rising from his office couch. “It is treason. I should have you arrested right now.”

  Aberhadji stared at his friend in disbelief. Jaliff walked to the door. For a moment it looked as if he was going to carry out his threat — Aberhadji imagined him opening it and calling in the two guards from the hall. But he was merely making sure it was locked. He checked it, then went back to his desk.

  “You don’t understand the world, brother,” said Jaliff. “You believe you are above the rest of us because you are pure.”

  “I don’t,” said Aberhadji.

  “We’ve known each other a long time.” Jaliff shook his head. “You don’t have to lie to me.”

  “I’m not.”

  Slightly exasperated, Jaliff leaned back in his seat. A reaction like this was to be expected from Aberhadji, he realized, even though he was the most rational of men.

  “It was good that you came to me first,” he said. “Very good. This is a thing you must not act on. You must not do anything.”

  “I don’t understand how you can sit and watch the greatest enemy of our country, of our religion, win this victory.”

  “It is not a victory for the Americans,” said Jaliff. “In the long run, it will be a victory for us. And for now, it is necessary.”

  “How?”

  Jaliff slammed his hand on the desk. “Look around you, Bani. Don’t you see the poverty? The country is in shambles. People aren’t eating. They’re not eating.”

  “There’s rice.”

  “Rice!”

  “It’s because of the American boycott.”

  Jaliff rose. In his mind, the greater culprit was a corrupt system that for years had rewarded connections, not competence. While he did not like the new president for many reasons, he was at least taking the necessary steps — even when it came to dealing with the Satan Incarnate. In time he would be left by the wayside, as all Iranian presidents were. But first Iran’s economy would be restored.

  Aberhadji’s nuclear program — which Jaliff had only superficial knowledge of — would be of critical importance in a year or two. That, as much as their friendship, persuaded Jaliff to rein in his anger. He had to persuade his friend to be reasonable.

  “Do you really think the president would have proceeded without assurances that he was on the right track?” asked Jaliff. “Do you think none of the religious leaders have pondered the question of how one speaks with his enemy? Who should do it?”

  Aberhadji felt as if the ground beneath his feet had started to tilt. He wasn’t sure how to answer the question, though his old friend waited for an answer.

  “It has been discussed,” said Jaliff finally. “I have discussed it. Why do you think you are proceeding with your program? Do you think it’s an accident? Do you know its great cost?”

  “I know its cost.” Aberhadji’s gaze fell to his shoes. But then he raised his eyes and looked in Jaliff’s.

  He should not be ashamed. He was not the one making the deal with the devil.

  “Promise me that this is the end of this idea,” said Jaliff. “Promise me, Bani, that you will have nothing more to do with it.”

  Aberhadji drew a slow breath, letting the air fill his lungs.

  “Have faith in the Revolution, and in the Prophet’s words, blessed be his name.”

  “It is not my role to kill the president,” said Aberhadji finally. “I am a faithful son of the Revolution.”

  “And you will remain faithful,” said Jaliff.

  “I will remain faithful.”

  Jaliff had trusted his life to Aberhadji on the battlefield several times. He remembered one of them now, when his weapon had jammed and only Aberhadji’s steadfast shooting had prevented the Iraqis from picking him off as they retreated from a hilltop.

  “I’m glad, old friend,” Jaliff said kindly. “Let us get something to eat.”

  51

  Tehran

  Danny’s intervention as Kirk meant he wasn’t available to fix the jacket.

  “You have to figure it out,” Nuri told Hera when they met around the corner from the hotel. “I’m not mechanical.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?” asked Hera. But she took the sewing kit from him.

  The first task was to match the button. Even with a dozen choices, there was no perfect match; the closest in size was a little off in color, and vice versa.

  “Take the right size. He’ll feel it as he closes his jacket,” said Nuri. “But he won’t look at it.”

  “So you want me to do it but you’re the expert?”

  “It’s just how I button my buttons.” He demonstrated, miming the action on his sweater.

  Danny had hollowed out the back of all the buttons while they were waiting, and lining up the bug was not difficult at all. Pushing the thread through wasn’t easy at first — she didn’t have a thimble. Nor was she sure exactly how she was going to tie it off at the end. She guessed that she was supposed to use a special knot, but looking at the other buttons gave no clue as to how it might be tied.

  “You better hurry,” said Nuri. “I don’t think we should leave Danny in there with Tarid too long.”

  “He can take care of himself,” said Hera. “I’m going as fast as I can.”

  * * *

  “How did you find me?” demanded Tarid as they sat down in the restaurant.

  “It wasn’t an accident,” said Danny. He leaned closer as the waiter approached. “I am a Libyan businessman. I buy and sell apricots. And I don’t speak Farsi.”

  Tarid frowned. There’d be no need to use the cover story here; no one cared. The waiter asked what they would have. Tarid said he would have some tea. Danny ordered a coffee, using perfect Farsi.

  He was a difficult one to figure out, thought Tarid. Clearly, the research Aberhadji had done did not go far enough. The man must have connections, probably to the Russians, though nothing could be ruled out, even the CIA.

  But the CIA connection was unlikely. This man was too good to be an American spy.

  “What is it you really want?” Tarid asked.

  Danny shook his head. “English. No accidents. There are gossips and spies everywhere. Especially in Tehran.”

  “English will make us more suspicious,” said Tarid, still in Farsi.

  “They’ll see I’m black and know I’m a foreigner.”

  Tarid conceded the point, switching to English. “Were you the one who told the Sudanese army we were meeting?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m wondering who tipped them off myself. When I find out, he is a dead man.”

  “It wasn’t me.”

  “Of course not.”

  Danny spotted the waiter and stopped talking. The man put their food down on the table, then retreated.

  “I want to supply arms to the people in Africa who need them,” said Danny. “I want to start in the Sudan and branch out. You have connections with people who pay. We can work together. There are people with good connections who help me. No one would do poorly, yourself included.”

  The s
uggestion pushed Tarid back in his seat. Was that what this was all about? Had Aberhadji arranged to test him?

  Of course. How else would he have been able to follow him to Iran?

  Everything had been a test — Aberhadji must have heard something on his visit, and decided to send Kirk. No wonder he vouched for him — Kirk was his agent.

  “Out,” said Tarid, his voice soft but harsh. “Out.”

  “What?”

  “Out. I’m not taking any bribe. Out. Out!”

  Hera appeared at the door, the repaired — and bugged — jacket in her hand. Danny saw her out of the corner of his eye.

  “I am not going to be bribed,” said Tarid. “Go quietly, or I will have you arrested.”

  “I think you have the wrong idea.”

  Tarid reached to his pocket for his phone. “Should I call the police?”

  Danny rose. “Call this number if you change your mind,” he said, writing down a safe satellite phone number that would be forwarded to his own. “Say nothing. I’ll contact you.”

  “Out,” insisted Tarid.

  “I’m gone. I’m gone.”

  Danny tossed a bill on the table, then left. He passed Hera at the door but ignored her.

  Tarid took the card with the phone number and started to rip it up, then stopped halfway, realizing it might be of use. He paid the bill without using Danny’s rials. He stalked from the table, heading for the door. Hera held the coat up.

  “Are you part of this?” Tarid asked.

  “Of what?” she said.

  He grabbed the coat, started to put it on, then stopped and examined it carefully, half suspecting there would be a bomb or perhaps a needle stuck with poison. When he didn’t find any, he jammed his right hand through the arm, pulling it on.

  “I have no time for you,” he told Hera. Then he strode out of the restaurant.

  “And I don’t have time for you, either, asshole,” she muttered under her breath.

  52

  Over the Atlantic Ocean

  Breanna had flown C-17s off and on for years as part of her Reserve Air Force commitment, but there was something different about this flight. In a good way.