by Kyle Mills
“I’m sure they could, but you know how I enjoy your company.”
The Brit didn’t look up, focusing on the flames as though he was searching for something in them. “You can fight there until the end of your days, Jon. You can try to understand why Africa is the way it is. You can try to protect the weak from the strong. But it’s never going to work. Take my advice. Walk away from this one.”
“I hear what you’re saying, but the guy behind this—Caleb Bahame—is a whole other level.”
Howell twisted in the seat, looking directly at him for the first time in their conversation. “Bahame?”
“You’ve heard of him?”
The Brit returned his attention to the fire. “I’ve read a few things.”
“Well, I can tell you that the stuff you read doesn’t come close to capturing what’s really happening over there. Have you ever been to Uganda?”
Howell didn’t seem inclined to answer, so Smith filled in the silence. “My guess is that we’ll go over there, chase our tails a bit, and you’ll walk away with the easiest fifty grand you ever made.”
“I assume we’re denominating in British pounds.”
Smith grinned. “You drive a hard bargain.”
Howell ran a hand through his shaggy gray hair and then just went to work on his whiskey.
21
Tehran, Iran
November 18—1500 Hours GMT+3:30
MEHRAK OMIDI PAUSED IN front of the closed door, a trickle of adrenaline making him vaguely nauseous. Only Ayatollah Amjad Khamenei had the power to make him feel this way.
They had known each other since Omidi was a young man serving in the Revolutionary Guard and Khamenei was an imam living in the remote northeastern part of the country. The holy man had seen Omidi’s potential and taken him under his wing, counseling him spiritually, watching over his career—even paying for him to study abroad.
When Khamenei became supreme leader, Omidi had gone with him, starting as his personal assistant and then moving to various other posts before being put in charge of the Ministry of Intelligence. Despite his undeniable success and the respect he commanded throughout Iran, he had never felt worthy. But those feelings were changing. They had to.
Khamenei was getting old and nostalgic. His vision was perfectly clear when looking backward but increasingly hazy when trying to see into the future. Omidi considered the man more of a father than his biological one and found himself in the uncomfortable role reversal that all sons eventually suffered. Over the coming years, he would have to become his teacher’s guide to a world that was quickly closing in on them.
He knocked gently and entered when he heard a muffled call welcoming him. There was no furniture or decoration in the office, only tapestry-covered cushions strewn across the floor.
“Excellency,” Omidi said, bowing deeply.
When they’d first met, Khamenei’s long beard had been deep black and his eyes almost magical in their intensity. Now he’d gone completely gray beneath his turban and wore a pair of glasses thick enough to distort his regal features.
The man sitting on a cushion next to him started to leap to his feet, hatred etched deeply into his face, but sank obediently back to the floor when the aging cleric touched him on the arm.
“Mehrak. It is good to see you. Please come sit next to me.”
Omidi did as he was told, bowing his head contritely to avoid acknowledging the furious stare of the clean-shaven man across from him.
His name was Rahim Nikahd and he was a powerful moderate voice in parliament, a cunning and ambitious man straddling the fence between what Iran was and what the mob wanted it to become.
It was infuriating that a man as great as Amjad Khamenei had to grovel at the feet of an insect like Nikahd, but those were the complex realities of politics. No leader was great or powerful enough to forget from where their power truly flowed.
“Why is this man here?” Nikahd said finally. “Why does he still have a place of authority in this government? I—”
“Shh.” Khamenei touched the man’s arm again. “Calm yourself, my old friend.”
Unfortunately, beyond being a member of parliament, Nikahd was also the father of the young man Omidi had arrested the day before.
“Mehrak has been given a great weight of responsibility,” Khamenei continued. “And it was his belief that your son was Farrokh.”
“Farrokh? But this is idiocy!” the man protested. “How could he make such a stupid mistake?”
Omidi stayed respectfully silent despite his anger at being discussed—and insulted—as though he weren’t there.
“It is my understanding that Farrokh used his vast technical knowledge to route his communications through your son’s home. Clearly he planned for this to happen and believed that it would turn you away from me. Turn you away from God.”
“My son’s wife—the mother of my grandchildren—is in a coma from being hit with a rifle butt. This is competence? He couldn’t make a phone call and check whose house he was attacking?”
“There was no time, Rahim. Farrokh has slipped through our fingers too many times. And to answer your question, Mehrak is here because he insisted on coming personally to beg your forgiveness.”
It wasn’t exactly true—in fact, it wasn’t true at all—but Omidi dipped his head even farther, taking a posture of complete subservience.
“I’m asking you a personal favor,” Khamenei said. “I’m asking you to forgive both of us for our hand in what happened to your family.”
Omidi kept his eyes on the floor, grateful that the fury in them would be invisible to the fat parliamentarian sitting across from him. In the world of politics, there were always strings attached. One day Khamenei would have to repay the debt that Omidi had created. He’d let Farrokh outsmart him. Just as he had so many times in the past.
Nikahd didn’t answer immediately, undoubtedly considering his position. He had to be very careful not to move so far left as to put himself in danger from the establishment but also not to move so far right that he wouldn’t be embraced by the youth movement should it prevail.
“For you, Excellency, of course.”
Khamenei put out a hand and Nikahd kissed it. “I’m grateful to have men like you around me, Rahim. Men still loyal to Islam.”
Knowing he had been dismissed, Nikahd stood, but not before giving Omidi a glare that spoke volumes. If he should come out on top in this prolonged power struggle, he would see to it that Omidi and his family disappeared.
They watched him go, and Khamenei waited until the door was fully closed before he spoke again.
“That was very difficult, Mehrak. He is a powerful man, and make no mistake: I’ve made an enemy of him today.”
“Yes, Excellency.”
“You defied my orders and failed to fire on the crowd—emboldening them, making them think we’re weak and afraid. And then this…”
“I will step down immediately.”
Khamenei smiled thinly. “A hollow offer, Mehrak. You know there’s no one else I trust implicitly. Not any longer.”
Mehrak acknowledged the compliment with a nod. “I serve at your pleasure, Excellency.”
Khamenei recognized that enemies of the revolution were everywhere, but he didn’t fully comprehend the extent to which the cancer had taken hold—Western fashion and video games, the Internet. Every day the tide grew stronger and the guardians of the faith grew older.
Support for the government was crumbling. The popularity of the nuclear program that was so broad a year ago had succumbed to the pressure of the outside world. Iran’s youth would rather have portable music players and political freedom than strength and faith.
“I’ve known you since you were a child, Mehrak. You have more to say.”
He pondered his words for a moment before speaking. “I am beaten, Excellency.”
“What? I don’t understand.”
“Farrokh and his people have an inherent understanding of technology that
I can’t replicate.”
“I don’t expect you to personally understand everything, Mehrak—that’s for God alone. What I expect you to do is build a team who can defeat him.”
“How, Excellency? The people with that kind of expertise in our own country are sympathetic to the resistance. I could bring in consultants from outside, but how can I trust them? With the rest of the world and America lined up against us, how can I give someone that kind of access without knowing if they’re being paid by the CIA? No, we can’t outplay him at his own game. There is no barrier I can erect that can stop Western ideas and values from flooding us.”
“But you can stem the tide.”
“Today, yes. Somewhat. Tomorrow? No.”
The confusion on Khamenei’s face was painful to watch. But this had to be done.
“What are you saying to me, Mehrak? That we should give up? That God is powerless against America’s seduction? You should have fired into the crowd. You should have shown the resolve of our faith.”
“Shooting into the crowd was impossible, Excellency.”
“Impossible? Why?”
“Because I can’t guarantee the loyalty of the police and military.”
“If you suspect traitors, find them and arrest them.”
“It’s not as simple as traitors. These men love their country, but many of them come from a new generation—they don’t remember the shah; they weren’t alive during the revolution. They don’t understand what the Islamic Republic represents. What they see is thirty percent inflation, isolation from the rest of the world, and double-digit unemployment. If some of them were to join the protesters, we could be firing the first shots in a civil war.”
“It is Farrokh. If we—”
“It’s not Farrokh,” Omidi said, daring to allow the volume of his voice to rise. “He’s important, but ultimately he’s just a figurehead. Even if we capture him—and I have no confidence that we will—he will have people who can carry on in his name.”
The old man’s confusion deepened, and Omidi once again cast his gaze down. It was hard to see him this way.
“Farrokh is an agent of America, of the CIA. We just have to make people understand that—”
“No one believes it anymore, Excellency. President Castilla has been very clever in his policy of noninterference. The West is responsible—but only through its existence and attractiveness to our youth. There is no direct intervention. And even if there were, it wouldn’t matter. Farrokh portrays himself as a nationalist with no great love for America.”
“You’re telling me I am powerless in my own country, Mehrak.”
“No, Excellency. Not powerless.”
“And what weapon have you left me?”
Omidi once again focused on the cleric. “Caleb Bahame.”
They’d spoken of it before, but Khamenei had been noncommittal.
“The Ugandan.”
Omidi nodded, pulling an envelope from his pocket and arranging the photos it contained on the floor. “The dead white men were killed by Bahame’s people near his camp. The other photos are from an American newspaper article about a training accident that recently killed a group of special forces operatives.”
Khamenei squinted through his glasses. “They’re the same men.”
“Yes, Excellency. The Americans sent them to assassinate or capture Bahame, and when they failed, they lied about the circumstances of their deaths.”
“Then they know something. What?”
“We’re not certain. I don’t believe they understand the potential of Bahame’s discovery, but they soon will. We have to act now or face the possibility of losing our ability—”
“To bring down the Americans and Jews,” Khamenei said, finishing his thought.
“Not just to bring them down, Excellency. To unleash hell on them for all the world to see. To make people remember the terrible power of God.”
The holy man sank into thought a moment. “I want you to go personally.”
“Of course,” Omidi said, hiding his elation at Khamenei’s change of heart and attributing it to the hand of God. As with all great things, this path had significant risks. The rewards, though, were nearly infinite. Nineteen seventy-nine had been nothing. The real revolution—the one that would re-create the earth in God’s image—had finally begun.
22
Cape Town, South Africa
November 20—1612 Hours GMT+2
JON SMITH JOGGED TO the top of the stone stairs and turned toward the pillared building that dominated the University of Cape Town’s lush campus. The craggy mountain that framed the nearly two-hundred-year-old college seemed almost too perfect to be real—a patchwork of gray and green beneath an unbroken blue sky.
The temperature had climbed into the mid-eighties, but a cool breeze coming off Table Bay rippled across the thin cotton of his shirt as he threaded his way through backpack-toting students in search of Dr. Sarie van Keuren.
After a few wrong turns, he found the door he was looking for and entered, scanning the lab for the meticulously groomed Betty Crocker look-alike depicted on the school’s website.
He’d almost decided that she wasn’t there when a bulky young man in a rugby shirt wandered off and revealed the woman behind him.
Granted, all faculty photos had a certain staged quality to them, but they’d taken it to another level with her. In real life, the wavy blond hair was well on its way to winning its fight with the tie trying to contain it. Her face was a slightly sunburned tan that faded into a yellow bruise on her left cheek. The nose that had seemed so regal from the angle the photo was taken hinted at an old injury and was just crooked enough to keep her face from devolving into generic California surfer girl.
She looked up from the clipboard in her hand and he immediately started toward her, hoping she hadn’t noticed him staring.
“Can I help you?” she said in a pleasant African drawl.
“Dr. van Keuren? I’m Jon Smith.”
“Colonel Smith! I was starting to think you’d gotten lost somewhere over the ocean.”
“We spent some time sitting on the tarmac in London and got in a couple hours late.”
He offered his hand and she pumped it energetically, the athletic outline of her body hinted at beneath the flow of her lab coat.
“Well, let me be the first to welcome you to our beautiful country, then.”
“Thanks. And thanks for agreeing to meet with me on such short notice. Every time I ask someone about parasites, your name seems to come up.”
She ignored the compliment. “Never a good idea to refuse a request from the most powerful military in history. USAMRIID, right? A virus hunter from Maryland. I’ve only been to New York and Chicago. I want to go to Montana, though.”
“Being African, you might find it a little cold right now.”
“But it’s wild, isn’t it? Big sky country. I love that phrase.” She used her hands like a symphony conductor when she repeated it. “Big sky country. It explains so much.”
She had an engaging way of talking just a little too fast, as though there wasn’t enough time in life to say everything on her mind.
“I never thought about it. I guess it does.”
“But you’re not here to listen to me babble. You want to talk about parasites. Do you have an interesting one for me?”
He looked around him, confirming that none of the students were within earshot. “That’s the problem. I’m not really sure. It’s not my area of expertise.”
“Of course. Viruses…How awful for you.”
“Sorry?”
A pained expression spread across her face. “Well, I mean, they’re just little bags of DNA, really.”
“I take it you’re not a fan.”
“Oh, I don’t mean to be insulting, but they’re technically not even alive, for God’s sake.”
“They may be small, but they pack a big punch,” he said, feeling a sudden inexplicable urge to defend his life’s work.
&
nbsp; “Oh, please. What’s the best you’ve got? Smallpox? Malaria—now, there’s a nasty little parasite that’s killed more people than all other diseases combined. In fact, you can make a lucid argument that it’s killed half the people who ever died.”
She grabbed his arm and tugged him toward an enormous glass tank against the lab’s far wall. “Let me show you something.”
Her size belied her strength, and he allowed himself to be dragged along.
“This is Laurel,” she said pointing to a foot-long fish swimming around the tank. “She’s a spotted rose snapper from California. Tap the glass. Go ahead. Get her attention.”
Smith did as he was told and Laurel swam toward him, opening her mouth as she approached.
He barely managed not to take a step backward when he saw something that looked like a small lobster staring out at him from the fish’s maw. “What the hell is that?”
“Hardy,” she said, grinning broadly. “Cymothoa exigua. When he was young and tiny, he swam through Laurel’s gills and attached himself to her tongue to feed off the blood from the artery underneath. Eventually, the tongue rotted away and Hardy replaced it. Doesn’t harm the fish at all. They’ll live together like that for their entire lives.”
“You win,” Smith admitted. “That’s truly disgusting.”
“Isn’t it brilliant?” she said, snatching a worm from a dirt-filled box and dangling it over the tank.
As Smith watched her feed the unfortunate fish, he couldn’t help thinking of his fiancée, Sophia. They had worked together at Fort Detrick and she’d had the same endless fascination for her field as Sarie did. In the end, though, it had killed her.
“Colonel Smith? Are you all right? I’m sorry. Did Hardy upset you? He has that effect on some people.”
His smile returned and he concentrated on making sure it didn’t look forced. “No, Hardy’s fine. In fact, if you have somewhere we can talk privately, I may be able to one-up you.”
Her tiny office was crammed with books that looked like they’d spent most of their lives in the field, but most were completely obscured by her fetish for sticky notes. There was hardly a square inch available anywhere that didn’t have a reminder of some type attached to it. He paused in the doorway to read one demanding—with multiple exclamation marks—that she not forget a faculty meeting held just over two years ago.
