But Cyrus seemed in no hurry to get on with things. Something about the man was more imposing than it had been earlier. He stood taller. His eyes were steely as he studied Abraham unapologetically. His demeanor, commanding. Patrick was beginning to feel as anxious as Abraham looked.
The engine noises faded, and Patrick was alone with Abraham, Cyrus, and the unconscious shooter. Suddenly, he felt exposed and isolated. How could they be sure only two men had been hunting Abraham?
Patrick ticked through the facts as he understood them. Two men in the mountains, after Abraham—who had previously gone by the name Muhammed at the O Bar M—because of something that had happened overseas. Rosa Mendoza’s revelation that Muhammed was Middle Eastern. The dying declaration of the ranch hand Herman that he’d been killed by an Arab. Abraham’s anguished confession that the hands had been murdered by men who were after him.
And then Patrick’s mind latched onto pieces he wasn’t sure fit the puzzle but looked an awful lot like they did. A green sedan at a gas station. Two foreign men with strange accents who had asked about Clear Creek Resort. A green sedan pulling up to the lodge. And suddenly and clearly, he remembered a green sedan driving away from the O Bar M when he and his kids had been on their way there to see the horse, two men in the car who could have been Middle Eastern, now that he thought about it. And a deer running across the field at the O Bar M in his mind’s eye, which, he realized with a start, had been a man—something he’d forgotten so completely that he’d never told law enforcement about it.
If all of this was connected, then it was likely there were only two shooters, but it wasn’t guaranteed. And even though Abraham had been running away, he wasn’t a murderer. He was a target. Patrick’s instincts to protect and trust him had been correct. It restored some of Patrick’s faith in his own judgment and in humanity.
Cyrus dropped his voice. Patrick moved half a step closer so he could hear him. Abraham did, too. “Young man, are you Iranian?”
The look on Abraham’s face was stricken. “Why do you ask?”
“You’ve been speaking Farsi.”
So that was what Abraham and the other man had been speaking.
“My mother was Iranian. My father was American. I have dual citizenship, and I grew up in California.”
Patrick almost nodded. It made sense. And was a lot more than Cyrus had asked for. Patrick noticed Cyrus hadn’t used Abraham’s name. Had used his voice to draw him closer. Had established a hierarchy between himself and Abraham. Whatever Cyrus was up to, Patrick knew they were dealing with a pro. But a pro at what?
“Am I correct in assuming that man,” Cyrus gestured at the shooter, “is Iranian as well?”
“As was his partner, who I am told by Patrick is deceased.”
Cyrus’s bushy brows shot up his forehead. “A partner? How did he die?”
Patrick raised his hand. “He was chasing Abraham. I was trying to head him off, and he went over a cliff. It was an accidental death. Either from impact or drowning when he went through the ice in the water he landed in.”
Cyrus’s face was impassive. “Assassins, then.”
Abraham swallowed and nodded.
“SAVAK?” He turned to Patrick. “That’s the Iranian intelligence and secret police.”
Abraham said, “Yes, sir.”
“Here?” Patrick’s head swiveled as he searched the meadow. He’d been chasing someone from the Iranian secret police? It seemed so peaceful and serene. Not somewhere Iranian secret police would be running around. Or hiding. If there were more assassins out there, Patrick, Cyrus, and Abraham were sitting ducks in the middle of the park.
“I take a vacation, and work follows me into the Wyoming wilderness.” Cyrus sighed.
Patrick frowned. Something had been bothering him. “What I don’t get, Abraham, is why you kept circling this area for so long and didn’t break away from it?”
Abraham said, “I thought I could get them stuck in the deep snow. Or possibly, like you ultimately did, incapacitate them more fully. What I did not want was to inadvertently lead them to women and children at the resort, where innocents might be harmed. But the SAVAK are well trained. I should not have underestimated their abilities, even at snowmobiling.”
Cyrus shot a finger at Abraham, taking the conversation back over in a blink. “We’ve heard about you.”
Abraham took a step back. In the deep snow, he lost his balance and almost sat down. The movement jarred his gunshot arm, and he grimaced. It was still bleeding, but the drops in the snow were fewer and farther between. From the looks of it, Patrick figured it was a meaty mess that was going to require surgery. “Who is we?”
Cyrus waved his hand to banish the question. His face was expressionless.
“What have you heard about me?” There was terror in Abraham’s voice now.
Cyrus didn’t try to settle Abraham. He seemed comfortable with Abraham’s discomfort. “There’s a rumor you have certain information about the Shah.”
If the ground had opened and swallowed them whole, Patrick would have been less surprised than to be standing in the Bighorn Mountains having this conversation. The Shah? As in the Shah of Iran? One of the most controversial men in the world?
Abraham’s voice shook. “My mother is—was—Caspian, a cousin of the Shah’s wife. After my father died in California, she moved to Iran. Even though I was grown, I was an only child. All she had. I went with her and became one of the Shah’s physicians.”
Cyrus nodded with satisfaction, like the answer was confirmation of facts he already knew. “You’re Farhad Ali.”
Abraham’s face paled. There was a sheen to it. Sweat. “How do you know this?”
Muhammed. Abraham. Farhad. Who was this man, really? It was a lot to keep straight, but Patrick was hanging on every word.
“It’s my job to know this,” Cyrus said.
“You work with the government of the U.S.?”
“I do.” That’s an understatement, based on what Patrick knew. “If you let me help you, I can save your life and avoid an international incident.”
Abraham fell to his knees, still holding his arm. “The SAVAK will never stop until they kill me. The Shah . . . the Shah thinks I will tell the world what I know. He believes I am an American spy, because of the identity of my college roommate.”
Across the park, a tall, thick mule deer strode out of the trees and down the packed path left by the train of snow machines. His coat looked bushy, and his antlers towered over his head. He was close enough that Patrick was able to count his points. Five on the left. Six on the right. A magnificent stag. An alpha who had survived multiple rutting and hunting seasons, besting other bucks and rifle-toting humans alike.
Cyrus spoke casually, confidently. “You’re speaking of Jerry Durham.”
Patrick almost asked who that was, but he didn’t dare interrupt again. Cyrus had the situation in hand, and he seemed to be leading Abraham to something a lot more important than the identity of Jerry Durham.
“Yes,” Abraham whispered.
“Whose father was in the U.S. State Department.”
Durham. Durham. John Paul Durham, former Secretary of State? Of course. Abraham’s association with the son of a U.S. Secretary of State could be problematic for him in Iran.
Abraham’s voice was raw. “How do you know all of this about me?”
“We’d been told to be looking for you, Farhad. By mutual friends.”
“Please don’t call me that. I have left that name and that life behind. After the assassination of my mother, Farhad Ali has nothing left.”
A former physician, now a ranch hand on the run from Iranian secret police in Wyoming, whose mother had been assassinated. Patrick felt sick for Abraham. Cyrus seemed to suspect him of something. Or at least want something from him. But to Patrick, Abraham was a fellow human. A man with a good heart in a bad situation. Still, Patrick was a patriot. He clenched his jaw and let Cyrus make his play.
Cyrus turn
ed and gazed into the forest. “I’ll make you a deal. If you’ll tell me what you know about the Shah, I will make sure that Farhad and any other identity you’ve been using are buried so deep, SAVAK will never look for you again.”
Abraham looked at Patrick, then at Cyrus. Patrick kept his eyes on the ground. “But how?”
Cyrus smiled, turning back to Abraham. “Farhad will die in the mountains of Wyoming, in a tragic snowmobile accident that took his life and that of one other Iranian tourist.”
“But he is alive. That one.” Abraham pointed with his head. The shooter groaned and twitched.
“He will be our witness to the Iranians about your death, which we will stage very convincingly. But we need to move fast. Before he wakes up.”
Abraham gaped. Patrick didn’t like the look of his skin tone. The man seemed to be weakening. His jacket was soaked with blood. “But then what will become of me?”
Patrick interjected, directly to Cyrus. “Whatever happens next, we’ve got to get him to the hospital before he collapses.”
Cyrus ignored Patrick. “If you tell me what you know, Abraham, I will help you establish a new life,” Cyrus said.
An idea formed in Patrick’s mind. A beautiful, perfect solution. If all went well, he’d pitch it to Cyrus as soon as they were off this mountain.
Tears leaked from the corners of Abraham’s eyes. With difficulty, he stood. Straightened his shoulders. Took a deep breath. “The Shah of Iran has cancer and is refusing to seek treatment. He is weakening. He is fearful of his enemies learning of his condition. It is affecting his judgment.” He dropped his eyes and his shoulders sagged.
Patrick felt the skin of his forehead stretch as his eyebrows shot up. The stag, who had been pawing the snow, lifted his head, ears perked, eyes on Abraham. He leaned forward, regal, powerful. Then he bounded into the trees, disappearing in a blink.
Cyrus’s smile was grim. “Thank you. You made a good choice. The SAVAK agent is stirring. Abraham, how good are you at playing dead?”
Suddenly, everything about the last few days made a lot more sense to Patrick, in a most horrible way.
Chapter Forty-six: Resolve
Buffalo, Wyoming
Tuesday, January 3, 1978, 10:00 a.m.
Patrick
Patrick pulled two mugs from the cabinet. “Susanne makes wonderful coffee. Would you like a cup?”
“I would appreciate one, but I do not want to impose.” His guest tried to stand, but the repaired arm strapped to his chest combined with a stitched and bandaged leg made it difficult, and he gave up, smiling apologetically. It turned out that Abraham had been shot twice. In the arm and in the leg, although his black waterproof pants had hidden the latter injury. He’d tried to refuse medical attention after they’d finished staging the snowmobile wreck against a nearby cliff face, the wreck Patrick and Cyrus had “chanced upon” when taking their SAVAK witness back to the lodge, supposedly to hand him off to the authorities. Patrick deserved an Academy Award for his anguished pronouncement that Abraham was deceased. It had been enough to convince their SAVAK witness that his quarry was dead, and when the man had managed to escape soon after, he had no idea that it had been because Cyrus had let him go, intending that he take the information about Farhad’s death back to Iran with him.
While Patrick could admire and identify with the kind of toughness that led a man to fight through injuries in the worst of conditions when he had to, Patrick hadn’t taken no for an answer. Abraham had undergone surgery to repair the damaged muscle in his arm. Then he’d tried to check himself out as soon as he awoke. Patrick had put a stop to that, too.
He knew the man was terrified. Abraham was living on the edge of a scimitar’s blade. Patrick hoped they hadn’t made the wrong choice letting the assassin live. But there comes a time when a man has had enough of killing other men, especially when that man is a doctor whose mission it is to save lives, not take them. Patrick wasn’t going to be the one to end that man’s life, no matter who he was. So, the assassin had been sent back to Iran programmed with the narrative about Farhad Ali’s death created by Cyrus, to be fed to the Shah and his regime. If the Iranians found out Abraham hadn’t died, at least as long as the Shah was alive, there was a chance they’d deploy SAVAK officers after him again. Especially if the Shah discovered that Abraham had leaked word of his cancer to the U.S.
Cyrus had promised to be discreet, but life—and politics—came with no guarantees. It was a risk Abraham had no choice but to take.
So, Abraham was hiding and recuperating at the Flint residence, with Susanne’s blessing. She’d been waiting with the ambulance at the lodge when Barry and the rest of the group had arrived there, where she’d learned about the efforts of Abraham, Wes, Dr. John, and Patrick to save her brother. That made Abraham A-OK with her, no matter his confusing and unsettling past . . . and present. And with Dian gone and Barry in the hospital for several more days, they had the room at their house. Just barely.
“Sit. Doctor’s orders,” Patrick said. “How do you take your coffee?”
“Black, please. And thank you very much,” Abraham said, lowering himself back into his chair.
Patrick poured both mugs to the rim and carried them to the table. He set the coffee beside their plates. Susanne had made French toast, which Patrick had cut into strips so Abraham could use his good hand to dunk the pieces in a pool of syrup on the plate.
Abraham bowed his head. His lips moved. When he’d finished his prayer, he lifted his head and fastened his intense, dark eyes on Patrick. “It troubles me that knowledge of my past may put you in danger.”
“Far less than you are in, my new friend.”
“You must forget you know the Shah’s secret. And me. Do not talk of me or knowing anyone like me. It could draw the wrong kind of attention. The world is much smaller than most people believe and getting smaller every day.” Abraham’s expression was grave and his voice chillingly serious.
Patrick nodded, but he didn’t agree. “I can’t do that. I mean, I can forget about the Shah. But not about you. In fact, I’ve been talking to Cyrus, and I have a proposal for you. A place where you can go and hide in plain sight, making a difference by using your medical skills.”
Abraham looked interested, if wary. “What is that?”
“The Wind River Reservation here in central Wyoming. The Eastern Shoshone and Northern Arapaho who live there are in desperate need of good medical care.”
“But without my name, I don’t have my physician’s license.”
“Cyrus took care of that.” Cyrus, it turned out, could make almost anything happen that he wanted. It was one of the perks of being the Secretary of State of the most powerful country in the world, which, it turned out, was his role in the U.S. government. I really need to start paying more attention to politics. “If you want to do it, that is. I think with your coloring, you would blend in well there. Not to the locals. You don’t look Shoshone or Arapaho. But to outsiders, you’d be close enough not to attract attention, with your dark coloring.”
Abraham took a small bite and chewed slowly, his eyes in a faraway place. When they came back, they were eager. “I would like it very much.”
“I was hoping you’d say that. Most of the arrangements have already been made. I can get you there whenever you say the word. But I’ll warn you—you won’t make much money.”
“Money has never brought me happiness. But caring for the health of others has.” Patrick couldn’t agree more. “And, someday, I might be able to return to my mother’s country and the family I have left. Time is ticking for the Shah if he doesn’t seek treatment. Probably even if he does.”
“Good. It’s settled then. I’ll make the final arrangements with Cyrus.” Patrick waved at Abraham’s plate. “Your food is getting cold. Don’t let me slow down your breakfast.”
Abraham took a bite. But soon he was talking again, like a man who’d been starved of the conversation of a likeminded friend for too long, which Patri
ck supposed he had. “Have you received an update on Barry’s condition this morning?”
“I called about an hour ago. The second surgery was a complete success, and the IV antibiotics did the trick. No fever. He’s cranky and asking to go home.”
Abraham smiled. “That is what Dr. John would call a good sign.”
“Yes, it is.”
“And your ribs? Are they any better?”
Patrick touched them. Truth be told, they hurt like a son of a gun. “No worse. Another good sign.”
He’d broken down the night before and told Susanne the bucking bronc he’d taken flight from was a horse he’d been considering for her, and that he’d climbed aboard it in a storm and even after it was acting flighty. She’d looked him in the eye and said, “There’s not one good decision anywhere in that story, is there?” He wouldn’t be receiving any sympathy from his wife. Nor would he be buying her another horse anytime soon.
Abraham said, “I hope George will forgive me some day. And Mrs. Debbie Murray.”
Neither George nor Debbie would be privy to Abraham’s real story. Patrick doubted they’d ever look fondly on their memories of him. He chuckled. “George will survive. And Debbie has insurance on the snowmobiles.”
“Good morning.” Susanne breezed into the kitchen. She looked even prettier than usual, and Patrick had an urge to sweep her into his lap, but he’d hold off until their full household dispersed.
Abraham said, “Good morning, Mrs. Flint. My thanks for the delicious breakfast.”
“You’re welcome. And please, call me Susanne.”
“Then you must call me Abraham.” Cyrus had agreed that since the SAVAK had been looking for Farhad Ali and found Muhammed, Abraham could keep his most recent assumed name.
Stag Party: A Patrick Flint Novel Page 25
