“Darvish was doing what my father wouldn’t do,” she said. “Develop Iran’s first nuclear weapon.”
“Who’s your father?”
“You mean, who was my father. Farukh Rostami.”
Okay, that I didn’t see coming.
Rostami had once been Iran’s top nuclear physicist. “You’re kidding me,” I said.
“Do I look like I’m kidding? When my father refused the Shah, the Shah had him killed.”
“It wasn’t the Shah,” I said. “It was the Mossad. The Israelis only claimed it was the Iranian government so they could deny it.”
“No. The Israelis were telling the truth,” she said. “It wasn’t the Mossad.”
It’s not every day that an Iranian takes sides with Israel. In fact, it’s barely any day. “How do you know?” I asked.
“Because my father warned me.”
“He could’ve been wrong. The Israelis were convinced he was leading the Iranian nuclear program. They desperately wanted him dead.”
“Not as desperately as his own government,” she said. “That so-called evidence Iran presented at the UN, the pictures that implicated the Israelis? They were fake.”
“Back to my original question,” I said. “How do you know?”
“The same way I know that Darvish was feeding the CIA bad information while working ever closer to developing the bomb. His allegiance was always to his homeland.” She paused. “Just like mine would appear to be.”
It wasn’t just the pause. It was the words and the way she said them. Just like mine would appear to be.
Sadira Yavari was telling me that she was a double agent of her own. Quite literally. She answered to Iranian intelligence, but she was working on her own, for her own reasons.
“For how long?” I asked. How long had she been working against her own government?
“Since they first came to me after my father’s murder to convince me it was the Mossad,” she said. “Exactly as my father warned me they would. He said the counterintelligence arm would then try to recruit me.”
“And as far as they know, they succeeded.”
“Exactly,” she said. “I’m an Iranian spy.”
Only she wasn’t. Sadira Yavari was an Iranian spy who had gone rogue. Seriously, dangerously, altruistically, full-on Machiavellianly rogue.
I knew there was more to her than met the eye …
CHAPTER 101
SADIRA WALKED me through it all. Her recruitment. How she seduced a member of the Iranian government and stole files from him revealing the work of Darvish and the other nuclear physicist she tracked down in London. Even the origin of her fake last name, which she used to become a US citizen. Yavari’s had been an ice cream shop in Tehran that her father used to take her to as a child.
The Iranian government had tried to leverage her presumed rage against Israel and the West, and she had them convinced they’d pulled it off. But she had her own motive. A deeply personal one. In the name of her father, Sadira had become a one-woman army to prevent what he feared most. That Iran would possess a nuclear weapon.
“So what now?” I asked.
“Now I kill you,” she said.
“Excuse me?”
“Remember how you asked how I knew you’d worked for the CIA?”
“Yes. Who told you?”
“The same person who told me I had to kill you tonight.”
The one and only. “The Mudir,” I said.
“I figured he was on your radar. You’re certainly on his.”
“If you’ve had access to him, then—”
“I didn’t know in advance about Times Square, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
It was. “So you’re not in one of his cells?”
“No. I volunteered to be a courier for him after the attack. I told my handler with the Ministry of Intelligence that I wanted to help with the next one.”
“In order to stop it.”
“Yes,” she said. “To stop it and to stop the Mudir. I want him dead. But first we need to convince him that you’re dead.”
“How do you propose we do that?”
“I have an idea,” she answered. “But first, do you think maybe you could pull up your pants?”
I glanced down. Smiled. “Why? You don’t like my boxers?”
After pulling up my pants, I walked over to Sadira and picked up her gun. She and I had come a long way in a very short period of time. But believing her was one thing. Trusting her was another. We weren’t there yet.
The way she described it, neither was the Mudir.
She’d been a courier, delivering fake passports to him that had been generated back in Iran. Now he wanted her help with an impending attack.
But he needed to know first if he could trust her. Especially when he discovered that I’d orchestrated my jury duty introduction to her at the courthouse. It was obviously a major red flag for him. It was also, though, an opportunity. He wanted me dead, but there was a risk in coming after me. He knew I’d be waiting for him. But I wouldn’t necessarily suspect Sadira. If she could eliminate me, she could be trusted. Two birds with one stone-cold killer in heels.
“What do you know about this next attack?” I asked.
“Not much,” she said. “My getting any details is contingent on your being dead. The Mudir did let one thing slip, though. Something about it being safer to fly that day.”
“It’s Penn Station,” I said. “That’s the target.”
I suddenly didn’t have to wonder if everything Sadira had told me was true. Her reaction, the look of horror that crossed her face, could never have been faked.
“The fact that you know,” she said. “It means you’re already prepared to stop it before it happens, right?”
“That’s the plan,” I said. “Now tell me about yours. How do we convince the Mudir that I’m dead?”
“He’s waiting on the proof tonight, and he won’t trust a photo.”
“In other words, we need to record something.”
“Exactly. He needs to actually see you die.”
She walked over to her chest of drawers. As soon as she pulled it out I was shaking my head. “You’re joking, right?”
Sadira tossed me the bulletproof vest. “It’s Kevlar with titanium plates,” she said. “The best money can buy.”
“Yeah, and 100 percent worthless if you miss.”
“I won’t miss,” she assured me. “Just try not to move around too much for the second shot.”
“The second shot?”
“You want it to be convincing, don’t you?”
CHAPTER 102
DEAD MAN TALKING.
Hours later, I was telling Foxx everything. He listened to me without saying a word as he ate an egg-white omelet between sips of coffee. Even if his mouth hadn’t been otherwise occupied I suspected he still wouldn’t have interrupted. He wanted to digest every last detail of my date with Sadira before asking any questions. The floor was mine. Or, more specifically, the end booth of a twenty-four-hour Greek diner a few blocks away from the safe house. At 5:00 a.m., the place was nearly empty. There were more photos of Anthony Quinn on the wall than there were people. Foxx and only Foxx could hear what I was saying.
“Tell me that last part again,” he said when I finally finished.
“You mean, my waiting with Sadira after we made the recording?”
“No, I got that. You wanted to be on hand if the Mudir contacted her right away.”
Only the Mudir hadn’t. I waited with Sadira most of the night, but he never responded to the video of her killing me. Was he buying it? We still didn’t know. But there was no reason he shouldn’t have. Sadira was right: the second shot sold it—almost as much as I did. If there was an Oscar for faking one’s death, I was a shoo-in. All done in one take, no less. For what we did, there were definitely no reshoots.
Meanwhile, I still didn’t know what Foxx wanted to hear again. “You mean, the hotel part?” I asked.
&n
bsp; “Nope. Got that, too,” he said. “If she killed you in her house, the Mudir would have to ask how she disposed of your body. The hotel meant she could walk. The do-not-disturb sign would buy her at least two days before your body was even discovered.”
Foxx had heard everything I’d told him, even filling in some of the things I hadn’t. “Okay, I give up,” I said. “What are you not hearing?”
He pushed away what remained of his omelet and crossed his forearms on the table, leaning in. Apparently what he had the hardest time believing wasn’t that I allowed Sadira Yavari to shoot me at point-blank range. Twice, no less.
“I was waiting for your explanation,” he said through a clenched jaw. “How the hell is Sadira not in our custody right now?”
“Our custody?”
“She killed two informants, one of them being ours.”
“They were hardly informants,” I pointed out.
“According to her.”
“Yes, just like the fact that she’s Farukh Rostami’s daughter. That was according to her, too,” I said. “And it checked out.”
I had Julian confirm it before I met up with Foxx. No hacking required. Just a good old-fashioned LexisNexis search. An Iranian magazine had done a profile of Rostami when Sadira was in her late teens. The piece mentioned her and her sister.
“So one thing true about her makes everything true?” he asked.
“I think you’re losing the forest for the trees here,” I said.
“And I think maybe you’ve lost your mind. Or maybe just your edge after you left the Agency. You volunteered that we know about Penn Station.”
“Only after she shared what the Mudir had said—his remark about it being safer to fly.”
“She could’ve been feeling you out for what we might know. She could be playing you.”
“Or, again, she could be telling the truth. And, for the record, you’re the one who got played by Jahan Darvish.”
“All the more reason why you should’ve brought her in.”
“She wasn’t about to do that.”
“That was your instinct, huh?”
That wasn’t a question. It was a jab. But I hardly minded it. I understood where Foxx was coming from. Knowing in my gut that Sadira was telling the truth provided only so much comfort to a guy like him.
Or his boss. After he and I were done, he’d have to brief the CIA director. He would have his own questions. Topping the list? Why the hell don’t we have Sadira Yavari in custody?
“Since you still have your doubts,” I said, “let’s go talk to her together. If we spot anyone still watching her, I’ll keep out of sight.”
Foxx immediately signaled for the check.
His driver, Briggs, took us into Manhattan and over to the West Village, pulling up to Sadira’s townhouse near the corner of Hudson and Jane.
Before we even reached the first brick of her front steps, though, I knew something was wrong.
CHAPTER 103
“SHE’S GOT company,” I said, pointing.
There was no daylight between the door and the latch jamb, but I could tell the door was propped open ever so slightly. It wasn’t by accident. Whoever was inside with her wasn’t invited.
Foxx drew his Glock even faster than I did mine. I knew what he was thinking. It was the Mudir. The Mudir wouldn’t have been invited, let alone welcome given the circumstances.
Only this didn’t feel like him.
Foxx raised three fingers, then two, then one. Now!
He went high and I went low as we peeled around, moving inside. Scan left, scan right, scan back again.
There was no movement, but the place had been turned upside down. Closets had been riffled through, coats and jackets strewn all over the floor. Cabinets and credenzas, their drawers yanked out and emptied. As we made our way around the first floor, there were all the telltale signs of a burglary. Except the more it looked like one, the more I was convinced it wasn’t.
Whoever did this was looking for something of value, all right. Just not anything having to do with money.
Foxx pointed to the stairs. Up we go …
The only thing we could hear was our own footsteps as we reached the second floor. Room after room looked the same. It was as if Mötley Crüe had spent the night. Even the mattresses had been flipped.
I took the lead at the end of the hall as we approached Sadira’s bedroom. I knew the layout all too well. Step and listen, step and listen. There still wasn’t a sound to be heard. It was dead quiet.
Then, suddenly, it wasn’t.
The noise came from behind us. Downstairs. Panicked running, heading toward the front door. We’d missed a room, a closet, a basement—something on the first floor. Damn! How? Never mind …
Go!
We sprinted down the hallway, the next sounds coming at us from out on the street. We couldn’t see it unfold, but we could piece it together as we flew down the stairs.
Foxx’s driver, Briggs, had blasted his horn before jumping out from behind the wheel. He yelled, “Freeze,” but got fired on instead. One shot, immediately followed by one of his own. Just one. Maybe that’s all he needed. Or maybe we were too late.
Foxx and I bolted out of Sadira’s townhouse. Briggs was lying in the street and grabbing his right shoulder, blood seeping through his fingers. Foxx went to him while I spun around, trying to catch a glimpse of the gunman.
“There!” said Briggs, his hand dripping red as he pointed down the street.
There were two of them, about thirty yards away. One had just swung open the large back door of a van; the other was loading their cargo. Even in the murky light of dawn, I could see her bound and gagged. Sadira was writhing, trying to break free. The only good news was that she was still alive.
I traded glances with Foxx. What do we do? Only I already knew. I was back in the fold.
“C’mon,” said Foxx, helping Briggs to his feet. That’s what we do. We take care of our own first. “We need to get you to Raborn.”
Raborn was the underground emergency medical center run by the Agency for operatives or others who fit the bill due to special circumstances. Namely, the need to avoid police reports or the press.
“Hell, no,” said Briggs. He glanced at his shoulder and shrugged the other one. “I’ll call an Uber.”
An Uber? He was serious. Kids these days.
He grabbed his cell, wincing as he reached into his pocket. He was in pain, but he was going to live. Sadira was an entirely different story.
Up ahead, the van pulled away from the curb. We watched as it sped off down Hudson Street, tires screaming. Sadira was literally disappearing before our eyes.
Foxx and I turned to each other again.
Say no more.
CHAPTER 104
FOXX TOOK the wheel. I grabbed shotgun.
The van had a big head start, but it was still in our sights. On an open road, we’d close the gap in no time. Except this was lower Manhattan. With its narrow streets and cross traffic, we might as well have been miles apart.
Not for long, said Foxx’s right foot.
He jammed on the gas, throwing the Expedition into Drive so fast I was nearly knocked out by the headrest.
“Who are they?” I asked. Nothing about this fit the Mudir.
“Hell if I know,” said Foxx as he swerved around a taxi, nearly clipping a parked Jeep. “But apparently she’s worth more to them alive.”
The van turned onto Bethune, a long block south of us, heading now on a straight shot west, but they would soon run out of real estate. Up ahead of them was the West Side Highway.
I turned to Foxx. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
There was only one way for that van to go when it hit the highway. North.
We hadn’t lost them, but we weren’t gaining on them either.
“Do it,” I said.
Foxx jerked the wheel to the right as he made the turn onto narrow West 12th going the wrong way. We hurtled over the une
ven pavers and squeezed at full speed past the few oncoming cars, their horns blaring at us.
“Hold on,” he said calmly. He was dialed in.
Yanking the wheel as he pumped the brakes, Foxx threw us into the next turn. We were somewhere between drifting and fishtailing around the corner onto the West Side Highway, now heading north. With three lanes to choose from, Foxx gunned it. I leaned over, glancing at the speedometer. Even while weaving through the morning traffic, we were soon pushing eighty, eighty-five, ninety—
“There!” I said, pointing. “There they are.”
The van was on the highway almost right in front of us. We’d narrowed the gap. Now we had to close it.
Shit! We had company.
A cruiser parked up ahead hit its siren. We blew by them, Foxx not even giving them so much as a glance. He was fixed on the van, nothing else.
“We need them to take the bridge exit,” he said. The highway would soon become my familiar Henry Hudson Parkway, well before the bridge.
“Why?”
Foxx didn’t answer. The entrance to the George Washington Bridge was a few miles north, a peel off to the right.
“Why?” I asked again.
We were going a hundred and ten and closing fast on the van. Behind us, the cruiser was chasing us both. Foxx leaned forward as if squeezing every last horsepower from the engine. He still hadn’t answered me.
“Wake up Julian,” he said instead, handing me his sat phone. When I hesitated, it knocked the calm right out of him. He yelled. “Now!”
Another time, another car chase, I maybe would’ve held my ground. But there had to be a reason Foxx was keeping me in the dark, and only when he was good and ready would he let me in on it.
I called Julian, putting him on speaker. The guy never slept.
There were no hellos, no setup beyond Foxx stating that I was with him. He cut straight to what he wanted. “I need you to hack someone,” he said, “and you’ve got only two minutes.”
“Who is it?” asked Julian.
“Me,” said Foxx.
CHAPTER 105
Killer Instinct Page 22
