Motaki smiled as he read. The Russian fuel was flowing, with the state press trumpeting the news, and there was optimism in the streets for the first time in recent memory. He put down the report and pressed the intercom.
“Ahmad,” he said, “please have the car brought around.”
“At once, Mr. President. May I know your destination to alert security?”
“No place in particular, Ahmad. I just want to go among the people. And no security detail. They intimidate people.”
“Are you… are you sure that is altogether… wise, Mr. President?”
Motaki stifled a rebuke. “I’ll be fine, my young friend. Like the early days, when I roamed freely. The driver is all I need.”
“Very well, Mr. President,” Ahmad said.
Boron carbide was the perfect contaminant — virtually indestructible, inert, the third-hardest material known to man, and available commercially as a fine powder. Mixed into the paint used on the interiors of the tank trucks and railcars, the hard, tiny crystals were initially harmless and fuel quality hardly compromised during inspection and custody transfer at the border. After all, no one was testing for boron carbide.
As Russian fuel surged through the Iranian distribution system, the impact was cumulative, felt first in smaller towns near the border. Here and there, ancient cars coughed to a halt, and country mechanics scratched their heads, the scattered failures prompting no concern.
The cancer spread to the population centers, reaching critical mass in Tehran in the wee hours of morning as cars coughed and died in increasing numbers. Their drivers shrugged off this latest hardship and pushed their cars to the nearest garage. By dawn, every shop had a line; the drivers clustered in groups, smoking and musing on the cause of the serial breakdowns.
Fuel was the obvious culprit, and admiration of Motaki’s Russian coup changed to anger as motorists waited for the bill for his stupidity. The verdict came midmorning as mechanics removed cylinder heads to peer at seized and blackened pistons. Like doctors pronouncing a terminal illness, they folded greasy hands and gave the news: engine replacement required, a diagnosis that doomed most of the stricken cars to the scrap yard.
News spread as waiting drivers crowded round and thumbs flew, sending texts to warn family and friends against refueling. Warnings already too late, as across the city vehicles bucked to a stop, an unmoving mass of blaring horns and angry voices. The battered cars were mobility, one of few remaining freedoms, and a loss not easily endured.
Voices gained purpose and coherence as they coalesced into a chant.
“Death, Death, Death to Motaki!”
Motaki stared out the car window, bemused. Cheap fuel meant crushing traffic, but he was enjoying the ride as people did double takes. He wanted to be among people to bask in their approval. He might get out and walk, he thought, since they weren’t moving.
The driver stood outside, craning his neck. He got in, shaking his head.
“What is it, Rahim?”
“Bonnets raised everywhere, sir. And distant chanting. ‘Death to America,’ I think.”
Motaki smiled. “Praise Allah for providing our people a target for frustration, though I am not sure the Great Satan creates traffic jams.”
Rahim chuckled as Motaki watched a motorist peer under his hood. The man pulled a cell phone from his pocket and stared at the display, scrolling through a text. He grimaced and raised his eyes, recognizing Motaki, then pointing at him as he shouted. A mob surged around the car, tugging at locked doors and pressing angry faces to the windows, picking up the faraway chant: “Death, Death, Death to Motaki!”
The car rocked with the chant as Motaki fumbled for his phone, and was lifted off the ground, crashing back to throw its occupants about like rag dolls. On the next heave, the car rolled over. Motaki dropped the phone, and Rahim was knocked unconscious, a blessing he’d never appreciate. Motaki lay on the ceiling, gazing out at feet and taunting, upside-down faces. He heard glass break and smelled gasoline as the remains of a bottle hit the pavement and clear liquid ran down the outside of the bulletproof window.
“Here’s your Russian petrol, Excrement of Satan,” a voice screamed. “Drink it. It will not run our cars!”
More gasoline splashed over the car from nearby stations overrun by the mob. They descended with anything that would hold liquid, hurling the tainted fuel and screaming abuse. The fuel pooled around the car, finally igniting from a stray spark and setting a dozen rioters alight with it to run screaming through the mob like human torches.
A warning was transmitted by text message as motorcycle police wound their way through unmoving cars, and the mob scattered. The police rushed to the charred limo, the more foolhardy burning their hands on locked doors or trying to force bulletproof windows. Pointless efforts — the driver was dead from head trauma, and Motaki was curled in the fetal position on the smoldering headliner, baked to a turn.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Dugan lay in bed, arm around Anna as she dozed, her head on his chest. She stirred and lifted her head to smile at him sleepily, then put her head back down.
“Penny?” she said against his chest.
“Just thinking about the Russians and Iran,” he said.
“Hmmm. Just what a girl wants to hear after fantastic sex.”
“Sorry,” Dugan said, to which Anna mumbled something inaudible, patted his chest, and rolled on her side.
“I’m just really surprised the Russians accepted our plan so readily,” Dugan said a few minutes later.
“Hmmm…” Anna muttered. “…Braun’s smirking face on video must have… done the trick…” Her voice trailed off into the steady breathing of sleep.
Dugan sat alone in the dark living room, a half-finished beer on the coffee table in a puddle of condensation. He looked up at a sound from the bedroom door.
“Tom?” Anna said.
He heard her move through the dark and shut his eyes against the glare as she turned on a lamp. He opened them again as she wrapped the thin silk robe around herself and sat down across from him.
“What’s the matter, Tom?”
“How many people do you know that smirk on their deathbed? And if there was a video of Braun, why didn’t I see it?”
“Tom… I…”
“The bastard’s alive, isn’t he.” It wasn’t a question.
“Tom… please… you don’t under—”
“Don’t what? Don’t understand? Oh, I understand all right. It’s all professional spook ‘need to know’ bullshit. Some sort of ‘the end justifies the means’ deal with the Devil. What could possibly motivate you and Jesse to cut any sort of deal with this murdering bastard?”
Anna was calm now, her voice ice. “Your bloody freedom, for one thing, and Alex’s as well. Has it occurred to you that, despite everything that happened, we had not a scintilla of hard evidence against Braun? Alex had confessed and implicated you, and at the time we made the deal, we didn’t even know if he would survive to recant. And even if he did, it was essentially his word against Braun’s.”
She continued before Dugan could interrupt.
“Just how do you think we got the name of the ship out of Braun?” Anna asked. “Did you think Jesse water boarded him in the recovery room? Despite your disdain for ‘professional spooks,’ on occasion we do have a better appreciation for the realities. We did what we had to do, and you and Alex are free men because of it.”
“OK,” Dugan said, somewhat mollified, “but why not tell me?”
“Because we concluded you were incapable of keeping the truth from Alex,” she said. “Given what he and his family endured, we feel it better if he never knows Braun is free.”