“Always the practical one, right, Ian? I take it you’ve seen this?” Hancock asked, throwing a paper with the headlines of the Eilat bombing into Cahill’s lap.
“Yes,” the chief of staff replied. “Any word leaked of our involvement?”
“No. That’s one thing the Jews are good at — keeping secrets.” The President smiled. “I want her transferred to my personal staff. Call it a performance promotion.”
“What?” Cahill asked, caught off-balance by the sudden change of subject.
“Not what. Who. Mary.”
He could feel the woman’s eyes bore into his back as he turned to walk away, leaving her holding the crumpled leaflet. Better have made good use of that time, Vic, he thought, rubbing his palms on the front of his suit pants. He didn’t reach for the phone until he had returned to the safety of his car.
“Are you out of there?” he demanded when the connection finalized.
“Yes.”
“Well it better have been worth it. Felt like a fool. I’ll bet she figured I wasn’t a JW within five seconds.”
“It was,” Vic replied, ignoring his partner’s complaints. “His computer was gone, but I have account numbers, passwords — we can access the whole blasted system remotely. Try to figure out how he ties in with his son.”
“Good, good. Now let’s get moving before the maid decides to call the cops.”
“They were using classic rearguard tactics,” President Shirazi commented, looking up from the reports in front of him.
Larijani stood there before the president’s desk, stiffly at attention. Hearing an appraisal of the tactics used against him was not pleasing. He had lost good men against the Kurds, only to have the peshmerga melt into the mountains, denying him a decisive victory. Sixty soldiers killed, by the last count. An indeterminate number of dead Kurds in exchange. And their targets had slipped away.
But when his uncle looked up again, he was smiling. “Fortunately, you have another chance to prove yourself.”
“Sir.”
“We have received communication from BEHDIN.”
It took a moment to register in Harun’s tired brain. Then he nodded in understanding. “The American succeeded in escaping with vials containing the bacteria,” Shirazi continued. “He’s an experienced field operative named Thomas Parker and considered to be extremely competent. Clearly, he has survived thus far, so it is best to believe that assessment. But he has not yet crossed the border into Iraq.”
“Do we know where he is?”
“Not exactly,” the Iranian president acknowledged, spreading out a map on his desk. “Based on the intelligence provided by BEHDIN, he must be somewhere in this area — here. He’s on horseback, so an aerial search is necessary.”
“Do you wish me to conduct the search, sir?”
“In the morning,” Shirazi responded, a smile creeping out from behind his beard. “You deserve your rest, nephew.”
“Nichols?” Despite the seriousness of the past forty-eight hours, Harry couldn’t help but smile at the sight of Daniel Lasker in the uniform of a cab driver, holding a sign that read Nichols in bold lettering.
“How was the flight?” Lasker asked, taking Harry’s briefcase as the two of them walked from the terminal.
“Like normal. Jet lag is a pain in the neck, but the trip was uneventful, thank God. The Agency short on personnel?”
“Because they sent me?”
Harry nodded.
“No,” the watch officer replied. “Carter’s in the cab. Word from the top is that you’re to be debriefed on the way in to Langley.”
“No rest for the weary,” Harry commented. Lasker returned the briefcase as they reached the cab, and Harry slid into the back, beside Ron Carter.
“What’s Richards’ status?”
The analyst looked up from his laptop computer. “On an Athens-Bern flight as we speak.”
Harry leaned back against the seat of the cab, momentarily closing his eyes. “Good. The Alps are beautiful this time of year.”
“How long do you give it before the Israelis get the same information out of Tal that you did?” Carter asked. Harry opened his eyes to find the analyst staring intently at the screen of his laptop.
“Depends. They don’t have the same chips. What, exactly, did I get out of the good professor?”
“Achmed Asefi is the personal bodyguard of the Ayatollah Isfahani. Served him for thirteen years. Has Isfahani’s implicit trust.”
“And served as the cutout between Isfahani and the archaeologist,” Harry added, impatience in his voice. “We know all of that from Tal. What do we have besides this?”
Carter grinned, an unusually satisfied expression flickering across his dark face.
“We have a way to contact him. And, did I mention? He likes boys…”
Chapter Thirteen
Thomas awoke from his sleep to find Estere bending over him, her hand on his shoulder. “It’s time to go,” she whispered.
He rolled over, shielding the luminous dial of his watch with a hand as he checked the time. “Now?”
“Yes,” she replied, a voice in the darkness. “I want to be across before dawn.”
He rose, quickly collecting his bedroll and weapon. When he was ready, he found her at the mouth of the cave, standing there at the side of her horse.
His clothes were still damp from the rain and the night breeze held a chill in its breath, wispy clouds drifting across the face of the moon. The storm had passed. Even the birds were still at this time of night, the only sound the rushing stream about fifty meters to their west.
“Ready?” She asked, breaking the silence between them. Thomas grinned. “No worries. I was born to hang, not drown.”
Estere ignored the weak attempt at jest and swung a leg up into the saddle, mounting easily. “Of equal danger at this time of year is exposure to the cold. The horses will probably have to swim the stream and we’ll need to dry off on the other side.”
Thomas slung the assault rifle over his shoulder and put a foot in the stirrup, hoisting himself onto the back of the stallion. “Let’s go for it.”
He only had one bag, and he’d kept it in the overhead through the flight. Nice and convenient. The commuter flight had been neither, Vic reflected, pushing his way through the crowded terminal. But, business was pressing. Their last target had arrived home.
A sharp ringing jangle caused him to jump and he retrieved his cellphone from a pouch at his waist. “Hello.”
He listened for a couple moments, then announced. “Good. I’ll meet you in thirty.”
Adrenalin seemed to flow through his tired body as he hung up. Things were coming together…
Estere had been right. The waters were ice-cold, flowing down from snow-capped mountains in the north. He could feel it soak through his combat boots and thick socks as Bahoz plunged on into the turbulent stream.
She rode ahead, a dim form in the darkness on the back of the grey. Deeper now, and the horse let out a neigh of protest. Thomas shivered as the water crept higher, eddying around his legs. The chill touch of death. There was no way to know how much longer the black would be able to keep his footing on the streambed. Then…