Garin had two concerns. The first was making sure the man behind the Blazer didn’t escape. Garin couldn’t see him and was afraid that he might use the Blazer to conceal a retreat into the wooded area directly behind him.
The second concern was the police. Although the violent storm had obscured the car chase and gunfight, at some point cops were going to show up. Perhaps in a matter of minutes. The driver of the Volvo was probably calling 911 at that very moment. One way or another, Garin had to bring this to a conclusion fast. That was unlikely to happen as long as he remained behind the Fusion and the other man had the protection of the Blazer.
Garin decided to force the issue by moving forward and drawing fire. Two large oaks on the other side of the street would provide sufficient cover if he could just get to one of them. The first oak was on the tree lawn immediately adjacent to the street. The second was about ten yards beyond the first, in the direction of the Blazer.
After looking to see if there were any cars approaching, Garin checked the Blazer and sprinted across Connecticut to the first oak twenty yards away. As he reached the tree lawn, jets of dirt spit from the ground, three bullets slamming into the earth a few feet in front of him. He safely reached the tree without returning fire.
The upended vehicle was another thirty yards in front of him. The man behind the vehicle was undisciplined with his fire. Garin didn’t know how many rounds the man had expended but thought he might have only a few shots left. If he could be forced to empty his magazine, Garin might be able to get to him before he had time to insert another.
Garin fired another round at the SUV and, just as he’d hoped, the man behind it fired back, twice striking the tree behind which Garin hid. Garin then ran to the next tree but was disappointed when he drew no fire. In the driving rain Garin couldn’t determine the make of the man’s weapon, but it was clearly a nine-millimeter semiautomatic. Depending on the type, the number of rounds could vary and he might still have cartridges left. If Garin guessed wrong, he’d be dead.
With each passing moment, Garin’s options were dwindling. Even if his adversary had spent his magazine, he could seat a second one in the next couple of heartbeats. And if Garin didn’t move now, the Chevy Chase police might arrive, dumbfounded to find the most wanted man in America engaged in a gun battle in one of the wealthiest communities in the country near an upended SUV — next to which, of all things, lay an inert Iranian.
Garin charged for the Blazer, firing two shots as he closed the twenty yards between the tree and the target. As he rounded the front of the vehicle, he dove to the ground and rolled to his right, the SIG gripped firmly in both hands and extended in front of him ready to fire. But there was no one to shoot.
Garin leapt to his feet and swiftly checked all sides of the Blazer. The man was gone. As Garin had feared, he had escaped into the wooded area.
The man couldn’t have gotten far in the seconds since his last shots, but Garin didn’t have time to track him down. Instead, he turned his attention to the vehicle. He looked through the windshield, but it didn’t appear that there were any occupants left within. To be sure, he climbed up to the passenger-side door and carefully peered inside. Empty. He opened the glove box for any identifying documents. It, too, was empty.
Garin hopped down and stuck his weapon into his waistband. The rain was beginning to lighten up. He was soaked and covered in mud. From where he stood, he could even see several bullet indentations in the side of the Fusion, which the friendly Avis rental agent would likely find somewhat unacceptable. Garin stooped and turned the dead man onto his back. He didn’t recognize the face but thought it looked vaguely Middle Eastern. Rifling through the man’s pockets, Garin feared he’d have no more information than when he’d begun the chase. But as he pulled a piece of paper from the man’s left front pocket, Garin thought, Perhaps not.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Mansur didn’t look anything like Park had imagined. The Iranian was shorter and heavier than expected, his face softer and more open. He looked less like a former member of a ruthless intelligence service and more like a successful hotelier, or a restaurateur nearing retirement.
Mansur’s apartment was modest but nicely appointed and well kept. It was the apartment, thought Park, of someone well-to-do who didn’t care to advertise his wealth.
Chernin and Park each sat on comfortable leather chairs in front of a simple but elegant mahogany coffee table. Before Park was a cup of tea. Before Chernin was a glass of Smirnoff, a baked orange peel resting at the bottom.
Mansur sat opposite them on a low, plush couch that was startlingly white. He sipped from a bottle of water between puffs on a Cohiba. To Park, the cherubic Mansur appeared the picture of contentment.
When Chernin had called earlier in the day, he had casually informed Mansur that he was bringing Park along. Although there had been no discussion about the purpose of the visit, the astute Mansur surmised that he would likely hear some type of business proposition that evening. Three intelligent men who had lived their lives under three of the most repressive regimes in the world didn’t gather to engage in idle conversation. A favor would be asked; a price would be discussed. If there was agreement, a plan would be formulated.
Yet to this point — twenty minutes into the evening — the conversation had, in fact, been idle. The comparative climates of Russia, Korea, and Iran; their respective cuisines; the World Cup. Park corrected Mansur on the number of rounds it took Ali to dispatch Jerry Quarry in Atlanta. Mansur, believing he knew more about Ali than the champ himself, was surprised but delighted.
Mansur was in no hurry. He understood that the rhythm of the conversation would soon turn to the true purpose of the pair’s visit. It was best to let the discussion flow until the visitors felt comfortable. They would broach the subject when ready.
For his part, Park had been ready from the moment he’d entered Mansur’s apartment. He had no use for small talk and preferred to get right to the point. But he deferred to Chernin. This was his friend and he knew the optimal time to make the request. And the time came soon enough.
“Hamid,” Chernin said in an offhand tone, tilting his head toward Park. “My friend here believes you may be of assistance to him. I’ve told him you are a very resourceful fellow who can make certain arrangements if the consideration is right.” Chernin arched his brow. “Is this a good time to talk about such arrangements?”
Mansur understood the question perfectly. He went to great pains to ensure that his apartment was secure. He swept it regularly himself using his own equipment and countermeasures generously financed by Mossad. With the flick of a switch his windows would vibrate to frustrate laser mics. Even so, when discussing business in his home he was careful to use vague terms.
“This is a good time to talk. It is always a good time to talk carefully,” Mansur replied.
Both Park and Chernin understood. One of the few advantages to living in societies where paranoia was a virtue.
“We have been working in your country for some time but have not had much opportunity to see the sights or appreciate the culture,” Chernin continued innocuously as Mansur rose and flipped what looked like a light switch next to the sliding glass doors leading to the outdoor balcony. “Can you suggest some places for us to visit before we return home?”