And then the fearful moment came when the reporter said, “Only one body was recovered at the scene.” Then he said, “It is believed to be the body of a longtime civil servant in the administration.”
Rasa Jaber waited, but they gave no name. She managed to draw a deep breath, then let it out slowly, unevenly, but she did not weep. She had been the wife of an international terrorist for three decades, so she watched the entire segment in stoic silence, then stood and trudged slowly into the kitchen, where her sister was preparing dinner.
“Something has happened,” Rasa said, fighting back tears. Then, as calmly as she could manage, she recounted what she had just heard.
Her sister nearly fainted.
“Please,” Rasa implored her as she helped her sit down, “we must be strong. This situation remains dangerous.” What she did not say was that the danger now extended to her sister, her brother-in-law, and her two nieces. “Does anyone know I have come to visit with you?”
“Only my neighbors.”
Rasa shook her head. “All right. I will finish preparing the dinner. You need to go out and buy every available newspaper from Tehran. They are available nearby?”
Her sister nodded.
“See if you can find Hamshahri and Shargh. And your local paper, what is it called?”
“Durna.”
“Yes. And also try to find them from yesterday, even the day before. I need to look for every possible report.”
“What about the English paper?”
“The Tehran Times? Yes, that too, if you can get it.”
The younger woman hesitated before speaking. “You know that they will all carry the same story, the one the government has approved.”
“Yes, but every detail is important if I am going to find Ahmad.” Her sister still appeared unconvinced. “What is it?”
“I am sorry to have to ask this, Rasa, but if Ahmad survived, would he not have contacted you by now?”
Rasa shook her head slowly and managed a grim smile. “No, that is exactly what he would not have done. Now go, quickly.”
Once her sister left, Rasa went to the closet, removed her suitcase, and began to pack. She forced herself to methodically fold each article of clothing, placing them neatly until she suddenly stopped, gripped by a painful spasm of fear, a palpable sense that froze her in place. She dropped the sweater she was holding and wrapped her arms around her shoulders, as if that might alleviate the awful chill. In a moment the sensation passed, but she still did not allow herself tears. There was too much to do.
She knew her sister would protest her leaving, but Rasa realized she must depart immediately. It was for her safety as well as the protection of her sister’s family. At some point the people responsible would come for her, and this would be one of the first places they would look.
Only one body had been recovered at the scene, Rasa reminded herself, and the reporter said the remains were yet to be conclusively identified. Rasa believed her husband was still alive. He had sent her away abruptly, so he must have known there was serious trouble ahead. Now her home was in ruins and a man was dead.
She believed that man was their servant, Mahmud, and she suspected Ahmad had arranged things to make it appear that he was the one who perished in the explosion. She also believed her husband’s ruse would soon be discovered and, assuming Ahmad was beyond their reach, they would search for her.
All of this was more than mere speculation, Rasa told herself as she finished packing. She actually felt certain of these things. She had no idea how her husband knew their house would be destroyed, or why he would have anticipated events so as to leave Mahmud behind, but she knew the cleverness of Ahmad Jaber. Whatever he had done had bought them time, and now she must use that time wisely. Over the years he had tutored her in the means of escape, preparing for the possibility that flight would become necessary. He had mentioned it again last week, as they parted. Now that day had arrived, and she must act with both dispatch and caution.
She took a moment to organize the cash that Ahmad had given her that night. Some was in rials, some in euros, some in American dollars. It was quite enough to fund her way to safety. She also removed from the inner compartment of her valise the handgun he had left her. She was no marksman, that was sure, but she knew how to load, to disengage the safety, to point, and to fire. If it ever became necessary, and now it well might, she would be prepared to act.
Rasa replaced the gun and the cash, closed the suitcase, and returned to the kitchen. This would be a sad dinner, likely the last time she would ever see her sister and her nieces. She only hoped no trouble would befall them from all of this.
She also hoped Allah would permit her to survive.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The flight to the People’s Republic of China was uneventful, and the four men got as much sleep as they could, knowing rest would be at a premium once they reached their destination. In Beijing they collected their luggage, passed through the “In Transit” procedures, then were directed to the North Korean airline desk.
Sandor powered up his international cell. There were various voice mails and e-mails, but only one he was looking for. Just an hour before, Bill Sternlich had sent him a text that said, “No.”
Sandor took a quick stop in the men’s room and subjected this cell to the same fate as his other phone in Toronto, then moved on.
At Air Koryo each of them was questioned, their visas and passports scrutinized, their bags subjected to a double round of scanning. The four men engaged in ongoing banter, four chums on holiday without a care in the world, none of them so much as glancing at Raabe’s suitcase. Even if the weapons experts at Langley were right, and the C-4 was essentially invisible to a normal scan, the four agents also realized it would likely be discovered if the suitcase were opened and the lining torn away. Sandor could not help but think of his conversation with Sternlich, could not help but worry over the possibility that word of Jaber’s defection had already leaked and that he and his team were at a much greater level of risk than anyone had foreseen. So far, at least, Stenlich had said, “No.”
As they continued their banal chatter, Raabe’s valise was passed through with the rest of their luggage and they were permitted to head to the boarding gate. Once aboard the plane, Sandor realized the dangers they faced may have more to do with aeronautics than espionage. The aircraft was an ancient Russian model, something Moscow had probably given away twenty years ago in lieu of turning it into scrap metal.
The Air Koryo staff was efficient, but when the steward offered them beverages and Raabe made a joke about Coca-Cola being the world’s dominant power, his attempt at humor was met with an icy silence.
Sandor knew there would also be nothing friendly once they entered the ironically named Democratic People’s Republic of Korea. Known in diplomatic circles as the DPRK, and to the world at large as North Korea, it makes other dictatorships look positively tame by comparison. The lack of basic rights and freedom, not to mention communications, is nearly absolute, and these restrictions apply to nationals and foreigners alike. Unlike other countries, which welcome tourists, there is no unfettered movement within the DPRK. Sightseeing tours are precisely choreographed. The few restaurants which visitors may patronize are strictly identified and regulated by the state. The hotels are likewise designated, thereby simplifying the task of military surveillance, which is maintained even with regard to the most innocent guest. The only Internet use must be accessed via satellites controlled at state facilities, meaning that all messages are subject to monitoring and censorship. No cell phones are allowed. Television and radio programming are limited to news and entertainment approved by the Great Leader and his administration.