“Amir, it’s Erich.”
Nazeri’s mouth went dry instantly, but he forced himself to speak, his spare hand tightening around the arm of his chair. “Kohl.” He caught himself and said, “I’ve been expecting your call.”
“Good. I’m glad to hear it.” The voice on the other end was calm and confident. “It’s time, my friend. Have you made the arrangements?”
“Yes. The transportation is waiting, along with the forklift. The second vehicle is already in Ithaca.”
“What about the other materials?”
“Here at the warehouse, locked in a spare room.”
“Good.” There was a rustle of paper, then, “The manifest needs to list a 150-horsepower commercial steam boiler. The width of the cabinet is fifty-six inches, the length is one hundred and fifty-six, and the height is one hundred and forty-five. That includes the barometric dampener. I’m going to fax you the commercial invoice. What else do you need?”
“The manifest, of course, but I can fill that out myself. My people in Montreal will fax it to the U.S. broker.”
“Fine. Amir, I want to be sure you can handle this. We don’t have time to waste. Today is Sunday. We need to be ready by Tuesday morning.”
Nazeri had written down the dimensions. He looked at the numbers and ran through them quickly. “It’s longer than I expected, but that’s not a problem. How heavy is it?”
“The actual shipping weight is 15,340 pounds.”
“Fine. I have a vehicle prepared.” Nazeri hesitated. “Will this stand up if I’m stopped on the bridge? I can’t risk—”
“It won’t have to stand up if you fill out the manifest correctly. You’re a naturalized citizen, and you’re known to customs. You come in and out of Canada all the time. You have nothing to worry about.”
“Yes, I… I suppose you’re right.”
There was a lengthy pause. “Amir, you’re not having second thoughts, are you? I thought you wanted this. I thought you wanted to set things right.”
Nazeri felt sweat running over his ribs. It had all been talk to this point, but now the time for talk was over. In theory, he could still go back. In reality, he had sealed his fate with the promise he’d made six months earlier. He steeled himself and said, “I’m willing to do whatever it takes. I haven’t forgotten, Erich.” He paused, and a face flashed into his mind. It was a face he had not seen in many years. A face he would never see again, at least not in this lifetime. Suddenly, all doubt was gone. “I could never forget.”
“Then I’ll see you in Montreal, my friend. The Lake Forest storage facility, unit 124. Ten a.m.
tomorrow.”
Nazeri looked at the clock on his desk. “If I’m going to make it by morning, I need to make some calls.”
“Then I’ll leave you to it. And Amir?”
“Yes?”
“Be ready to work all night. It all comes down to Tuesday.”
The phone went dead. Nazeri held it for a minute longer, staring absently at the far wall. His chest felt hollow, his mind buzzing with fear and adrenaline. It was hard to believe it had all come down to this.
When Nazeri looked back on his life, he could not help but feel a certain amount of pride; by any standard, he had accomplished a great deal in his forty-four years. He had been born in Tehran, the fifth of seven children. His mother was French, his father a professor of physics at the Iran University of Science and Technology. From an early age, it was clear that he had not inherited his father’s aptitude for science, though his intelligence was never in doubt. At the same time, he had little interest in school, and even less interest in the impoverished state in which his family existed. When Amir was a child, his uncle had spoken of Europe in glowing terms, and it was this thought that had consumed his teenage years. He wanted nothing more than to leave Iran and never return, and following the fall of the shah in 1979, the opportunity finally presented itself.
He immigrated less than a year after Khomeini assumed power, but he did not travel to Europe, as he’d originally intended. Instead, he went to America.
The United States was everything he could have hoped for, though at first, he’d been unsure of how to approach his newfound freedom. Owing to his lack of formal education, he was forced to work a series of mediocre jobs. Eventually, he went to work for a transport service based out of Ithaca. The company was owned by an Iranian American, a man who’d built his wealth in real estate before branching out to freight. The owner took a liking to the hardworking Nazeri and brought him into the front office in the summer of 1985. Over the next two years, the owner taught his young apprentice everything he’d ever need to know, and then he sold Nazeri the company, Bridgeline Transport, Inc.
At the time, the company consisted of two associates, three tractors, and five trailers. Now, more than twenty years later, Bridgeline had a fleet of twenty trucks and fifty trailers. The company employed more than 30 staff and drivers. Opportunities had come along in recent years, the chance to expand at a faster rate, but Nazeri had preferred to keep things on a manageable level.
He had no desire to take on a partner, and by keeping things small, he’d never been forced to do so. The company specialized in cross-border transportation; for this reason, Nazeri owned a small terminal just outside Montreal, on the St. Lawrence River, in addition to the original facility north of Ithaca. The hub on West Thirty-seventh was used primarily for administrative purposes, though he also used it to run a vending service for businesses in Manhattan.
To the casual observer, Amir Nazeri appeared to epitomize the American dream. He had come from humble roots, survived an oppressive regime, and risen to considerable wealth and success in a new land. But the things Nazeri thought and felt in his private world would have shocked the people closest to him — if there had been people close to him. The truth was that he had never felt a connection to his parents, and his siblings meant nothing to him. He had never had any real friends or romantic attachments to speak of. The only person he’d ever truly cared for — ever really loved — was his cousin Fatima.
She was his first cousin, the daughter of his father’s youngest brother. As children, they had lived two houses apart in Tehran. From the very start, he had been confused by his devotion to her. She was a plain girl at best, not particularly pretty, not especially charming. But she had returned his affection, and there had been something between them that he could never hope to duplicate. In short, she was his whole world. He had watched with bursting pride when she was admitted to Azad University, with burning jealousy when her marriage to a fellow student was arranged, and with overwhelming, guilty satisfaction when her suitor was killed in a car accident two days before the wedding was to take place. Once Nazeri gained financial security in the United States, he had begged her to join him, but she had refused, citing her work. They remained extremely close, however, and he traveled to Tehran as often as possible to visit her.
He had repeated the offer on dozens of occasions, but she always declined. At least until the previous year, when her correspondence had stopped without warning. No telephone calls, no letters… nothing at all.