Mark forced himself to stop thinking about Daria’s ass, which was pressed invitingly up against his crotch, and instead consider Tehran’s Grand Bazaar. Although it had lost some of its influence lately, the bazaar was still the Wall Street of Iran; deep connections existed between many of the bazaar merchants and the government.
“If he’s so paranoid, why go to his house? Why not just talk here?”
“He doesn’t like to be rushed.”
The front door of the car opened, then slammed shut. A muffled voice from the front seat spoke out in Farsi: “Who is he?”
“My boss,” said Daria. “You have nothing to fear from him.”
“In the past you have always come alone, dear.”
“It’s a special circumstance.”
Silence, then, “Are you in danger?”
“No more so than usual.”
“After so long, I was afraid I would not hear from you again.”
“I’ll explain everything at your home.”
55
“The general will see you now.”
“Is my aunt here?”
“Hong Kong.”
Zemin dismissed the maid and showed himself to his uncle’s weekend office. The general was at his desk, signing his name to government documents.
“I meet with the transport minister at the golf clubhouse in fifteen minutes.” His uncle spoke with his usual abruptness, without bothering to look up. An assistant — a young army lieutenant — stood by the side of the desk with a stack of more papers to be signed.
It was Sunday morning. The general wore a light green army shirt with dark green army slacks. His jacket, with its general’s epaulets, hung on a coatrack near the door. His head was unnaturally large, even in relation to the rest of his chubby body — the result of too many Mongolian hot pots at the golf club. His cheeks sagged.
Zemin said, “I have an important matter I need to discuss with you.”
“Sit.”
Zemin had, in fact, been intending to sit, but now he chose to remain standing. He faced his uncle’s assistant. “Leave us.”
The assistant’s face remained blank until the general said, “Go.”
When he and his uncle were alone, Zemin said, “There are complications. With the project in Iran.”
The general was seventy-four years old. His clean-shaven face showed the wrinkles that come with age. Liver spots dotted the backs of his hands.
“Stop this.”
“I must tell you of these complications.”
The general signed another document. “Enough! Whatever your problem is, you must solve it yourself.”
“The Iranians have detained an American—”
The general smacked his palm on his desk. “One month ago you came to see me. You stood before me as you do now. You assured me, and I in turn assured the commission, that there would be no circumstances under which the commission would—”
“I provided financial support to the Iranian newspaper editor we spoke of. The sayyid Amir Bayat, the man I worked with years ago when I was in Tehran.”
“Financial support that you assured me would be untraceable. You were—”
“As he promised, he was able to use that money to pay off the right generals and informants, so that false information fell into the hands of the Americans and Israelis.”
“Do not tell me the nature of this information,” warned the general. “There is no reason for the commission, or me, to know. We agreed on this point, Li.”
“Because of complications that have arisen, you must now instruct the Guoanbu in Iran to do as I say.”
“Impossible.”
“Then I will tell you the specifics of the operation you authorized. So that you know the dangers involved. Two months ago, the daughter of Supreme Leader Ayatollah Khorasani was caught swimming at night, naked, on a men’s beach in Kish Island. She was arrested by local Iranian police. Of course, when they arrested her, the police had no idea who she was.”
The general shook his head and narrowed his eyes. Zemin enjoyed the look of disgust on his uncle’s face. Theirs was a strictly formal relationship. Certainly they had never — not even once — discussed anything remotely sexual before.
“Because she was the daughter of the supreme leader, the incident was covered up and the girl was sequestered. But rumors started…”
“And the Americans,” said his uncle, when Zemin had finished. “They actually have been deceived by these rumors?”
“You would know better than I. How many of their aircraft carriers are within striking distance of Iran?”
Zemin took his uncle’s silence as an acknowledgment that the Americans were indeed up to something. He paused, expecting some small nod of recognition from his uncle that, remarkably, the primary objective of the operation remained on track.
Instead, the general said, “This is not a Chinese operation and never was. This is your operation.”
“Enough, Uncle. We are alone. We can speak the truth. You put the outline of the operation before the commission. And the commission approved it because they were afraid that, if the regime in Iran were ever to collapse, China’s oil and natural gas agreements might be canceled. A new government in Iran would want to reach out to the West, and other Central Asian nations might follow suit. A US attack on Iran would ensure that that would never happen. You know that, and I know that.”
“We will not acknowledge it.”
“The Iranians have detained an American who knows about our involvement in the money transfer. He took a photo. It shows me delivering money to Amir Bayat. He e-mailed this photo to others.”
The general looked disgusted. “This is your problem, not China’s. He detected your rogue operation. Not China’s.”
“You approved that transfer.”
“And you made commitments.”
“The Americans know what we did to Turkmenistan’s currency, and that I was involved, and that proceeds from that operation were transferred to Amir Bayat. These breaches are unfortunate, but not catastrophic.”
“Commitments of absolute secrecy!”
“The danger is that the Americans will learn why we transferred money to Bayat. The only way to guarantee that that won’t happen is to eliminate the two people in Iran who know both where the money came from and where the money went.”
The general stared down Zemin.
“Yes, Uncle, we must kill Amir Bayat and his ayatollah brother. You must authorize the Guoanbu in Iran to do it immediately. A former CIA officer has crossed into Iran. His name is Mark Sava. He has seen the photo of me and he knows the man the Iranians have detained. He is closing in.”
The general came out from behind his desk. “To come here with demands, like a pushy schoolboy. You shame yourself. The commission will not approve such a mission.”
“Then you must.”
“I will not. Ayatollah Bayat is a member of the Guardian Council. He could be the next supreme leader. If our involvement in his death were ever discovered—”
“It is the only way.”
“I will not be interrupted and bullied by an insolent child. Now leave me be.”
His uncle expected deference, Zemin knew. For the old ways to be honored, for blind obedience, for elders to be respected. But his uncle didn’t respect the old ways. His uncle lived in Santa Barbara and invested in hotel chains in Hong Kong. He only followed the old ways when it suited him.
Zemin would do the same.
“No, Uncle, that’s where you’re wrong. You will be bullied by me. You will instruct Guoanbu assets in Iran to kill Amir Bayat and his brother Muhammad Bayat. You will also instruct them to kill the Bayats’ American prisoner, and the guards being used to detain him, and the American Mark Sava. And you will instruct them to do all this in direct consultation with me.” He took a step toward his uncle. “If you do not do these things, I will tell the Americans myself what you and the commission and our president have planned. I will ruin you. And if it ruins me in the process, I don’t care.”