Amir Bayat had no answer to that.
Mark said, “I have a demand.”
“You have violated my home. You have looked upon my wife. You have brought my children to tears. You will pay for this.”
Indeed, all of Amir’s children now seemed to be crying. It occurred to Mark that he was a monster to them.
“If you meet my demand, I will instruct my colleagues to destroy the evidence I have against you.”
Bayat yelled something to his wife. Moments later, it sounded to Mark as though the kids were being herded into a room upstairs.
Mark pulled out Decker’s camera and began to show Bayat the photos on the LCD screen. When he got to the ones that showed Bayat receiving a briefcase from a Chinese man on the streets of Mashhad, he zoomed in on the faces. “You were followed from the moment you took the money. Your hotel rooms and phones were bugged. Everything you said was recorded.”
Amir’s face was creased with worry.
“The good news for you,” said Mark, “is that my only demand is that you release the American you captured three days ago. He’s my colleague.”
“I know not of whom you speak.”
“I think you do. He’s almost two meters tall. Short hair, originally blond, dyed brown. Muscular.”
“I do not.”
“Then I will need to speak with your brother.”
“I have several brothers.”
Mark clicked through the photos on the digital camera until he came to the one that Decker had taken of Ayatollah Bayat entering the mansion in north Tehran. “This brother. The brother you are speaking to on the tape. The brother who wound up with the money from the Chinese. The brother who lives in the house where you found my colleague. The brother who is scheming behind the back of your supreme leader. That fucking brother.”
A long silence passed.
“I can’t guarantee he will see you,” said Amir.
“Oh, I think he will.”
Over his cell phone earpiece, Mark heard Daria say, “The house is being watched. Get out.”
“Who is it?”
“I don’t know. A car parked opposite the house just started up and drove away. Someone must have been inside it for the whole time I’ve been here. Thirty seconds later another car pulled into the open spot. No one’s gotten out of that car yet.”
“Have they seen you?”
“I don’t think so. I’m behind them by about a hundred yards.”
“Did they see me hop the wall?”
“Maybe.”
“They look like they’re planning a takedown?”
“No, but—”
“I got you. We’re outta here.”
62
Mark and Amir Bayat sped through the gates of Ayatollah Bayat’s estate in north Tehran, waved through with barely a glance from the guards out front. Amir parked his green Peugeot at the base of the wide marble steps that led to the entrance. By now it was almost dawn.
They’d been followed on the way over. Daria had picked out the car right away and stayed behind it. Mark guessed it was the Iranian intelligence ministry closing in.
There were more guards on duty at the ayatollah’s mansion than there had been the night before. Yellow police tape was strung up on the section of fence that Daria had rammed into.
Amir let himself into the front foyer, removed his worn leather loafers, and slipped into a pair of cheap plastic house sandals. Mark didn’t like the thought of leaving himself vulnerable, and he didn’t care if he insulted anyone, so he left his shoes on.
He was led to a room not far from the front door. It was a shabby place, with cracked plaster walls. Sticks of incense were kept burning in one corner next to photos of a few young soldiers, boys really, who — according the words at the base of the photos — had died in the Iran-Iraq War. After a while, a tiny woman who took baby steps under her black chador set down a bowl of apples and oranges on a nearby coffee table.
Mark sat cross-legged on the floor, across from Amir Bayat.
“He will come.”
“When?” said Mark.
“Soon.”
Ayatollah Bayat showed up a half hour later wearing a gray robe, a black turban, the same cheap plastic sandals that Amir wore, and chunky oversized glasses that made his eyes look enormous. His white beard was full and long. On his left hand he wore a silver ring with a huge amber stone.
“Salaam, brother,” said Amir. “Praise be to Allah. I am sorry for this disturbance.”
The brothers embraced.
“It is no disturbance. A visit from you is always a pleasure. I rely on your wisdom like I rely on the air around me.” Ayatollah Bayat gestured with his hands in a theatrical way.
Give me a break, thought Mark.
“I would know nothing at all were it not for your guidance,” said Amir. Switching from Farsi to Azeri, he said, “This is the one I spoke of.”
Ayatollah Bayat faced Mark and attempted a smile.
Mark had dealt with plenty of people in power over the course of his CIA career. He’d lunched with the vice president of the United States — a nice guy — had downed beers with a billionaire who’d bought an ambassadorship to Armenia — an asshole — and had locked horns with half the political higher-ups in Washington and Azerbaijan countless times. One thing he’d noticed was that the powerful tended to fall into one of two categories: those who still, despite their exalted status, felt the need to puff themselves up with titles and showy displays of wealth, or what they perceived to be knowledge, and those who didn’t. He decided to do a little test, to determine which category Ayatollah Bayat fell into.
“Hojjatoleslam Bayat,” he said. “Thank you for meeting with me. I have come for information about my colleague.”
An awkward silence followed. A hojjatoleslam was a rank below that of an ayatollah.
Ayatollah Bayat cleared his throat.
“Ayatollah Bayat,” said Amir. “My brother is an ayatollah.”
“Then I apologize. I had been told otherwise.”
“My brother is frequently called on to lead Friday prayers.”
“I see.”
“He is the leader of the Combatant Clergy Association.”
“I meant no offense.”
Mark’s experience had been that the less religious training an ayatollah had, the more sensitive he was about his title. From the deep frown on Ayatollah Bayat’s face, Mark figured he’d had little training indeed.
Ayatollah Bayat said, “Is it logical to argue like this while we have serious business to attend to? Please, you must both join me in the library.”
The old man walked slowly, gripping the front of his robe with his left hand as he led them to a room ringed by mahogany shelves full of Islamic texts. The ceiling was covered with mirrored tiles, but there was evidence of serious water damage.
“Please, sit.” Ayatollah Bayat glanced at Mark and gestured to the nicest chair in the room. “I will call for tea.”
Mark was sick of people offering him tea. And of waiting. As station chief, he had listened to hours of intercepted conversations between low-ranking Iranian mullahs. Some were true believers. Some were more interested in politics than religion. Some were fond of sex jokes. But they all knew how to speak quickly and without artifice when they wanted to.
He removed the recorder and camera from Decker’s satchel. “I think you’ll be interested in these photos and voice recordings. You’re on them.”
Ayatollah Bayat took a seat in a simple chair that had no seat cushion or armrest. “My brother has told me of the content. I have no need to review the information myself.”
“He told you why I’m here?”
“You are searching for your colleague. The one who assembled this information.”