I nodded. “Okay.” How could I hear those words and say anything else? I hoped it didn’t come down to needing her help, but I didn’t say that, either.
She opened my fingers and pressed a key into my hand. “If you run out of places to hide or just need a cold beer and someone to confide in, this opens the back door to my place. I want to do this.”
I leaned over and kissed her cheek. I grabbed my pack, opened the door, and climbed out.
I waited until she was safely away and then lost myself in the crowd. I saw a T-shirt shop with baseball caps in the window and ducked inside. I bought a gray one with a blue Nike swoosh on the crown and tossed the old one into the trash. I stepped back outside and into the shadows of the shop’s awning. I surveyed the street. I was out of place, but at least the beard I had started back in the States was coming in.
The strip of commerce gave way to an upscale neighborhood, and a block farther on the entrance to the Park of the Reluctant Martyrs came into view. I stopped under a shaggy, plain tree. The park was not as big as I had expected, given the satellite view from the Eyes app, but it was the size of three or four football fields, anyway.
Past the entrance, a concrete sidewalk ran along the perimeter of the park’s west side. There was also a walkway that bisected the park from east to west. Knots of men looked to be loitering on all four street corners, but you could see the tension in their movements. Others paced along the sidewalk under the outstretched branches of elms and maples, and still others patrolled farther into the park. A pair of black Mercedes sedans were parked along the curb, and the men standing next to them didn’t look like they’d come to the park for a game of boccie. They were Charlie’s men. All twenty-one of them, by my count. That was a lot of sentries. Which meant that Charlie had extremely deep pockets and a reason to be paranoid.
Scattered trees provided shade over the grassy lawn. The lake formed a natural barrier to the south and east. To the north, low hedges and gardens spilling over with perennials, surrounded by a decorative fountain. Sunlight refracted through the water in a spray of rainbow colors. There was a playground and common area across from the fountain. There were three picnic tables, and I could almost hear the laughter coming from the family gathering there. I was most interested in the man sitting with his back to one of the tables, watching a half-dozen young children scurry through the playground.
I slid my backpack off my shoulder. I opened it and fished out the Zeiss digital telescope. I connected it to the iPhone and scanned the park in high magnification.
I studied Charlie’s bodyguards. They all appeared to be cut from the same rough cloth. A couple wore thigh-length coats, unusual for such a warm day, a telltale sign that they packed Uzis, AK-47s, or M4 carbines. Heavy artillery for the man they protected.
I panned to the man on the bench. There he was. Charlie Amadi. He wore a sweater and khaki pants. The years had added a few pounds to his frame and rounded out his face, but he looked healthy and energetic. He was fully engrossed in the activity on the playground, the kids darting from the slides and the swings to the carousel and a sandbox. Two more bodyguards: probably Charlie’s lieutenants.
Time for our reunion.
I put the Zeiss away and sent Rutledge and Mr. Elliot the same update: About to meet the hometown boy.
I could feel the Walther in the harness beneath my jacket. I had no intention of hiding the fact that I was armed from Charlie’s army. Pure stupid. I crossed the street and walked straight for the entrance, which was really nothing more than two stone pillars capped with statuesque eagles. I didn’t see the significance.
I walked with an easy step. My arms hung loosely at my side. I was ten steps from the entrance when four of Charlie’s men blocked my way.
“Sorry, private party,” one of them said in Farsi. He was the tallest of the group and built like a linebacker. When I didn’t respond, he was smart enough to switch to English. “Private party.”
I stopped. I held my hands out in front of me. “No problem. I’m here to see Charlie. Charlie Amadi.”
“Mr. Amadi’s not here.”
I looked at him like I’d seen smarter lab rats. “Oh, I see. That must be his twin brother sitting over there by the playground. How stupid do I look?”
I started forward again. They closed ranks. One of them put a hand on my shoulder. Bad move. I grabbed the hand, took it off my shoulder, and squeezed. Before any of his buddies could react, I looked at the linebacker and said, “Charlie and I are old friends.”
I let go of the hand. Now I was attracting a crowd. I held my hands up again. “Under my right arm,” I said. “A Walther. The safety’s on.”
Now they got rough. Two of them grabbing my shoulders, the linebacker doing a hard and very effective frisk. I let him. He came away with the Walther in his hand. I looked past my reception committee and saw Charlie’s two lieutenants looking our way. Even from here I could see their lips curl in warning scowls. Charlie must have felt the tension, because he came to his feet, turned, and stared. I saw him issuing instructions.
I raised my arms high in the air. I wanted him to see that I was alone and pretty much helpless. “Go tell him,” I said to the linebacker. “Tell him it’s Jake.”
The linebacker stared at me for five long seconds. Then he spit an order to one of his team, a short guy with a gaunt face and a blue-black mustache. He turned and hustled over to Charlie’s lieutenants. Said something I couldn’t hear. But whatever it was, it got Charlie moving, not fast, but steadily. His lieutenants were caught off guard for a split second and hustled to catch up.
Charlie walked to the middle of the sidewalk and stopped, a fair distance away but with a good view of the proceedings. He said something to the runner, who turned and jogged back to us. He said something to the linebacker, but I didn’t wait for a translation. I pushed my way past the gauntlet that had been holding me at bay. I took three steps and stopped.
Charlie was looking hard at me. His squint compressed into suspicious crinkles, then eased some. The first signs of recognition must have been forming in his very suspicious mind, because the hard set of his mouth tweaked into the beginning of a smile.
I started toward him again. His lieutenants responded exactly the way I would have expected them to respond: they took two steps forward and positioned their feet the way men do when they’re expecting a confrontation.
Charlie put his hands on their shoulders, whispered two words I didn’t understand, and stepped between them. I pressed ahead, halting close enough to Charlie that I could smell his cologne.
I lowered my sunglasses.
He beamed a toothy grin, a crescent of bleached enamel and gold implants. “Jake fucking Conlan.”
“Charlie.”
He lunged forward with an embrace. “Damn, it’s been years.” He gave me a manly hug. “You look fit. Damn fit.”
“And you look like you’ve been living the good life,” I replied.
“There is no good life here in Tehran,” he answered, without a hint of derogatory emotion in his voice. He studied me, nodding his head as if the curtain had just opened onto a scene that looked all too familiar. “My man Jake. Don’t imagine you just dropped in for a quiet stroll through the park.”
“Another time,” I said.
“Okay. Okay.” His smile evolved into a look of genuine curiosity. I saw a spark in his eye. “So, what gives?”
I motioned down the sidewalk. “Let’s take a walk. Do you mind?”