Green put down the sandwich. She had lost her appetite.
Ten minutes later, Behzadi’s jet rolled close. Muscoot’s men brought a wheelchair ramp to its front cabin door. A minute later, two men emerged, one pushing the other down the ramp. Green could wait no longer. She pushed open her own jet’s cabin door, trotted down the staircase, across the tarmac. Rodgers followed.
She reached the base of the wheelchair ramp just as Behzadi rolled off it. He was in his fifties but looked older. His eyes were pouchy, his skin sallow. He wore a white short-sleeved shirt and an elaborately knitted shawl over the stumps of his legs.
He reached up with a fleshy hand. “Ms. Green,” he said. “I’m Fardis.”
Either he was the world’s best liar, or he didn’t know. Green didn’t know which was worse. “Can we have a moment, Colonel?” she said to Muscoot. As the Frenchman retreated, Green pulled Rodgers close.
“No pleasantries. Ask him if he knows. If he doesn’t, tell him. Make sure he understands that we’re blaming his bosses for killing five hundred civilians.” No matter how good Behzadi’s English, she wanted this stretch of conversation in Farsi so she could be certain he understood.
Rodgers squatted beside the wheelchair, spoke for about thirty seconds. Behzadi shook his head, no no no. He interrupted, but Rodgers talked over him. After a few seconds more, Behzadi reached out and grabbed Green’s wrist with his right hand. She pulled back, but he held her tight, his grip strengthened by a lifetime working the wheelchair.
“I didn’t know of this,” he said in English.
She wrenched her arm away from Behzadi and squatted down beside Rodgers. International diplomacy at its finest. “You don’t even deny your side did this?”
Behzadi spoke for a minute in Farsi. When he was done, Rodgers said, “He doesn’t know who did it. He says he wishes that this hadn’t happened, civilian deaths are always a tragedy, but it doesn’t change the reality that an invasion would be a disaster for both our countries—”
The worst possible answer. Green felt a surge of pure fury. She wanted to tip the wheelchair over. “You were human for thirty seconds, now you’re back to toeing the party line.”
“Leave us,” Behzadi said to Rodgers. “I speak English well enough for this.”
“Donna?”
Green nodded. Rodgers stepped back.
“All right. Speak, then.”
“Iran has no need to apologize. Your country provoked all this. Your President. On false evidence. As you must know.”
“Prove it. Let us in.”
“Never.”
“When I left Dulles last night, I was in a good mood. Had my speech all planned out. I wanted to tell you, what the President’s said publicly is true. That we have our differences with you, but we’re not interested in regime change. Occupying Iran. We learned that lesson. We just want to be sure that your nuclear program isn’t a threat. Give us a chance to see for ourselves and this ends.” She shook her head. “Turns out you don’t want it to end.”
“I don’t make these choices—”
“I know you don’t. I don’t know if you’re a bad guy or not, Fardis. I don’t even know what you came here to say. At this point, I don’t care either. Here’s what I know. You’re just a guy with no legs who wastes my time while your bosses blow up planes full of Americans.”
Green stood, walked around the wheelchair, spun it to face the ramp. “Roll on home now, and tell Rouhani and everyone else they have two days to agree to what the President has asked. Otherwise, we’re coming in. To Natanz, Fordow, every other factory you’ve ever built. We’re going to figure out exactly what you’ve put there. How much uranium you’ve made. Then we’re going to blow them up. Every last one of them. Then, if you’re lucky, we’ll leave.”
Behzadi stared at her in silence.
“Your English good enough to pass that message on, Fardis? Or you need a translation?”
“You’ll regret this. You think you frighten me? And eighty million of my people? You think we don’t know what to do with Americans? I saw your guards at the embassy begging for their lives with my own eyes.” Behzadi pointed at his eyes. “Those brave Marines. I watched them piss themselves.”
Before she could do something truly foolish, like tip the wheelchair, Green walked away.
The last, best hope for peace.
23
Duberman’s office had the windows the outer suite lacked, overlooking the city to the south and the flat sea to the west. The winter sun hung low over the water, reminding Wells that this day, too, was mostly done. So many lost hours in this chase, so few left.
Duberman leaned against his desk. He was bigger than Wells expected, handsome, with a wide, square face. His brown eyes were flecked with something lighter. Leonine. He wore linen pants and buttery brown shoes, a plain white shirt, a simple wedding ring.
The man next to him carried a stubby pistol on his hip, the only weapon openly displayed so far in this mansion. The bodyguard was in his early fifties, with a trim body, a hollow face, and eyes as mirrored as if he were wearing sunglasses. He would shoot them without question if Duberman gave the order, Wells knew.
Duberman grinned like they were gamblers who had shown up at his casino with a million dollars each and a reputation for bad luck. “Mr. Wells. Senator Duto. A pleasure. I’m Aaron. This is Gideon.” The bodyguard shook his head. “Excuse him. He doesn’t like strangers.”
Duberman’s voice carried a touch of Southern twang. He’d grown up in Atlanta, Wells remembered. Like the room and the clothes, his voice broadcast an easy, overwhelming confidence. Wells wondered whether the attitude had come with the money or vice versa. He wanted to hate the man, but he had nothing to grip yet. Duberman was a thousand-foot rock face with no visible holds.
Gideon mumbled in Hebrew. “He’d like to search you,” Duberman said.
“Sure.” Though Wells didn’t want to be frisked again. He sensed Gideon would be unafraid to get up close and personal.
“No,” Duto said. He knew about the knife. “He’s got the gun. We were searched outside. Enough is enough.”
Duberman said something in Hebrew to Salome and she answered, presumably explaining that they’d been thoroughly checked already. Wells realized that her personal bodyguard, the one with the scars, wasn’t around. He ought to be. Wells couldn’t imagine an errand more important than this meeting. But asking about him would only call attention to the fact that Wells had noticed his absence.
“All right. No frisk.” Gideon muttered something else, and Duberman smiled. “But know he’ll shoot you even faster then.”
The office was thirty feet long, divided into three sections, with Duberman’s desk in the center, a couch on one side, a square wooden table on the other. Duberman led them to the table and they sat, Wells facing Duto, and Duberman Salome. Like bridge teams.
“Mr. Wells. Senator. I’m sure you won’t try to tape this meeting. If you do, know that this room has a jammer that disables microphones. Also, your mobile phones will not work here. Only the outer suite.”
“Great,” Duto said. “We can focus on work.”
Duberman ignored him, leaned toward Wells. “Let me start by asking, do you think your religion is playing a role in your efforts here? Maybe subconsciously.”
Wells knew Duberman wanted to provoke him, but he rose to the bait anyway. Duberman had insulted his faith, his honor, and his intelligence all at once. Maybe subconsciously suggested that Wells couldn’t understand his own motives.