“How do you know that?”
“The plane—the same plane every night. I take people into the city.”
The driver was trembling. He was in his mid-twenties, already losing his hair.
Tarid sat back.
“Just drive,” he told the man.
TARID COULD HAVE STAYED IN ONE OF THE HOTELS IN THE CITY owned by the Revolutionary Guard; Bani Aberhadji would have seen that his bill was settled for him. But he found their atmosphere stifling, and chose a smaller guest house on the outskirts of the old city instead. The owner recognized him when he came through the door, and came out from behind the counter to personally take his bags and welcome him to Tehran.
“We will get you a very nice room,” said the owner, whose name Tarid tried to recall but could not remember. “But first—a little tea? You look tired from your journey.”
“Tea would be nice.”
“Very good, Arash,” said the owner, turning toward the office behind the desk. He clapped his hands together. “Simin, get our friend some tea. A few cookies, too.”
The hotelier practically pushed Tarid to an overstuffed chair at the side of the lobby, then sat down across from him.
“There are many rumors around the city,” he told Tarid as they waited for the tea. “The president has made peace with the U.S.A.”
“Yes, I’ve heard.”
“The rumor is that he’s going there soon.”
“I wouldn’t trust the devils,” said Tarid. “They’re not truthful.”
“Maybe you’re right. Still, it is an incredible thought.”
“A bad one.”
The host, who had relatives in America, stopped talking, afraid he might insult his guest.
His daughter Simin appeared a few moments later, carrying a tray with tea and cookies. Tarid hadn’t seen the girl in just over a year. She’d grown considerably in that time, blossoming into a beautiful woman. She wasn’t there yet—he was looking at a piece of fruit that had just begun to shade from green, its blush hinting at the sweetness still a week or two away. But the potential was obvious.
Her scarf slipped to one side as she poured the tea, exposing the curl of hair at the back of her neck. As someone who freely traveled the world, Tarid had numerous opportunities to see much more than that on women, yet the modest exposure made his heart surge.
“I’ve forgotten your name,” he said, reaching out to stop her hand as she poured.
“Simin.”
“A wonderful name. Silver. A precious piece of metal.”
Her eyes held his for a moment. Simin felt a confused mixture of emotions—excitement, dread, attraction. She knew from her father that Tarid was an important man, somehow connected with the Republican Guard. That he felt attracted to her—his eyes made that clear—was the most momentous thing that had happened to her since her birth.
Or so she believed. She flushed, and finished pouring the tea.
“Could I have some sugar?” asked Tarid. “Just one spoon.”
She put the teapot down, then bent to one knee to put it into his cup. Tarid admired the curve of her breast against her dress. To his mind, the suggestion was infinitely more seductive than the actual flesh.
The innkeeper saw the glances with alarm. His daughter was still young, not ready for marriage. If she left him, he would have no one to do the work here.
“Simin, off to your chores,” he said sharply. “I will see to our guest.”
“She is a very beautiful girl,” said Tarid when she was gone.
“Yes.”
The innkeeper’s nervousness amused Tarid. He said nothing else as he drank his tea, taking it in minuscule sips to savor the sweetness. Every so often he glanced at the doorway behind the desk, catching a glimpse of Simin as she went about her duties.
Finally, the cup was empty.
“Well, perhaps I will go up to my room now,” said Tarid. “I’ve had a long day and need to rest.”
“Yes, a good idea,” said the innkeeper with great relief. “Let me show you the way.”
NURI HAD THE CAB DRIVER DROP THEM OFF TWO BLOCKS from the hotel where Tarid had stopped.
“You want here, mister?” asked the driver. He spoke slowly in Farsi, forming each word carefully, convinced that it was the only way his foreign fare would understand. “I take you to a good hotel. Better for tourists.”
“This will do,” said Tarid in Farsi.
“But—”
“We’re meeting some friends. This is good.”
“If you wish.”
The driver pulled in the general direction of the curb, though not so far off the main lane of traffic that anyone could have squeezed around him. Nuri and Flash got out. After collecting their bags, Nuri gave the driver a 100,000 rial note and told him to keep the change.
“Thank you, sir. Thank you.” The driver opened his door. “Are you sure that you don’t want a ride to a proper hotel? I know of many.”
“That’s OK.”
The driver shrugged, then left.
“Probably going to take us to his brother-in-law’s, right?” said Flash.
“No, he’s probably pretty honest. Most of the Iranians are kind to tourists. A few you have to watch out for, but most would give you the shirt off their back. Of course, everyone thinks you’re rich.”
Nuri glanced around the street. The area was shabby, not quite poor but far from prosperous. The same could be said for much of Tehran, and the entire country for that matter. Except for oil, there was not much going on in the economy, one reason the government had agreed to get rid of its nuclear weapons.
Or at least pretended to, he thought.
“High crime area?” Flash asked.
“Crime’s not too much of a problem in Tehran,” said Nuri, though he realized that the area was not the best. “We have a lot more to worry about from the police.”
He began walking down the block. The Voice had identified the building where Tarid was staying as a small, private hotel. It had been unable to get more information about it, however—an indication to Nuri that it catered exclusively to Iranians. It was possible it was connected to the government in some way, or the Iranian secret service, if Tarid was employed by it.
They stopped at the corner, still a half block from the hotel There was a small painted sign in Farsi.
“What do you think?” asked Flash. “We going to check in?”
“I’m not sure.”
Checking into a hotel controlled by the intelligence services would be needlessly dangerous under the circumstances. Nuri decided to take a look at the place and see how difficult it would be to wait for Tarid outside. Bumping into him in the street in the morning might be the easiest way to accomplish their mission.
On the other hand, the Voice said that Tarid was in the lobby. Perhaps he could go in and ask for directions—tag him as he stood nearby. Then he’d be able to get some real sleep.
“Wait here,” Nuri told Flash. “I’m going to check the place out.”
“What do I do with the bags?”
“Sit on them.”
“Thanks.”
The hotel was a narrow four-story building squeezed between two apartment houses. The entrance to the lobby was up a flight of steps from the street, situated just high enough to make it impossible to see inside without going up the steps, though Nuri tried as he walked by. He continued down the end of the block, crossed, and passed again on the other side. There were two restaurants and a café almost directly across from the place; it was likely Tarid would go there in the morning. Even if he didn’t, it would be easy to wait for him there.
“Locate the subject in the building,” said Nuri. “What floor is he on?”
“His elevation indicates floor three.”
“He’s not in the lobby?”
“Elevation indicates floor three.”
“Front or back?”
“Back.”
“When was the last time he moved?”
“Subject is moving.”
“Still in that apartment?”