American soldier to accompany you.”
“I’m sure they could, but you know how I enjoy your company.”
The Brit didn’t look up, focusing on the flames as though he was searching for something in them. “You can fight there until the end of your days, Jon. You can try to understand why Africa is the way it is. You can try to protect the weak from the strong. But it’s never going to work. Take my advice. Walk away from this one.”
“I hear what you’re saying, but the guy behind this — Caleb Bahame — is a whole other level.”
Howell twisted in the seat, looking directly at him for the first time in their conversation. “Bahame?”
“You’ve heard of him?”
The Brit returned his attention to the fire. “I’ve read a few things.”
“Well, I can tell you that the stuff you read doesn’t come close to capturing what’s really happening over there. Have you ever been to Uganda?”
Howell didn’t seem inclined to answer, so Smith filled in the silence. “My guess is that we’ll go over there, chase our tails a bit, and you’ll walk away with the easiest fifty grand you ever made.”
“I assume we’re denominating in British pounds.”
Smith grinned. “You drive a hard bargain.”
Howell ran a hand through his shaggy gray hair and then just went to work on his whiskey.
21
Mehrak Omidi paused in front of the closed door, a trickle of adrenaline making him vaguely nauseous. Only Ayatollah Amjad Khamenei had the power to make him feel this way.
They had known each other since Omidi was a young man serving in the Revolutionary Guard and Khamenei was an imam living in the remote northeastern part of the country. The holy man had seen Omidi’s potential and taken him under his wing, counseling him spiritually, watching over his career — even paying for him to study abroad.
When Khamenei became supreme leader, Omidi had gone with him, starting as his personal assistant and then moving to various other posts before being put in charge of the Ministry of Intelligence. Despite his undeniable success and the respect he commanded throughout Iran, he had never felt worthy. But those feelings were changing. They had to.
Khamenei was getting old and nostalgic. His vision was perfectly clear when looking backward but increasingly hazy when trying to see into the future. Omidi considered the man more of a father than his biological one and found himself in the uncomfortable role reversal that all sons eventually suffered. Over the coming years, he would have to become his teacher’s guide to a world that was quickly closing in on them.
He knocked gently and entered when he heard a muffled call welcoming him. There was no furniture or decoration in the office, only tapestry-covered cushions strewn across the floor.
“Excellency,” Omidi said, bowing deeply.
When they’d first met, Khamenei’s long beard had been deep black and his eyes almost magical in their intensity. Now he’d gone completely gray beneath his turban and wore a pair of glasses thick enough to distort his regal features.
The man sitting on a cushion next to him started to leap to his feet, hatred etched deeply into his face, but sank obediently back to the floor when the aging cleric touched him on the arm.
“Mehrak. It is good to see you. Please come sit next to me.”
Omidi did as he was told, bowing his head contritely to avoid acknowledging the furious stare of the clean- shaven man across from him.
His name was Rahim Nikahd and he was a powerful moderate voice in parliament, a cunning and ambitious man straddling the fence between what Iran was and what the mob wanted it to become.
It was infuriating that a man as great as Amjad Khamenei had to grovel at the feet of an insect like Nikahd, but those were the complex realities of politics. No leader was great or powerful enough to forget from where their power truly flowed.
“Why is this man here?” Nikahd said finally. “Why does he still have a place of authority in this government? I—”
“Shh.” Khamenei touched the man’s arm again. “Calm yourself, my old friend.”
Unfortunately, beyond being a member of parliament, Nikahd was also the father of the young man Omidi had arrested the day before.
“Mehrak has been given a great weight of responsibility,” Khamenei continued. “And it was his belief that your son was Farrokh.”
“Farrokh? But this is idiocy!” the man protested. “How could he make such a stupid mistake?”
Omidi stayed respectfully silent despite his anger at being discussed — and insulted — as though he weren’t there.
“It is my understanding that Farrokh used his vast technical knowledge to route his communications through your son’s home. Clearly he planned for this to happen and believed that it would turn you away from me. Turn you away from God.”
“My son’s wife — the mother of my grandchildren — is in a coma from being hit with a rifle butt. This is competence? He couldn’t make a phone call and check whose house he was attacking?”
“There was no time, Rahim. Farrokh has slipped through our fingers too many times. And to answer your question, Mehrak is here because he insisted on coming personally to beg your forgiveness.”
It wasn’t exactly true — in fact, it wasn’t true at all — but Omidi dipped his head even farther, taking a posture of complete subservience.
“I’m asking you a personal favor,” Khamenei said. “I’m asking you to forgive both of us for our hand in what happened to your family.”
Omidi kept his eyes on the floor, grateful that the fury in them would be invisible to the fat parliamentarian sitting across from him. In the world of politics, there were always strings attached. One day Khamenei would have to repay the debt that Omidi had created. He’d let Farrokh outsmart him. Just as he had so many times in the past.
Nikahd didn’t answer immediately, undoubtedly considering his position. He had to be very careful not to move so far left as to put himself in danger from the establishment but also not to move so far right that he wouldn’t be embraced by the youth movement should it prevail.
“For you, Excellency, of course.”
Khamenei put out a hand and Nikahd kissed it. “I’m grateful to have men like you around me, Rahim. Men still loyal to Islam.”
Knowing he had been dismissed, Nikahd stood, but not before giving Omidi a glare that spoke volumes. If he should come out on top in this prolonged power struggle, he would see to it that Omidi and his family disappeared.
They watched him go, and Khamenei waited until the door was fully closed before he spoke again.
“That was very difficult, Mehrak. He is a powerful man, and make no mistake: I’ve made an enemy of him today.”
“Yes, Excellency.”
“You defied my orders and failed to fire on the crowd — emboldening them, making them think we’re weak and afraid. And then this…”
“I will step down immediately.”
Khamenei smiled thinly. “A hollow offer, Mehrak. You know there’s no one else I trust implicitly. Not any longer.”
Mehrak acknowledged the compliment with a nod. “I serve at your pleasure, Excellency.”
Khamenei recognized that enemies of the revolution were everywhere, but he didn’t fully comprehend the extent to which the cancer had taken hold — Western fashion and video games, the Internet. Every day the tide
