the same thing as her lingerie had been entirely justified. The bruise across her back was almost a foot in diameter and radiated over her spine in roughly the color scheme of a Miami sunset.
“Phone?” Mouradipour said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Randi retrieved a bottle of ibuprofen and shook five into her mouth, swallowing hard before speaking again. “You don’t want to screw with me today, Sepehr. I swear you don’t.”
He didn’t answer immediately, instead watching the bodies of his men sink into snow melted by the heat of their blood. “And what if I agree to make your call?”
“Then we’re going to hold you long enough to make sure you didn’t do anything stupid like use some sort of code word to indicate you’d been caught. Then, if everything works out, we’ll let you go.”
“What assurances do I have?”
“How’s this: I
The wire around his neck tightened, and after a brief hesitation, he reached slowly for his pocket.
Randi took a step back and squinted into the distance. All the maps, satellite photos, and coordinates Mouradipour had been working with were elaborate fakes — carefully altered to hide the fact that Jon and Peter were actually a hundred miles to the north. That is, if they hadn’t frozen to death, run into an Iranian border patrol, or been shot in the back of the head by the notoriously unpredictable Farrokh.
She pulled out her own sat phone and sent Covert-One a notification that Mouradipour’s call was about to go through so they could begin tracking it. Unknown to Klein, Charles Mayfield would be doing the same thing at CIA headquarters — a little independent verification to help her sleep at night.
Randi turned and skied slowly away, feeling the anger building inside her but also an unfamiliar sense of despair that wasn’t as easy to deal with. Only when the voices of her men had been swallowed up by the wind did she stop and reflect on how much she’d hoped to find nothing out here but snow. How much she’d wanted Klein to be wrong.
But there was no way to nurse that illusion anymore. In her gut, she knew that call was going to go exactly where he said it would: to a man whose orders she’d risked her life countless times to carry out. To a man she’d respected and admired.
To Lawrence Drake.
72
They were nearly on top of it, but the village was still virtually invisible. Cone-shaped rock formations jutted a hundred feet in the air, many with windows and doors built into them. The more modern buildings looked a thousand years old — crooked one-room dwellings constructed of stone blocks and surrounded by ancient fences designed to corral livestock.
They skied in from the east, Smith taking a route too steep for the Iranians, most of whom had given up all pretense of guarding him. His momentum took him to the base of a packed-down track that acted as Main Street, and he skated along it. Faces appeared in icy windows and then just as quickly disappeared at the realization that he was a stranger.
He felt a poke in the small of his back and turned to see that it had come from the man who’d led their seemingly endless expedition through the mountains. They stopped near a set of rough-hewn steps and removed their skis before climbing up to a door that led directly into the cliff. The man went through a complex series of knocks, and a moment later he was being embraced by a bear of a man carrying an AK-47.
The sensation of heat against his skin was incredibly seductive, and Smith stepped inside, crossing a mishmash of traditional rugs to the fireplace.
“Is Farrokh here?” he said, pulling off his gloves and holding his hands to the flames. The journey had taken three days — far longer than he’d anticipated — and there was no telling what progress Omidi was making with weaponizing the parasite. Or if he was even bothering. By now, it was possible that he’d smuggled a victim over the U.S. border and the infection had wiped out half the population.
“Have something to eat.”
A beautiful young woman in a head scarf appeared a moment later with a plate of Middle Eastern meze and two steaming cups of tea.
“Look, I don’t have any more time to screw around. I want to see Farrokh. Now.”
The Iranian took off his outer clothing and flopped onto a pile of colorful pillows by the fire. “Farrokh is a busy man.”
Without his hat and sunglasses, he looked quite a bit younger than Smith had originally estimated. His eyes reflected not only unusual intelligence, but also a calm sense of power and confidence. Not a man you’d waste on an errand like the one he’d just performed.
“It’s you, isn’t it?” Smith said, silently cursing his own stupidity. “You’re Farrokh.”
His only reaction was to point to the pillows next to him. “Please, Dr. Smith. It’s been a long journey. Rest.”
He did as he was told, pulling off his ski clothes and trying to keep his impatience in check. The pace in this part of the world was different, and trying to fight millennia of cultural norms was going to get him nowhere.
“Our organization must be diffuse so that it will live on if any individual dies. But, to answer your question, yes. I am the one they call Farrokh.”
Despite his best effort to play the diplomat, Smith couldn’t hide his anger. “Then what the hell have we been doing? I was told you’d been briefed on what’s happening.”
“Rash action is never advisable,” Farrokh said. “And taking the measure of a man who wants to be my ally is never a waste of time. In fact, it’s why I’m still alive.”
When Smith spoke again, he’d managed to calm down a bit. “What’s the verdict?”
“You appear to be a man who should be taken seriously.”
“So you trust me now?”
Farrokh laughed and reached for one of the cups of tea, offering it to Smith. “I can count the number of people I trust on one hand, and I don’t anticipate needing an additional finger because of our acquaintanceship.”
“But you believe that the parasite exists and that your government has it.”
“Yes, though I fail to see why this is my problem.”
Despite his attempt at nonchalance, it was clear that he knew exactly why it was his problem.
“I understand that you don’t much like the U.S., but you have to admit that we’ve been leaving you and your country alone. Do you think that’ll continue if Omidi succeeds in releasing a biological weapon inside our borders?”
Farrokh shrugged. “America is directly or indirectly responsible for millions of Iranians dead, the reign of a brutal dictator, and frankly the repressive and backward Islamic system we live under now. Perhaps this is simply a balancing of the scales.”
“No,” Smith said. “You’re smarter than that. It doesn’t matter how many Americans you kill; there will still be one of us left to push a button. And then there won’t be an Iran for you to liberalize.”
Farrokh nodded thoughtfully. “The ayatollah has become senile and Omidi is insane. They believe that God has delivered this weapon to them and that he will guide their hand as they use it to destroy the enemies of Islam.”
“I’m not sure it’s going to work out that way.”
“No. I have come to understand that God rarely takes sides in such matters. The righteous and innocent are as likely — perhaps more likely — to suffer as the wicked. To rely on his intervention is the height of arrogance and stupidity. America has both the power and the will to butcher anyone who shows even mild defiance.”
Smith tried to shut out the quiet tick of the ancient clock on the wall. It seemed to get louder and louder as their pointless geopolitical debate dragged on.
