the clinic. “You went against your orders and screwed up. I don’t want it happening on my watch.”
Davood bit his lip, holding back the answer that strained to burst free. “It won’t.”
“Good. Let’s roll.”
Rice. Thomas reached into the plastic bag once more, scooping the pasty, white boiled rice out with his fingers. He had eaten worse.
Estere sat across from him in silence, her head down as she stared into the western sky, watching as the sun sank into blood-red clouds.
“Listen,” Thomas began, “I’m sorry for what I said about the horse.”
She ignored his words, seeming not to even realize that he had spoken. He crossed to where she sat, cradling the assault rifle against her chest.
“Sirvan,” he began, kneeling at her side, “Sirvan was one of the bravest men I have ever known.”
Still no response. She sat there as though chiseled in stone, gazing into the dying sun.
He touched her shoulder ever so gently. “I consider it an honor to have known him, to have fought at his side.”
She sighed, a weak smile crossing her lips as she reached over to touch his hand. “When do you expect contact from your people?”
“Probably not until the morning,” he replied, respecting her decision to change the subject. “They said they would make the necessary arrangements. How many days do you expect it to take before we reach the border?”
She smiled again. “That would depend on how hard you can ride…”
The door to the holding cell opened and Harry turned to see Gideon Laner standing in the entrance.
The two regarded each other in silence for a long moment, a silent game of “chicken” playing itself out. At last the Israeli spoke. “Where’s your partner?”
“My what?”
“Your partner. We know he was in the hotel.”
Harry smiled, a bit of the devil lurking in his eyes. “There must be some mistake. I’ve never fancied men.”
“Don’t give me that, Harry,” Gideon warned, swearing under his breath. “I lost a good man out there today and I want to know everything about the circumstances surrounding his death. The three dead Arabs in the hotel were shot with a.357 Magnum. A revolver. Hardly what you were carrying. A scope-equipped FN-FAL was found in a room on the fourth floor. A shell casing under the dresser. You had back-up. Who?”
Harry stood there, gazing intently into Gideon’s eyes as the Israeli fell silent. “Are you done?” he asked mildly.
Anger flashed across Gideon’s face. “
“I understand it perfectly,” Harry replied, his voice even. “I came to Israel because you wanted something from me. You haven’t got it yet. Nor will you if you keep going as you are. That’s the situation.”
Gideon subsided. “What do you want?”
“I want to see Dr. Tal. I want you to forget about the rifle you found. And I want you to call off the search for this so-called ‘partner’ of mine. Understood?”
“You drive a hard bargain,” Gideon replied, unsmiling.
Harry nodded. “Of course. I hold the cards. When can I meet with Tal?”
“Tomorrow.”
Chapter Twelve
Returning home always awoke mixed emotions within Hamid Zakiri. The country had changed so much, in the years since the withdrawal of American combat brigades.
So much of the old. So much of the new. He sighed as he retrieved the gun case containing his Glock from the baggage line. A car from the CIA station should be awaiting them.
“Hope the TiVo works tonight,” he observed to Davood as the pair exited the terminal. “The Ravens are playing the Cowboys.”
“You’ve got a bet on the game?”
Hamid laughed. “Of course. Don’t I always win the op-center pool?”
“Just about,” Davood acknowledged, with a grudging smile. “Which team are you down for this evening?”
“The Cowboys, of course. The Ravens defense hasn’t been worth a plugged nickel for the last couple seasons. Just can’t seem to pull it together in draft.”
Davood nodded, his mind elsewhere. “Is that who I think it is?” he asked suddenly.
“Mmm-hmm,” Hamid agreed, glancing in the direction his fellow agent had indicated. “Petras bothering to show up in person is not a good sign, wouldn’t you think?”
“Afraid so.”
They had come far in these few days, Hossein thought, surveying his recruits with a critical eye. The constant training had served to harden their bodies, the incessant pressure quickening their minds.
Only twenty were left.
A helicopter came in low over the mountains. The former major watched with concern as it banked hard over the city of Isfahan and flew straight toward the small training camp. Concern that was only barely assuaged when a green flare burst from one of the rocket tubes on the pylons of the attack helicopter. It was the Ayatollah arriving from Qom.
Whatever the situation, it had to be serious to risk an unprecedented personal visit. Hossein turned over the command of training to a particularly apt pupil named Mustafa, and walked back toward the helipad in the center of the camp, tapping a baton nervously against the top of his jump boots. Trouble was coming. He could almost smell it…
“What is the condition of your readiness?” Isfahani asked later, in the headquarters building. He was sitting in Hossein’s chair, slicing a ripe peach with a jewel-encrusted Sassanid knife.
Hossein took a deep breath. “We’re not.”
“I sent you the best men I could find,” the Ayatollah replied, an accusative edge in his voice.
“You sent me your best religious
Isfahani took another slice of the peach, the razor-edge of the knife sliding easily through supple flesh. “We have a situation.”
The major remained silent, waiting for him to continue.
