another circuit of the room.
I suppose what first caught my eye was the guy’s size. I actually thought Asha had snuck into the room for a second, this man was so tall. Plus, he wore the same sort of turban Asha favored. Also a long white thobe over beige pants, which stood out among the men, most of whom had come dressed in Western-style clothes.
I hadn’t caught sight of him before, and he definitely hadn’t entered through the main doorway. Which meant he’d come in through the kitchen. A strange way to join the party.
“Guys,” I whispered. “Check out the white turban, my six o’clock from FarjAd.”
I inched closer. Something about the way he moved seemed eerily familiar. It was the same sensation you get recognizing an actor in a film, but you can’t remember what you’ve seen him in before.
He kept his back to me. Almost like he knew I was there. How could he? Still, he had an uncanny way of turning with the crowd just when I was about to get a good look at his face. And he kept getting closer to FarjAd.
“I don’t like this guy,” I finally said.
“I agree,” said Vayl. “Who has the best angle?”
“I’m totally blocked,” said Cole. “Congratulators out the wazoo.”
“FarjAd keeps moving between me and the Turban,” said Vayl. “It looks like he is yours, Jasmine.”
“Okay. And when all hell breaks loose?”
“We grab him and run, as per the original plan,” said Vayl.
The crowd around FarjAd was thick. I gave a few people my dazzling Lucille Robinson smile, which allowed me some progress, but not enough to get to the Turban before he reached his target. With mounting worry and frustration, I weighed my options and came up with only one truly workable alternative. I pulled a FarjAd and climbed on a chair.
It made my interest in the Turban obvious if he bothered to turn and look. He didn’t. He’d almost reached FarjAd by the time I’d found my new vantage point. And he was solely focused on the man, who smiled and shook hands with an exuberance that somehow lit the room.
The Turban made a move only people in my business should recognize. Which was when I saw the dark glint of metal. The shockingly familiar outline of a weapon I’d never expected to see inside this room.
“Gun!” I yelled.
Instant chaos.
Vayl and Cole surged forward to protect FarjAd as the crowd screamed and scattered. Those nearest the doors ran outside, allowing a steady stream of mahghul in.
I didn’t pull Grief. I wanted this assassin alive. So instead I yanked a knife from my wrist sheath and winged it at the attacker’s back. I hit the Turban squarely between the shoulder blades, bringing a disappointed shriek from the mahghul. The Turban dropped to his knees. Still he struggled to bring his gun, one of those Bergman had carried all the way from America for the express use of Dave’s team, to bear.
Vayl shot the sheath of his cane sword at the Turban’s shoulder, knocking his arm off target just as he squeezed the trigger. Bullets peppered an entire row of monitors, shattering glass, leaving behind a mass of dead black screens. It was a miracle no people were hit, but they’d all dropped to the floor as soon as the Manx began its thunderous attack.
I threw another blade, burying it in the meat of the Turban’s shoulder. He dropped the gun. Another knife, to the back of the thigh, took him all the way to the floor.
Though the mahghul had crowded toward me at my first throw, none of them had jumped me. As I continued to broadcast a strong, antimurderous intent, they turned to the Turban, swarming him like a mass of gigantic swamp rats.
Vayl grabbed at the single arm he’d managed to swing free and yanked him from the bottom of the writhing pile, snatching off the three or four attached mahghul as he and Cole secured him. As soon as the Turban became a captive the mahghul lost interest and began loping out of the cafe.
I jumped off the chair, ran to FarjAd, and took his arm. “I thought you were being figurative,” he gasped as I pulled him toward the kitchen. With a wounded prisoner in tow, no way were we jumping out any windows. So my next choice was a back door.
“You’ve been reading too much poetry,” I told him. I eyeballed my specs, and seconds later had Asha on the phone. “It’s happened,” I told him. “But FarjAd’s alive. Meet us at the car. You’re driving.”
Cole picked up the Manx, Vayl hefted the Turban over one shoulder, and they followed FarjAd and me into the cooking area. As I’d feared, we had plenty of witnesses for our escape. Maybe five altogether. But they were all panicked. All headed for the same exit as we were. We let them go first. Hoped they wouldn’t think to scope out Asha’s BMW or wonder why we were taking the assassin with us. FarjAd, the master storyteller, would have to come up with a whopper to cover this one.
Asha sat in the driver’s seat, peering over his shoulder anxiously as we piled in. Cole and FarjAd in the front seat. Vayl, the Turban, and I in the back.
“Go, go, go!” I yelled as a couple of FarjAd’s followers belatedly realized he’d been hustled away by absolute strangers and came after us, shouting and waving for us to stop.
Asha peeled out like a drag racer. At which point FarjAd and Cole buckled their seat belts. The Turban moaned. I nodded to Vayl and straightened the assassin in his seat, forcing his face upward so we could both see it better. I yanked the turban off his head. And realized he wasn’t a guy at all.
“Grace?” murmured Vayl.
I sat back. Stunned. Everything had pointed to Dave. “Are you insane?” I whispered. “You’re an elite officer in the United States military. You have just betrayed, not only your entire country and all of your comrades, but every woman in Iran who stands to gain from FarjAd’s survival.” I studied her face, trying to fathom her motives. Her stony expression gave nothing away. Not even the immense amount of pain she must be experiencing. Finally I asked, “Why?”
