may keep all of the money you currently possess by whatever means you acquired it, up to and including the moment you sign the document.”
Antonio read the resignation and the pardon, then handed it to Hernan. “You’re the lawyer. What do you think?”
Hernan took the paper from his brother and scanned it.
“What about my brother? Is he included in this pardon?” Antonio asked.
“We are prepared to extend that offer.”
Hernan nodded, smiling with approval. “It appears to be legitimate to me.” He handed back the paper to Antonio, who set it on his desk.
“What’s to keep the new government from changing its mind? What about lawsuits?” Antonio asked.
Madero’s kind brown eyes narrowed. A faint smile appeared beneath his elegantly trimmed silver mustache.
“You have my word, senor. But of course, for a wretch like you, honor is no virtue. So I suggest that you leave the country. Take everything with you. Find a place that does not permit extradition. We will not violate our agreement, but take every precaution if that lets you sleep at night. Whatever it takes to get you to sign that paper.”
“I need seventy-two hours to settle my affairs before I can leave the country. After that, you can have your government. Is that acceptable?”
“We agree,” Cruzalta said.
Antonio opened a drawer. “And I am completely pardoned and immune from all prosecutions for any crimes I have committed up until the time I sign this paper, correct?”
“That is exactly correct,” Madero said.
Antonio pulled out a big chromed Smith & Wesson .44 Magnum and stood up with it. He held it up in front of his face.
“Even if I kill the two of you?”
Madero didn’t flinch. “Yes. The agreement is ironclad.”
Antonio rubbed the big silver barrel against his cheek. “I love this gun. Have you ever seen what a slug from one of these can do to a bear’s skull?”
Guns didn’t bother Cruzalta. He’d had too many of them pointed at him over the years to care anymore.
Antonio whipped around, pointed the pistol at Hernan, and fired. The giant hand cannon roared, but the kick was enormous. The slug tore into the wall six inches above Hernan’s head. Everybody’s ears rang from the deafening gun blast.
Antonio lowered the barrel directly at Hernan’s furrowed forehead.
Hernan fell to his knees, begging for his life, wrapping his arms around his brother’s waist.
To Cruzalta’s ruined ears, it sounded like Hernan was crying underwater.
Hernan’s head exploded like a ripe melon.
The security team broke through the door, guns drawn. They aimed their weapons at Cruzalta and Madero.
“Mr. President! Are you all right?”
Hernan’s blood and brain tissue stained the front of Antonio’s elegant blue suit.
“I’m fine. Leave,” Antonio ordered, waving them away with the pistol.
Confused, the security detail holstered their weapons. Blood was still pumping out of what was left of Hernan’s cranium onto the finely woven Persian carpet.
“I said leave. Now!”
The security detail left, tails tucked between their legs. “We’ll be outside if you need us, Mr. President.”
Antonio tossed the heavy gun onto the desk, then picked up a Montblanc pen and unscrewed the top. He flashed his signature smile at Madero and Cruzalta. Flecks of his brother’s gore were still on his face.
“Now, gentlemen, where do I sign?”
59
Tehran, Iran
The policeman nudged the bum in the gutter with his shoe.
“Drunkard! Get up, or I’ll have you whipped.”
The man moaned, barely stirring.
The policeman kicked him harder. The bum groaned, sat up, rubbed his face. He seemed too well dressed to be a drunk.
“Where am I?” His voice sounded strange, like he had a cold.
“You’re going to jail if you don’t stand up and start walking, now.” The policeman grabbed him by the nape of the neck and yanked him to his feet.
“Let go of me, fool. Do you know who I am?” The man blinked hard against the harsh morning light. His head ached, and his sinuses were packed. Was he sick?
“You are Mohammad Reza Shah Pahlavi back from the dead for all I care.” The policeman grabbed the man by his rock-hard bicep. The policeman frowned. What kind of derelict had an arm like that?
Ali broke the policeman’s grip and shattered his jaw in a lightning-fast strike. The cop crumpled to the alley pavement, knocked out cold.
Ali checked his watch. He needed to reach President Sadr with Myers’s amazing offer as quickly as possible. He just hoped he could find some aspirin before then. That Sunni pig Khan said the headache would only be mild, but the effects of the anesthetic were excruciating.
Two hours later, Ali sat in a chair in the president’s office, the headache roaring in his head. He rubbed his temples with the tips of his fingers to try to alleviate the pressure.
A male aide rushed in with a glass of water and a couple of Tylenols and set them on the president’s desk.
“That will be all,” the president told his aide. The man departed quickly and silently.
Sadr crossed from behind his desk, picked up the glass of water and the two tablets, and handed them to his most trusted Quds officer. He leaned in close.
“Here, my friend. Take these. They will help.”
Sitting at his tiny metal desk just outside of Sadr’s door, the aide heard a sharp crack, like a firecracker inside of a tin can. He flinched, then leaped to his feet and dashed into the office. A dozen armed guards thundered in close behind him.
Ali’s headless corpse still sat in its chair, slumped slightly to one side.
Sadr lay on his back on top of his desk, his arms extended like a crucifix. A bone shard from Ali’s skull had driven itself through Sadr’s left eye socket into his brain, killing him instantly.
Tamar had been able to time the detonation visually through one of Dr. Rao’s micro cameras attached to Ali’s numbed scalp. Unfortunately, the camera was destroyed in the blast.
Pearce knew that if Sadr was dead, the secretive mullahs wouldn’t confirm it for weeks, but he sensed that the gamble would pay off. Dr. Khan and his surgical team had implanted four ounces of CL-20 in Ali’s sinus cavity while he was knocked out on the jet ride over, enough high explosive to blow up a car. The average human skull was an excellent source of organic shrapnel containing twenty-five separate bones. Pearce savored the irony. He had turned Iran’s most dangerous terrorist into a living IED. It wasn’t as satisfying as killing the bastard Ali with his own hands, but letting Tamar take him out along with the maniac Sadr was at least some small measure of
