“Riccardo Melfi, of Milano,” said Nuri, offering the first name that flew into his head. It belonged to a friend of his whom he hadn’t seen since grade school.
The hotel owner, naturally, didn’t recognize it. But he said that he’d had an Italian recently, just to be polite.
“This may be the place he mentioned, then,” said Nuri. “He said it was a very nice place. With a professional staff.”
“Of course. And good rates. I do need to see your passport.”
“Certainly.”
Nuri handed it over to be copied.
“I’ll give it back in the morning,” said the hotel owner. “Collect it at the desk. Your room—”
“Would it be possible to make the copy this evening?” asked Nuri. “This way I won’t forget in the morning. And I can go out early.”
“You’re going out early?”
“I have business at the oil ministry very early. I was told to meet the minister immediately after morning prayers. If I am late, it is possible that I would not see him. Then I will lose my job.”
Ordinarily the owner would have made some excuse about the machine not working and put the guest off, but the casual mention of the minister had impressed him. He took the passport and went into the back room, where his daughter was still cleaning the bowls he had put her to work on hours before. He berated her, telling her it was well past time for her to finish and get to bed — and reminding her that she was not to go near any of the guests.
“Any guest,” he repeated.
“Yes, Papa.”
Out in the lobby, Nuri slipped a bug under the ledge of the desk, then tried to look at the ledger for the number to Tarid’s room. But the owner hadn’t bothered to record it.
“Your passport,” said the owner, returning. “And here is the key. There are only four rooms on each hall. Should I show you?”
“I can find it.”
Nuri walked to the end of the lobby and started up the stairs.
“The elevator is right there,” said the owner.
“Yes, yes, thank you,” said Nuri. He stepped over and pressed the button, getting in as soon as the doors were open.
He got off at the fourth floor, guessing that the hotel owner might be watching. His room faced the street. It was small, barely big enough to hold a bed, lamp, and table. A picture of Imam Khomeini looked down on him from above the bed.
Nuri examined the lock on the door. It was a simple latch, easily opened with a plastic card. Instead of a chain, there was a bar about neck high above the doorknob. This could be defeated by holding the door only partly ajar and pushing it in with a pen or something else long and slender. It took a little practice, since the bar had to be pushed just right, but he’d had plenty of practice.
Still worried that the hotel might be owned by the intelligence service, Nuri scanned the room for bugs, then checked for a live circuit at the door, just in case there was a device to indicate whether he was in the room. He found none.
“Locate Tarid,” he told the Voice.
“Subject’s location is unchanged.”
“When was the last time he moved?”
“Fifteen minutes ago.”
There were no TVs in the rooms. He had to be in bed, sleeping.
Nuri decided he would break into his room, mark him, and be done with it. If he could, he’d plant a bug on his bag as well. He made sure the vial of marker was ready in his pocket, then slipped out into the hallway.
The second time the car with the loud music passed, Flash became apprehensive. He had no weapon and didn’t understand any Farsi at all. There were no lights on in the windows on this part of the block. As far as he was concerned, he was an inviting target, obviously a lone foreigner, probably a hick one at that, in a place where he didn’t belong. He’d have been worried even if he were back home.
He started walking down the street, hoping he’d come to a place where there were more people.
He could feel the pulse of the bass as the car approached a third time. Flash’s muscles tensed.
The car jerked to a stop. Three young men got out, leaving the driver and another in the front. They swaggered over to the side of the street as Flash continued to walk. Despite the general prohibition on alcohol, all three were drunk; the smell of stale scotch wafted toward Flash as he walked.
“Hey, hey, look at this fag,” said one of the men. “Carrying two suitcases. He is such a little girl.”
“I bet he is a rich one.”
“One of the cases has makeup and his veil,” said the third.
Flash couldn’t understand the words but the gist of what they were about was obvious. He got ready for an attack.
“I think he is a tourist,” said one of the men in English. “Are you tourist?
I have something for you, thought Flash. But he knew his best course was to be quiet and maybe slip away. That was the irony of being on a covert mission: You had to act like a coward.
He quickened his pace, walking so fast that they had to trot to keep up.
The man who had been speaking ran up behind him, trying to tap him on the shoulder as a tease. Flash saw his shadow growing on the pavement in front of him. Just as he got close, Flash spun and caught his arm, pulling it past him and throwing the man forward. He crashed head first against a car.
“Hey, hey, hey,” said a second man. He ran up and took a swing at Flash. This was easily ducked — and when Flash came up, he threw two rights and a left into the man’s midsection, bowling him over.
The third young man, some years younger than the others at eighteen, began backing away. But it was too late for him — Flash stomped his right leg down, using it as a spring to leap forward. He hit the young man squarely in the chest, throwing him backward to the ground. The kid’s head hit the pavement. The rush of pain was so intense he blacked out.
The man he’d thrown against the car rebounded and tried to swing a roundhouse at Flash’s side, thinking he could catch him unawares. But Flash knew he was close and partly deflected the blow with his left arm. That left the Iranian open for a counterpunch, which Flash quickly scored to his face. The man staggered upright, shocked at the force of the blow. Foreigners were supposed to be weak; this man hit harder than anyone he’d ever fought.
Two more punches and he fell back, staggered and dizzy. He spun off to the ground and began throwing up the booze he’d drank earlier. Flash put his boot heel in the man’s side, knocking him to the ground in a swirl of vomit.
The attacker he’d punched in the stomach got up, took a step toward him, then realized he didn’t have a chance. He turned and ran up the block.
Before the fight began, the driver and his front seat passenger had been jeering and egging the younger men on. With their comrades faring poorly, they decided the time had come for them to get in on the action.
The driver pulled the latch on the trunk release, then jumped from the vehicle and ran to the back, grabbing a tire iron and tossing it to the other man. Then he pulled a crowbar out, and together they advanced on Flash.
Flash was deciding which one of the men to hit first, and how, when a gunshot broke the silence. He ducked, but the shot had not been aimed at him — it broke the back window of the car, blasting the glass.
“Get the hell out of here before you are next!” growled a woman in gutter Farsi. She stood in the middle of the street, the wind whipping at her long skirt. Her face was covered by her scarf. She had a pistol in her hand; a man dressed entirely in black stood behind her with a rifle.
Hera and Danny had arrived.
“Now!” Hera yelled, pointing the gun.
The two men looked at each other, then at her.
