“We’re going up to Qemez Tappeh,” Nuri told Danny. “We’ll see what happens from there.”
Qemez Tappeh was a slightly larger village a little north of Kahrizak.
Within minutes, Tarid had gone back to his cab and was heading for the highway.
“They’re on their way to Tehran,” Danny told Flash. “We’ll have to turn around.”
“Just a wild goose chase?”
“So far.”
Tarid decided he couldn’t face the temptation of the hotel keeper’s daughter for even a few minutes. He had the driver take him to a cafe he was once a regular at in Punak, on the northwest side of the city. It would be as good as anywhere to kill time.
Once a hangout for young men and university types, it now catered to a much older, quieter crowd. In truth, many of the people Tarid remembered still came here; they had simply grown older. But his mind couldn’t quite adjust, and while some of the faces seemed familiar, he couldn’t attach a name to any.
He took a seat by himself in the corner, then brooded over a tea, trying to convince himself that Aberhadji wasn’t going to have him arrested, or simply executed.
Finally it was time to leave. He paid his bill and went outside, walking down the block to a gas station that he knew rented cars. He didn’t see anyone in the office as he walked up, and for a moment a fresh dose of panic upturned the melancholy stoicism that had settled over him: Aberhadji would not like him to take a cab to the meeting, though he had cut things so close now he might not have an alternative. But the man who ran the station had merely gone to the restroom; he yelled from the back as soon as Tarid rang the bell at the front desk.
The rental was quickly arranged, and within a half hour Tarid was wending his way through the mountains north of the city.
The bright sun glinted off the metal roofs of the large warehouse buildings north of Darreh Bagh as he hunted for the turn he had to take off the main road. The terraced hills above still showed traces of snow, and he worried about the shape of the roads. He’d come here once during the dead of winter — one of the worst ever on record in Iran — and nearly got stuck before reaching the farm.
Aberhadji called it a farm, though the buildings hadn’t been used for agriculture in more than two decades. They’d been falling down when Aberhadji found them, neglected and forgotten in a dead-end valley in the hills. Their obscurity was exactly what Aberhadji wanted. It was doubtful that anyone except those who’d had business here even knew that they existed.
The narrow road was muddy but passable. Tarid drove carefully, avoiding the largest of the ruts as he negotiated the hairpin turn that marked the midway point from the main road to the actual driveway. Within a few hundred feet of the turn, he came under surveillance from a sentry. He didn’t know exactly where this point was, nor did it matter to him — he had felt he was being watched from the very moment he left Tehran, and acted accordingly. If he was not resigned to his fate, he was at least under the impression that he was trapped, with no way out. Running would only prolong his agony and deprive him of any slim chance he had of talking Aberhadji into sparing his life.
Tarid’s fears had doubled each hour over the past twenty-four, pushing not just logic but every other thought from his mind. He drove up to the large yard in front of the ruined main house a condemned man, as if arms and legs were bound in chains to his waist. There were no guards near the car parked there before him, and he saw no one at the front of the large building slightly downhill on the left, which was used as the compound’s headquarters.
Had Tarid been thinking clearly, he would have interpreted this as a positive sign. But he was no longer thinking, clearly or otherwise. He closed the car door and walked slowly down the path, each step measured, each length the same.
He knocked. There was no answer. He knocked again. Once more there was no answer. He pulled open the door.
Aberhadji was standing over a table at the far end of the room, distracted, studying a schematic.
“You are ten minutes late,” he said.
“I—”
“It’s all right.” Aberhadji waved his hand. “I was delayed myself.”
Tarid stayed near the door, frozen by his fear.
“I’d call for tea, but there’s no one to make it,” said Aberhadji. “The crew has been dismissed until June.”
“Is the operation — are we shutting down?”
Aberhadji looked up, startled by the question. “No, no. Just the normal lull in gathering materials. So — your report?”
“My report.” Tarid’s throat narrowed to the size of a straw. He could barely breathe.
“What happened in Sudan?” asked Aberhadji.
“Sudan…”
“What is wrong with you, Tarid?” Aberhadji came out from around the table for a better look at his lieutenant. Even in the dim light near the door, Tarid seemed paler than normal. “Have you been drinking?”
“No. Drinking? Of course not.”
“Don’t pretend to be what you are not,” said Aberhadji sharply. “What does this arms dealer want? What does he know about us?”
“I don’t know. They—”
Tarid stopped speaking. Blood was rushing from his head. He had been wrong — Aberhadji wasn’t going to confront him about his skimming, and hadn’t sent Kirk to catch him.
“Are you all right? Have a seat. Here.”
Aberhadji took Tarid’s arm and gently led him to the side. Tarid didn’t smell as if he’d been drinking, though that might not prove anything. Still, it seemed more likely he had caught the flu.
“I — Kirk is in Tehran,” said Tarid.
“Tehran?”
“He wants — he wants to strike a deal. There was an attack in Sudan. I was captured. I was shot.”
“Shot?”
“Yes. In the leg. Nothing. It’s nothing. He freed me.”
“He freed you?”
While Aberhadji had made inquiries about Kirk, the information the intelligence service had turned up — that he had been active in Somalia and had contacts in South Africa and Germany — did not completely rule out the possibility that he was working for a foreign spy service, such as the CIA, or even the Israelis. The story that now unfolded from Tarid worried him further. This Kirk clearly had impressive resources — perhaps too impressive.
On the other hand, would someone who worked for the CIA or the Zionists dare come to Iran?
“Were you followed here?” Aberhadji demanded when Tarid finished telling him about his misadventures.
“No, absolutely not.”
“You’re a fool, Tarid. How many people followed you here?”
“I wasn’t — No one.”
“How did Kirk know you were in Tehran?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Did he follow you from the airport?”
“Impossible.”
“So he guessed?”
“I thought he was working for you.”
Another possibility presented itself to Aberhadji — Kirk was working for the government. Yes, the Iranian spy service could easily arrange all of this.
But to what end?
The past two days had been a terrible upheaval for Aberhadji. He wasn’t sure which way to turn. The CIA, the Zionists, his own traitorous government — everyone had fallen under Satan’s spell.
He could trust no one.
