say, would be of little official consequence. So that will be our job, to move her to safety as quickly as possible. Do you know how to use a gun?”
The question seemed to floor him.
“I, uh, took a class once. Courtesy of Nanette, in fact. She ran a bunch of us through an executive survival course, with lessons on escape and evasion, that kind of thing. Part of it was firearms instruction.”
“Ali has procured these for our use.”
Sharaf took a bag off the kitchen table. No kebabs, this time. Just a pair of Beretta handguns. He handed one to Sam. Sturdy and compact. But heavy—that’s what never failed to surprise him about guns, no matter how often he handled them.
“Careful, it’s loaded.”
“I wasn’t a very good shot.”
“But you will at least have the element of surprise. To them you will be a ghost. Sam Keller, risen from the dead.”
“An avenging angel. Sounds good.”
It made them smile, until Sam again hefted the gun and nearly dropped it in the process. And now they were in place, watching the street from Laleh’s BMW, waiting for the arrival of the last key players.
The phone rang.
“Sharaf.”
“Anwar, I think it’s working.” It was Mansour.
“You see them?”
“Not yet. But the container ship, the
“Good. Basma’s phone call spooked them. Keep me posted if you see anything.”
He hung up and told Sam the news.
“If they’re that scared, do you think they’ll shoot her on sight?”
It was the same thought that had occurred to Sharaf far too many times already. But he offered the same answer he had kept giving himself.
“That would violate their own protocol. No, they won’t shoot her on sight, not as long as your Miss Weaver has her way, and she is still in town. Room 408 of the Shangri-La as of this morning. She will insist on a full debriefing, and that is what will make our case.”
“If you say so.”
Sharaf wished Sam hadn’t made that remark. Certainly the operation wasn’t foolproof—no operation was—but with their manpower and positioning it seemed as airtight as possible. Why, then, did the coffee from an hour earlier keep sluicing through his plumbing like acid, bubbling and grumbling? He checked the dashboard clock. 6:50.
“Here comes Assad!” Sam said. “Police van, far end of the block.”
“He’s early, but that’s hardly a surprise. Once Basma called with the location he must have left right away.”
They watched the van slide into a curbside spot directly in front of the villa. Sam still held the binoculars.
“Is anyone with him?” Sharaf asked.
“Yes. There’s a driver and a passenger up front. I’m assuming one of them is Assad. Hard to tell through the smoked glass.”
Sharaf looked back over his shoulder, then again peered down the block toward the villa. No further traffic was in sight.
“Where are the others?” he asked.
“Back of the van, maybe?”
“Hard to imagine the Tsar and Hedayat agreeing to be hauled around like a sack of dates, or even your Miss Weaver.”
“Maybe they’re coming later, after Assad gives the all clear.”
“Maybe.”
Or maybe Sharaf was trying to convince himself that things were still going according to plan. The coffee now felt like it was on the verge of rushing back up his esophagus.
Nothing more happened for the next six minutes. The van simply sat there, while Sharaf watched the digital display of the dashboard clock as closely as if it were linked to the workings of the cosmos. No sooner had it switched to 6:56 than a taxi came up from behind them, headed toward the villa. A woman in a black abaya sat in the back.
“It’s Basma,” Sam said. “Here we go.”
“Give me those,” Sharaf said, fumbling for the binoculars with sweaty palms. The neck strap got caught on Sam’s ears before Sharaf pulled it free. He adjusted the focus and tracked the taxi to the curb. He could make out Basma’s form through the back window as she hunched forward to pay the driver.
“Merciful God. I hope Laleh gave her enough dirhams for the fare.”
