Father Night (42 page)

“Praises, then.” The Syrian was a big man as well as tall, his shoulders and arms knotted with muscle, as if he had been a hod carrier or a bricklayer all his life. His hands were big and square, callused, their backs ropy, dark as coffee. But his eyes held the talent of a sculptor. It was, of course, his eyes that were most remarked upon. One green, the other blue, each seemed to be buried in a different head or, more accurately, connected to a different brain. The Syrian instilled fear, even within his own cadre.

Radomil felt his head swimming. “What is this, Annika? You
know
the Syrian?”

“Iraj and I have been friends for many years.” She laughed. “Well, perhaps ‘friends’ is not the correct term.”

The Syrian grinned, his strong white teeth gleaming in his handsome, dusky face. “Radomil, will you please excuse us now?”

When they were alone, the Syrian turned to Annika, his features hardening like cement, and said, “Why have you disobeyed your instructions never to come?”

*   *   *

“I
WANT
a piece.”

Caro looked at Alli with a puzzled expression. “A piece of what?”

“Whatever you’ve planned to steal from the Syrian.”

“What?” Caro barked a brittle laugh. “Steal from the Syrian? You’re nuts.”

Alli, who had returned to the situation room from the unused lounge where she had joined Paull’s conference call with Jack, placed Leopard’s computer on Caro’s lap. “Go on. Keep on with what you’re doing. Only this time, I want a cut.”

“You,” Caro said with derision. “You’re not someone to take a cut of anything.”

“In the Syrian’s case, I’ll make an exception.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Vera, curious about the direction their conversation was taking, had hauled herself out of her self-imposed mental exile and, glancing from one to the other, approached the narrow desk where Caro sat.

“Listen, Caro, last year, Jack and I were in Albania, we penetrated the Syrian’s compound, but he had already fled. We found your desk, though at the time we didn’t know it was yours. You had ripped out all the pertinent drives and backups. We almost got you, we almost got the Syrian. You both beat us there, so, you bet I want a piece of the action you’re planning to take from him.”

Caro looked fixedly at Vera. “And what d’
you
want?”

Vera lunged at Caro, but Alli, moving quickly, intervened, stepped between them.

Vera’s mouth, teeth bared, snapped at her. “Let me go, you controlling bitch!”

Still, Alli held her back from reaching across the desk, watching them both with a maddeningly diffident expression.

“Look at her!” Vera cried. “She doesn’t give a shit about us, she doesn’t give a shit about anything but herself.”

It occurred to Alli that if she didn’t put aside her pain at Vera’s betrayal, there was no hope of the three of them ever speaking to one another civilly, let alone aid in this mission. Much to her surprise, she found that she wanted them to get along. These two young women, difficult as they were, were still family, her flesh and blood. She had known too many siblings and family members who were estranged, and she had found it disturbing. Besides, there was knowledge, strength, and potential power if they could find a way to work together. She just didn’t know how that was going to happen.

*   *   *

“N
OTHING’S CHANGED,
” Annika said. “You can still bullshit with the best of them.”

The Syrian cocked his head. “I consider that a compliment.”

Annika inclined her head. “As it was meant.”

The Syrian watched her carefully. “I took great pains to keep myself hidden from you and your grandfather. This is necessary to our plans. It was agreed upon by the three of us. So again I ask, why have you sought me out?”

“My grandfather and I were almost killed several times while escaping Russia.”

“So I heard. It pained me to hear it.”

“It pained me, too, especially when I discovered that Grigori was working for Ax.”

“Grigori was part of Ax’s experiments, what would you expect?” Then he frowned. “Why would Ax want you and Gourdjiev killed?”

She shrugged. “Does he know that we are allies?”

Iraj considered the idea for a moment. “Perhaps we should ask him.”

“Ax is here?”

Iraj spoke softly into his mobile. A moment later, the door opened and Radomil ushered Werner Ax in.

“Why have you brought him here, Iraj?”

“Iraj?” Werner frowned deeply “I don’t understand. Iraj is an Iranian name.”

“So it is, Werner.” The man the world knew as the Syrian rose. “You see, I was born in Sedeh. Now it is known as Khomeyni Shahr and has been engulfed by the city sprawl of Isfahan.”

Werner’s voice was hushed by shock. “You are Iranian.”

“An Iranian who repudiates the 1979 revolution. An Iranian who means to restore order in the current chaos of my long-lost homeland.” Iraj’s right hand clenched into a fist.

Annika stood up as she looked from one man to the other. You only had to glance at Werner’s face to know how completely Iraj had snowed him.

“Wait a minute, Iraj. You made a deal with this man?”

“Don’t be angry, Annika. He had no idea what my real aim was. Until this moment, I kept him at a remove. Radomil was the go-between; your brother has a certain talent I find useful.” His hand rose, gestured obscurely. “It seems that Werner and his coterie of spies and military folk were so desperate for America to fill the power vacuum in the Middle East, they would have made a deal with the devil in order for his country to gain power in the region.” He turned to Ax. “That’s the dream of all Americans, Werner. But, hold on, you’re not American.”

“I most certainly am.”

“No, no, no,” Iraj said, circling. “Your real name is Werner von Verschuer. You’re a fucking Nazi.”

Annika laughed, and continued laughing until tears came to her eyes. “Really, Iraj? Really? Bravo!” Then she turned to the white-faced von Verschuer. “I’m immune to Iraj’s bullshit. There isn’t a snowball’s chance in hell that he has a single altruistic bone in his body. He wants a regime change in Iran, just like you. That’s true enough. But he wants it so he can have his handpicked followers take over. He has all the clandestine infrastructure already in place, not only inside Iran, but in the Arab world as well. The Saudis love him; they’d be overjoyed to see him as the power behind the ancient peacock throne.”

Werner looked stunned. “Is this true?”

The Syrian threw his arms wide. “Let my people go!”

Werner, recovering, laughed sourly. “Right. The Iranian people will be free—to do what? Obey you.”

“Why not? I will have freed them from all the ritual insanity that has made their lives a living hell. And from the Americans.” Here he touched Werner on the shoulder, in mock comraderie. “I haven’t forgotten you. An uncle with such deep pockets is as rare these days as a hen’s tooth.”

“Yes, your opportunism is another valuable trait,” Annika said. “The Americans never learn.” She regarded Werner with pity. “Did you think he would do your bidding, like the shah? Such naïveté!”

Iraj called out and one of his men stepped in, took hold of von Verschuer.

“You used me!” Werner shouted.

“We all use each other,” Iraj said. “It’s part of the game.”

Werner was furious. “I want my pound of flesh. I want McClure. He fucked up everything for me.”

“You’ll get your time with him, Werner. Ten minutes, no more. Make the most of them.”

“He’ll fuck everything up for you, too, unless—”

“But he won’t get the chance,” Iraj said with equanimity, as Radomil hustled Werner out of the building.

When they were alone, Iraj held out his hand, and Annika allowed it to slide against hers. “Here is the proof of it,” he said. “When it comes to foreign policy the Americans keep making the same mistake over and over. They keep arming rebels in an attempt to overthrow regimes they don’t like, then, when the rebels are in power, they’re shocked when the newly installed regime turns on them. It’s happened so many times—in Vietnam, Iraq, Afghanistan. There would be no Taliban had the Americans not armed them to fight off the Russians.”

“Which they did,” Annika said. “Once they pushed out the Russians, they turned on the Americans. In that part of the world, who likes capitalism?”

“Who even understands it? All anyone sees are Crusaders and Jews invading their sacred land.”

“And yet, Shia and Sunni, Islam cannot stop tearing itself apart.”

“In religion, I cannot take sides,” the Syrian said. “No matter that I was born Shia. To choose is to make enemies beyond numbers. Radicals of either sect are dangerous. What I need now, more than anything, are allies.”

“What you need,” Annika said, “is to turn down another path, embrace a semblance of pragmatism.”

“I am nothing if not pragmatic.”

“On the contrary, you are one of the radicals you pretend to shun because you loudly and persistently claim they’re too dangerous.”

“Nonsense.”

“You don’t consider an outright attack on the supreme leader of Iran radical?”

“I consider it a necessity.”

“No, what is necessary is for you to take a step back. When you do, you’ll see that the prime consequence of what you are about to initiate is nuclear war.”

The Syrian shook his head. “This will certainly not lead to nuclear war. It is a precisely guided surgical strike, just like what was initiated with bin Laden, after which my network inside Iran will take care of the army leaders while the radical imams are killed or jailed.”

“Listen to yourself, Iraj. You’re already talking like a god.”

“Perhaps it takes this kind of god to make these decisions.”

“‘The battleline between good and evil runs through the heart of every man.’”

“Now you quote Solzhenitsyn at me, one of your Russian pacifists?”

“This line exists in everyone, Iraj, even you.”

“No, no, I cannot countenance such drivel. I have more important matters to attend to, and so do you.” He took her hand in his. “What I wish for, more than anything, is for you to be with me. I’ve wished for this for years.” Registering the expression on her face, he added, “You didn’t know?”

“I admit the thought occurred to me, but I dismissed it.”

“Why would you?”

“You’re the human equivalent of quicksand.”

He threw his head back, laughed. “Then we are ideally suited.”

She smiled.

“But—” His expression was abruptly serious. “You have been seeing someone else.” He rubbed the back of her hand. “Haven’t you?”

“On my grandfather’s orders.”

“What does Jack McClure have that I don’t have?”

“He has access to the United States secretary of homeland security.”

“Access to the upper echelons of American government was always an obsession with Gourdjiev. Why?”

“He doesn’t trust Americans.”

“Neither do I.” Iraj laughed. “And you?”

“I follow Dyadya’s wishes in all things.”

“Admirable. I admire the familial devotion the two of you exemplify, possibly because it’s something I never had.”

“There are other forms of devotion.” She squeezed his hand. “I could show you.”

“Yes, I imagine you could.”

For the first time she realized that the gaze of his green eye was warm when he willed it, but the blue eye’s gaze was always cold. This revelation sent a tiny chill through her.

Iraj was just about to add a thought when his mobile buzzed. “Excuse me.” He let go of her hand and walked to the other end of the pool house to take the call. He listened, spoke three words, then, glancing at Annika, listened some more.

When he put the phone away, he returned to her, took both her hands in his, and said, “As it happens it’s fortuitous you’re here now. Come with me.”

She reacted to his expression. “What is it? What’s happened?”

*   *   *

N
ONA, NO
more than a shadow, stood in a midblock doorway on Twelfth Street NE. She had chosen this particular doorway because it had a view of the entire street. She knew Del Stoddart well, they hung out together from time to time. She knew his habits. Every night after leaving the office, he’d drive down here to Gilly’s for a couple of beers, a round or two of pool, and, if he got lucky, a roll in some woman’s bed.

True to form, Stoddart’s blue, beaten-up Ford Focus rolled down the street and pulled into a space at the curb. Stoddart got out from behind the wheel, checked the parking meter for stray quarters, and began his round-shouldered shamble up the block toward Gilly’s.

Tonight, however, he was not alone. A figure in black jeans, a hoodie, and premium black kicks emerged from a doorway on the other side of the street. As the man crossed diagonally to get closer to Stoddart, Nona saw a shiny black face, the eyes intent on Stoddart’s back. One arm was held close to his side. Nona saw the glint of a Saturday night special gripped in his hand. No doubt the grips were taped so as not to pick up prints and all serial numbers had been filed off.

Hoodie was behind Stoddart now. He risked a quick glance around to ensure no one was paying attention. The street was nearly deserted. Nona unholstered her Glock and waited until he swung the Saturday night special up, then she stepped out into the streetlight and shouted, “Police! Stop! Put down your weapon!”

Both Stoddart and his would-be murderer turned. Hoodie swung his gun around, aimed it at Nona as she came toward him across the street.

“Put it down!” she said. “Drop it and no one will get hurt.”

“Fuck you, bitch!” Hoodie said as he fired wildly. Then he dropped the gun and took off.

Stoddart sprinted after him.

“No, wait!” Nona ran after them and was close enough when the two shots rang out to see Stoddart pitch backward. The first bullet penetrated his chest, the second took the side of his head off.

Nona recognized the sounds and, from the direction in which Stoddart fell, immediately extrapolated the direction of the marksman. She looked to the roof of the building across the street, saw a blurred shape, then raced back across the street to the side of the building. Reaching up, she pulled down the fire escape ladder and climbed up, taking the rungs three at a time.