Recall (18 page)

Red thought of Father Ingram and what he'd said about killing, only when needed. He uncovered Amin's mouth and slapped his cheek till he inhaled, grimacing.

Jim gave the order and everyone squeezed into the trucks. The chassis shook as the driver released the clutch and drove outside. The overhead door screeched loudly as Richards rolled it closed. He lifted the tarp and passed Red his rifle, then slid into the truck bed, cursing when he tore his pants on a floor bolt. Red lifted the side panel and locked it in place. The air was close, stinking of sweat and sewer from the Pardis, mixed with mildew from the tarp. A cool draft blew by his calves when the truck turned onto the service road, toward Tehran.

The comm clicked and Jim's voice sounded in his ear. “Marksman, you're my eyes. If Salar does anything you don't like, shoot him. Same for you, Lori.”

The brakes squealed as the truck jolted to a stop.

Marksman's comm clicked on. He spoke in Farsi.

Lori's voice came online. “Best I can tell, Salar doesn't like us heading west . . . Marksman's telling him they're waiting for us the other way. Something about a hiding place. In Tehran.”

The engine raced and the truck lurched forward as the clutch grabbed. Ali braced himself against the crates, mumbling, “Even rather have Crawler driving than this one-eyed gypsy.”

Red pinched at a splinter in his palm, trying to pull it out. “Wrong driver,” he said. “The guy with the lazy eye's driving lead.”

“We're straight,” Marksman commed. “Salar says he'll take us. Seems this wasn't his first visit to the warehouse. Says he's taken pictures of it before and knows another way out, a trail that might get us past checkpoints. He's got my night vision so we're lights out.”

The truck slowed. Red stooped, putting his knee next to Amin's head. He pulled up the canvas till it rose over the side of the bed and peered out. The first truck was turning off the road, between tall saltbushes. Branches scratched the side, then the front wheels dropped down a riverbank till the truck was almost high-centered. By the time the rear wheels were passing the bushes, it was pointed down sharply.

“Brace yourself.” Red leaned toward the back of the truck. The branches scraping the sides tore a small hole in the canvas. The truck tilted forward even more steeply. But if Salar was driving them off a cliff, he'd be killed, too. Amin rolled, flopping against the front row of crates, frowning in his stupor. Red climbed on them, wishing he'd tightened the ratchets more since the ones in the back leaned hard toward him. It would not be a dignified way to die, crushed by crates of field rations.

The truck seemed to teeter, engine racing, tires spinning gravel against the wheel wells. Red pulled up the canvas and stuck his head out. Saltbush branches scratched his face. The front wheels hung low against the riverbank while the rear spun. Must be hung up on the undercarriage. “We're high-centered,” Red commed. He dropped the side panel and rolled out.

“E2, guard the road,” Jim commed. “Crawler, fix it.”

Red grabbed a long branch from one of the bushes and backed down the short cliff, as if rappelling. He stopped next to the cab. Lori was braced with her feet against the dashboard. The driver looked like he was doing a push-up on the steering wheel, eyes large. The man opened his door and it slipped from his hand, dropping so hard it broke the limiting strap and bent the hinges, slamming against the fender.

Jim cursed at the sound.

Red pointed to the driver. “Lori, tell him to stay in. Once this thing breaks loose he's gonna need to steer.”

“We've got something coming,” Ali commed. “I can't hear it, but I see lights around the corner.”

“Get us moving!” Jim said.

Crawler scrambled up the bank on all fours. It was loose and he slipped back with every step. He reached the bumper and did a chin-up to pull himself close, looking warily at the grille as it teetered up and down.

“That thing breaks loose, lay flat,” Red said.

Crawler sneered. “This thing breaks loose and you're gonna see my white ass run.” He flipped the release on the winch and unwound the cable, cutting his palm on a barb, sucking at it and spitting the blood onto the sandy bank. He placed the hook onto the bumper of the lead truck, then had Red lock the spool again. “Marksman, tell the driver to ease her forward, slow. Keep her straight or we'll tip the other truck.”

Ali commed, “Whoever was coming must've stopped. I still see a glow around the corner, but it's not moving.”

If the warehouse blew it would silhouette them against the horizon and they'd be seen. How much time left? He twisted his wrist. Only a few more minutes, if Crawler set the fuses right. They had to get into the riverbed.

The cable drew taut as the lead truck moved, pulling the nose of the second forward like a horse bracing against a lead rope. It listed sideways, then the nose dropped fast. It shot down the riverbank, dragging locked wheels as the driver stood on the brakes.

Jim commed, “E1, hide our tracks.”

A dust cloud kicked up by the truck's descent moved over the two vehicles below, now next to each other in the riverbed. The barrel of Marksman's M14 was sticking out one passenger window. He'd switched uniforms with a dead guard before putting the body in the van outside the warehouse and dousing it with gas. But he'd never leave his rifle.

Red hauled himself back up the riverbank. Lanyard was kneeling, eyes closed, listening. The two of them broke off branches from the far side of a bush and swept away the wheel tracks from the edge of the road all the way back down. They dove into the truck and signaled Ali and Richards to do the same. The engine raced again, but this time the launch was smooth.

The comm clicked in Red's ear. It was Marksman. “Salar says it'll be slow going for an hour. Then we'll be back on pavement after that, not far, till Tehran. Colonel, I need your sat phone.”

Red leaned back on the crates again, feet against Amin's shoulder. Heat came through the wood slats, warming his legs, but his hands were cold where he braced against the jolting. Must be sitting over the exhaust pipe. He pulled up the tarp and dropped his night vision, in time to see Marksman lean out of the cab of the lead truck, long arms reaching back to grab the phone from Jim.

The truck squeaked as it rolled over the dry creek bed. Occasionally, the tires scrubbed the underside if pushed too far by rocks.

After a while, Marksman commed again. “We're set up. I need two hundred and fifty thousand. She gave me the number of a Swiss bank account.”

“Dollars?” Jim asked.

“Euros. That's all she deals in. It's only half. Full price is five hundred thousand. Half now, half when we leave. Last time it was less, three years ago and only four of us. Deposited to her account in the next ten minutes or deal's off.”

The jostle and screeching turned into slamming and pounding as the pace quickened, but at least they were still moving.

“Where we headed?” Crawler commed.

“A brothel. Downtown Tehran,” Marksman said.

“Five hundred thousand? That's cheap for your ugly—” The comm clicked off. Crawler must not have been out of Jim's reach.

Not a perfect plan, but surely Tehran would be the last place the Iranians would expect them to run. They could hide out a few days, wait for security to relax again, then dash for the border.

Richards sat on the opposite side of the truck bed, leaning against the stack of crates, peering out into the blackness. “At least this way we don't have to rely on Mossad.”

The eerie creaking and moaning of the crates tensed the back of Red's neck. A breeze whipped the tarp to life, making it slap against their heads, as if telling them to be quiet. A sharp pain stabbed Red's chest. He put his thumbs under his Kevlar vest and pushed it out. What was that? Had he been hit?

Dr. Ali frowned. “Pain?”

“Only when I breathe.”

“Get shot back there?”

Red peered down over his Kevlar. “Don't think so. Probably coming down off the high. You know, adrenaline or something.”

Ali hopped up and grabbed his vest, twisting him around, shining a dim light over it, shrouded by his hands.

A pressure wave swept over the truck. Everyone looked at Red. He pulled up the side of the tarp and gazed out. The sky was bright now. The long shadows of the trucks shortened as the fireball rose.

Lanyard was standing, pushing up the tarp to look over one of the crates, smiling. Was that joy in his eyes? “Crawler said she'd go up like a daisy cutter!”

Red imagined Crawler doing the same in the front truck. The guy was never happier than when blowing something up or running it over.

The fireball grew, dimmed, then disappeared into the blackness. Red sat, peering over the side of the truck bed again, at the brightness on the horizon that must be Tehran.

Pain filled his chest once more. He felt under his vest, then lifted his head again to the glowing skyline. No, he wasn't shot. He had a sense that Lori might have been safer where she was. That the hardest part of the mission was still ahead, under the smoldering lights.

A
fter a half hour on the creek bed, a high-pitched whine of truck tires on asphalt came from ahead. Red put his eye to the hole in the canvas. A glow shone over a crest in the trail. At the top, a road came into view between tufted mounds of plains grass. The road was only a hundred meters to their side, the creek bank just high enough to hide them.

Lights from a passing vehicle swept above like a searchlight, illuminating a thin finger of ground fog bent overhead. If they were kicking up a dust trail, the fog would help hide it. Their truck stopped and the engine rattled as it shut off. Lights of another vehicle passed overhead with a
wump-wump-wump
from a flat spot on a tire, then silence. Their engine cranked over and the trucks raced up the bank onto the road, turning on their lights.

Red sat again and rested against the crates, legs straight out with his feet next to Amin's head. The prisoner's eyes were halfway open, only whites showing. Red placed his rifle on his leg, barrel angled toward Amin's neck. If they hit a bump hard enough, it would fire. He thumbed off the safety and moved his hand to the stock.

Red flipped down his night vision and gazed at Amin's eyes quivering under the lids. His cheek was swollen, maybe fractured. Red thought of being picked up six years ago. Jim had stretched his eyes open, then put his ear to his mouth. “Still breathing,” he'd said. Red had passed in and out of consciousness during the exit. His wounds included three bullets, a cracked femur, a broken collarbone, burnt nipples, and crushed gonads. It was a miracle he and Lori had been able to have Jackson and Nick. Recall had its downside. Some memories should stay repressed.

He checked his watch. Penny was going to be worried. It would be days before he got back. Mom would be falling apart by the morning. But Tom . . . Red leaned his head back till a nail poked his skull, jutting from the side of a crate. Tom was an emotional void. Yet he had strength. He'd keep them together till Red brought Lori home.

The nail smacked him as the truck bounced over a pothole. The rifle didn't fire. He grasped the pistol grip to help it along. How pleasant it would be to plug a bullet into the bastard's neck. They didn't need Mossad's help on their exit anymore. Mossad had screwed up. They lost their chance. Why was he waiting? Tom would say he was weak, that Amin deserved it, that it was the way of the world. Red pushed the safety back on.

I'm not Tom
.

A stiff breeze came through the cracks between the floorboards. Red's fatigues had dried and he'd stopped shivering. He looked over at Ali blowing into his hands. Red slid over and patted the floor. “Sit here, doc. Exhaust pipe runs below. Warm up.”

The road was wide, two full lanes in either direction. They didn't meet any checkpoints, though several white Mercedes with blue stripes whipped by, headed the other way, red lights flashing. No sirens, though. The buildings outside grew taller and the street lights more frequent till Red tapped Richards's shoulder, motioning for him to drop the canvas.

Marksman left his comm on when he spoke with Salar. Lori interpreted as best she could. They were headed to an intersection near something called
Park-e-Resvan
. She mentioned the Azadi tower and spouted a few directions, but Marksman was talking a lot more than she was.

The truck's springs screeched as it slammed over something. A sharp pain shot through Red's tailbone. The truck stopped and its engine went silent. Red tapped Lanyard on the shoulder. They pointed their weapons toward the side of the truck. He should have had everyone swap back to subsonics. Too late now.

“I see her,” Marksman commed. His door sounded like sandpaper on metal when it opened. Footsteps, slow, and with dragging heels, came from down the street. Red reached toward the canvas, but Lanyard touched his elbow. The steps stopped behind their truck. He hadn't heard Marksman walking, but his voice came from outside.

“Followed, Rahim?” whispered a female voice.

“No,” Marksman said.

“You are shot. Three times!”

“Not my uniform.”

“
Alhamdulillah
! Whatever you did, I am not charging enough. All my customers left. But it will be easier to hide. Can everyone walk?”

“Three will be carried.”

“Into that alley.” The footsteps walked away, more briskly now, but still with dragging heels.

Red checked the local time on his watch. Two hours till sunrise. A tap came from the side of the truck as Marksman walked past. Red dropped the panel and rolled out. Ali carried Amin. Red and Lanyard covered while Richards checked the bed, then the cabs, ensuring nothing was left.

Red trailed, scanning behind, following the team. A small cloud of steam rose from under the hood of their truck. It plumed, then dissipated, like the warehouse fireball. Their footsteps in the frost looked like a migrating herd of Cape buffalo had run into the side street. He hoped no one came by till fresh frost built up.

The alley was not wide enough for the trucks. Red stretched his neck, squinting to make out their guide. A dark
ch
dor
covered her head and body. She walked with a stooped posture, hobbling, maybe even using a cane. Had it been Halloween in the States, she'd make a great grim reaper. Crawler carried one of the traitors over his shoulder. Drugged by Dr. Ali back at the warehouse, the man was limp, arms flapping. The sound of so many boots, bodies, and equipment echoed off the hard walls of houses, like a duck call heard from across the water. Why didn't the capital city have any background noise?

Their guide took up a brisk pace, pausing at each crossway. Maybe she didn't care if they were spotted. A few houses ahead a dog barked, followed by a hollow ringing, as if it had upset its water bowl. A minute later came shouting and a yelp. Funny. Red had been briefed Iran was cracking down on owning dogs. Maybe it was a stray.

Red switched to thermal and kept his eyes on the alley behind them. The only thing that glowed was a rat as it disappeared under a wooden privacy fence.

“Moving,” Marksman commed. Jim had him at the front of the column, on point. Everyone emerged from the shadows and continued the trek. They mazed through alleys, taking ways that provided the most darkness, keeping to shadows created by the moonlight. Red walked backwards mostly, senses alert.

After ten minutes, Red heard Ali's breathing, deep and hard, as he carried the other traitor. Red was about to signal Lanyard to relieve him when they came into a small courtyard, paved in river stones, like the cobblestoned streets of downtown Charleston where Lori's parents lived once. Light shone through a cracked door of a three-story house across the yard. Their guide opened it, motioning them to enter. Marksman whispered something to her as he ducked in.

Red followed, taking one last look behind. The guide closed the door, then waved for him to follow the rest. The dim light suggested a young face under her hood. He trailed through a kitchen with orange countertops into a large room with several couches around the walls. The middle was left open with a blue-and-red oriental rug, now host to a dozen pairs of boots. Their hostess would be insulted by that, Red thought, if she was Muslim. The room was warm and smelled of kerosene heat. Wall sconces cast an orange light upward onto cheap tapestries.

Marksman walked back to their guide, still covered in her
ch
-dor
. “Customers?”

“None now. They left. I sent my girls away after that.” She walked to a hutch along the wall and pulled out a box of plastic trash bags, then handed them to Marksman. “Upstairs. Take off everything. Anything that can burn goes in these. They'll go in the furnace downstairs. I have uniforms, enough for all of you.”

Jim frowned.

“Many of my customers are soldiers,” she said, pulling back her hood a little, lifting her chin. “High-ranking ones. And politicians.” She looked at Marksman's arms, following his form down to his waist. “Sometimes they lose clothes, forget things.”

“English?” Jim asked.

“The language of business.” She raised herself upright and pulled the hood back from her head, releasing a button beneath her chin. Marksman helped the cape off her shoulders. She stood much taller now. As it came down, a mellow scent of flowered perfume warmed the frigid mood of the room. Her forearms were bare and the flesh of her face was dark, smooth, inviting. Jet black hair covered her shoulders. No dot on her forehead. Late thirties, in a red linen dress falling gracefully from narrow hips down to her ankles. Her pedicured feet were in leather sandals adorned with small gold chains, matching ones around her neck.

Something hit Red on the back of the head. He turned to see Lori in green fatigues, crossing her arms.

“Quit drooling,” she said.

Their guide smiled. “I am Jannat,” she said, then raised her arm toward a hallway with a dark-stained wooden staircase at one end. “Go upstairs one floor, to the right. There are two rooms.” She placed her hand on Marksman's forearm. “The same as last time. You will fit, but it will be tight.”

“What about customers?” Jim asked. “You closing your doors till we're gone?”

“No. Too suspicious. They stay in the front rooms. But keep your doors locked. No moving, no noise. We are empty at day, busy at night. There's a bathroom between your rooms.” She squeezed her nose. “Please use it. I'll give you an hour.”

She pulled Marksman to her side, her voice calming. “You will stay three days. They bore easily and will not be looking so much after that. I have transport.” She waved her hands. “Enough! Too long here. Upstairs. One hour.”

Salar said something in Farsi to Jannat, then to Marksman. “He thinks they're done,” Marksman said, “Needs to be at work in a few hours or they'll look suspicious.”

“Tell him he's staying till we're gone,” Jim said. “If they try to leave, we'll kill 'em. Be sure to smile when you say it.” He walked toward the stairs, stopping next to Jannat. “Don't worry. If we do, we won't make noise. I'm sure you've used that furnace to get rid of things other than uniforms.”

Jannat maintained her empty smile, keeping her gaze on Marksman.

Jim aimed two fingers at Red, then swept them toward the stairs. Red thumbed off his safety and took point, Lanyard behind. Red remembered that Jim never trusted safe houses, wherever they were. “An oxymoron,” he'd say. None were safe very long.

Red angled his M4 up the stairs, each tread announcing his presence. The air warmed his cheek as he ascended. He was moving across the first landing when Lori said, “Thank you,” walking past Jannat. Her voice sounded emphatic, even sincere. She'd always been a quick judge of character. Red had learned to trust her discernment through their years of marriage. He was too apt to trust anyone. He blinked as a drop of sweat ran into his eye.
Trust no one.
That's what Tom would say.