The Libra Affair (11 page)

Then it hit her.

If anything went wrong with her trip to the silo and a finger pointed back at the U.S., Snake planned to use Ben as their scapegoat. This way, head of NASA David Dunn came out of the deal with clean hands. The U.S. government would simply report that a mad scientist went rogue. That's why Sonya was bailing Ben out of prison — because Ben had to be on the run at crucial moments in order to be blamed, not locked behind bars.

How could she have missed this?

Snake was one step ahead of her was how. And while he was protecting her for the time being, she also knew he would avail himself of every potential opportunity. He'd set her up to take the fall if he had to, which meant she could make no more mistakes.

• • •

Jordan kick-started the motorcycle she had stolen last night and headed toward Shahid Suri Street to lay wait, but not without first driving past Evin Court and the surrounding area to take notes.

The Russian Embassy car arrived at 6:42
A.M.
Next, the van appeared.

Jordan radioed Farrokh. “The van just pulled up. We're a go,” she told him.

Farrokh said, “I'm in position. I'll radio Isbel.” Then he radioed his thirteen-year-old daughter, Isbel, riding a bicycle. She was part of the plan.

Once Isbel was in place, Farrokh would drive his vehicle straight toward the motorcade. He'd oiled the pavement early that morning so if all went well, the van would skid as soon as the driver applied the brakes. He could have had Isbel driving another vehicle toward the motorcade, since he'd taught her to drive, but putting her on a bicycle as a pedestrian, crossing in front of the motorcade, would ensure the motorcade would stop if the oil didn't work, especially when Isbel staged a fall. This would give Jordan time to make her play.

Jordan waited out of sight and watched.

Farrokh radioed Jordan. “What's going on? What's taking so long?”

“I don't know,” she answered. “The main gate is still closed. A man is getting out of the van. He's at the gate.”

“Maybe they're calling it off?”

“Wait, he's getting back in the van.”

“It doesn't sound good,” Farrokh said.

“The van is turning around,” Jordan said next.

“Where are they heading?”

“Toward the back.” Jordan cursed. “I think we're done for the day.”

“What if he's not in the van yet?” Farrokh suggested.

Jordan suddenly regrouped. “That's a thought.”

“Maybe they're picking him up in the back.”

“Let's stand ready.”

“On your call,” he said.

It wasn't long before she reported back. “The Embassy vehicle just turned north on Ahmadpour.”

“They must be leaving from the back of the prison.”

Jordan felt a rush. “Do you have any idea which way they'll go?” she asked.

“My guess is that they're taking Yadegar e Eman Highway to pick up Chamran,” he explained.

“Will they circle around?”

“Not likely. We're outdone.”

“We can't be,” Jordan insisted. This was their only shot. The plan had to work. “What can we do?”

“I can try to catch up with them and stage some kind of detour.”

“No,” she said. “Let me see what's going on first. I'm more mobile on the bike than you are in a car. Just stay in position.”

Jordan downshifted and drove to the highway ramp. Several cars followed by a morning delivery truck were heading toward the ramp. If she could block access to the ramp, the motorcade would have to reroute. So she made for the truck. There, she pulled out her weapon, took aim, and fired shots into both sets of back wheels.

Rubber on the wheels split and splattered into the air.

The truck suddenly swerved, careening toward the edge of the ramp.

Jordan was blocked. There was no way to go except under the truck. She gripped the brakes, laying the bike sideways.

The truck's load started to spill before she was under it.

Not fighting the momentum, all she could do was go with the skid.

Sliding … sliding …

Under the truck.

The truck was tipping.

Her window of escape was tightening.

The axle spun like an ax.

Bearing down, Jordan was inches from decapitation.

If she didn't thread this needle, it was over.

Out.

As soon as Jordan saw clear daylight, she knew she'd made it. Bringing the bike upright, she zipped off, leaving the truck and its cargo littering the intersection. At a safe distance, she pulled over and looked back.

The van came into sight.

She phoned Farrokh next. “They can't access the ramp.”

“Which way are they going?” he asked.

“They're heading your way.”

“Did they see you?”

“Negative.”

“You and Isbel, hold your positions until I give the word. Stay on the line.” Then she raced forward and onto Shahid Suri — the street the van would now take. She took the first left onto a small side street and waited.

As soon as Jordan saw the van turn onto the target street, she reported to Farrokh. “They're in sight. Turning now. You're a go. Repeat, go.”

Farrokh radioed Isbel who was ready and on the pedal.

With perfect timing, Isbel pulled her bicycle onto the roadway and began to cross the lane. The van swerved to miss her, but then hit the oil, just as Farrokh had planned. It started to slide.

Farrokh shot onto the Shahid Suri and headed toward the vehicles.

Catching the oil, Isbel crashed her bike.

The girl screamed as her body soared into the air. Her arms flailed, unable to grasp the air between her and the ground. Her hair tousled. Her dress flapped.

The bike toppled recklessly across the pavement, its metal scraping.

Unable to control her fall, Isbel flew to the pavement with a leg hitting the ground first, the weight of her body pounding down next.

The girl lay writhing in the street as both the prison van and embassy car sloppily swerved in her direction, barely missing her, the van slid into the ditch with the car close behind.

The van toppled to its side, its driver knocked unconscious. The guard riding shotgun was dazed and out of it.

Farrokh drove past the accident, unable to help his daughter.

Jordan hit the gas, flying into high gear, and approached the back of the van. She fired her weapon at the handle of the back door. The door flung open.

With her weapon at dead aim, she spoke in Farsi to the guard in the back, saying, “Stay back,” disguising her voice to sound like a man. In Russian, she spoke to Ben and told him to “Get out.”

She knew Ben didn't understand a word of what she was saying. She also knew with the mask over her face, he wouldn't be able to see who she was. But the moment Jordan set eyes on Ben, she realized that even if she were unmasked and still had dark red hair, Ben would never have known it was she.

His eyes were swollen shut and bruised, his hands were cuffed, and his feet were shackled.

Jordan yelled in Farsi at the guard in the back of the van, “Unshackle him!”

The guard only stared back at her. He was stunned.

Not waiting, Jordan climbed into the back of the van. “Get back,” she yelled at the guard.

The guard stumbled to the far corner.

“On your stomach,” she told him.

Then she saw the guard's weapon crammed in a nook within his reach. Not leaving it to chance, she lurched forward and kicked the automatic out the back door of the van.

“Where are the keys?” she asked the guard.

“I don't have them,” the man answered this time.

Jordan shoved Ben's feet apart and fired a shot between the chains, freeing his legs.

Ben groaned.

The driver in the front seat was coming to. “What's going on?” he asked.

“Shut up,” Jordan yelled to him.

“What do you mean? What's going on?” the driver asked again.

“Give me the keys to the prisoner,” she spoke to the driver with her gun aimed between his eyes.

“I don't — ”

“Now,” she demanded.

“Okay, okay, don't shoot,” he replied as he quickly obeyed.

“Keep your hands where I can see them,” she told the guard riding shotgun. She flashed her gun at him.

“No sudden moves.” She swung her gun back at the driver.

“Okay,” the driver replied.

“Toss him the keys.” She nodded toward the guard in the back, then to him, “Free him.”

The man crawled to Ben and quickly freed Ben's hands, while Jordan held the three guards at gunpoint.

“Give me the keys,” she told the guard as soon as Ben's hands were free. She snatched them. “Now get back.”

“Okay, all right,” the guard said.

Jordan threw the keys out the back of the van.

The guard in the back reached for his leg.

“Stop,” Jordan yelled at him.

But he didn't. He grabbed his side arm stashed underneath the leg of his pants.

Jordan aimed and put a slug in his hand to stop him.

The man cried in agony as he fell to his side, gripping his hand.

Jordan yanked Ben by the collar and yelled at him in Russian. “Move.” When he didn't move, she pulled him from the van and dragged him toward her bike.

“Get on,” she said to him in English. When he didn't react fast enough, she shoved one of his legs over the bike.

He could hardly move.

Jordan looked toward the embassy vehicle and saw Sonya in the backseat. She had a gun pointed at them. Jordan hopped onto the bike and put it in high gear.

“Hang on,” she cried to Ben.

As they flew out of there, Sonya fired her weapon multiple times, missing them.

The guard who was riding shotgun raced around to the back of the van and fired off several more rounds, but they were already out of range. Farrokh was long gone and his daughter lay helplessly in the road.

• • •

“Jordan?” Ben asked in a raspy voice. He was slumped over, clinging to her waist.

“I should have killed you myself,” she shouted back at him.

Apparently not bothered by the remark, he cried back to her, “Let's just get out of here.”

Back at the hotel, Jordan slipped Ben in through a rear service door, led him up a flight of stairs to her room, and helped him onto the bed.

“Don't do anything stupid,” she said to him. “I'll be back.”

“Don't go,” he pleaded. “Don't leave me.”

“I'll be back.”

“Where are you going?”

“I've got to dump the bike.”

He didn't argue any further.

She walked into the bathroom and wet a washcloth, then returned to the bed and placed it across Ben's face.

“Have you ever fired a gun?” she asked him. When he didn't answer, she said, “Ben, wake up,” and jostled his shoulder.

He moaned.

“Ben! Get it together.” Her words were harsh, but she couldn't baby him. They were nowhere near getting out of this mess.

“Jordan?” he asked.

“Have you ever fired a gun, Ben?” she asked him again.

Ben lifted the towel and tried to open his eyes.

“Just answer the question,” she said.

“Why?”

Jordan placed the gun in his hand and positioned his fingers. “If anyone comes through that door,” she said, “don't ask, just shoot.”

Then she covered his eyes again with the towel. “Leave it on,” she said, “it'll take down the swelling.”

“I don't — ”

She knew he was going to say he didn't know how to fire a gun or that he couldn't kill anyone. But after what he'd just been through, she had to believe he'd do it. He'd pull the trigger.

“You can't trust anyone,” she warned. “No one.”

“And you? Can I trust you?”

“If you can't, then you'd better take your first shot right here and now.”

“Then what? Flush the body down the crapper?”

“Don't be foolish, Ben.”

“I'll knock like this,” and Jordan tapped twice, then four more times on the table next to the bed. “No more, no less. Now listen to how hard.” She repeated the tapping. “Got it?”

“Yeah.” He grimaced with pain as he rolled his head toward her.

“Any variation,
any
, it's not me.”

“Don't go anywhere,” he pleaded with her.

“I picked you up some clothes. They're in the closet. I'll help you get cleaned up when I get back and break the metal off your ankles. If I'm not back in thirty minutes, you're on your own. Get to one of the American-friendly embassies: Swiss, French, British, Australian, Belgian. Don't wait around, do you understand me? Here's a map of the city.” She tossed it onto the bed within arm's reach.

He reached for her arm, but she drew back.

“Jordan,” he said in a teary voice.

He didn't have to tell her; she knew the pain in his voice wasn't coming from his physical injuries, but from the compilation of all the hurt she'd inflicted upon him. Nevertheless, she cut him off, saying, “I gotta go.”

“You're coming back?”

“I'm coming back, Ben. Don't I always?”

“Promise me.” His voice cracked, exposing the depth of his emotions.

She hesitated. She didn't like being coerced into promises, especially when promises felt like nothing more than shifting sand.

“Give me your hand,” he said, extending his free hand to her.

“I'll be back.” She stepped away.

“Give me your hand,” his voice was strong now, “or I won't be here.”

She walked to him and placed a single hand in his. She knew the threat was idle, but couldn't leave open the possibility he'd split or do something dumb.

“Jordan,” he repeated softly, then paused. He dropped the gun to the bed. With both hands he held hers. “If I'm going to die, I'm glad it's with you.”