Unforgettable - eARC (13 page)

Chapter Eighteen

“Yes,” I said to the tailor. “I’m English. But some rather nasty chaps stole my passport and roughed me up a bit.” It was a terrible cover story, and if I actually ran into anyone from England, my accent would not pass muster, but at least people would think I was a citizen of only a minor Satan, not the Great one.

He agreed to do the minor alterations to the suit I’d picked out while I waited. The charcoal gray suit was handmade and looked very nice on me, I thought. If only Yelena could see me in it, I thought. I wondered how she was doing, and wished I still had my cell phone so I could give her a call.

This was ridiculous, I told myself. She wasn’t my girlfriend. I was daydreaming about her as if there were a romantic possibility, but no matter how much I might like that, it was just a dream. She was gone, and now that my cell phone was in the hands of an Iranian smuggler, I would probably never hear her voice again. She would call, realize the phone was compromised, and then call Edward to report. And then the deal was done. She’d find her sisters and they would all get new identities and live out an ordinary life somewhere. After what they had been through, they deserved ordinary lives.

And my life would never be ordinary.

“Done, sir,” said the tailor.

“I’ll change into it here and wear it out,” I said. “What ho.”

I went into the changing room and took off my grubby clothes. But I had to keep up a conversation through the changing room door so he wouldn’t forget me and get all upset when I came out wearing one of his suits. “I say, old chap, do you know where I could catch a taxicab?”

“There is a fancy hotel three roads to the north and then left,” he said. “There will be taxis there.”

I kept him talking about irrelevancies until I was dressed. I took a good look at myself in the mirror, and nodded my approval.

I thanked the tailor and then follow his directions to the hotel. After some negotiation, I was able to find a taxi driver willing to drive the twenty miles from the city of Ahvaz, which turned out to be my location, to the town of Hamidiyeh.

His name was not Ali.

* * *

I continued my Englishman impersonation after the taxi dropped me off in Hamidiyeh. I found a teenage boy who claimed to know where the Rezaei family that was in mourning lived, so I followed him. Because the streets were only wide enough for one car and pedestrians flocked about, it seemed faster to walk than drive.

The home he pointed out was a narrow one in the middle of a block of houses pressed wall-to-wall against each other. “Rezaei,” he said, and I handed him a hundred-thousand-rial note before he scampered off.

I knocked on the door and waited.

A man dressed in a black suit opened the door. He looked me up and down, then asked something in Farsi.

“Is there someone here who speaks English?” I asked. I knew Parham Rezaei did, at the very least.

“I do,” he said.

“I’m looking for Parham Rezaei,” I said. “Is this the right place?”

“Who are you?”

“Clive St. James,” I said. “I’m with
Quantum Science Weekly
, and I would like to interview him about some of his theories.”

“We are in mourning here,” he said. “Go away.” He shut the door.

At least I knew I had the right house.

I waited for a minute then knocked on the door again. The same man answered.

“Sorry to bother you,” I said. “My name is Clive St. James. I’m looking for Parham Rezaei—my father was a classmate of his at Cambridge and asked me to pay my respects.”

He gave me a nod. “Welcome. I am Tooraj Rezaei. Follow me and I will take you to my father.” The bio had not mentioned Rezaei’s children, but he obviously had at least one.

“Thank you,” I said.

Tooraj led me up two narrow flights of stair onto the roof. Sitting in the shade of a potted tree was Parham Rezaei. Standing nearby were two men in black suits—not the same guards I’d seen in Rome, but it seemed he was still under guard even here in Iran.

The guards would probably react when the “father of a classmate at Cambridge” story fell apart, so I readied my backup story: just a reporter with
Quantum Science Weekly
, lying to get access to do a story on the elusive physicist Parham Rezaei. I would be a harmless nuisance, nothing more.

“Father,” said Tooraj, as the white-haired man put down the book he was reading, “this is Clive St. James. His father was a classmate of yours at Cambridge.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Rezaei,” I said. “I apologize for the circumstances, but—”

“No need to apologize,” Parham said. His British accent was better than mine. “Please, sit down.” He motioned toward a chair.

I sat. “About my father—”

“Yes, of course. How is Nigel? It’s been years since I saw him, but I can see the family resemblance.”

Flabbergasted, I found myself speechless for a moment. I had picked the last name St. James just because it sounded British. It was lucky coincidence that Parham had a classmate with the same name. But a family resemblance? “He’s fine, my father. His health has been bothering him a bit, but he still gets around.”

“And your mother is well? It was quite a surprise, Nigel marrying an
American
girl, what with his disdain for ‘the colonies,’ as he used to call them, but I dare say it turned out well. You still have a trace of her accent, I hear it in your voice.” He winked at me.

He knew my accent was fake. He knew I was lying about my father, but instead of exposing me, he was making things up in order to bolster my cover story. Why?

“Yes,” I said, as I suddenly understood. He was playing along because he figured if I was a fake, I might be someone who could help him. “Dad’s always teasing her about the accent. But they’re actually in California right now, visiting her sister.”

“Ah, good to hear he’s taking a vacation. Nigel always worked too hard. Or has he finally retired from the company?” He winked as he said the last word.

The Company was how we CIA officers often referred to our employer. He knew I was American, so now it seemed he was asking if I was with the CIA.

“He retired last year,” I said, “but I’ve been working for the Company myself these past few years.”

“How nice that Nigel could finally get away from his work,” said Parham. “I always felt his desire to work all the time was a personality defect.” Again he winked on the final word.

Defect? Did that mean he wanted to defect? What else could it mean? “I suppose I have the same problem—always working. I should talk to the Company about arranging some time off, make some travel plans for the near future.”

Parham shook his head. “No, young man. You need to take time off
today
. I insist that you stay for dinner.”

So he needed to defect right away. That made some sense—if he felt like there was no way to escape once he was taken back to Jamshidi’s lab, then he would see this as his only chance.

But much as I wanted to help him, I realized that I wasn’t really prepared to help someone defect. My talent was essentially useless for that, because people would still remember the defector even if they didn’t remember me. Not only that, but if we got separated for some reason, or if Parham even went to sleep, he would forget all about me and the fact that he was defecting.

That’s why I generally stuck to stealing things that didn’t need to remember me.

Yelena was right: I relied too much on my talent. For a real professional like her, there wouldn’t be much difference between stealing a microchip and stealing a human being.

“That might be a problem,” I said. “I really just came to talk to you for a bit. Dinner wasn’t part of my plans.”

“Oh, but now that you’re here, I insist. You can’t turn down an old friend of your father, can you?”

“No,” I said. “I can’t turn down such a generous offer. I’ll need to see if I can reschedule some things, but unfortunately my cell phone was stolen earlier today.”

Tooraj said, “Here, you can borrow mine.” He pulled a cell phone from a clip on his belt and handed it to me.

“It’s international,” I said. “I’ll reimburse you.” The call wouldn’t show up at all in his phone records, but I needed to make a show of this.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, as I dialed Edward’s number. I wanted him to know that Parham definitely wanted to defect, so maybe he could arrange for someone else to take care of it. The phone rang several times, and then went to voicemail. Unfortunately, there was no point in leaving a message, but I carried on a fake conversation about rearranging my schedule for the benefit of eavesdroppers.

Handing the phone back to Tooraj, I said, “Thanks.”

I sat back down and looked at Parham. “I hope my Company can straighten things out. I don’t do much on the personnel side of things—I’m normally in technology acquisitions.”

Parham arched a white eyebrow. “I see. A technology expert. So, what do you think of the quantum computer revolution so far?”

“Well,” I said, “I know there’s a lot of potential for faster computers, but I haven’t seen much practical application yet. Everything seems to be in the experimental stages, so far. But you’re the quantum physicist, so you’d know that better than I do. And actually, I’m no expert on the tech. The Company tells me what they want, and I go get it.”

“Ah.” Parham nodded. “The company I work for is much the same, acquiring technology from various other companies.”

One of the bodyguards leaned over and whispered in Parham’s ear.

“But we really should not be talking business,” he said. “Tell me more about your family.”

Tooraj spoke before I could start making up stuff about my imaginary family. “Father, if you will excuse me, I have some things to attend to.”

“Of course,” said Parham.

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. St. James,” Tooraj said.

“Likewise,” I said. If Tooraj came back up, there would be an awkward moment in front of the guards when he didn’t remember me. I would have to attribute his forgetfulness to the stress surrounding the death of his grandfather. I might as well start laying the groundwork for that now. “A nice young man. Seems a little distracted, though. But I understand this is a stressful time for all of you.”

Parham frowned, probably trying to work out what secret message I was trying to send by those words. “When a father is taken from his family, it is a terrible blow, as if he has been kidnapped.” He winked on the last word. “But whatever happens is the will of Allah.”

It took me a moment to work out what he was telling me: he needed his defection to look like a kidnapping, so there would be no reprisals against his family.

Even if I put on a convincing show of kidnapping him, no one would remember my part in what happened. The guards’ memory would probably be of Parham leaving on his own—which would endanger his family. In this case, my talent made it harder to pull off the job, not easier.

I was completely out of my depth. What Parham was asking me to do was beyond my experience, beyond my training, and beyond my talent.

But there was an easy way out of all this. All I had to do was leave, and Parham would lose the memory of asking for my help. I stood up and said, “Do you mind if I use your bathroom?”

Chapter Nineteen

I sat in the bathroom for longer than a minute, feeling ashamed of myself for walking out on Parham. Here was a man who needed my help, and I had abandoned him because helping him would be difficult. My mother had not walked out on me just because raising me was difficult.

If Yelena were here, she would have figured something out. Of course, if she were here, then faking the kidnapping would be easy, because people would be able to remember her as a kidnapper.

But could I make it work somehow without a memory of a kidnapper? Not all kidnappings were witnessed. As long as I left physical evidence of a kidnapping, that should be enough to keep Parham’s family safe, right? So all I needed was to break into the home in such a way that it left plenty of physical evidence, kidnap Parham without any witnesses, and then get away.

Unfortunately, Parham would have forgotten me completely by now, so he would have no idea that the kidnapping was a fake one that he had requested. He would probably resist me, which meant I might have to knock him out. Without a partner to help me carry him, I would be moving slowly enough that his guards would be able to catch me.

Obviously, I had to take out the guards first. With them out of the way, I could talk to Parham and convince him to help me fake the kidnapping. It was his idea, after all.

But how could I take out the guards? They outnumbered me and were armed. I had no weapons, and it probably wouldn’t go over very well for a foreigner to wander around town asking where to buy a gun.

Someone tried the doorknob, then knocked.

I didn’t respond, hoping whoever it was would go to another bathroom.

A man spoke in Farsi. I didn’t understand the words, but the from the tone he was saying something along the lines of, “Hurry up—I need to go.”

I flushed the toilet and walked to the door. “Sorry,” I said as I opened it.

One of the guards was standing there. In an instant, he had his gun aimed at my face. “Who are you?”

“Clive St. James,” I said. “My father is a friend of Parham Rezaei.”

“How did you get in?”

“A man let me in—I assumed he was one of the family.” I didn’t want to be too specific, so he couldn’t easily find someone who would deny letting me in.

“Turn around. Put your hands behind your head.”

I complied.

“Tooraj!” he yelled.

After a moment I heard Tooraj’s voice from downstairs, speaking in Farsi.

The two of them carried on a conversation.

“Tooraj will check on your story,” the guard said. “If he finds the person who let you in, I will apologize. But we must be careful to protect Dr. Rezaei.”

“I understand,” I said. My mind raced as I tried to figure out how to get around the fact that no one would remember letting me in.

With the gun at my back, the guard patted me down. The only things he found were a wad of cash and my MasterCard, which he seemed happy enough to confiscate.

Tooraj yelled something up the stairs.

“So you were lying,” said the guard. “I thought so. Walk downstairs, and don’t try anything. I’ll be right behind you.”

With slow steps, I made my way down the narrow staircase to the landing at the second floor, and I turned to face the steps down to the ground floor. The guard was a couple of steps behind me, still coming down. I figured this was my best chance to make a break for it, so I lunged down the flight of stairs toward the bottom.

The guard yelled, “Stop!”

At the bottom of the stairs, Tooraj moved into view. He braced himself and held out his arms to grab me. Going too fast to stop, I slammed into him. We fell to the floor. Tooraj held me in a bear hug. There was no way I could escape before the guard made it down the stairs.

So I made the best of the situation and unclipped the cell phone from his belt and slipped it into my pocket. The guard had patted me down once, so he might not think to do it again.

“Get up slowly,” said the guard.

Tooraj released me, and I climbed to my feet.

With a grip on my collar and a gun at my spine, the guard directed me out the back of the house into an alleyway. An old black Mercedes was parked there, quite similar to the one in which I’d spent the previous night.

He unlocked the trunk. “Get in,” he said.

I got in. He slammed the trunk shut and left me alone in the darkness.

I heaved a sigh of relief.

Doing this on my own was not going to work. Getting Edward to send an extraction team from Langley would take too long—Parham might be taken back to Jamshidi’s lab before they could get here. But if Yelena had set up the meeting to turn the quantum viewer over to Jamshidi’s men, she might be here in Iraq. With her to be remembered as a kidnapper, we could get Parham away without endangering his family.

I pulled Tooraj’s cell phone out of my pocket and dialed Yelena’s cell phone.

After three rings, she answered. “Da.”

“Yelena, it’s Nat.”

“Nat!” Her voice was relieved. “You are alive!”

“Yes,” I said. “What made you think I wasn’t?”

“I called your cell phone and an Iranian answered. I thought you might be captured or killed.”

“Well, I’ve been captured twice,” I said, “and I’m currently in the trunk of a Mercedes, but I can pick the lock and get out, so I’m okay. How about you? Have you met with the Iranians yet?”

“I met with them in Tehran this morning,” she said. “But…I was unable to close deal. There were complications.”

“Are you all right?” If Yelena had been hurt because of the mission I sent her on, I would feel awful.

“I am fine. But I get nothing. I have no location for the lab.”

“Don’t worry about it. Are you still in Tehran?”

“No. When I call your phone and Iranian answer it and not know who you are, I know there be problem. So I call in favor from colleague in SVB and we track location of your cell phone. SVB has arrangement with Iranian telephone company.”

“So where are you?”

“I am outside warehouse in Ahvaz. Your cell phone is inside. I can see black Mercedes parked outside. Do you want me to come get you?”

“I’m not in that Mercedes,” I said. “But I do need your help to kidnap someone.”

She was silent for a moment. “I do not like kidnapping, after what happen with my sisters.”

“Oh, no,” I said. “It’s a fake kidnapping.” I explained the situation.

“Where are you?” she asked.

“Hamidiyeh. Call me when you get here.”

“Okay.” She hung up.

I extracted the lockpicks from my waistband and set to work on the lock, aided by the light of the cell phone.

* * *

Yelena didn’t need to call me. I was in the main town square when she drove up in a late model BMW. I opened the passenger door and got in.

“Nice car,” I said.

“Is rental. But I think maybe we need fast getaway car.”

“Good thinking,” I said. “I figure we should drive by so you can get a look at the place, then we can hole up somewhere and come up with a plan.”

“A plan? You do not want to just go in and see what happens?” Her mouth twisted into a wry smile.

“A real plan. A good plan. A professional plan,” I said.

“I am impressed,” she said. “Take me to location.”

Following my directions, she drove through the narrow streets. We were forced to stop several times by pedestrians blocking the way, but eventually we passed Parham’s house. I described the roof and inside as best I could, plus the security arrangements.

“Only two guards?” she asked.

“Only two that I saw,” I said. “And the son, Tooraj, could pose a problem if he’s around.”

Once we had turned a corner and were no longer in view of the house, she stopped the car. “But the old man will come willingly?” she asked.

I winced. “That could be a little bit of a problem, too. Defecting and faking a kidnapping were his ideas, but he won’t remember telling me anything.”

“You do not make things easy,” she said, but she smiled as she said it.

“If it were easy, I wouldn’t need help from a professional.”

“We will need to get guards out of way. That will have to be me, so they remember it afterward. It also means I cannot kill them, because dead men do not remember anything.”

I nodded. Killing the guards wasn’t something I particularly wanted, anyway, so it was nice to have a good reason for keeping them alive.

“You will have to get the man, convince him to go with you. It matters not if he remembers conversation after we leave, but is easier with his cooperation.”

One of the things I liked about Yelena was the way she incorporated the effects of my talent into her planning. It was just another factor to be considered, not something freaky. She made my abnormality seem almost normal.

“You have money?” she asked. “Lots of it?”

“I can get all we need, if you have a credit card and we can find an ATM. What do we need money for, weapons?”

“Bribes,” she said.

* * *

Yelena’s Farsi was rudimentary, but far better than mine. A sufficiently large bundle of Iranian bills made the Rezaeis’ next door neighbor happy to accommodate the rich and eccentric foreign tourists who had determined that the roof of his house was the best location to take a picture of scenic Hamidiyeh.

He led us up the stairs to the roof. On the adjoining roof, Parham still sat reading under the shade of the potted tree, although he had adjusted the position of the chair to account for the late afternoon sun.

The guards both looked over at us. I gave them a friendly wave as Yelena snapped pictures of the town, chattering to me in Russian about the view. Keeping her camera in a position to block a clear view of her face, she walked to the back of the roof and leaned over the alleyway as she snapped a couple more photos.

That was the signal for things to start happening.

I heard the patter of running feet in the alley, followed by the hiss of spray-paint cans. We had bribed several young teen boys to vandalize the Mercedes.

One of the guards stepped to the back of Parham’s roof. He yelled at the vandals. The hissing continued. He turned away, said something to the other guard, then charged down the stairs.

The second guard, obviously curious, strolled to the back of the roof to see what was happening. Parham put down his book.

Yelena tossed her camera over onto Parham’s roof. It landed with a smash on the far side. As the guard turned to see what had caused the noise, Yelena pulled a Taser gun from her purse, braced herself on the short wall that separated the two roofs, and fired at the guard’s back. He spasmed as the electricity coursed through his body, then fell to the ground.

I leapt over the wall, to where Parham was looking wide-eyed at his fallen guard. “I’m CIA,” I said in a low voice.

He swung his face to look at me.

“I know you want to defect,” I said. “We’re making it look like a kidnapping so your family will be safe. Come with me.”

He scrambled out of his chair, moving away from me and yelling something in Farsi.