Biting the Bullet (32 page)

“I’m from America,” I told him. “My friends and I have come to save your life.” I don’t know how I thought he’d react. Maybe like Cole, who squawked in my ear. Or Vayl, who whispered, “You must be joking.” But I certainly didn’t expect him to lean his head sideways and say, “May I deliver my speech first? These people have risked a great deal to hear me. And I hate to disappoint them.”

I found myself nodding. “Okay.” I cocked my head at him as his eyes began to twinkle, reminding me oddly of Cam. “Who
are
you?”

He stuck his hands in his pockets. “Do you know how they say the worst kinds of reformers are those who have sinned themselves?”

“You mean, like former smokers are the most rabid antismoking fanatics on earth?”

“Exactly.” The twinkle dimmed. “When I was a young man I joined the Ministry of Intelligence.” He looked me right in the eye, accepting my shock and disgust as he said, “I have done unspeakable things for which I may never be forgiven. I have scarred my people and my country. This is the only way I can think of to put it right again.”

“That must’ve been one hell of an epiphany,” I said.

Still meeting my eyes, his brightened as the memory played through his mind. “You have no idea how the birth of a child will change a man.”

I thought of my father, who’d been out of the country the day Dave and I were born. “No,” I said, “I don’t.”

“Then listen,” he said. He went to a table near the center of the room and stood on the closest chair. He didn’t even have to hold up his arms for quiet. People just stopped and listened.
Holy crap
, my stunned little brain thought,
he’d be great in an E.F.

Hutton commercial
.

His message shocked me too. It was so — well — reasonable. Not something I’d expect to hear from a crowd pleaser in the capital city of Iran. As he spoke I studied the faces of his audience. Rapt. Optimistic. Peaceful. Not one of them looked prepared to end his life. These were some true-blue converts. Since I couldn’t find the threat in my area of influence, I moved to another spot in the room, occasionally pausing to check on my partners or tune into the talk.

“We must not concede our country to bullies and bandits,” FarjAd insisted at one point. “Their club is fear. And they beat us with it constantly. We become like abused women. Convinced we deserve our fates and hoping for nothing better. Content to let our children become inured to the continuous spewing of hatred for free lands from teachers, priests, and government-controlled media.

Accepting of the ridiculous notion that our sons and brothers must destroy themselves in order to kill two or three or ten enemy men in the name of some far-flung outrage.”

Murmurs of agreement from the crowd. FarjAd held his hands out to them, his eyes wide with passion. “We must stand tall again.

We are a blessed people. These are the laws we must live by again: love, forgiveness, fairness, generosity to those who are less fortunate.” He lapsed into Farsi.

“Cole,” I hissed. “What’s he saying?”

“He’s quoting a famous Persian poet named Sadi,” Cole replied. “I’m not good enough to translate the rhyme. But basically Sadi said all human beings are connected to each other. And therefore, we can’t stand idly by while even one of us suffers.” FarjAd had a lot more to say, but I stopped listening. Too distracting for me to be of any use if something violent went down. I retreated to a corner and, using the menu on my nifty glasses, called Asha. “Anything?”

“Just more mahghul,” he said. “How about you?”

“Nothing so far. But this guy. Eloquent doesn’t even come close to his speaking ability. They’re enthralled!”

“His potential to lead this country into peace and prosperity is — how you put it — off the charts. The greatest I have seen in fifty years. You
must
keep him safe.”

Asha’s urgency fueled my own. How was I supposed to protect him when all I could come up with was a general sense of menace? I hung up, looking at FarjAd with new eyes. Yesterday I’d been planning to kill him. Now I thought maybe he was the leader these people needed to enact the change they were looking for, and I was deeply afraid he wouldn’t live through the night.

“Anything, Vayl?” I asked, meeting his eyes across the room. He stood near the bathroom door, leaning against the wall as he surveyed the crowd. “Nothing.”

“How about you, Cole?”

He sat at an abandoned Internet station, his back to the computer. “Naw. These people seem pretty stoked for FarjAd. If we were at a pep rally they’d all be cheering like horny teenagers.”

You know what? Maybe this is all just coincidence. The mahghul are here because one of these couples is going to get in a
huge fight later tonight and end up killing each other. The end.

Still I waited. And watched. And when his speech was over, and FarjAd jumped down from the chair, I began another circuit of the room.

I suppose what first caught my eye was the guy’s size. I actually thought Asha had snuck into the room for a second, this man was so tall. Plus, he wore the same sort of turban Asha favored. Also a long white thobe over beige pants, which stood out among the men, most of whom had come dressed in Western-style clothes.

I hadn’t caught sight of him before, and he definitely hadn’t entered through the main doorway. Which meant he’d come in through the kitchen. A strange way to join the party.

“Guys,” I whispered. “Check out the white turban, my six o’clock from FarjAd.” I inched closer. Something about the way he moved seemed eerily familiar. It was the same sensation you get recognizing an actor in a film, but you can’t remember what you’ve seen him in before.

He kept his back to me. Almost like he knew I was there. How could he? Still, he had an uncanny way of turning with the crowd just when I was about to get a good look at his face. And he kept getting closer to FarjAd.

“I don’t like this guy,” I finally said.

“I agree,” said Vayl. “Who has the best angle?”

“I’m totally blocked,” said Cole. “Congratulators out the wazoo.”

“FarjAd keeps moving between me and the Turban,” said Vayl. “It looks like he is yours, Jasmine.”

“Okay. And when all hell breaks loose?”

“We grab him and run, as per the original plan,” said Vayl.

The crowd around FarjAd was thick. I gave a few people my dazzling Lucille Robinson smile, which allowed me some progress, but not enough to get to the Turban before he reached his target. With mounting worry and frustration, I weighed my options and came up with only one truly workable alternative. I pulled a FarjAd and climbed on a chair.

It made my interest in the Turban obvious if he bothered to turn and look. He didn’t. He’d almost reached FarjAd by the time I’d found my new vantage point. And he was solely focused on the man, who smiled and shook hands with an exuberance that somehow lit the room.

The Turban made a move only people in my business should recognize. Which was when I saw the dark glint of metal. The shockingly familiar outline of a weapon I’d never expected to see inside this room.

“Gun!” I yelled.

Instant chaos.

Vayl and Cole surged forward to protect FarjAd as the crowd screamed and scattered. Those nearest the doors ran outside, allowing a steady stream of mahghul in.

I didn’t pull Grief. I wanted this assassin alive. So instead I yanked a knife from my wrist sheath and winged it at the attacker’s back. I hit the Turban squarely between the shoulder blades, bringing a disappointed shriek from the mahghul. The Turban dropped to his knees. Still he struggled to bring his gun, one of those Bergman had carried all the way from America for the express use of Dave’s team, to bear.

Vayl shot the sheath of his cane sword at the Turban’s shoulder, knocking his arm off target just as he squeezed the trigger. Bullets peppered an entire row of monitors, shattering glass, leaving behind a mass of dead black screens. It was a miracle no people were hit, but they’d all dropped to the floor as soon as the Manx began its thunderous attack.

I threw another blade, burying it in the meat of the Turban’s shoulder. He dropped the gun. Another knife, to the back of the thigh, took him all the way to the floor.

Though the mahghul had crowded toward me at my first throw, none of them had jumped me. As I continued to broadcast a strong, antimurderous intent, they turned to the Turban, swarming him like a mass of gigantic swamp rats.

Vayl grabbed at the single arm he’d managed to swing free and yanked him from the bottom of the writhing pile, snatching off the three or four attached mahghul as he and Cole secured him. As soon as the Turban became a captive the mahghul lost interest and began loping out of the café.

I jumped off the chair, ran to FarjAd, and took his arm. “I thought you were being figurative,” he gasped as I pulled him toward the kitchen. With a wounded prisoner in tow, no way were we jumping out any windows. So my next choice was a back door.

“You’ve been reading too much poetry,” I told him. I eyeballed my specs, and seconds later had Asha on the phone. “It’s happened,” I told him. “But FarjAd’s alive. Meet us at the car. You’re driving.” Cole picked up the Manx, Vayl hefted the Turban over one shoulder, and they followed FarjAd and me into the cooking area. As I’d feared, we had plenty of witnesses for our escape. Maybe five altogether. But they were all panicked. All headed for the same exit as we were. We let them go first. Hoped they wouldn’t think to scope out Asha’s BMW or wonder why we were taking the assassin with us. FarjAd, the master storyteller, would have to come up with a whopper to cover this one.

Asha sat in the driver’s seat, peering over his shoulder anxiously as we piled in. Cole and FarjAd in the front seat. Vayl, the Turban, and I in the back.

“Go, go, go!” I yelled as a couple of FarjAd’s followers belatedly realized he’d been hustled away by absolute strangers and came after us, shouting and waving for us to stop.

Asha peeled out like a drag racer. At which point FarjAd and Cole buckled their seat belts. The Turban moaned. I nodded to Vayl and straightened the assassin in his seat, forcing his face upward so we could both see it better. I yanked the turban off his head.

And realized he wasn’t a guy at all.

“Grace?” murmured Vayl.

I sat back. Stunned. Everything had pointed to Dave. “Are you insane?” I whispered. “You’re an elite officer in the United States military. You have just betrayed, not only your entire country and all of your comrades, but every woman in Iran who stands to gain from FarjAd’s survival.” I studied her face, trying to fathom her motives. Her stony expression gave nothing away. Not even the immense amount of pain she must be experiencing. Finally I asked, “Why?”

“I was obeying orders.”

“From who?”

“My commanding officer.”

“Your commanding officer on this mission is Vayl,” I told her. “And Vayl expected you to be at the Hotel Sraosa with the rest of your team. Therefore you have disobeyed your commanding officer.”

She winced then, her eyes darting to the window, as if she’d had the same thoughts herself and wanted to escape them. “We told you Dave was the mole,” I said. “And yet, knowing his orders were coming directly from the Wizard, you still obeyed him. What’s the deal with that, Grace?” I asked her.

“Am I going to die?” Her voice had become small. Faint.

“If you’re lucky,” I said. I know it was cruel. Screw it. She deserved every gob of shit that hit her now. “Tell me exactly what he said to you.”

“He just said to come watch you. He suspected that you’d been taken over by the Wizard without your knowledge. He said if you didn’t seem to be gearing up for the job that I was supposed to do it.”

“And how were you supposed to get away afterward?”

“He made it clear it was my choice. That I’d be caught. Probably tortured. Definitely killed.”

“Grace. Think. That’s not Dave’s MO. He’d never send one of his own into that kind of situation. Not ever. That’s a Wizard move.”

She began to cry then. Soft, muffled sobs that made her moan with pain every time they shook her. “I loved him so much. I’d have done anything for him. Anything.”

Obviously
. I looked at Vayl.
Does love make fools of us all? Maybe. Eventually. At least for a little while.

We left FarjAd and Asha with Zarsa and Soheil, who still hadn’t gotten over their awe by the time we moved on. Since they didn’t know of a doctor who wouldn’t blab to the authorities, we took Grace back to the house, stowed her facedown in the girls’ room bed, and let Cassandra experiment with her nursing skills, which, while admittedly rusty, were still exceptional.

Before I left I said, “We can’t get you to a hospital until this mission is complete, Grace, and it’s not done until the Wizard’s dead.

But that should be tonight. As soon as the guys are back I’ll send in the best backup medic. Who is that?”

“David,” she said miserably.

I muttered a very bad word under my breath. “Next?”

“Cam.”

“Okay.” I turned to leave.

“Jaz?”

I nearly snapped at her. But since she still had three of my blades sticking out of her body, I figured enough was probably enough.

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry.”

I nodded. “You’d better be.”

When Cassandra assured me she had everything she needed, I went to the kitchen. All three of my guys were there, standing around looking like they could use a stiff drink.

“Phase two?” asked Cole.

I nodded, unstrapping the sheath from my right wrist. I chose the knife I wanted. It had a short, thin blade, which I held in the stove burner until it glowed red. While I watched the sanitization process I tried to jump out of myself. Not physically. This was no time to confront the Magistrate. I just needed that separation between action and emotion that would allow me to cut my brother’s throat without collapsing into a gibbering heap. At least until later.

The front door slammed. My heart constricted.

“They’re back,” said Bergman, his voice pitched so high I almost expected to look up and see someone strangling him.