Authors: Greg Rucka
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
IRAN—SHEMIRANAT COUNTY, TEHRAN PROVINCE, NOWJAN
11 DECEMBER 1639 HOURS (GMT +3.30)
The news came
over the radio between the second and third roadblocks on the Karaj-Chalus highway, leading at the top of the hour. Caleb, riding in the passenger seat while MacIntyre held the wheel, reached out and turned up the volume, listening closely to the rapid-fire Farsi now coming from the speakers. The report concluded, Iran pop music returning, and Caleb rolled the knob until the radio clicked off.
“They’re reporting the death of the Supreme Leader’s nephew,” he told MacIntyre. “Hossein Khamenei, shot dead by foreign agents in Noshahr during an abortive abduction attempt early this morning.”
MacIntyre glanced to him, his expression flat, then put his attention back to the road.
“Falcon,” Caleb said. “Jesus Christ. That’s what she meant when she said he came from the right family.”
MacIntyre shrugged, disinterested, slowing, and Caleb saw out the windshield yet another line of cars and vans all at a standstill, turning the two-lane road through the Alborz, yet again, into a single-file car park. They came to a stop, and Caleb rolled down his window, pulled himself half out, to get a better look. A switchback ahead of them reversed the road one hundred and eighty degrees, turning it north again, and perhaps thirty meters below them he could see the actual roadblock itself, the police cars and officers. He slid back into the car.
“At least an hour,” Caleb said. MacIntyre shrugged again, then switched off the ignition. The drive from Noshahr down to Tehran would’ve normally taken no more than four, perhaps five hours with the winter weather in the high pass and the planned detour in Nowjan, but, by Caleb’s watch, they were now into the seventh hour of their journey.
“Stop looking at your watch.”
Caleb dropped his wrist. “We’re going to be late.”
MacIntyre chuckled.
“It’s not like she’s got somewhere else to be, Mr. Lewis,” he said.
They
cleared the third roadblock at seven minutes to six in the evening, with night falling. Just as with the prior two checkpoints, both MacIntyre and Caleb were required to produce their documents, and just as before, the officer who took them immediately summoned his supervisor as soon as he realized their nationality. Caleb did the talking all three times, the conversations in Farsi all remarkably similar.
“British?”
“With the embassy in Tehran, yes.”
“Where were you in the north?”
“Chalus and Noshahr.”
A frown or a scowl, and then, “Just a moment,” and the supervising officer would step away, speaking into his radio, and for three or four minutes Caleb and MacIntyre would wait. Then the supervisor would return, peering past them, trying to see if anything was hidden in the car. Sometimes there would be more questions, had they seen anything unusual, had they been approached by anyone, were they carrying anything, and in all cases Caleb’s answers were the same, no, no, no, until ultimately they would be waved through.
This third time, though, Caleb thought they had been detained longer than before, and he wondered if it had been deliberate, if they were being intentionally delayed. When Barnett had reached him late that morning, directing him to stop in Nowjan before returning to Tehran, the call had come over Caleb’s cell phone. Barnett had used open code, never mentioning Minder One nor anything directly incriminating at all, and the whole of the conversation couldn’t have lasted more than thirty, perhaps forty seconds at the most. But that could have been long enough for VEVAK to have overheard what was said, and it wouldn’t take a genius to understand their meaning.
Seven kilometers past the roadblock, MacIntyre turned them off the highway, west, down a narrow unpaved road into a valley between the mountains. Full dark had descended, and within the car, the only view of the world was via the headlamps, and one of them, it turned out, was broken. The car was an older Benz, a four-door, and Caleb thought that once in its life it had quite possibly been grand, perhaps even used by the Ambassador himself, but that would have been twenty years ago now, at least, and every rock and dip in the uneven ground translated clearly through the chassis, into his spine.
By the map, it was only three and a half kilometers from the highway to Nowjan, but that implied a straight line. The truth was over three times the distance, the road—if it could be called that—twisting north, then south, then west, then east, then west again, repeated curves and turns through the valley. The Alborz rose on both sides of the car, steep, showing the pale glint of snow high along the slopes.
They hit pavement abruptly, the ride smoothing as the road straightened, descending further, and ahead of them, Caleb could now see Nowjan, a handful of lights burning in homes that clung to the hillside. They passed an orchard, trees bare from winter, another house, and then they were rolling into the tiny town square, the mosque on their left, a squat building ahead of them. MacIntyre turned the car about slowly, and their single headlight revealed a faded portrait of Khomeini painted on one nearby wall.
There was absolutely no one about, absolutely no movement that Caleb could see at all. He turned in his seat, looking to one of the houses, saw its lights wink out, go dark. The thought that they had just driven into a trap asserted itself, called his fear up to duty once again. They were too late, the delays had cost them. Minder One had come and instead of Caleb and MacIntyre and their old Benz she had been met by Shirazi and the Sepah, they had already taken her away. Or they were holding her now, watching as the Benz made a second turn around the square, as it came to a stop, waiting to spring upon them when the moment was right.
MacIntyre reached out, touching his elbow, not speaking, and Caleb turned to see that he was indicating something ahead of them, to the right. A shadow moved, indistinct, began shambling towards them in the darkness. Caleb saw the pistol in its hand, felt the fear surge, trying to become panic, and then he saw the pale face, realized it was Minder One, and he was out of the car before he could think about it, moving towards her even as she brought the pistol up in both hands and pointed it at his head.
“It’s all right,” Caleb said. “It’s all right.”
She wobbled, the pistol remaining trained on him for an instant longer before she brought it down, as if the effort of leveling the gun had taken all the strength in her arms.
“Late,” Chace mumbled. “Thought they’d got you.”
Caleb moved in, taking the pistol from her hand, laying his other arm across her shoulders, trying to support her. She made a noise of pain as his arm came down, her elbow shooting out, catching his ribs, and he released her, more surprised than hurt. She was bent at the waist, hands on her thighs, stray hair dangling from beneath her makeshift
maqna’e
.
“Back,” Chace managed. “Hit me in the back.”
Feeling like a fool, Caleb reached out for her again, this time taking her arm. “Let’s get you in the car. Get you out of here.”
She nodded weakly, straightening with obvious pain as he took hold of her. MacIntyre had emerged from the Benz, had the rear door open, looking around at everything but the two of them. With care, Caleb led her to the back of the vehicle, helped her climb inside. He closed the door, moving around to join her in the backseat.
“Let’s go,” he told MacIntyre.
“Don’t have to say that twice, mate.”
Caleb climbed in beside Chace. MacIntyre started the Benz again, swung them around and back onto the road the way they had come, accelerating, driving in darkness until they were off the pavement once more, and only then switching on the headlamp. The car rocked and jumped, Chace swaying with every motion, and Caleb understood she could barely keep herself upright. He reached out for her, and only then saw that she was still holding the pistol, and he stopped, not knowing what to do with it.
“The pistol,” he told MacIntyre. “What do I do with it?”
“Fucking hell.” MacIntyre reached back with one hand. “They stop us and see that thing, we’re done. Give it here.”
Caleb handed it over, and MacIntyre leaned to his side, stuffed the weapon into the glove compartment, snapped the door shut again.
“They search the car—” Caleb started to say.
“They search the car, Mr. Lewis, a hidden pistol will be the least of our worries.”
Beside him, Chace made a croak that Caleb understood was meant to be a laugh. Her head pitched forward, as if she’d fallen suddenly asleep, then jerked back, and she mumbled something he couldn’t make out. Caleb reached out for her once again, taking her face in his hands, trying to see her eyes in the darkness of the backseat, and she let him. Her skin was damp and cool, her eyes open, but he couldn’t make out her pupils.
“She’s in shock,” Caleb told MacIntyre.
“Can you do anything about it?”
“Not unless we stop.”
“We’re not stopping, Mr. Lewis.”
Chace mumbled something else, and Caleb caught the word “not” and the word “stop” and he nodded at her, saying, “We’re going to get you to the embassy. We’re going to get you somewhere safe.”
She closed her eyes, leaning forward, putting her weight into his hands. The car turned, hopped back onto paved road, back on the highway. The Benz accelerated, and Caleb, not knowing what else to do, brought Chace’s head against his shoulder, then, gingerly, wrapped his arms around her, supporting her against him. He listened for a sound of protest, of pain, but she made none, just relaxed into him further.
“Safe,” Tara Chace murmured.
They
hit their last roadblock just north of Karaj, east of Vasiyeh, and Caleb had his papers in hand when the officer came to collect them, shining his flashlight around the interior, settling it on Chace, half-asleep and half-unconscious, Caleb still with one arm around her. The moment the beam hit her, the officer turned away from the vehicle, shouting out, and quickly the car was surrounded by men. Caleb could see one of the officers already speaking on a radio, another with a cell phone in his hand, dialing.
“Get out of the car,” the officer ordered.
“This woman is ill,” Caleb said. “We’re taking her to our embassy for medical care.”
“You must get out of the vehicle now.”
In the front seat, MacIntyre didn’t move, his hands still at the wheel, staring fixedly ahead.
“We are British embassy personnel,” Caleb said. “As such, we are accorded diplomatic privileges and rights. This vehicle belongs to the embassy, and as such is an extension of the chancery, and to be considered British soil.”
The officer reached for the door.
“Don’t do it,” Caleb warned. “You open that door, you will initiate an international incident. You will violate British sovereignty, potentially committing an act of war, and you will certainly destroy the reciprocal protections enjoyed by your government in its embassies and missions around the world.
Your
actions.
You
will be responsible.”
Head still against his shoulder, Chace moved, resting her cheek to his chest. Outside of the car, the lead officer stood, hand extended, uncertain, the others around him. Caleb glanced quickly out the front, saw that the one on the radio had lowered it, scowling, that the man on the cell phone was still speaking, now turning away from them. Caleb returned his look to the officer at the door, glaring at him.
The officer stepped back without a word, turned, moved to join the one speaking on the phone. The phone came down, a hushed exchange, another scowl in their direction. The phone came up again.
“We’re there?” Chace murmured.
“Not yet,” Caleb told her. “Soon. Just hold on.”
The officer was motioning at them, and for a second, Caleb thought he was ordering them out of the car again. Then the others surrounding the car stepped back, and he saw that they were being waved through. MacIntyre shifted the Benz back into gear, the car moving forward, and Caleb looked back as they began driving away, saw the one with the phone still speaking on it, the other officer writing in a notebook in his hands. Then the roadblock and the police and all of it were out of sight, the Benz speeding south, next turning east onto the Karaj Highway, back towards Tehran, until, finally, they were deep in the city traffic, slowing again, stopping and starting at the lights on Jamhuri Avenue.
Caleb thought they were going to make it, he really did.
Right up to the moment the van rammed them in the intersection at Vali-ye Asr.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
IRAN—TEHRAN, JAMHURI AVENUE/VALI-YE ASR
11 DECEMBER 2107 HOURS (GMT +3.30)
When the call came
, Shirazi almost missed it.
He’d been working out of his office since the Minister’s departure, was still coordinating Republican Guards and Basij search teams along the Alborz, when Zahabzeh returned from Chalus with Parviz, Kamal, and Javed in tow. They had nothing by way of good news. Several times already, false alarms had reached them, though this last had seemed more promising at its outset. An officer manning one of the roadblocks out of Chalus, at the mouth of the highway, had seen a salmon-colored Samand peel away from the traffic jam waiting to clear the checkpoint. He hadn’t gotten a good look at the license, only a partial; but the partial had matched enough of one of the stolen plates that Zahabzeh had ordered another canvas of Chalus, believing that Chace had again reversed direction, was trying to run back to the north.
But if she had, there had been no sign of her.
“This woman is injured, exhausted, alone,” Zahabzeh complained. “She has no friends, no support. How is it we can find no sign of her?”
“She’s extremely good,” Shirazi said.
“Or maybe she’s dead,” Javed suggested. “Pulled off somewhere, and her wounds finally caught up to her. She could be dead, and that’s why we haven’t found her.”
None of them liked that suggestion, and the looks Javed received as a result turned him quiet for several minutes, before he offered to go out and bring in some food. Shirazi told him that it was a fine suggestion, and that Kamal and Parviz should go with him.
After they had left, Zahabzeh asked the question he’d been waiting on since returning. “What happened?”
“The Minister was here when I arrived. He informed me that the Supreme Leader knew about his nephew’s collusion with the British, and had known for quite some time. He took my initial explanation of the situation as an attempt to protect Hossein’s memory, on behalf of the Ayatollah.”
Zahabzeh’s grin was rife with relief. “Thanks be to God.”
“It’s not ideal, but it could have gone far worse. The belief now is that Hossein had sold himself again to the British, that we got wind of the plot, and attempted to capture the spy with Hossein. The Minister stated that our intention was admirable, if poorly considered.”
“Meaning we should have obtained clearance first.”
“Correct.”
Zahabzeh thought, scratching at the stubble on his face. Shirazi expected he looked the same; none of them had been given a chance to shave, let alone bathe or change clothes, in over twenty-four hours now. “If so … then the Minister knows exactly what we were trying to do, just not
how
we tried to do it. Do we have official clearance now? Retroactively?”
“Provisionally, I think, on the successful capture of the spy. They already have plans for what they’ll do with her, I think. He wants her brought in alive. He was very clear on that point.”
“Of course.”
“And he was clear on what would happen to us if we failed.”
Zahabzeh grunted. Nothing more on that point needed to be said.
They moved to one of the conference rooms, and Shirazi ordered a radio set brought in, and more phones, as well as maps of the country, thus transforming the space into a makeshift command post. Javed returned with the others, bringing
kubide
for all of them, and they ate hungrily. The phones rang regularly, and twice within the first hour came calls reporting the missing Samand, and each time Shirazi took the handset from Zahabzeh, only to learn that, on closer inspection, there had been some sort of mistake, an overreaction, an error.
This continued into the night.
Shirazi
was plotting all of the possible sightings thus far on the master map he’d hung on the wall, working the old-fashioned way with thumbtacks and a ruler, when one of the phones on the conference table began ringing again. He didn’t bother to turn to it, letting Parviz answer it. The plots on the map were ridiculously irrational, many around Chalus, which was regional, but at least one as far east as Gorgan, which would have put Chace heading into the Balkans, and another as far south as Rafsanjan, over eight hundred kilometers from Chalus, an impossible distance for her to have covered already.
“Sir?” Parviz said, and then repeated it, the second time unable to keep the excitement from his voice. “Sir! We have her!”
Everyone in the room turned, fell silent, and Shirazi held out his hand for the phone.
“This is Director Shirazi. Whom am I speaking to?”
“Director, sir! Captain Bardsiri, sir, with the—”
“I don’t care. You have her?”
Hesitation. Then,
“No, no we’ve had to let them go.”
Shirazi wasn’t certain he’d heard correctly. “You’ve what? What did you say?”
“We couldn’t arrest her, sir, we—”
“You had her, alive, and you let her go?” Shirazi heard his voice rising, was aware that the attention from his men in the room had become that much more intense. “Is that what you’re telling me, Captain Bardsiri?”
“She had—she was traveling under diplomatic protection! We couldn’t do anything, we had to let them go! I’m sorry, sir, I just didn’t have the authority—”
Shirazi held out the phone to Parviz, hearing the captain continuing to excuse himself, his voice now small and agitated. “Get the location, a complete description of the vehicle, the license plate, everything.”
Parviz took the handset, nodding, and Shirazi turned to Zahabzeh. “She’s with her own people, they picked her up somewhere in an embassy vehicle.”
“Diplomatic immunity does not extend to murderers,” Zahabzeh said.
“Something Captain Bardsiri either doesn’t know, or decided he didn’t want to risk. But still, if she’s traveling with embassy staff …”
“If they get her back to the British mission, we will lose her.”
“Agreed.” Shirazi considered for a moment, all the time he needed. Whatever possible political fallout would come of violating British sovereignty, he truly didn’t care. He needed Chace, he absolutely had to have her, and Zahabzeh was correct; once she reached the embassy, she would become untouchable. Removing her from the mission grounds would be impossible.
But taking her from a mission car while it made its way to the embassy, that was another matter entirely.
Parviz was off the phone now, a paper in his hand. “They were heading south towards Karaj.”
“They’ll take the highway,” Zahabzeh said. “Quickest route to the embassy.”
“We need to be quicker,” Shirazi said.
Shirazi
got out of the van last, holding back, as he should, as his role required, despite his passionate desire to be first. But when the doors at the back of the van opened, he made sure it was Zahabzeh leading, and Shirazi let Kamal, and then Parviz, follow after him before exiting himself.
The Benz had stalled in the intersection, bent metal and a cloud of steam, shattered glass glimmering on the ground. The three men in the lead had drawn their weapons, Zahabzeh already covering the driver, the one called MacIntyre, who was only now beginning to regain his senses. Behind him, Shirazi heard the whine of the van as Javed put it in reverse, backing it closer.
Behind the cracked windshield, MacIntyre righted himself, started to move, then saw the guns and arrested, raising his hands before laying them flat on the dashboard. Shirazi had a moment’s relief that the man was intelligent enough to have read the situation, to have seen the inevitable outcome. He sincerely hoped MacIntyre wouldn’t change his mind, decide now was the time to become a hero; if he did that, Shirazi would have no recourse but to order him shot, and his desire was very much that no one die. Not yet, at least.
Without ceremony or hesitation, Shirazi walked to the rear of the Benz. There was young Caleb Lewis, blood running down the side of his face, looking appropriately dazed and frightened. And there, too, was Tara Chace, slumped against him, and behind the glare of streetlights off the window, Shirazi saw her turn her head, blinking at him blearily, sluggishly. Shirazi tried the door, found it locked.
“Parviz!” Shirazi called, and the young man instantly holstered his gun, running around to join him. The baton was in his hand before he came to a halt, extending out with a snap of the wrist, and Shirazi stepped back to give him room, saw Caleb Lewis flinch, hand moving to shield Chace’s head. Then the end of the metal baton hit the window, the glass exploding into fragments. Parviz rammed the baton against the side of the car, collapsing it, stowing it, then brought his gun out again.
“If he moves,” Shirazi told Parviz in Farsi, knowing that Caleb Lewis would understand him, “kill him.”
Parviz nodded.
“You can’t do this,” Lewis began. “This vehicle—”
“We are doing it.” Shirazi reached into the car, unlocked the door, then yanked it open. Javed was out of the van now, moving to join him, and together they took Chace by the arms, pulling her from the vehicle. She didn’t struggle, semiconscious, and once out of the Benz, became dead-weight in their arms. Together with Javed, they moved her to the van, laying her in the back of the vehicle.
Shirazi climbed in after her, Javed returning to his place behind the wheel.
“That’s it,” Shirazi called out to Zahabzeh. “We’re done.”
Zahabzeh, Parviz, and Kamal all began backing towards him, their weapons still held on the Benz and its remaining occupants. One by one the men climbed into the van, and then Javed had them moving again, even before Zahabzeh could close the doors. Shirazi sat down beside Chace, put his fingers to her throat, feeling for her pulse. She was staring up at nothing, her eyes unfocused, glazing, and her chest was rising and falling rapidly beneath the blanket she wore as a shirt.
“How bad is she?” Zahabzeh made the question sound like curiosity, rather than the vital matter it was. “Will she live?”
Bending his head to her mouth, Shirazi felt the woman’s breath brushing his cheek. He could hear her over the sound of the engine, the rapid wheeze as she inhaled, exhaled, struggling for air, and he frowned, slipped his hands beneath her blanket, running them over her torso. Her skin was cold, clammy, but he could feel no wound.
“Help me,” Shirazi told Zahabzeh. “Hold her head, we need to roll her.”
With Zahabzeh’s help he rolled Chace onto her right side, again slipped a hand beneath the blanket, now feeling his way along her back, her bare skin, her bra, and then something slippery and wet. He pulled his hand back, saw blood shining black on his fingers, wiped them on the blanket and then lifted it, revealing a tattered and bloody square of plastic stuck to her skin, the tape peeled back, exposing a narrow entry wound.
“The kit,” Shirazi ordered. “Oxygen and an occlusion dressing. Quickly.”
Kamal moved, staggering as the van made a turn, dropped to his knees between Shirazi and Zahabzeh. He dug in the medical bag, handed over a wrapped dressing.
“Get a mask on her.” Shirazi ripped the bandage open, pulling free a thin sheet of shiny foil and gauze. He pulled the plastic from Chace’s back, tossing it away, then lay the new bandage over the wound, pressing it firmly to her skin with his palm. “Quickly.”
The small canister of oxygen was already out, Kamal moving with surprising speed, and in the back of his mind, Shirazi imagined that the young man thought this a potential redemption, a possible absolution for the murder of Hossein. Oxygen began to flow, and Shirazi took the mask from Kamal, pressed it to Chace’s mouth and nose, pulled the strap around the woman’s head to hold it in place.
“Lay her down. Gently.”
Zahabzeh complied, and together they returned Chace to her back, and Shirazi spread her eyes open wider, looking at each of them closely, then took her pulse again. It was still racing, but stronger than before. The rapid movement of her chest had subsided, her breathing still shallow, but nowhere as labored.
“Tell Javed there’s a change to the plan,” Shirazi told Zahabzeh. “We have to go by ground.”
“It’s almost two hundred kilometers,” Zahabzeh said. “The helicopter—”
“We put her on a helicopter, she will die, Farzan.”
Kamal had shifted, preparing an IV, and now had Chace’s left arm in his lap, searching for a vein. Zahabzeh turned to watch, his expression flat as the catheter went into the woman’s arm. Her eyes were still open, and she blinked, but made no noise. Kamal handed the IV bag to Parviz, telling him to hold it up.
“By road, then,” Zahabzeh said. “It’s funny, though.”
“What is funny?” Shirazi asked.
“We’re working so hard to save her life when we’re just going to kill her later.”
Shirazi looked down at the woman on the floor of the van. The makeshift
maqna’e
had come loose, the blond hair it had concealed now spilling around her head. Shirazi saw that she was looking at him, and for a moment there was comprehension in her eyes, understanding, even pain. But there was no fear.
“First we will take what we need,” Shirazi told Zahabzeh.