The Libra Affair (9 page)

“No talking,” the officer ordered.

Jordan cringed as she watched the set of guards lead Ben to a secured area. He was about to be questioned about a false identity, a dead man, and perhaps even framed for a murder he didn't commit.

“Jordan,” Ben shouted at the top of his lungs.

She turned away and started to walk.

“Jordan,” he cried again. Her name was the last word he said before the metal door slammed shut.

“I'm trained for this … I'm trained for this,” Jordan kept repeating to herself.

At this point, there was nothing more Jordan could do for Ben; she had her contact to meet, a mission to accomplish, and was it really her fault that he didn't go with it? Whether she liked it or not, Ben's fate was now in the hands of a few governments: the Iranians, the Russians, and sooner or later the Americans.

Seeing the target destination, the Gucci stand just ahead, Jordan walked at a casual pace toward the magazine shop across from it. She thought back to the Iranian agent on the plane. It wasn't like the Iranians didn't know Benjamin Johnson was entering their country; it was likely he was being tracked. He'd probably already been pinned as a NASA scientist and spy, which meant no matter what she did or could have done, Ben was never going to get past customs.

A clerk approached Jordan. “May I assist you?” she asked.

“No, thank you. I'm just looking,” Jordan replied and when the woman walked away, she selected a travel guide to browse.

It wasn't long before a man stopped alongside Jordan. “Anything I can assist you with, ma'am?” he asked quietly as he clasped his hands together.

“I'm looking for a travel guide of cities,” she said without looking at him. She knew it was Farrokh. Before she saw his face, she spied his left prosthetic hand.

“Somewhere like?” He stopped midsentence and waited for her to fill in the blank.

“Quiet, like Mashhad,” she replied.

“Very good choice,” he said. “Might I interest you in a coffee?”

She looked him straight in the eye and asked, “Do you read the coffee grounds?”

“Of course,” he answered. “Fortunes, horoscopes, whatever your pleasure.”

She waited.

“I heard it was a good day to be a Libra,” he said.

She nodded, it was time to get to business. “Where's your car, Farrokh?”

“This way.” He immediately turned and started to walk.

She fell in behind Farrokh and followed him to his vehicle, leaving Ben and her heart behind.

As Farrokh drove into the city of Tehran, the elaborately designed Azadi Tower — a symbol of freedom among chaos — greeted them. The structure rose just short of one hundred and fifty feet and stood as a reminder of the ever-watchful Iranian eye. After circling it, they drove further inside the capital city — an oasis of whitewashed buildings, incapable of holding pigment against the light of the sun, but that was only an outward appearance. Step inside any given building, house, or sanctuary, there was quite another story to be told.

The traffic was heavy, bumper to bumper in the city. Everyone seemed to be going somewhere and nowhere at the same time.

Jordan yawned. It had been many hours since she'd slept and would be several more before her head hit the pillow. Every square inch of her body was moist with perspiration despite the rush of the dry, sand-pitted wind sweeping inside the car through lowered windows.

A gin martini might take the edge off, but that wasn't going to happen. So she flung a hand out her window and let it flap in the wind.

The two rode in silence. Passing a mosque, they heard a man's voice over an intercom. It was time for prayer, but Farrokh wasn't stopping, nor did he ask permission.

On the sidewalk, a child ran, laughing, carefree as if life offered everything to her. A part of Jordan wanted to scream to the child — run. But how far could the girl possibly go? Farrokh seemed to notice her as well and looked as though he would speak, but didn't. Jordan preferred the silence of the wind. Small talk had never amused her and especially not with a man sitting in Farrokh's position — an asset about to expire. Besides, there wasn't anything to talk about except the heat of the sun, and that was an overdone topic.

More folks walked along sidewalks. It had been well over a year since she'd passed these streets; however, nothing on the surface had changed, only the political climate, and all that was about to change again.

Farrokh finally reached the hotel on the northern outskirts of town. It offered simple lodging and was small enough for someone like her to remain hidden in plain sight. With it being Tuesday, they had a few nights before the launch. To stay buried, she would remain in conservative dress, like members of the fashion police who lined the streets to ensure that young women weren't tempted to unveil their modest gifts.

Farrokh brought the vehicle to a stop. “Five
A.M.
Friday,” he said to her.

“Five
A.M.
Friday,” she repeated. “Don't be late.”

• • •

“I have rights. You can't do this,” Ben protested to one of the prison guards. The authorities had wasted no time in transporting him to Evin Prison to be interrogated … or worse.

“Yes, we all have rights, Mr. Kominski,” the guard from Evin Prison said. “You have the right to breathe as long as you live and after that, it's over, there's no more right to breathe.”

“Please contact the American Embassy.”

“There is no American Embassy in this country. Where do you think you are, by the way?”

He knew that; he just wasn't thinking straight. “But there must be a Canadian Embassy. A neighbor. A friend.” He was grasping at straws. Like the Americans, the Canadians had also left Iran.

“Move along,” the guard shouted impatiently.

“My sister, please call her. I gave you the number.”

“No telephones, I'm sorry,” the guard replied in a mocking tone.

“Please.” Ben writhed against the cuffs behind his back. “Can't you help me? I didn't do anything.”

The guard spoke in Russian to Ben, assuming Ben understood what he was saying. Then he spoke again in English. “Have it your way, Mr. Kominski. If you like, go on and be an American. It makes it easier for us to label you just what you are.”

“What?”

“A terrorist,” he said, then he toyed with Ben by saying, “An innocent terrorist.”

“I'm not a terrorist. I'm a pacifist. I believe in human rights. I would never kill anyone for any reason.”

“Yes, so you say, but here you are.”

The guard opened the door. “Turn around. Hold your arms up. One wrong move and the man with the gun will sing you a lullaby. Are we clear?”

Ben held his arms up.

The guard released his cuffs and shoved him in a hole, saying, “Sweet dreams, Mr. Kominski.”

The iron door slammed, sending an unmistakable ring barreling through Ben's eardrums. Rebounding, he leapt toward the door where he peered through a sliver of a hole cut at eye level. There was nothing to see in the hallway except the gray of a concrete wall. Overcome with fear, he shouted at the top of his lungs. “I'm not Russian! I'm not Russian! I'm not a Russian!”

As the two guards walked to their post, Ben heard the two officers speaking in English.

“This should be fun,” one said.

The other said, “Not fun enough.”

“How do you mean?”

“They want to keep him alive. He's worth more alive.”

“He still needs a lesson.”

“Yes, he certainly does.” And both men made a maniacal laugh.

“I have a right to a phone call. You can't do this to me,” Ben yelled, although no one was listening to him.

The light in the hallway flicked off. The room instantly became dark, horridly dark, and aside from the dank coolness of the cement floor, the air was stiff, hot, and muggy.

He fell onto all four limbs and crawled from one corner to the next. The space was small, closet-like, barely enough room for an animal. Sweat poured from his brow, drenching his face.

When he could move no more, he dropped belly down to the floor and panted like a sick animal. “Jordan,” he cried, squeezing back the wet forming at the corners of his eyes …

• • •

Morning came early. With ten hours of restless sleep, Jordan felt recharged; however, the guilt curling around her spine prevented her from being at ease. With maps spread across her bed, she studied the roads of the region, locating her next destination and planning an escape route to the safe house, just in case. She was ready for the next step, but it was Wednesday. She had time to kill … and think about Ben. If she could only put him out of her mind.

Combing the maps into a pile, she folded and tucked them back inside her bag and started toward the bathroom to shower.

The phone rang.

Jordan grabbed her gun, checked the silencer, and released the safety. No one knew her location except Snake, who would never place a call through a hotel telephone system, and Farrokh, of course, who'd just left. It couldn't be Chou; he'd made his instructions clear — no communication.

She walked to the phone, picked it up, and without speaking, listened.

“Get out! Now!” a woman's voice shot over the line.

Someone knocked on the door to the room. A man spoke through the door, saying, “Room service.”

Jordan immediately raced and dove into the iron tub. The door kicked open and two men and a woman entered. Iranian. Mob.

The men split, covering the corners of her room.

Not waiting for an invitation to the party, Jordan took the first shot, hitting the man heading toward the balcony. He fell upon impact. Two and Three rushed the bathroom.

Firing, Jordan clipped Two in the arm. He dropped his gun and stumbled.

Jordan fired again. Three went down next, landing in the doorway as soon as the bullet struck her.

Two scrambled for his gun.

Jordan hopped from the tub, leapt forward, and kicked Two's gun away from his reach. Two grabbed her leg. Stumbling, she twisted before falling and fired a series of shots into him before landing on top of Three's body.

But Two wasn't out, not yet. He heaved his body forward with blood spewing like a fountain, then fell on top of her. From the impact, Jordan dropped her gun.

Sandwiched by Two and a dead Three, Jordan went hand-to-hand with Two. He had the advantage of weight and was high with adrenaline, but he was no match for her. Jordan slammed a fist into the side of Two's head and as soon as his head jerked back, she thrust her weight sideways and scooped up her gun. On the roll, she pointed the weapon at the side of Two's head and pulled the trigger.

Two dropped.

“Get off me,” she grunted as she shoved the weight of his body to the side.

It was time to change rooms.

Jordan jumped over the two bodies blocking the doorway to the bathroom, jogged across the room, and checked to make sure One hadn't survived.

Safe, she returned to the bathroom, where she collected her bag, swapped the bloody robe for the fresh one on the back of the door, packed up a few loose belongings, and then hurried down an empty hallway toward the safe room. It wasn't often she used or even needed a backup room, but it was good she had one now.

She inserted the key into the lock, opened the door, and listened. The room was silent. She slid inside but held the door. Once she was certain no one from the hotel was on the move, she let it close.

But the moment Jordan walked inside the room, she realized she wasn't alone. A woman, sitting in the corner chair, had a gun raised and pointed at her. In a flash, Jordan recognized the blonde, blued-eyed minx.

“Sonya Roth,” Jordan spoke her name.

“Hello, Jordan,” Sonya returned. “It's been a long time.”

“About a year.” Jordan maintained a grip on her gun, holding it close just in case Sonya had other ideas. “I see the heat becomes you.”

“I like to think so.”

“Nice of you to help out.” Jordan nodded in the direction of her first room.

Sonya smiled. She always had that kind of mocking aspect to her smiles as if laughing at the world. “Are you surprised?”

Jordan didn't comment, but waited for the woman to have her say.

“You should have figured after your handiwork on the plane, the authorities would be interested in questioning all the passengers on board. We had to create a diversion. Let them think one very unlucky passenger got killed in a bloody dispute inside her hotel room.”

Jordan walked to the edge of the bed and sat down. “You could have killed me.”

“You were warned to get out.”

“Very funny.”

“Think of it like this: if you had,” Sonya raised a single brow, “then you're unqualified for the job.”

“Tell me why I like you?”

“I have something for you.” Sonya tossed her a new passport. “Meet your new alias: Jarrat Ahed.”

“You have a heck of a way of making a delivery,” Jordan replied, grateful Snake went the extra mile to activate Sonya so that she could create this diversion. Leaving a room full of dead bodies bailed Jordan out because now the dead woman could be tagged as Ava Ankasa.

“And one more thing,” Sonya started.

“I know,” Jordan said, after checking out the passport, “lose the brown eyes.”

Sonya continued. “Let's talk about some chump from your Agency who has been poking around in holes.”

“Yeah, Knox.”

“He certainly has stirred up a hornet's nest.”

“I'd like to — ” Jordan stopped before saying she'd like to smack the idiot into another universe and time.

Reading her, Sonya replied, “I would be happy to — ”

“No, no,” Jordan interrupted her. “I can't, not that way.”

Hoping to change the subject, Jordan asked, “So now that you've delivered my new alias, are you going to tell me why you're still here? Not that I don't enjoy your company, but I haven't exactly dressed for the occasion.” Jordan brushed back her hair and wiped the blood from her face and neck onto the collar of the robe.