CHAPTER 30
T
he approach to General Ahmadi’s mansion was easier than expected. The cabdriver dropped us off one block over and we walked the rest of the way, approaching on the sidewalk leading directly to the stations of the gate guards. When we got within fifty feet of the pair, the closer one turned and took a couple of steps our way, motioning for us to cross the street and give a wide berth. He didn’t yell until forty feet and the submachine gun didn’t emerge from his jacket until thirty.
I didn’t
want
to drop him because it would make our approach across the mansion’s huge front yard much more dangerous. If other guards lurked on the porch or the roof, and they lost sight of the gate goons, they’d be on high alert. At that point, the world’s most powerful beings could be taken down by an AK-47, a night-vision scope, and two bucks’ worth of ammunition, just like everybody else.
Still, restraint has limits; when the gun popped out, I was seconds from saying “screw it” and dropping both goons regardless. Lyla’s voice changed all that. Her stream of Farsi was beyond my comprehension, but the resonant tone I understood very well. The guard lowered the weapon and happily came toward us without reservation.
Sucker.
Before long, he motioned for his partner to join us. Lyla and the two men exchanged some rapid-fire information I had no chance of translating, but it didn’t matter. We had two new best friends who were more than happy to escort us to the front door. Lyla made one stay at the gates for appearances while the other accompanied us with his radio
in hand.
Once past the gate, Lyla motioned to our new friend and whispered, “This is Fahrook. He says the general has one bodyguard stationed inside the house, and two more men outside. One walks the perimeter, one on the roof.” I searched the roofline and boundary of the mansion as we crunched along the small-pebble driveway bisecting the front lawn. The building was a neoclassical knockoff—three stories tall, flat-roofed, with a large curved veranda around the front door, fortified with massive white columns. Made me imagine we were infiltrating the White House.
“The place is too big for me to blanket wipe if things go bad,” I said. “Have Fahrook tell everybody to report inside; we need all of them together.”
Lyla snapped instructions to our escort, which he followed immediately. By the time we reached the half circle of granite steps leading up to the veranda, the outside patrolling guard had already beaten us to the entrance. He opened one of the tall doors to the mansion and a rectangle of light slashed down the stairway to greet us. Fahrook went first and shielded us from view as we entered; no one gave more than a cursory glance until after we cleared the threshold. Once the maid, another guard in a black suit, and a guy in a military uniform reached the foyer, though, we were the center of attention in a big hurry—and I say “we” but really it was all “she,” because everybody in the room was staring at Lyla.
Fahrook started talking—my guess was an introduction—but the words died in his throat when the black suit, the outside patrol guy, and the soldier went for their guns. The tactician in me knew I had to spool up the juice and drop them at once, but the only things that emanated from my body were the words “Oh shit.” Thankfully my surprised stupor didn’t matter, because Lyla took charge. With no contact lenses in place and within the relatively confined space of the entryway, she was free to use the whole spectrum of her power. She didn’t even finish her sentence before everyone placed their weapons on the marble floor of the foyer.
I took a deep breath and let the tingling in my spine dissipate. It was
clear our Iranian friends recognized her right from the get-go. They’d drawn on us so quickly, if it weren’t for Lyla’s mind-control burst, I doubt I would’ve been able to drop the shooters before they fired; a nice yellow flag that I had to be a little quicker on the draw from here on out.
“Jenral Mahmoud Ahmadi?” Lyla asked the uniformed man in front of her. He was dark-skinned, balding, and sported a short full-face beard. No idea how old the soldier was but if the beard was any indication, the black whiskers were losing the war to the white ones.
His dumbstruck, lovesick expression nodded. Lyla launched into her set of planned instructions: lock down the house, gather every member of the family and household staff so she could embrace them as well, and lastly, obtain a quiet room where we could discuss the finer points of bringing in our nuclear scientists.
The general responded to her instructions with a barked command to the maid, who scurried away. Another quick order and Fahrook trotted out the front door, presumably to fetch his gate partner. The general’s other bodyguards exited in different directions, tasked with mini-missions of their own. Lyla pulled Ahmadi off to the side, the two prattling back and forth in animated Farsi, leaving me to admire the mansion alone.
Two short marble steps led down from the foyer into the central hub of the main floor—a wide-open circular room, with hallways branching off into the wings of the home. In between the hallways along the curved walls were impressive paintings and elaborately carved wall sconces. The middle of the space, though, greeted visitors with the most spectacular visual: a lush, ringed garden in the center, at least thirty feet across. It was filled with ferns, small palm trees, and flowering plants. The high ceiling two floors above was a glass dome, which turned the entire space into a naturally lit atrium. The space must have been even more impressive in the daylight.
Upon closer inspection, the sconces were unique—each one carved in dark wood, depicting different animals—a lion, an elephant, and a camel were the three closest to me. I was moving on to the next set of three when Fahrook came back through the front door with his buddy
from the front gate. Within moments, the other two bodyguards returned to the atrium and walked over to Fahrook. Lyla summoned all of them to the far side of the atrium with a single word. Soon she, Ahmadi, and the cluster of bodyguards quietly conversed among themselves.
My participation wasn’t necessary. Hell, it wasn’t even possible. I didn’t just have a language
barrier
when it came to Farsi; I had the linguistic equivalent of the Great Wall of China. I don’t mean to be overly harsh; my handle on the Iranian tongue was the exact same as my pathetic grip on French, Spanish, or German. I could utter a single phrase of each: “I don’t speak [insert foreign language here].” Hey, at least I get points for consistency.
For no other reason than that I wanted to, I walked to the other side of the garden to listen in. I stood behind the men facing Lyla so she could see me at the rear; nodding at every pause, cradling my chin between my thumb and forefinger, muttering “mmm-hmm” and giving subtle agreement to every scholarly point. Took five seconds before she couldn’t handle it anymore.
“Please go away!” she said between chuckles.
I smiled and backed off, leaving the four guards and the general as her only audience.
Four guards . . . Wait. Two at the gate, one inside, one patrols outside, and one more . . .
The smile evaporated. I twisted back to the group and stepped close. “Where’s the other guy?” My words trampled over their conversation. None of the men looked over—they were totally focused on Lyla—but she heard the urgency in my voice.
“What other guy?”
“The fifth guard,” I demanded. “The guy on the roof . . .
where the hell is he
?”
Lyla hurriedly translated for the others, but the general was already barking an order at Fahrook . . .
I almost turned to go for the door when I saw the red dot bounce on Lyla’s chest. Panicked, I squeezed my eyes shut and grunted out the strongest blanket wipe I’ve ever done. Everybody dropped toward the
floor, Lyla included. As she slumped, the red dot winked out. I knifed between the falling bodies and caught her before she fell. From above, I heard a crash of glass, followed by crackling branches and a heavy, hollow thump in the garden dirt. A metallic clattering against the polished floor next to the garden signaled the arrival of the roof guard’s laser-sighted rifle.
Lyla’s skull lolled back over her shoulders. I knelt and cradled her from the side, easing her head into the crook of my arm. I brushed the backs of my fingers against her cheek until the golden-green eyes flickered to life. When they focused on me, I smiled and said, “Found him.”
—
Roof Guy owed his life to the garden.
Falling through a glass-dome skylight into a collection of trees, plants, and loosely packed soil isn’t exactly a pleasure cruise, but it’s a helluva lot better than pancaking onto cold, hard marble from thirty feet. The quick diagnosis from Fahrook (a former medic): a broken arm, a concussion, and probably some busted ribs, but he’d live. The truly amazing thing about our meteoric friend wasn’t that he survived, but what he taught us about Lyla’s power after he crash-landed.
Once Roof Guy regained consciousness, he moaned and thrashed around the garden in pain. The wild movement only helped to grind his ribs against one another, which made the moans boost into short-breath screams. Lyla rushed to his side and turned on the juice, but Roof Guy wanted nothing to do with her. She whispered, yelled, cajoled . . . he responded by spitting and shoving her away. We had two guards pin him down and hold his head in place so he had to stare at her. When he refused to open his eyes, we had Fahrook do it manually with his fingers. Lyla spun her irises and gave him the sweet talk up close and personal. Still nothing.
I should have known. I’d used the temporary pain of punching the glass picture frame in the hallway of Mrs. Barstow’s home to distract me from the Aphrodite Effect before, which it accomplished, if only barely. Never occurred to me to take a thirty-foot drop to try to escape.
Frustrated, Lyla turned to me. “I have seen this before, but only from my own family members. They were immune. And Carsten, at the end.”
“Well, then, you’re either related to this guy, or it’s gotta be the injuries,” I said. “High pain levels must shield him from whatever you’re throwing his way.”
She chuffed in disgust and stood up. “We still need to know if he alerted anyone. If the pain is blocking me, we need to eliminate it. I’ll ask Ahmadi if he has any painkillers.”
The general was lurking nearby. Without translation, he said, “
Bale. Morfina.
Upstairs.”
“You speak English?” I asked.
He answered by holding his thumb and index finger about an inch apart.
A little.
He barked at one of the guards and the man took off down a hallway, presumably toward the stairs. I turned my attention back to Roof Guy.
“I guess I could read his mind. He can’t hide his thoughts.”
Lyla’s mood improved. “Yes! Although I know it’s painful . . . are you certain you want to try?”
“I can handle it—trust me, it’s nothing compared to what this guy is feeling right now.” I knelt at the injured man’s side to make the attempt, but in moments I was back on my feet. “Yeah, we’re gonna need to wait for the painkillers.”
“Why?”
“Not like this should be a newsflash, but apparently Iranian people think in Farsi as well as speak it. Especially when their pain level is dialed up to eleven.” I grabbed Fahrook’s radio. “I’m gonna hide out front near the gate, in case a response team comes.” I shook the walkie at her. “Call me when you’ve got him calmed down enough to try again.”
I jogged down the driveway and took up a vantage point just behind the right-hand stone pillar of the front gate. It offered perfect line of sight to the left, down to the corner. The connecting street led to the highway, which was the obvious direction a response team would take. If they came, I could jog down the length of the ten-foot fence
bordering the estate, unseen from the street, dropping anyone within range. A great fallback, but one I hoped we didn’t need.
In the end, we didn’t. After a nail-biting half hour, Lyla’s voice came over the radio. “He’s okay now. As soon as the pain meds kicked in, he took the embrace. No one is coming.”
I muttered, “Whew,” and ran back to the house.
CHAPTER 31
T
he next twenty-four hours went pretty well, up to a point.
The general made some phone calls and finally pinned down Amir Harandi. Our assumption was correct; when the man controlling protection for critical nuclear personnel gets an order from the general in charge of VIP protection for the entire nation, there’s not a lot of pushback. Our cover story was excellent—General Ahmadi had obtained evidence that one or more of the scientists had been “turned” by the Mossad—because Harandi bought it immediately. I’d planned to use our own lovable CIA as the fall guys, but Lyla called an audible and went with the Israeli intelligence agency. Like so many of her ideas since our arrival in the Middle East, it was pure genius.
Although Americans like to think we’re the badass kings of international espionage, Lyla knew enough to approach the threat like a Persian. While Iranian intelligence may worry about the CIA, they
fear
the Mossad. Before Ahmadi made his calls, I asked him about the difference between the two.
His translated response was “Americans brag loudly about satellite reconnaissance and economic sanctions. The Israelis come for you with C-4 and F-16s and don’t say a word.”
Within an hour, all seven scientists were on their way to the mansion. Each of the nuclear specialists was guarded by a three-man team, which meant the general’s not-so-humble abode would soon host almost thirty guests. That’s a lot of manpower to handle, not to mention they were all going to walk through the door with their
suspicion meters already on full. The break in routine would make the goons edgy and the scientists nervous; not exactly a recipe for the calm discourse we wanted to have. Luckily, since each team was inbound from a different part of the country, they wouldn’t all ring the doorbell at the same time. One problem down, though another remained: 75 percent of our arriving guests would be heavily armed.
The general ordered Fahrook and his boys to take each man’s sidearm upon arrival. I initially doubted the willingness of trained, ex-special-forces bodyguards to hand over their weapons, but Ahmadi said it was standard practice when entering a commanding officer’s home. My raised eyebrow of doubt prompted him to wink. We may have been from vastly different cultures but the general admitted to sharing a common sensibility. We both knew any soldier who hands over his gun with a smile is grinning for a very good reason—he’s got another.
In order to avoid any last-second drawdowns with backup weaponry, we used a simple process. Fahrook and his men escorted each group to the general’s study, near the back of the massive home. Every foursome took seats in front of Ahmadi’s imposing mahogany desk, which faced the door. When all four men were safely tucked in their wingback chairs, Lyla and I entered the room from behind. Her persuasive voice corralled each team before they even had a chance to turn around. No last-second heroics at the sight of us, which suited me just fine. Also, the plan was a hell of a lot easier than rendering each group unconscious upon arrival, then searching prone bodies for weapons. No muss, no fuss.
One by one, the atomic quartets arrived and ran into Aphrodite’s warm embrace. Took almost a full day of sporadic deliveries but by sundown the following evening, all seven men and their security entourages were under Lyla’s direct control. Soon after, we hosted an action-packed meeting in the dining room, where she encouraged the scientists to brainstorm the least visible, most effective way to fuck up their life’s work. Have to admit, even though I couldn’t understand a word, watching our Benedict Arnold think tank in action was the pinnacle of entertainment. The scientists acted like wheel-and-deal bazaar vendors—argue fervently, shake their heads, walk away, then
come back with a smile as one of their counterparts forwards another idea.
The bodyguards lingered nearby. The men talked quietly and played cards in groups—either they couldn’t understand what their charges were discussing, or they just didn’t care. The guards’ instructions from Lyla were to continue their duties and never discuss the meeting or our presence, which seemed like the most efficient way to handle hired muscle.
The general’s cook slaved over dinner for the entire houseful of men, and by the time dessert plates slid onto the tables, our traitorous eggheads had come up with a workable strategy. Lyla didn’t give me all of the specifics, but it involved tweaking the math just enough to lower yields and make it look like the enrichment process wasn’t working. They’d work fruitlessly for a year or so before fixing the problem, only to have additional issues working on the implosion sequence that initiates nuclear fission . . . blah-blah-blah.
I didn’t completely understand what the scientists meant, but that was the beauty of our gambit. Government minders, politicians, and army officials were no different than me—none of them would know
why
nuclear development was taking so long. And since Iran’s leaders kept the scientific core of the program apart and under strict guard, no one could possibly suspect the entire team of collusion.
It’s not like the Ayatollah checks anybody’s math.
Blame would flow like water toward the path of least resistance: the program’s parts suppliers—Russia and China—for faulty products and poor workmanship. The Iranians’ core national belief that the industrialized world, allies and enemies alike, secretly wanted their program to fail would play nicely into our strategy.
Once the powers that be got tired of waiting, or even remotely suspicious, our group of saboteurs would put the program back on track—but only long enough to orchestrate an epic failure during Iran’s first full-on atomic bomb test. Nothing too destructive, just a botched explosion that results in the irradiation of the testing grounds, and sends the program back to square one. After that, the CIA could work on a mass defection if they wanted . . . extract the whole bunch out of
the country in one fell swoop. Iran would replace them, but the damage would be done.
The lead scientist, Hooshmand, brought over his clipboard with a piece of paper covered in scribbles: numbers and projections gathered from his colleagues. He told Lyla the group estimated the process would set the Iranian nuclear program back almost ten years, and the dude had a mile-wide grin plastered to his face when he said it.
Not bad for a day’s work, eh?
But in the midst of our great victory, something happened. After everything Lyla and I had been through the last few days . . . the fights, the chases, our talks . . . the thing I was enjoying most was the
momentum.
The building emotion I felt for her. How each day felt closer, more intimate than the one before. The way she looked at me. Like the old days.
Looking at Hooshmand, though, standing in a crowd of embraced minions, I felt an irony-toed boot kick me in the gut. I’d seen his smitten look too many times before—in my own goddamn mirror. And I remembered what the “old days” had led to. The despair . . . the torturous nights alone, wondering when the pain would end. No way was I going through that nightmare again. She could talk about her “evolution,” and the kinder, gentler Aphrodite Effect all she wanted—as far as I was concerned, it wasn’t worth the goddamn risk. What I felt wasn’t a budding relationship, and it damn sure wasn’t love. All lies and trickery. I’d sooner take a bullet in the head than lose the only true freedom I had left—my will.
I glanced at Lyla and she smiled back as though everything was fine—
nothing to see here, just destroying the lives of a bunch of unsuspecting fools
—and a mini-explosion of anger and fear detonated in my brain. Every single day I spent with Lyla was just one day closer to looking like a lovesick idiot with a clipboard. Left me with a singular, panicked thought:
Get the hell out of this room. Run.
Lyla noticed my expression as I turned to walk away. She caught me by the arm before I could. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t say that . . . you’re upset. Why?”
“Doesn’t matter. You did your job. Now we can get outta here.” Hooshmand stood nearby, wearing a goofy grin. Made me want to punch him. I pulled away from Lyla’s grip and headed for the door.
Several of the bodyguards milled about near the entrance to the dining room, and I had to wade through them to exit. Before I could leave, a shadow turned the corner from the hall and blocked the doorway, and when I say “blocked” I’m not really doing the act justice.
Every bit as big as Mr. Reyes, a man eclipsed the entryway. He wore black pants and a white button-down shirt that struggled at the seams to contain his barrel chest. His face was covered by a short, trimmed black beard, and his eyes darted around the room before settling on me. Guy looked almost as angry as I felt.
“Who the fuck are you?” I asked. The guards murmured and I felt them back away. The general spoke up from behind and I twisted my head in his direction. No clue about most of what he said, but I recognized one word.
Harandi.
Amir Harandi, the black-ops ghost who’d been ordered to stay away while we interrogated his men, must have taken it personally when his teams were accused of allowing Mossad to turn his protectees into traitors.
Lyla’s familiar tone permeated the room, seconds from transforming the intimidating man into yet another of her minions. I turned back to look at the unlucky puppet in front of me. There was a flash of movement, then a change in Lyla’s voice as she began shouting her words.
Just as I noticed Harandi’s gun, he shot me right in the chest.