Callsign: Bishop - Book 1 (An Erik Somers - Chess Team Novella) (10 page)

His smile grew larger as he turned and started walking toward the tomb of Xerxes I, which served as the entrance to a small network of rooms and chambers, accessible only from the rear of the tomb. The secrets contained in those dark corridors, both ancient and modern, were known only to a chosen few. His son would soon be one of those few. That feeling of pride returned. Not for his country this time, but for his blood.

His son was coming. He couldn’t wait to meet him.

***

As soon as the door closed, Faiza put down her book. She hadn’t been paying attention to it, anyway. It was merely a convenient method of keeping Dawoud from bothering her. She used her husband’s interest in the history of Iran against him. Because of it, she had learned to read and write, and had much more freedom than the average Iranian woman. But it was all for show. She preferred reading material that wasn’t so swamped with the “glorious history” of Iran. Not that she didn’t love her country, but Dawoud’s fascination with Iran’s former greatness bordered on fanaticism, and she would rather read about things that affected the international community.

So, her son was coming home? She had hoped this day would never come, but once Dawoud heard from a source that his eldest heir wasn’t dead, after all, he’d moved Heaven and Earth to find him. Faiza still recalled his reaction when he learned that his flesh and blood had joined the American Special Forces. It had taken the repairmen a week to patch the hole in the wall, and the imported cherry wood dining room table had to be thrown away. She had never seen him so angry, not even when the infant disappeared from his crib all those years ago.

She shuddered at the memory. He had been angry enough to kill someone that night, and she and the other wives had wisely stayed out of his way. Their son’s identity had been discovered a year ago, and in the time since, her husband had turned his attention to ways to bring his estranged son home and make a patriotic Iranian of him. It was all he talked about now, and his anxiety and happiness grew exponentially the closer he came to achieving his goal. And now, it seemed, the day had come for his dream to be realized.

But how angry would Dawoud be when he learned the truth?

11.

Bishop’s phone buzzed, and he looked at the screen. A text message from Deep Blue.

EXAMINATION OF ADDITIVE COMPLETE. VIRUS FATAL. INCUBATION PERIOD OF LESS THAN A MINUTE.

Bishop texted back:

SYMPTOMS?

After a few minutes, his phone buzzed again.

SIMILAR TO LSD: HALLUCINATIONS, VOMITING, ERRATIC AND VIOLENT BEHAVIOR. DEATH OCCURS IN ABOUT 24 HOURS. NO CURE. SENDING HELP.

Bishop typed his reply.

ALMOST TO TARGET NOW. WILL ADVISE UPON COMPLETION OF OBJECTIVE.

Thirty seconds later, his phone buzzed again.

GOOD. FRIENDLY AGENTS SHOULD BE USEFUL. BE CAREFUL.

Agents? As in more than one? Bishop looked at CJ, who was flying the plane and peering through the windshield. Was he supposed to have a partner? If so, what happened to him?

“Did you have a partner, CJ?” he asked.

CJ looked over, his customary smile gone. “Not anymore,” he said.

Bishop took the hint and let it drop, but it still seemed strange. If CJ had recently lost a partner, then wouldn’t Deep Blue have known about it? Deep Blue’s text specifically said
agents
, plural, and he rarely made mistakes. Though it could have been a typo.

“There,” CJ said, pointing out the right side window. “Our landing site.”

Bishop looked, expecting to see an airport, but instead found himself staring at a rock face with four huge cross-shaped carvings cut from the stone. He recognized it from travel brochures as
Naqsh e-Rustam,
the burial site of four ancient kings. Why were they landing here? He had thought they were flying to Shiraz.

The answer came as a sharp pain in his throat. He whirled around in his seat, grabbing CJ’s arm and yanking the needle out of his neck. He reached for his pistol with his other hand, but his arm seemed slow and heavy, and he only managed to get it around to the back of his waist. He could feel the grip of the pistol, but he couldn’t close his fingers around it. Bishop’s breathing increased as he began to wonder just what CJ had put in his system.

“Relax,” CJ said. “It’s not the Ergot B, if that’s what you’re thinking. If I wanted to kill you, I could have done it a thousand times already.”

Bishop tried to reply, but could only manage a grunt. He focused his will on making words, and managed to croak out a slurred “What did you do to me?”

“It’s just a hefty muscle relaxer,” CJ continued. “Nonfatal, but you won’t be feeling like yourself for a little while.”

“Thought…Abbasi…”

“Oh, I’m taking you to Abbasi.” CJ winked. “I just couldn’t have you pulling your gun out and pointing it at him. I couldn’t take the risk that you might actually shoot the guy. Then I’d never get paid.”

“Son..of…a…”

“Terrorist?” CJ offered, laughing. “Nope. That’s you, my friend. And he’s very anxious to meet you.”

Bishop tried to reply again, but he could no longer move his jaw. A few seconds later, he couldn’t keep his eyes open.

***

The sleek black Sikorsky S-70 flew south toward Shiraz, with Massai and Ahmad seated in the back. The state-owned aircraft was specially modified for speed, and it sped across the sky at over 450 kp/h. They had contacted Shahid, their commander, the moment they drew close enough to Hassi to receive a signal on Massai’s cell phone, and he had arranged for the S-70 to pick them up.

After boarding the plane, Massai had called Shahid back to confirm their pickup. To save time, he turned the phone on speaker, so everyone could hear, including the pilot.

“Not Shiraz,” Shahid said. “
Naqsh e-Rustam
.”

“The tombs? Why?”

“That is where Abbasi is, and we have reason to believe that Joker will take Somers there to meet him. Our contact has hinted that something big is happening there, somewhere deep inside the stone itself.”

“A contact, who remains anonymous,” Massai replied. He had little use for such contacts.

“A contact that has not proven incorrect yet,” Shahid reminded him. “It is not a request, Lieutenant Massai. It is an order. You and Ahmad will go to
Naqsh e-Rustam
right away.”

“Yes, sir,” Massai replied, and ended the call. He turned to Ahmad. “I guess we are going to
Naqsh e-Rustam
.”

Ahmad nodded. “So I heard.”

“‘Somewhere deep inside the stone itself,’” Massai repeated. “How do we get inside the stone?”

“I do not know,” Ahmad replied.

“I do,” the pilot said.

Massai and Ahmad both turned to face the pilot, a middle-aged Iranian name Ishak.

“How do you know?” Massai asked.

“I was raised near there. I know all the local rumors and histories.”

“And?”

“And there is a story about a panel near the rear of Xerxes I’s tomb that, if pressed, will slide inward and admit the visitor to a secret network of caves and passages. According to legend, the ancient priests used these chambers to keep vigil over the dead kings to ensure they did not rise again.”

“Have you ever seen this panel?” Ahmad asked.

“No,” Ishak said.

“Then how do you know it is there?” Massai asked.

“I do not,” Ishak admitted.

Massai looked at Ahmad, waiting for his friend to tell him that Allah would provide, but Ahmad merely shrugged his shoulders.

“We have nothing else to try.” Ahmad said. “Shahid has ordered us to
Naqsh e-Rustam
.”

“Massai nodded. “And so that is where we will go.”

“If there is an entrance into the stone,” Ahmad said, “we will find it when we get there.”

12.

Dawoud rose from his seat as CJ entered the room, followed by two men carrying a stretcher between them. On the stretcher lay his son, unconscious.

“What happened?” Dawoud asked.

“He grew suspicious,” CJ answered. “Someone must have leaked our information.”

Faiza. It had to be. Only she would be so bold as to go against him in this. He had thought she didn’t know about his plans, but perhaps he was mistaken.

“It does not matter,” Dawoud said. “I have my son and the Ergot-B. Everything is moving along as planned.”

He walked over to the stretcher and took his first look as his son and heir, who had spent his entire life ignorant of his heritage. But as soon as he saw the man’s face, he knew something was wrong. It took a moment for the thought to come full circle, but then he realized the truth. He had been lied to for decades.

“This man,” Dawoud said through clenched teeth, “is not my son.”

“What?” CJ asked. “Sure he is. That’s what Faiza told me.”

“Faiza lied!” Dawoud’s face grew bright red, and the two men holding the stretcher flinched. “She has been lying for decades. Look at this man’s nose, his cheekbones, his lips. He is not my son.”

CJ looked at Bishop. After a moment, he looked back to Dawoud. “I think you’re right.”

“I know I am right.”

“Then whose son is he?” CJ asked.

Dawoud’s vision clouded, and his breathing and heart rate both sped up. His fists clenched at his side. He knew who the father was, but he would not share that information with CJ. The traitorous Delta operative didn’t have need to know the whole story, but Dawoud had seen those same features on a man he had known and trusted for many years. He wasn’t sure which betrayal hurt more, his or Faiza’s.

Either way, now he would have to kill them both, as well as this bastard in front of him.

***

In the back of the Rolls Royce, Faiza Abbasi shut off her cell phone and put it into her pocket. Weeks ago, she had sent information to an American soldier in Iran, hoping he would help her leave the country and reunite her with her son in exchange for years of information about her husband’s activities, which she had carefully and thoroughly catalogued for decades. But instead of helping her, he had taken the information of Erik’s whereabouts to her husband and sold it to him. Now that same man had her son, and was bringing him to Dawoud.

She should have left things as they were. If not for her weakness, Erik would still be in the United States, instead of flying through Iran on his way to his death.

Many years ago, Faiza had been given to Dawoud by her father as a bride in exchange for a lucrative business deal. She did not love Dawoud, and never had. He was an ambitious, aggressive man who was seldom home. Even when he was home, he treated Faiza as little more than a sex toy, only coming to her when he required a release. She came to despise his touch, but as a woman in Iran, she had no right to deny him. He came into her rooms often enough, but much to her dismay, they never had any children. She longed for a baby to care for, hoping that a child would soften her husband and provide her with someone to love. But no matter how many times they tried, no baby landed in her belly.

Soon enough he tired of her and brought in a new wife, and then another and another. She hoped she would be able to make friends among them, but they were jealous of her standing as Dawoud’s first wife, and wanted nothing to do with her. Miserable and lonely, she spent her days walking through the gardens, longing to break free of her stylish prison. It became so bad that she had even contemplated ending her own life.

But all that changed when Dawoud hired a new driver for her.

Anwar was strong, handsome and kind. He treated her well and respected her words, which no one had ever done before. At first, she thought his courtesy was the result of her husband’s status, but soon she realized that Anwar did not look at Dawoud’s other wives the way he looked at her. One day, as he helped her to load some packages into the car, his hand brushed against hers and she looked up at his face. In that moment, she realized that he loved her.

In all Faiza’s life, no man had ever looked at her the way Anwar did. Not her father, who cared more about what his beautiful daughter could bring him, nor her brothers, to whom she was just another female in the house, and certainly not her husband, who used her when he needed her and then left her alone; no man, she realized, had ever loved her.

Their affair was short but magnificent. Anwar’s passion sizzled, and his touch seared her flesh every time they met. They knew they could both be killed for their transgression, but neither cared. For her, life without him felt like death, and she would not give him up. Not even to save her life. But then, as so often seemed to happen, things changed suddenly.

Faiza became pregnant.

Now she had more to worry about than just her desires. Once the child was born, Dawoud would have known it was not his, and he would have killed her and the baby, as well. She ended her affair with Anwar, telling him it was wrong and they should be ashamed. He had stayed on as her driver, unwilling to give up on her, but eventually he moved on and found another love. She never told him about the baby, though she thought he suspected. And even now, he sat in the driver’s seat of the Rolls Royce, taking her back to her home in Shiraz.

After ending the affair, she sought her husband’s bed for the first time in years. Dawoud was so pleased by her aggressiveness that he began seeking her company again and again, and soon the two were spending almost every night in each other’s arms.

When she told him she was pregnant, his smile took up half his face.

Of course, she knew the math would not work. But she gambled that her husband would be out of town when her time came, and she was right. She had gone into labor while he was away in Saudi Arabia, believing she still had another month to go before delivery. By the time he was able to get back, the baby was gone.