The Tehran Initiative (17 page)

“You got caught, Navid. You didn’t resist. You didn’t try to escape. Maybe you weren’t really so committed to this mission, like Rahim was. And you were drinking alcohol—lots of it—the night before the attack. That’s right, Navid. At one point you called your hotel with your disposable phone. That was your mistake; we found the number, went to the hotel, and saw your room. I was there myself. And I personally saw the hotel security tapes. I know you checked into that Sheraton. I saw you get into the elevator and push the button for the ninth floor. I saw you key into room 919. I went to room 919, Navid; I saw that you ate everything in the minibar. And you drank everything in the minibar. Had they ever let you be in a room by yourself with a minibar? I’m guessing not. Because you really went to town. Which is fine. Don’t get me wrong. I mean, you all paid your bills with cash. I’m just thinking Allah might not be too pleased. And I’m guessing he was watching. And I guess if I were sitting in the electric chair soon, waiting to pass from one world to the next, I’d be wondering where I was going. Because it’s one thing to be executed in one of the most painful ways imaginable—did I mention your whole head is going to explode into flames?—but that might be nothing compared to what’s coming the moment you leave this world and enter the next.”

Again she paused for effect. She shook her head so Taylor would keep his mouth shut. She didn’t need an update. She knew exactly what she was doing. She unbuttoned her blouse an extra button and smoothed out the wrinkles of the skirt she was wearing, then stepped around the chair and met the nervous gaze of Navid Yazidi with a gentle smile as she put her blonde hair in a ponytail.

“I want to be your friend, Navid,” she said softly. “There are people in this building who want to put you in that chair, but I just want you to know that I’m not one of them. I want to help you. But first you have to help me. I don’t want anyone else to die. I don’t want anyone else to get hurt, especially you. But they’re only going to give me a few more minutes with you, Navid. And if you don’t help me, then I can’t help you. And then those men who beat you are going to come back in here and do what they do best. So tell me what you know about Firouz. Tell me what you know about his driver, Jamshad. That’s right. We know the names of your accomplices—that’s another mistake you made. You left them both voice messages in their hotel rooms, and you used their real names.”

* * *

Oakton, Virginia

Najjar stared out his bedroom windows.

He watched some nameless couple and their two children who lived in the house just behind the safe house packing up their minivan with suitcases and beach blankets and all kinds of toys, headed off on a vacation of some kind. The image made him miss his own family all the more. He wanted to play with his daughter. What he wouldn’t give to get away with them on a vacation. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d taken a break and gotten away from all the cares of life. His father-in-law had worked him like a slave, and he was constantly exhausted.

He turned away and flopped back on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. He couldn’t talk to his family or hold them, much less go on holiday with them. So he began to pray for them. He prayed they wouldn’t worry too much about him or about their future. He prayed the baby was being peaceful for Sheyda, that she and her mother could laugh together and not be too lonely without him. Eventually he drifted off to sleep with their faces crossing his mind’s eye and a prayer on his lips.

And as he slept, he had a dream.

“Najjar, do not be afraid,” a voice said. “I, Jesus, have sent My angel to testify to you about these things. I am the root and the descendant of David, the bright morning star. Behold, I am coming quickly, and My reward is with Me, to render to every man according to what he has done. Yes, I am coming quickly. You must speak to the sons of your people. Say to them, ‘If I bring a sword upon a land, and the people of the land take one man from among them and make him their watchman, and he sees the sword coming upon the land and blows on the trumpet and warns the people, then he who hears the sound of the trumpet and does not take warning, and a sword comes and takes him away, his blood will be on his own head. He heard the sound of the trumpet but did not take warning; his blood will be on himself. But had he taken warning, he would have delivered his life. But if the watchman sees the sword coming and does not blow the trumpet and the people are not warned, and a sword comes and takes a person from them, he is taken away in his iniquity; but his blood I will require from the watchman’s hand.’”

Still dreaming, Najjar was careful to remember the words, just as they had been spoken. He somehow knew this was more than just a dream and that he would remember these words even after he awoke. He also realized he knew the sword was coming soon, and his heart quickened at what he sensed was coming next.

“Now as for you, Najjar, I have appointed you a watchman for the nation of Persia. When you hear a word from My mouth warn them from Me. When I say to the wicked, ‘You will surely die,’ and you do not warn him or speak out to warn the wicked from his wicked way that he may live, that wicked man shall die in his iniquity, but his blood I will require at your hand. Yet if you have warned the wicked and he does not turn from his wickedness or from his wicked way, he shall die in his iniquity; but you have delivered yourself.”

20

Brooklyn, New York

“Is Rahim really dead?”

Eva looked up from the magazine she was reading as she sat patiently in a wooden chair on the other side of the cell. It had been quiet for too long. She was beginning to think Navid Yazidi wasn’t going to take the bait. But now he was nibbling, and Eva was determined to hook him and reel him all the way in.

“I beg your pardon?” she asked, though she had heard every word.

“Rahim? Is he . . . is he really dead?”

Eva nodded. “I’m afraid so. Didn’t anyone tell you when they first brought you in?”

“No.”

“I thought they did.”

“They didn’t.”

“I’m very sorry, Navid,” Eva said gently. “It’s hard to lose a brother, I know. My older brother died four years ago next week. Drunk driver. Never saw it coming.”

It was a lie. Eva had three sisters, all younger, but not a single brother. But she certainly sounded convincing and empathetic. Navid nodded and hung his head. It was working. The ice was beginning to crack.

“May I have some water?” he asked, his tone subdued but his eyes pleading with her for mercy.

“Of course, Navid. Would you like something to eat as well? Have they fed you yet? You must be famished.”

“No, no, just some water, please.”

This was a good sign. She got up, knocked three times on the steel door, and stepped out for a few minutes. While she was gone, guards gave the prisoner several sips of water and a few bites of warm pita bread dipped in freshly made hummus, then led the man to the facilities to allow him to relieve himself. Only when Navid was locked down again and given a bit more water and pita did Eva return.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

“A little better,” he said softly, his voice hoarse, his spirit nearly broken.

“Good,” she said and then went back to her reading, knowing all the while that he was staring at her, sizing her up, trying to understand who she was and whether he could really trust her.

After several minutes, she lowered her magazine, looked him in the eye, and asked, “What did you love most about Rahim?”

The question seemed to take Navid completely by surprise. He quickly turned away and closed his eyes. So Eva went back to reading. But after another few minutes, it seemed Navid couldn’t help himself.

“Rahim was always more devout than I.”

“Son of a . . .” Taylor said in Eva’s earpiece. “He’s desperate for human contact, just like you said.”

Eva resisted the temptation to nod or glance at the video camera. But she was glad Taylor and his colleagues were taking notice.

“What do you mean?” Eva asked Navid.

“Rahim was always the strong one, always the one who submitted to Allah faster and more faithfully than I. He memorized all of the Qur’an by the age of ten. I still haven’t done it. He got straight As in the madrassa. I got Cs and Ds. When it was time to get up for morning prayers, Rahim would hear the muezzin call and jump right out of bed. Most of the time, I slept in . . . or wanted to.”

“What was his favorite passage?”

“In the Qur’an?”

Eva nodded.

Navid hesitated for a moment as if trying to determine whether she was sincere or not. He must have finally concluded that she was because all of a sudden he said, “He really loved Sura 3, verses 185 and 186.”

“What do those say?”

“‘Every soul is bound to taste death. So you will be repaid in full on the Day of Resurrection for whatever you have done in the world. Whoever is spared the Fire and admitted to Paradise has indeed prospered and triumphed, if you are patient, steadfast, and keep within the limits of piety.’”

“Is your brother in paradise now, Navid?”

“I hope so.”

“And you?” Eva asked, pushing the envelope. “Will you see him when it’s your time?”

There was a long pause. “I don’t know.” Another long pause. “I hope so. I miss him.”

“I’m sure you do,” Eva said. “Were you always close?”

“No,” Navid said, staring off into space.

“Why not?” she asked, trying to bring him back.

He shrugged his shoulders and stared down at the floor. “Rahim was four years older than I. So when I began junior high school, he was already in high school. When I was a freshman in high school, he was already done and in the army. When I was drafted, he was in college. It was only about six months ago that we began to connect again after so much time.”

“What happened?”

“I . . .”

“What?”

“I shouldn’t be telling you this.”

“Why not?”

“They told me not to say anything.”

“Who did?”

“The commander. He said if we were caught, we shouldn’t say anything, just keep our mouths shut.”

“Does it really matter now what he said, Navid?” Eva asked. “You’re never going to see that commander again. He can’t hurt you. He’s half a world away.”

“He will kill my family.”

“You mean your parents?”

Navid nodded, his eyes glassy and fatigued.

“They still live in Tehran, in the apartment on Ghazaeri Street, right?” Eva asked.

Navid nodded again.

“It’s okay, Navid. I told you. We’ve already sent people to make sure they’re okay and to let them know that you’re safe. No one can hurt them now. No one.”

It was another lie. But it seemed to work.

“Really?” Navid asked.

“I promise,” Eva said.

Navid closed his eyes for several minutes. His breathing was light and shallow. She wondered if he had actually dozed off, but then he opened his eyes again and resumed staring at her.

“You look a lot like her.”

“Like who?”

“His sister.”

“Whose?”

“Firouz’s sister.”

“I do?”

“Except her hair is dark brown, almost black, not blonde. And her eyes are brown, not blue. But your face, your hands, your smile, your mannerisms . . . you look so much like Shirin. She is very beautiful.”

Eva didn’t know what to say. He was, after all, a prisoner, a terrorist, a murderer.

“Is she around my age?”

“No.”

“Younger or older?”

“Younger. Much younger.”

“Younger than Firouz, too?”

He nodded.

“How much younger?”

“At least ten years.”

“So how old does that make her?”

“She’ll be eighteen in July.”

“Pay dirt,”
Agent Taylor exclaimed. “Now we need a last name.”

Eva ignored the request. It was a distraction. She knew what she had to do, and she knew how to get it done. She wasn’t interested in being coached by novices.

“Is she married?” she asked.

“Shirin?”

“Yes.”

“Not yet.”

“So there’s hope.”

“What do you mean?” Navid asked.

“For you,” Eva said. “There’s hope for you, right?”

He shook his head and looked back at his feet. “No.”

“Why not?”

“I could never win the heart of a girl like her. Not now.”

“Why not?” Eva said. “Does she know you?”

“A little.”

“How does she know you?”

“Rahim was engaged to her sister.”

“Really?”

“And if he had come back from this mission, they were going to marry.”

“And now?”

“There will be great joy in that family, and ours, over Rahim. He is a martyr. His name will be praised forever. Everyone will be so proud of him.”

“And you?”

“I will be cursed.”

“Why?”

“I am a failure. You said so yourself. And Mr. Nouri will agree with you. He will say, ‘Rahim was killed, but you were caught. Rahim gave his life to Allah. But you betrayed the regime, betrayed the Mahdi.’”

“Who is Mr. Nouri?”

“Mohammed Nouri, Shirin’s father. He will never let me see his daughter again or even set foot in his home. He is a mullah in Qom. He is a very hard man. He is devoted to the Mahdi. It’s all he can think about, all he can talk about. He will not allow an infidel like me to marry his daughter.”

Firouz Nouri.

There it was. Now she had the suspect’s name, his father’s name, his father’s profession, and the city of his birth. She had something to research, facts to check, leads to follow. It was all good, and it was a lot more than they’d had before she got there. But something wasn’t right. Something about that name bothered her, and she couldn’t figure out why.

* * *

Arlington, Virginia

Marseille got up from her knees and stared out the window.

She looked out over Washington and wondered what the president was thinking. She wondered what his advisors were thinking. What were they going to do? So many of her friends were in awe of President Jackson. They’d voted for him. They supported him enthusiastically. They couldn’t be more excited about where he was leading their country. But Marseille wasn’t one of them.