Whiplash (30 page)

These names were identified by small daggers. While most of the names were American, there were quite a few Italians as well.

“Why are you coming to Iran?” asked the customs officer in English as Nuri stepped up.

“I have business,” said Nuri, answering in Farsi because he hoped it would get him through the line quicker. “I am involved in the pipeline construction for the government’s new wells in the south.”

The customs officer was impressed. He took Nuri’s passport and cracked it open.

“So you are working here? This is a business trip?”

“There are some matters that have to be attended to,” said Nuri.

“You are fixing the pipeline?”

“Actually, the derricks,” said Nuri. “The pipelines are another department.”

“Hmmm.”

The Customs official looked at the visa. “You know that this visa is only good for seven days,” he said.

“Oh?”

“They should not have given you this one. In your case, because it is an important government assignment, you should have been given a six-month pass.”

“It should only take a day or two.”

“But that is the way it should be done.” The customs official reached under his desk and took out a pad. “Take this to the window over there,” he said, starting to write a note. “She will give you the proper documentation.”

“This matter came up in Dubai,” said Nuri. He spoke slowly, struggling with the words. “There was a debate. My boss went to the top official. They asked the ambassador himself. He said, this he said—give him the short visa only.”

“Well, if the ambassador said that. I could not overrule an ambassador.”

“Of course not.”

“He is wrong, though.”

“It wouldn’t be my place to say.”

The customs inspector shook his head, then crumpled the note up and put it in his pocket. He started to wave Nuri through, then realized he hadn’t checked his name against the list.

Slowly, he began leafing through the pages.

Nuri caught sight of Tarid walking out the main entrance.

“I’m sorry. We have procedures,” said the inspector as he found the Italian section.

“Take your time,” said Nuri, turning his eyes toward the ceiling.

Tehran

T
EHRAN HAD ALWAYS FELT LIKE A FOREIGN PLACE TO
A
RASH
Tarid. He’d been born in the southeastern corner of the country, about as far away from the capital as one could get and still stay in Iran. His first trip to the city had been when he was a teenager on some family errand, now long lost to memory. But he vividly remembered the city, all lit up. Cars whizzed everywhere—there was much less traffic, but just as much pollution. His eyes had stung the whole time he was there, and for three days afterward.

Tonight the traffic was worse, and the pollution just as bad. The taxi driver had asked 80,000 rials for the thirty-five-kilometer ride to the city; the fee hadn’t changed since the airport had opened.

“Returning home from business?” asked the driver, slowing with the traffic as they approached the city.

“Yes.”

“It must be exciting to go abroad.”

“It can be.”

Tarid shifted in the seat. While his leg injury hadn’t been serious, his body still ached from the firefight and the escape from the Sudan holding pen. He decided he would make a detour to Istanbul when his meeting with Bani Aberhadji was done. He would spend several days there, soaking in a bath in the old part of the city. A friend of his swore by the waters and the old man who ran the place, claiming they had curative powers.

And the apartments above were a good place to have drinks, if you knew the owner. He would not drink alcohol in Iran—the possibility of Aberhadji finding out was too great—but in Istanbul a man could relax, and even pose as a westerner if the mood struck him. No one would care.

“So, you were in Dubai?” asked the driver.

The question caught Tarid by surprise. He gripped the back of the driver’s seat and pulled himself close to the man.

“Who are you?” he demanded. “Why are you asking me these questions?”

“I—uh—I just, I thought you were on the plane from Dubai. It was the one that just landed.”

“How do you know that?”

“The plane—the same plane every night. I take people into the city.”

The driver was trembling. He was in his mid-twenties, already losing his hair.

Tarid sat back.

“Just drive,” he told the man.

T
ARID COULD HAVE STAYED IN ONE OF THE HOTELS IN THE CITY
owned by the Revolutionary Guard; Bani Aberhadji would have seen that his bill was settled for him. But he found their atmosphere stifling, and chose a smaller guest house on the outskirts of the old city instead. The owner recognized him when he came through the door, and came out from behind the counter to personally take his bags and welcome him to Tehran.

“We will get you a very nice room,” said the owner, whose name Tarid tried to recall but could not remember. “But first—a little tea? You look tired from your journey.”

“Tea would be nice.”

“Very good, Arash,” said the owner, turning toward the office behind the desk. He clapped his hands together. “Simin, get our friend some tea. A few cookies, too.”

The hotelier practically pushed Tarid to an overstuffed chair at the side of the lobby, then sat down across from him.

“There are many rumors around the city,” he told Tarid as they waited for the tea. “The president has made peace with the U.S.A.”

“Yes, I’ve heard.”

“The rumor is that he’s going there soon.”

“I wouldn’t trust the devils,” said Tarid. “They’re not truthful.”

“Maybe you’re right. Still, it is an incredible thought.”

“A bad one.”

The host, who had relatives in America, stopped talking, afraid he might insult his guest.

His daughter Simin appeared a few moments later, carrying a tray with tea and cookies. Tarid hadn’t seen the girl in just over a year. She’d grown considerably in that time, blossoming into a beautiful woman. She wasn’t there yet—he was looking at a piece of fruit that had just begun to shade from green, its blush hinting at the sweetness still a week or two away. But the potential was obvious.

Her scarf slipped to one side as she poured the tea, exposing the curl of hair at the back of her neck. As someone who freely traveled the world, Tarid had numerous opportunities to see much more than that on women, yet the modest exposure made his heart surge.

“I’ve forgotten your name,” he said, reaching out to stop her hand as she poured.

“Simin.”

“A wonderful name.
Silver
. A precious piece of metal.”

Her eyes held his for a moment. Simin felt a confused mixture of emotions—excitement, dread, attraction. She knew from her father that Tarid was an important man, somehow connected with the Republican Guard. That he felt attracted to her—his eyes made that clear—was the most momentous thing that had happened to her since her birth.

Or so she believed. She flushed, and finished pouring the tea.

“Could I have some sugar?” asked Tarid. “Just one spoon.”

She put the teapot down, then bent to one knee to put it into his cup. Tarid admired the curve of her breast against her dress. To his mind, the suggestion was infinitely more seductive than the actual flesh.

The innkeeper saw the glances with alarm. His daughter was still young, not ready for marriage. If she left him, he would have no one to do the work here.

“Simin, off to your chores,” he said sharply. “I will see to our guest.”

“She is a very beautiful girl,” said Tarid when she was gone.

“Yes.”

The innkeeper’s nervousness amused Tarid. He said nothing else as he drank his tea, taking it in minuscule sips to savor the sweetness. Every so often he glanced at the doorway behind the desk, catching a glimpse of Simin as she went about her duties.

Finally, the cup was empty.

“Well, perhaps I will go up to my room now,” said Tarid. “I’ve had a long day and need to rest.”

“Yes, a good idea,” said the innkeeper with great relief. “Let me show you the way.”

N
URI HAD THE CAB DRIVER DROP THEM OFF TWO BLOCKS
from the hotel where Tarid had stopped.

“You want here, mister?” asked the driver. He spoke slowly in Farsi, forming each word carefully, convinced that it was the only way his foreign fare would understand. “I take you to a good hotel. Better for tourists.”

“This will do,” said Tarid in Farsi.

“But—”

“We’re meeting some friends. This is good.”

“If you wish.”

The driver pulled in the general direction of the curb, though not so far off the main lane of traffic that anyone could have squeezed around him. Nuri and Flash got out. After collecting their bags, Nuri gave the driver a 100,000 rial note and told him to keep the change.

“Thank you, sir. Thank you.” The driver opened his door. “Are you sure that you don’t want a ride to a proper hotel? I know of many.”

“That’s OK.”

The driver shrugged, then left.

“Probably going to take us to his brother-in-law’s, right?” said Flash.

“No, he’s probably pretty honest. Most of the Iranians are kind to tourists. A few you have to watch out for, but most would give you the shirt off their back. Of course, everyone thinks you’re rich.”

Nuri glanced around the street. The area was shabby, not quite poor but far from prosperous. The same could be said for much of Tehran, and the entire country for that matter. Except for oil, there was not much going on in the economy, one reason the government had agreed to get rid of its nuclear weapons.

Or at least pretended to, he thought.

“High crime area?” Flash asked.

“Crime’s not too much of a problem in Tehran,” said Nuri, though he realized that the area was not the best. “We have a lot more to worry about from the police.”

He began walking down the block. The Voice had identified the building where Tarid was staying as a small, private hotel. It had been unable to get more information about it, however—an indication to Nuri that it catered exclusively to Iranians. It was possible it was connected to the government in some way, or the Iranian secret service, if Tarid was employed by it.

They stopped at the corner, still a half block from the hotel There was a small painted sign in Farsi.

“What do you think?” asked Flash. “We going to check in?”

“I’m not sure.”

Checking into a hotel controlled by the intelligence services would be needlessly dangerous under the circumstances. Nuri decided to take a look at the place and see how difficult it would be to wait for Tarid outside. Bumping into him in the street in the morning might be the easiest way to accomplish their mission.

On the other hand, the Voice said that Tarid was in the lobby. Perhaps he could go in and ask for directions—tag him as he stood nearby. Then he’d be able to get some real sleep.

“Wait here,” Nuri told Flash. “I’m going to check the place out.”

“What do I do with the bags?”

“Sit on them.”

“Thanks.”

The hotel was a narrow four-story building squeezed between two apartment houses. The entrance to the lobby was up a flight of steps from the street, situated just high enough to make it impossible to see inside without going up the steps, though Nuri tried as he walked by. He continued down the end of the block, crossed, and passed again on the other side. There were two restaurants and a café almost directly across from the place; it was likely Tarid would go there in the morning. Even if he didn’t, it would be easy to wait for him there.

“Locate the subject in the building,” said Nuri. “What floor is he on?”

“His elevation indicates floor three.”

“He’s not in the lobby?”

“Elevation indicates floor three.”

“Front or back?”

“Back.”

“When was the last time he moved?”

“Subject is moving.”

“Still in that apartment?”

“Within the previous parameters.”

The Voice couldn’t tell whether he was in a specific room; all it could do was compare how far he had gone to where he had gone earlier.

Nuri turned around at the corner, looking back down the street. He’d plant some video bugs to make surveillance easier, then come back in the morning.

But what he really wanted to do was plant one on Tarid.

Maybe he should wait until Tarid fell asleep, Nuri thought, then break into his hotel room.

A car sped down the street, passing so close that the wind nearly knocked him over. A loud, Western-style beat pounded from its speakers, the bass vibrating throughout the narrow street. He watched it for a moment, then crossed over, deciding he would go into the lobby and plant a bug.

Though the lights were on in the lobby, the hotel owner had locked the front door for the night. Nuri banged the door against the dead-bolt lock, not realizing it was closed.

Disappointed, he turned and looked for a spot where he could slip the bug.

He had just set one of the larger bugs beneath the rail when the door opened behind him, catching him by surprise.

“What do you want?” asked the hotel owner. His earlier good humor, when he first welcomed Tarid, had drained away.

“Oh, I—a wrong address,” said Nuri.

“You are looking for a room?”

“No, no, it’s OK,” he said.

Nuri’s accent made it plain that he was a foreigner. The hotel owner’s bad mood—provoked by Tarid’s attention toward his daughter—were moderated by the prospect of unexpected business.

“I can find you a very suitable room,” he told Nuri. “At a reasonable rate. Come.”

Nuri hesitated, then decided he might just as well go inside.

“Where is your bag?” asked the owner.

“I don’t have one. The airline—” He shook his head.

“Did you give them this address to deliver it?” the hotelier asked.

“No. I’m supposed to go out and pick it up,” said Nuri.

“Probably better for you. Sometimes they get lost on the way.” The hotel owner shook his head. “You have had a terrible time. I’m very sorry for you. Perhaps a bath will cheer you up. How did you find us?”

“I was looking for a hotel a friend told me of,” said Nuri. “I don’t know that it was yours, though. It was in this block—the Blossom?”

“I’ve never heard of it. Who was your friend?”

“Riccardo Melfi, of Milano,” said Nuri, offering the first name that flew into his head. It belonged to a friend of his whom he hadn’t seen since grade school.

The hotel owner, naturally, didn’t recognize it. But he said that he’d had an Italian recently, just to be polite.

“This may be the place he mentioned, then,” said Nuri. “He said it was a very nice place. With a professional staff.”

“Of course. And good rates. I do need to see your passport.”

“Certainly.”

Nuri handed it over to be copied.

“I’ll give it back in the morning,” said the hotel owner. “Collect it at the desk. Your room—”

“Would it be possible to make the copy this evening?” asked Nuri. “This way I won’t forget in the morning. And I can go out early.”

“You’re going out early?”

“I have business at the oil ministry very early. I was told to meet the minister immediately after morning prayers. If I am late, it is possible that I would not see him. Then I will lose my job.”

Ordinarily the owner would have made some excuse about the machine not working and put the guest off, but the casual mention of the minister had impressed him. He took the passport and went into the back room, where his daughter was still cleaning the bowls he had put her to work on hours before. He berated her, telling her it was well past time for her to finish and get to bed—and reminding her that she was not to go near any of the guests.

“Any guest,” he repeated.

“Yes, Papa.”

Out in the lobby, Nuri slipped a bug under the ledge of the desk, then tried to look at the ledger for the number to Tarid’s room. But the owner hadn’t bothered to record it.

“Your passport,” said the owner, returning. “And here is
the key. There are only four rooms on each hall. Should I show you?”

“I can find it.”

Nuri walked to the end of the lobby and started up the stairs.

“The elevator is right there,” said the owner.

“Yes, yes, thank you,” said Nuri. He stepped over and pressed the button, getting in as soon as the doors were open.