Assassin's Code (4 page)

Just like every other ordinary citizen was doing.

Chapter Five

Starbox Coffee

Tehran, Iran

June 15, 7:41 a.m.

That was how it ended. At least for me. Top, Bunny, and Khalid still had to get the college kids out of the country, but circumstances cut me from that team. I knew it was going to be a nail-biter for the guys, but Top was the best team leader in the business. If there was a way, he’d see it done.

I made it back to my hotel room without further incident. John Smith and Lydia weren’t there, but I hadn’t expected them. Each of us had a different bolt-hole and pickup point for a ride out of town.

I didn’t have much in the way of weapons or equipment left at the hotel. Our local contact, Abdul, whom I hadn’t yet met—had come by and cleared everything out. All that was left was my suitcase filled with locally made and purchased street clothes and my shaving kit.

Abdul wasn’t scheduled to pick me up until noon.
Plenty of time
, I’d thought.
I’ll just go get some coffee and a roll and read the paper.

Jeez.

While I waited I thought about the conversation with the mystery lady. She was clearly working for someone—possibly the person I was now waiting for—but there was something extra hinky about the way she “confirmed” my identity. It felt more like she didn’t know who I was and was fishing for that information. And yet she’d known enough about Church to make a crack about how tough it is to make him laugh. Did that mean she knew Church? Or was that a slice of information she’d been given to use to convince me that she knew more than she does. Apparent omniscience is frightening; it intimidates people into saying things they shouldn’t. Cops use it all the time, mostly faking it, to get suspects and witnesses to open up.

So, what did she know about me? That I was a smart-ass. That’s not exactly the best-kept secret in the world. That I worked for someone named Church who didn’t always appreciate my humor? That was a single fact that
suggested
intimate knowledge. At the time, out there in the awkward moment of having laser sights on me, it encouraged me to perhaps read more into it than was necessary.

The fact that she knew about Church at
all
was spooky. I was certain that Church’s name was fake. Since I’ve known him I’ve heard people call him Colonel Eldritch, the Deacon, Dr. Bishop, Mr. Priest, and a few other names that were equally phony. I knew of only one person who definitely knew his real name; and one other—his daughter—who probably did, but even I wasn’t certain about that.

Another question was how she found me?

Either I was spotted on the street, ID’d, and followed—which I don’t think is likely, not given how elaborate this all was. Or my hotel was being watched and they’d acquired me there. Safer to brace me on a city street than in my lair. They couldn’t know that the only thing I had in my “lair” was a hungry dog, an extra pair of clean boxers, and a shaving kit. No James Bond gadgets. No lurking ninja army waiting to spring to my defense.

The real bitch was the fact that she had my phone number. That’s really hard to get. It’s not like I’m listed in the phone book under “DMS team leaders with a wacky sense of humor.”

So that was all disturbing on a lot of levels.

Minutes limped by and no visitor. People came into the Starbox for coffee, but most of them left again, joining the burgeoning flow of office drones heading to work. They shambled in like zombies, ordered tea or coffee, and shambled out again with barely a word spoken. It was the same here as it was everywhere else in the world. People are people and most of them have enough on their minds with family, jobs, bosses on their ass, bills to pay, kids to raise, and futures to get to that they don’t give much of a shit about the things that go on in my life. Back in the States we tend to think of Iran as an evil place because we don’t like the extremist ruling government. But … we don’t like
most
ruling governments, and even the ones running the countries that we
do
like don’t give much of a shit about us. The one percent at the top of the money heap care about each other, or hate each other, but they all play with each other. The rest of us go about our jobs, and raise our kids, and do our best to stay out of it all.

I watched them come and go. Just folks. I never saw one person that looked alien or evil to me. Not one.

Until
he
arrived.

This was the guy I was here to meet, no doubt about it.

“Uh-oh,” I murmured.

No need to worry about them reading my lips—they’d probably expect me to say exactly that.

Chapter Six

Starbox Coffee

Tehran, Iran

June 15, 7:56 a.m.

He was late forties, average height, with dark hair and fair skin. Iranian without a doubt, and the European heritage was there in the aquiline nose, green eyes, and non-Semitic features. Iranians aren’t Arabs. Most people don’t know that, especially the mouthbreathers who lump all Middle Eastern peoples into one group so they can be more easily despised. The name “Iranian” comes from “Aryan,” but the culture draws on ethnic lines from Europe, Asia, and elsewhere. Lots of nice diversity in a generally good-looking people.

This guy could be a soap opera star. Women would swoon. If they didn’t know who and what he was. If they did … well, I think even the president of the antigun lobby would pop a cap in him and laugh while he did it. The stakes on this bizarre morning encounter jumped about tenfold.

I
did
know who he was.

He was accompanied by a second man who might as well have had “thug” tattooed on his forehead; he shooed away the only other customers, a pair of middle-aged men, and positioned himself at the door to prevent anyone else from coming in.

The man I was here to meet bought a cup of coffee, told the girl behind the counter to go into the back room and stay there, and then he walked over and stood in front of me. He wore a blue sport coat over a white dress shirt with only the top button undone, khakis, and a pair of hand-sewn Italian shoes. He looked down at me and I sat there; I smiled affably, holding my coffee between my palms, resisting the urge to kick his kneecaps off and stomp him to death.

“Captain Ledger,” he said. Not a question.

When I didn’t reply, he nodded toward the other chair.

“May I?”

“Sure,” I said. “It’s a free country.”

His mouth twitched a little at that. He sat, perching on the edge of the chair like a nervous Chihuahua ready to bolt. He looked around and then stared out through the window for a moment, then nodded. Not sure if it was to the mysterious woman or the shooters or to himself. This was his home turf, so I was curious why he should be skittish.

He looked at me looking at him. “You know who I am?”

“Yes.”

“If we were in your country I imagine you would like to arrest me.”

“‘Arrest’?” I said, tasting the word. “No … not really.”

“Then—”

“‘Kill’? Sure, that would work.”

He had eyes like a hunting hawk. Piercing, fierce, and almost unblinking. “Why do you believe that it is up to you to judge whether I live or die? I have never killed anyone. I have not spilled a single drop of human blood. Not ever.”

I crossed my legs and leaned back in my chair. “Jalil Rasouli,” I said. “I always thought that was kind of funny. Same name as the artist. I
like
the artist. He brings something to the world. He uplifts.”

“As do—”

“If you say that what you do also uplifts I will rip your throat out,” I said in a conversational tone, my smile unwavering. Rasouli shut up. I let a couple of seconds pass. I said, “If you know who I am then you should be able to guess that I’ve read your file. Not the public profile, but the real stuff. You say that you don’t have any blood on your hands?”

He said nothing.

“Vezarat-e Ettela’at Jomhouri-ye Eslami-ye Iran,” I said quietly. His eyes bored into mine. I translated it just to put it out there. “The Ministry of Intelligence and National Security of the Islamic Republic of Iran. MISIRI. Pretty unfortunate acronym.”

Nothing.

“You were the deputy operations chief during the 1999 chain of murders. CIA, Interpol, even some spies in your own government name you as the man behind the whole shebang. No blood on your hands? But how many murders did you green-light? Car accidents, stabbings, shootings in staged robberies. Oh, and all those faked heart attacks—what was it you used for those? Potassium injections? And who were the targets? Soldiers, enemy combatants? No. You went after writers, translators, poets, political activists, ordinary citizens. Iranian citizens. The intellectual class, the ones capable of phrasing a compelling argument against the extremist government. You get that idea from reading Stalin’s biography?”

Jalil Rasouli brushed some lint from his jacket sleeve. “Your Persian is very good; you speak it like an Iranian. Excellent.”

“You should hear my pig Latin.”

He didn’t seem to know what that was and shrugged it off. On a different and mildly perverse level, I was pleased by the compliment. I have a talent for languages and Persian was one of the first I learned. Before I joined the DMS I sat on wiretaps as part of Baltimore PD’s role in Homeland. Listening to endless hours of people talking about ordinary things helps a linguist smooth out the edges of their own command of the language. On the other hand, I’d rather have my fingernails yanked out with pliers before I let Rasouli know that I appreciated his approval.

“Most of the world press thinks you’re going to make a bid for the presidency,” I said. “Oddsmakers say you even have a shot. Not sure it would be an improvement over the current psycho in office.”

He yawned. “You want to provoke me? What do you think I would do? Attack you?” He jerked his head toward the thug. “Or order Feyd to do it?”

“Don’t count too much on that moron.”

“He is very good.”

“His coat is buttoned and he’s leaning against the wall on his gun-arm side. He tries anything, you’ll be dead before he can draw his gun, and then I’ll feed it to him.”

Rasouli considered his bodyguard and gave a noncommittal shrug. “If I am the man you believe me to be, then I could have sent a squad of soldiers here.”

“Maybe you should have.”

He smiled. Son of a bitch had a great dentist. I wanted to knock his caps down his throat. I had to covertly take a calming breath. This guy was not bringing out my best qualities.

Rasouli cleared his throat. For a moment he looked almost embarrassed by his own threat, which I found confusing. With a clear change in his tone of voice he leaned forward and placed his elbows on his knees. “I am risking much in meeting you here.”

I resisted the urge to prove him right. Instead I gave an encouraging nod.

“I could not go through the regular diplomatic channels,” he continued in a quiet and confidential tone, “for reasons that should be apparent to you.”

“Because your regular diplomatic channels are staffed by vultures, thieves, cutthroats, and scumbags,” I said. “And your own people would sell you out for the price of a bowl of lentil soup.”

“No,” he said, “my own people would sell me out, that is not a question, but it would be for very much money.”

“Ah. So you
know
that your ambassadors and diplomats are as crooked as a barrel of fish hooks.”

He smiled. “There is a saying: ‘Trust a thief before a diplomat.’”

“That says it.”

“There is a matter of great importance and equally great complexity that needs to be dealt with, but it is so…” Rasouli waved his hand as he searched for the word.

“Fragile?” I suggested. “Volatile?”

“Either will do. Both, I suppose.”

“And you thought it would be easier to discuss it by ambushing me with snipers?”

“Would you have agreed to this meeting without them?”

“Probably not.”

“Of course not,” he said. “Besides … the snipers were already here, preparing for another task. I … borrowed them.” He paused, then added, “That other task is now canceled and will likely be abandoned.”

“What was the other job?”

Rasouli considered, then shook his head. “No, it would confuse things to discuss that. What we are here to discuss is much more important.”

“Before we get to that—why me?”

He spread his hands. “You came highly recommended.”

“By whom?”

“A mutual friend.”

“Give me a name.”

A strange, fierce light flared in his eyes and he studied every inch of my face before he answered. “Hugo Vox.”

Rasouli couldn’t have hit me harder if he’d swung a baseball bat at my face.

“You’re shitting me.”

“Not at all.”

I swallowed a lump the size of a football. Hugo Vox. Now if there was ever an “enemy of god,” then Vox had my vote. Pretty much my vote for “actual supervillain” too. Vox used to be one of the most trusted men in the United States anti- and counterterrorism community, trusted by the kind of people who don’t trust anyone. Vox was a screener for above-top-secret personnel and the director of Terror Town, the most effective counterterrorism training facility in the world. To be “vetted by Vox” was the highest honor and a seal of absolute trust. Unfortunately he turned out to be a murdering psychopath and a founding member of the Seven Kings, a secret society that we believed to be behind everything from 9/11 to the London hospital bombing. A very conservative estimate of the deaths that could directly or indirectly be laid at his door was somewhere north of twelve thousand. I wanted his head on a pole, as did most of the law enforcement agencies in the world. My boss, Mr. Church, most of all.

“How do I know that you really spoke to Vox?” I said in a quiet growl.

Rasouli offered a thin smile. “He said that you might ask that, so he gave me something to say. I suppose it is a code phrase that will mean something to you. It means nothing to me.”

“What is it?”

“Vox told me to say, ‘I vetted Grace and she was clean. She wasn’t one of mine.’”