Quest for Honor (30 page)

“Tell us what you have in mind, American.” Heydar wasn’t so friendly now.

Jim stood up slowly, expecting to be pushed back down or clubbed. He was taller than anyone else here, although Heydar was close, probably about six-one. Jim looked straight at the major and said, “I can beat any man in this camp, hand-to-hand.” He took another risk, looking slowly around. There were about forty men in the room behind him, and every one of them looked like they were ready to kill him. “I don’t need a fighter jet or a tank or even a rifle. I’m not a soldier or a marine, but I can still beat you. Man for man you’re no match for us and you know it.”

The room went perfectly still. He looked back at Heydar and played his last card. “Here’s my challenge: I will fight any man in this camp. In fact, any
four
men. If I win, you allow us to go free. If I lose, do with us as you wish.”

The shouting couldn’t be calmed by a mere gesture now. Jim was shoved from behind, but he held himself back, giving only a withering glance back at the man. Heydar stood and held up his arms, shouting something in Arabic, and the men fell silent. If he pulled a gun and shot them all dead right now, he would lose whatever respect these men had for him, and Jim had the feeling they didn’t have all that much to begin with. Heydar could not afford to back down. Amir appeared to be enjoying Heydar’s discomfort.

“All right, American,” Heydar said. “You obviously do not think much of these men and their abilities. I have trained many of them in the martial arts. They are formidable fighters.”

“Yeah? Well, let’s find out. We have a saying in America: put your money where your mouth is.”

The room was silent, but the tension was thick. There was whispering behind him. Enough of the men back there knew enough English to translate. Heydar was on the spot, and there was only one way to get off it.

“Very well.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Iran

F
azeed saw the
statue when he stopped to look through the shop’s display window. The bronze Cyrus the Great, fifty centimeters tall, was facing slightly to the west. The all-clear signal. The Iranian general allowed himself to exhale and fought an urge to glance behind him. Despite what his security officer told him, he found it hard to believe he was not still under surveillance.

Two weeks ago his team had spotted a possible VEVAK unit in the city, but after a few days they had left. Apparently; one could never be sure about the secret police. Fazeed would’ve preferred to take a little more time, but he could not. Tomorrow he was scheduled to fly to Oman for a regional security conference that would begin the following day. His wife was already en route, having left Tehran a few hours ago. Habibeh had called him on her cell phone as she was about to board the flight to Muscat, reminding him to send in payment for their electric bill, as she had forgotten. That innocuous request told him that her dear friend Dorri Ralouf, the admiral’s wife, was with her, just as planned. As the plane was taxiing down the runway for takeoff, she sent him a quick text message. Now, he had to trust that they were in the air, almost at their destination.

Fazeed and Heinz had discussed the plan just a few days ago over coffee in the shop’s back room. The general would meet Habibeh in Muscat and then slip out of their hotel, dodging his own aides, and make their way to the German embassy. Admiral Ralouf, flying to Oman from his base at Bandar Abbas, would accompany his own wife to the French embassy. The Raloufs’ twin daughters, studying at university in Paris, would be taken into protective custody by French security police when their parents were safe.

Fazeed knew that even if he and Ralouf both made it to Muscat, they would not be out of the woods until they left their hotel. The timing would be crucial; the VEVAK agents accompanying the Iranian delegation would lock down the hotel as soon as even one officer went missing. Fazeed had used the internet to scout the terrain, so to speak; the embassies were both less than two kilometers from their hotel. If for some reason they were unable to hail cabs, they would walk, and if necessary, run.

But first, Fazeed had to meet with Heinz here tonight and deliver the information he’d promised. If he didn’t, it was possible the Germans in Muscat would refuse to grant asylum to him and his wife. That had not been stated, but Fazeed was taking no chances. Earlier that afternoon he had downloaded a number of top secret files onto a flash drive, which was now tucked safely inside the left-leg cuff of his civilian trousers. Defeating the security protocols on many of the files had proven more difficult than he anticipated, but in the end he was confident he had enough to make believers out of the Westerners. What they did with his information would be out of his hands. He would pray to Allah that they would act on it, and quickly. The ships were at sea, and every hour they got many kilometers closer to their targets.

Inside the shop, the Turkmen owner, Yaghoub, was talking to a couple near a display of rugs. A young man was on the other side of the shop, studying a case containing rare books. Yaghoub saw Fazeed as he entered, but did not acknowledge him. The general was immediately on alert. It was not like the Turkmen to ignore a customer. His senses ratcheted up and he walked calmly over to a wall display containing swords and daggers.

He would wait two minutes for Heinz to appear, and if he did not, Fazeed would leave the shop and return to his base. That was their backup security protocol. The Cyrus statue might be correctly positioned, but that did not ensure complete security. So far they had met here three times, and each time the German had been waiting for him. But in the event he was not there, even if he had been delayed for some completely innocuous reason, Fazeed’s instructions were to wait only two minutes. The general glanced at the clock behind the main counter as a trickle of perspiration worked its way down his back. There was one other protocol that would come into play in the event of an emergency, but so far Fazeed had not seen that signal.

“An interesting piece, is it not?”

It took every ounce of discipline in Fazeed’s body to avoid a nervous reaction to the young man’s question. Fazeed nodded and offered a courteous smile. “Indeed. A Mongol scimitar, thirteenth century.”

“You know your swords, sir. Are you a military man yourself?”

Fazeed had to proceed with extreme caution without being rude. “I have some knowledge in that area, you might say.”

The second hand on the clock ticked past Fazeed’s one-minute mark. Out of the corner of his left eye, he saw Yaghoub leave the couple and take two steps closer. The Turkmen reached under the counter and placed a shiny object on it, causing a slight clacking sound. Turning his head only a couple inches to the left, Fazeed pretended to look at another sword next to the scimitar, but instead he glanced quickly at the object on the counter.

A knife. Fazeed knew it was a
karn,
a steel dagger with ivory handle, made in Iran circa 1800. It was also the emergency signal. The shop had been blown. His mind raced. What about the statue? The signals sent conflicting messages. But perhaps Yaghoub had adjusted the statue earlier on Heinz’s order, and then suddenly, perhaps just minutes ago, received a call from the German, or some other indication of trouble, and had not had time to move Cyrus.

It made no difference. Yaghoub never took an item out of his display cases unless a customer specifically requested it. There could be no doubt. Fazeed had to get out, now. To the man next to him, he said, “Excuse me.” Turning to Yaghoub, he asked, “My friend, the book on Darius the Great, has it arrived?”

“I’m sorry, no. Perhaps next week.”

“Very well. I’ll see you then.” Nodding to the Turkmen, who averted his eyes, Fazeed took a step toward the door.

He felt a hand on left his arm, heard the distinctive sound of something sliding on leather. “Just a minute, General.”

His reaction was instinctive and instantaneous. He picked the dagger off the counter and in one motion whirled and plunged it into the man’s stomach. The man’s eyes bulged as he gasped, doubling over. A pistol fell from his left hand and clattered to the floor. The woman at the rug display screamed.

Fazeed stooped quickly and picked up the gun, slipped it into the outside pocket of his coat and walked purposefully to the door, looking straight ahead, ignoring the shocked rug customers. He exited the shop and turned right, took five more steps and turned into an alley. The city’s bazaar district was a typical warren of side streets and narrow alleys. Having explored it often, Fazeed was quite familiar with it. He could only hope that the men who would soon be pursuing him would not be.

It took him five minutes to find a shop where he could buy a dark gray short jacket, replacing the tan sport coat he’d been wearing, and another shop nearby produced a cheap straw fedora. The sport coat went into a trash barrel, and he ducked into a small café, entered the restroom and slipped the flash drive from his trouser hem. He dropped it in the toilet, relieved himself, and flushed.

Looking at himself in the mirror, he considered his options. There weren’t many. He had no way to contact Heinz, and the German had probably been arrested already. His staff car, which he’d driven himself from the base, was parked about half a kilometer away from the shop, and to get there he’d have to take a roundabout route to avoid going past the shop again. Undoubtedly VEVAK agents had the car under surveillance.

His only hope was to get back to the base and fly from there to Muscat. Although the base was primarily the home of a missile regiment, there was an airfield with a small squadron of Russian-made MiG-29 fighters. Fazeed was qualified on the aircraft. At least half the squadron was on alert at any given time, so there would be a jet available for him, fully fueled…and armed. Oman was well to the south, across the Gulf, but the border with Turkmenistan, to the north, was much closer. He could make it in twenty or thirty minutes, and the largest airfield in the country was in Ashgabat, just across the border. On the other hand, Iran and Turkmenistan had good relations, so he could not trust the Turkmen government to grant him asylum. Perhaps he could go east, to Afghanistan, and find an American base. He might even be able to make it to Bagram, although that would be at the edge of the MiG’s range…

This was pointless! He was wasting time. Get to the base, get into a cockpit and get in the air. Then he could make a decision. He pulled his cell phone from the inside pocket of his new jacket and punched in a speed-dial number. First he had to warn Ralouf. The admiral was not scheduled to fly to Oman until the next morning. Fazeed could not be certain VEVAK would not arrest Ralouf, or at least question him, before then. The friendship of the two men was widely known. No, they would come for him, perhaps were already watching him, waiting for orders.

A recorded voice answered.
“This is Admiral Ralouf. Please leave a message.”

Fazeed waited for the beep, then said, “Alas, Babylon,” and hung up. It was the code phrase they’d agreed upon, from an old American novel they’d both enjoyed in their student days, warning the recipient to take every precaution and advance his departure if at all possible. Fazeed knew their phones were secure devices, or so their respective security teams had assured them. But how secure was anything in Iran? The secret police had their tendrils everywhere.

Next he hit the button that speed-dialed his security chief at the base. “Colonel Rajaei.”

“This is General Fazeed. Condition Blue. I am in the city. Send a helicopter for me. I will be waiting at the soccer field next to the elementary school.”

“Are you all right, General? Do you need assistance? I have three men in the city this evening, on personal business.”

Fazeed considered that option, then discarded it. It was a large city and the men could be anywhere. By the time they got to a central location it would be too late. Fazeed stepped to the wall of the rest room, cocking an ear to the small upper window. In the distance he heard a siren. No, he would be better off on his own, and the fewer people who knew about this, the better. “Negative, Colonel. I will make the rendezvous by myself.” He had to make it sound convincing, so he added, “An attempt was made on my life. I’m sure it was a man sent by our friends to the west. We have rehearsed this, remember.”

“Of course, General,” Rajaei said. An assassination attempt on the commander of a missile regiment could very well be the opening move in an Israeli attack. “I will have the helicopter sent immediately.”

“Very good, Davood. Initiate the appropriate security measures. No one is to enter or exit the base, starting now. Except for that helicopter.”

“Understood, sir. I will see you soon.” Fazeed signed off, pocketed the cell phone and left the rest room.

Fazeed stood near a tree at the southeast corner of the school’s small campus. The cab had dropped him off three blocks away, and the general had wound his way through the neighborhood of small homes, apartment buildings and shops, doing what he could to throw off any pursuit. He was becoming increasingly agitated; he was not trained in this, and the men hunting him were. His only hope was the helicopter.

He looked at his watch again. Nearly thirty minutes since his call to the base, about forty-five since he’d left the antiquities shop. He’d heard more sirens, but they didn’t seem to be getting closer. Where was the damned chopper? He would wait another five minutes and call the base again. Could Rajaei have betrayed him? No, it was not possible—

From behind him, in the direction from which he’d come, he heard a siren, two sirens. He began to perspire more heavily. But what was that? The helicopter! Yes, it was coming! He looked out at the soccer field, where children were playing a match. What would the pilot do when he saw them? Would he hesitate? No, they were trained in this type of situation: come in fast and if it was a “hot” landing zone, there was a gunner on board to deal with resistance. But the gunner would not fire on civilians.

He looked to the west, in the gathering twilight, as the beat of the helicopter’s rotors grew louder. From behind him, so did the sirens. There it was! Coming in low, running lights off, just as they’d drilled. But the children, some of them didn’t see the helicopter. Many heard it, they were halting their play and looking skyward. Some were still playing.

Fazeed looked down the street behind him. Three blocks away, a police car turned the corner and headed toward him, lights flashing. Another was behind it.

The general drew his pistol and ran onto the field, shouting at the children. “Run! Clear the field!” He fired two rounds into the air. That got their attention. Some of them screamed in panic, but they all began to run, all except one, a boy who had the ball. Intent on the game, he was the last to notice anything happening. He was near midfield, and Fazeed saw the helicopter coming in fast from the west, over the school and now the sideline of the field, pulling up into a hover as it prepared to land. The side door was open, and an airman was leaning out, shouting at the boy to clear the landing space.

He heard the screech of braking vehicles behind him, shouts from the policemen. He had fifty meters to go. The boy knelt down with the ball, terrified, as the helicopter hovered above him. The pilot, realizing the boy was frozen in fear, moved the aircraft several meters to the west, away from the boy, and began to descend.

Fazeed felt something buzz past his head just as he heard the crack of the gun from behind him. A divot exploded from the ground to his right, then another. The helicopter was ten meters above the ground now, coming down dangerously close to the child, but close enough to give the general a chance to escape the gunfire behind him. The gunner at the door readied his machine gun, hesitated, tilted his head as if receiving an order in his helmet’s headset, then fired a burst past Fazeed toward the police. Another airman appeared in the doorway, waving at the general to hurry.