The Increment (20 page)

“Treason,” said Harry. “I think that’s the technical term.”

“Yes indeed. So the question is, what would we do for each other, in the highly unlikely event that anyone tumbled to what we’ve been doing.”

“Deny it,” said Harry.

“And then what? I mean, supposing someone had, forgive the term, ‘proof’ that you had been a naughty boy? What then?”

“I take it you’ve talked this over with Sir David?”

“Well, yes. I really thought I should. Flap potential. Blowback, and all that. So here’s what we think, Harry. In the highly unlikely event that any of this should ever become known, we would have to disavow it. Say you were operating on your own. Rogue cell, that sort of thing. They might have to throw me overboard. That’s up to Sir David. But the point is, we would take care of you. And Andrea, of course.”

“Meaning what?”

“An annuity, tuition payments for your daughter. Resettlement when the unpleasantness was over.”

“You mean when I got out of prison?”

“Well, yes, I suppose. Sorry even to raise it, but Sir David said I must. Better safe than sorry.”

“Okay, here’s my answer. You tell Sir David to fuck off. I’m not a British agent. I wouldn’t take your money, or your tuition, or a free bottle of Scotch. The very idea is ridiculous. I am using my authority as a CIA division chief, working with a liaison service on a case we are running jointly. As per the oral instructions of my boss, the director.”

“Not written.”

“Of course not. But I am acting under his authority, and that’s what I am going to tell anyone who asks. But nobody will. And what are you going to tell Sir David?”

“To fuck off.”

“Good. Then I guess that takes care of everything. And while we’re at it, you want a little gratuitous advice from me?”

“No.”

“Stop fucking Jackie. She may be the greatest lay in the world. But it’s unprofessional. And it’s stupid. If you’re tired of Susan, screw one of the secretaries. But romancing a paramilitary from the SAS is sick. Even as a midlife crisis, it makes you look silly.”

“She is a great lay, Harry. And let’s be honest. What you’re doing is a hell of a lot stupider than what I’m doing. The difference is that you have a guilty conscience, and I don’t. So let’s be good mates and get each other through this, eh? I won’t judge you and you won’t judge me. Are we cool?”

Adrian took his hand off the shift knob and gave Harry a friendly pat on the back. The big American stared ahead for moment, and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He turned back to Adrian.

“We’re cool,” said Harry. “So long as you tell Sir David that I’m working with you. Not for you.”

Dr. Karim Molavi went
to visit his uncle Darab one Friday evening in early October in the western suburb known as Sadeghiyeh. He wanted to check the Internet to see if his call for help had received a reply, but he was afraid to touch any computer he had used in the past.
It is cold in Tehran this fall. I think we must leave for a vacation.
He hadn’t asked for an answer, but he was sure that one had been sent. If he could read it, he would feel less alone.

He didn’t like putting his uncle Darab and aunt Nasrin in danger, but he couldn’t think of any other safe way to check his email accounts. The man had a shipping business successful enough that he had bought a new villa near Pardisan Park. And he had a new computer at home for his kids. Molavi had helped install it when they brought the big crate back from Istanbul last Nowruz.

Karim didn’t call ahead to his uncle. He was afraid of that, too. And he didn’t go to the house directly. He walked from his flat in Yoosef Abad through Argentin Square to the subway stop at Mosalla. It wasn’t so busy on Fridays. He took the line 1 train south. A woman’s voice named the stops.
The Martyr Behesti. The Martyr Mofateh.
He stared out the window of the train, trying to will himself into stillness. He stood up at several stations and went to the door to see if anyone moved to follow, but no one did. When they reached Imam Khomeini station, he transferred to line 2 and went two stops to Baharestan. He exited the subway and took a stroll around the Parliament building. He couldn’t see anyone following him, but if they were good, he wouldn’t know.

He walked a few blocks south to the Melat station. Outside he bought some expensive Belgian chocolates for Nasrin and a book for Darab,
The Future of Freedom,
by Fareed Zakaria, translated into Farsi. That would make his uncle nervous, but it would impress him, too. A knockoff Baskin-Robbins was open, so he bought some ice cream for the kids.

Karim texted his uncle and said that he was in the neighborhood and would like to stop by. A minute later, Darab texted back and invited him for dinner. Of course he did. As far as he knew, his nephew Karim was a successful young man, doing important work that nobody ever talked about. Karim suspected that his uncle was even a bit afraid of him.

Karim walked toward the entrance to the station. There was more of a crowd now, as families returned home from their Friday trips to the park. Before he reached the concourse, he took out a cap and pulled it low, so that it half covered his face. They must have fixed surveillance in these stations, television cameras that monitored everyone in and out. He wouldn’t make it easy for them. Karim traveled west for ten stations, listening to the rumble of the train and clutching his bag of gifts. He hoped the ice cream wouldn’t melt. When he got to the western terminus at Sadeghiyeh Square, he exited and walked the few blocks to his uncle’s villa. He stopped several times, and took one deliberate detour down a dead-end alley. He didn’t think anyone was following him.

His aunt and uncle welcomed him at the door with many kisses. Darab was overweight, with a thin mustache and a sneaky look in his eye. Nasrin was a beautiful woman who had let herself go. She belonged to the caliphate of food. They sat him down in the new sitting room. Plastic seat covers were still on the couches and chairs. They hadn’t seen nephew Karim in months. Where had he been? He looked too thin. Was he eating? He needed a wife.

Karim was embarrassed. His uncle’s family bored him. They were
bee-farhang,
“uncultured”—the worst thing a decent Iranian could say about someone—a crass bourgeois household becoming prosperous off the tidbits of the regime. One of Uncle Darab’s silent partners in the shipping business was a clerical family from Qom. Karim doubted that Darab prayed once a year, let alone five times a day, but he was playing along like everyone else. Just as Karim himself had played along, until a few months ago. Who was he to judge?

Uncle Darab said he liked the American book. “They trust you,” he said with a wink. Yes, answered Karim. They trust me. He hoped Darab wouldn’t get in too much trouble later, if things went bad. His uncle was an ass, but he didn’t deserve to suffer more than anyone else because of Karim’s inner compulsion to connect and live.

“It is terrible about Hossein,” said Uncle Darab when Nasrin had gone into the kitchen. “Why did they make him leave? He loved the Pasdaran. It was wrong.”

“Yes, uncle.
Hayf.
I was very sorry for Hossein. They had no reason to treat him that way.”

“What did he do?” whispered Darab. “Was it something very bad?”

“No,” answered Karim. “He had the wrong friends. A new team came into his section, and poof. That was it. They made up something about him, to get him out of the way. But I do not think it was true.”

“Did you try to help him, Karim? You have influence. I know that.”

“I did what I could,” he said. Karim looked down at his shoes. He was embarrassed. In truth, he had done nothing to help his cousin. He had been too afraid.

“Well, I can tell you, it has been hard for me. Hossein was a help. He knew the people who mattered. When I had a problem, he could help me solve it. And now, I have to find other ways.” He looked at Karim expectantly.

So that was it. Uncle Darab’s sorrow for cousin Hossein was a business matter. What really upset him was that he had lost a fixer high up in the Revolutionary Guard.

“I wish I could help,” said Karim. “But you know, my work is scientific. I don’t meet these politicians.”

“I would never ask, my dear. Never. But it’s not easy for a businessman. There are so many hands out. Still, we do all right. I am opening a new office in Bandar Abbas. Did you know that? What would your father say about that, if he were alive? His kid brother Darab, with three offices and a new house. He would say I am a success. He would be proud of me, rest his soul.”

“I am sure Father would be very happy,” said Karim. He thought, in truth, of the contempt his father had felt to the day he died for the vulgar cheerleaders of the new Iran, people like dear Uncle Darab.

Nasrin served up a
mountain of food. Somehow in the few dozen minutes between Karim’s text message and his arrival, she had managed to cook minced lamb
chelo kebab
over a heaping tray of rice, a roast chicken covered with a
fesenjun
sauce of pomegranate juice, walnuts and cardamom, and a
dolme bademjun
of eggplant stuffed with meat and raisins. It was the best meal Karim had eaten in weeks, and he went back for seconds, which made Nasrin very happy. She brought out homemade sweets, and in deference to her guest a selection of the Baskin-Robbins ice cream, but Karim had no more appetite left for dessert.

After coffee, Karim offered
to go and play with the kids on the computer. There was Ali, now twelve, and little Azadeh, who was six. Uncle Darab had a fairly fast connection with one of the satellite ISP providers. Karim knew that because he had helped him set up the Internet link. He and Ali and Azadeh played for a while on some Persian websites for kids, but soon enough they got tired and lay down on the floor of the playroom. Nasrin was doing the dishes, and Darab was in the parlor talking on the phone.

Karim didn’t have long. His aunt and uncle would come eventually to take the children up to bed. He thought about checking the “Dr. Ali” account at Hotmail and decided that would be too dangerous. It had been his opening card. They had moved to another system. He found the URL for Gmail, and when the interface came up he typed in the username and password of the “iranmetalworks” account he had created many weeks ago.

His heart was racing. Fear is your friend, he reminded himself. Live inside it. Climb it like a wall. The Gmail account had to be clean. Why should it be otherwise? Millions of Iranians had free Internet accounts with Yahoo and Gmail and MSN. The authorities couldn’t monitor them all, and so far as Karim knew, they didn’t try. But still, he paused a moment before he hit the “enter” key that would take him into the world of secrets. There was a delay as the request moved out along the wires and satellite links and fiber-optic nerves. The system was slow on a Friday night. People were at home checking their mail, playing Internet games with their kids, downloading music, and surfing porn. The wait seemed to go on for more than a minute, and sweat began to form on Karim’s brow. But finally the interface showed bright on the screen. Karim went to the space that held drafts of unsent messages, and there it was:

We are working on vacation plans. We will bring the tickets to you. Be careful about that cold. Stay away from germs and wash your hands regularly.

He read it twice, then closed the file. He felt a sense of elation. It was like a current of electricity entering his body from a distant power source. He exited Gmail and went to a popular website run by the conservative newspaper
Kayhan
to cover his tracks. He was reading an article about Mahdism when Nasrin came in a few minutes later, singing a Persian lullaby. He powered down the computer and helped his aunt carry the children up to bed.

Uncle Darab offered to
drive Karim back to Yoosef Abad, and he was mildly offended when his nephew declined. Karim apologized that he needed some exercise after eating two dinners. Nasrin liked that, so she gave him more kisses and sent him on his way.

Dr. Karim Molavi walked
away from the villa in Sadeghiyeh as if in a daze. There was a benign and mysterious force out there, at the other end of the pond. They had heard his plea and they understood it. They would find a way to get him out, even if he was watched and had no passport and could not travel in any of the normal ways. That’s how powerful they were. He should stay where he was; they would come to him. Meanwhile, he should avoid surveillance. Stay away from germs. Stay alive.

He walked for several miles, along the border of Pardisan Park. The lights were still on at some of the rides and amusements. Twinkling, inviting, forgiving. A few families were still out walking. Even the tall needle of the communications tower in Nasr Park, which Karim ordinarily regarded as an insult to the Tehran skyline, looked harmless on this fall evening. He was not alone. They were coming to get him.

He found a taxi and told the driver to take him home to Yoosef Abad. The driver got lost coming off the Kordestan Expressway, so Karim had to direct him block by block to Yazdani Street. He stopped a block from his apartment, to be careful. As he walked home, still feeling that sense of elation, he cautioned himself that he must be especially careful now. The dangerous part was just beginning. He repeated to himself a Persian proverb.
Nafasat az jayeh garm darmiyad.
You are breathing from a warm spot. In other words, don’t get over-optimistic. He would feel the cold in his bones again soon enough. He would wait. They would come. He turned the key of his apartment door and sat on his couch for a time, with the light off.