The Leveling (29 page)

The general was seventy-four years old. His clean-shaven face showed the wrinkles that come with age. Liver spots dotted the backs of his hands.

“Stop this.”

“I must tell you of these complications.”

The general signed another document. “Enough! Whatever your problem is, you must solve it yourself.”

“The Iranians have detained an American—”

The general smacked his palm on his desk. “One month ago you came to see me. You stood before me as you do now. You assured me, and I in turn assured the commission, that there would be no circumstances under which the commission would—”

“I provided financial support to the Iranian newspaper editor we spoke of. The sayyid Amir Bayat, the man I worked with years ago when I was in Tehran.”

“Financial support that you assured me would be untraceable. You were—”

“As he promised, he was able to use that money to pay off the right generals and informants, so that false information fell into the hands of the Americans and Israelis.”

“Do not tell me the nature of this information,” warned the general. “There is no reason for the commission, or me, to know. We agreed on this point, Li.”

“Because of complications that have arisen, you must now instruct the Guoanbu in Iran to do as I say.”

“Impossible.”

“Then I will tell you the specifics of the operation you authorized. So that you know the dangers involved. Two months ago, the daughter of Supreme Leader Ayatollah Khorasani was caught swimming at night, naked, on a men’s beach in Kish Island.
She was arrested by local Iranian police. Of course, when they arrested her, the police had no idea who she was.”

The general shook his head and narrowed his eyes. Zemin enjoyed the look of disgust on his uncle’s face. Theirs was a strictly formal relationship. Certainly they had never—not even once—discussed anything remotely sexual before.

“Because she was the daughter of the supreme leader, the incident was covered up and the girl was sequestered. But rumors started…”

“And the Americans,” said his uncle, when Zemin had finished. “They actually have been deceived by these rumors?”

“You would know better than I. How many of their aircraft carriers are within striking distance of Iran?”

Zemin took his uncle’s silence as an acknowledgment that the Americans were indeed up to something. He paused, expecting some small nod of recognition from his uncle that, remarkably, the primary objective of the operation remained on track.

Instead, the general said, “This is not a Chinese operation and never was. This is your operation.”

“Enough, Uncle. We are alone. We can speak the truth. You put the outline of the operation before the commission. And the commission approved it because they were afraid that, if the regime in Iran were ever to collapse, China’s oil and natural gas agreements might be canceled. A new government in Iran would want to reach out to the West, and other Central Asian nations might follow suit. A US attack on Iran would ensure that that would never happen. You know that, and I know that.”

“We will not acknowledge it.”

“The Iranians have detained an American who knows about our involvement in the money transfer. He took a photo. It shows
me delivering money to Amir Bayat. He e-mailed this photo to others.”

The general looked disgusted. “This is your problem, not China’s. He detected your rogue operation. Not China’s.”

“You approved that transfer.”

“And you made commitments.”

“The Americans know what we did to Turkmenistan’s currency, and that I was involved, and that proceeds from that operation were transferred to Amir Bayat. These breaches are unfortunate, but not catastrophic.”

“Commitments of absolute secrecy!”

“The danger is that the Americans will learn
why
we transferred money to Bayat. The only way to guarantee that that won’t happen is to eliminate the two people in Iran who know both where the money came from and where the money went.”

The general stared down Zemin.

“Yes, Uncle, we must kill Amir Bayat and his ayatollah brother. You must authorize the Guoanbu in Iran to do it immediately. A former CIA officer has crossed into Iran. His name is Mark Sava. He has seen the photo of me and he knows the man the Iranians have detained. He is closing in.”

The general came out from behind his desk. “To come here with demands, like a pushy schoolboy. You shame yourself. The commission will not approve such a mission.”

“Then you must.”

“I will not. Ayatollah Bayat is a member of the Guardian Council. He could be the next supreme leader. If our involvement in his death were ever discovered—”

“It is the only way.”

“I will not be interrupted and bullied by an insolent child. Now leave me be.”

His uncle expected deference, Zemin knew. For the old ways to be honored, for blind obedience, for elders to be respected. But his uncle didn’t respect the old ways. His uncle lived in Santa
Barbara and invested in hotel chains in Hong Kong. He only followed the old ways when it suited him.

Zemin would do the same.

“No, Uncle, that’s where you’re wrong. You
will
be bullied by me. You will instruct Guoanbu assets in Iran to kill Amir Bayat and his brother Muhammad Bayat. You will also instruct them to kill the Bayats’ American prisoner, and the guards being used to detain him, and the American Mark Sava. And you will instruct them to do all this in direct consultation with me.” He took a step toward his uncle. “If you do not do these things, I will tell the Americans myself what you and the commission and our president have planned. I will ruin you. And if it ruins me in the process, I don’t care.”

Tehran, Iran

T
HE OCCASIONAL STEEP
slope of the trunk told Mark that he and Daria were ascending north into the wealthy part of Tehran, high above the dense smog and heat.

After twenty minutes, the car stopped. A gate, or perhaps a garage door, squeaked while being opened and then—after the car had pulled forward and stopped—while being closed. The trunk opened.

Standing above Mark, in a small garage, was a man of about sixty. He had a bald crown and a long, skinny, hawk-like nose. Big tufts of hair sprouted out over his ears. He offered his hand to Daria, and she took it.

“I apologize again for the inconvenience,” he said in perfect, British-accented English as he helped her climb out of the trunk.

“It is no inconvenience.”

“Oh but it is. A woman should not be subjected to such indignities. It is a sign of the times we live in.” He nodded politely to Mark. “Had I known you would be traveling with a colleague, I would have arranged it differently.”

A hallway off the garage led to a pleasant living room. It was painted a warm yellow, complementing the couch and chairs, which had been upholstered in a yellow-and-silver brocade that was notable for its caged-bird pattern—exactly as Daria had described it.

Stacked on open shelves in every corner of the living room were potted ferns and vine-like philodendrons that grew down to the floor.

“I’ll make tea,” said Mahmoud.

Mark checked his watch.

“Please, don’t trouble yourself,” said Daria.

“I insist. It is some of Darjeeling’s finest; I know the man who sells it.”

As Mahmoud turned toward the kitchen, Daria said, “There was a bloodletting in Baku. Eight months ago. Few survived. Part of what happened was my fault—” She glanced at Mark. “I lost my job. I was fired. That’s why you haven’t heard from me in so long.”

Mahmoud turned back to Daria. With what sounded like genuine sadness, he said, “I grieve for you.”

“Don’t.”

“You were hurt.”

Daria touched her face. “Not badly.”

“Don’t trouble yourself, dear. I could hardly notice. You are still radiant, but it is not your face that worries me, it is your heart.”

Mark’s first reaction was to dismiss the line as nothing more than sugary nonsense, but Mahmoud said it with such genuine empathy that he couldn’t.

Daria turned away. Mark had the impression she was struggling not to cry.

Mahmoud sat down. “Why are you here, Daria?”

She wiped her eye with the back of her hand. “We are searching for a friend.”

“You have found him.” Mahmoud opened both of his arms, gesturing to himself. “Tell me what you need.”

“I speak of a friend who we believe came to Iran.” She explained the nature of Decker’s investigation. “Before he disappeared, he sent me three photos. We were hoping you could look at them. I can’t promise that anything you do to help us will weaken the regime. I can’t promise you anything, Mahmoud. It would just be a favor.”

“Quiet yourself, dear. Show me the pictures.”

Daria handed him a blown-up photo, cut out from one of the fliers they’d posted around Mashhad. “We believe the man in the black turban is the editor of
Enqelab
.”

Mahmoud studied the photo for a moment. “It is so,” he pronounced. “Amir Bayat. The dog.”

“I thought you might know him,” said Daria.

“Yes, the incident with my…” Mark observed that Mahmoud’s hand trembled. “…my son, happened twelve years ago, around the same time this Bayat started the
Enqelab
. Bayat pressed the government’s case in his paper, of course. Every day. He is a stooge of the warmongers in this country and a monkey boy for his ayatollah brother. He prints what they tell him to print.” Mahmoud turned to Mark. “There is a cabal of lunatics in this country, you see, that make even Khorasani seem reasonable. Bayat is the mongrel dog of this cabal. A dog his masters use when it suits them to frighten the few reasonable people who are left in this country.”

Mahmoud snapped his fingers a few times, as though to summon a dog. “Bayat’s latest mission is to help destroy the conservatives who are only half-crazy, those who wish to open up limited ties to the West and lift some of the idiocy that is passed off as religion in this country. After devouring everyone decent in this country, they are now turning on their own.” He smacked his knee, and then was silent, as if embarrassed by his outburst.

Mark resisted the urge to check his watch again.

Daria pulled out her phone and brought up the three photos they’d received from Decker. Mahmoud only studied the first for a moment before announcing that he didn’t recognize the Asian man with whom Amir Bayat was exchanging a briefcase. But when Daria clicked on the second picture, the one that showed a mansion, he placed his fingers lightly on her hand.

He took her phone, brought it to within six inches of his long nose, handed the device back to Daria, and then closed his eyes.
A short while later, with a flourish of his long skinny hands, he said, “I know this place.” With disdain, he added, “This
palace
.”

Without offering further explanation, he stood and walked to a set of sliding glass doors that opened out onto a small backyard garden.

“The wild parrots came back two weeks ago.” Mahmoud pointed to a bird feeder in his garden; two green parrots were indeed eating from it.

“You recognize the house?” asked Mark.

Mahmoud turned to Daria. “Have I told you the story about the caged parrot?”

“You have.”

“Ah, of course, of course. I forget you know all these things.” He turned to Mark. “It involves a merchant who had a caged parrot of exceptional beauty. One day the merchant told the parrot he had to go to India and asked whether there was anything the parrot wanted.”

Mark wondered what this had to do with the photograph.

“The parrot said he wanted the merchant to visit wild parrots in India and tell them of how he keeps his own parrot in a cage. So the merchant went to India and did this. Immediately, one of the wild parrots fell lifeless off his branch to the ground.”

Mahmoud used his hand to suggest a dead parrot.

“When the merchant returned home, he explained to his caged parrot what had happened. Moments later, his own parrot died! Grieving, the man took his parrot out of his cage and laid it beneath a tree, intending to bury it. But the moment he placed it on the ground, the parrot flew away, high into the trees. The merchant cried, “What have you done?’ And the parrot said, ‘I thought that by telling the Indian parrots of how you kept me caged, you would realize that what you were doing is wrong. But the free parrots knew at once that you would never change. So one of them showed me the way to my freedom.’”