Shock Warning

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

“I am sorry, but Col. Zarin is in Qom. And no infidel may travel to the holy city. It is the law.”

Skorzeny was not used to being refused. He looked at the customs functionary standing before him in his comic-opera uniform and said: “It is not the law.”

“I am sorry, but for you, on this day, it is the law.” The man turned to Mlle. Derrida. “For you too as well, missus.”

“I’m nobody’s missus,” she replied in French.

The customs man grinned and spoke to her in rapid-fire French. There began a prolonged prattle that lasted until Skorzeny could stand it no longer. “Please,” he said in English. “I have important business.”

The customs official once again made a great pretense of studying their travel documents. He double-checked whether the exit visas from Azerbaijan were in order (they were) and whether the proper visas had been obtained for entry into the Islamic Republic (they were as well). He could find nothing wrong with the legal formalities.

“I am happy to tell you that your documents are completely satisfactory. Now, what is your permanent address in Tehran and on what business do you journey here?”

“For the last time,” said Skorzeny, “we are here at the personal invitation of Col. Navid Zarin of the Revolutionary Guards. I understand that he is in Qom, and so it is to Qom that we must go. Therefore I would appreciate it if you stamp our papers with the appropriate stamp and let us be on our way.”

The man look chagrined. Disconsolate. “I am sorry, mister, but this thing is not allowed to be done at the present time. Perhaps inshallah things will change in the coming days. But for right now, no.”

“I would like to speak with your superior. Is that possible?”

“Yes, of course, sir. I will summon him in this moment.” The man pressed an emergency buzzer under the customs table. “See, he comes now.”

“Thank you,” said Skorzeny, walking over to meet him.

The customs official looked at Mlle. Derrida. “What brings you to the Islamic Republic, missus?” he asked. “It is a very great honor for me to meet so fine a lady.”

“Have you read La Disparition by Perec?” she asked.

“No, missus — should I?”

“You might want to consider it,” she said.

Skorzeny was on his way back. “Let’s go,” he said, holding out his hand for their passports.

“Is everything now in order, mister?” asked the customs man.

“Indeed,” said Skorzeny, taking Mlle. Derrida by the arm and leading her away. As they walked they could hear the superior shouting at the customs man, whose life was about to become very unpleasant.

“I wouldn’t want to be in that little fellow’s shoes,” said Mlle. Derrida. “I told him he should take off and vanish like the letter e, but I guess he thought I was kidding.”

“More likely he was entranced by your beauty, cold though it is,” retorted Skorzeny. He pointed to a black limousine with its engine idling in front of the terminal. No terrorism worries here, he thought to himself — what would they be afraid of? Irish nuns? The Swedish Bikini Team?

They got into the backseat. The driver stubbed out his cigarette and the car pulled away from the curb, darting right into the traffic flow without so much as a backward glance.

“What did you say to him?” asked Mlle. Derrida.

“Nothing. I paid him.”

“And he got the message?”

“Money speaks a universal language, Mlle. Derrida, especially when wedded to fear.”

He pressed a button and the partition slid into place. The car would be bugged, of course, but at least they could pretend they didn’t know that. To make their conversation a little more secure, Skorzeny switched to Russian, which Mlle. Derrida, being Polish on her mother’s side, also spoke fluently.

“The colonel was suddenly called away to Qom. This in itself is not surprising, since Qom is, as the Americans say, where the action is going to be. Which means, judging from his behavior, that Miss Harrington is also in Qom. How, I don’t know, but she always was a very resourceful woman. I admire her pluck and her savvy. Nevertheless, she must be forced to admit once more the error of her ways.”

“Which means?”

“Which means that I cannot let the Iranians have their way with her. If there is any punishment to be meted out, I should do the meting. I cannot bear the thought of these animals’ hands on her.”

“Nor can I,” said Mlle. Derrida. Was that a quizzical look from him? But desire and empathy knew no bounds.

“And, of course, we have other work to do. Important work. My life’s work, in fact. How I wish to share it with her, to have her witness the moment of my greatest triumph. Then, and only then, I will kill her for the grievous harm she has done to me.”

Mlle. Derrida raised an objection. “To kill her, you’re going to have to convince them to let you have her. And why should they? You’ve already cheated them out of Maryam. It seems to me, M. Skorzeny, that your Col. Zarin is going to be very unhappy with you.” A thought struck her. “What if he is using us as pawns as well? What use to him are you — alone, in his country and in his power?” She was beginning to be frightened now. “Why should he let us go? Why not hold us hostage, for ransom?” She started to sob quietly. France was never so beautiful.

Skorzeny put his arm around her, and she did not object. Ordinarily she hated it when he touched her, but things were different now.

But what if she was right? Of Zarin’s loyalties he was fairly certain, because there was a very sizable bank account waiting for him in the Caymans, but in this part of the world one never knew. Zarin could double-cross him out of some misguided religious fervor. The mullahs could be holding his family hostage. There could be some residual anger over Kohanloo, although he could point out that Kohanloo’s name never surfaced in the inquiry and that the Islamic Republic was in no way implicated in the attack on Times Square. Anything was possible.

That was where Devlin came in. The man had been fool enough to entrust his computer to maid Maryam, rigging it to harm Skorzeny. But he had no intention of having the accursed thing explode in his face, either literally or figuratively. He had a better plan.

He would trade it for Miss Harrington.

Let the Iranians have it. Let them deal with it. Whatever damage it was programmed to do to him and his financial empire, it would have no effect on them. They could take it apart, reverse-engineer it, break right into the heart of the Black Widow back in Fort Meade, worm their way into the highest levels of NSA and CSS cryptology, and destroy the Americans from within. They could not hope to defeat them on the field of battle, and even public opinion was finally beginning to turn against them, as the pet media poodles — who leapt to the defense of any “oppressed minority,” no matter how unoppressed, vindictive, or malicious they in fact actually were — finally began to notice that their own necks were being sized for the chopping block.

His hand moved to the briefcase, in which he kept the computer, as if to reassure himself that it was still there.

“It’s all right,” he said. “Trust me.”

Only two things mattered to him now. The first was the full realization of his great vision: the setting-off of the great religious and cultural war that would finally destroy the West, and all that he asked was a moment of revelation at the end, a moment when the people of the West would look at him and see the man who put finally them out of their misery.

The second was Miss Harrington. She must share in his apotheosis, and then expiate her sins.

We are discovered. Save yourself. How perfectly apposite, how resonant. One link in the chain of doom.

There was Qom, dead ahead.