Deathrace

7

George Imhoff sat in the second room of the small apartment and tried to make sense out of what went on between the huge fat American and the Iranian lens grinder. George belched and his stomach growled at him. He hadn't had anything to eat since that morning. The four warm French beers hadn't helped any. He had no idea where Tauksaun, the huge one, found French beer in Tehran.

George looked at Yasmeen for the hundredth time and lifted his brows. They sat near the door that had been opened three inches so they could see, and Yasmeen could hear. Most of the conversation was in Farsi.

"They still talk about the soccer match. Each time Tauksaun brings up the lens grinding, the man changes the topic."

George swore softly, and watched Yasmeen's eyes light up. She seemed to be excited by the dirty words, but he didn't have time for that now. He slipped the forty-five from his pocket and checked the magazine. Full. He held it in his right hand and reached for the door. "No," Yasmeen said softly.

"Yes, I don't have time for this shit. Past time for some action." He stepped through the door and cleared his throat. Both men near the bed looked at him. Tauksaun shook his head when he saw the weapon.

George didn't hesitate. He pulled the forty-five's slide back and let it snap forward, slamming a round into the firing chamber. He carried the pistol low as he walked up to the Iranian.

"Tell him the bullshit is over. Do it, Tauksaun."

The huge man tried to roll to one side a little to ease the pressure on his hips. He sighed, then stuttered out some Farsi.

George brought the forty-five up to aim at the lens grinder's chest.

"Now, tell him I want to know exactly where he was taken to do the grinding work on the polished steel. Exactly. None of this blindfolded crap."

George waited as the translation came. Then he put the pistol's muzzle against the lens grinder's chest, directly over his heart.

The Iranian was thin, small, with a full dark beard and bushy brows. He slumped back toward the bed and George moved with him, increasing the pressure of the forty-five. The Iranian looked up with black eyes that showed stark fear.

He chattered once, and paused, then came out with a flood of Farsi.

George waited.

Tauksaun nodded. "He says he knows they went to the southern port city of Chah Bahar. From there they drove north by truck into the mountains on a good gravel road. He says they never got all the way through the mountains into the great plain. So the spot must be in the mountains."

"Could he find the place again?" George asked.

When the Iranian heard the translation, he looked at George and shook his head.

The translation came that they had been kept in covered trucks all the way from the port. He only knew they went north. They did not go into Pakistan.

The questioning went on.

The man had no idea what kind of project he had worked on. He was grinding some kind of metal. He never saw a finished product. He and ten others had worked around the clock on twelve-hour shifts.

Yes, they had completed the project and then were sent home. Yes, they each received wages, and a bonus of 210,000 rials. That would be about seventy dollars, not a lot of money for a lens grinder.

"That's all he knows, CIA agent," Tauksaun said. "I don't appreciate your use of the weapon in my house. It wasn't needed."

"It worked, nobody got hurt."

"So far," Tauksaun said. He spoke with the lens grinder for a few moments, then Tiny came. They put a blindfold around the small man's eyes, and Tiny led him out the front door.

It would take Tiny a half hour to get the man out of the area and safely away. Tauksaun didn't talk to George. He tried to find some American music on his short-band radio. He got mostly static, then located an American station on one of the Air Force bases in Germany. The music came through loud and clear.

The Andrews sisters had just finished a golden oldie, when Tiny came in. She closed the door, then tried to turn, but staggered a step before she fell to the floor. George went down beside her and held her head. Her eyes rolled for a moment, then steadied in place.

Blood seeped from her mouth.

"Police," she whispered in English, then passed out. George carried her to a pallet beside the floor bed and stretched her out. He had tears in his eyes. Yasmeen knelt beside Tiny on the pallet, making a quick examination.

"She's been shot in the chest," Yasmeen said. "Probably hit one lung, and for sure lots of internal bleeding. If she doesn't get to a hospital, she'll die."

"No hospital," Tauksaun said. "The police would recognize her and let her die there. Tiny isn't exactly unknown to the authorities. This is all on your head, CIA man."

He stared at Tiny for a moment and blinked rapidly. He nodded to himself, and then used the telephone. He spoke quickly in English and Farsi, then hung up.

"A friend, a nurse, will be here quickly. Before she comes, you two must go. Now."

"Can I help?" Yasmeen asked.

Tauksaun watched her; his eyes seemed to narrow as a frown tainted his round face. "Perhaps. Your father is wealthy. We always need money. Yes, you can help. Twenty million rials would be good. That's only a little over sixty-six hundred dollars, George, don't look so surprised." He rolled, and sat up straighter with a great effort.

"Now both of you out of here with your radio and your American dollars that could get us all shot on sight. The Secret Police will be here shortly. Somebody will always rat on me for a few thousand rials. Out."

"Thanks for the help," George said. He picked up the radio and put it away in his shoulder bag, then pocketed the forty-five after making sure the safety was on.

"No thanks needed. I just hope you haven't got me killed."

Yasmeen and George went out the front door and hurried down the street. George could almost smell the Secret Police coming. He frowned as they rushed along. He had a little more information, but not nearly what the Company demanded. How the hell was he going to find out anything else without going into the region? The idea of a small plane was good, but he'd have no chance at all renting such a plane down in that area. There might not even be an airfield down there. He didn't know that much about Iran.

They saw a military vehicle moving down the street toward them. It was still two blocks away. Yasmeen pulled at his arm, and they drifted into an alley, then ran full speed to the next street. Yasmeen looked both ways, then they darted across the street into the alley, and ran through it until they both were panting so hard they had to stop. They leaned against a wall.

"I think we got away from them," George said.

Yasmeen scowled at him, her eyes almost closed. "I hope nothing happens to Tauksaun. He's a friend. He helps with the protest movement."

George shook his head. "Tauksaun will come out smelling like a bunch of violets. He's a survivor. Not even the Secret Police will be able to hurt him."

"What are you going to do now?" she asked.

"Not the faintest."

"Come to our house. It's big and I'll tell Papa that you're teaching me better English. He wants me to be good in English. But we can't even touch at my home. You understand. Iranian women aren't that free. We have tremendously strict rules."

"You mean, we can't make love in your father's house?"

"He'd chop off your head if he caught us."

George chuckled. "I think I can keep my hands off you. Which way do we go?"

Before they could move, a man jolted around the corner twenty yards from them and shouted in Farsi for them to put up their hands.

"Run," Yasmeen barked. She went right, he went left. The Secret Policeman with the submachine gun tracked his best target and fired a 6-round burst. Four of the slugs caught Yasmeen in the back and she stumbled, tried to call out, and pitched into the dirt. Yasmeen died before she hit the ground, where her face dug a foot-long furrow in the dust and garbage of the Tehran back alley.

Before the Secret Policeman could turn his weapon on the second person, George had sprinted around the corner to safety. He ran hard down the block to the next alley and surged into it. He paused. No one chased him. George panted. He had to get more exercise and stay in shape.

He'd seen Yasmeen fall. Damn them. She was dead or as good as dead by now. Which left him absolutely at the end of his string of contacts. He was running in fucking hostile Tehran. The Secret Police were hunting him. He had lost his luggage, all of his clothes, and personal gear. He had only his "vitals" in the shoulder bag. He had a deadline of six days to find out for sure where the Iranian nuclear manufacturing site was situated. How in the hell was he going to do that?