Scorpion Deception

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Dizin Ski Resort,

Shemshak, Iran

It was getting dark. The sunset formed a rim of golden light along the tops of the snow-covered peaks. The air was cold and thin. The resort’s ski lifts were at 3,600 meters, higher than any ski resort in Europe, and he zipped up his ski jacket against the chill. The road grew steeper and full of curves and he had to follow the truck ruts in the snow to get through. Ahead were the lights of Shemshak village, a cluster of houses and a few buildings six or seven stories high. Like Dizin, Shemshak was a ski resort, and from the road he could see the chair lifts going up the mountain; one of them was still going. He was tempted to stop and get some tea and a bite to eat, but something pushed him on.

Ghanbari or the other person, Sadeghi? Which one was the Gardener? And why had they risked war with the United States to attack the embassy? In a sense, the answer might have been staring them in the face all along, he thought. The CIA files. What if the attackers didn’t get lucky grabbing the CIA files? What if the files had been the object of the attack all along?

If so, what in the files were they after? What was so important that it was worth risking a war?

He left the town behind and headed farther up the winding mountain road, his headlights shining against the white snow. He turned the heater up; it was getting colder. Stopping in the middle of the road, he checked his iPad. The tracking software showed Zahra had stopped moving. She had gotten to her destination. He put the RAV4 in gear and moved on.

Coming around a curve, he saw the lights of the ski resort, the hotel at the base of the slope outlined by lights on the ski lifts. There were a number of chairlifts and several gondolas that could be seen from the road, but none of them were moving. There were only a few cars parked in the snow by the hotel. One of them was Zahra’s Mercedes.

Two rows of wooden cabins, more than a dozen of them, stretched up the slope behind the hotel. The cabins had pitched roofs, vaguely suggesting ultra-utilitarian Alpine chalets. Only two of them had lights on, one in the middle and the last cabin at the end of the row. The last cabin would be where she was meeting Ghanbari, he thought, parking the Toyota around the side of the hotel, next to another SUV.

He checked the windows of the hotel and the other structures before getting out of the Toyota but could see no one watching. It was a shame he didn’t have his night vision goggles, he thought, but bringing them through Iranian customs would have been a dead give-away. The Iranians were all over him as it was. He took out the ZOAF pistol, attached the sound suppressor, put it in his ski jacket pocket and got out of the SUV. The night was cloudy. He couldn’t see the stars. A cold wind filled with tiny snow particles blew down from the peak. He walked through the snow behind the first cabin, then higher up and across the slope behind the cabins so he could approach the last cabin from the rear.

It was harder going through the deeper snow on the slope. He was leaving deep footprint tracks. Hopefully, no one would spot them till morning. The middle cabin had lights on downstairs but not upstairs, where presumably the bedroom was. Maybe they were at the hotel restaurant having dinner, or maybe downstairs watching TV. As he crunched through the snow above the last cabin, he spotted two sets of footprints in the snow leading to the front of the cabin. First Zahra, then Ghanbari, he thought, taking the pistol out of his pocket.

The last cabin’s lights were on both upstairs and down. There were no trees and no place where anyone might be hiding, unless someone was watching from one of the darkened windows in the resort hotel.

There were no back doors and he didn’t see the point of breaking a window. The minute he entered the cabin, his cover would be blown. There was a back window covered by a curtain; it showed there was a light on, but because of the curtain he couldn’t see anyone. He went around to the front of the cabin and pressed his ear against the door. Someone was talking but he couldn’t make out what they were saying. He knocked on the door.

The voices inside stopped.

“Taksi takhir darad, jenab,” he called out, holding the gun behind his thigh. The taxi is delayed, sir. He knocked again, harder. Someone whispered and then the door opened. A thin man with glasses and a trim beard, wearing a shirt and sweater, stood in the doorway. He looked like an academic. Someone good in his field. Although, if he was head of al Quds in charge of Asaib al Haq, his field was killing people. Zahra, in slacks and a rusari on her head, was behind him.

“I didn’t order a-” the man started to say in Farsi and stopped as Scorpion pressed the muzzle of the pistol’s sound suppressor against the center of his forehead. Backing him into the cabin, Scorpion stepped inside and closed the door behind him. Zahra’s eyes were wide with shock.

“You!” she said in English.

“Good evening,” Scorpion said, frisking Ghanbari for a weapon with his free hand, then gesturing for them to go back into the living room. It was furnished simply, Ikea-style, with a plain couch and a couple of chairs. He motioned them onto the couch with the pistol.

“You’re Muhammad Ghanbari?” he asked, sitting in one of the chairs, resting the pistol on his crossed leg so it was pointed at Ghanbari, who nodded.

“What is this about? What do you want?” Ghanbari asked in Farsi.

“The attack on Bern-and be careful how you answer. I don’t have to leave you alive,” Scorpion replied in Farsi. Zahra’s eyes devoured him.

“You speak Farsi,” she said accusingly. “You lied.”

“Makes two of us,” Scorpion replied. He looked at Ghanbari. “Are you Baghban?” he asked. The Gardener?

“Who are you?” Ghanbari said, looking around. “Are you Israeli? CIA?”

“No,” Scorpion said, getting up and kicking Ghanbari hard in the side of the knee. Ghanbari cried out. “Next time, I’ll put a bullet in it and it’ll really hurt.”

Ghanbari clasped his knee, his face screwed up in pain.

“Why did you order the hit on the American embassy?” Scorpion demanded, touching the sound suppressor muzzle of the ZOAF to Ghanbari’s knee.

“Are you crazy?” Ghanbari gasped. “I had nothing to do with it!”

“He didn’t,” Zahra said. “Vay Khoda! He had nothing to do with it.”

“Why? What do you know?” Scorpion said to her.

“I know he didn’t do it, you fool. Why do you think we’re meeting?”

“What makes you think it was me?” Ghanbari asked.

“You’re al Quds? Liaison with Asaib al Haq, bale?” Yes?

Ghanbari’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know that?”

Scorpion tapped his knee with the sound suppressor.

“Bale ya na?” Yes or no? “I won’t ask again.”

“Why are you doing this?” Zahra said to him, tears in her eyes. “I thought you were a good man.”

“Please. Don’t insult either of us with nonsense,” Scorpion said. “Well?” to Ghanbari.

“Why do you think I’m the Gardener?” he asked.

“Because a call was made from Begur, Spain, most likely by an agent code-named ‘Saw-Scaled Snake’ to your phone.”

Ghanbari paled. “That’s impossible.”

“Forty-eight dead in Switzerland and a war about to start. Don’t tell me what’s kiram impossible,” Scorpion cursed, standing up.

“It wasn’t me. I’m not the Gardener,” Ghanbari said as Scorpion aimed at his knee, holding up his hand as if to stop the bullet. “Wait! You said they called me. What’s the number?”

Scorpion took out his cell phone and showed him the number he’d gotten from Shaefer.

“That’s not one of my numbers,” Ghanbari said.

“And I’m supposed to believe you?” Scorpion said.

“Look, here’s my phone,” he said, taking his cell phone out of his pocket and handing it to Scorpion. “See for yourself.”

Scorpion checked the numbers for calls and texts made, received, and contacts. The number wasn’t there.

“Doesn’t prove anything,” tossing the phone back to Ghanbari.

“Sadeghi,” Zahra said. “Vay Khoda, my God, tell him,” to Ghanbari.

“What about Sadeghi? Is he the Gardener?” Scorpion said. For a moment he thought he heard something from outside the cabin. Time to get the hell out of there, he thought, motioning them to be quiet. They listened. Nothing, then the sound of creaking snow.

Suddenly the cabin door burst open, the silence shattered by a burst of automatic gunfire.