The Last Run

CHAPTER TWENTY

The Minister was waiting for Shirazi in his office, seated at his desk. He was a slender man, in his fifties, his left shoulder sitting at an angle higher than his right, the remnants of a wound taken during the War of Iraqi Aggression. He had come alone, but Shirazi took no comfort in that. As a member of the National Security Council, all it would take was a word, and the whole of Shirazi's department would turn against him. That was real power, and both men knew who held it.

"I am meeting you here, Youness," the Minister said, "as a courtesy to you and your service, because you have never failed us in the past. And because we wish to hear your explanation for the madness that took place early this morning in Noshahr."

"I appreciate your consideration, sir."

The Minister settled his hands on Shirazi's desk, folding one atop the other, gazing at him evenly. "I am pleased to hear that, because your position at this moment is an exceedingly delicate one. The Supreme Leader has already been informed of the death of his nephew. He is anxious for an explanation. Extremely anxious. Extremely concerned, Youness."

"I am ready to explain."

"Do so, then."

Shirazi measured his words. "I regret to say that Hossein Khamenei was murdered this morning in Noshahr by a foreign agent, possibly British, during an aborted attempt to kidnap him. When we moved to apprehend this agent, she executed the Supreme Leader's nephew, as well as murdered one of my men, before escaping."

The Minister blinked at him. "A woman?"

"Yes, sir."

"This woman is still at large?"

"We are searching for her even now."

"To no result, it would seem." The Minister blinked again. "You say British. Why would the British attempt to abduct Hossein Khamenei?"

"The most obvious reason, sir, is that he was a target of opportunity, someone they wished to bring to the West, perhaps to be used as pressure against the Supreme Leader himself. Of all his family, Hossein was possibly the easiest for them to identify and locate."

"The British?"

"That is our suspicion."

"You are lying to me, Youness," the Minister said.

Shirazi said nothing.

The chair behind the desk creaked, the Minister turning in it, and from one of the drawers he withdrew the thick file on Hossein, bulging with photographs and documentation, that Zahabzeh and Shirazi had prepared. He set it tenderly on the desk, flipped it open casually, and perused its contents.

Without looking up, the Minister said, "You think we didn't know?"

Shirazi hesitated, then shook his head. In truth, he had believed Hossein's involvement with the British had been long forgotten, that, perhaps, the Supreme Leader himself had ordered it covered up. But now, watching the Minister as he lifted one photograph, then another, holding them up to better see in the light from the window, the look of mild disgust on his face, Shirazi realized he had been foolish.

"I know you brought him here, to this office, at the end of November. Had he reached out to the British already?"

"We feared what the reaction would be if we informed the Council," Shirazi answered. "That the Supreme Leader would… overlook his nephew's actions."

The Minister lowered the photograph he was holding, one of the photographs of Hossein as a young man, indulging himself with another young man. "He had gone to the British, then."

"Yes," Shirazi lied. "He made his approach shortly after the replacements began arriving. When we realized who he was, we were obligated to investigate."

"But not obligated to take it further."

"We couldn't ignore it, sir." Shirazi allowed a hint of enthusiasm into his voice, trying to follow the story the Minister had clearly already constructed. "And the opportunity was too great, the chance to feed the British false information, or even to uncover their network, especially now, especially with the pressure the West has put us under."

The Minister dropped the photograph, clearly offended by its contents. "I think you should tell me all of it, Youness."

Shirazi did so, mixing truth with enough fiction to maintain the portrayal of Hossein as the villain of the piece, an enemy of the State who had, upon being confronted and turned by VEVAK, reached out again to the British. Once they realized that, Shirazi said, they saw a new opportunity: certainly the British would come for him, and when they did, VEVAK would move, capturing both the traitor and the spy. But it had gone wrong at the last moment-Shirazi was careful to avoid assigning blame to any one individual-and Hossein had been shot, the spy had escaped.

"Not how it was intended to go," the Minister said coldly. "At all."

"No, sir, never."

"This kind of operation cannot be permitted without oversight, Youness. You never should have undertaken it without clearance from the Council."

"I recognize that, sir."

"It is salvageable, however." The Minister glanced to his left, to the portrait of the Ayatollah on the wall, clearly considering the situation. "In fact, it may serve us very well, indeed. But only if you can capture this spy. If you can do that, Youness, your failure will become a success, one that will bring you much forgiveness."

"We're doing everything we can."

"I would expect nothing less. But now I want more. You will have the State media release news of Hossein's murder, but leave the identification of the perpetrator vague at this time. Unknown foreign enemies will suffice. Once we have this spy in hand, once we can put her on television, then we will implicate the British, and they will have to respond publically."

"Will you release her to them? Make an exchange?"

The Minister's smile was anemic, and as close to amused as Shirazi had ever seen. "It will depend how badly they want her back. But any exchange will only occur after a trial, after she has been sentenced. For that reason, we must have her alive, Youness. We must have her alive and healthy for the cameras."

"Yes, sir."

With his knuckles, the Minister rapped the folder of photographs. "Destroy these. All evidence that Hossein was ever in collusion with the British, destroy it all. Who else knows the details, the extent of his corruption, his betrayal?"

"Only Zahabzeh," Shirazi said. "And Farzan will never betray our secrets."

"No, he would not." The Minister pushed himself back from the desk, rising. "You are not safe yet, Youness, do not mistake me. You know what you must do."

"Perfectly."

"Then do it," the Minister said. "Someone must pay for this failure. And if not this British spy, then you yourself, Youness, will do nicely."