The Survivor

CHAPTER 37

Kamal Safavi remained as still as possible, trying not to wake his wife in bed next to him. It was just after midnight and he’d been lying awake for almost two hours. The meeting at the Foreign Office that day had gone predictably badly. MI6 had reports — correct as far as he knew — that Iran had just accepted a delivery of advanced centrifuges from North Korea.

Based on his country’s history with America, he could understand and sympathize with his masters’ paranoia regarding the West. The affronts that so consumed them, though, now existed only in history books. They needed to be concerned the future. They needed to acknowledge that the nuclear program they believed would keep Iran safe was strangling the country’s economy. Paralyzed by their misguided fears of an American attack, Iran’s government was dooming its population to a death by a thousand cuts.

So much foolishness and hate served no purpose. Iran was a — rational and stable island in a region that was in the process of tearing itself apart. Only the shortsightedness of their respective politicians prevented the two countries from laying the foundations for an era of cooperation.

It was a sentiment that Irene Kennedy shared. She was an eminently reasonable woman who saw the potential of normalizing relations between Tehran and Washington. She understood that Iran’s youth had little memory of the shah or the revolution. They wanted freedom and prosperity. They wanted to occupy a place of respect in the world.

There was a static-ridden cry from his nightstand, and he glanced over at the baby monitor as it went silent again. His young daughter was dreaming. But about what? A future of unbounded opportunity? A life in a society that treated her as an equal? Peace and security?

Probably not. That was his dream. For her. For all of his people.

A moment later, a more urgent sound emanated from the direction of his nightstand. For a few seconds he was disoriented by the shrillness, unable to remember what it meant. His confusion didn’t last long, though, and he snatched up his phone to scan the text on the screen.

“Get up!” he said, throwing the covers to the floor and leaping from bed.

In the dim glow of the alarm clock, he saw his wife’s eyes flutter open.

“What is it?” she said, reaching for the lamp by her side of the bed. “Is it Ava? Is she awake?”

He grabbed his wife’s wrist before she could get to the switch. “Don’t turn it on. Just get up and put your robe on. Quietly. We’re leaving.”

“Leaving?” she said, alarmed. “What are you talking about?”

He had never told her or anyone else about his relationship with Kennedy. He’d thought it was safe. That it was important. Now all he could feel was guilt for what he’d done. His family was in danger. And for what? The idealism that his father had warned him about so many times as a youth.

“There’s no time to explain,” he said in a harsh whisper. “We have to leave. Now!”

Safavi ran in bare feet to his daughter’s room, finding her fast asleep. He lifted her carefully. They had to be silent. Their staff consisted only of a woman who did the cooking and cleaning, and an aging security man who spent most of his time shuttling them around the city. He could afford to wake neither.

“Kamal, you’re scaring me,” his wife said, appearing in the doorway. “What’s happening?”

“I’ll tell you later,” he whispered. “Now we have to get to the car. It’s parked right out front.”

“But I need to get dressed. I don’t even have shoes. We—”

Fortunately, his daughter was still small enough to hold in one arm, and he clamped his free hand around his wife’s bicep. The apprehension on her face turned to fear when she felt the force of his grip.

“Kamal, you—”

“Silence!” he whispered as he dragged her toward the stairs.

Light from the courtyard filtered through the windows, providing enough illumination to navigate through the furniture arranged in the entryway. Kennedy had warned them in time. They were going to make it.

The door was suddenly thrown open with enough force to nearly rip it from its hinges. Safavi’s wife screamed as three men ran into their home, shouting in Persian.

A forearm hit him in the face and he held his daughter tight, trying to protect her as he was slammed to the floor.

“No!” he shouted as she was torn away from him.

His wife continued to scream and he turned his face toward her as his hands were secured behind his back. “Don’t hurt her! She doesn’t know anything!”

The man didn’t listen, grinding a knee into her back as she was bound with flex cuffs. Their driver appeared at the end of the hallway but stopped short when he recognized the intruders as being from the embassy’s security team.

Ava was wailing now, her shrieks echoing eerily through the house. Safavi couldn’t breathe with the weight of the man on top of him, but he barely noticed. His wife was sobbing, still having no idea what was happening. He had done this. He was responsible for the terror his wife and child felt.

An arm snaked around Safavi’s neck and he felt himself being dragged backward. Their maid appeared and ran instinctively toward the man holding Ava, but was hit in the side of the head with a pistol butt. She collapsed to the floor and went completely still.

The arm cutting off his air tightened as they exited into a light London rain. Only then did the man holding him speak. “The ayatollah is looking forward to seeing you and your family, Kamal.”