Whiplash

21

Bani Aberhadji was in a bad mood. The council had decided to hold a special meeting, interrupting his inspection tour and forcing him home. He would not have minded so much had he not been convinced that the meeting would amount to a waste of time. But he could not afford to miss it politically. The council seemed to be softening in its stand against the government, and he needed to understand what was going on, especially if he couldn’t influence it.

He was walking from the aircraft to his car when his BlackBerry signaled that he had an e-mail. Suspecting it was just a message from the ministry asking when he would return to work, he waited until he was in the backseat to check it. The message turned out to be from Arash Tarid, his agent in Sudan. There was no text; it was simply a coded request that he call.

Though his driver was also a member of the Revolutionary Guards, Aberhadji did not know him personally, and did not want to take the risk, however small, that the man might be a spy for the government. He waited until they were on the highway, then asked him to pull over.

“I will be right back,” he told the man, opening the door to the Toyota Avalon.

It was nighttime, and a few feet beyond the car everything turned pitch-black. Aberhadji walked a few yards into the field, then stopped and took out his satellite phone. The signals it sent and received were scrambled, encrypted in what he was told was an unbreakable code.

“You called me,” he said when Tarid answered.

“A competitor to Luo has appeared. He wants to meet with some of our friends, including the colonel.”

“A competitor?”

“Perhaps now we see why Luo was killed. The Jasmine people have not been very responsive. This man alleges that he has many weapons, and that his prices are very good. I wondered if you would wish to check him out?”

The night was cool. Aberhadji fought off a shiver as he considered the matter. “Who is he?” he asked.

“He gives his name as Mr. Kirk. He gave one of the rebel leaders — not Colonel Zsar but another man, Uncle Dpap — an American pistol he claimed had been stolen from the Army.”

“I will check into him. If I give the approval, you will meet him yourself. Then report to me.”

“I don’t know about meeting him. If—”

“Go yourself,” insisted Aberhadji. “If I approve. It will take me only a few hours to check on him.”

“As you wish.”

“You will report to me in person. I will be in Tehran in a few days. After that, I have to travel again.”

He killed the transmission without waiting for an answer.