Whiplash

49

As Tarid had feared, he did not sleep at all after the call from Aberhadji. He tossed and turned, then finally gave up all pretense of resting several hours before morning prayer.

With the meeting set for 1:00 P.M., he knew he had a long, torturous wait. Karaj was located a little over a half hour outside of Tehran, and it would be senseless to get there too early. He needed something to do.

Had it not been for Aberhadji’s tone, he might have spent the time in the lobby, where the wait would have been quite enjoyable. Simin was working in the office, but her father, not used to the late night, had slept in. Aberhadji’s stern voice lingered in his ears. Clearly, his boss had spies in the capital. Perhaps the hotel owner was one of them — it would not have surprised Tarid at this point — and so he had to be on his best behavior.

“I am going across for some breakfast,” he told the girl. “If anyone is looking for me.”

“Are you expecting someone?”

“No one in particular.”

Danny lingered in the aisle of the bazaar, watching as Hera looked through the basket of buttons in the nearby stall. The bazaar was the Middle Eastern equivalent of an American shopping mall, covered and divided into dozens of alleys, each lined with shops. Most weren’t open yet, but as Hera had predicted, a good number that catered to household necessities were.

She looked at the black buttons, turning each over before tossing it back into the basket. Just pick one, he wanted to shout, we’re running out of time. But Hera kept looking, trying for a perfect match to Tarid’s jacket.

She selected a half dozen, all very similar, all subtly different. She turned and looked at the material, ignoring Danny’s exasperated glances, before showing the buttons to the woman who ran the stall.

“Is that your husband?” asked the woman.

“No,” said Hera. “Just a friend.”

“Hmmmph,” said the woman.

Hera wasn’t sure whether she disapproved because they weren’t married or whether the fact that he was black bothered her. There weren’t many black faces in Tehran.

The woman told her the price. Hera opened her mouth to object — generally, it would be considered odd for a native not to at least attempt to haggle — but the woman told her there would be no negotiating. She frowned, then took out a note large enough to pay for half the entire basket.

The vendor rolled her eyes.

“I can’t change this,” she said. “Something smaller.”

Hera turned to Danny and told him, in Farsi, that she needed change.

The Voice translated. Danny dug into his pocket and handed over a few coins. The woman who owned the booth gave him a smirk. Hera counted out the money, then waited while the woman found a small paper bag for the buttons.

“Come on, come on,” hissed Danny under his breath. He started walking for the exit.

“We’re supposed to be shopping,” said Hera, catching up. “Relax.”

“The hell with that. Tarid just went to breakfast.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“What was I supposed to do, use ESP?”

“Everyone on the team should be hooked into the Voice,” said Hera. “It would make things much more coordinated.”

“They don’t have enough units.”

Hera thought that was bull — in her opinion, Reid and Stockard simply didn’t trust everyone — but kept her mouth shut.

As they neared the exit, Danny spotted a stall selling tools. Among the items on display was an engraving tool. He veered toward it, looked at the box, then discovered a small Roto-Zip knockoff nearby that came with some grinding tips. He took it and a clamp he could use as a small vise, gave them to the merchant, then reached for his wallet and the two million rial the tags indicated.

“Hold on,” said Hera in Farsi just as the shop owner was about to grab for the money. “How much are you paying?”

“Uh—”

“A hundred thousand rial,” Hera told the owner.

It was a ridiculously low price, and the man made a face. He looked at Danny, wondering who wore the pants in the family. Then he started to put the items back where Danny had gotten them.

Danny gestured at Hera.

“Two hundred thousand,” she said.

The man ignored her.

“Two fifty,” she said.

Again the shopkeeper ignored her, contenting himself with straightening the display. She could have offered a billion rial and he would not have accepted the deal.

Danny didn’t want to arouse any more suspicions by speaking English. Angry at Hera, he turned and started away.

“A million and a half rial. It is a very fair price,” said the shop owner behind him.

Danny turned around and took out his wallet, glaring at Hera to keep her quiet. As far as the shop owner was concerned, the price was more than fair, given the merchandise. He felt the discount was well worth it to teach the overbearing wife a lesson. It was no surprise that she was wearing a colorful scarf, and a shirt that seemed far too modern.

“Let that be a lesson,” the man told Danny. “You don’t need a shrew to run your life.”

“Thank you,” managed Danny.

“Screw him,” said Hera as they walked outside.

“Why did you do that?” he said. “We have a time limit here.”

“I had to stay in cover.”

“Get some common sense, damn it. We’re running late.”

“What if someone gets suspicious and follows us?”

“Just use common sense.”

Danny pushed one of the earphones into his ear and heard Nuri say that Tarid was now taking a table.

“We’re on our way,” Danny told him, starting to run.

Nuri originally wanted to steal a waiter’s uniform for Flash, but the waiters at the small restaurants worked in regular street clothes. And then Tarid made the job even harder by wearing his jacket to the table rather than hanging it up near the door.

“Wait outside,” Nuri told Flash. “When Danny comes, go and rent the car.”

“And back you up if something goes wrong, right?”

“Nothing’s going to go wrong.”

Flash shrugged. In his experience, Murphy’s Law accompanied every operation. He walked down to the end of the block, looking for Danny and Hera.

Nuri, meanwhile, went inside, hoping for a table next to Tarid — right behind him would be perfect — but they were all taken. He allowed himself to be steered to a place near the window, biding his time until Danny and Hera were ready.

“We’re in the alley,” said Danny breathlessly a minute later.

Nuri asked for some eggs and tea. The waiter disappeared into the back.

The waiter working the other side of the room approached Tarid’s table with a platter of food. Nuri rose quickly and went over, intending to knock something onto the coat. But Tarid chose that moment to get up, and before Nuri could provoke a spill, Tarid headed for the restroom.

Frustrated, Nuri followed. A dozen possibilities occurred to him, but the presence of an attendant in the restroom ruled all of them out. Nuri smiled at the man, then went to the far stall, hoping some opportunity would present itself.

It didn’t.

Tarid hated public restrooms. He held on tight to his jacket, finished quickly and left, not even bothering to tip the attendant.

“This isn’t going to be easy,” Nuri told Danny over the Voice communications channel.

“We have all day,” said Danny.

“What are you drilling?”

“I’m fixing the buttons. Relax.”

“Buttons? More than one?”

“We have a couple just in case. We’ll match it exactly. If you can get us more time, we’ll use the original.”

Nuri looked up and saw Tarid leaving.

“Tarid’s coming out,” he told Danny.

“What?”

“Yeah.”

Unsure whether he had been spotted or if someone was working with Tarid to check for a trail, Nuri went back to his table. His tea and eggs had just arrived.

The Voice gave him a running commentary on what Tarid was doing.

Not much: He simply walked back across the street to the hotel.

“Meet me around front in five minutes,” he told Danny. “I have another idea.”

Tarid had decided that he would collect his things, take a drive and look up an old friend before meeting with Aberhadji. It was something to do; he hoped the trip would divert his mind from the horrors it kept suggesting Aberhadji would inflict on him for skimming money from the Guard. He thought of calling his friend, but decided not to bother. The diversion was what was important.

“I’m going out for a while,” he said loudly. “Do you want the key?”

His heart fluttered when she came out. Her eyes met his for a brief moment. His resolution began to melt; the temptation to linger was too great.

“Will you be gone long?” asked Simin.

“I’m not sure.”

Their fingers grazed as he handed over the key. Simin flushed. She took the key, slid it into the box behind the desk, then rushed back into the office.

“Simin, wait—” Tarid took a step to follow her.

She slammed the door. For a moment he hung suspended between his desire and his fear of being punished. Aberhadji would be even more angry if he found out that he had seduced the girl.

On the other hand, Aberhadji might be planning to kill him anyway, Tarid reasoned. And in that case…

Tarid started around the desk. But as he turned the corner, he walked into another woman, a little older, and if not quite as pretty, certainly beautiful in her own way:

Hera.

Who slipped a small razor blade out from between her fingers and snapped it through the middle button on his jacket as she fell backward against a plant next to the wall, then stumbled to the ground.

“Where did you come from?” said Tarid, momentarily confused.

“I’m looking for a friend,” she said.

“I meant, how did you get in my way?” said Tarid.

“Oh, your button.” Hera picked it off the floor. “I’m sorry,” she said, holding it up.

Puzzled, Tarid looked down for the spot where it had been.

“I’ll fix it for you,” Hera said, getting up. “Give me your coat.”

“I’m fine,” said Tarid, on his guard.

“No, no, I insist.”

Hera held out her left hand, keeping her right, which still had the razor, behind her back.

“Who are you?”

“Maral Milian.”

She bowed her head slightly, as if too timid to look him in the eye, but then reached up and put her fingers on the inside collar of his coat, gently starting to tug it off.

Tarid resisted for only a moment more; the desire that Simin had provoked saw a potential outlet.

“Maybe we can go up to my room,” he told her, forgetting he had dropped off the key.

“I can fix it here.” Hera folded the jacket over her arm. “I’ll just get a needle and thread.”

“No, no,” he said. “Just give me my coat back. Never mind.”

“I insist,” she said. “Let me fix it for you.”

“I have an appointment.”

Outside, Danny Freah and Nuri were looking at each other, realizing that they were going to lose another chance, probably the last, to bug Tarid. Hera had marked him when he bumped into her, so there was no question that they could continue to follow him. But having gotten this close to him, it seemed a shame to give up the opportunity.

“I’m going in,” said Danny.

“He’ll recognize you.”

“I’m counting on it.”

Danny rounded the corner quickly, practically leaping up the block to the steps and the entrance to the small hotel. He bounded up to the door, then forced himself to take a breath as he opened it.

He came in just as Tarid was taking the coat from Hera’s hand. The Iranian stopped, stunned, staring at Danny as if he were looking at a ghost.

“Well, isn’t this a surprise,” said Danny in English. “What are you doing in Tehran?”

“You?”

“Yeah, it’s me,” said Danny. “You didn’t think I was dead, I hope.”

“Why are you here?” said Tarid in Arabic.

Danny glanced at Hera.

“Use English,” he said. “We don’t need women with big mouths listening to what we say.”

Tarid wasn’t sure what to make of this at all. He was worried about Kirk’s English and loud voice. If the hotel keeper was informing on him, this would be something more to add, another nail in the coffin.

“I can fix your coat,” said Hera, her hand touching his.

“What’s wrong with the coat?” asked Danny.

Tarid frowned. “Nothing,” he said, in English.

“Have her fix it while you and I talk. Let’s have some coffee. There are restaurants across the street.”

“Fix the coat right away,” said Tarid, handing it to Hera as if she were his employee. “I’ll be across the street.”