Callsign: Bishop (Erik Somers) (Chesspocalypse #5)

“I do not know,” Ahmad replied.

“I do,” the pilot said.

Massai and Ahmad both turned to face the pilot, a middle-aged Iranian name Ishak.

“How do you know?” Massai asked.

“I was raised near there. I know all the local rumors and histories.”

“And?”

“And there is a story about a panel near the rear of Xerxes I’s tomb that, if pressed, will slide inward and admit the visitor to a secret network of caves and passages. According to legend, the ancient priests used these chambers to keep vigil over the dead kings to ensure they did not rise again.”

“Have you ever seen this panel?” Ahmad asked.

“No,” Ishak said.

“Then how do you know it is there?” Massai asked.

“I do not,” Ishak admitted.

Massai looked at Ahmad, waiting for his friend to tell him that Allah would provide, but Ahmad merely shrugged his shoulders.

“We have nothing else to try.” Ahmad said. “Shahid has ordered us to Naqsh e-Rustam.”

“Massai nodded. “And so that is where we will go.”

“If there is an entrance into the stone,” Ahmad said, “we will find it when we get there.”





12.



Dawoud rose from his seat as CJ entered the room, followed by two men carrying a stretcher between them. On the stretcher lay his son, unconscious.

“What happened?” Dawoud asked.

“He grew suspicious,” CJ answered. “Someone must have leaked our information.”

Faiza. It had to be. Only she would be so bold as to go against him in this. He had thought she didn’t know about his plans, but perhaps he was mistaken.

“It does not matter,” Dawoud said. “I have my son and the Ergot-B. Everything is moving along as planned.”

He walked over to the stretcher and took his first look as his son and heir, who had spent his entire life ignorant of his heritage. But as soon as he saw the man’s face, he knew something was wrong. It took a moment for the thought to come full circle, but then he realized the truth. He had been lied to for decades.

“This man,” Dawoud said through clenched teeth, “is not my son.”

“What?” CJ asked. “Sure he is. That’s what Faiza told me.”

“Faiza lied!” Dawoud’s face grew bright red, and the two men holding the stretcher flinched. “She has been lying for decades. Look at this man’s nose, his cheekbones, his lips. He is not my son.”

CJ looked at Bishop. After a moment, he looked back to Dawoud. “I think you’re right.”

“I know I am right.”

“Then whose son is he?” CJ asked.

Dawoud’s vision clouded, and his breathing and heart rate both sped up. His fists clenched at his side. He knew who the father was, but he would not share that information with CJ. The traitorous Delta operative didn’t have need to know the whole story, but Dawoud had seen those same features on a man he had known and trusted for many years. He wasn’t sure which betrayal hurt more, his or Faiza’s.

Either way, now he would have to kill them both, as well as this bastard in front of him.

***

In the back of the Rolls Royce, Faiza Abbasi shut off her cell phone and put it into her pocket. Weeks ago, she had sent information to an American soldier in Iran, hoping he would help her leave the country and reunite her with her son in exchange for years of information about her husband’s activities, which she had carefully and thoroughly catalogued for decades. But instead of helping her, he had taken the information of Erik’s whereabouts to her husband and sold it to him. Now that same man had her son, and was bringing him to Dawoud.

She should have left things as they were. If not for her weakness, Erik would still be in the United States, instead of flying through Iran on his way to his death.

Many years ago, Faiza had been given to Dawoud by her father as a bride in exchange for a lucrative business deal. She did not love Dawoud, and never had. He was an ambitious, aggressive man who was seldom home. Even when he was home, he treated Faiza as little more than a sex toy, only coming to her when he required a release. She came to despise his touch, but as a woman in Iran, she had no right to deny him. He came into her rooms often enough, but much to her dismay, they never had any children. She longed for a baby to care for, hoping that a child would soften her husband and provide her with someone to love. But no matter how many times they tried, no baby landed in her belly.

Soon enough he tired of her and brought in a new wife, and then another and another. She hoped she would be able to make friends among them, but they were jealous of her standing as Dawoud’s first wife, and wanted nothing to do with her. Miserable and lonely, she spent her days walking through the gardens, longing to break free of her stylish prison. It became so bad that she had even contemplated ending her own life.