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

Dawoud couldn’t believe it as he was led back through the facility. The two Iranian agents had captured him right as he was leaving the Naqsh e-Rustam. How had they known how to get inside?

Faiza, it had to be her. She must have known more than she allowed him to believe.

A flood of Iranian soldiers poured into the facility, shooting first and not bothering with questions. Of course now that he had been exposed, the government would move fast to make it seem as though they had no idea what was going on here. They would pretend Dawoud had acted alone, and without the cooperation of the Iranian government. No one would believe them, of course, but it wouldn’t matter. The UN would never investigate for fear of insulting the current regime.

At least they fear us enough for that, he thought, a bitter smile on his lips.

Of more concern was the United States. Somers would insist on taking Dawoud back to America to face trial, but Dawoud knew the truth. There would be no trial if he went to America. There would only be a cell, some ratty clothing, and a handful of specialists who knew how to extract information from reluctant prisoners.

He regretted the loss of his pistol. It had run out of ammunition during his failed escape and he’d tossed it away. He should have saved one last round just in case. If he’d had it in his possession when Massai corralled him, he could have at least put a bullet in his own head and died with honor. Dawoud knew his worth. He knew his strengths and weaknesses, but he also knew how interrogations worked. He’d seen plenty of them firsthand, even participated in a few. One thing he knew for certain: sooner or later, everyone talked. He would be no different.

He was led into the room with the large tanks. The spilled ergot water had been hosed away, and the bodies lined up along the wall. Faiza was there, as well as her son. She was dressed like a Westerner, her habib nowhere to be seen and her face bare for every man in the room to see. Her face was streaked with tears, but Erik’s simmered with anger. The two stood far apart, and he felt a small bit of satisfaction knowing that her betrayal had not helped her to reunite with her son. The man seemed to want nothing to do with her. As well he might, given the circumstances. She had lied to every one of them.

Still, she would have the last laugh as she watched the American dogs drag him away in chains. The thought bothered him even more than the idea of being arrested. That she should get to watch him in his disgrace seemed like the ultimate insult. She deserved to die for her infidelity and her lies, yet there she stood, her attention split between her bastard of a son and her husband. She would be ushered out of the country to live the American lifestyle she’d always wanted, while he would scream for mercy in a cell somewhere. It wasn’t fair.

How he longed for the pistol now. Death would be far better than this humiliation. But as he looked around, he saw one last chance for redemption.

And he meant to take it.

***

Bishop stood looking down at the body of Anwar Muaddah, driver for Dawoud Abbasi and also his biological father. His face looked familiar to Bishop, and he realized it was because he’d seen those same features every day for his entire life. He resembled the dead man so much that it was no wonder Dawoud knew the truth right away.

He turned to look at his mother, Faiza Abbasi, who stood about ten feet away with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Bishop’s own shoulder had been cleaned and bandaged, and his left arm hung in a sling. The woman in front of him looked exactly like the picture. Pretty, in an older woman sort of way. Her dark hair streaked with gray. The only real difference was her outfit.

Instead of her black habib, Bishop noticed, Faiza was dressed in blue jeans, sneakers and a dark blouse with the top button undone. Quite daring for a conservative Muslin town like Shiraz. And then the reason came to him.

“You were leaving,” he said from across the room. “Weren’t you?”

She nodded, tears spilling onto her cheeks. “I know Shahid Millik, the Commander of Iran’s Special Forces. I’ve been sending him information for months. After I sent him the text message explaining how to get inside the Naqsh e-Rustam, I called Anwar. His wife died several years ago, and we have been planning to leave the country for months. With everything that was happening, today seemed like a good day to do it.”