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

“Adulteress!” came the shout from behind his back. Bishop turned to see Dawoud struggling to get free of the agent holding him. The agent slipped on the wet floor, and Dawoud took advantage of the moment to sweep his leg out from under him. Before anyone in the room could draw a pistol, Dawoud’s hand struck out for Bishop’s backpack.

The alarms in Bishop’s head started to fire. There was a knife in there! He moved out of instinct to push his mother out of harm’s way, certain that she would be the target. But instead of the knife, Dawoud pulled out the water bottle Bishop had taken from the Manifold site. The bright yellow biohazard symbol gleamed in the light from the room’s lamps.

“Stop him,” Bishop shouted, knowing what Dawoud meant to do.

Dawoud unscrewed the cap and brought the bottle to his mouth. Before Massai tackled him, he managed to take several swallows of the infected water.

The effect was immediate. Dawoud started screaming and punching at Massai, shoving him upward like he was a toy. He sprang to his feet. He looked around, his eyes wild, and reached into the backpack for the knife. Bishop recalled the words of Deep Blue’s text.



NO CURE.



Dawoud must have known that.

The terrorist leader looked around the room, and then his eyes settled on Faiza. He flashed a lopsided grin, drooling from the corner of his mouth, and launched himself at her before anyone in the room had time to react. His fingers curled around the handle of the KA-BAR as he brought it up for a strike. His garbled words were unintelligible, but his intent was clear.

Faiza screamed.

Bishop kicked the man square in the chest, wanting to distance him and his mother from the man’s body in case Dawoud had spilled any of the Ergot-B on himself. A series of sharp cracks tore through the air and Bishop felt the man’s ribcage cave. Then the force of the kick sent the man flying backwards. As he sailed through the air, Bishop pulled his Sig and fired a single shot. The round entered Dawoud’s head on the left and exited on the right, spraying blood and gore around the room. The body fell twitching to the floor, blood pooling out.

Faiza’s eyes rolled into her head, then her limp body crumpled to the ground like a sack of laundry. Bishop reached out just in time to keep her head from banging into the floor.

He picked her up as the rest of the room exploded into chaos. Iranian Special Forces agents scrambled through the place, swearing and yelling in Persian. Bishop ignored them and lifted his prone mother over his good shoulder. She stirred as he carried her out of the room, ignoring the pain in his shoulder. Her eyes opened, and she smiled weakly. She brought her hand up to brush against his stubbly cheek.

“Erik?” she said. “Can you forgive me?”

“Shhh,” he replied. “You’re safe now, mother.”

She smiled and put her head on his chest.

He’d found his mother, and was proud of what she’d done—and where he’d come from.

For the first time in his life, Erik Somers, callsign: Bishop, felt no anger at all.





EPILOGUE

Tehran, two days later.

Bishop walked into the restaurant and looked around. He spotted her right away, sitting in a corner booth. She was back to wearing her habib, which would be appropriate since she had not yet left Iran. The two Iranian guards behind her nodded to him as he approached. Since Dawoud’s death, the terrorist’s colleagues had made numerous attempts to silence anyone in Dawoud’s family who might know too much. So far, several of his wives had been killed, but with the help of the Iranian military, Faiza was smuggled out of Shiraz and into Tehran, where it would be easier for her to vanish. Soon she would be able to come to the States, and she could drop the habib in favor of blue jeans again.

She watched him approach. Her face still lined with grief. He had not been permitted to see her after the mess in Naqsh e-Rustam. The Iranian government’s position was that nothing unusual had occurred, and any rumors to the contrary were just that: rumors. The site had been closed for “renovations,” which is where the government claimed the rumors got their start.

But now, finally, the government had allowed the two to meet. They chose a public place, where their conversation could be monitored and recorded. Bishop didn’t care. He’d expected no less. Besides, he doubted the Iranian government would be interested in their conversation, anyway.

As he sat down, a million questions ran through his mind. Questions about his grandparents, about Anwar, about her life as a terrorist’s wife. He wanted to know what it was like for her all those years, not knowing where he was or what he was doing. He had a feeling he already knew why she gave him up, but he would ask her that, too.

In addition, he could see on her face that she had questions for him, as well. He hoped he could answer all of them.

“Hello, Mother,” he said.

“Hello, Erik,” she replied.

“I think we should talk,” he said.

She smiled, which did nothing to erase the sadness in her face. “Yes, we should.”