The Leveling

She opened the trunk and listened for a moment. There were no footsteps, just the sound of the noisy city outside. “Get in.”


Mark did as instructed. Daria quickly put the keys back next to the gas cap, climbed in next to him, and pulled down the lid of the trunk. To both fit, her back had to nestle up against his chest.

“He’s got a thing about me seeing where he lives,” Daria said, whispering in the darkness. “Which is kind of crazy because I know his name and if I wanted to figure out where he lives I could do it easily.” When Mark didn’t respond, she added, “When I was with the Agency, I met with him about once a month for over two years. He’s one of the power brokers at the bazaar. Not the biggest, but he’s got influence.”

Mark forced himself to stop thinking about Daria’s ass, which was pressed invitingly up against his crotch, and instead consider Tehran’s Grand Bazaar. Although it had lost some of its influence lately, the bazaar was still the Wall Street of Iran; deep connections existed between many of the bazaar merchants and the government.

“If he’s so paranoid, why go to his house? Why not just talk here?”

“He doesn’t like to be rushed.”

The front door of the car opened, then slammed shut. A muffled voice from the front seat spoke out in Farsi: “Who is he?”

“My boss,” said Daria. “You have nothing to fear from him.”

“In the past you have always come alone, dear.”

“It’s a special circumstance.”

Silence, then, “Are you in danger?”

“No more so than usual.”

“After so long, I was afraid I would not hear from you again.”

“I’ll explain everything at your home.”





55


Beijing, China



“THE GENERAL WILL see you now.”

“Is my aunt here?”

“Hong Kong.”

Zemin dismissed the maid and showed himself to his uncle’s weekend office. The general was at his desk, signing his name to government documents.

“I meet with the transport minister at the golf clubhouse in fifteen minutes.” His uncle spoke with his usual abruptness, without bothering to look up. An assistant—a young army lieutenant—stood by the side of the desk with a stack of more papers to be signed.

It was Sunday morning. The general wore a light green army shirt with dark green army slacks. His jacket, with its general’s epaulets, hung on a coatrack near the door. His head was unnaturally large, even in relation to the rest of his chubby body—the result of too many Mongolian hot pots at the golf club. His cheeks sagged.

Zemin said, “I have an important matter I need to discuss with you.”

“Sit.”

Zemin had, in fact, been intending to sit, but now he chose to remain standing. He faced his uncle’s assistant. “Leave us.”

The assistant’s face remained blank until the general said, “Go.”

When he and his uncle were alone, Zemin said, “There are complications. With the project in Iran.”

The general was seventy-four years old. His clean-shaven face showed the wrinkles that come with age. Liver spots dotted the backs of his hands.

“Stop this.”

“I must tell you of these complications.”

The general signed another document. “Enough! Whatever your problem is, you must solve it yourself.”

“The Iranians have detained an American—”

The general smacked his palm on his desk. “One month ago you came to see me. You stood before me as you do now. You assured me, and I in turn assured the commission, that there would be no circumstances under which the commission would—”

“I provided financial support to the Iranian newspaper editor we spoke of. The sayyid Amir Bayat, the man I worked with years ago when I was in Tehran.”

“Financial support that you assured me would be untraceable. You were—”

“As he promised, he was able to use that money to pay off the right generals and informants, so that false information fell into the hands of the Americans and Israelis.”

“Do not tell me the nature of this information,” warned the general. “There is no reason for the commission, or me, to know. We agreed on this point, Li.”

“Because of complications that have arisen, you must now instruct the Guoanbu in Iran to do as I say.”

“Impossible.”

“Then I will tell you the specifics of the operation you authorized. So that you know the dangers involved. Two months ago, the daughter of Supreme Leader Ayatollah Khorasani was caught swimming at night, naked, on a men’s beach in Kish Island. She was arrested by local Iranian police. Of course, when they arrested her, the police had no idea who she was.”

The general shook his head and narrowed his eyes. Zemin enjoyed the look of disgust on his uncle’s face. Theirs was a strictly formal relationship. Certainly they had never—not even once—discussed anything remotely sexual before.

“Because she was the daughter of the supreme leader, the incident was covered up and the girl was sequestered. But rumors started…”