The Leveling

“And the Americans,” said his uncle, when Zemin had finished. “They actually have been deceived by these rumors?”


“You would know better than I. How many of their aircraft carriers are within striking distance of Iran?”

Zemin took his uncle’s silence as an acknowledgment that the Americans were indeed up to something. He paused, expecting some small nod of recognition from his uncle that, remarkably, the primary objective of the operation remained on track.

Instead, the general said, “This is not a Chinese operation and never was. This is your operation.”

“Enough, Uncle. We are alone. We can speak the truth. You put the outline of the operation before the commission. And the commission approved it because they were afraid that, if the regime in Iran were ever to collapse, China’s oil and natural gas agreements might be canceled. A new government in Iran would want to reach out to the West, and other Central Asian nations might follow suit. A US attack on Iran would ensure that that would never happen. You know that, and I know that.”

“We will not acknowledge it.”

“The Iranians have detained an American who knows about our involvement in the money transfer. He took a photo. It shows me delivering money to Amir Bayat. He e-mailed this photo to others.”

The general looked disgusted. “This is your problem, not China’s. He detected your rogue operation. Not China’s.”

“You approved that transfer.”

“And you made commitments.”

“The Americans know what we did to Turkmenistan’s currency, and that I was involved, and that proceeds from that operation were transferred to Amir Bayat. These breaches are unfortunate, but not catastrophic.”

“Commitments of absolute secrecy!”

“The danger is that the Americans will learn why we transferred money to Bayat. The only way to guarantee that that won’t happen is to eliminate the two people in Iran who know both where the money came from and where the money went.”

The general stared down Zemin.

“Yes, Uncle, we must kill Amir Bayat and his ayatollah brother. You must authorize the Guoanbu in Iran to do it immediately. A former CIA officer has crossed into Iran. His name is Mark Sava. He has seen the photo of me and he knows the man the Iranians have detained. He is closing in.”

The general came out from behind his desk. “To come here with demands, like a pushy schoolboy. You shame yourself. The commission will not approve such a mission.”

“Then you must.”

“I will not. Ayatollah Bayat is a member of the Guardian Council. He could be the next supreme leader. If our involvement in his death were ever discovered—”

“It is the only way.”

“I will not be interrupted and bullied by an insolent child. Now leave me be.”

His uncle expected deference, Zemin knew. For the old ways to be honored, for blind obedience, for elders to be respected. But his uncle didn’t respect the old ways. His uncle lived in Santa Barbara and invested in hotel chains in Hong Kong. He only followed the old ways when it suited him.

Zemin would do the same.

“No, Uncle, that’s where you’re wrong. You will be bullied by me. You will instruct Guoanbu assets in Iran to kill Amir Bayat and his brother Muhammad Bayat. You will also instruct them to kill the Bayats’ American prisoner, and the guards being used to detain him, and the American Mark Sava. And you will instruct them to do all this in direct consultation with me.” He took a step toward his uncle. “If you do not do these things, I will tell the Americans myself what you and the commission and our president have planned. I will ruin you. And if it ruins me in the process, I don’t care.”





56


Tehran, Iran



THE OCCASIONAL STEEP slope of the trunk told Mark that he and Daria were ascending north into the wealthy part of Tehran, high above the dense smog and heat.

After twenty minutes, the car stopped. A gate, or perhaps a garage door, squeaked while being opened and then—after the car had pulled forward and stopped—while being closed. The trunk opened.

Standing above Mark, in a small garage, was a man of about sixty. He had a bald crown and a long, skinny, hawk-like nose. Big tufts of hair sprouted out over his ears. He offered his hand to Daria, and she took it.

“I apologize again for the inconvenience,” he said in perfect, British-accented English as he helped her climb out of the trunk.

“It is no inconvenience.”

“Oh but it is. A woman should not be subjected to such indignities. It is a sign of the times we live in.” He nodded politely to Mark. “Had I known you would be traveling with a colleague, I would have arranged it differently.”

A hallway off the garage led to a pleasant living room. It was painted a warm yellow, complementing the couch and chairs, which had been upholstered in a yellow-and-silver brocade that was notable for its caged-bird pattern—exactly as Daria had described it.

Stacked on open shelves in every corner of the living room were potted ferns and vine-like philodendrons that grew down to the floor.