The Leveling

Mark’s eyes had adjusted to the darkness by then, and he recognized Amir Bayat the second he saw the Iranian bounding down the stairs. He was of average height but considerable girth. In all of Decker’s photos, Amir had had been wearing his black turban. Now his stringy hair flopped down over his forehead in a tangled mess. His ears were swollen and bulbous, marking him as a former wrestler.

The voices on the tape ended. Mark pushed Play again.

Amir shouted something in Farsi. Daria, translating, said, “If the Ministry of Intelligence has something they wish to speak to me about, have the courage to do it in the light of day.”

Mark shined his penlight at Amir Bayat. Speaking slowly in Farsi, he repeated the words Daria had taught him to say. “Do you speak Azeri? Or English?”

“Who are you?” The words, spoken in passable Azeri, came out as a snarl.

Replying in Azeri, Mark said, “I’m not here from the Ministry of Intelligence.”

Amir squinted at the light. “I will not stand for this violation. Turn this noise off, this false recording you have concocted, this—”

A woman—Amir’s wife, Mark presumed—appeared at the top of the steps in a gown. Her hair was uncovered. She said something in Farsi. The only word Mark understood was police.

Amir’s response sounded something like no.

“What you are hearing are copies of the originals,” said Mark. “If something happens to me, these digital recordings will be e-mailed to the Ministry of Intelligence.”

One of Bayat’s children began to cry. Amir’s wife said something about the police again.

To Mark, Amir said, “Who are you?”

“The man you tried to have killed in Baku.”

“Sava.”

“Yes.”

“Khorasani would approve of what we are doing if he knew.”

“But he doesn’t know, and he hasn’t approved it.”

Amir Bayat had no answer to that.

Mark said, “I have a demand.”

“You have violated my home. You have looked upon my wife. You have brought my children to tears. You will pay for this.”

Indeed, all of Amir’s children now seemed to be crying. It occurred to Mark that he was a monster to them.

“If you meet my demand, I will instruct my colleagues to destroy the evidence I have against you.”

Bayat yelled something to his wife. Moments later, it sounded to Mark as though the kids were being herded into a room upstairs.

Mark pulled out Decker’s camera and began to show Bayat the photos on the LCD screen. When he got to the ones that showed Bayat receiving a briefcase from a Chinese man on the streets of Mashhad, he zoomed in on the faces. “You were followed from the moment you took the money. Your hotel rooms and phones were bugged. Everything you said was recorded.”

Amir’s face was creased with worry.

“The good news for you,” said Mark, “is that my only demand is that you release the American you captured three days ago. He’s my colleague.”

“I know not of whom you speak.”

“I think you do. He’s almost two meters tall. Short hair, originally blond, dyed brown. Muscular.”

“I do not.”

“Then I will need to speak with your brother.”

“I have several brothers.”

Mark clicked through the photos on the digital camera until he came to the one that Decker had taken of Ayatollah Bayat entering the mansion in north Tehran. “This brother. The brother you are speaking to on the tape. The brother who wound up with the money from the Chinese. The brother who lives in the house where you found my colleague. The brother who is scheming behind the back of your supreme leader. That fucking brother.”

A long silence passed.

“I can’t guarantee he will see you,” said Amir.

“Oh, I think he will.”

Over his cell phone earpiece, Mark heard Daria say, “The house is being watched. Get out.”

“Who is it?”

“I don’t know. A car parked opposite the house just started up and drove away. Someone must have been inside it for the whole time I’ve been here. Thirty seconds later another car pulled into the open spot. No one’s gotten out of that car yet.”

“Have they seen you?”

“I don’t think so. I’m behind them by about a hundred yards.”

“Did they see me hop the wall?”

“Maybe.”

“They look like they’re planning a takedown?”

“No, but—”

“I got you. We’re outta here.”





62


Tehran, Iran



MARK AND AMIR Bayat sped through the gates of Ayatollah Bayat’s estate in north Tehran, waved through with barely a glance from the guards out front. Amir parked his green Peugeot at the base of the wide marble steps that led to the entrance. By now it was almost dawn.

They’d been followed on the way over. Daria had picked out the car right away and stayed behind it. Mark guessed it was the Iranian intelligence ministry closing in.

There were more guards on duty at the ayatollah’s mansion than there had been the night before. Yellow police tape was strung up on the section of fence that Daria had rammed into.