The Leveling

Amir let himself into the front foyer, removed his worn leather loafers, and slipped into a pair of cheap plastic house sandals. Mark didn’t like the thought of leaving himself vulnerable, and he didn’t care if he insulted anyone, so he left his shoes on.

He was led to a room not far from the front door. It was a shabby place, with cracked plaster walls. Sticks of incense were kept burning in one corner next to photos of a few young soldiers, boys really, who—according the words at the base of the photos—had died in the Iran-Iraq War. After a while, a tiny woman who took baby steps under her black chador set down a bowl of apples and oranges on a nearby coffee table.

Mark sat cross-legged on the floor, across from Amir Bayat.

“He will come.”

“When?” said Mark.

“Soon.”




Ayatollah Bayat showed up a half hour later wearing a gray robe, a black turban, the same cheap plastic sandals that Amir wore, and chunky oversized glasses that made his eyes look enormous. His white beard was full and long. On his left hand he wore a silver ring with a huge amber stone.

“Salaam, brother,” said Amir. “Praise be to Allah. I am sorry for this disturbance.”

The brothers embraced.

“It is no disturbance. A visit from you is always a pleasure. I rely on your wisdom like I rely on the air around me.” Ayatollah Bayat gestured with his hands in a theatrical way.

Give me a break, thought Mark.

“I would know nothing at all were it not for your guidance,” said Amir. Switching from Farsi to Azeri, he said, “This is the one I spoke of.”

Ayatollah Bayat faced Mark and attempted a smile.

Mark had dealt with plenty of people in power over the course of his CIA career. He’d lunched with the vice president of the United States—a nice guy—had downed beers with a billionaire who’d bought an ambassadorship to Armenia—an asshole—and had locked horns with half the political higher-ups in Washington and Azerbaijan countless times. One thing he’d noticed was that the powerful tended to fall into one of two categories: those who still, despite their exalted status, felt the need to puff themselves up with titles and showy displays of wealth, or what they perceived to be knowledge, and those who didn’t. He decided to do a little test, to determine which category Ayatollah Bayat fell into.

“Hojjatoleslam Bayat,” he said. “Thank you for meeting with me. I have come for information about my colleague.”

An awkward silence followed. A hojjatoleslam was a rank below that of an ayatollah.

Ayatollah Bayat cleared his throat.

“Ayatollah Bayat,” said Amir. “My brother is an ayatollah.”

“Then I apologize. I had been told otherwise.”

“My brother is frequently called on to lead Friday prayers.”

“I see.”

“He is the leader of the Combatant Clergy Association.”

“I meant no offense.”

Mark’s experience had been that the less religious training an ayatollah had, the more sensitive he was about his title. From the deep frown on Ayatollah Bayat’s face, Mark figured he’d had little training indeed.

Ayatollah Bayat said, “Is it logical to argue like this while we have serious business to attend to? Please, you must both join me in the library.”

The old man walked slowly, gripping the front of his robe with his left hand as he led them to a room ringed by mahogany shelves full of Islamic texts. The ceiling was covered with mirrored tiles, but there was evidence of serious water damage.

“Please, sit.” Ayatollah Bayat glanced at Mark and gestured to the nicest chair in the room. “I will call for tea.”

Mark was sick of people offering him tea. And of waiting. As station chief, he had listened to hours of intercepted conversations between low-ranking Iranian mullahs. Some were true believers. Some were more interested in politics than religion. Some were fond of sex jokes. But they all knew how to speak quickly and without artifice when they wanted to.

He removed the recorder and camera from Decker’s satchel. “I think you’ll be interested in these photos and voice recordings. You’re on them.”

Ayatollah Bayat took a seat in a simple chair that had no seat cushion or armrest. “My brother has told me of the content. I have no need to review the information myself.”

“He told you why I’m here?”

“You are searching for your colleague. The one who assembled this information.”

“He told you the deal I offered?”

The deal was a straight exchange—Decker for the evidence that Decker had collected.

“He did.”

“Your answer?”

“I can tell you this: last week, the dogs that patrol this property at night smelled an intruder. Who would violate this sanctuary, my guards wondered? We have nothing here of value but the work of Allah. Your colleague was discovered on the roof of this house, no doubt engaging in the very spying that led to the information you have in your possession.”