The Leveling

Ayatollah Bayat shook his head as though he were a father disappointed in a child. The gesture reminded Mark of the obnoxiously patronizing priests he’d dealt with as an altar boy three decades ago.

“I regret to tell you,” said the ayatollah, “that he tried to jump down from the roof in an attempt to escape. In doing so, he hit his head. I can assure you that our doctors tried to save him as an act of mercy, but he will now have to look to Allah for mercy.”

Ayatollah Bayat raised his eyes to the ceiling and said, “Oh my servants who have transgressed against your own souls, do not despair of Allah’s mercy, for Allah forgives all sins. It is he who is the forgiving, the merciful.” Looking back at Mark, he said, “Your colleague died of his injuries before he reached the hospital.”

Mark was good at figuring out whether people were lying or not—too much eye contact or not enough, odd pauses, a story that obviously benefitted the teller, forced gesticulations…his intuition in this department had been honed over the course of a long career. And he didn’t believe Ayatollah Bayat for a second. “I would like to see the body.”

“But how could that be possible? There was no evidence your colleague was a Muslim, and we did not know his name, so the body was buried without Islamic funeral rites, in an unmarked grave, in a cemetery for unbelievers. As is natural.”

“Then show me where he jumped, and where his head hit.”

Ayatollah Bayat appeared to consider the request, with unease, for a moment. Finally he stood. “Please follow me.”

Mark was taken to a courtyard behind the mansion. An eight-foot-high brick wall enclosed the small space. Ayatollah Bayat pointed to the top of the wall about fifteen feet from where it met the building, where a brick had fallen away.

“That is where your colleague hit his head.”

Mark eyed the roof, squinting in the bright morning sun. Given that the mansion had three full stories, he estimated that the drop to the wall would have been well over twenty feet. If Decker had been trying to get off the roof the fastest way possible, he probably would have jumped exactly where Ayatollah Bayat said he had.

Assuming that was the case, the distance from the exterior wall of the mansion to the broken brick suggested that Decker hadn’t just lowered himself over the edge of the roof and dropped—to get that far away from the building, he would have had to take a giant running leap off the roof. Which, knowing Decker, Mark thought entirely possible.

He gauged the distance again and imagined Decker in midair. For any normal human being, a leap from that height to a brick wall no more than a foot wide would have resulted in a broken leg at the very least. A fatal head injury was a definite possibility, perhaps even a likelihood.

But Decker was no normal human being. Mark figured Deck could have easily made that jump and hit the ground running.

“Was he wounded prior to jumping?”

“No,” said Ayatollah Bayat. “It was the fall alone that killed him.”

“You’re lying.”

Ayatollah Bayat stared at him for a while. “Of course death is difficult to accept. As an act of compassion, I am willing to arrange for a diyya to be paid to any of his remaining family members. It is not an accepted custom in our country to make such a payment for the death of an intruder, and the rate for a non-Muslim is typically not high, but rational discretion in these matters is often advisable.”

Mark took out his cell phone and pushed a series of buttons.

“What are you doing?” said Amir.

Mark pushed a few more buttons on his cell phone and then snapped it shut. “I just sent an authorization code to my colleagues. Unless I revoke it within two hours, it will be too late to stop the release of the digital files that prove you’ve been conspiring behind Khorasani’s back. One of the places the files will be sent is your own intelligence ministry. The only condition under which I will revoke the authorization I just sent is if I am taken to my colleague.”

It was technically a lie. His agreement with Daria was that, if he didn’t return, she would release the information if and when she saw fit.

Ayatollah Bayat looked as though he’d swallowed something rancid. “What you demand is impossible.”

Mark shrugged. “Not my problem.”

“Your life is your problem, my son.”

The threat was delivered awkwardly, with little conviction—a weak attempt to bully by an old man who was used to others doing his bullying for him. And it was ineffective to boot. Mark had long ago come to accept his own death. He figured his life wasn’t so great anyway, and no one was dependent on him. He could afford to gamble.

“You have a choice to make. Either deliver my colleague, or face the consequences.”

Ayatollah Bayat turned, as though he were going to walk away. But then, with his back to Mark, he said, “If we were to agree to your terms, how would you propose we conduct the transfer?”