The Leveling

Mark reached the top of the steps and crept down a short hall to a kitchen, stepping over two dead Iranians on the way.

In the kitchen, pots were drying in a rack next to the sink. A bag of rice had been left out on a stained Formica counter. One of the oak cabinets had been left open, revealing an assortment of mismatched glasses inside. He grabbed a glass and hurled it through a set of double doors.

It shattered on the far living room wall, beneath a large framed photo of a glowering Ayatollah Khorasani that hung over a fraying fake-leather couch.

Someone in the living room started shooting at the glass. Mark ducked behind the stove, checked how many bullets he had left—ten or so—then fired eight shots through a thin wall, aiming for where he guessed the shooter was.

Shots pinged the metal stove as the gunman returned fire.

Mark pulled the magazine out of his AK-47 and dry fired the rifle three times, as if it were out of bullets.

The shooter charged. As he did, Mark rolled out from behind the stove, jammed the magazine back into the gun, and fired two quick shots though the double doors that led to the living room. Neither hit the Chinese, even though it was an easy shot. Mark figured a dirty barrel had caused the bullets to keyhole.

The shooter flinched and dove to the ground. Mark charged, kicking over a coffee table that was in his way, scattering an assortment of hammers and wrenches and soiled straps.

The Chinese gripped a compact Heckler & Koch assault rifle and tried to aim as he scurried away on his rear end. He fired a single shot, followed by the click of an empty magazine.

It turned into an ugly, inhuman business as Mark began wielding his knife and the Chinese started using his rifle like a club. After a while, Mark wound up on the floor, writhing as the Chinese kicked him hard in the gut. Mark heard a rib break.

The fight only turned in Mark’s favor when he managed to stab the Chinese man’s shin so hard that the knife quivered in his hand, as if he’d connected with a solid oak butcher block.

When it was over, the Chinese was on the floor with two pools of blood creeping outward from either side of his chest, growing in size on the parquet floor until they looked like wings.





65




MARK RAN BACK down to the car.

“What happened?” asked Daria.

He paused to catch his breath and push the pain from his broken rib out of his mind. “Two Chinese were in the house.”

“Guoanbu?”

“Probably.” Mark handed her a Heckler & Koch with a new magazine in it, taken from the Chinese in the living room. The AK-47 he’d been using was slung across his back. That had a new magazine in it too, lifted off one of the dead Iranians in the hall.

“Where are they now?”

“Dead.”

“Are there more?”

“I don’t think so. Maybe.” He turned to Amir Bayat, who was glassy-eyed in the backseat, staring out the broken window.

“Where’s my colleague?” He slapped Bayat’s face. “I’m talking to you, Amir! This is why we’re here.”

Amir turned to face him. His eyes focused.

“You want your doctor?” said Mark. “Now’s the time to keep your end of the deal.”

“The basement,” whispered Amir.

Mark turned.

“Wait,” said Amir. “Below the basement…a safe. You must lift the carpet.”

“What are you saying?”

“When my brother…” Bayat’s face convulsed as if a jolt of pain had just hit him. “…bought the house, after the revolution, it was too heavy, too heavy to move.” He paused, clearly exhausted.

“What was too heavy to move? The safe?”

Bayat’s breath was shallow and fast. “I said I could not guarantee his condition. After he tried to escape, the Chinese interrogators—”

“He’s in the safe?”

“It was where one of the Shah’s generals…stored money…that he stole from the people.”

“How do I open it?”

“The year of our revolution. My brother had it reset.”

“You’re saying that’s the combination?”

Bayat gave a slight, pained nod.

Mark turned to Daria. “Stay here.” He gestured to Bayat. “Guard this asshole. I’ll be right back.”




The steps leading to the basement had fresh mud on them, and the stairwell walls were grimy. Halfway down, an Iranian lay dead, still clutching a pistol. Mark flipped a light switch. A bare bulb near the base of the steps flickered on.

The basement floor was made of rough concrete. Half of it was covered with a stained and threadbare Persian carpet. Chains hung from the exposed ceiling beams. A pile of rope, a pair of handcuffs, a wooden ladder, electrical wire, and a metal bed frame had been shoved into a corner. Cans of paint had been piled on a workbench that stood in another corner.

Mark pulled back the carpet, revealing a hinged trapdoor that had been topped with concrete to match the floor. The underside of the carpet stank of mold.