The Leveling Page 18

  The guard waved him through.

  He drove down Cabrillo Boulevard until he came to a cul-de-sac, at the end of which sat a large two-story Tudor-style house, an architectural anomaly among its Spanish-influenced neighbors. Though the grass out front was fertilizer green, the sky above was its usual sickly smog gray. He parked his car in the granite-cobbled driveway and, with a nod of his head, acknowledged the soldier standing near the garage. This one was a real Chinese army officer.

  When he rang the front doorbell, he was met by a maid.

  “The general is in a meeting. You’ll have to wait.”

  Zemin wasn’t surprised. The fat general always kept him waiting.

  54

  Tehran, Iran

  “STAY CLOSE.” DARIA touched Mark’s forearm. “Shove through if you have to.”

  Mark turned his attention to the crush of shoppers trying to plunge into one of the main bottleneck entrances to Tehran’s Grand Bazaar.

  A few feet ahead of him, a man was muscling a cart, stacked six feet high with sacks of rice, through a wall of bodies. Daria fell in behind him. Mark fell in behind her.

  Unlike the open-air bazaar outside of Ashgabat, this one in south Tehran was a chaotic, twisting maze composed of miles and miles of centuries-old covered alleys.

  In one section were electronics, in another fine china, in another racy women’s lingerie…Porters replenished the stores with goods they carried in on backpacks padded with old carpet remnants. Motorbikes occasionally wove their way through the dense crowds. In many alleys, the only light came from neon signs and strings of fluorescent bulbs hanging from low ceilings, which gave the place a cave-like feel. In others, thick shafts of bright sunlight, filled with dust motes, filtered down from open skylights that had been cut into high vaulted ceilings.

  After they’d walked over a mile, Daria turned down an alley where shop after shop was packed with rolls of brightly colored fabrics stacked on shelves that reached up to the ceiling.

  She approached the third shop on the left and spent a few minutes examining the fabrics that were at eye level. Eventually, a middle-aged man came over and said he would be happy to show her some of his finer rolls.

  Daria said no, she was looking for a specific fabric she’d bought at the shop two years ago. It was a brocade of silver and yellow, with an image of a caged bird repeated in the pattern. It was a beautiful pattern, she said. Very rare, but the owner of the shop had been in the day she’d ordered it, and had recommended it to her. She’d used it to reupholster her couch, and now had two chairs she needed done. Did they still carry it?

  The merchant inspected his inventory, but couldn’t find the fabric she was looking for.

  Daria asked whether he could order it.

  He would have to make a call. The owner of the shop would know.

  When the merchant came back, he said that Daria was indeed fortunate. The owner of the store remembered the exact fabric in question and had some at one of his stores in north Tehran. Would Daria prefer to pick it up at the other store or have it delivered?

  “I’ll pick it up in an hour. If the owner could have it ready, that would be wonderful.”

  “I will tell him.”

  “Merci.” Daria used the French word for thank you, as most Iranians did.

  They squeezed onto a motorcycle taxi, which, fifteen minutes later, dropped them in front of a parking garage on Taleqani Avenue, just past the high brick walls that encircled the old American embassy.

  On the sixth floor, Daria approached a silver Mercedes. Although it was rusting in a few places, it had recently been washed and waxed. The shiny hood stood out next to the concrete walls, which were stained with engine oil that had dripped down from the floors above. The words Bethlehem Steel were stamped on one of the grimy I-beams supporting the ceiling.

  Daria opened the gas cap cover and pulled out a set of keys.

  “He’s watching us now,” she said.

  “From where?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She opened the trunk and listened for a moment. There were no footsteps, just the sound of the noisy city outside. “Get in.”

  Mark did as instructed. Daria quickly put the keys back next to the gas cap, climbed in next to him, and pulled down the lid of the trunk. To both fit, her back had to nestle up against his chest.

  “He’s got a thing about me seeing where he lives,” Daria said, whispering in the darkness. “Which is kind of crazy because I know his name and if I wanted to figure out where he lives I could do it easily.” When Mark didn’t respond, she added, “When I was with the Agency, I met with him about once a month for over two years. He’s one of the power brokers at the bazaar. Not the biggest, but he’s got influence.”

  Mark forced himself to stop thinking about Daria’s ass, which was pressed invitingly up against his crotch, and instead consider Tehran’s Grand Bazaar. Although it had lost some of its influence lately, the bazaar was still the Wall Street of Iran; deep connections existed between many of the bazaar merchants and the government.

  “If he’s so paranoid, why go to his house? Why not just talk here?”

  “He doesn’t like to be rushed.”

  The front door of the car opened, then slammed shut. A muffled voice from the front seat spoke out in Farsi: “Who is he?”

  “My boss,” said Daria. “You have nothing to fear from him.”

  “In the past you have always come alone, dear.”

  “It’s a special circumstance.”

  Silence, then, “Are you in danger?”

  “No more so than usual.”

  “After so long, I was afraid I would not hear from you again.”

  “I’ll explain everything at your home.”

  55

  Beijing, China

  “THE GENERAL WILL see you now.”

  “Is my aunt here?”

  “Hong Kong.”

  Zemin dismissed the maid and showed himself to his uncle’s weekend office. The general was at his desk, signing his name to government documents.

  “I meet with the transport minister at the golf clubhouse in fifteen minutes.” His uncle spoke with his usual abruptness, without bothering to look up. An assistant—a young army lieutenant—stood by the side of the desk with a stack of more papers to be signed.

  It was Sunday morning. The general wore a light green army shirt with dark green army slacks. His jacket, with its general’s epaulets, hung on a coatrack near the door. His head was unnaturally large, even in relation to the rest of his chubby body—the result of too many Mongolian hot pots at the golf club. His cheeks sagged.

  Zemin said, “I have an important matter I need to discuss with you.”

  “Sit.”

  Zemin had, in fact, been intending to sit, but now he chose to remain standing. He faced his uncle’s assistant. “Leave us.”

  The assistant’s face remained blank until the general said, “Go.”

  When he and his uncle were alone, Zemin said, “There are complications. With the project in Iran.”

  The general was seventy-four years old. His clean-shaven face showed the wrinkles that come with age. Liver spots dotted the backs of his hands.

  “Stop this.”

  “I must tell you of these complications.”

  The general signed another document. “Enough! Whatever your problem is, you must solve it yourself.”

  “The Iranians have detained an American—”

  The general smacked his palm on his desk. “One month ago you came to see me. You stood before me as you do now. You assured me, and I in turn assured the commission, that there would be no circumstances under which the commission would—”

  “I provided financial support to the Iranian newspaper editor we spoke of. The sayyid Amir Bayat, the man I worked with years ago when I was in Tehran.”

  “Financial support that you assured me would be untraceable. You were—”

  “As he promised, he was able to use that mon
ey to pay off the right generals and informants, so that false information fell into the hands of the Americans and Israelis.”

  “Do not tell me the nature of this information,” warned the general. “There is no reason for the commission, or me, to know. We agreed on this point, Li.”

  “Because of complications that have arisen, you must now instruct the Guoanbu in Iran to do as I say.”

  “Impossible.”

  “Then I will tell you the specifics of the operation you authorized. So that you know the dangers involved. Two months ago, the daughter of Supreme Leader Ayatollah Khorasani was caught swimming at night, naked, on a men’s beach in Kish Island. She was arrested by local Iranian police. Of course, when they arrested her, the police had no idea who she was.”

  The general shook his head and narrowed his eyes. Zemin enjoyed the look of disgust on his uncle’s face. Theirs was a strictly formal relationship. Certainly they had never—not even once—discussed anything remotely sexual before.

  “Because she was the daughter of the supreme leader, the incident was covered up and the girl was sequestered. But rumors started…”

  “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.

  “I’ll make tea,” said Mahmoud.

  Mark checked his watch.

  “Please, don’t trouble yourself,” said Daria.

  “I insist. It is some of Darjeeling’s finest; I know the man who sells it.”

  As Mahmoud turned toward the kitchen, Daria said, “There was a bloodletting in Baku. Eight months ago. Few survived. Part of what happened was my fault—” She glanced at Mark. “I lost my job. I was fired. That’s why you haven’t heard from me in so long.”

  Mahmoud turned back to Daria. With what sounded like genuine sadness, he said, “I grieve for you.”

  “Don’t.”

  “You were hurt.”

  Daria touched her face. “Not badly.”

  “Don’t trouble yourself, dear. I could hardly notice. You are still radiant, but it is not your face that worries me, it is your heart.”

  Mark’s first reaction was to dismiss the line as nothing more than sugary nonsense, but Mahmoud said it with such genuine empathy that he couldn’t.

  Daria turned away. Mark had the impression she was struggling not to cry.

  Mahmoud sat down. “Why are you here, Daria?”

  She wiped her eye with the back of her hand. “We are searching for a friend.”

  “You have found him.” Mahmoud opened both of his arms, gesturing to himself. “Tell me what you need.”

  “I speak of a friend who we believe came to Iran.” She explained the nature of Decker’s investigation. “Before he disappeared, he sent me three photos. We were hoping you could look at them. I can’t promise that anything you do to help us will weaken the regime. I can’t promise you anything, Mahmoud. It would just be a favor.”

  “Quiet yourself, dear. Show me the pictures.”

  Daria handed him a blown-up photo,
cut out from one of the fliers they’d posted around Mashhad. “We believe the man in the black turban is the editor of Enqelab.”

  Mahmoud studied the photo for a moment. “It is so,” he pronounced. “Amir Bayat. The dog.”

  “I thought you might know him,” said Daria.

  “Yes, the incident with my…” Mark observed that Mahmoud’s hand trembled. “…my son, happened twelve years ago, around the same time this Bayat started the Enqelab. Bayat pressed the government’s case in his paper, of course. Every day. He is a stooge of the warmongers in this country and a monkey boy for his ayatollah brother. He prints what they tell him to print.” Mahmoud turned to Mark. “There is a cabal of lunatics in this country, you see, that make even Khorasani seem reasonable. Bayat is the mongrel dog of this cabal. A dog his masters use when it suits them to frighten the few reasonable people who are left in this country.”

  Mahmoud snapped his fingers a few times, as though to summon a dog. “Bayat’s latest mission is to help destroy the conservatives who are only half-crazy, those who wish to open up limited ties to the West and lift some of the idiocy that is passed off as religion in this country. After devouring everyone decent in this country, they are now turning on their own.” He smacked his knee, and then was silent, as if embarrassed by his outburst.

  Mark resisted the urge to check his watch again.

  Daria pulled out her phone and brought up the three photos they’d received from Decker. Mahmoud only studied the first for a moment before announcing that he didn’t recognize the Asian man with whom Amir Bayat was exchanging a briefcase. But when Daria clicked on the second picture, the one that showed a mansion, he placed his fingers lightly on her hand.

  He took her phone, brought it to within six inches of his long nose, handed the device back to Daria, and then closed his eyes. A short while later, with a flourish of his long skinny hands, he said, “I know this place.” With disdain, he added, “This palace.”

  Without offering further explanation, he stood and walked to a set of sliding glass doors that opened out onto a small backyard garden.