Zakaria kept his eyes on the knife. Then he placed his manicured fingers together, dropped the smile, and locked his gaze on me. “Do you still fantasize about the erroneous possibility that your father might be alive, incarcerated in Evin Prison, a broken old man whose long hair and beard make him unrecognizable but one who’s not dead?”
I was motionless because I didn’t want to give the bastard the satisfaction of knowing that his question unsettled me. “He’s dead. An Iranian general killed him in his prison cell after he was captured and taken to Tehran.”
“My question doesn’t pertain to the issue of whether he’s alive or dead, but rather the fantasy.”
“I know, and I chose to ignore it.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re a parasite.”
“Always trying to categorize me, Mr. Cochrane. That’s a flaw in you.”
“Actually, I do it for fun and to annoy you.”
“Rather crude objectives, don’t you think?”
I shrugged. “I don’t care. Keeps me happy.” This was true. Baiting Zakaria was the only good thing about being in his presence. I repeated, “I need your help.”
“And if I don’t acquiesce, you’ll kill me?”
“Maybe, or perhaps I’ll tell the feds that the CIA is illegally harboring a very dangerous criminal.” I swept my arm across the room. “Let them take you away from all this luxury, and watch them put you in solitary confinement. For life.”
Zakaria laughed. “That would mean you’d have to step out of the shadows in order to testify against me. I can’t see you liking that one bit.”
I nodded. “Well, I guess that just leaves the option of killing you.”
The glisten in Zakaria’s eyes vanished, replaced by a darkness that made me wonder if I’d gone too far. To my relief he asked, “What help do you need?”
I leaned forward so that I was closer to the dagger if Zakaria attempted to grab it. “A young Indian man who calls himself Trapper wants me dead.” I gave him what little data I had. “I’m wondering if you might know him, or know of him?”
“I wish him good luck.” He tossed his head back and stared at the ceiling. “Appearance?”
“Slight, but wiry and strong.”
“What is your colleagues’ assessment of his intellect?”
“They thought he was clever.”
“Demeanor?”
“Brave.”
“And what is your assessment of your colleagues?”
“I think they’re dumb and cowardly.”
Zakaria drummed his fingers on his thigh. “Of course they are. And that means they’re not credible assessors of a man’s character. That said, perhaps by chance, or more likely because their stupid brains realized they’d been outmaneuvered, on this occasion they’re right.”
“I agree.”
“I’m glad you do.” Zakaria’s smile had returned. “Trapper’s an educated man, privileged, yet courageous and an independent thinker. What does that tell you?”
“He comes from a wealthy family, but I suspect he’s been alone for some time; had to make decisions on his own.”
“And therefore…”
“He no longer has a family.”
Zakaria bared his teeth. “Heartbreaking, isn’t it?”
“Not to you.”
“But it is to you, for obvious reasons.”
“Shut up and keep thinking and talking.”
“Tut tut, Mr. Cochrane. Do you always feel the need to expedite our conversations?”
“Yes. You’re mad, so I need to keep your mind on track.”
“Your track, not mine.” Zakaria lowered his head and looked at me. “Trapper is an unusual nom de plume, don’t you think?”
I agreed.
“What image does it conjure in your head?” Zakaria was looking at me with his professor look.
I indulged him by pretending to be his student. “Many. Mark Twain. Old America. Frontier land. Guys in bearskins trying to survive alongside meandering rivers. Nothing remotely South Asian.”
“And what can you extrapolate from that?”
“The code name’s been chosen with care. It’s specific to geographical location and me.”
“Indeed, it is.” Zakaria flicked a finger against the fangs of the dead mongoose. “I don’t know who he is.”
I made no effort to hide my disappointment.
Zakaria placed an electronic cigarette in his mouth. I was surprised, because he’d always been a devout smoker of Balkan tobacco. “You know what that means?” he said.
“It means he’s not who he says he is.”
“Probably, though new terrorists appear all the time. Even I can’t be expected to keep up with all their identities.”
“But you believe Trapper has the wrong profile to be a terrorist?”
“I wouldn’t be so bold as to make such an assumption. But I do think there’s more to this than meets the eye. Your eye.”
“And your eye?”
I knew Zakaria wasn’t going to answer me.
Instead, he checked his watch and said, “I’ve told you the truth that I don’t know who Trapper is. Do you feel that I’ve in any way been uncooperative on that point to the extent that I need to be incarcerated or murdered by the great Will Cochrane?”
“No. You’ve done what I’ve asked of you.”
“Good.” Zakaria stood. “I’m afraid our time’s up, because in one hour I need to be fifty miles away from here to have a rather forthright chat with a man who owes me money.”
I tried to object, but Zakaria raised his hand. “I hope I see you soon, perhaps under different circumstances. But for now, I’ll leave you with one observation.”
I was silent.
Zakaria’s grin was back on his face. “The fact that Trapper wants you dead isn’t your biggest problem. What should concern you the most is that he’s told your colleagues and you that he wants that outcome.”
Chapter 7
Sahir was sitting in his room, deep in thought. He needed to kill Will Cochrane. But he’d been told that it would be an exceptionally difficult task to capture him, let alone extinguish his life. And that meant he had to stack the odds in his favor by exploiting Cochrane’s only vulnerability: his unwavering need to protect the weak and innocent.
Sahir’s plan was simple and brutal, and — given the fact that Cochrane had murdered his father — it was apt that his father had inadvertently supplied him with the inspiration for the plan.
As a child, Sahir had sat on his father’s knee and listened to his tales about their forefathers’ exploits in India and elsewhere. He’d learned about a captain who’d served in the ranks of Queen Victoria’s army and fought the Pashtun clans at the Khyber Pass, an architect who’d designed and built bridges over treacherous ravines in the mountainous north, a doctor who’d cycled the entire length of India to meet his future wife, and an owner of a tea plantation in Darjeeling who’d one day decided to diversify and cultivate opium.
The man who fascinated Sahir the most was his great-grandfather. Only one known photograph had ever been taken of him, and for the most part Sahir kept the photo on his person whenever he travelled. He pulled it out of his wallet and looked at the sepia image of a handsome yet roguish-looking man who was holding a rifle in one hand and a gin and tonic in the other, with a cigarette fixed in one corner of his smiling mouth and one foot planted on the head of a dead black leopard.
His name was Baber, but Sahir hadn’t thought of him by that name ever since his father had talked about him. “He was a shikari! The last of his kind; the best shot in India. And when he died, no man had equaled his bag of tigers.”
Shikari was another name for “hunter.”
Sahir loved one story about Shikari his father had told him. He could hear his father’s voice and words now.