“Very astute, Dr. Cross,” the woman said. She extended her hand. “My name is Natalie Twain.”
Steven stuffed the baguettes under his left arm and extended his right hand. She grasped it with a strong yet feminine grip, Steven noted; again, incongruous to the rest of her demeanor. And then her name made him do a double-take.
“Natalie Twain? Any relation to Professor Winston Twain?” he said, still shaking her hand.
She nodded her head.
“Professor Twain was my father.”
“He called me a few days back, and my office team tried to track him down, but without success — he must have an unlisted number,” Steven said and then stopped. “Did you say Professor Twain was your father?”
“Yes, Dr. Cross. Was.”
Steven continued to stare.
Natalie nodded, reading his unspoken query. “My father is dead,” she said quietly.
Steven continued to take her in, and he could see her eyes, originally so piercing and uncompromising, were now softer in appearance…more vulnerable, somehow less impervious to scrutiny.
“I’m sorry,” Steven said.
“So am I,” Natalie said. “But not as sorry as I plan to make the people responsible.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Dr. Cross,” Natalie said softly. “My father’s death wasn’t an accident.”
Steven was taken aback, but held Natalie’s stare.
“Ms. Twain…I’m sorry to hear that, but I have to ask — why are we talking?”
“Because, Dr. Cross,” Natalie said, “I believe you — and I — are both in very real danger. I need twenty minutes of your time. Please don’t say no. Your life may depend on it.”
CHAPTER 8
Sia Amieri sat behind the wheel of a silver Lexus that had been provided to him by his mentor and employer, Dr. Morbius Frank. He gazed out at downtown Tehran, Iran, after a grueling travel session that had spanned from New York, to Los Angeles, to Palm Springs, then back to L.A., and a rather circuitous voyage home by way of Singapore, to Mehrabad International Airport.
The car had been waiting for him in the lot where Frank had indicated, the keys handed to him by an eager attendant who treated Amieri as if he were a visiting dignitary. Amieri knew that his benefactor was greatly respected in Tehran, although Frank was a British citizen. His dealings with the regime included petroleum, international banking and arms, and Frank had access to the most rarified corridors of power. Frank had homes and offices in Tehran, England and Canada, and his influence seemed to be boundless.
Amieri drove on Meraj Boulevard, heading for the Azadi Tower, where they were to meet. He took in the impressive piece of architecture, still half a mile away; the Tower, built entirely of white marble, thrust fourteen stories into the sky. Amieri was no stranger to the region, having been born and raised in Iraq, and having crossed into Iran many times on clandestine missions in his past — a brutal one spent as an interrogator and assassin under Saddam Hussein’s iron rule in Iraq, and then later as a freelance killer for anyone willing to meet his price. His benefactor had rescued him from certain execution at the hands of the new regime and offered him an alternative future to one that would be measured in hours before ending at the barrel of a pistol.
Amieri had known since he was a teenager that there was something different about him, something wrong. He gravitated to the notorious Iraqi secret police because he enjoyed hurting others; a large young man who would carry out the most offensive tasks without question was valuable — something his early mentor, a captain in the Mukhabarat, had recognized immediately. Soon, word of his ruthlessness spread beyond the agency, and he became the most notorious killer it had ever spawned. But all the while, Amieri was plagued with guilt. Not for what he’d done, but for his enjoyment of it, which his childhood upbringing condemned. He’d been secretly relieved when he’d been arrested and sentenced to die — at least there would be an end to the madness. Then Dr. Frank had appeared; the only person who’d ever truly understood.
Over the years, since what Amieri thought of as his salvation by the father he’d never had, he’d grown increasingly slavish to Frank and would have taken a bullet in the face for him. Frank’s appearance in his hour of need had been like that of an angel for Amieri, who was offered both a better life and a path to atonement.
There is always punishment, Dr. Frank would tell him on occasion. If not corporal, then that of the soul.
Amieri only hoped he would not cause his benefactor anger after what had happened with Professor Twain. Frank hadn’t negated the possibility of torturing Twain to extract information as to where the Scroll was — but neither had he tacitly endorsed the old man’s murder.
The professor’s demise had taken him by surprise. Amieri was unaware of Twain’s health problems and had been shocked and alarmed when the old man had gone under. Amieri had barely gotten started interrogating Twain before he’d died, so Amieri could legitimately take the position that his death had been an accident. Frank had not been interested in discussing the details on the telephone — his instructions were simply to meet with Amieri under the Freedom Tower, and all would be discussed in short order.
Amieri was not fearful of the slings and arrows of Frank’s anger.
His greatest fear was that his surrogate father would be disappointed in how he had handled things.
That would be the worst punishment Amieri could imagine.
Four thousand feet above the Caspian Sea, a Hawker executive jet was on final approach to Mehrabad International Airport. There was slight turbulence, but this was to be expected in this flight vector; the updraft from the Caspian was notoriously churlish when it came to airplanes descending over its capricious waters. Dr. Morbius Frank, however, was accustomed to the bounce. His gaunt countenance didn’t look up from his Financial Times even as the plane lurched several times — his pilots were the best, and he had more pressing problems than nervousness over a spot of rough air.
He was initially furious with Amieri about the old man’s death, but the big assassin was really just a child and had to be handled delicately. And perhaps it was his fault, at the end of the day, for not approaching Twain in person about the abrogation of their mutual agreement on Scroll ownership. Amieri had simply done what he did best — extracting the required information from those who were reluctant to be forthcoming.
“I’m not angry with you, my son,” Frank had reassured Amieri from his home in London when Amieri had called from the hotel in Palm Springs where he had taken a room before meeting Twain.
“He was sick, Doctor,” Amieri continued to insist. “I was not that harsh in my approach. There was no way of knowing he had an aneurism—”
“I’m confident you were not overzealous. You always apply judicious pressure. I appreciate that. This was simply an unfortunate and unforeseeable complication.”
“The Scroll was not there. I searched the place, top to bottom, without being too obvious. I know you didn’t want to leave any trace,” Amieri said. “It wasn’t in the house.”
“We’ll find it,” Frank cajoled. “My suspicion is that the daughter has it. There’s no other explanation that makes sense. Twain was a virtual shut-in, and the only one he trusted was the girl. My investigators confirmed that he didn’t have any safety deposit boxes, but the daughter does, so it’s not difficult to see where she fits in this. I’m sure that when we find the girl, we find the Scroll.”
“Do we know where she is yet?” Amieri asked fervently. “Because once I get my hands on her—”