It still hurt to turn her head. Liz angled her chair toward the front of Tom Trask’s conference room so that she could see Don Riley.
The grainy video on the screen behind Don showed a stylishly dressed woman wearing dark glasses in the passenger seat of a convertible. She had her hand high on the thigh of an equally attractive man. He was laughing at something and his hand was reaching for a pair of passports.
“The driver, identified as Jose Carveza, was a Mexican national. He crossed the border into Mexico, with this, um, person, six days ago at Fabens, Texas. Mr. Carveza was discovered twenty-four hours later, shot in the back of the head, execution style. Local police considered the killing to be drug-related, given the MO. We didn’t find out about it until yesterday.” He switched slides, this one a close-up still photo of the woman.
“After closer scrutiny, and running the picture through facial recognition, we now believe this ‘woman’ is actually Rafiq Roshed.”
Liz spoke first. “Five days’ head start. He could be anywhere.” It still hurt to take a deep breath, but it was getting better every day. The cut on her temple had healed into a thin pale streak. With any luck, the doctor said she wouldn’t even have a scar. The sling on her right arm was a nuisance, but at least she was out of the temporary body brace for the broken ribs and fractured sternum. Even the bruising on her chest had faded into a pale greenish tinge.
Don nodded. “We believe he will try to make contact with his family. We have his assets frozen, of course, but we have no way of knowing what he might have set up in untraceable accounts.” He gave an apologetic grimace. “The Tri-Border Region is not known for rule of law, and our intelligence assets in the area are inadequate for a search of this magnitude.”
“So what’s our next move?” Brendan asked. Liz spun her chair so she could see him. He sat with his back to the window and the afternoon sun cast his face in shadow.
During the week she was in the hospital, Brendan had come to see her every day. When Liz tried to apologize for the night at the restaurant, he stopped her.
“Don’t,” he said with a mischievous smile. “I kind of enjoyed it. It’s not every day you get a beautiful woman throwing herself at you.”
“If I wasn’t in traction, I’d kick your ass.”
The banter came easily, and they talked for hours. On his second visit, Brendan held her hand. It wasn’t the grip of someone obligated to visit a friend in the hospital; it was the gentle touch of a man who knew what he wanted.
Liz smiled to herself. Brendan still hadn’t kissed her yet, but they were having dinner tonight…
Don clearing his throat brought her back to the moment. He flashed up a satellite photo of what looked like a sizable ranch.
“Estancia Refugio Seguro,” he said. “Safe Haven Ranch, Rafiq’s former estate in Argentina. His wife is dead, his fortune is frozen, and we have his kids under surveillance. Long story short, we have one very pissed-off terrorist on our hands. What do we do?” He shrugged.
“We search. We watch. We wait for him to make a mistake.”
CHAPTER 61
Tehran was a dirty place.
Rafiq’s nose wrinkled at the smells of the tiny apartment, ignoring the scratching in the walls that could only be rats. He’d only be here a short while. Just long enough to get the final piece of information he needed.
It had been a long journey into the country. He avoided Lebanon on this trip. No sense in implicating his former colleagues in this mission. This mission was personal.
The passage through the mountains had reminded him of Argentina, the way the dry slopes swept down to long valleys and the breeze cut across the plain. There were times during the journey when if he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine he was home. He could almost imagine Nadine — or even little Javi — was riding on the horse next to him, instead of some Afghani who smelled worse than his mount.
Not so little anymore, he thought with a sad twist of his lips.
Soon. Soon he would be home again. There was just one more job to do before he could put Nadine’s memory to rest.
One more loose end.
The phone in his hip pocket buzzed. Rafiq flipped it open. The text was a name, a time, and an address. He stared at it for a moment, committing the information to memory. Then he removed the battery and the SIM card from the phone, and snapped the device in half.
Rafiq picked up the motorcycle helmet from the floor next to his chair and made his way onto the darkening street.
The motorcycle was tucked into an alcove under the stairs. He snapped the visor down on his helmet and straddled the bike, the low roar of the engine startling a dog sleeping a few feet away. Nursing the throttle, he guided the motorcycle into the evening traffic, allowing the flow of cars and scooters to set the pace of his movement.
When he reached his destination, he circled the block twice, slowing as he studied the hookers lining the sidewalk. On his second pass, one stepped forward and nodded to him. She was tall and thin, with the augmented breasts and sculpted nose so common in Tehran.
“I’m Saffron,” she said.
Rafiq jerked his head toward the back of the bike. Saffron pulled a long robe and headscarf from her bag and put them on before she climbed on behind him. She pressed her chest against his back and wrapped her arms around his waist.
Rafiq pulled back into traffic, weaving between cars, heading north, always north. The vehicle exhaust formed a noxious haze around them, making the back of his throat feel raw. The unending traffic slowed again and stopped. He resisted the urge to ride up on the sidewalk.
Patience.
When they reached the edge of the north Tehran suburbs, the quantity of cars around them decreased and the quality of the vehicles improved dramatically. They were surrounded by Mercedes, Audis, even a Lamborghini. Once they passed a long section of tony high-rise apartments, the housing spread out into estates; mansions, really. Saffron indicated the exit and he made a gentle turn onto a side street, slowing his speed to match the environment.
After two more turns, they glided to a stop at a small side gate. Rafiq could see a gabled roof outlined in light over the top of the high stone wall. Saffron hopped off the bike and punched a button on the intercom box adjacent to the gate. She looked up into the camera and waved. When the lock on the gate buzzed, she pushed it open.
Rafiq shut off the bike and slipped off his helmet, following Saffron into the compound. They made their way across the courtyard to the back entrance, the gravel crunching under Rafiq’s boots. Beyond the courtyard, he could see manicured gardens and the Tehran cityscape, hazy lights through a curtain of pollution.
Saffron knocked at the back entrance and it opened immediately. The man who peered out at them was dressed in a dark suit, the telltale bulge of a handgun under his arm. He gave Saffron a wicked smile. “Saffron, back so soon? He must really like you.” His eyes fell on Rafiq. “Who’s he?”
“My driver,” Saffron replied. “We’ve had some trouble with girls in this end of town getting picked up by the police.”
The man’s eyes narrowed, then he nodded. “Okay, but he stays in the kitchen with me. Understand?”
“Whatever. Where is he?”
“He said he wants to start in the study tonight. You can meet him there.”
Using her body as a shield from the guard’s eyes, Saffron flashed her hand open twice toward Rafiq. Ten minutes. She pushed past the guard. “I know the way. Where’s Ghassem tonight?”
“He’s off. It’s just me here guarding the kingdom.”
Rafiq stepped into the kitchen, letting the smells of spices wrap around him. Another reminder of a home he would never have again. The guard waved his hand toward the stove. “There’s tea, if you want it.”