Tilia was tempted to stop the Jeep and talk to the people. If the Iranians had brought this prosperity, there would be no question of allying with them. But it was getting late, and she wanted to be sure to conclude her business with Colonel Zsar before nightfall.
Colonel Zsar’s fortress was embedded in a cliff, centered around a pair of caves dug out by successive generations of fighters and smugglers. Tilia’s Jeep was observed well before she came to the checkpoint leading to the stronghold’s entrance. Jeeps were not plentiful in the area, and though the colonel’s forces had little interaction with Uncle Dpap’s, it was quickly recognized. The colonel was alerted, and gave his permission for the vehicle to proceed.
Seeing that there were two men—as far as they were concerned, the woman didn’t count—the guards at the gate decided there would have to be six escorts. Two men sat on the hood of the vehicle, two clung to the rear fender, and two others trotted behind.
Tilia drove the truck up a steep, serpentine dirt road, passing three different sandbagged machine-gun emplacements before reaching a parking area in front of one of the caves. Once again she was surprised. There were a dozen white pickup trucks in the lot, all nearly brand new. Belts of bullets crisscrossed the guards’ chests, and there were extra boxes near a sandbagged gun emplacement covering the entrance to the building—if the colonel’s forces were experiencing a bullet shortage, he was doing his best to hide it.
A man in a flak vest met them at the door.
“Your weapons,” he demanded.
Tilia’s escorts looked at her. She nodded, but did not hand hers over.
“Your gun, miss,” said the man.
“My gun stays with me.”
“You are just a woman,” he said, with obvious disdain. “Why do you think you deserve such a privilege?”
“You are afraid of a woman?”
“Wait here.”
The man turned on his heel and went back inside. Tilia realized she’d made a mistake. Uncle Dpap had told her to deliver the message no matter what. If the guard insisted on her handing over her gun, she would have to do so. It would be very bad to start the meeting with such a sign of weakness.
“Since you are a woman, we won’t worry about it,” said the man when he returned. He looked at the others. “This way.”
The interior of the cave had been divided into a bunker with masonry and concrete walls. An external generator supplied electricity, and while the lights were relatively dim, they were still ample enough to light the long corridor back to Colonel Zsar’s post. Tilia had arrived just as the colonel was waiting for dinner. Ordinarily he would have had her and the others wait—assuming he had decided to see them at all—but his men had told him about the woman soldier’s beauty and he wanted to see it for himself.
It surpassed their descriptions.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“I am an aide to Uncle Dpap,” she said.
“Have a seat.” He snapped his fingers at the two bodyguards standing near the door, gesturing for them to bring over a camp stool. The men rushed to comply.
“I don’t need to sit,” Tilia told him. “Uncle Dpap wanted you to know about a visitor.”
Tilia laid out what had happened, finishing before the men arrived with her stool.
Colonel Zsar had heard that Uncle Dpap had a niece working as his aide, but the stories did not adequately convey her beauty. Zsar had lost his wife two years before, but he would have lusted after Tilia in any event. He knew that she was not Muslim—none of Uncle Dpap’s people followed the true religion—but her beauty was so transcendent that he didn’t care about that. And besides, she was intelligent and well-spoken—he could not think of a better helpmate.
“So what does Uncle Dpap want to do?” he said when she finished speaking. “He wants us to meet with this man?”
“He wants to discuss him with you. A meeting might be too dangerous for now.”
“I see.”
“Uncle Dpap is considering doing business with him. Our other friends are not always the most reliable, and sometimes their prices are not good.”
The display by his men notwithstanding, Colonel Zsar was also in need of a new source for weapons and ammunition. Arash Tarid had promised that he would make new arrangements soon, when he and the other Iranian visited the other day, but an additional source might be useful. In any event, a meeting would give him an excuse to ask Uncle Dpap about this girl.
He would have to mention it first to Tarid. There was always the possibility that this was some sort of test by the Iranians.
“Maybe we can discuss it,” said Colonel Zsar. “Let me consider the point.”
“Thank you, then,” said Tilia, starting to leave.
“Wait,” said Colonel Zsar. “You’re not going to go right away, are you?”
“I had only the message to deliver.”
“You should join me for dinner.”
Tilia thought to herself that she would rather eat dirt.
“Uncle Dpap expects me back quickly,” she said curtly. “I would not be wise to disappoint him. Excuse me, please.”
21
Khatami-Isfaha airfield
Central Iran
BANI ABERHADJI WAS IN A BAD MOOD. THE COUNCIL HAD decided to hold a special meeting, interrupting his inspection tour and forcing him home. He would not have minded so much had he not been convinced that the meeting would amount to a waste of time. But he could not afford to miss it politically. The council seemed to be softening in its stand against the government, and he needed to understand what was going on, especially if he couldn’t influence it.
He was walking from the aircraft to his car when his BlackBerry signaled that he had an e-mail. Suspecting it was just a message from the ministry asking when he would return to work, he waited until he was in the backseat to check it. The message turned out to be from Arash Tarid, his agent in Sudan. There was no text; it was simply a coded request that he call.
Though his driver was also a member of the Revolutionary Guards, Aberhadji did not know him personally, and did not want to take the risk, however small, that the man might be a spy for the government. He waited until they were on the highway, then asked him to pull over.
“I will be right back,” he told the man, opening the door to the Toyota Avalon.
It was nighttime, and a few feet beyond the car everything turned pitch-black. Aberhadji walked a few yards into the field, then stopped and took out his satellite phone. The signals it sent and received were scrambled, encrypted in what he was told was an unbreakable code.
“You called me,” he said when Tarid answered.
“A competitor to Luo has appeared. He wants to meet with some of our friends, including the colonel.”
“A competitor?”
“Perhaps now we see why Luo was killed. The Jasmine people have not been very responsive. This man alleges that he has many weapons, and that his prices are very good. I wondered if you would wish to check him out?”
The night was cool. Aberhadji fought off a shiver as he considered the matter. “Who is he?” he asked.
“He gives his name as Mr. Kirk. He gave one of the rebel leaders—not Colonel Zsar but another man, Uncle Dpap—an American pistol he claimed had been stolen from the Army.”
“I will check into him. If I give the approval, you will meet him yourself. Then report to me.”
“I don’t know about meeting him. If—”
“Go yourself,” insisted Aberhadji. “If I approve. It will take me only a few hours to check on him.”