The Disciple

“Tommy, this is Jake Grafton. I heard you were coming home.”

That Grafton-he knew everything.

“Come over to our place tonight for di

So I did. Imagine my surprise when I walked in and there was Davar, wearing a chic dress, makeup and a smile. She held out her hand and let me hug her, but she didn’t kiss me. She had come to the States three days ago with Jake Grafton and had been staying at the Graftons’ and shopping.

At di

The conversation turned to her plans. She was going to Oklahoma tomorrow, she said. She had talked to her guy, Jim, and he was waiting. He wanted her to meet his parents.

“Just that?” I asked, watching her facial expression.

“He wants to marry me,” she admitted with a smile.

I sat there watching the life in her face, the anticipation of the future, and I realized my Iranian adventure was over. Life was marching on.

The next morning I went down to the newspaper vending boxes in front of my apartment building and bought a newspaper to read with my coffee. I was stretched out on the couch, drinking java and perusing the Metro pages, when I found an interesting news item.

Yesterday, according to the Washington Post, a professor at Georgetown University named Aurang Azari had been stabbed to death in a university building by a woman wearing an ankle-length coat and a scarf that concealed most of her face. The coat, scarf and knife had been found later stuffed in a sidewalk trash can a block from the university. Azari was well known for publicizing inside information about the Iranian nuclear program. The police were investigating.

“Good-bye, Davar,” I whispered.

POSTSCRIPT

On the afternoon that General Syafi’i Darma retired in Jakarta, the officers under his command threw a party for him. It was a very pleasant affair. He had been in the military for thirty-five years, been promoted to increasingly responsible commands, distinguished himself by uncovering and foiling an assassination attempt on a foreign head of state and, although his officers weren’t aware of it, piled up a rather nice fortune in bribes and gifts.

Darma was looking forward to his new life, one without responsibilities, with horses and beautiful women to play with and admire.

He left the party in his armored limo with his son at the wheel. The son drove out of the capital headed for the general’s estate in the country. The road was familiar, a two-lane that was being upgraded to a four-lane, partly in response to the general’s persistent lobbying of the government.

They came to the construction area and slowed down. They crept along for a bit, past the construction equipment on the new grade to their left, until the limo was forced to stop by queued-up traffic. A dump truck of some kind eased up behind them.

They sat there a moment, the son laughing at his father’s jokes, enjoying the moment, completely at ease. Then, without warning, the vehicle ahead backed into the limo, struck it hard. At almost the same instant, the truck behind them smashed into the limo’s trunk.

As the occupants of the limo recovered from the surprise crashes, they saw that the drivers of the trucks had climbed from behind the wheel and taken station near their vehicles. Each of them held a submachine gun and faced the limo.

“Oh, my God,” the general shouted. “Call the police,” he yelled to his son. “Use the radio. Get someone here now!”

His son fumbled with the radio, which had been off, grabbed the mike and held it in his hand while he pushed buttons.

General Darma stared at the gunman beside the left side of the truck ahead. He was merely standing there, holding that submachine gun. Perhaps he didn’t know this vehicle was armored. Then again, maybe he did-he had made no attempt to shoot the windows out.

Darma glanced behind. The other driver was behind the limo on the right side. Any attempt to exit the vehicle on that side would also lead to a shoot-out, and probably be fatal.

As his son shouted into the radio microphone he held in his hands, something coming from the left attracted Darma’s attention. He looked. It was a giant bulldozer, one that had been on the grade of the new lanes. The blade was raised, and it was coming straight for the limo.

It wasn’t going to stop. It came steadily on. Now he could hear the roar of the diesel engine, hear the treads clanking.

There was just sufficient room, Hyman Fineberg decided, between the two trucks that had pi

The gunmen climbed back into their vehicles and moved them away from the trapped limousine. Fineberg pivoted the Cat ninety degrees on its right tread, screwing the limo right into the earth, then moved the dozer forward until it was back on the ground.

Now he glanced over his shoulder. The tires of the car had blown out, and the vehicle sat on its frame in the road. The roof was crushed; most of the glass was missing.

“A job worth doing…” Hyman Fineberg muttered to himself and ran the dozer back up over the car. It was getting flatter, no question.

Still, Fineberg wasn’t satisfied. He used the blade of the dozer to flip the car’s carcass upside-down. Then he ran the dozer over it again. And again.

When he finally shut the dozer down and climbed down from the operator’s seat, the limo was only about fifteen inches thick in the engine compartment. The rest of the vehicle was less than a foot thick.

Hyman Fineberg looked the wreck over, then climbed into a dump truck beside the driver and rode away.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

This book is a thriller, not a travel guide. Still, to get the flavor of fundamentalist Iran, the author did extensive reading. Three books proved most helpful: A Concise History of Iran, by Saeed Shirazi; Know Thine Enemy, by Edward Shirley; and The Iran Threat, by Alireza Jafarzadeh. A heartfelt thank you to these authors.

RADM Stanley W. Bryant, USN (Ret), read and gave helpful comments upon the action scenes in this book. As usual, the author’s wife, Deborah Coonts, offered cogent advice on the plot and characters. A special tip of the flight helmet to Stan and Deb.

Finally, the author would like to publicly thank his editor at St. Martin ’s Press, Charles Spicer, whose enthusiasm for adventure fiction and patience are unsurpassed. Thanks, Charlie.