The Disciple

Her husband merely nodded.

“If I may ask, Admiral,” Professor Sanchez said, “how did you get possession of the manuscript?”

The admiral glanced at Sanchez, who got a good look at those cold gray eyes. “Legally,” Grafton said flatly.

“Uh-huh,” said Peligro Sanchez, who decided he had no more questions.

Jake saw the look on his wife’s face. His expression softened and he added, “A member of Murad’s family asked a friend of mine to send it to me.”

The thought occurred to Peligro Sanchez that he was tiptoeing into a minefield. “I see,” he said.

“I am sure the literary agent will require permission from the heirs to represent them,” Callie said to Jake.

“I’ll work that problem,” Jake told her, his face warming up as he met her gaze. “Have you asked these folks if they want a drink? I could use a beer.”

Peligro Sanchez decided a beer would be perfect, and both the ladies agreed they could drink a glass of white wine. Soon they were sipping their drinks and discussing the work of Israr Murad.

When the academics departed, Jake poured himself a glass of whiskey and sat down to read the twenty pages translated by A

In the light of the early morning, before the heat became stifling, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad and his aides stood in front of the still-smoking ruins of the main section of the Ministry of Defense as an IRGC colonel explained what had happened. While the howitzer was shelling the building, an American spy was at work in the Targeting Office in the west wing. He had been caught, of course, and was now being interrogated.

With the stench of the smoke in his nostrils, Ahmadinejad walked a few steps from his aides and stood looking. The Targeting Office. Well, the spy was captured, so the Americans knew nothing of what he found. Hazra alRashid had him and would squeeze everything he knew from him before he died-she could be relied upon to do that.

The effrontery of these infidels-to destroy the ministry!

He turned and looked up the boulevard at the low hill where the colonel said the howitzer had fired from. Almost a kilometer and a half away!

Across the street the police had a line set up to restrain the curious. Ahmadinejad looked at the crowd filling the sidewalk in both directions. Easily several thousand people were over there, looking at him and the ruined hulk of a building behind him.

He motioned to an aide. “A news release, I think,” he said. The aide removed a notebook and pencil from his pockets. “The savage effrontery of the infidels is here on display for the citizens of Iran, and the devout sons of Islam everywhere, to see and contemplate. This building was destroyed by agents of Zionism and the Great Satan.” He knew nothing about the participation of Mossad agents but decided to blame the Israelis anyway. A dearth of facts never slowed down a good politician.

“The strength and depravity of our enemies makes our cause glorious,” he continued, “worthy of our best efforts. The glory of the martyrs will shine like a sun in Paradise.” There was more, a lot more, because Mahmoud Ahmadinejad really thought like this, and because he knew the newspapers, controlled by the state, would print every word. Perhaps he could stiffen the spines of those whose faith was less than his.

He was finished with his peroration when another aide, still holding a cell phone, came to him and said, “Al-Rashid took the spies to Evin Prison. She is there now, interrogating them, but she left strict orders she was not to be disturbed or interrupted.”

Ahmadinejad knew Hazra al-Rashid’s proclivities and methods, so he wasn’t surprised. He did, however, decide to go to Evin Prison to see these spies in person and find out what she had learned. Perhaps he could even offer a helpful hint or two to his interrogation expert. After all, he had some experience, and he, too, enjoyed the process.

So it was that he found himself in Ward 209 of Evin Prison, yet the door to the interrogation room and cells was firmly closed. Not wishing to embarrass Hazra, who he knew often liked to work naked, he used the closed circuit telephone to call in. When no one answered, Ahmadinejad looked from face to face. “Has anyone been in there since the spies were taken in?”

“Major Larijani went in,” the senior guard told him. “He came out with the big American, who was carrying the woman over one shoulder. He told us not to interrupt al-Rashid.”

These fools! What was Larijani doing in there? Taking the big American out?

“Open the door,” Ahmadinejad ordered.

So that was how Mahmoud Ahmadinejad became the person who discovered the naked corpse of Hazra al-Rashid, with the hilt of a knife protruding from between her breasts.

He also discovered the corpse of Ghasem Murad. A glance at the young man on the gurney told him the story. Someone, either Murad or Larijani, had given him a merciful coup de grace. It certainly couldn’t have been Hazra, who would never have lifted a finger to ease a victim’s pain.

Mahmoud Ahmadinejad stood silently looking at Hazra, with the brown eyes open and frozen.

Oh, too bad, too bad. His life would not be the same without her. She understood the role of pain in human life. Still, they would meet again in Paradise, wreathed in glory, with the blood of infidels on their hands, and walk hand in hand to meet the Prophet.

Larijani! Traitor or spy?

As he walked out, Ahmadinejad gave the orders for a manhunt. Find Larijani and that American spy, Carmellini. Bring them here, alive, and then call me.

When Davar regained consciousness, I made her drink some water; then I sat on her cot and held her hand. Some of the swelling in her face had gone down, but now the bruises were turning various colors, with yellow and purple joining the black and blue.

She listened to my recount of our rescue without a word. That Larijani was a Mossad agent didn’t rate a comment. Still, when I ran down, she whispered through swollen lips, “Is Ghasem dead?”

“Yes.”

“I had to listen as she butchered him. I didn’t think there were people like that on this planet.”

Apparently she had been unconscious when Ghasem shot himself, and I didn’t want to tell her how he died, so I changed the subject. “Who beat you up?”

“The guards who raped me. I didn’t resist, gave them no pleasure, and that infuriated them.”

I merely sat there holding her hand. After a while she asked, still whispering, “Where are we?”

“In a tu

She didn’t say anything to that.

“We need to get you to a doctor,” I said. “There is a helicopter coming this afternoon. It will take you out of Iran, take you to a doctor.”

“Why a doctor?”

“You’ve had a concussion, and you were bleeding some. I don’t know if it’s stopped. A doctor might want to look you over and give you some antibiotics.”

“To save me? For what?”

“To prevent you from getting a raging infection.”

“I’m not going to die from this,” she said fiercely. “Persian women have been raped since the dawn of time. Greeks, Arabs, Mongols, the men all did it… a lot. We’re tough, we can take it.”

“I see,” I said. I didn’t tell her that while she was unconscious Larijani and I had injected her with a massive dose of antibiotics. I wondered if that dose was enough. I also didn’t tell her that if an artery let go in her brain, she was going to die immediately or be crippled for life.

“When I’m well,” she said, “if those guards are still alive, I’m going to hunt them down like the animals they are and kill them.”

“Everyone should have a reason to get out of bed in the morning,” I agreed.

“I’m going to look them square in the face and ensure they know who I am. Then I am going to kill them.”

“Right on.”

“Don’t be condescending, American spy.” She pulled her hand from mine.