Jennifer Rardin - Jaz Parks Book 3 - Biting The Bullet

by Jennifer Rardin

  We were silent, conceding the point. Which was why we heard so clearly the knock at the door. “That’ll be Asha,” I said. “Everybody ready?”

  The guys nodded. Though I didn’t expect violence, I’d geared up for it. After leaving Bergman I’d gone back to my room, dug into my weapons bag, and pulled out my usual array of guns and blades. Grief sat in its customary shoulder holster. Grandpa Samuel’s bolo was snug in its hip sheath. Since my holy water carrier had been converted to a chew toy, I now wore wrist sheaths for throwing blades on both arms. Knives on the left. Stars on the right.

  Since Vayl and I had both been the victims of thrown blades on our last mission, I’d used our downtime to raise my own proficiency in that area as well as swordplay. Now I was confident I’d increased my ability to keep enemies at a distance, which was always my main concern.

  Bergman had also outfitted us with his latest improvement on group communication devices. For receiving audio we still had the tiny hearing-aide type devices that fit into our ears. But for transmitting, we’d graduated from mint-style gadgets that stuck to the roofs of our mouths to much smaller stick-on items that looked remarkably like beauty marks. Mine was adorable and went in the crease of my left cheek, à la Marilyn Monroe. Vayl had placed his just above and to the right of his lip. Cole had started with his on the end of his nose which, while hilarious, made you want to recommend a good dermatologist the second you saw him. So in the end he’d put it on his chin. The result — now, instead of hearing our comrades in the woofer range of surround-sound stereo, they sounded more like themselves.

  We went to the door and I let Asha in. I expected an überawkward moment when he and Vayl met. But Asha took care of that problem right away. “So you belong to Jasmine,” he said in his melancholy voice. It somehow delivered Vayl his deepest condolences without bearing a trace of malice toward me.

  Vayl let out a bark of laughter as he shook Asha’s hand. “Indeed. I am honored to meet the Amanha Szeya. Your legend is vast.”

  “And unearned as of late,” Asha said. He turned to Cole. “And you, young hero? Do you also belong to Jasmine?”

  Though Cole sent me a quick, searching glance, he grinned at Asha and said, “Not even close, buddy. I’m a free spirit. But if you know any beautiful lady Amanha Szeyas who’d like some company . . . point the way.”

  Asha smiled, lighting up the entire room. I instantly felt better. Surely everything would go according to plan tonight. Just because Asha had smiled.

  Chapter Thirty

  I

  t did seem at first as if we were charmed. We arrived at the café in plenty of time to get good seats near the bathroom so no one would notice when we slipped away. Vayl sat across from me at a small white table, giving us each a full view of the room. Without hesitation, Cole settled in the seat beside mine. If we’d been in America, I suspected he’d have gone so far as to rest his arm across the back of my chair, give Vayl that challenging stare I’d seen him send a couple of times when he thought I wasn’t looking. But Cole knew the rules in Iran. A casual touch in our country could get us jail time in this one. So he kept his hands on the laminate and behaved.

  Even more miraculously, most of the people attending the evening’s festivities spoke English, so Vayl and I didn’t feel lost in a sea of gibberish. They didn’t say anything worth overhearing. Asked after each other’s families. Commented on the weather. But their nods, their smiles, and that hand gesture I’d first seen at the hanging, all pointed to a bigger, more exciting conversation going on just under the surface.

  The evening started to go wrong when the owner and his pals began unrolling the blinds that had been tied at the tops of the windows. Claustrophobia scratched at my skull as, one by one, my portholes to the outside world were blocked. Shortly afterward Asha called.

  We’d left him in the car, though he’d protested. “I would like to go in with you. I could help,” he’d said. His mournful face held such eagerness I nearly hugged him.

  “Dude, you’re the getaway driver,” said Cole.

  “We may need to exit quickly,” Vayl agreed. “It would help if you were ready to leave at a moment’s notice.”

  More to make him feel involved than out of a true sense of need, I’d donned my special specs and given him the access number. “Just phone me if you see something fishy,” I’d told him.

  Now I put my hand over my ear to hide the tiny arm that snaked out to provide me with audio and looked down, so the movement of my lips would be hidden in the folds of my hijab. “Yeah?”

  “The mahghul are gathering.”

  “What? Here?”

  “Yes. What is it that you intend?” he asked, his voice strained.

  “It’s not us, Asha. Somebody else must be looking for trouble tonight.”

  “Should I come in?”

  “Are you sure the source of the danger is inside?”

  Long pause. “No. The sidewalks are busy tonight.”

  “Well, we’re already inside. So we’ll do what we can from here. Why don’t you scout around out there? See what you come up with. Call if you need help, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  I disconnected. “Crap.” I told the guys what was happening. Both of them thought we had another assassin in our midst.

  “This guy FarjAd’s got to have a ton of enemies,” Cole reasoned. “In a country full of radicals, his viewpoint is bound to raise alarms. Frankly, I can’t believe he’s still roaming around free. Either he’s one lucky sucker or they’ve only just started hearing about him.”

  “Just look at this assemblage,” Vayl agreed. “Strangers such as we should not be given such easy access if they wish for FarjAd to live a long life.”

  “The whole point is freedom,” I reminded them. “These people are trying to create an atmosphere where it’s okay to just walk in and listen. You know? Like in America?”

  “Well, all this freedom is going to get their keynote speaker killed,” said Cole.

  “Goddammit!” I hissed the word, but it got Vayl and Cole’s attention. “Here’s an idea. Why don’t you two quite vying for coolest agent of the month and help me figure out how to save a guy who’s naive enough to think he can run around Iran having open forums?”

  Vayl’s nod allowed me the point. “People are milling about enough that I believe we can move through the room without causing undue attention. It is Secret Service time.”

  Even though Cole had only been hanging with us a little while, he knew what Vayl meant. When we’re not working, we’re training, and Vayl’s go-to drill is the Secret Service. The idea is to disguise ourselves and then try to pick one another out of a crowd. It’s how we learn to blend so we don’t get nailed before — or after — our missions are completed. In this case, we weren’t looking for Cole in a ball cap and a flannel shirt or Vayl sporting plastic-rimmed glasses and a briefcase. We wanted the killer Asha had detected.

  We got up and spread out. Every computer had a user, as well as two or three onlookers. The tables were all full and small groups of men and women stood in the spaces between, chatting comfortably as they waited for the evening to get underway. The mix of men and women was about even, with the atmosphere equivalent to what you might expect from a crowd waiting to see a much-anticipated play. I had one of those small-world moments I often experience while out-of-country, when I understand that yawning gaps in culture and belief systems are never so huge they can’t be bridged. There’s always common ground. Like how much we all enjoy the company of people we agree with.

  I didn’t catch sight of FarjAd at first because he was hidden behind a group of students. I’d thought they were gathered around a computer, because they were laughing every few seconds. A sure sign one of them had found a hilarious Web site. Then the group split, their grinning faces following the subject of their attention as he emerged to greet the rest of the crowd.

  He had a presence that made you smile before you realized what you were doing. I’d met so few people
like him it was hard to compare. Our secretary, Martha, whose husband was a minister, shared his kindness. But not his immense, almost booming vitality. It crackled through the room like electricity, and I wasn’t surprised to find the hairs on my neck standing on end as he came closer to my position.

  I tore my eyes from him and scanned the area, concentrating on the people standing closest to him. Vayl and Cole would take care of their zones, and hopefully we’d discover the culprit in time to divert whatever disaster he or she had in mind. I hadn’t found anybody suspicious by the time I looked back at FarjAd. To find him beaming amiably at me.

  “It is so good of you to come,” he said, taking my hands in his and bowing over them. “I have not seen your face before, true?”

  “True,” I replied, realizing too late I was smiling again. As a general rule, you try not to do that during the Secret Service drill. Throws you off.

  “And from where have you traveled to be with us this night?”

  I’m a student from Canada studying Farsi,

  said my brain, just like it had practiced. Repeatedly. I looked into those shrewd brown eyes, only a couple of inches above mine, and realized I couldn’t lie. Some people just demand honesty. They’re like walking jolts of truth juice. Granny May had been that way. She’d skewer you with her don’t-screw-with-me stare and you’d be babbling out a confession before the cookie crumbs had dried on your lips.

  “I’m from America,” I told him. “My friends and I have come to save your life.”

  I don’t know how I thought he’d react. Maybe like Cole, who squawked in my ear. Or Vayl, who whispered, “You must be joking.” But I certainly didn’t expect him to lean his head sideways and say, “May I deliver my speech first? These people have risked a great deal to hear me. And I hate to disappoint them.”

  I found myself nodding. “Okay.” I cocked my head at him as his eyes began to twinkle, reminding me oddly of Cam. “Who

  are

  you?”

  He stuck his hands in his pockets. “Do you know how they say the worst kinds of reformers are those who have sinned themselves?”

  “You mean, like former smokers are the most rabid antismoking fanatics on earth?”

  “Exactly.” The twinkle dimmed. “When I was a young man I joined the Ministry of Intelligence.” He looked me right in the eye, accepting my shock and disgust as he said, “I have done unspeakable things for which I may never be forgiven. I have scarred my people and my country. This is the only way I can think of to put it right again.”

  “That must’ve been one hell of an epiphany,” I said.

  Still meeting my eyes, his brightened as the memory played through his mind. “You have no idea how the birth of a child will change a man.”

  I thought of my father, who’d been out of the country the day Dave and I were born. “No,” I said, “I don’t.”

  “Then listen,” he said. He went to a table near the center of the room and stood on the closest chair. He didn’t even have to hold up his arms for quiet. People just stopped and listened.

  Holy crap

  , my stunned little brain thought,

  he’d be great in an E.F. Hutton commercial

  .

  His message shocked me too. It was so — well — reasonable. Not something I’d expect to hear from a crowd pleaser in the capital city of Iran. As he spoke I studied the faces of his audience. Rapt. Optimistic. Peaceful. Not one of them looked prepared to end his life. These were some true-blue converts. Since I couldn’t find the threat in my area of influence, I moved to another spot in the room, occasionally pausing to check on my partners or tune into the talk.

  “We must not concede our country to bullies and bandits,” FarjAd insisted at one point. “Their club is fear. And they beat us with it constantly. We become like abused women. Convinced we deserve our fates and hoping for nothing better. Content to let our children become inured to the continuous spewing of hatred for free lands from teachers, priests, and government-controlled media. Accepting of the ridiculous notion that our sons and brothers must destroy themselves in order to kill two or three or ten enemy men in the name of some far-flung outrage.”

  Murmurs of agreement from the crowd. FarjAd held his hands out to them, his eyes wide with passion. “We must stand tall again. We are a blessed people. These are the laws we must live by again: love, forgiveness, fairness, generosity to those who are less fortunate.” He lapsed into Farsi.

  “Cole,” I hissed. “What’s he saying?”

  “He’s quoting a famous Persian poet named Sadi,” Cole replied. “I’m not good enough to translate the rhyme. But basically Sadi said all human beings are connected to each other. And therefore, we can’t stand idly by while even one of us suffers.”

  FarjAd had a lot more to say, but I stopped listening. Too distracting for me to be of any use if something violent went down. I retreated to a corner and, using the menu on my nifty glasses, called Asha. “Anything?”

  “Just more mahghul,” he said. “How about you?”

  “Nothing so far. But this guy. Eloquent doesn’t even come close to his speaking ability. They’re enthralled!”

  “His potential to lead this country into peace and prosperity is — how you put it — off the charts. The greatest I have seen in fifty years. You

  must

  keep him safe.”

  Asha’s urgency fueled my own. How was I supposed to protect him when all I could come up with was a general sense of menace? I hung up, looking at FarjAd with new eyes. Yesterday I’d been planning to kill him. Now I thought maybe he was the leader these people needed to enact the change they were looking for, and I was deeply afraid he wouldn’t live through the night.

  “Anything, Vayl?” I asked, meeting his eyes across the room. He stood near the bathroom door, leaning against the wall as he surveyed the crowd. “Nothing.”

  “How about you, Cole?”

  He sat at an abandoned Internet station, his back to the computer. “Naw. These people seem pretty stoked for FarjAd. If we were at a pep rally they’d all be cheering like horny teenagers.”

  You know what? Maybe this is all just coincidence. The mahghul are here because one of these couples is going to get in a huge fight later tonight and end up killing each other. The end.

  Still I waited. And watched. And when his speech was over, and FarjAd jumped down from the chair, I began another circuit of the room.

  I suppose what first caught my eye was the guy’s size. I actually thought Asha had snuck into the room for a second, this man was so tall. Plus, he wore the same sort of turban Asha favored. Also a long white thobe over beige pants, which stood out among the men, most of whom had come dressed in Western-style clothes.

  I hadn’t caught sight of him before, and he definitely hadn’t entered through the main doorway. Which meant he’d come in through the kitchen. A strange way to join the party.

  “Guys,” I whispered. “Check out the white turban, my six o’clock from FarjAd.”

  I inched closer. Something about the way he moved seemed eerily familiar. It was the same sensation you get recognizing an actor in a film, but you can’t remember what you’ve seen him in before.

  He kept his back to me. Almost like he knew I was there. How could he? Still, he had an uncanny way of turning with the crowd just when I was about to get a good look at his face. And he kept getting closer to FarjAd.

  “I don’t like this guy,” I finally said.

  “I agree,” said Vayl. “Who has the best angle?”

  “I’m totally blocked,” said Cole. “Congratulators out the wazoo.”

  “FarjAd keeps moving between me and the Turban,” said Vayl. “It looks like he is yours, Jasmine.”

  “Okay. And when all hell breaks loose?”

  “We grab him and run, as per the original plan,” said Vayl.

  The crowd around FarjAd was thick. I gave a few people my dazzling Lucille Robinson smile, which allowed me some progress, but not
enough to get to the Turban before he reached his target. With mounting worry and frustration, I weighed my options and came up with only one truly workable alternative. I pulled a FarjAd and climbed on a chair.

  It made my interest in the Turban obvious if he bothered to turn and look. He didn’t. He’d almost reached FarjAd by the time I’d found my new vantage point. And he was solely focused on the man, who smiled and shook hands with an exuberance that somehow lit the room.

  The Turban made a move only people in my business should recognize. Which was when I saw the dark glint of metal. The shockingly familiar outline of a weapon I’d never expected to see inside this room.

  “Gun!” I yelled.

  Instant chaos.

  Vayl and Cole surged forward to protect FarjAd as the crowd screamed and scattered. Those nearest the doors ran outside, allowing a steady stream of mahghul in.

  I didn’t pull Grief. I wanted this assassin alive. So instead I yanked a knife from my wrist sheath and winged it at the attacker’s back. I hit the Turban squarely between the shoulder blades, bringing a disappointed shriek from the mahghul. The Turban dropped to his knees. Still he struggled to bring his gun, one of those Bergman had carried all the way from America for the express use of Dave’s team, to bear.

  Vayl shot the sheath of his cane sword at the Turban’s shoulder, knocking his arm off target just as he squeezed the trigger. Bullets peppered an entire row of monitors, shattering glass, leaving behind a mass of dead black screens. It was a miracle no people were hit, but they’d all dropped to the floor as soon as the Manx began its thunderous attack.

  I threw another blade, burying it in the meat of the Turban’s shoulder. He dropped the gun. Another knife, to the back of the thigh, took him all the way to the floor.

  Though the mahghul had crowded toward me at my first throw, none of them had jumped me. As I continued to broadcast a strong, antimurderous intent, they turned to the Turban, swarming him like a mass of gigantic swamp rats.