Our Sacred Honor

by Jack Mars

  “No!”

  Her scream was lost in the wall of sound around her.

  She felt the heavy truck tire roll on top of her head. There was a pause—the briefest of moments—when it seemed as if the tire would just roll over her head and leave it intact. This gigantic, infernal machine—many thousands of pounds—was perched on top of her skull.

  It was a miracle! She was going to survive!

  And when the truck tire dropped to the ground, crushing her head—even then, for a split second, it seemed to her that she was still alive.

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  3:05 a.m. Eastern Standard Time

  The White House Residence

  Washington, DC

  The clock on the kitchen wall was an ornate holdover from an earlier time.

  Made of wood, its face covered in rounded glass, the numbers in Latin. It had a pendulum of yellow metal that hung down beneath the face, and which swung back and forth, softly but incessantly.

  Tick, tick, tick…

  A moment ago, when the clock struck III, a single gong sounded. The clock always gonged once, no matter what the hour.

  Now the seconds were racing by again, the pendulum swinging, as the short, slow hour arm began its inevitable descent toward IV.

  The clock was the only sound in the room.

  Susan sat alone at the alcove table in the family kitchen, eating a 3 a.m. snack. Organic chocolate ice cream with frozen organic strawberries and blueberries. Plus the kind of whipped cream that sprayed out of a metal canister. That one wasn’t organic. She wasn’t even sure if it was really cream. But it tasted good.

  She had never slept well in this old house, and tonight was no exception. Too many ghosts around every corner. True, the place had been entirely rebuilt, but the ghosts were still here. For a little while, since Stone had been staying over, she had begun to experience what she might describe as real sleep. But now?

  Stone was gone. She had no idea if he was alive or dead. The world was spiraling out of control, and she was here worrying about Stone. She felt a little bit like a teenage girl—head over heels, confused, and ultimately, ineffectual.

  She needed to get her head together.

  The phone at her elbow rang. She looked at the number and picked it up.

  “Pierre. Darling. Thanks for calling me back this late.”

  Susan pressed the phone to her ear as she talked. She had changed into a pair of old blue jeans, faded and ripped and perfectly fitted to her contours. She wore a light blue hooded sweatshirt that said THE BIG BOSS across the front of it. She wore big fuzzy bunny rabbit slippers. She felt like a teenager, and she was dressed like one.

  She was stuck alone in this big scary house for the night, so she might as well be comfortable.

  “Sweetheart,” he said, and all the old feelings for her husband came flooding back. Different feelings from the ones she had for Stone, deeper, less intense, a lifetime of feelings. They had been together twenty-five years. They had two beautiful twin girls together. There was a lot of water under the bridge.

  Susan stared at the clock on the wall. But it was almost as if she were looking through the wall, back into the past, to the early times she spent with Pierre. She could picture him when they met—the twenty-nine-year-old billionaire. He was beautiful, with a skinny body and big brown eyes. He looked afraid, like a deer in the headlights. His dark hair always flopped down in front of his face. He was hiding in there. It was cute.

  She had made a lot of money in her career as a fashion model, several million dollars. Financially, she had been very, very comfortable. But suddenly money was no object at all. They traveled the world together. Paris, Madrid, Hong Kong, London… they always stayed in five-star hotels, and always in the most expensive suite. Astonishing views became the backdrop to her life, even more so than before. They married, and they had children, two wonderful twin girls. Then the years began to pass, and slowly they grew apart.

  Susan became bored. She looked for something to do. She got into politics. Eventually, she ran for United States Senator from California. After she won, she spent much of her time in Washington, sometimes with the girls, sometimes not. Pierre managed his businesses, and increasingly, his charitable efforts in the Third World. Sometimes they didn’t see each other for months.

  Almost ten years ago now, Pierre called her late one night and confessed something she supposed she already knew. He was gay, and he was in a relationship.

  They stayed married anyway. It was mostly for the girls, but for other reasons as well. For one thing, they were best friends. For another, it was better for both of them if the world thought they were still a couple.

  The truth was, Pierre was the deep relationship of her life. She loved him totally. What was wrong with that? He was her partner. And she was his. He was a wonderful father. He was caring. He was in touch with his emotions. He was probably the smartest man she had ever met. There was nothing about their relationship that concerned her.

  His boyfriends came and went. He was discreet about it, and apparently they were too. She never even knew about them.

  She sighed again. Then the scandal came. Her own political party had obtained photos of him with a young man, poolside at their Malibu house. In an attempt to destroy her, they had leaked the photos to the media.

  She and Pierre had weathered even that.

  They were rock solid. It was more than a relationship. It was more than a marriage. It was an alliance. Pierre was completely supportive of her relationship with Stone. He was the only person she had told about it.

  “It’s not that late,” Pierre said. “It’s only midnight here.”

  Susan smiled. Pierre had always been a night owl. He was probably just getting revved up.

  “How are you doing?” he said. “How’s your man?”

  “He’s gone,” she said.

  “Oh? I’m sorry to hear that. Where did he go?”

  She sighed. “Uh, I can’t say.”

  “Meaning you don’t know?”

  “Meaning I can’t tell you.”

  “Does it have something to do with… everything that’s been going on?”

  “I can’t tell you that, either.”

  He paused. “Are you worried?”

  She nodded. Suddenly she felt like she was ready to cry. “Yes.”

  “Oh, Susan.”

  “I know. It’s stupid. He’s a grown man. It’s what he does. I knew that going into this. I just never really thought about…”

  “It’s not stupid,” Pierre said. “It just isn’t. You care about someone, and I’m guessing he may be in danger.”

  “I think he is.”

  “Then it’s not stupid to worry. Of course you’re worried.”

  “It’s making it hard to do my job.”

  “What job? Oh, that President thing? Well, take a week off. Tell them you need some me-time. It’s not like they’re going to fire you. Nobody else wants that job.”

  She laughed. The past few weeks with Stone had been some of the only me-time she’d had in years.

  “I’ve got a lot on my plate right now.”

  “I know you do. I’ve got the TV news on right now.”

  She didn’t like the sound of that. She had unplugged from everything hours ago. No one had called her down to a meeting, so she had assumed that the situation was status quo. It was the middle of the night! Couldn’t everyone just stop for a little while?

  “What is it showing?”

  “Students, mostly. Young people up in arms, just as they should be. We should really hand the whole thing off to them. They’re ready, they’re confident, they have weeks of life experience to draw on. We’re just making a mess of things.”

  “Come on, Pierre. Tell me. I don’t want to have to turn it on.”

  “Well, out here, we’ve got campus sit-ins and protests at Berkeley and USC. They’ve got bottle-throwing riots up in Portland and Seattle. As I mentioned, it’s early. These things could go all ni
ght.”

  “What are they protesting?”

  “Oh, you know, Israel.”

  “Israel?”

  “Yeah, the students want the universities to divest their endowment funds from anything having to do with Israel. No Israeli companies, no American companies that do business in Israel, no Israeli bond issues, no Israeli real estate trusts or Israeli investment managers. The rioters want Portland and Seattle, not to mention Oregon and Washington, to do the same, only with their pension funds.”

  Susan shook her head. “Israel’s under attack, last time I checked.”

  “In more ways than one, I’d say.”

  Susan let out a long breath. “Okay. That’s okay. The kids are letting their voices be heard.”

  “That’s not all.”

  “Tell me.” She caught herself using Stone’s little catchphrase.

  “There was a large antiwar protest at the University of Tehran. It started a couple of hours ago. It’s daytime over there. The police and Iranian military broke it up. Seems like a number of the kids got killed, either shot by the cops or trampled in the ensuing melee. Hundreds of people were arrested.”

  Susan put her head in her hands. She thought of the conditions in Iranian prisons Kurt had been talking about earlier. She thought of how the kids over here were protesting against Israel, while the Iranian kids were protesting against their own government. Whose side was anybody on? She thought of how Stone was somewhere in Iran at this moment. Would the unrest help him or hinder him? She had no idea.

  “Listen, how are the girls?” she said, changing the subject. She couldn’t think about these large-scale problems right now. They always came back to Stone somehow.

  “Beautiful, of course.”

  “What are they up to?”

  “Well, they’re getting ready for their big DC Christmas trip. And they’re thinking they want to get into modeling. Just like Mom.”

  Susan’s hands rubbed her forehead. “Oh God, Pierre. They’re fourteen years old.”

  “Mom was fifteen when she started. So I keep hearing.”

  “It’s an evil business. I can’t…”

  “Times have changed.”

  “Pierre!”

  “Hear me out on this, Susan. It’s not like when you were a kid. They don’t have to go anywhere. They don’t have to deal with anyone. We let them create an Instagram account. My people monitor the account, vet the comments, delete anything problematic. Watch for stalkers. We run everything by the Secret Service. The girls wear nice clothes, nothing too sexy. They take selfies, so we don’t even need a photographer. They’re beautiful girls, and they’re the daughters of the President. Can you imagine how many followers they would get? Can you imagine how many designers would love to hang their new products on them? I’ll handle any contracts that might come up. It’ll be a good experience. They think they can make money at this, and I think they’re right.”

  “They don’t need money, Pierre.”

  “Everybody needs money, Susan.”

  Susan shook her head. Another thing to worry about. Another thing to obsess over. Was he crazy? He must have gone insane. “Honey, I hate this idea. Okay? I hate it. Michaela was kidnapped less than three years ago. Can we please just—”

  “I promise there is no danger. And I think the idea will grow on you.”

  She nodded. “It will grow on me. Like a fungus. Like a toxic mold. It is going to grow on me and infect me, and make me deathly ill.”

  He seemed to hesitate.

  “Pierre…” she began.

  “I already told them yes.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

  4:45 p.m. Tehran Time (8:45 a.m. Eastern Standard Time)

  South Tehran, Iran

  “He is being watched, so we must be careful.”

  They moved down an alleyway in the darkness, three big shadows. Luke and Ed followed Ari. The days were short this time of year. The sun had dropped behind the mountains to the west nearly an hour before, so it was already like night.

  They had spent the day inside the truck, parked among dozens of similar trucks, near a slaughterhouse on the outskirts of the city. Luke’s straw bed had been plenty comfortable—with the cool early winter air blowing through the slats of the trailer, and the body heat given off by the sheep, it had been the best rest he had gotten in a while.

  Now they were in a residential district in an older part of the city, a crowded slum. The city streets were on lockdown—military vehicles everywhere, checkpoints set up at major intersections. Ari had navigated here almost entirely through back alleyways—using a map of the city that existed only in his mind.

  He stopped and turned to face them.

  He spoke barely above a whisper. “This is it. When we go in, you just want to stay quiet. He will not trust you. Also, my Farsi is quite good, but I need to listen carefully. I can’t have three conversations going on at once.”

  “Your gig, boss,” Ed said.

  Luke nodded. “Got it.”

  The kid was good. He was smoothly efficient, confident, highly skilled. He had gotten them inside Iran, halfway across the country, then through a locked down city, all without a hitch. He didn’t seem to bear a grudge about the fight. And the man they were meeting here was his informant. As far as Luke was concerned, their job was to stay out of his way until he needed them.

  “Watch how I go, then follow behind me. Don’t stay out here. It’s much better to be inside.”

  “Of course.”

  There was an iron fence near them, with vertical bars topped by sharp points. Ari turned and went up the fence, using his arm strength. When he reached the top, he stepped across the points, lightly, like a dancer, until he reached the bricks of the building next door. Then he went up the brick face like a spider, his fingers finding holds where none seemed to exist. There was a half open window on the second floor. He slid inside of it and was gone.

  Luke looked at Ed.

  Ed shook his head. “Man, those spikes are gonna go right through my feet, I know it. I outweigh that boy by at least sixty pounds.”

  “Let’s go,” Luke said. “I’ll try to open that window for you a little more.”

  Moments later, they were inside as well.

  It was a dark apartment, lights off and cold inside. The place was a warren, cluttered with bookcases and furniture, stacks of boxes and old magazines. Luke and Ed wound their way through the shadows and gloom.

  Up ahead, in front of a window facing the street, Luke spotted Ari’s silhouette. He stood next to an armchair, itself facing out the window.

  “Ari?” Luke whispered.

  “Yes. Here.”

  “Where’s the informer?”

  “He’s here, too.”

  Luke moved through the dark to the armchair, Ed two steps behind him.

  The man was leaning back in the chair, his head tilted way back, his throat slit from ear to ear. The skin of his face had turned black. His wrists and forearms were bound to the arms of the chair with some kind of wire. Luke looked at it closely. The wire was sharp, and had cut through the man’s shirt sleeves and through the meat of his lower arms. Red slices crisscrossed his forearms—the blood had dried some time ago.

  “Ed?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How long has he been dead?”

  Ed shrugged. “Without any gear with me, and in the dark like this, it’s hard to say. The body is stiff, with pronounced discoloration of the face and hands. No obvious putrefaction at this time, but the cold air in here has probably slowed that down. This place is like an icebox. Twelve hours, at a broad guess.”

  “He was a good man,” Ari said. “He wanted to change things.”

  “What does that time frame mean to us?” Luke said.

  “It means they killed him before we got here.”

  “Did they know we were coming?”

  Ari shook his head. “Not necessarily. A man like this has probably been under suspicion a long time. They may have killed h
im just to be on the safe side.”

  “What do we do now?” Ed said.

  Ari shrugged. “I don’t know. He wasn’t supposed to be dead.”

  “You don’t know? Is there anyone else we can talk to? Or is this the only one?”

  Luke didn’t like the idea of this. They had done a high altitude night jump into Iran, sneaked their way across the country in a truck full of sheep, to talk to a guy who was dead? With a nuclear war looming?

  “There is one other,” Ari said. “If anything, he would know much more than this man. But he’s locked away in prison.”

  “All right,” Ed said. “I guess we’re going to prison then.”

  “How do we get inside?” Luke said.

  Ari shook his head. “We don’t. It’s impossible.”

  Luke pulled out his satellite phone. “Nothing is impossible.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

  4:03 p.m. Israel Time (5:03 p.m. Tehran Time, 9:03 a.m. Eastern Standard Time)

  Tel Aviv, Israel

  “It’s called Evin Prison,” Luke said through Swann’s headset. “I need a layout, I need a way inside, and if possible I need to know a prisoner location.”

  Swann and Trudy were sitting in Swann’s hotel suite at the Hilton. The room was on the tenth floor, and had sweeping views of the Mediterranean out the bay windows. The sun was already far to the west, slowly sinking into the sea.

  “Evin Prison,” Swann said to Trudy.

  They had set up Swann’s room as a makeshift command center. A bank of three laptops sat on a long fold-out table against the wall. Their rig was on the Internet through an encrypted satellite link-up that Swann had designed himself. Outside of the electricity, they were dependent on nothing from the hotel. If they had to, they could run on batteries. Swann had swept the room three times for bugs—as much as was feasible. He had taken all the listening devices he found out onto the balcony and dropped them ten stories into the empty pool.

  The detritus of food containers littered the areas around the computers. He and Trudy had taken all of their meals here, waiting for a call from Luke.