Once this was all over, that’s what she was going to do. Enough was enough. She needed Mike. They had given enough, more than their fair share. Mapother would understand. He had to.
But first, there was a mission to complete. The recovery room was located at the end of the corridor. Lisa walked the hallway as if she belonged and avoided eye contact with fellow medical personnel. Four uniformed NYPD officers stood in front of the recovery room but they seemed relaxed compared to those positioned a floor below where Mayor Church was being treated for his injuries. The officers chatted among themselves and didn’t even look at the doctors and nurses going in and out of the recovery room where Sergeant Sassani was resting. Lisa concluded the NYPD didn’t yet know what was really going on.
Lisa entered the recovery room and spotted Sassani right away. There were only five other patients. But the good news stopped there.
Two men stood next to Sassani. Their hair was cut short and it was easy to see the demarcations of their bulletproof vests under their dark suits.
Detectives.
Their presence worried Lisa and she wondered if she had been wrong about the NYPD not knowing Sassani’s role in Mayor Church’s assassination attempt. She walked to the next female patient and feigned reading her chart while eavesdropping on the conversation between the detectives and Sassani.
“I need protection, Chuck,” Sassani said, clutching the hand of the taller of the two detectives.
“Why would you need protection, Tracy?” Chuck asked. “You took a bullet for Mayor Church, for God’s sake.”
“You’re a hero,” added the other detective.
Lisa noticed Chuck hadn’t withdrawn his hand.
Sassani closed her eyes. “I’m no hero, Shawn.”
The detectives exchanged a glance. They looked puzzled.
“I’m in danger. Call Assistant Chief Thomas, please,” Sassani pleaded.
“The boss of the Intelligence Division? That Chief Thomas?” Chuck asked. “Why would I—”
“Just do it, Chuck,” Sassani said.
“What have you got yourself into?” Chuck asked before adding, “Whatever it is, I’m here, okay?”
“I know,” Sassani said, her voice cracking.
“I love you, Tracy. I’ll do it. I’ll call Chief Thomas. Everything’s gonna be all right. I promise.” Chuck headed toward the exit. He hadn’t made it halfway when he stopped and looked straight at Lisa.
“Hey you,” he said with the tone of a cop directing traffic before he realized to whom he was speaking. “Take care of her, doctor, will you?” he added more gently.
“I certainly will.”
........
It was clear to Lisa that Sassani was willing to cooperate. Sassani knew she was in danger and wanted protection. That was a good sign. Time was of the essence here. Lisa had to move fast.
She approached Sassani and asked, “How do you feel, Sergeant?”
“Not too bad, doctor, considering I’ve been shot.”
“Trust me, I know exactly what you mean.”
Sassani raised her eyebrows. “You’ve been shot before?”
Lisa smiled and gently touched Sassani’s forearm. “I’m one of the good guys, Tracy. The organization I work for will offer you protection. If you cooperate, that is.”
Sassani’s eyes opened wide and she withdrew her arm. “Who are you?” she said, a bit too loud for Lisa’s taste.
“Keep your voice down,” Lisa warned her. “Less than fifteen minutes ago I killed a female Iranian agent who was probably on her way here to finish what your father started.”
Sassani shivered. “So you know,” she finally said.
“I do. And so does my organization. We’re ready to help, but you’ll have to come with us.”
“I . . . I can’t. I need medical attention. I—”
“We’ll provide you with the best medical services,” Lisa said, “but we need to go now.”
“You’re not with the FBI. I’d be chained to my bed if you were.”
“I’m not with the Bureau,” Lisa confirmed.
“How do I know you’re not working with the Iranians?”
“Valid question,” Lisa replied. She dug her phone out of her pocket and showed Sassani Lara Firouzgari’s picture. Then she said, “Her name was Lara. She’s dead now. She was supposed to kill you.”
Tears rolled from Sassani’s eyes. “I’m not a terrorist. I love this country . . . It’s home.”
“Now’s your chance to prove it.”
CHAPTER 72
Montreal, Canada
Colonel Asad Davari sat in the third row of the Airbus A330’s first-class cabin, a cup of coffee in hand. A flight attendant pushed a sweets trolley down the aisle and Davari wondered why Air Canada insisted on serving ice cream for dessert. It made no sense to him. By the time the flight attendant reached his seat, the vanilla ice cream the flight attendant had scooped in the bowl was half melted. She offered one to Davari.
“Thank you, but no,” he said. “Do you have anything else?”
She didn’t roll her eyes, but Davari sensed this was exactly what she wanted to do. It seemed to take all her energy to ask him what he had in mind.
“A candy bar would be nice, if you have one.”
The flight attendant returned to the galley and came back a minute later with a Coffee Crisp.
“Will that do?” she said, handing it to him without a hint of a smile. She didn’t wait for him to reply and rolled her trolley to the next passenger.
“Ice cream?” she asked the traveler seated in front of him, a heavyset man dressed in a dark business suit.
“You have another Coffee Crisp?” the man said. “I usually like my ice cream frozen, you know.”
The flight attendant looked annoyed, and Davari couldn’t help it; he smiled. It didn’t matter where he was in the world or which airline he used, flight attendants, male or female, didn’t seem to like their jobs. Davari didn’t blame them. He hated dealing with the public too. He’d be a poor flight attendant.
Davari wished Mariwala had been with him in first class. It would have allowed him to rest in anticipation of their next mission. But the only seat left was in economy. Halfway through their flight from Heathrow to Montreal, Davari had taken a walk down the aisle. Mariwala was squeezed between a breastfeeding woman and her young child, and a gigantic man who must have weighed north of three hundred and fifty pounds.
The landing was a non-event, but the line to go through Canadian customs was longer than expected. The last time Davari had entered Canada, it had been through Toronto. It was his first time in Montreal. The Quds Force had only one full-time safe house in Canada and it was located in Montreal. It would have been easier to fly directly to one of New York City’s three main airports, but the enhanced security measures in all American airports heightened the chance of exposure. Entering the United States through Mexico used to be the safest and easiest route. Not so much anymore. Entering through Canada was now deemed the most secure path for clandestine operatives. The assassination of the Canadian prime minister by a member of his own protection detail had not only created an international outrage, it had also triggered a tightening in security across the country, but General Kharazi had judged Canada was still the path of least resistance.
Davari hoped he was right.
He kept an eye on Sergeant Mariwala, who was now six persons in front of him and waiting for his turn to be questioned by the young Canada Border Services Agency—CBSA—officer sitting in his glass booth. So many things could go wrong, but Davari tried not to think about them. He reminded himself that the Canadian passport in his possession wasn’t a forgery. It was part of a batch the Iranian government had bought from a corrupt Canadian official. Davari had brokered the deal. That was why he had traveled to Toronto.
Davari wat
ched as Mariwala approached the booth. The young agent was Caucasian. That was good news. Out of fear of being pilloried as racists or Islamophobics, white police officers and CBSA agents across Canada and the United States were now walking on eggshells because of how they were treated by the media. This meant he was less likely to be sent to secondary inspection. Davari was too far away to hear the exchange between Mariwala and the CBSA agent, but it lasted less than a minute.
Mariwala was in the clear.
Davari’s pulse was a tad faster than usual but he kept it in check. Still, a single bead of sweat trickled down his back as he advanced toward the glass booth.
“Good evening, sir,” the agent said.
Davari looked at his nametag. Davidson.
Davari smiled and handed over his passport and declaration card. “Good evening, Officer Davidson.”
Davidson scanned the passport and inserted it into the reader.
“What were you doing in England?” Davidson asked, his eyes on his computer screen.
“I was doing business research,” Davari replied.
“How long were you there for? You wrote two days in your declaration card.”
“Yes, that’s correct. I stayed for only a couple nights.”
“Where did you stay?”
“I stayed at the Marriott Grosvenor Square in Mayfair.”
That got Davidson’s attention. “Really?”
Davari was momentarily caught off guard. He hadn’t expected to be challenged about where he had stayed. The unit in charge of creating backstops had fabricated proofs of his stay, but the officer’s retort had surprised him.
“I—”
“That’s where my wife and I stayed on our honeymoon,” Davidson explained. “I love that place.”
“Yeah, it’s great,” Davari managed to say. “I’ll make sure to stay there again on my next visit.”
“You travel to London often?”
“Yes, more often—” Davari stopped mid-sentence, realizing his mistake. There was only one immigration stamp from Heathrow in his passport.
Davidson removed the passport from the reader. “You were saying?”
Maybe Davidson hadn’t noticed his slip-up?
“Oh, I was just saying that I wish I could go more often.”
Davidson gave him back his passport and said, “You and me the same.”
“All right, thanks officer,” Davari said, glad the interview was coming to an end.
“What kind of business are you in?” Davidson asked.
“I do commercial real estate.”
“Is that why you were in London?”
“One of my clients is looking into expanding his business overseas and he sent me to scout a building he was interested in near London.”
“Any luck?”
“Not really. You wouldn’t believe how expensive London has become. I’m not sure it would make financial sense for my client. But, hey, I’m just the messenger, right? He’ll make his own decision.”
“Do you have a business card?”
Davari’s heartbeat quickened. He didn’t have one. He made a show of searching his pockets. “I think I’m out,” Davari apologized. “I gave them all away.”
“Why would you give them away in London? Aren’t you a Canadian realtor?”
The duration of the interview was getting worrisome. “I’m always looking for new clients. You know what I mean?”
“Of course, Mr. Yazdanian, but what would be the best number to reach you at?” Davidson asked, a pen in hand.
Tehran had prepared a number for such an eventuality. Davari gave him the ten-digit number he had memorized on the plane.
“Thanks. My in-laws are looking at purchasing a Subway franchise,” Davidson explained. “So I’ll give them your number in case they need the help of a commercial real estate agent.”
“I appreciate this. Thanks.”
“Nice chatting with you,” Davidson said, dismissing him. “Have a great day.”
Davari grabbed his carry-on bag and made his way to the conveyor belt where Mariwala was supposed to wait for him.
........
CBSA officer Nicholas Davidson took one last look at the real estate agent. Sheldon Yazdanian. The name didn’t ring a bell, but something wasn’t quite right, and, on second thought, he should have sent him to secondary inspection.
The next passenger walked to his booth, but Davidson sent him back to wait behind the red line. He spun his chair around and brought his computer screen back to life by left clicking on his mouse. He searched the real estate agent’s name on Google and then on the CBSA main database.
Nothing.
Sheldon Yazdanian loved his privacy. There was no Instagram account, no Facebook account and no website.
Rather unusual for a real estate agent.
Davidson did the only thing he could: he flagged the name and phone number. Next time Mr. Yazdanian entered Canada, by air, land or sea, he’d be sent to secondary inspection.
........
Davari spotted Mariwala. He was making conversation with the mother he had sat next to on the flight. They made eye contact and Mariwala subtly nodded. He got up, kissed the baby’s forehead and shook the mother’s hand before walking to the exit. Davari followed him a minute later. He had the nagging feeling he was missing something. Was it something he had said? Something Davidson asked?
He spotted the white Chevrolet minivan parked curbside. The windows were tinted but he recognized the license plate. Mariwala slid the door open for him and grabbed his carry-on.
“I’m Captain Piran Mondegari,” the driver said once the sliding door was shut.
“Thanks for coming, Captain.”
“Everything is ready for you.”
“I appreciate it.”
The van sped away to the highway. Traffic was slow and orange traffic cones pushed the cars into one lane. Davari didn’t like it.
“Is this normal?”
Mondegari actually smiled. “First time in Montreal?”
“It is.”
“That explains your question. Yes, this is normal. Montreal is an absolute nightmare when it comes to traffic.”
“How far are we from the safe house?”
“We’ll be there in about thirty minutes. Maybe less.”
Davari allowed himself to relax. Sergeant Mariwala touched his shoulder.
“I was worried, sir,” Mariwala said. “At the airport.”
“Officer Davidson was nosy,” Davari replied. Since the plan called for them to stay in Canada for less than twenty-four hours, Davari decided he’d let it be. He wouldn’t take any drastic measures to silence Davidson. But it wouldn’t come as a surprise if his identity had been flagged.
“I’ll need a new passport,” Davari said to Mondegari.
“When do you need it for, sir?”
“Now.”
“I’m not sure this will be possible,” the captain replied. “We don’t have the capacity to generate one on such short notice. Even if I contacted Tehran right away, it would take at least seventy-two hours for a new set of identity papers to arrive by diplomatic pouch.”
That wouldn’t work. General Kharazi wanted them in New York City in the morning.
“Then we won’t be able to drive to New York,” Davari said. “Do you know someone who could smuggled us across the border.”
Mondegari was silent for a minute and Davari was about to repeat the question when he got his answer.
“I know someone who could get you across the border. But he works for the highest bidder. I wouldn’t trust him with too many details.”
That wasn’t an issue. Davari could make sure the man remained silent.
“Is the rest of the team ready?”
“Yes, sir. There’s only one more
guy. That’s all we could get at such short notice. He’s waiting for you at the safe house.”
As soon as he reached the safe house, he ordered one of the men to immediately travel to New York and conduct a reconnaissance of the objective. Since being smuggled across the border would take more time than if they had simply driven, Davari wanted a detail assessment of the tactical situation the moment he got to New York.
The driver had the radio tuned in to the local news station.
“Can you turn the volume up?”
“The mayor of New York City is presently resting at an undisclosed hospital in Manhattan . . .”
So the mayor was still alive. Not the news Davari expected to hear. Something had gone terribly wrong.
What kind of mess am I getting myself into?
CHAPTER 73
Presbyterian Hospital, New York
Because of the traffic, Mike spotted Mapother’s black Yukon when it was still half a block away. It parked in one of the spots reserved for emergency vehicles. Mike hadn’t expected Mapother to show up.
“What are you doing here?” Mike asked the moment Mapother stepped out of the vehicle. “The support team hasn’t arrived yet.”
“I was in the area when Lisa called. Where is she?” Mapother asked as both men walked toward the main entrance of the hospital.
“They’re waiting inside,” Mike replied. Did Mapother hear him? The support team was yet to arrive. That meant the two dead bodies were still hidden in the locker room.
A Thick Crimson Line (Mike Walton Book 3) Page 18