Джеймс Паттерсон - Killer Instinct

Chapter 101

SADIRA WALKED me through it all. Her recruitment. How she seduced a member of the Iranian government and stole files from him revealing the work of Darvish and the other nuclear physicist she tracked down in London. Even the origin of her fake last name, which she used to become a US citizen. Yavari’s had been an ice cream shop in Tehran that her father used to take her to as a child.

The Iranian government had tried to leverage her presumed rage against Israel and the West, and she had them convinced they’d pulled it off. But she had her own motive. A deeply personal one. In the name of her father, Sadira had become a one-woman army to prevent what he feared most. That Iran would possess a nuclear weapon.

“So what now?” I asked.

“Now I kill you,” she said.

“Excuse me?”

“Remember how you asked how I knew you’d worked for the CIA?”

“Yes. Who told you?”

“The same person who told me I had to kill you tonight.”

The one and only. “The Mudir,” I said.

“I figured he was on your radar. You’re certainly on his.”

“If you’ve had access to him, then—”

“I didn’t know in advance about Times Square, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

It was. “So you’re not in one of his cells?”

“No. I volunteered to be a courier for him after the attack. I told my handler with the Ministry of Intelligence that I wanted to help with the next one.”

“In order to stop it.”

“Yes,” she said. “To stop it and to stop the Mudir. I want him dead. But first we need to convince him that you’re dead.”

“How do you propose we do that?”

“I have an idea,” she answered. “But first, do you think maybe you could pull up your pants?”

I glanced down. Smiled. “Why? You don’t like my boxers?”

After pulling up my pants, I walked over to Sadira and picked up her gun. She and I had come a long way in a very short period of time. But believing her was one thing. Trusting her was another. We weren’t there yet.

The way she described it, neither was the Mudir.

She’d been a courier, delivering fake passports to him that had been generated back in Iran. Now he wanted her help with an impending attack.

But he needed to know first if he could trust her. Especially when he discovered that I’d orchestrated my jury duty introduction to her at the courthouse. It was obviously a major red flag for him. It was also, though, an opportunity. He wanted me dead, but there was a risk in coming after me. He knew I’d be waiting for him. But I wouldn’t necessarily suspect Sadira. If she could eliminate me, she could be trusted. Two birds with one stone-cold killer in heels.

“What do you know about this next attack?” I asked.

“Not much,” she said. “My getting any details is contingent on your being dead. The Mudir did let one thing slip, though. Something about it being safer to fly that day.”

“It’s Penn Station,” I said. “That’s the target.”

I suddenly didn’t have to wonder if everything Sadira had told me was true. Her reaction, the look of horror that crossed her face, could never have been faked.

“The fact that you know,” she said. “It means you’re already prepared to stop it before it happens, right?”

“That’s the plan,” I said. “Now tell me about yours. How do we convince the Mudir that I’m dead?”

“He’s waiting on the proof tonight, and he won’t trust a photo.”

“In other words, we need to record something.”

“Exactly. He needs to actually see you die.”

She walked over to her chest of drawers. As soon as she pulled it out I was shaking my head. “You’re joking, right?”

Sadira tossed me the bulletproof vest. “It’s Kevlar with titanium plates,” she said. “The best money can buy.”

“Yeah, and 100 percent worthless if you miss.”

“I won’t miss,” she assured me. “Just try not to move around too much for the second shot.”

“The second shot?”

“You want it to be convincing, don’t you?”

Chapter 102

DEAD MAN TALKING.

Hours later, I was telling Foxx everything. He listened to me without saying a word as he ate an egg-white omelet between sips of coffee. Even if his mouth hadn’t been otherwise occupied I suspected he still wouldn’t have interrupted. He wanted to digest every last detail of my date with Sadira before asking any questions. The floor was mine. Or, more specifically, the end booth of a twenty-four-hour Greek diner a few blocks away from the safe house. At 5:00 a.m., the place was nearly empty. There were more photos of Anthony Quinn on the wall than there were people. Foxx and only Foxx could hear what I was saying.

“Tell me that last part again,” he said when I finally finished.

“You mean, my waiting with Sadira after we made the recording?”

“No, I got that. You wanted to be on hand if the Mudir contacted her right away.”

Only the Mudir hadn’t. I waited with Sadira most of the night, but he never responded to the video of her killing me. Was he buying it? We still didn’t know. But there was no reason he shouldn’t have. Sadira was right: the second shot sold it—almost as much as I did. If there was an Oscar for faking one’s death, I was a shoo-in. All done in one take, no less. For what we did, there were definitely no reshoots.

Meanwhile, I still didn’t know what Foxx wanted to hear again. “You mean, the hotel part?” I asked.

“Nope. Got that, too,” he said. “If she killed you in her house, the Mudir would have to ask how she disposed of your body. The hotel meant she could walk. The do-not-disturb sign would buy her at least two days before your body was even discovered.”

Foxx had heard everything I’d told him, even filling in some of the things I hadn’t. “Okay, I give up,” I said. “What are you not hearing?”

He pushed away what remained of his omelet and crossed his forearms on the table, leaning in. Apparently what he had the hardest time believing wasn’t that I allowed Sadira Yavari to shoot me at point-blank range. Twice, no less.

“I was waiting for your explanation,” he said through a clenched jaw. “How the hell is Sadira not in our custody right now?”

“Our custody?”

“She killed two informants, one of them being ours.”

“They were hardly informants,” I pointed out.

“According to her.”

“Yes, just like the fact that she’s Farukh Rostami’s daughter. That was according to her, too,” I said. “And it checked out.”

I had Julian confirm it before I met up with Foxx. No hacking required. Just a good old-fashioned LexisNexis search. An Iranian magazine had done a profile of Rostami when Sadira was in her late teens. The piece mentioned her and her sister.

“So one thing true about her makes everything true?” he asked.

“I think you’re losing the forest for the trees here,” I said.

“And I think maybe you’ve lost your mind. Or maybe just your edge after you left the Agency. You volunteered that we know about Penn Station.”

“Only after she shared what the Mudir had said—his remark about it being safer to fly.”

“She could’ve been feeling you out for what we might know. She could be playing you.”

“Or, again, she could be telling the truth. And, for the record, you’re the one who got played by Jahan Darvish.”

“All the more reason why you should’ve brought her in.”

“She wasn’t about to do that.”

“That was your instinct, huh?”

That wasn’t a question. It was a jab. But I hardly minded it. I understood where Foxx was coming from. Knowing in my gut that Sadira was telling the truth provided only so much comfort to a guy like him.