Andrew Britton - The Assassin

To the casual observer, Amir Nazeri appeared to epitomize the American dream. He had come from humble roots, survived an oppressive regime, and risen to considerable wealth and success in a new land. But the things Nazeri thought and felt in his private world would have shocked the people closest to him — if there had been people close to him. The truth was that he had never felt a connection to his parents, and his siblings meant nothing to him. He had never had any real friends or romantic attachments to speak of. The only person he’d ever truly cared for — ever really loved — was his cousin Fatima.

She was his first cousin, the daughter of his father’s youngest brother. As children, they had lived two houses apart in Tehran. From the very start, he had been confused by his devotion to her. She was a plain girl at best, not particularly pretty, not especially charming. But she had returned his affection, and there had been something between them that he could never hope to duplicate. In short, she was his whole world. He had watched with bursting pride when she was admitted to Azad University, with burning jealousy when her marriage to a fellow student was arranged, and with overwhelming, guilty satisfaction when her suitor was killed in a car accident two days before the wedding was to take place. Once Nazeri gained financial security in the United States, he had begged her to join him, but she had refused, citing her work. They remained extremely close, however, and he traveled to Tehran as often as possible to visit her. He had repeated the offer on dozens of occasions, but she always declined. At least until the previous year, when her correspondence had stopped without warning. No telephone calls, no letters… nothing at all.

The silence was unbearable. He was desperate for answers, but there was nowhere to turn. Her parents were dead, as were his, and he had not been in touch with his siblings for years. Fatima’s only brother was also deceased, an indirect casualty of the Iran-Iraq war. Nazeri had no idea where she worked: she had always avoided the topic, and when confronted, she addressed it in vague generalities. He’d always had the impression that her position was with the government. He couldn’t be sure, though, and even if he was right, it didn’t help; he had no contacts within the regime. In short, no one could tell him what had become of her. He labored for months, distracted at work, unable to let it go.

And then came the fateful day. Five months after her disappearance, a man telephoned Nazeri at his Manhattan office, claiming to have information about Fatima’s disappearance. Nazeri agreed to meet at once, already aware of a crushing weight in his chest. He met Erich Kohl for the first time the following day, and the news the German brought only confirmed his worst fear: his beloved cousin was dead.

Kohl never explained how he knew of Fatima’s fate. Nor did he explain how he’d acquired the proof, and Nazeri, consumed by grief, never thought to ask. As far as he was concerned, it didn’t matter. The German had showed him government documents detailing an FBI raid in Washington, D.C., an incident that claimed the lives of two Iranian nationals, including that of his cousin. It had taken place exactly five months earlier, around the time she had stopped returning his calls. For Nazeri, it suddenly became clear: her work with the Iranian government was far from ordinary. According to the FBI account, however, her death had nothing to do with politics. Instead, it was the result of a high-risk arrest warrant gone bad. The file contained a detailed account of the raid, concluding with a description of Fatima Darabi’s final moments. The dry, economical prose had left Nazeri trembling with rage.

The file was accompanied by pictures. He had not been able to look at them for long, but what he had seen remained in his mind and swelled in his chest, turning his love for his adopted country into something else entirely. Kohl had given him a week to ponder what he had learned, and then he’d returned with a simple offer. At some point in the future, he said, he would return with an opportunity. A way to show the Americans that their actions were not without consequence. For Amir Nazeri, the decision was easy to make, and now, nearly half a year later, he was bound by his word. Despite his fears, he did not regret making the promise.

Turning to a metal filing cabinet, he found the appropriate documents and placed them on his desk. He heard the fax machine start up as he began filling out the manifest. When he was done, he went to the fax and retrieved the invoice that Kohl had sent. He scanned it quickly. Everything seemed to be in order.

He looked at the phone. All he had to do was place the call to his U.S. broker. Once he did that, there was no turning back.

He picked up the phone and started to dial.

BERLIN

When Thomas Ruhmann’s business brought him to Western Europe, he worked from the top floor of a five-story building in central Berlin, on the south bank of the River Spree. The front of the squat, gray stone structure faced a narrow road lined with parked cars, and the back dropped straight into the river, flush with the retaining walls that guided the waterway through the heart of the city. The apartment building was flanked by a crumbling antique shop and a store that sold secondhand musical instruments, the facade of which was covered in graffiti and leaflets advertising upcoming shows throughout the city.

Thick black clouds were still moving in as Karl Lang walked up the sidewalk quickly, avoiding the withered trees sprouting out of the cracked cement and the cluster of youths arguing loudly outside the music shop. The trip from Potsdam had taken him twice as long as it should have, owing to a lengthy stop at a roadside cafe, where he’d consumed a simple meal of veal schnitzel, roast potatoes, and sauerkraut, all washed down with a strong wheat beer. After the first Hefeweizen, he’d consumed another two with surprising speed, still trying to clear his mind of the meeting he’d just attended.

He knew he’d hidden it well, but the truth was that the woman had terrified him. Her presence alone was deeply unsettling, and although it was difficult to pick out the precise reason, he thought it might well stem from the way she moved. Every gesture was graceful and slow, but to an unnatural extent. It was almost as if she’d written down everything she was going to do for the day, and was taking great pleasure in prolonging each and every performance, immersing herself in the smallest details. Even more frightening was her voice. It was low, throaty, and strangely erotic, but it also held an odd quality that he couldn’t quite define. To Lang, it sounded as if she were trying to earn the trust of a small animal, only to strangle it once she had it in her arms.

He shivered involuntarily, just thinking about it. Fortunately, he’d never have to see them again. He’d make a point of suggesting that Herr Ruhmann deal with more savory people in the future, but he set the thought aside as he approached the door and punched a button with his thick forefinger.

Ruhmann employed a bookish young woman on the ground floor as the building’s caretaker. She answered immediately and buzzed him in. Lang crossed the cracked linoleum of the foyer and made his way to the elevator, unaware that the door behind him had hung open longer than usual. The brass doors to the elevator slid open, and he paused, hesitating. Ruhmann had asked him to fax some paperwork to the storage facility in Montreal, effectively terminating the lease, and he’d left the originals in the car. He was about to turn back, but before he could, he felt something cold and hard pressing into the base of his neck. He stepped forward instinctively, moving into the elevator. A familiar voice said, “Stop right there. Hands out by your sides.”