Joel Rosenberg - The Twelfth Imam

David hobbled back to Najjar’s car, suddenly realizing his right knee had gotten banged up worse than he’d first realized. He looked down and noticed his pants were ripped and that blood was oozing out of the knee. But he had no time to worry about it. They needed to get out of there before the place was swarming with more police.

“You ready to move?” David asked, coming over to the passenger side.

“I think so,” Najjar said, his arms filled with the laptop and accessories.

“Is that everything?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Follow me.”

“Where are we going?” Najjar asked.

“You’ll see.”

They walked north about a hundred meters before David turned, pulled out the.38, aimed at the gas tank of Najjar’s crumpled Fiat, and pulled the trigger. The car erupted in a massive ball of fire that not only obliterated the vehicle but all traces of their fingerprints and DNA as well. The force of the blast threw Najjar onto his back. David, still standing, gave him a hand and helped him back to his feet.

“What was that for?” a stunned Najjar asked, shielding his eyes from the intense heat of the flames.

David smiled. “Insurance.”

David walked north down the center of Azizi Boulevard.

With Najjar close behind, he limped his way past wrecked cars and distraught motorists fixated on all the fire and smoke. He clipped the police radio to his belt, put in the earphone, and made sure it was plugged into the radio so the transmissions couldn’t be overheard by anyone else.

His phone vibrated. It was a text message from Eva, telling him to call Zalinsky in the secure mode. He did so right away and coded in, but it was Eva who actually picked up.

“What in the world just happened down there?” she asked, her voice betraying her distress.

“We had a little accident.”

“A little accident? Have you gone insane? The entire Global Operations Center-and everyone in our safe house-is watching you via a Keyhole satellite. What are you doing?”

The chatter on the police radio suddenly intensified. Reports of the accident and explosion were coming in from concerned citizens and drivers on their cell phones. Police units, ambulances, and fire trucks were being dispatched. David knew they had only a few minutes before the first units arrived on the scene.

“I can’t really talk now,” he said. “I need to boost a car that’s still running. Do you need something, or are you just interfering in my operation?”

“I found you a plane,” she said, not taking the bait. “It’ll be in Karaj tonight. And we’ve got more intercepts about the motel. I thought Dr. Malik would want to know.”

“And?”

“There was no one there.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m saying, when the Iranians stormed the room, no one was in there,” Eva said. “Just Dr. Malik’s phone, some clothes, and a few overnight bags.”

“Where’s his family?”

“That’s the thing,” Eva said. “We have no idea.”

David turned to tell Najjar the good news, but just then shots rang out, shattering a windshield beside them. Instinctively David hit the ground and pulled Najjar down with him between a Peugeot and a Chevy, dropping his phone as he did so. People started screaming and running for cover. He could hear Eva yelling, “What is that? What’s going on?” but he had no time to respond. He grabbed the phone and jammed it into his pocket. Ordering Najjar to stay on the ground, he pulled the revolver and tried to get an angle on whoever was shooting at them. Was it one officer or two? Did they know who he was? Had they ID’d him and Najjar? He couldn’t take that chance.

Two more shots rang out, blowing out the front windshield of the Peugeot. David again flattened himself to the ground and covered his head to protect himself from the flying glass. His knee was killing him as bits of glass ground into the already-injured joint. But there was nothing he could do about it now. As he opened his eyes again, he could see under the cars that someone was moving toward him. He got up into a crouch and took a peek. Another shot whizzed by him and ripped into the door of the Chevy.

Dead ahead, maybe ten yards away, was a garbage truck. David double-checked to make sure Najjar was okay, then made a break for the rear of the truck. With his wounded knee, he was slower than usual. His movement also drew more fire. But it also gave him a chance to see who was doing the shooting. The blue jacket and cap were the giveaway. This was a Tehran city police officer and he didn’t look much older than himself, David thought.

Then the officer’s voice crackled over the radio.

“Base, this is Unit 116. I’m at the crash site. One officer is down. I repeat, one officer is down with multiple injuries. Witnesses say they saw someone steal the officer’s service revolver. I’m currently pursuing two suspects on foot. Shots fired. Requesting immediate backup and helicopter support.”

“Unit 116, this is Base-roger that. Backup en route. Stand by.”

This was not good. David had to defend himself and his asset, which meant he had to move fast. He crept along the side of the garbage truck, hoping to outflank the officer from the right, then stopped when he heard the sounds of crunching glass just a few yards ahead.

David was confused. How could this guy be so close so quickly? It didn’t make sense. A moment before, he’d been at least four cars over. Quickly wiping the sweat from one hand, then the other, David tried to steady his breathing and carefully choose his next move as the footsteps got closer and closer. Should he wait for the officer to come around the corner or seize the initiative and take the first shot?

Moving first was risky. He had seen only one officer, but there could be more. He could hear more sirens rapidly approaching. He couldn’t wait. He was out of time. He took three steps and pivoted around the front of the truck, aimed the.38, and prepared to pull the trigger. But it was not the officer. It was a little girl, no more than six, shivering and scared. David, a millisecond away from firing, was horrified by how close he had come to killing a child.

How did she get here? Where is her mother?

Three more shots suddenly rang out. At least one round ricocheted off the grille of the truck. David dropped to the ground and covered the girl with his body. The pain in his knee was now excruciating, but his first priority had to be the girl. He quickly checked her over to make sure she hadn’t been hit. She hadn’t been, but she was definitely slipping into shock. Her eyes were dilated and she looked vacant. Her skin was clammy and cold. David took off his jacket and wrapped her in it, then got back in a crouch and tried to reacquire the officer in his sights.

But now there were two.

David had a clean shot at one of them, but he didn’t dare fire from right over the child. So he broke right, hobbling as best he could for a blue sedan just ahead. Once again, gunfire erupted all around him, as did the screams of terrified motorists who had no idea what was going on or why. David barely got himself safely behind the sedan. He gritted his teeth and caught his breath, then popped his head up again to assess the situation.

To his shock, one of the officers had decided to ambush him. He was running straight toward David, while the other started running toward Najjar. David didn’t hesitate. He raised the revolver and squeezed off two rounds. One shot hit the officer coming toward him in the stomach. The other hit him in the face. The man collapsed to the ground no more than six yards from David’s position. David quickly pivoted to his left and fired twice more, missing the second officer but sending him sprawling for cover behind the garbage truck.