Stephen Coonts - The Disciple

“Great,” I said as I looked it over. “Now how about riding it down to the central train station, park it and lock it up, then take a taxi back here and give me the keys?”

He tried to wheedle some information out of me about how I intended to use his ride, but I just shrugged it off. Caldwell didn’t need to know.

After he left, I got my spy cell phone from my trouser pocket. I kept it set on vibrate so I would get a cheap thrill when and if Rostram/Davar called. Hoping the Iranian Gestapo hadn’t yet glommed onto our numbers, I gave her a ring.

When she answered, I said, “Hey, Hot Lips, I need to see you,” then instantly regretted my flippant choice of words. This wasn’t a woman you could flirt with. Hell, this wasn’t a country you could flirt in .

“Tonight, if possible,” I added.

“Yes,” she said.

“Be in front of the Armenian Church of St. Thaddeus at seven. Do you know it?”

“Near the main bazaar?”

“That’s it.”

“See you then, lover,” she said and hung up.

I have known a few women in my time, and even fallen pretty hard for a couple of them, but this one had me flummoxed. Davar seemed to be ready, willing and able, but that sort of killed the fun, somehow. Then there was the fact that this whole country was going to go straight to hell in about thirteen days, more or less. Bedding my Iranian contact didn’t seem smart. Or ethical. Or…

Maybe I was overthinking this. “Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we shall die.” Who said that? Lions or Christians?

When Frank returned he gave me the keys and told me precisely where he had parked his ride.

“Anyone follow you?” I asked.

A startled look crossed Frank’s face. He hadn’t thought to check for tails. “No one ever follows me,” he said lamely.

“Must be all that clean living,” I remarked as I pocketed his keys.

After work, I set off to shake any and all tails. I headed for my hotel, just to see who might be following.

I was getting really antsy. All the political posturing, ranting, slogans and billions of dollars spent on bombs had led to this moment. Expectations had been created and promises made. I felt as if we were all passengers on a runaway train with the Devil in the cab. When the crash came, it was going to be bad. Really bad.

I knew the nukes were going on the missiles and Iran was going to be a nuclear power in two weeks, and if I knew it, the security forces knew it, and would become more and more paranoid, which meant they would be watching us foreign spies with commendable zeal.

Sure enough, I picked up a couple of tails soon after I left the embassy annex. One was walking behind me, and the other was on the other side of the street. A block from the hotel, I unexpectedly threaded my way through traffic to cross the street and go along a sidestreet. This maneuver almost got the man behind me run over; the other guy was on his cell phone, no doubt summoning help. Which meant, to me, that these guys were serious this afternoon. Someone had lit a fire under these people.

I ignored my tails and headed for the central train station, walking briskly.

The day was hot, so I took off my sports coat and carried it over my shoulder. Somehow the women in chadors and manteaus managed to keep from passing out from heatstroke, which amazed me.

The neighborhood around the train station was not the best. A lot of homeless people lived here on the streets, some straight from the village. They came to the capital to find a better job and a better life and lived catch as catch can. I could only hope Frank’s motorcycle was where he left it.

I went into the station and found it packed with humanity, as usual. I circled the room once, then ducked out a side door. Sure enough, Frank’s bike was chained to a rack with a couple dozen other motorcycles.

Working as quickly as I could, I unlocked it, wrapped the chain around my waist, put on a helmet and my coat, climbed aboard and fired it up. Went zipping off into traffic.

In the mirror I saw one of my tails run up to the rack where the bike had been. He was on his cell phone.

I threaded my way through traffic, detoured to the sidewalk twice and let that bike roll. Unless they were on motorcycles or in a helicopter, no one was going to follow me. Of course, they could alert every cop and paramilitary gun toter in town to look for me, so I needed to stage a disappearance. This proved relatively easy. I rode to a park I knew, kept going right into the place and parked the bike in the shade under a tree, where it couldn’t be easily seen from the boulevard. Then I checked the bike for a beacon-there wasn’t one-and sat down to wait.

At the appointed time I rode up to the Armenian Church near the main bazaar. Traffic was nearly bumper to bumper, but I made good time weaving through the mess. Davar was standing near the fence, waiting. She was dressed as a woman tonight, wearing a powder-blue ankle-length manteau and a darker blue scarf.

Stopped by the curb, I waved to her. She walked hesitantly over to the bike, looking it over. I handed her a helmet. “C’mon,” I urged.

She didn’t say a word, just clamped the lid on and seated herself sidesaddle, with both legs on the left side. Her right hand went around my waist.

Satisfied, I popped the clutch and let the bike roll.

When we had cleared the bazaar traffic and were actually riding normally, off the main boulevards, I took her back to my park.

There, with her standing beside the tree I had spent part of the afternoon under, I told her what I wanted.

My assertion that the regime was installing a dozen warheads on missiles stunned her. “My information is that the regime was at least a year, perhaps two, from having operational weapons. That is what I told Azari.”

“You were lied to.”

“Where did you learn about these warheads?”

“Your cousin Ghasem. Didn’t he tell you?”

“No.” After a bit, she asked, “So how are you going to get the information you want?”

“I don’t know. I need to talk to Ghasem. Perhaps he can help me. Will you set up a meet?”

She nodded, then looked around the park as if seeing it for the first time. “So, they were using me. I passed lies to Azari, and he publicized them in America.”

“That’s the way it looks,” I admitted.

“Does Azari know they were lies?”

“Yes.”

She stood there silently watching the dusk creep over us and the lights of the city come on. Finally she said, “Let’s go. We’ve been here long enough.”

“Where are we going?” I asked as I climbed on the bike.

“To a party.”

“You do parties in Iran?”

“Of course,” Davar said and gave a little giggle. I figured she had picked up her giggle in England, but maybe women everywhere did them. I couldn’t have been more than four or five years older than she was, yet it felt like a generation.

With her behind me sitting sidesaddle, I piloted us through traffic, which wasn’t bad that time of night, following her directions.

I confess, I was curious about her. She was smart, competent and very much a woman.

We wound up in North Tehran in a neighborhood similar to Davar’s, definitely upper middle class. She knocked on the door, and a young man opened it. The hallway behind him was dark. Davar murmured to him, then seized my hand and led me along the hallway to a door. When she opened it, I heard music and laughter and saw subdued lights below, in the basement. It was American music, a pop singer wailing in English, although I didn’t recognize the tune. Too out of date, I guess. Down the stairs we went, two pilgrims looking to escape the grimness of revolutionary Iran.

We had plenty of company. The basement was packed with young people, all talking at once, loudly, or dancing to the music or smoking foul dark cigarillos. Little red lights made the tobacco haze glow and illuminated the dancers. I stood there in amazement, looking at the women, who were wearing miniskirts, net stockings and high heels. Breasts thrust against tight blouses… hair swaying with the music… American music, most of it. Pop tunes.