Azad had spent the best years of his life in this modest apartment.
Those days were now at an end.
“He agreed?” Ashani said.
“Why do you sound so surprised, my friend?”
The man on the other end of the phone was many things to Ashani. Fellow intelligence operative, sometimes rival, and potential salvation. The word friend did not make Ashani’s list.
Even so, there were appearances to maintain.
For now.
“We have both been at this game a very long time,” Ashani said. “Only the foolish or inexperienced expect intelligence operations to go as planned. We are neither.”
A chuckle that sounded like the rasping of dry bones greeted Ashani’s words. Ashani was preparing to continue speaking when a spasm gripped his lungs. Muting the phone midcough, he dug his ever-present handkerchief from his pocket as his chest shuddered. Ashani pressed the cloth to his lips and waited for the bout to run its course. When the fit ended, he returned the crimson square to his pocket.
Ashani didn’t bother to check the fabric for blood speckles.
The damp cloth was answer enough.
“That cough doesn’t sound good.”
“I’m fine,” Ashani said. “Just a bit hoarse from allergies.”
“I can have one of my men take the meeting in Kabul instead.”
“I said I’m fine.”
Ashani had meant to be firm, but his response came out angry. Maybe that was just as well. This conversation was on dangerous ground. Showing weakness could doom everything.
Besides, he was angry.
Angry at the world.
“I didn’t mean to imply otherwise. Both you and the organization you lead are critical to this endeavor. I just wanted to offer my full support. As a partner.”
Partner.
Another interesting choice of words.
As with his personal relationship with Colonel Dariush Ruyintan, the professional interactions between the Quds Force and Ashani’s MOIS were complicated and often characterized by the internecine backstabbing one might expect from two rival organizations. Ashani thought that competitor rather than partner more aptly described the interplay between Iran’s foreign intelligence service and the expeditionary arm of the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps.
But this had been before Ashani had volunteered to take point on a few of the crucial logistical issues plaguing Ruyintan’s pending Afghanistan endeavor. The demonstration Ashani had witnessed in Isfahan had served its purpose. At the event’s conclusion, the Guardian Council had enthusiastically approved Ruyintan’s proposed operation against the Americans. An operation Ashani was determined to thwart. Using the Quds Force colonel to deliver a message to the man Ruyintan believed to be Farid Saeed had been the first step in Ashani’s plan.
It would not be the last.
“I understand,” Ashani said, trying for a conciliatory tone. “I appreciate your concern, but my ticket to Kabul has already been purchased. As I told the Supreme Leader, I am committed to doing my part.”
This time, Ashani didn’t have to fake sincerity. He was absolutely committed to doing his part. His part to ensure Ruyintan’s Afghanistan operation went down in flames. Better that than the flames that would engulf Iran’s refineries, remaining nuclear facilities, and perhaps even Tehran itself. Fire and brimstone would surely be the American response to Ruyintan’s madness if the Quds Force commander succeeded.
“All right, then,” Ruyintan said, “safe travels. I will see you in Islamabad.”
Ruyintan ended the call before Ashani could reply.
This was just as well.
Ashani had no intention of seeing Ruyintan in Islamabad or anywhere else.
Unfortunately, he could no longer shoulder the effort to save himself and his nation alone. Yes, Ashani had convinced Ruyintan to reach out to the man the Quds Force commander thought was a gateway to the Sunni militias actively opposing the Americans in Iraq, but Ashani would need help for what came next. He had to start involving others. People like the Angel of Death himself, Mitch Rapp, and Ashani’s pragmatic new deputy, Darian Moradi.
But these men would not be his only coconspirators.
The most important person to this entire endeavor was still bustling around the kitchen only meters away. Ashani sighed as he drank in the beautiful vista for what might be his final time. The night skyline glittered like precious stones scattered across a canvas of black while the streetlights below cast halos of light through the thick canopies of the oak trees lining the street. The echoes of urban life drifted through the air, providing a soundtrack for Ashani’s contemplation.
His flat had two features that made his home an ideal place for a spymaster to seek solace. One, his residence was on the building’s top floor. Two, Ashani had the only balcony on his side of the building. These characteristics equated to a modicum of privacy. Privacy that allowed the MOIS minister to engage in confidential conversations outside his apartment and the potential listening devices hidden therein.
Sometimes these conversations were with fellow government employees.
Sometimes they were with his wife.
Turning, Ashani crossed the balcony in three quick slides, opened a sliding door constructed of unusually thick glass, and stuck his head inside.
“Samira, can you come here? We need to talk.”
“Of course, my love.”
Ashani relished the warmth of Samira’s voice.
