Nash did not.
What he did know was that they had left the receiving room and were now proceeding deeper into the palace. Unlike its equivalent in the White House, space here was not at a premium.
“Several Iranian officials are in Islamabad,” Dogar said, catching his voice lower.
“Why?” Nash said.
Though there was a significant Shia population in Pakistan, the nation was a Sunni-majority state. As to the religious fault lines that divided the Middle East, Pakistan more often leaned toward the Sunni leadership of Saudi Arabia than the Shia theocracy of Iran. But with everything involving Pakistan, alliances were both complicated and often in flux. In truth, Pakistan played competing interests against each other, happy to take funds and money from both sides while refusing to commit wholeheartedly to anyone. In this regard, Pakistan’s treatment of their Middle East allies wasn’t all that different than the game it played with the United States.
Nash supposed he should give the Pakistanis credit for consistency.
“That is not important,” Dogar said. “What is important is that I’ve been asked to serve as their intermediary. One of them would like to meet with you.”
“When?” Nash said.
Dogar turned a corner into a room lit with soft, natural lighting. The walls were lined with paintings. While the subtlety of art was lost on Nash, even he found the exhibit impressive.
“This is one of Mr. Parvez’s most important works,” Dogar said, again speaking loud enough to ensure his voice carried. “If you look closely, you can see his masterful use of color.”
Nash bent to examine the painting.
As he did so, Dogar’s hand touched his pocket.
The brush pass was expertly done.
Had Nash’s peripheral vision not caught the blur of motion from the Pakistani’s hand, he didn’t think he would have sensed it. Even now, he couldn’t feel anything in his front pocket, but he had no doubt that something was there.
“We consider this piece to be one of our national treasures,” Dogar said. “I hope you found this detour of sorts worthwhile.”
Nash straightened from his examination and shoved both hands deep into his front pockets. His left hand encountered nothing but a stray ball of lint. His right touched something else.
A piece of paper.
“Spending time with fellow art enthusiasts is always worthwhile,” Nash said with a smile. “Thank you for sharing your knowledge.”
“Of course,” Dogar said. “Now, if you’ll follow me, I’ll reunite you with your delegation.
The small man continued his tutorial on Pakistani artists as they retraced their steps, but Nash’s thoughts were focused on something else.
Iranians.
CHAPTER 51
ISLAMABAD, PAKISTAN
DARIAN Moradi took a deep breath of mountain air.
Though the Islamabad skyline jutting through the fog was only a few kilometers away, the reaching green canopies of countless oak trees surrounding the Daman-e-Koh viewing area made the urban sprawl seem impossibly distant. Here, amid the beauty of Allah’s creation, Moradi could for a moment pretend his problems were as distant as the partially obscured skyscrapers.
“You are a hard man to find.”
Moradi stifled a gasp, but only just barely. He might be the deputy minister of the MOIS, but he wasn’t a spy.
Not really.
Moradi had been awarded the post because he was a protégé of one of the Guardian Council’s influential mullahs and a fellow cleric. While he knew little of running agents or scratching chalk marks on abandoned buildings in the middle of the night, he understood political intrigue and had been navigating its treacherous currents since he’d first come to the notice of his mentor years ago.
Those same dangers were what had driven him to seek solace in this picturesque hilltop garden. He’d had decisions to make and wanted to think through them away from the prying eyes of his fellow countrymen who were also guests at the Regional Stability Conference.
Evidently, he hadn’t succeeded.
“I didn’t realize you were looking,” Moradi said, turning away from the beautiful vista to the man standing next to him.
Daman-e-Koh was a corruption of two Persian words that roughly translated to foothills. The magical slice of greenery more than lived up to its name. Part of a series of hilltop gardens, the Daman-e-Koh overlook consisted of a pair of tiered semicircular concrete and stone viewing platforms separated by two sets of stairs. Since the upper platform was connected to the rest of the park’s trails and therefore much more heavily trafficked, Moradi had chosen the more isolated lower tier for his moment of personal reflection.
Unfortunately, it hadn’t been isolated enough.
Moradi now shared the iron railing that protected the unwary from a tumble down a five-hundred-foot cliff face with Dariush Ruyintan. As always, Ruyintan was impeccably dressed. Rather than the crisply starched, deep green military uniform he favored while in Tehran, Ruyintan wore an expensive yet conservative Western-style suit with a dress shirt open at the collar. Moradi was again struck by the Quds Force officer’s charisma. Ruyintan had the looks and force of personality to be a politician with the exception of his unblinking eyes.
They were the eyes of a killer.
“That is the nature of our business, is it not?” Ruyintan said. “To always look even though we rarely find?”
Moradi understood the subtext at play but chose to ignore it. Verbal jousting with Ruyintan made Moradi feel like a fish out of water.
No, that wasn’t quite right.
More like a bait fish dangled in front of a barracuda.
