21:40
Shemiran, Tehran, Iran
Arash was talking nonstop, his voice rising and falling like a practised performer. Then suddenly, he leaned forward and barked something in Arabic. Hashim's response was immediate — the Mercedes swerved violently, tyres screaming against the asphalt as it shot into a narrower side street.
"Forgive me, Major," Arash said between calm breaths, adjusting his cufflinks as if nothing had happened. "But before you know more about Liora, it will do you good to know more about this country first. The context will help you understand her reach."
Sohel, gripping the leather armrest, asked, "No need for apologies. But why the sudden detour?"
Arash's smile held, but his eyes darkened. "Because I talk too much. I almost missed the detail that a black Oldsmobile was following us. I told Hashim to lose it."
Mitali muttered dryly, "Bet he's enjoying that."
"Hashim loves driving, Ms Roy," Arash said with a chuckle. "If he can call this a race, it's his dream come true."
The car sped beyond the main city limits, passing blinking neon signs of strip clubs, bars, and casinos. To the south lay Tehran's poorest quarters, a slum of Arabs and Afghan refugees. But Hashim steered them into a quieter lane, the lights dimming. Ahead, glowing red in the dark, was a door under an old hanging lamp.
"Destination", Arash said smoothly.
Iranian etiquette dictated the guests enter first, so Sohel and Mitali stepped ahead while Arash followed. By the door sat an old man in a chair, lazily pulling from a pipe. Mitali shifted uneasily, but Arash reassured her with a hand gesture.
Just before stepping inside, Sohel cast a look over his shoulder. The Oldsmobile had pulled up a short distance behind; its headlights flicked off. He narrowed his eyes — not even Hashim could shake them.
The inside was a cavernous hall, lit almost entirely by candles. Their flames danced on tables, walls, even hanging lanterns. A stage in the corner carried four musicians playing a soft, mournful melody. Every table was occupied, the air thick with smoke and whispered conversations.
A waiter guided them to a corner table already set with fruit, chilled water, and whisky. Arash exhaled deeply as though shedding the tension of the road, pouring himself a glass. Moments later, a waitress arrived with food on a trolley: fresh flatbread, curd, salad, and a green sauce fragrant with mint and coriander. She laid down a large soup dish.
"Soup from mutton head and legs," Arash explained, sliding the sauce toward them. "Try with this."
Mitali tasted first. "It's… good."
Sohel nodded.
Arash smiled slyly, then, in front of the waitress, asked, "And what do you think of her?" He meant the waitress. Sohel started to reply but froze as he felt Mitali's glare. Arash only laughed. "Most foreigners think Iranian women are locked away. Not true. You'll see."
The waitress returned again with sizzling lobster in a cast iron pan, followed by an earthen dish of rice layered in saffron, citrus peel, and jewels of colour.
"Javaher Pulau", Arash said proudly. "Jewelled rice. Beautiful, isn't it?"
"Understandable," Sohel replied, then leaned forward. "But Mr Kian, let's talk about Liora. Where can I find her?"
Arash's smile vanished instantly, his tone turning heavy. "You don't need to search, Major. She will find you when she wishes. Her spies infest Tehran like ants. That Oldsmobile… could easily be hers." He sipped his whisky before continuing. "She has an office near Ferdous Square, posing as a financial advisory firm. By the Caspian coast near Neshahr resort, she hides something under a 'boatyard' cover. But her true base? Somewhere in the desert. A ghost fortress. Invisible even to satellites and drones."
Mitali asked, "And you don't know where?"
"No one does," Arash admitted. "She moves with multiple jets and helicopters. The SNA sent a four-man team months ago."
"And?" Sohel pressed.
"Nothing returned."
Mitali frowned. "Not even their bodies?"
Arash's eyes hardened. "Nothing. Except a parcel sent to our HQ. From western Iran. Inside were four tongues, cut from their mouths."
Sohel's voice dripped with sarcasm. "Wonderful."
Arash raised his glass, unfazed. "Actually, Major… wonderful indeed. It tells you everything about the profile of the woman you're hunting."
The waitress returned once more, clearing the table before serving a new dish — a spicy mash of roasted eggplants and tomatoes, its aroma sharp with garlic. A moment later, she placed down another dish: half a dozen roasted koel, golden skin gleaming, rose petals stuffed delicately inside.
"You'll enjoy this one," said Arash, almost reverently. "Tehran's speciality. Only the chefs here know how to cook it to perfection. No bones. Clean. Tender. The only dish comparable is…"
But Sohel cut him off, uninterested in poetic praise. "What do you know about her PS? That hulk shadowing her everywhere." He served himself and Mitali a portion, but his eyes stayed locked on Arash.
It was Hashim who answered from across the table. "Lee Tonkin. But I doubt that's his real name. North Vietnamese. Ex-army. Dishonourably discharged for killing his superior. Escaped here, to Tehran. Liora picked him up."
The waitress quietly cleared the plates again, disappearing into the shadows.
"I bet you've taken a liking to her, Major," Arash teased suddenly, his smirk sharp. "If you want, I could arrange for the waitress to be your partner tonight. What do you say?"
Before Sohel could speak, Mitali cut in. "No. That won't be necessary. We should leave now." Sohel felt a sharp pinch at his thigh under the table. He quickly brushed her hand away.
"Ahh, no rush. Let's finish with coffee," Arash insisted.
The waitress reappeared, this time with three steaming cups. "Very strong," Arash said as he inhaled deeply. "Best way to end a meal."
When they finally stepped outside, the heavy summer night pressed against their skin. The air conditioning of the restaurant vanished like a dream. Sohel's eyes immediately scanned the street. No Oldsmobile.
They approached the Mercedes. Just as Mitali reached for the door, Sohel's instincts screamed.
"Stop," he ordered sharply.
Hand already on his M17, he advanced slowly. From afar, Hashim sat in the driver's seat, his posture strangely rigid. Wrong.
Sohel circled the car once, then carefully pulled open the driver's door.
Hashim's body collapsed out, lifeless. A deep slit across his throat, clean and precise.
Mitali gasped. Arash froze.
Sohel crouched and noticed a folded chit clutched in Hashim's dead hand. He pried it free, flicked on the car's interior light, and read the message scrawled in neat handwriting.
"Mr Samuel Clark,
I know you're here.
I know why you're here.
If you value your life, go back.
— L$"
The summer air suddenly felt colder.