got to go. Now.”
Marwan stood by the door, holding his automatic rifle tightly at his side.
“You killed him!” wailed Karim. “I trusted you. He was my friend. What did he do?”
“I will explain it later. We have to go now. The car is downstairs. Come on.” She pulled at him, but Karim was a large man. She called for Marwan to come help.
“Stop! Do not force me. Let me sit here a moment.” Karim’s head was cradled in his hands. Jackie stroked his back. Marwan pointed to his watch, but Jackie shook her head. They had to let the young Iranian find a center, or they would lose him.
Another car had pulled into the driveway, lights out and coasting the last fifty yards. Hakim, keeping watch by the Mitsubishi van, saw it coming but he was too late. Through an open window of the black Paykan, a man in a black cloth cap fired once, hitting Hakim in the shoulder. Hakim spun, but before he could get off a shot of his own, a second shot hit him full in the head, producing a pulpy sound like a pumpkin splitting. The other man in the car, the Iranian intelligence officer with the carefully groomed goatee, let out a gasp. Despite his line of work, he had never seen one man kill another.
Al-Majnoun walked toward the vehicle. Two more shots and the rear tires of the Mitsubishi were gone. The Turkmen driver was cowering on the front floor under the steering wheel. Al-Majnoun put his gun to the driver’s head and pulled the trigger, and then returned to the Paykan. Mehdi Esfahani was in the backseat, holding his gun in his hand but having no idea what to do with it.
“Get out,” rasped Al-Majnoun. “Follow me.” He took a second pistol from his black briefcase and stuffed it into his coat pocket.
The two men scuttled up the walkway toward Reza’s house. Al-Majnoun’s body was pitched forward as he searched for the rear entrance. He moved with the certainty of someone who knew the layout of the apartment. He found the rear door and gently forced it open. He put a mask over his face, pulling it down over the striated flesh. He was not a man, but another life-form.
Al-Majnoun dove into the house, rolling a gas grenade toward the living room where Karim was still recovering, head in hands. The room exploded with automatic fire, but Jackie and Marwan were shooting randomly; they couldn’t see their target. As skilled as they were, they had been taken by surprise. They were already choking from the gas, and in another moment they could no longer fire their weapons accurately, or even focus their eyes.
Al-Majnoun waited until they were incapacitated and then crept toward the living room. Jackie’s body was flaccid. She tried to move her gun, but couldn’t. Marwan also appeared to be motionless, but when Al-Majnoun moved toward him, he summoned a spasm of muscle memory and let off a spray of fire. One of the bullets caught Al-Majnoun in the leg. It drew a clean shot from Al-Majnoun’s automatic pistol, like the sound of a piece of plastic being ripped. The bullet hit Marwan in the chest; a second followed to the head. Al-Majnoun moved toward Karim Molavi’s inert body; he tugged at the clothing of the lifeless figure and listened for his heartbeat, to make sure he was still alive.
Mehdi had lurked outside, but now Al-Majnoun called for him to enter the house. The interrogator tried to look composed, brandishing his pistol before him as if he knew how to use it. The gas from the grenade had dispersed now. Al-Majnoun pulled the gun away from Jackie’s hand and slapped her across the face.
“Wake up, British lady,” he said in English. He slapped her again.
Karim’s world had gone all foggy. He tried feebly to rouse himself, to aid the woman he still regarded as his protector. Al-Majnoun pushed him back on the bed.
“Stay there,” said the Lebanese. “You are my prisoner.” He called Mehdi into the room. The Iranian approached slowly, looking at the carnage in the little room, two people dead, two helpless captives.
Al-Majnoun had taken his second pistol from his pocket. The Lebanese killer’s face was throbbing and twitching, as if all the scars had come alive like so many worms. The look in his eye testified that he really was the Crazy One, that he needed one more act of mayhem before his play was done. Mehdi