The Increment: A Novel - By David Ignatius Page 0,89

streets and sewers, performing the donkey work of construction. They were a common sight around Tehran—especially at the end of the day when they waited for their rides back to the cheap guesthouses and labor camps where they lived.

Marwan stood next to Hakim in a clump of pedestrians, waiting for a break in traffic to cross the square. A policeman in green was on the far corner, writing a traffic ticket. Marwan brushed Hakim, and in the moment of contact, passed the folded index card with the directions to the drop site. The exchange would have been invisible even if you had been observing the two men. Marwan was clean now; all the danger had passed to the young Pakistani.

Hakim trudged up Shahriar Street six blocks until he got to Yazdani Street. His back was stooped slightly, as if from a life of manual labor, and his legs were bowed. He walked with his head down, submissively—a humble Pakistani in the court of the Persians. The few people out on the street didn’t even deign to look at him. He might as well have been a stray dog.

Hakim turned left on Yazdani Street until he got to No. 29. That was the address of Karim Molavi’s villa, where he shared an apartment with another tenant who had the upper floor. Hakim’s instructions were to sit on the curb and wait. If anyone asked him what he was doing, he should say “mashin, mashin,” the Persian word for car, as if he were waiting to be picked up, and then babble in Urdu. But nobody would speak to him if he looked harmless and submissive enough. That was the nice thing about prejudice: it made assumptions; it thought it knew the answers.

Hakim sat down on the curb and hunched his body so that his shoulders were almost touching his knees. He had studied a grainy reconnaissance photograph of Molavi just before they left London. The ops plan assumed that Molavi would return home between five and six in the afternoon. Hakim waited. In a paper bag he carried a book, the Shahnameh by Abolqasem Ferdowsi. The book was open to the page the American, Mr. Fellows, had specified, and a few lines were marked with a yellow highlighter:

He said, “Is it good or ill these signs portend?

When will my earthly life come to an end?

Who will come after me? Say who will own

This royal diadem, and belt, and throne.

Reveal this mystery, and do not lie—

Tell me this secret or prepare to die.”

That was Hakim’s recognition code. A bit of Persian poetry Karim Molavi had sent out of the ether, many weeks ago. If the target didn’t recognize the poetry, then the mission was to be aborted.

The October sun was low in the sky, almost gone. Soon it would be dark, and it would be dangerous for Hakim to remain on the curb. People would ask questions about a foreign laborer after dark. He looked at his watch. It was nearly six. The ops plan said to wait until six-fifteen and then leave. The minutes ticked by too slowly. Hakim glanced up at every footstep along the sidewalk now, as men and women returned home from work. The few people who looked at him did so with an air of disgust, and one person muttered “Boro gom sho!”—Get lost!—but didn’t do anything about it.

At six-ten, Hakim saw a well-built man in a black suit approaching the villa. He was still wearing his sunglasses, even in the dim light of dusk, so it was hard to see his face. He was walking quickly, as if he wanted to get home. As he neared Hakim, he turned onto the concrete walkway that led to the villa at No. 29. Hakim stood and walked toward him.

“Dr. Molavi, I have some poetry I would like you to read,” he whispered in perfect English. “Perhaps you will remember it.”

Hakim’s demeanor had changed in an instant. He now stood tall, with his back arched; all the submissive gestures of the subcontinent had disappeared. His accent was so precisely English, it might have been Professor Henry Higgins speaking.

“A bit of poetry, sir,” whispered Hakim, showing the cover of the Ferdowsi book.

A startled Molavi had taken several steps back toward his home when Hakim spoke his first words. Now he removed his sunglasses and looked the Pakistani in the eye, uncertain what was happening, but wondering, thinking.

“Come here, boy,” said the Iranian, who by now was close to the safety