The Increment: A Novel - By David Ignatius Page 0,92

on the Caspian coast. The trip will take about five hours. Don’t tell anyone at work where you’re going.”

“Yes, all right,” said Molavi. He was surprised that it was a woman’s voice giving the order, and speaking in German. But that was the mystery of these Americans. They could assume any form.

“When you get to Sari, book a room in the Asram Hotel in Golha Square. The next morning, go to breakfast in the restaurant. An Arab man will approach you and ask if you are Dr. Ali. He knows what you look like. Ask him for his name, and he will say that he is Mr. Saleh. When he leaves the restaurant, follow him. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” said Molavi.

“Repeat it, so that I knew you have it right.”

“Bus to Sari. Asram Hotel. Mr. Saleh.”

“You will be safe soon, my friend.”

Karim Molavi was going to ask where they would go after that, but the phone had gone dead. He quickly put it back in his pocket. He dropped the plastic rock in a pond by the edge of the park. It floated for a moment and then sank, mercifully. As he walked toward the lights of Vali Asr Avenue, he felt as if something were fizzing in his stomach.

The next day, Molavi went to the nameless white building in Jamaran where he worked. He carried his black leather briefcase in his hand, as always, but today he had filled it with two extra pairs of undershorts, a toothbrush, and a stick of deodorant. As he entered the door and passed beneath the first of several surveillance cameras, he nodded to the receptionist and the security man. This might be the last time he ever saw them.

He walked slowly, almost shuffling, in the manner of someone who was coming down with a bad cold. As he passed through the lobby, he coughed loudly—a percussive sound almost like a sneeze. “Afiyat bashe,” said the receptionist. Bless you! She asked if he was okay. “Zaif,” he answered. “Larz daram.” Weak and shivery.

The receptionist looked at him sweetly, as if she wanted to mother him. Poor boy, she said. He was still a boy here to the older workers—the bright young physicist with the sweep of dark black hair, who kept to himself.

Molavi stopped at the office of the director, Dr. Bazargan, coughing again as he entered the room. He apologized for not shaking the director’s hand, but he didn’t want to pass along any germs. The director nodded sympathetically. He pretended to be busy, but he had little to do. He was a custodian more than a real boss. Dr. Bazargan asked how his research was going, and Molavi said it was going fine. In truth, as the director well knew, he was spending most of his time reading journals these days. They hadn’t given him anything new to do in a month. Molavi coughed again and the director said perhaps he should go home until he was feeling better.

Maybe he would go home later, said Molavi. “Sarma khordam,” the young man said, shaking his head at the world’s misfortune, and his own. I’ve caught a cold.

He sat at his desk for more than an hour, reading. First the newspapers, then the science magazines from America. He coughed occasionally, for effect. He turned the pages, past the bright advertisements, reading of the latest discoveries in the laboratories of America. How could it be that this giant cash machine of a country worried or cared about a little, deceitful nation such as Iran? Perhaps the Americans could explain it to him. He closed his eyes and thought of being on an airplane, flying away from Iran to somewhere else. To Germany, perhaps. He thought of the German girl who had befriended him at the University of Heidelberg. “Trudi.” Her breasts were very big. He wished that he had touched them, when she asked. She was even more alluring now that he knew she was a Jew.

He opened his eyes. The morning was almost gone. He coughed again, a spasm that made his throat hurt. What else could he do to cover his tracks? He called his cousin Hossein, the former senior officer in the Revolutionary Guard. He proposed that they have dinner next week. Why not? His cousin agreed and named a day. His voice sounded far off, as if he had already smoked his first pipe of opium for the day.

“Bashe?” asked Molavi. Are you okay? That was a nice touch. Whoever was