The Increment: A Novel - By David Ignatius Page 0,96

were starting up, making a ferocious rumble as they moved through Golha Square toward the river bridge. They are out there, he told himself. It seemed impossible that they would come for him in this haphazard provincial capital, but he had bet his life on that unlikely rendezvous. He showered and dressed himself, and packed his meager belongings into his travel bag. He sat on the bed for a few minutes, to anchor himself in time. He was at the lip of the volcano now. Eventually he rose, and took the elevator downstairs to breakfast in the hotel’s café-restaurant.

He wanted to eat, and heaped his plate from the buffet table with meats and cheeses and a hard-boiled egg. But when he sat down, his appetite failed him. He scanned the room, looking for the Arab businessman, the “Mr. Saleh.” Several men seemed like possible candidates, but they were all concentrating on their breakfasts. None of them made eye contact. One got up from his table, a well-built man in a double-breasted suit, and for a moment Molavi thought this might be his deliverer, but the man quickly turned and left the room. A second gentleman left a few minutes later. Molavi had finished his breakfast now, and was drinking his second cup of coffee. Maybe something had gone wrong, and they wouldn’t be coming. What would he do then? That was the one thing he hadn’t imagined. The possibilities had been flight, or death, but never just sitting in a café in a remote provincial city and then picking up and going back home.

Molavi was staring forlornly out the window, stroking his prickly black beard, when the first of the men walked back into the dining room. Rather than returning to his old table, he continued walking in Molavi’s direction. The dining room was nearly empty. He stopped a few paces from the Iranian.

“Are you Dr. Ali?” he asked quietly. His manner was easy and friendly.

“Yes, I am,” said Molavi. He felt a kind of electrical charge moving its way up his body. His mind went blank for a moment, and then he remembered that he was supposed to offer a response.

“And what is your name?” asked the Iranian, in a voice barely above a whisper. He tried not to look around him, to see if anyone was watching, but he couldn’t quite manage it.

“I am Mr. Saleh,” said the Arab. He stuck out his hand and smiled, as if they were old friends and business partners. “Perhaps we could take a walk and see the city.”

“Yes,” said Molavi. “I think that is a good idea.”

The two men strode down Taleghani Street toward the road that led to the coast, which was fifteen miles north. Karim Molavi began to ask “Mr. Saleh” who he really was, but the other man cut him off.

“We should not talk now, my friend. You will be safe. That is enough. We will talk later.”

Molavi nodded. They walked on in silence. The city was coming to life. The bazaar in the old city with filling with traders. Men were entering the local hammam to have their morning steam bath.

When they neared Shohada Square, Mr. Saleh turned right, down a side street crowded with parked cars. Mr. Saleh walked a dozen yards and stopped in front of a new Iranian Samand, with power windows and air-conditioning. He took a key from his pocket, clicked open the doors, and nodded for Molavi to get in the driver’s side. Molavi stood motionless. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do.

“You have an Iranian driver’s license?” asked Mr. Saleh.

Molavi nodded.

“Then drive, my friend.” He handed him the keys.

Molavi shook his head in wonderment. “Kheyli zahmat keshidin,” he said. You’ve gone to a lot of trouble. He drove slowly at first but he picked up speed and confidence as they left the town. They drove north, through orange groves and rice fields.

“How did you make all these things happen?” he asked Mr. Saleh when there were no other cars on the road and no sound but the hum of the wheels against the pavement.

“It is magic, my friend,” said the Arab with a wink. “That is what we do. We create illusions. You are living in one now. Relax, my brother. Enjoy your freedom.”

It took Molavi and his Arab guardian nearly an hour to reach the coast. The shore road was busy with the cars of Tehranis who had flocked to the coast to get a last bit of