Killer Instinct - James Patterson Page 0,36

Agency.

“Seven,” I said. “She’s been teaching at NYU for seven years.”

“Who else knows she was with Darvish at the hotel?” he asked.

“That depends.”

“On what?”

I cocked my head and stared at Foxx without saying anything. For a moment it was as if the entire restaurant kitchen had gone silent, all the banging and clanking of pots and pans, all the sizzling of oil, just fading away.

He got the hint.

I never liked the official motto of the CIA. Few people even know what it is. The Work of a Nation. The Center of Intelligence. It reads like it came from a junior copywriter on Madison Avenue. For sure, it didn’t originate from anyone who actually worked in espionage. But mottos are for flags and plaques. If you ever really wanted to summarize the work of the Agency—how critical information is actually gathered—there’s a far better expression.

To get trust you have to give trust.

Foxx was holding back. He wasn’t telling me something, and until he decided to spit it out, I was keeping my mouth shut. There’d be no more information from me. No more intel. Hence my long stare at him and, ultimately, his nod in return.

“Okay, here it is,” he said finally. “Professor Darvish was an asset.”

CHAPTER 43

I KNEW IT.

Okay, maybe it was more like a gut feeling. It had to be something like that, though. Foxx tipped his hand with the regularity of a solar eclipse, but the questions he had been asking—the way he had been asking them—it was as if he’d intended all along to bring me into the fold regarding Darvish.

The Iranian nuclear physicist from MIT was an informant for the CIA.

“We had the same surveillance footage from the hotel, but Halo prevented us from identifying the woman, although we sure as hell still tried,” said Foxx. He nodded with what felt like begrudging respect for me. “Well done, Reinhart.”

Forget a solar eclipse. Foxx complimenting me? That was hell freezing over.

“When was Darvish recruited?” I asked.

“The summer of 2015.”

“During the Iranian nuclear deal, in other words.”

“Exactly,” said Foxx. “Among the working theories was that the Iranians would try to further their program in our own backyard while we were busy snooping around in theirs. Sure enough, they leveraged Darvish by threatening his parents and brother back in Iran.”

“What about money?” I asked. “Did they also pay him?”

“Handsomely, from what I understand.”

I literally scratched my head. “Safety for his family and financial security to boot,” I said. “Why would Darvish risk that to become an asset?”

“Because the even bigger risk was running an underground nuclear lab in the middle of Cambridge, Massachusetts. That, and maybe he had a conscience,” said Foxx.

“What did he want in return?” I asked. “His family out of Iran?”

“We offered that, but he was smart enough to know it still wouldn’t guarantee their safety or his. Turns out, he had something else in mind.”

That meant only one thing. “To be a double agent, right?”

“For lack of a better term, yes,” said Foxx. “Darvish would make periodic progress in his lab, except not quite at the rate he was fully capable of. Tehran remained satisfied, and meanwhile we were able to monitor his handlers and learn what else they were up to. It had been working extremely well for us.”

“And then along came a pretty woman,” I said. “Sadira Yavari.”

“Darvish must have thought he’d hit the jackpot at first,” said Foxx. “He didn’t exactly look like Brad Pitt, in case you didn’t notice.” He chuckled to himself before turning to me. “What?”

“Nothing,” I said.

“Bullshit.”

He was right. I was trying to get a read on him. Was Foxx telling me the whole truth? “I was just wondering,” I said.

“I know. How did she have access to Halo? I’m telling you, though, it wasn’t an inside job. Halo has been around for over a decade. Word was the Russians had gotten their hands on one of the necklaces and reverse engineered it about three years ago, and as you know, the Iranians get all of Putin’s hand-me-downs.” Foxx paused as if to stress the point. “This Yavari woman is not one of our operatives.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive,” he said. “But don’t just take my word for it.”

“What does that mean?”

“I think you know.”

Unfortunately, I did. In Tony Soprano terms, Sadira Yavari was about to get whacked. “When?” I asked.

“As soon as possible,” he said. “Newton’s Third Law. It’s the only thing the Iranians are capable of understanding.”

“You’re right,” I said. “Only that’s the part that doesn’t make sense.