an Oscar for faking one’s death, I was a shoo-in. All done in one take, no less. For what we did, there were definitely no reshoots.
Meanwhile, I still didn’t know what Foxx wanted to hear again. “You mean, the hotel part?” I asked.
“Nope. Got that, too,” he said. “If she killed you in her house, the Mudir would have to ask how she disposed of your body. The hotel meant she could walk. The do-not-disturb sign would buy her at least two days before your body was even discovered.”
Foxx had heard everything I’d told him, even filling in some of the things I hadn’t. “Okay, I give up,” I said. “What are you not hearing?”
He pushed away what remained of his omelet and crossed his forearms on the table, leaning in. Apparently what he had the hardest time believing wasn’t that I allowed Sadira Yavari to shoot me at point-blank range. Twice, no less.
“I was waiting for your explanation,” he said through a clenched jaw. “How the hell is Sadira not in our custody right now?”
“Our custody?”
“She killed two informants, one of them being ours.”
“They were hardly informants,” I pointed out.
“According to her.”
“Yes, just like the fact that she’s Farukh Rostami’s daughter. That was according to her, too,” I said. “And it checked out.”
I had Julian confirm it before I met up with Foxx. No hacking required. Just a good old-fashioned LexisNexis search. An Iranian magazine had done a profile of Rostami when Sadira was in her late teens. The piece mentioned her and her sister.
“So one thing true about her makes everything true?” he asked.
“I think you’re losing the forest for the trees here,” I said.
“And I think maybe you’ve lost your mind. Or maybe just your edge after you left the Agency. You volunteered that we know about Penn Station.”
“Only after she shared what the Mudir had said—his remark about it being safer to fly.”
“She could’ve been feeling you out for what we might know. She could be playing you.”
“Or, again, she could be telling the truth. And, for the record, you’re the one who got played by Jahan Darvish.”
“All the more reason why you should’ve brought her in.”
“She wasn’t about to do that.”
“That was your instinct, huh?”
That wasn’t a question. It was a jab. But I hardly minded it. I understood where Foxx was coming from. Knowing in my gut that Sadira was telling the truth provided only so much comfort to a guy like him.
Or his boss. After he and I were done, he’d have to brief the CIA director. He would have his own questions. Topping the list? Why the hell don’t we have Sadira Yavari in custody?
“Since you still have your doubts,” I said, “let’s go talk to her together. If we spot anyone still watching her, I’ll keep out of sight.”
Foxx immediately signaled for the check.
His driver, Briggs, took us into Manhattan and over to the West Village, pulling up to Sadira’s townhouse near the corner of Hudson and Jane.
Before we even reached the first brick of her front steps, though, I knew something was wrong.
CHAPTER 103
“SHE’S GOT company,” I said, pointing.
There was no daylight between the door and the latch jamb, but I could tell the door was propped open ever so slightly. It wasn’t by accident. Whoever was inside with her wasn’t invited.
Foxx drew his Glock even faster than I did mine. I knew what he was thinking. It was the Mudir. The Mudir wouldn’t have been invited, let alone welcome given the circumstances.
Only this didn’t feel like him.
Foxx raised three fingers, then two, then one. Now!
He went high and I went low as we peeled around, moving inside. Scan left, scan right, scan back again.
There was no movement, but the place had been turned upside down. Closets had been riffled through, coats and jackets strewn all over the floor. Cabinets and credenzas, their drawers yanked out and emptied. As we made our way around the first floor, there were all the telltale signs of a burglary. Except the more it looked like one, the more I was convinced it wasn’t.
Whoever did this was looking for something of value, all right. Just not anything having to do with money.
Foxx pointed to the stairs. Up we go …
The only thing we could hear was our own footsteps as we reached the second floor. Room after room looked the same. It was as if Mötley Crüe had spent the night. Even the mattresses had been flipped.
I took the lead at the end of