Killer Instinct - James Patterson Page 0,37

The Iranians discover that Darvish is an informant and they try to make his death look like an accident? They’d want you to know it was them, loud and clear.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“I’m not sure,” I said.

Foxx shook his head. “You’re going to have to do better than that, Reinhart. Speak now or forever hold your peace.”

CHAPTER 44

YOU CAN never fully rely on what any operative tells you, even if he is the section chief of the entire New York region. The reason I know this is because I was once an operative, too. It was my job to lie.

But in the words of the British philosopher John Stuart Mill, There is no such thing as absolute certainty, but there is assurance sufficient for the purposes of human life.

Meaning, I was as convinced as I could be that Foxx was telling me the truth. The CIA hadn’t had Darvish killed.

Now I just had to convince him that it might not have been the Iranian government either.

Once again, I swiped left on my phone. “Here,” I said. Instead of a picture, this time it was a video. I pressed Play.

“What am I looking at?” Foxx asked.

“That’s Sadira Yavari giving a lecture at NYU about six months ago. And that guy there in the third row, second from the right,” I said, pointing, “is the same guy who came to my apartment posing as Ahmed’s lawyer.”

Foxx tapped my screen, pausing the video to take a better look at Benjamin Al-Kazaz, or whatever his real name was. “You’re telling me there’s a connection between Professor Darvish and the Times Square bombings?”

“There’s at least something,” I said.

“You mean, someone.”

“Yes, and if you kill her, whatever she knows dies with her.”

“So instead we bring Yavari in,” said Foxx. “Have a conversation.”

“And if she doesn’t talk?”

“Then you’re right. Whatever she knows dies with her,” he said, folding his arms. Foxx could be as cold-blooded as they come when need be. “Why, you’ve got a better idea, Reinhart?”

“As a matter of fact, I do,” I said.

BOOK THREE

I SPY A KILLER LIE

CHAPTER 45

“SPREAD YOUR legs, honey,” said the Mudir.

“Excuse me?” she asked.

“You heard me,” he said, stepping out from behind the concrete pillar.

Sadira Yavari had followed the Mudir’s every instruction up until that point. She’d parked her car on level 3 of the underground garage in Tribeca and taken the stairs down one more flight to level 4 to meet him. She’d brought the passports mailed to her NYU office from Tehran. She’d also left any and all weapons at home.

Still, he wanted to frisk her. Or was he testing her?

“Why would I ever spread my legs for you?” she said.

The Mudir walked straight at Sadira, the heels of his Bruno Magli shoes scraping hard against the pavement. Reaching into his suit jacket, he removed his pistol, an MP-443 Grach, and raised it out in front of himself with his elbow locked. He didn’t stop until the barrel was pressed firmly against her forehead.

“Are you questioning me?” he asked.

Sadira didn’t answer. Nor did she move. She just kept staring straight back into his black-as-tar eyes. Right up until he pulled the trigger.

Click.

The Mudir smiled. He liked what he saw, which was nothing. This woman didn’t flinch. The chamber was empty and she was still alive, and yet she didn’t even let out a sigh of relief, not the slightest noise or peep. Her life was nothing. The cause was everything.

“As-salāmu ‘alayki,” he said, lowering his pistol. Peace be upon you.

“Wa ‘alaykumu s-salām,” Sadira replied.

None of her contacts back in Iran had described the Mudir to her. So few people knew what he actually looked like. He wore disguises. He’d had plastic surgery. Multiple times. Most of all, he knew how to move in the shadows. This was how he’d evaded intelligence agencies around the world. He would show up on their radars, yes, but only as a blip here and there. The key was making sure the blips never connected. They never did.

Sadira continued to stare back at the Mudir. He was taller than she’d expected. Leaner. And the more she looked at his eyes, the darker they seemed to get. They were soulless.

“Do you have them?” he asked.

Sadira removed the folded envelope from the pocket of her slacks, handing over the three British passports that would provide him with three new identities. He checked each one carefully. They were perfect forgeries. Satisfied, he tucked them away inside his suit jacket, followed by the pistol.

“We have mutual friends,”