Mercury rising, p.22
Mercury Rising, page 22
Several minutes later with the entire team cleared through customs, they wound their way to ground transportation, where a stocky man was standing on the curb in front of a black SUV holding a placard with Vasquez’s name on it.
“Where’s Ahmad?” she whispered. “He always meets me at the airport.”
“He’s sick,” the man said quietly.
Then the man opened the trunk of the SUV, which was halfway full of supplies stuffed into medical bags. He motioned for Barrett to come closer and then tapped on the bottom of the bag. Barrett nodded knowingly as the man indicated a release button on the side. He tapped it, revealing a secret compartment with a gun and several magazines tucked inside. Then he motioned toward all of them, suggesting that they all contained weapons.
Barrett thanked the man and finished loading their gear.
As they were finishing loading up, a dark sedan skidded to a stop in front of them, parking at an angle that blocked in their SUV. Two men hustled out, both in dark suits with black shirts, guns visible on their belts. A bald-headed, barrel-chested man with a long scar on his neck flashed his secret police credentials as he strode over to Barrett and the rest of the humanitarian team.
“Is there a problem?” Vasquez asked, stepping forward.
Neck Scar shrugged. “Not yet.”
Barrett sensed Vasquez’s combative manner would welcome trouble if he didn’t diplomatically handle the two men.
“What can we help you with?” Barrett asked.
Neck Scar turned away from Vasquez and studied Barrett. “The situation in Farajabad is not good. And traffic is congested due to the people coming early for the president’s speech tomorrow. General Ahmad asked us to escort you to the clinic so you can begin your work as quickly as possible.”
Barrett wanted to curse. The last thing he wanted was an “escort” by the Iranian secret police. He needed to drop Vasquez off at the clinic in Farajabad and speed back to Tehran to thwart the assassination attempt on President Hassan the next afternoon. While it would get them through traffic quickly, Barrett knew it was just another way for Iranian officials to monitor the Americans.
“That’s so kind of you,” Vasquez said, stepping in front of Barrett. “We would appreciate that.”
“Are you ready to leave?” Neck Scar asked.
Barrett nodded.
“Then follow us,” the man said as he walked back to his sedan.
Barrett and the rest of the team piled into the SUV, Vasquez taking the front passenger seat next to him.
As Barrett zipped through intersections with their escort leading the way, Vasquez detailed each person’s assignment if everything was as dire as she had heard from clinic director Dr. Darvish. By the time she finished, they had reached the highway and were cruising south toward Farajabad, a small village on the edge of the desert 150 kilometers south of Tehran.
Barrett took a deep breath and reviewed in his mind the short speech he’d rehearsed to give Dr. Vasquez. Then he delivered the news: the humanitarian mission wasn’t why they were really there. She said nothing upon hearing the news, though she scowled and stared out the window for the next twenty minutes before speaking again.
“How much longer?” she asked with a sigh, propping her cheek on her fist.
“Maybe thirty more minutes if that dust storm on the horizon doesn’t swallow us whole,” Barrett said.
Vasquez bent the edges of a file folder in her lap, casting furtive glances at Barrett, which he caught out of the corner of his eye.
“You do realize that this will ruin future opportunities for me to enter Iran,” she said, her tone sharp. “If I had known this is what you were up to, I never would’ve agreed to come.”
Barrett glanced in the rearview mirror again before fixing his gaze on the highway in front of him, squinting as he looked up at the early afternoon sun. “If you didn’t come, there might not be much left of this country in the future.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“Doc, believe it or not, we both want to help people,” Barrett said. “We are just doing it in different ways. You want to help sick people in this village. We want to help people by preventing a war.”
“A war? And you need guns and grenades to do that?”
Barrett nodded. “Look, I’ll level with you since you’ve been dragged into this. Based on some intelligence we’ve received, there’s an organization trying to incite a world war—and they’re planning on assassinating the Iranian president. We don’t know all the details yet, but we think they’re planning to make it look like the U.S. was involved in the plot. And given that Iran is rumored to have recently gained the capability to launch long-range nuclear missiles, that makes this whole situation nothing more than a tinderbox just waiting for one little spark. And if you don’t think an assassination attempt on the life of the Iranian president will do that, you haven’t been paying attention to geopolitics.”
She shook her head and sighed. “I’m well respected here and have strong connections to people in power. That will be gone after this—and the people of Iran will be worse off for it.”
“Not having medical aid pales in comparison to life in a war-torn country,” Barrett said. “And that’s if Iran isn’t turned into a sheet of glass.”
Vasquez turned and looked at Grace. “Did you know about this?”
Grace nodded. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t tell you everything or I know you wouldn’t have agreed to help.”
The doctor returned her gaze forward and crossed her arms. Barrett thought she looked like she wanted to murder someone, probably starting with him.
“Cheer up,” Barrett said. “There really is a measles outbreak in Farajabad. And you’ll still get to help those people.”
Vasquez said nothing as she turned her attention to the side window, quietly staring out at the desert. Barrett admired the woman despite the potential trouble she posed to his team in the moment. He suspected the woman had the potential to be a knockout if she chose to spend any time on her appearance, but her messy bun and lack of makeup combined with bottle-thick glasses suggested her focus wasn’t on finding a romantic partner.
Eventually, the village of Farajabad materialized from the desert haze—a cluster of sun-baked buildings that included a small medical clinic. Barrett parked behind the structure, away from the main road.
Dr. Darvish, the director of the clinic, greeted them before reviewing the details of what he knew about the outbreak with Dr. Vasquez. He led the team into a room where the clinic had quarantined the patients.
“We just don’t have enough vaccinations to handle all of these cases,” Dr. Darvish said, his English slow but clear. “And no one in Tehran is interested in helping us out here.”
“How many patients?” Vasquez asked, switching into professional mode.
“Thirty-seven confirmed cases,” Darvish said. “And we’re set to receive two others within the hour—soldiers from the Revolutionary Guard. But they present with different symptoms.”
Barrett arched an eyebrow. “What kind of symptoms?”
“Not sure yet,” Darvish said. “I was just told it wasn’t measles.”
Vasquez directed Grace to lead a triage with Watts, while Barrett and Stone worked with her to administer shots. The team worked quickly and efficiently, providing each person with necessary care, while Darvish saw his other regular load of patients.
A half hour into the treatment of the measles patients, everything ground to a halt when two Revolutionary Guard members were ushered into the clinic on gurneys. Two more members of the secret police were stationed with the men, raising Barrett’s suspicion.
“Is that normal?” Barrett whispered to Vasquez.
“What do you mean?” she said, keeping her voice low.
Barrett nodded toward the men. “For two military members to be escorted by secret police.”
“I haven’t ever seen anything like that before,” she said, “but perhaps they’re being extra cautious since you are involved here.”
“Or maybe it’s something else,” Barrett suggested. “Why would me being here draw that kind of attention? I’m just a lowly humanitarian aid worker.”
Vasquez blew a tendril of brown hair out of her face as she huffed. She wiped some antiseptic onto her patient’s arm and then asked for a clean syringe. After biting off the protective cap, she jammed it into the vial and filled up the tube. Upon carefully selecting a spot to inject the medicine, she eased the needle into the woman’s arm.
The team continued working through the patients and delivering shots for another fifteen minutes before Grace approached Barrett.
“Can I have a quick word with you?” she said in a muted tone.
Barrett looked at Vasquez. “Just one sec. I’ll be right back.”
They retreated to an empty exam room but kept the door open.
“What’s going on?” Barrett asked.
“I think I know why all the extra secret police are here,” Grace said. “I heard the men talking about one of the soldiers and said it was President Hassan’s son.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“Not sure. But I’m going to try and get in there with Darvish and find out.”
“Keep me posted,” Barrett said before returning to his post.
“Everything all right with you two love birds?” Vasquez asked as Barrett sat down.
He scowled. “Love birds? Whatever gave you that impression?”
“I have a special ability,” she said. “It doesn’t work for me, obviously. But it works well on others. I can tell when there’s something between two people.”
“Maybe once upon a time,” Barrett said. “But not anymore.”
She snickered before she jammed another needle into another arm. “You keep telling yourself that.”
Barrett glanced down the hallway as he saw Grace follow Darvish toward the room with the two soldiers.
“Yeah,” Vasquez said, studying Barrett as he watched Grace. “You keep telling yourself that.”
Grace gave Barrett a knowing nod before she went inside.
“See,” Vasquez said as Barrett looked back toward her. “There’s something there. No need denying it.”
Barrett wondered if maybe the doctor was right, though he doubted she’d ever truly forgive him for what he did, even if helping him set up this trip served as an olive branch of sorts. But it was a fleeting thought, his mind zeroing in on the mission—and the potential that maybe the president’s son was just a few feet away suffering from an unknown illness.
A couple of minutes later while Grace was still with the soldiers, Barrett’s phone buzzed with a message from Simpson.
President to address nation in Azadi Square at 7 PM tonight, not tomorrow as previously believed
Barrett glanced at his watch. They had three hours to get back to Tehran and stop an assassination attempt.
Three hours to stop a war.
CHAPTER 30
Barrett picked up the clipboard from the counter and read off the name of the next patient. A frail teenage girl pushed herself out of a chair and shuffled toward him. She raised her eyebrows as she gestured toward the table, an unspoken question by a girl who didn’t think Barrett could understand her.
“Lotfa, roye miz bonashinid,” Barrett said.
His eyes said the same thing: Please, sit on the table.
The girl climbed onto the table and gave him a weak smile.
“I didn’t know you spoke Farsi,” Vasquez said, casting a quick glance at Barrett before studying the girl’s arm for an easy vein.
“Guess your special ability has its limitations,” Barrett said.
Vasquez huffed a laugh. “Touché.”
As Barrett returned the clipboard to the counter, he moved closer to Stone and showed him the text message Simpson had sent him.
“We need to leave now,” Stone said with a sharp whisper.
“I know, but Grace is still in there—and we can’t leave her. And if I go in there and try to pull her out, it’s only going to make everything that much more difficult for us getting out of here.”
“You need to figure this out quick or none of this will matter soon enough.”
Barrett nodded. “There’s something I want to see first.”
“What?” Stone mouthed.
“That soldier’s chart,” Barrett said, gesturing toward a folder sitting on the counter of the front desk.
“I’ll be right back,” Barrett said to Vasquez.
She raised her hands in the air in a gesture of exasperation. “Why’d you even come at all?”
Barrett eased up to the counter and glanced around before flipping open the folder. The recorded information was in Farsi, making it difficult for him to read everything, never mind his language lessons hadn’t included the very technical medical terms used throughout the man’s chart. The man’s name was listed as Muhammad Ahmed, a generic name in the Muslim world, much like someone named Bill Smith would be in English. If there was one Muhammad Ahmed, there were thousands of them. Though the soldier’s surname wasn’t listed as Hassan, Barrett figured that was by design, a way to keep the president’s son from being targeted or safe in case he was ever captured during battle. It didn’t confirm that the soldier in that room was Hassan’s son, but the name didn’t rule it out either. But on the line where the document listed the military installation he was stationed at, it was blank.
Another mention by design? Or was that a mistaken omission?
Too many details—or lack thereof—was evidence that at least something was different about the soldier.
Barrett read on but didn’t see anything else on his chart that identified where he was from or what he was doing at his post. Barrett glanced at the birthday. Even that seemed suspicious: January 1. Everything about the man was being hidden.
But why?
Barrett wanted answers but understood they were running short on time. He looked up when he caught some movement out of the corner of his eye and noticed Stone. He subtly held up his left wrist with a watch and pointed to it, the implication clear.
“I know,” Barrett mouthed back. “She’s still in there.”
He chinned toward the door down the hall, which was still closed.
Stone widened his eyes and cocked his head, as if to say, “Who cares?” They needed to move—and Barrett knew it. But he wasn’t about to leave Grace behind, especially when he didn’t yet have a solid escape plan from the heavy presence of Iranian secret police.
Watts, who’d finished checking in all the patients, joined Barrett and Stone.
She pulled her hair up into a ponytail and spoke softly. “What’s up with all the secret police?”
“We think that one of the soldiers they just brought in is the president’s son,” Barrett said. “But I’m hoping you can verify that for us.”
“What do you want me to do? Start asking questions?”
“We don’t have time for this,” Stone said. “We need to leave right now if we’re going to make it.”
Watts cocked her head to the side. “Make it where?”
“Back to Tehran,” Barrett said as he handed her his phone with the text message from Simpson.
She scanned it and handed the phone back to him. “And how the hell are we going to do that?”
Barrett placed his hands palms down on the counter and leaned forward, stretching as he turned from side to side. He turned over an idea in his mind for a moment before sharing it.
“Maybe we can kill two birds with one stone,” Barrett said.
“I’m gonna need more than that,” Watts said.
Seconds later, Dr. Darvish stormed out of the room with the soldiers and shouted for Vasquez. She was in the middle of administering a shot when the frantic pleas for help came down the hall. Without hesitating, she plunged the needle all the way down and pulled it out of the man’s arm before racing after Dr. Darvish.
Grace stood at the door, gesturing for Vasquez to hurry. Barrett chased after her and grabbed Grace by the arm before she retreated inside to help them with the soldiers.
“We need to leave,” Barrett whispered.
“I can’t,” she said. “They need me.”
“What’s wrong with them? Was there an accident?”
She shook her head. “Radiation poisoning.”
“Shit,” Barrett said. “Be careful. But discreetly tell Vasquez. She has to come with us.”
“She’s going to balk at that.”
“I don’t care if we have to drag her out kicking and screaming. She just finished with the last measles patient, and if we don’t get the hell outta here, there’s gonna be no people here left to care for in a few hours.”
“How will we know when it’s time to leave?” Grace asked.
“You’ll know.”
He hustled back down the hall to find Watts and Stone, the latter tapping his watch again with a set jaw.
“I know, Stoney,” Barrett said. “I’m working on it. Now, those soldiers in there have radiation poisoning. So, I’m betting wherever they were working is where the nuclear missile launch site is.”
“If we stop the assassination, we won’t have to worry about that,” Stone said.
“What have I told you about having a backup plan?” Barrett said.
“I know what you’ve said, but you sure as hell don’t seem to have one right now—and that’s a big problem.”
Barrett turned to Watts. “Can you access cell phone records here?”
She nodded. “I think so.”
“All right,” he said, slapping Stone in the chest. “Contrary to popular opinion, I’ve got a plan that just might work.”
Watts steadied herself against the doorjamb before putting her shoulder into the clinic door and rushing outside.
“Help! We need help!” she cried, heading straight for one of the members of the secret police that brought the two soldiers.
