CIA Safe House #11
Tehran, Iran
June 15, 12:29 p.m.
Once we were past the markets, the streets became empty and quiet. No human or car traffic. No sign of Violin, no sign of the Red Knight, but I didn’t like the vibe. The atmosphere was supercharged with tension. I knew that a lot of it was nerves. This whole thing was freaking me out. Truly and deeply.
Haven lay right up the street, though, and I was already starting to breathe easier.
The best safe houses were run by the CIA. They’d been at this longer and they spent a lot of time developing teams to run and oversee the locations. The one Ghost and I headed to was at the fringe of a garment district, with an open lot on one side and a hardware store that was closed on the other. A “For Sale” sign was hung in the window of the store, and I suspected the Company owned that as well.
The safe house was occupied by husband and wife agents. They were a real married couple recruited years ago. Taraneh and Arastoo Mouradipour. Midthirties. His cover was a textile salesman, and she was floor manager for a small factory that made children’s clothes.
Ghost and I walked past the house twice, once from across the street heading west, then on the same side as the house going east. Everything looked normal and quiet. A ten-year-old blue Paykan was parked outside, its paint job faded by sand and heat, several rust spots coated with primer. The only other vehicles in the area were a pair of white vans parked in the lot of a telephone installation company a few blocks away.
We walked all the way around the block and then cut down the alley that led to the open lot. I walked along the side of the house. Back door and side windows were intact. Everything looked calm, which is exactly what I wanted to see. Calm sounded pretty good to me. I needed a bath, food, a first aid kit and a chance to make a private call to Church. There was so much I needed to tell him.
When we reached the front of the house I went to the door and knocked.
Ghost, who was still sluggish, flopped down on the step and looked like he was about to go to sleep. I was getting worried about him. There was no way to tell how much damage the Taser had done, but Ghost was definitely not himself; his senses were clearly dulled and his energy almost bottomed out.
There was no immediate answer. I knocked again.
The protocol was to knock no more than three times. After that you walk away and try another safe house. I didn’t want to walk into another house filled with blood and death, so I was willing to split if this didn’t play out. The next closest was a convenience store half a mile from here. However, I doubted Ghost had that much energy in him. I could sympathize. That goon in the hotel had really rung my chimes and now that the adrenaline was wearing off I could feel it.
I was about to knock a final time when I heard the lock click. The door opened a half inch and I saw a woman’s eye peer at me through the crack.
“Yes?” she asked.
“May I speak with Mr. Pourali?”
That was the current code, and it changed every few days.
“Who is calling?” she asked, right on cue.
“Mr. Hosseini.”
“Please come in,” she said, stepping back and pulling open the door.
I clicked my tongue for Ghost, who jerked awake and scrambled to his feet. He followed me inside.
“Thank you,” I said to the woman as she closed the door.
Ghost froze in place and let out a single sharp bark of warning, which was two seconds too late.
The woman produced a small black automatic from under her robes and pointed it at my face.