Feroze, Hamid and Khosrow, the three guards stood shivering in the night as Mostofi inspected them.
‘He said his name was Colonel Rashidi?’
‘Yes, agha,’ Feroze replied, shifting uneasily as the Quds leader glared at him.
There was such an officer in the IRGC. He was in the Inspection Directorate too. However, he was nearing retirement and was currently on vacation. Mostofi knew because he had spoken to the man just a few days ago to congratulate him on his upcoming retirement.
‘Describe him.’
Feroze outlined a clean-shaven officer, fleshy in the face, large nose. His companions were similarly bereft of facial hair. No marking on their faces, no scars.
‘I didn’t see the others well, agha. Only Rashidi. He was impatient, wanted to be let through, but we have to do our duty,’ Feroze said so righteously that Mostofi nearly pulled out his service weapon and shot him on the spot.
He controlled himself, however, and smiled thinly when he saw the guard tremble.
Good. They know my reputation. Everyone knew the Quds chief’s ruthlessness. He shot those who turned against him, tortured people who betrayed him, many of those in public. There were rumors that he raped women and young girls too, before killing them.
Mostofi liked killing people. He loved the fear in them, their desperate pleas for help as he indulged in torturing them before killing them. He reveled in the power he had and didn’t hide it.
‘You didn’t think clean-shaven men were unusual?’ he growled as he fingered his gun.
‘Hamid saw them too,’ Feroze answered quaveringly.
‘That’s right, agha,’ the second guard said confidently. ‘We told them to wait while we checked. That’s when the missiles landed. We were hit by the blast and lost consciousness. By the time we recovered, those men had gone.’
Mostofi’s eyes narrowed. He yearned to kill them, execute anyone, his rage was so enormous, but he controlled himself. He had to get answers.
‘No one else saw them?’
‘A few soldiers did,’ Dara admitted. ‘This is where it gets strange. Rashidi was shouting about Kabali. Several men saw his vehicle at the trainer’s building.’
Kabali? Mostofi knew of the man. ‘He’s the Syrian terrorist, isn’t he?’
‘Yes, agha.’
‘Why was this colonel asking about him? Where’s Kabali?’ he asked sharply.
‘He’s not to be found,’ Dara said uneasily. ‘We still have to clear the rubble. His body could be there. Those officers, they could have been killed too.’
‘No,’ Mostofi said emphatically. ‘This was a rescue operation.’
‘Why would anyone want to save a Syrian terrorist, agha?’
‘They went out with two women, too.’ A soldier called out.
‘Who’s that?’ Dara roared. ‘Step forward. Come here.’
A soldier came from behind a group of men and joined the guards. ‘I saw them go up the women’s quarters. I looked back when I was running away and they were returning with Vakili and Hadar.’
‘Who are they?’ Mostofi snapped.
‘Vakili was a cook,’ Dara replied. ‘Hadar,’ he hesitated, ‘she owns a brothel—’
‘Layla Hadar? Her?’
‘Yes, agha.’
‘She was here?’
‘Yes, agha. She came frequently to visit Haroun Kabali.’
Mostofi stood there, thunderstruck. Only Danesh knew that he was investigating the entire camp, looking for the person who had leaked the presence of the ten terrorists who had attacked America.
Kabali, a trainer. Hadar, a prostitute.
He laughed wildly, uncaring what the soldiers thought of him.
Of course.
A Syrian terrorist and a brothel owner.
Who else could be the leaks?