Ali Fathi had fifteen men deployed around Somi Arian’s salon on Fereydoun Alley. His team of six supplemented by nine others that he had borrowed from Radan, Jehangir and Golzar.
He sat in a civilian-looking SUV, with dark windows, in the back. In a parking space opposite the hairdresser’s shop. His driver pretended to read a newspaper in the front. Fathi had his cellphone in one hand, his mic and earbuds ready to go. That cabdriver lounging against his vehicle, was his man. That shopper glancing through his list, was part of the stakeout team.
All fifteen men were elite killers capable of taking down enemies.
‘We want them alive,’ he repeated.
‘Yes, agha,’ they acknowledged in his ears.
Fathi peered at the dark interiors of a chai shop ahead, to his left. Nope, he couldn’t make out Radan and Jehangir, but they were there. As observers. Fathi had invited them to watch as he captured the Mossad killers.
‘Anything suspicious?’ he queried.
‘No, agha,’ another chorus. ‘No one who looks like them or the other sketches.’
‘They’ll come,’ he said confidently. ‘I checked with the hairdresser. She confirmed the appointment.’
He could see the woman cutting a customer’s hair through the glass windows. Arian had been sullen, hostile, when he spoke to her. He had ignored her attitude. Some people got like that when they came across Quds.
Fathi waited.
Meghan and Beth were deep in discussion as they strolled down Fereydoun Alley. Both of them looking nothing like Parvin and Mahya. They were in jeans and Tees, stylish shawls covering their faces. A scar on Meghan’s face, Beth’s cheeks plumper than normal due to the padding.
They had left the office after the call with Clare for their hairstylist appointment. Still discussing where they had left off, in the charity’s office.
‘Zeb’s right,’ the younger twin said decisively. ‘Oil prices aren’t the only weapon Mostofi’s planning to use.’
‘Yeah,’ Meghan removed her shades, wiped them and put them back on. ‘But what?’
‘Dunno. We can try lifting him and interrogating him.’
‘We’ve gone through that. He’s too well-protected—’ Beth broke off when they approached the salon and climbed its steps. The doorbell tinkled when they entered. Somi Arian, the owner, nodded at them and asked them to take a seat.
Meghan sat next to her sister and reached out for a magazine.
‘She’s more friendly, usually,’ the younger twin murmured.
‘Boyfriend trouble. Home problems. Business not doing well. A bug,’ Meghan shrugged. ‘It can be anything. Take your pick. Besides, no one can be sunny and cheerful all the time.’
‘I am.’
‘Who said you were normal?’
Beth got served first. One of Arian’s hairdressers worked on her while Meghan waited.
The owner finished with her customer, took her payment, rang the till, cleaned her chair and beckoned the older sister.
Beth’s right, Meghan thought as she watched Arian work in the mirror. She was talkative when we visited. The owner’s face was pinched, her eyes dark, revealing nothing. Is that a bruise on her face? Did she crash into something? Her fingers curled instinctively at another thought. Or did someone hit her?
Arian straightened her head firmly when she tried to sneak a look at Beth who was one chair away.
‘Please sit straight, khanom,’ the owner’s teeth flashed in a smile briefly.
There! At other times, she would have cracked a joke.
Meghan tried to catch Arian’s eyes, but the hairdresser was focused on her work. She shrugged mentally. Not our problem.
She sat still as the young woman styled her hair professionally, twisting her body this way and that, to get the right angles and cuts.
‘He’s waiting for you outside. I have to call him as you leave.’
Arian’s words didn’t register on Meghan initially.
The hairstylist moved so that her back was to the front of the store. She tightened her fingers on the twin’s hair to get her attention.
‘He’s waiting outside. For you. I have to warn him.’ Arian barely moved her lips when their eyes met.
Meghan stared at her, not comprehending.
The shop owner’s eyes flicked to the counter in front of them. Clippers, combs, hairclips, oils, an array of equipment neatly arranged on the counter in front of the mirror.
She’s talking to me!
The elder twin followed Arian’s eyes. Didn’t see what she was indicating. A jerk to her head, turning it just so, until … Meghan stiffened and forced herself to relax immediately.
A business card behind a cosmetic bottle. Face down, but not flat on the counter. One corner was propped on a nail file, leaving a gap.
Quds. She made out the symbol on the top, left-hand side. She leaned forward and pretended to examine her eyebrows in the mirror.
Fathi!
‘He’s got men,’ Arian nodded almost imperceptibly at the flash of recognition in her eyes.’
‘Moteshakeram,’ Meghan murmured back. Thanking her, using the formal phrasing to convey the depth of meaning.
The hairdresser’s hands tightened on her head briefly in acknowledgment. She continued her styling without another word.
‘Done, khanom,’ she said with a brief smile, ‘you look lovely. Do you like it?’
‘Yes,’ Meghan turned her head this way and that, as she inspected herself. Beth was waiting at the door, the magazine in her hand, waiting for her.
Look at me!
The younger twin seemed to sense her thoughts. Dropped the publication to the coffee table and hooked her fingers in her jeans.
Meghan climbed out of the chair and paid Somi Arian. She flashed a warm, genuine smile and headed to the door.
‘What?’ Beth asked her softly.
‘Fathi,’ she replied, as she opened the door. ‘He’s set a trap for us.’