Mostofi was on his second cup of chai when Habib Nassour knocked on his door and entered his office in the Presidential Administration Building.
The commander ordered his aide to enter and nodded at a chair.
‘What happened, agha? Where did you go yesterday after Fereydoun?’
‘Don’t you know where I was?’
‘I saw you in a restaurant,’ Nassour admitted. ‘You seemed deep in thought. I didn’t disturb you.’
‘How is Miri?’
‘Angry. Raging. Al Fathi was his man. I would be too, if Golzar had been killed. We lost nine good people yesterday,’ the major’s face twisted bitterly. ‘Those Mossad operatives, they escaped without a scratch. We had fifteen people there. Vahdat and Tehari’s men were there as well, to watch Fathi capture these killers. We had them outnumbered, agha, but still they escaped.’
Mostofi observed his man like a hawk watching its prey. Nassour was immaculately turned out as always, his uniform crisp and sharp in its lines. Only the darkness on his face betrayed his fury.
‘You noticed that man, the one who looked back at us?’
‘Of course, agha. I chased him.’
‘What happened when you went in that alley?’
He listened without interruption when his aide briefed him quickly. No expression on his face when he heard of the apartment, the escape hatch in the roof.
‘They were clever. Once you are on top of that bathroom, you can escape in different directions. You can break into several apartments and go out of buildings that either open into Fereydoun or on Special Street. Well away from where the attack took place.’
‘Do you know how Fathi knew those women would be there?’
‘Hairdresser appointment. They had the same second name. We questioned that woman, the owner. She doesn’t know anything else about them. Those Mossad killers paid in cash every time. We’ll get them, agha. Every soldier is looking for them. Police are involved, too. I know you didn’t want them, but after that shooting, there was no way to keep them out. Those Mossad killers cannot escape.’
‘Mossad!’ Mostofi chuckled mirthlessly.
His aide looked at him questioningly.
‘They are not Mossad, Habib.’
‘Of course, they are, agha. Those women … the intelligence we have from Shahriar, your sources, those are Israeli operatives.’
‘There is a reason those eight people escaped, Habib. They got away because they are the deadliest intelligence operatives in the world. Better than Mossad. Yes, you heard me correctly. They are not Israelis.’
‘Who are they, then, agha?’ Habib asked disbelievingly.
Mostofi opened a drawer and brought out several photographs. He slid them across the table and arranged them in a row in front of his aide.
‘They are Americans.’ He gritted his teeth as a nerve throbbed in his temple. ‘And this man,’ he tapped the image in the center, ‘is the most dangerous man I know. His name is Zeb Carter.’