The Natanz Directive Read Online Free PDF Page B

convertible, as if that were less conspicuous.
    I got on the radio. Davy Johansen and his partner had taken up positions on either end of the block and were there mostly to see to it that Reza didn’t bolt. He wasn’t going to bolt.
    â€œStatus,” I said. “Alpha?”
    â€œAt the table,” Davy said. He was positioned east of the complex on Rue de Pantin, with eyes on every piece of transportation moving in my direction. “At the table” was typical tradecraft. We always spoke as if the target had a scanner with the capability of monitoring our conversation, no matter how long the odds were.
    â€œBravo?”
    â€œTable clear,” the one posted at the intersection west of Reza’s place said. I didn’t know him. I didn’t want to know him. Just do the job and say good night.
    â€œRoger that,” I said.
    I didn’t want the Iranian using the visitors’ parking spaces out in front of the apartment house, and a dirtball like Reza wouldn’t think twice about doing that if he thought it would save him a dozen steps to his front door. Visibility out on the street was way too risky, especially with people hanging out on their balconies, so we’d filled the empty spaces with rental cars. Just in case.
    â€œSit tight,” I said in a voice so calm you would have thought we were delivering a pizza. “Not a chance in the world this guy’ll miss dinner. Momma’s cooking up a classic. He’ll be here.” All this really meant was that I knew how Reza operated. I knew he was a creature of habit. And I knew he’d make an appearance eventually.
    There was something else I remembered about Reza Mahvi. He was nothing if not a big talker. He couldn’t wait to regale you with his puny exploits. If there was a name to drop, he dropped it—anything to put a fresh coat of paint on the image of a second-rate street hustler. Clearly, he’d taken a step up in the world. From hustling drugs and women for U.S. congressmen on the prowl to putting the squeeze on the very guys he used to pimp for. Give the guy credit.
    â€œAction!” Bravo called, his voice as cool as a mountain stream. He had Reza in his sights. “ETA thirty seconds. I’m putting a lid on it on this end.”
    â€œLikewise on my end,” Davy said.
    â€œTen seconds to the table. Fifteen to the chair. Good luck,” Bravo said.
    â€œRoger that,” I said. And those were the last words we would ever say to each other.
    I saw the headlights before I saw the Mercedes. I was parked in the space reserved for unit 16, two cars away from Reza’s space. Naturally, Reza spun his wheels navigating the parking lot; he may have climbed the criminal ladder a rung or two, but he still conducted himself like a second-rate drug dealer.
    The Mauser 7.65 mm rested on my lap, and I gripped it loosely with a gloved hand. It was fitted out with an aluminum silencer and was untraceable.
    Mob-style. That’s how Mr. Elliot wanted it done. A clear message needed to be delivered to anyone else thinking about blackmailing an American official, and the 7.65 caliber, the silencer, and the parking lot—everything was designed to make it look like that.
    I opened my door, slipped the Mauser into the pocket of my jacket, and climbed silently out. I walked along the back of the cars to Reza’s Mercedes. The music inside the car was still blaring, and Reza was drumming the steering wheel, waiting for the song to end. I kept my back to the apartment house even though all the balconies faced the Seine. I walked without a sound between the Mercedes and a gray Citroën. I stopped next to the driver’s-side door and wrapped on the window with my left hand. Reza sat bolt upright at the sound, like a man fending off a blow. Then he saw my face, and the slow dawn of recognition caused his brow to furrow. I smiled, but the furrows only curled into lines of dark suspicion. I