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Who s FarjAd Daei? I asked.
I have never heard of him, said Vayl, who kept up with world movers and shakers even
better than I did. The crowd sure had. Many of the men took the time to spit beside their
shoes when they heard his name. But a few made a gesture so casual I wouldn t have
noticed if one man, about my age, hadn t caught my attention. He drew the thumb of his
right hand across his thigh, then turned his hand, palm outward, toward the doomed
woman. When he caught me staring he nodded once and mouthed the word Freedom. I
raised my eyebrows at him and he nodded again before melting into the crowd.
The young woman went through the trapdoor with a mahghul draped over her head like a
second scarf. Already its comrades had begun to feed off the uniformed men, some of
whom watched her body swing while others stared off into the crowd as if this execution
had as little to do with their lives as a classic-car auction.
When the second woman dropped, her chador came off. She d pinned a picture to the
white dress she wore underneath. I couldn t see the details, couldn t read the bold black
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captions above and beneath the photo, which covered her entire chest. But those in the
crowd who stood closest to her shouted in outrage.
The crowd surged forward, their screams encouraging those behind them to join in, and
within seconds the bodies disappeared beneath their tearing hands.
Time to leave, Vayl murmured. I could feel his power rising to shield us from watching
eyes as he took me by the arm and steered me out of the plaza.
Behind us the rest of the mahghul had joined their brethren, sweeping down on the rioters,
shrieking joyfully as they fed on the violence.
Vayl and I didn t speak as we rushed away from the scene. Within five minutes we arrived
at our destination. As soon as we saw the place we reached an unspoken agreement to put
the nightmare of the plaza behind us, at least temporarily. Duty called. As usual, it
surprised me.
I d expected the Oasis to present me with a dimly lit throwback to the 1860s. A men only
sign on the front door. Cigar smoke so thick you d have lung cancer by the time you sat
down. Dancing girls entertaining the high rollers in the back room.
What I found was a thirty-year-old, white-block two-story building housing an Internet
café, with single booths stationed around the perimeter of the room, each holding a PC,
most with an avid user glued to the blocky, fifteen-inch monitors. In the middle, tables
with red-cushioned chairs invited customers to sit and chat face-to-face, rather than
online. Either way, it made no sense to me.
Why would the Wizard, a guy who d sent a letter to the BBC stating that America is the
infant England should have aborted, agree to party in a café surrounded by reminders
of the very country he despised? Okay, so it s the World Wide Web. The whole concept of
freedom of information is so American it practically square dances.
We sat down. Since the place had signs in both Farsi and English, we felt free to reveal
our foreign natures. At least to some degree. Vayl lapsed into his accent to order us both
tea. And when the waiter inquired as to our countries of origin, Vayl told him we were
from Romania, attending a family funeral. I didn t speak at all until the waiter left.
Nosy, isn t he? I whispered.
Vayl s eyes followed the waiter as he cleared a table across the room. He could be
freelancing for the government. You never know.
Too true. Listen, do you really think we ve got the right location? I shared my doubts.
Perhaps that is why he has never been caught, my boss replied. By maintaining
continual unpredictability he has evaded the authorities for nearly twenty-five years.
I guess, I said. I badly wanted to study the photograph Dave had given us again. Ask it
questions neither one of us could answer.
Vayl nodded his head behind me. This is a modern building. They actually have public
restrooms. Given the rate at which tea passes through the system, I would say our best
shot at the Wizard will be any one of the three to five times he goes to the bathroom
during his visit here.
So you want to set up in there?
Vayl stood. I will go check it out. I watched him leave, wishing oddly that I could stop
him. We shouldn t be here, I thought, sitting back and casting my eyes casually around the
room, hunting for the source of my unease. As usual, I couldn t match it with a familiar
face or a psychic scent. Couples, most of them under thirty, sat chatting and laughing over
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bowls of thick soup and plates whose predominant ingredient seemed to be long-grained
rice. No threat there. So what the hell?
It s this whole damn mission. Everything about it s got me flinching at shadows. Or
maybe it was my double trip to hell that had done it. Either way, I wanted badly to click
my heels together three times because, by God, there really was no place like home.
Vayl returned in a reasonable amount of time. There is a window big enough to crawl
through if it comes to that. We are how do you say set.
I smiled thinly as the waiter brought our tea. Vayl began to talk, or rather gush, about
Zarsa. And I meant to listen, honest I did. But Raoul chose that moment to drop in. His
way of grabbing my attention is to reach into my brain and squeeze until either I tune in or
black out. It had taken a while, but I d finally learned to listen.
Let me guess, I said in the mental drawl I reserved only for him, you were the fifth of
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