Ambush (Michael Bennett #11)(15)

I sat up when a man appeared on the far side of the square. Of medium height and build, he had a neatly trimmed gray beard and wore jeans, tennis shoes, a collarless shirt, and a black suit jacket. A black ball cap topped off the mix of casual and professional. He stood motionless as he scanned the restaurant patio. I leaned forward, into the sunlight. When he saw me, he smiled and made his way across the square.

I stood when he drew near.

“Ms. Parnell?” he asked in unaccented English.

“Sydney. And you are Mr. Zarif?”

“Ehsan. Please.” We shook hands. “It’s a pleasure to meet someone from my home country.”

“You’re American?” I asked.

“First generation. My parents fled Iran for the US in 1979, after the shah was deposed. I grew up in San Diego, but I went to college in Boulder, not far from your hometown of Denver.”

Of course he had researched my background. “You speak like a native.”

“You’re kind. But not completely truthful. Still, I try.”

“And now you live here. In Mexico.”

“I still have my American citizenship. But I’m an expat. Or, as I prefer, a man of the world.”

“Most people are running in the opposite direction.”

The skin around his eyes crinkled. “What do they know?”

He held my hand for a moment, cupped in both of his in the Persian manner as we took a moment to inspect each other. He was not what I expected. Most people who work security are physical, almost overbearingly so, and they carry themselves with an aggressive body language designed to discourage anyone from getting close to their clients. Zarif’s gentle gaze and frameless glasses gave him the look of someone more comfortable running Google searches than chasing bad guys.

But appearances could be deceiving. And there was the matter of the gun he was packing; I’d taken note of the outline of an ankle holster beneath his jeans as he approached. Possibly there was another gun in his back waistband.

He released my hand.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me,” I said.

“Of course. Although you were very mysterious.” He smiled. “But then, maybe that’s why I came. Who can resist a mystery?”

“There are things I prefer not to say on the phone.”

“And who, I wonder, do you think might be listening in?” He cocked his head. “You mentioned a man named Angelo Garcia.”

“Please,” I said. “Sit down. Would you like some coffee?”

His smile was bemused, but he nodded. “It is one reason I picked this place. Aside from your desire for privacy. Their coffee and pastries are without parallel.”

He waited until I had resumed my seat, then chose the chair across from mine so that his back was to the square. Not something I’d ever seen a security guy do.

At my raised eyebrow, he said, “I trust you’ll watch my back.”

“Of course.” But I was wondering what was up with this guy. Maybe running security at his mosque was more of a theoretical job than an actual need.

The waiter reemerged and took Zarif’s order for a double espresso and more pastries.

When we were alone again, I asked, “How can you be sure you weren’t followed?”

“That mystery again,” Zarif said. “I did as you asked. Although my secretary will forever wonder at my insistence on borrowing her car instead of taking my own.”

“She won’t talk?”

“No more than usual. Now tell me what I can do for you.”

I drew in a breath. Zarif hadn’t been on my original list of people I’d planned to meet with. During the night, as I’d tossed and turned in a new bed in a new hotel, I’d debated how much I would reveal to him. I needed to persuade him to share what he knew—if indeed he knew anything—without giving him any more information than was necessary.

As for Zarif posing any risk to me or to Malik, I had little concern. From what I could glean online, his life seemed straightforward. He served as the head of security for Jameh Mosque. The mosque’s website said he was married with two children, and spent his free time playing tennis, coaching his daughter’s soccer team, and painting landscapes.

The mosque itself appeared as banal as the Presbyterian church I’d grown up with. Jameh was the cornerstone of its small Muslim community, a meeting place for the locals with not only a prayer hall but also a community room, programs for young mothers and preschoolers, and soccer teams for the older girls and boys—the Islamic equivalent of a local parish.

“I need to be clear,” I said. “There is risk for you in meeting with me. Maybe—probably—a lot of risk.”

Zarif raised a sardonic brow. “I got that sense.”

“I’m very serious about this, Ehsan. People have died.”

His expression turned somber. “After you called me this morning, I did some digging into your past. Your time in the Marines. Your work as a railway cop. You will forgive me for this, I hope. I would be remiss not to do so.”

“Of course.”

“I saw nothing there that would explain why you reached out to me. You have asked for my help, and because you made me curious and because I hate to turn down a woman in need, here I am. But I don’t understand what help I can possibly provide.”