The White House: A Flynn Carroll Thriller by Whitley Strieber Page B

neighborhood, with houses set back from the wide, empty streets. They passed the Canadian, then the French embassies. As they drove on, ascending into higher, even quieter precincts, Flynn drew a map in his head. In case he had to do a runner, he needed to know where these embassies were. Diplomatic refuge would likely be his only escape.
    The car turned into a park rioting with flowers and centered by a large house, a Spanish colonial dressed with Persian touches.
    â€œA Shah House,” Ghorbani commented. He chuckled. “But not recently.”
    As they pulled up to the tall front door beaded with large studs, a man in a white soutane appeared. Silently, he opened Flynn’s door. Flynn noted a pistol on his left hip, and that there was a specially tailored slit in the soutane that would enable him to reach the gun quickly.
    An older man, the left side of his face immobilized by a stroke, came out and hurried down the steps. He wore a western suit, Saville Row. “Welcome, Herr Grauerholtz.” His mustache and eyebrows were curly and white. His toupee, as black and slick as a polished shoe, hung low over his face. His left hand was clenched, his right extended.
    Flynn got out of the car, noting that this man, also, was armed. He carried a very small pistol in a shoulder holster, no more than a .32. Flynn wished to hell he had a pistol of his own right now.
    As he entered the house, he gauged the accessibility of each weapon. He could remove the larger pistol, the one under the arm of the man in the soutane, before either armed man could react. If the older one had a very fast draw, he might be able to get a shot off before Flynn killed him, although this was not likely.
    So Flynn was safe from a direct assault. At the moment.
    They entered a library that must have been constructed by a Westerner. Although the volumes in it were Persian, the design, with two tiers of bookcases around three walls, was something out of an English country house.
    â€œThis was the residence of the last president of Aramco,” the older man said. He sat heavily in a wing chair and motioned to Flynn to sit opposite. “A man of impeccable taste.”
    Flynn took the seat, noting that the guard in the soutane was now standing behind him. Ghorbani was behind the minister. They had formed a defensive box, and Flynn was no longer safe from assault. If they were going to try to subdue somebody very fast and very dangerous, this was the sort of positioning they might choose. Flynn hadn’t seen a weapon on Ghorbani, but he must be carrying one.
    â€œAnd now, my dear Mr. Flynn Carroll,” Ghorbani said, smiling, “why do you imagine that we have brought you here?”
    Flynn froze any and all reactions.
    â€œCalculating the odds, are you, my dear superman? You will find that they are against you.”
    He heard the faint sound of movement behind him as the guard readied himself.
    Flynn’s heart rarely raced, but it did so now. The boyish unease had left Ghorbani’s smile. In fact, he wasn’t smiling at all, and probably never had been. He was showing teeth. To the “minister,” he said, “You may go now, Habib.” The old man dutifully got up and left the room—fast. He knew very well what might be about to happen here. For some time, Ghorbani regarded Flynn. “Your cover was, I am sorry to say, puerile,” he finally said.
    Flynn estimated that he could get to the Canadian Embassy in six minutes running flat out.
    â€œAh, my friend, you are still calculating.” He stood up and came around the desk, put his hands on Flynn’s shoulders, and looked up at him. “A human war machine,” he said. “How magnificent you are.” He stepped back. “I feel that I know you better than I do my own son. Oh, I must show you—” He took out his smartphone and put his arm around Flynn’s shoulder. At the same time, Flynn felt the barrel of a pistol touch,