Blowback by Valerie Plame

silk, small items spilled onto the low table: coins, a key, a man’s wedding ring, and a pack of Iranian-brand cigarettes.
    â€œHe kept his most valuable possessions inside a special box in a hiding place only known to us at our house,” Yassi said.
    Vanessa began to reach out, but Yassi brushed her hand away. She picked up the cigarettes, holding the pack in the palm of her hand. “I found these. But my husband did not smoke.”
    Vanessa waited now.
    â€œInside,” Yassi said, using two fingers to press the pack so the opening widened. “Empty the cigarettes and you will see there is writing inside. When I asked him, he said if anything happened I should get this to you.”
    Vanessa held out her own hand again, but Yassi pulled the cigarettes away. “I need you to swear you will get my husband’s murderer!”
    Vanessa pulled back, almost shocked by Yassi’s intensity. An image flashed through her mind: the killer leaving the Prater in Vienna. “We’re following leads—”
    â€œI don’t care about leads. You are Ms. Dalton—” Yassi looked at her, mocking, clearly aware the name had always been a lie. “Arash did this work for you. He gave his life because he cared for you . . . and he wanted to stop the madness . . .” Yassi took a shuddering breath. “You used my husband. And I think he was a little in love with you.”
    â€œThat’s not true, Yassi, I certainly didn’t mean to—”
    â€œMaybe you did not mean to . . . but I think it happened for him anyway.” Yassi raised her palm. “It is your job to use people, to know their weakness and their strength. That is just how it is . . . so now, in return, I ask you for justice. The man who pulled the trigger in Vienna and whoever sent him—make them pay for what they did.”
    Vanessa swallowed hard. “I promise. I will do everything within my power to bring them to justice.”
    â€œI know people, too,” Yassi said finally. “I may not like you, Ms. Dalton, but I believe you will do what you say. You will honor your word.” She slid the pack of cigarettes across the table. “Look here, the seam is open.”
    Now Vanessa worked gently, spilling out the remaining cigarettes before easing the pack wide. Middle Eastern characters curled and dipped exotic and indecipherable, where Arash had carefully penned columns—fifteen columns filled with tiny, flowing script—along the cheap paper lining. A thin sticky line marked where he had reglued the pack.
    â€œWhat is this?”
The writing was softer than the Script of Nails Vanessa had seen on tombs in Turkey. Confused, her frustration rising to anger, she looked to Yassi. “It’s not Farsi. Is it some form of ancient Persian or Arabic?” She shook her head sharply. “We need geo-coordinates or geo-markers to locate the facility.”
    â€œWhen Arash was at university, studying to be a nuclear engineer,” Yassi said, speaking with some difficulty now. “He also studied the ancient languages, because in his heart, he was a poet. I can only give you this because I think this is what you are looking for.”
    â€œBut what
is
it?” Vanessa repeated. In the brief silence she shrugged, pushing beyond her plummeting mood, the frustration and disappointment. Yassi wouldn’t—couldn’t—give her anything more. She forced herself to speak quietly, practically. “I checked with people in Washington, and your bank account is set. You have funds, a lot of money. Anything else you need now that I might be able to help you with? You can contact me . . .”
    As she spoke, Vanessa slipped her cell phone from her pocket. The COS would send the cigarette package back to Headquarters via courier, where it would go to decryption analysts. Once she turned it over to the COS, Vanessa wouldn’t get