The guards at the entrance stepped back, for while protocol dictated that all visitors be carded and their identification checked, all six Revolutionary Guard soldiers knew who Paria was. They saw the anger in his gait, the hatred in his eyes, and, perhaps most important, they all noted the handgun now grasped firmly in his right hand, cocked to fire. As the head of VEVAK pushed through the short line, knocking a man down as he did so, then leapt past the line of soldiers, and began a full sprint down the hall, the guards to a man thought the same thought: Paria might be going to kill Nava himself. They all knew Paria answered only to the Supreme Leader, Suleiman, and as long as that was so, the combustible, rabid wolverine of a man could do whatever the hell he wanted to, including put a bullet in the head of the president of Iran. Paria took the stairwell three steps at a time, running, sweat dripping down from his forehead, his khaki shirt half drenched. Two flights up, he went left and began a full-out sprint.
