The narrow road was muddy but passable. Tarid drove carefully, avoiding the largest of the ruts as he negotiated the hairpin turn that marked the midway point from the main road to the actual driveway. Within a few hundred feet of the turn, he came under surveillance from a sentry. He didn’t know exactly where this point was, nor did it matter to him—he had felt he was being watched from the very moment he left Tehran, and acted accordingly. If he was not resigned to his fate, he was at least under the impression that he was trapped, with no way out. Running would only prolong his agony and deprive him of any slim chance he had of talking Aberhadji into sparing his life.

Tarid’s fears had doubled each hour over the past twenty-four, pushing not just logic but every other thought from his mind. He drove up to the large yard in front of the ruined main house a condemned man, as if arms and legs were bound in chains to his waist. There were no guards near the car parked there before him, and he saw no one at the front of the large building slightly downhill on the left, which was used as the compound’s headquarters.

Had Tarid been thinking clearly, he would have interpreted this as a positive sign. But he was no longer thinking, clearly or otherwise. He closed the car door and walked slowly down the path, each step measured, each length the same.

He knocked. There was no answer. He knocked again. Once more there was no answer. He pulled open the door.

Aberhadji was standing over a table at the far end of the room, distracted, studying a schematic.

“You are ten minutes late,” he said.

“I—”

“It’s all right.” Aberhadji waved his hand. “I was delayed myself.”

Tarid stayed near the door, frozen by his fear.

“I’d call for tea, but there’s no one to make it,” said Aberhadji. “The crew has been dismissed until June.”

“Is the operation—are we shutting down?”

Aberhadji looked up, startled by the question. “No, no. Just the normal lull in gathering materials. So—your report?”

“My report.” Tarid’s throat narrowed to the size of a straw. He could barely breathe.

“What happened in Sudan?” asked Aberhadji.

“Sudan…”

“What is wrong with you, Tarid?” Aberhadji came out from around the table for a better look at his lieutenant. Even in the dim light near the door, Tarid seemed paler than normal. “Have you been drinking?”

“No. Drinking? Of course not.”

“Don’t pretend to be what you are not,” said Aberhadji sharply. “What does this arms dealer want? What does he know about us?”

“I don’t know. They—”

Tarid stopped speaking. Blood was rushing from his head. He had been wrong—Aberhadji wasn’t going to confront him about his skimming, and hadn’t sent Kirk to catch him.

“Are you all right? Have a seat. Here.”

Aberhadji took Tarid’s arm and gently led him to the side. Tarid didn’t smell as if he’d been drinking, though that might not prove anything. Still, it seemed more likely he had caught the flu.

“I—Kirk is in Tehran,” said Tarid.

“Tehran?”

“He wants—he wants to strike a deal. There was an attack in Sudan. I was captured. I was shot.”

“Shot?”

“Yes. In the leg. Nothing. It’s nothing. He freed me.”

“He freed you?”

While Aberhadji had made inquiries about Kirk, the information the intelligence service had turned up—that he had been active in Somalia and had contacts in South Africa and Germany—did not completely rule out the possibility that he was working for a foreign spy service, such as the CIA, or even the Israelis. The story that now unfolded from Tarid worried him further. This Kirk clearly had impressive resources—perhaps too impressive.

On the other hand, would someone who worked for the CIA or the Zionists dare come to Iran?

“Were you followed here?” Aberhadji demanded when Tarid finished telling him about his misadventures.

“No, absolutely not.”

“You’re a fool, Tarid. How many people followed you here?”

“I wasn’t—No one.”

“How did Kirk know you were in Tehran?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Did he follow you from the airport?”

“Impossible.”

“So he guessed?”

“I thought he was working for you.”

Another possibility presented itself to Aberhadji—Kirk was working for the government. Yes, the Iranian spy service could easily arrange all of this.

But to what end?

The past two days had been a terrible upheaval for Aberhadji. He wasn’t sure which way to turn. The CIA, the Zionists, his own traitorous government—everyone had fallen under Satan’s spell.

He could trust no one.

“This Kirk wants a really big arrangement,” said Tarid. “He’s greedy. He thinks he can supply weapons to all of Africa, through us. I’ll bet he killed Luo to get in position. But it might be something we should consider. He does have—”

“Stop,” said Aberhadji. “How are you to contact him?”

“I have a phone number.”

“Give me what you have.”

Tarid reached into his pocket and took out the half-torn card Kirk had given him in the restaurant. His hand trembled as he turned it over, realizing that Aberhadji thought it was an elaborate trap.

“You checked his background,” said Tarid. “You know as much about him as I.”

The glare in Aberhadji’s eyes told him immediately that saying that was a mistake.

“I want you to go back to Tehran,” said Aberhadji. “I will contact you in a day or two. You’ll call Kirk and set up a meeting.”

“He can’t be Mossad. He’s black.”

Aberhadji exploded. “You fool! You think the Zionists aren’t smart enough to hide behind a black man? And so what? You said yourself from his accent he’s American. He is probably CIA.”

“No. He risked his life—”

“Out! Before I lose my temper.”

DANNY, NURI, AND THE OTHERS WERE PARKED IN THE VAN about a half mile below the farm. They’d heard the entire exchange.

“Let’s get back to the highway,” Nuri told Danny. “Before he reaches the car.”

“He’s right,” Danny told Flash. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Are you guys going to tell us what’s going on, or are we just along for the ride?” asked Hera.

“Tarid just met with the person in charge of the program,” said Danny. “He wants to set up a meeting with me. They think I’m CIA.”

“Or Mossad,” Nuri said. “Or maybe just a greedy arms dealer.”

“So they know we’re on to them,” said Hera.

“They suspect it,” said Nuri. “They don’t actually know it. If we can get the ringleader to that meeting, we can tag him. Maybe even bug him. We have a couple of days—we can get some special bugs made up.”

“You’re not going to go ahead with a meeting,” Hera told Danny. “That would be suicide.”

“I don’t know,” he said.

“No, no. We’ll set something up.” Nuri studied the map on the Voice command unit, looking for a place they might stop to eat before Tehran.

“Set something up? You’re nuts,” said Hera. She leaned forward from the backseat. “You can’t go to the meeting, Colonel. There’s just no way.”

“If we arrange it right—”

“We have to get close to him,” said Nuri. “We have to follow him.”

“Then you should take the meeting if you’re so gung-ho,” said Hera.

“Maybe I will,” he told her.

“You don’t have to actually meet him,” said Flash. “Just have him walk through a populated area, brush by him and mark him.”

“It’ll need to be more elaborate to get a bug on him,” said Nuri.

“It’s not for another couple of days,” said Danny. “We have plenty to do in the meantime. I want to get inside the compound and take a look at it.”

Danny’s heart pounded at the idea of meeting with Tarid’s boss. Hera was right—it would be a setup, one almost impossible to escape from. And yet, part of him believed he had to agree to it, had to go, just to prove he was brave.

Why should he have to prove that now? Hadn’t he been brave in Sudan? He’d frozen for a moment, the briefest moment. No one else had seen, or known. How much courage was enough?