“I know it will, Dan.”

The President bent her face toward his shoulder, wiping away the single tear that had slipped from her eye.

And then she was over it, back in control.

“I get to the point where I can’t carry out my duties, then, yes, yes, then I will resign. But the doctor assures me—”

“Now listen—”

“The doctor assures me that it is at an early stage. There’s hope. A lot of hope. And a plan to deal with it.”

“I know there’s hope.”

Todd rested against her husband’s arms for another few seconds, then gently pushed him away. She took his hands, and together they went and sat on the edge of the bed.

“When are you going to go public?” he asked.

“I’m not sure yet.”

“You can’t keep it a secret.”

“I realize that. But there’s a lot going on at the moment.”

“Chris-tine. There is always a lot going on.”

“I think what I’ll do is announce it right before the surgery. That’s the most appropriate time.”

“Says you.”

“Yes, but I’m paid to make that decision.” She smiled at him; Reid was always telling her the same thing. “Besides, there’s no sense worrying people beforehand.”

“You won’t tell your staff?”

“I will. But doing that is almost a sure guarantee that it will go public.”

“What about your reelection campaign?”

“That—That is a problem.”

“You’re not running for reelection.”

“No. I agree.” Todd had given it a great deal of thought. Even if things did work out right—and she was sure they would—she didn’t think the public would vote for someone who’d had lung cancer. True, attitudes about cancer were changing, but they weren’t changing that much. Todd herself wasn’t sure whether she would give someone a job knowing he or she had cancer that would require aggressive treatment. So the best thing to do would be not to run. She’d been on the fence anyway; this just pushed her off.

“I’ll avoid the issue for a while,” she told her husband. “If I make myself a lame duck, Congress will be even more of a pain.”

“Avoid the issue, or put off a decision?” asked her husband.

“The decision is made, love.” She let go of his hand and patted it, then moved back on the bed. Her nightgown snagged a little; she rearranged it neatly.

“They’ll hound you until you say something, once the news about the cancer is out.”

“True. But I’m used to that. The big problem is lining up a successor.”

“You’re going to line up a successor?”

“If I can, yes.”

“How?”

“With my support. I have my ways.”

“Not Mantis?” He meant Jay Mantis, the vice president.

“Don’t even think it.” Privately, Todd called him the Preying Mantis, and it was anything but a compliment. He was the most duplicitous person she had ever met in politics, and that was saying a great deal.

“Who then?”

“I’ll tell you when I’ve made up my mind.”

“I have some ideas.”

“I’ll bet you do.” She pulled back the covers and pushed her feet under. “I have more immediate problems to worry about over the next few days.”

“Chris.”

“Don’t be a mother hen.”

“A father hen.”

Todd let her head sink into the pillow. Her health would wait; she had to deal with the Iranian mess first. Which meant a few hours nap, then back to work.

“Feel like going to sleep?” she asked her husband.

“To bed, yes. Sleep no.”

“That sounds a lot like what I was thinking. Let me turn off the light.”

5

Iran

BY NINE O’CLOCK TURK HAD GIVEN UP ALL ATTEMPTS at sleeping and lay on his back, eyes open, staring at the ceiling of the cave they were huddled in. He was ready for the mission, ready to succeed. But time moved as if it were a man crawling across the desert inch by inch.

He got up and left Grease sleeping to see what the others were doing outside. Dread, the medic who had looked him over, was pulling a radio watch, manning the communications gear with Gorud, the CIA officer.

“How we doing?” Turk asked Dread. The main com gear was a surprisingly small handheld satellite radio-phone that allowed the team to communicate with Whiplash and its parent command. Dread also had a separate device to talk to other team members who were working in Iran, including two-man teams watching the target. There was a backup radio, much larger, in a pack.

“We’re all good,” answered Dread. “I thought you were sleeping.”

“Can’t.”

“I have some sleeping pills. Like Ambien, but stronger.”

“I heard that stuff will make you sleepwalk.”

“Not this. Puts you down and out.”

“Then I might not get up. You got any coffee?”

Dread shook his head. “Can’t cook here. Might see the smoke or the flame. Or maybe smell the coffee. If we had any.”

“None?”

“Got something that’s basically Red Bull. You want it?”

“No, maybe not.”

“Caffeine pills?”

“Maybe I’ll try to sleep again in a little while.” Turk sat down next to him, legs crossed on the ground. “Any sign that we were followed?”

“No. That house hadn’t been lived in for at least three months,” added Dread. “Don’t know what they were up to. Came to buy it or maybe have sex. Two guys, though.”

“Weird, being in somebody else’s country.”

“What do you mean?”

“I just—nothing. They don’t seem to know it’s a war.”

“It’s not a war. We don’t want one. That’s why we’re here, right?”

“Are you ready to do your job?” asked Gorud. His voice sounded hoarse.

“Yeah,” answered Turk.

“Then worry about that.”

“I don’t have to worry about that. I can do it,” added Turk, feeling challenged.

Turk stayed away as the Delta team traded shifts. Around noon he had something to eat—a cold MRE—then tried once more to sleep. This time he was successful; nodding off after nearly an hour, he slid into a dull blackness.

The next thing he knew, Grease was shaking his leg back and forth.

“Time to get up,” said the sergeant.

Turk rolled over from his back and pushed up to his knees. His neck was stiff.

“We’re leaving in five,” said Grease.

“Got it.”

“We’ll get food at the airport.”

“OK.” Turk unzipped the control backpack and checked it, more out of superstition than fear that it had been taken or compromised. Satisfied, he secured the pack and put it on his back.

It was three o’clock. He wished it was much later.

“Car’s here,” said someone outside.

Turk was surprised to see the civilian Toyota from the night before making its way up the rock-strewn trail. He thought they’d gotten rid of it.

“The three of us will use the car to get to the airport,” said Grease. “We’ll be less conspicuous. The rest of the team will be in the troop truck a short distance away. Put the backpack in the trunk.”

“I don’t want the control unit out of my sight.”

“You’re not going to leave the car.”

“It stays with me.” Turk’s only concession was to take it off his back and put it on the floor between his legs.

“If we are stopped at a checkpoint, you are Russians,” said Gorud after Turk and Grease climbed into the backseat. Gorud was at the wheel and a Delta soldier named Silver took the front passenger seat; his accent was old New York, so thick it could have been a put on.

“We are all Russians,” repeated Gorud, making sure they knew their cover. “We are looking for new oil fields and business opportunities.”

“Right,” said Turk.

“You all speak Russian,” answered Gorud.

“Da,” said Silver.

“Yeah,” said Grease, who then added a phrase that translated to the effect that Gorud could perform several unnatural acts if he had any question of the sergeant’s abilities.

Gorud scowled but turned to Turk. “Captain?”

“Ya govoryu na russkim dostatochno khorosho?” answered Turk.