Kerman was an administrative center, sufficiently big and far enough away that it should impress whoever stopped them.

Sure enough, a checkpoint appeared two bends later. Two soldiers ambled from the side of the road as they approached. The men, both privates and neither old enough to grow more than a loose stubble on their chins, raised their arms to stop the car.

“I talk,” said Gorud. “You can mumble in Russian, but it’s best if you don’t say anything.”

He rolled down the window as Dread eased on the brakes. Rather than getting out, Gorud climbed up so that he was sitting on the ledge of the door, talking over the roof to the two soldiers. He waved papers at them, speaking in rapid Farsi.

An officer walked out from behind the small clump of trees. His body language said he had a long day in front of him and didn’t want it to start badly.

Gorud took full advantage, and began yelling at the man before he even reached the road. He slipped out from the window, papers in hand, and began walking toward him, still yelling. The officer finally put up his hands apologetically, then waved at the driver to continue. The two privates stepped back and Gorud got in the car.

“Go, go, go, go,” he said softly. “Let’s get out of here.”

Turk relaxed and leaned his head to the right, looking past Gorud to see what lay ahead.

The sharp crack of rifle made him start to turn his head. There was another shot a second later, then automatic rifle fire and a light machine gun, but by then Grease had grabbed him and pushed him down toward the floor to protect him.

10

CIA campus, Virginia

RAY RUBEO TOUCHED HIS EAR BEFORE REPLYING TO Breanna’s question—a bad sign, she realized.

“You might have enough vehicles to strike both plants,” he told her.

“From what you’ve seen of the three-dimensional map,” said Danny, “do you think it’s possible?”

“Possible, Colonel, is one thing. Just about anything is possible. But will it happen? That is another question.”

“Your best guess, Ray. Will it work?”

Rubeo frowned, and crossed his arms. The body at the front of the conference room appeared almost real—if Breanna squinted, she would have sworn that Rubeo was actually standing there. But in fact he was speaking from his home out West; his image was a hologram.

“I think it’s the sort of gamble we can only decide to take when we have all the target data,” said Rubeo.

“What if we don’t get any more?” asked Breanna.

“Then it becomes a computing problem. A difficult one.”

“All right, thank you,” she said. “We’ll be in touch soon.”

The holographic projection disappeared.

“He’s in a particularly upbeat mood,” said Danny.

“What do you think?”

“Unless the Agency develops more information in the next few hours, I think you have to split the forces,” said Danny. “You only have a few hours left.”

“I’m not even confident they can get the best route figured out by then,” confessed Breanna. “There’s so little data on the sites.”

She swung in the chair and picked up the phone to call Jonathon Reid, who was over in the CIA main building.

“We’re still working on it,” said Reid when they connected. “By eight A.M. our time, I hope to have a definitive word on which of the two sites it is. New images from the 57 would be helpful.”

“If we send the aircraft now, it won’t be ready to support the assault,” said Breanna. The problem was not the plane but the gear—it had to be carefully reprogrammed and calibrated before the mission.

“Understood.”

“If we can’t get more data, we’ll find a way to strike both sites,” she said. “It’s our only option to make the President’s deadline.”

11

Iran

TURK STRUGGLED TO GET UP FROM THE FLOOR OF THE car, but it was impossible with Grease holding him down. The car whipped up the road, fishtailing and taking several turns before straightening out.

“What the hell is going on?” he asked when Grease finally let him up.

“I’m keeping you alive,” said Grease roughly.

“I mean with the gunfire.”

“They just started shooting.”

They drove another five minutes before pulling over. Gorud hopped out. Turk reached for the door but Grease stopped him.

“No chances.” Grease shook his head. “Stay in the car.”

“Come on, damn it. I’m not a fuckin’ kid.”

“It’s safer in here, and it won’t be a minute. Two guys got shot up pretty bad,” added Grease.

“So you want me to just sit here while the CIA and Mossad figure out what to do?” asked Turk, reaching for the door handle to his left. “No thank you.”

This time Grease didn’t stop him. Turk slammed his door and stalked back to the truck. Gorud stood talking to the Israeli at the passenger side of the cab. Captain Granderson, grim-faced and blood splattered, came out from the back.

“What the hell is going on?” demanded Turk.

Both men ignored him. Turk grabbed Gorud by the shoulder and turned him around with such ferocity that he surprised even himself. Taken off guard, the CIA officer stumbled back against the side of the truck, dropping the paper map he had folded in his hand.

“I said, what the hell is going on?” demanded Turk.

“We’re trying to figure out how to get north as quickly as possible, without too much risk,” said Gorud. He straightened, trying to recover his composure.

“You were talking about the Caspian,” said Captain Granderson.

“He was,” said Gorud, gesturing at the Israeli. “Not me.”

“My mission here is complete,” said the Israeli. “You can do what you want. I am leaving.”

“Then start walking,” snapped Turk.

The Israeli looked as if he’d been slapped across the face. He turned to Gorud and said something in Farsi. Gorud didn’t respond.

Turk looked at Granderson. “What happened back there? Why did they shoot?”

“I don’t know. They just started firing as we drove up. They must have seen something about the truck. We killed them all. I don’t think they had time to radio, but we won’t have too much of a head start once someone checks with them and they don’t answer.”

Turk reached down and picked up the map. They were at the edge of high desert, land that on the map seemed empty, but he knew from the satellite images that it would be studded with small settlements.

“This spot here—this is where the fuel rendezvous was to be with the helicopter, correct?” He pointed out the mark to Gorud.

“That’s right.”

“Let’s take the road that leads to it, sweep north, and then back west.”

“It will add hours of travel time,” said Gorud. “Better to go directly. Our gas is limited.”

“There’s a town here,” said Granderson, pointing to Khur. “We can get gas there.”

“We may be questioned,” answered Gorud.

“We’ll be questioned everywhere. Let’s go—we need to move.”

“I agree,” said Turk. “Let’s do it.”

He turned and found Grease standing so close to him that he nearly collided with him.

The Israeli started to object. “This doesn’t make sense.”

“It’s what we’re doing,” said Turk. “Like I told you, you can always walk.”

THE SIXTY MILES BY AIR TO THE REFUEL SITE WERE easily doubled by the switchbacks and curving roads that took them there. In several places the road was only theoretical, a fictional notion on the map describing a path that had been brushed away by a surge of wind-driven dirt and sand.

At least they weren’t being followed. Turk kept expecting aircraft to appear overhead, but the only ones he heard were well to the south.

It was nearly noon by the time they reached the abandoned strip mine where the fuel for the helicopter had been hidden. Waiting about a half mile south for a two-man scouting team to make sure the area was clear, Turk considered what he would do if it turned out to be an ambush. He checked and rechecked the AK-47 and pistol.