The general’s face reddened, blood flowing with his anger. It happened in a flash, as if he were a computer image changed by the flick of a button. Vahid lowered his gaze to the table. He was helpless, really, trapped by powers that regarded him as little more than an ant.

With the grace of the one true God, thought Vahid, they will shoot me and I will die quickly.

“I am going to make use of this incident, son, as others will. I tell you this because I want you to have confidence—others will pressure you to change your story. But you will stick to the truth. Because if you do stick to the truth, you will have a powerful protector. Do you understand?”

“I think I do.”

“Just stick to the truth. To what you saw.”

“Yes, General.”

“Once an announcement is made, then that will be the government’s position,” continued the general, his tone now heavy with sarcasm. “There will be questions for you. Simply trust that I will watch out for you. And that your career will proceed accordingly.”

Vahid faced a truly Faustian bargain. If he did what the general said, he could well be targeted by the backers of the nuclear program, including the Guards. Shirazi, so confident in an air force base, might not be nearly as powerful out in the wide world. Hitching his career, and more likely his life, to the general could prove disastrous.

On the other hand, what was the alternative? Going against Shirazi was simply impossible.

I just want to fly, thought Vahid. I don’t want to be in the middle of this at all.

“Are you OK, son?” asked the general.

“Yes, General.”

“We’re agreed?”

“Of course. I can only tell the truth.”

Shirazi leaned back from the table. “You’re feeling well, now that you’ve eaten?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So, why are you not back in the air, then?” asked the general.

“I . . . was waiting to speak to you, sir.”

“Good, very good.”

The general started to rise. Vahid shot to his feet. “Sir—the plane?”

“Which plane?” asked the general.

“The light plane that I encountered.”

“Ah. A spy for the Israelis—delicious—a member of Sepa¯h. The plane was stolen from Isafahan. It flew south, then to the Esfahan region, southeast of the Natanz complexes. A body has been recovered. You don’t think he was trying to bomb the plant, do you, Captain?”

It would make a great propaganda story, thought Vahid, and he would be the hero, as he had shot down the aircraft. But anyone with any knowledge of aircraft and their capabilities would scoff and point to a thousand inconsistencies.

“No,” said Vahid.

“Good. Because there were no bombs or evidence of any aboard. There may have been a passenger. We’re searching. As are the Pasdaran.” The general gave him a fatherly pat on the shoulder. “Get back in the air, son. The sooner you fly, the better you will feel.”

16

Iran

THE BUS’S BODY WAS BATTERED, BUT ITS DRIVE TRAIN was in top condition; Turk had trouble keeping up as they drove back to the site where the rest of the team was holed up. The troopers accepted the appearance of the bus without comment, as if they’d been expecting one all along. Turk told Granderson all that had happened as they carried Green into the back of bus. It started in disconnected bits, punctuated by gasps of air. Even to Turk it sounded unreal.

“Was it just a cock-up?” asked Granderson. “Or were they looking for us?”

“It might have been—I don’t know.”

“Doesn’t matter now.”

They got the wounded inside the bus, then took off, Granderson in the lead at the wheel of the school bus, followed by the Israeli alone in the pickup, and Gorud, Grease, and Turk together in the car. They let the bus get a little ahead, figuring it would be what the Iranian authorities would be looking for; the others would close the gap if there were trouble.

Gorud had plotted a route east of the city over mining and desert roads that would keep them away from most towns. But the roads were nearly as treacherous as driving through the town would have been. Soon after they started, they hit a long stretch of hard-packed pavement completely covered with sand. Even though the bus and truck passed over it without a problem, Gorud lost traction for about twenty yards until the front wheels found the hard surface again.

“Maybe one of us should drive,” suggested Turk, noticing that Gorud’s injured arm had given him problems.

“Yeah,” said Grease.

“Let me,” added Turk. “You can watch with the gun.”

“I’m OK to drive,” protested the CIA officer.

“It’s better this way,” said Turk, tapping him on the shoulder. “Come on.”

They changed places. Turk, too, had trouble with the loose sand. Once on the highway, the car steadied and he settled down a bit. He didn’t relax—his heart still pounded like a racehorse nearing the finish line. But his view expanded, the cloud of fear lifting slightly. It was as if the horizon had pushed back—he could see farther out and plan before reacting.

Then, almost imperceptibly, either seeking relief from the present or simply lulled into a relaxed moment, his mind began to wander. He thought of Li and their last moments in the hotel room. He ached to see her. He felt her weight against his shoulder. He wanted to brush his fingers across her breasts.

Grease’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “You getting tired of driving?”

“No, I’m good.”

“Careful where you are on the road.”

Turk steered back to the lane gently, trying to stay in control. He glanced over his shoulder; Gorud was dozing in the back. He was tempted to ask Grease if he thought they’d get out of this, but the question seemed too defeatist, as if it implied he’d already decided they wouldn’t.

“They’re looking for a place to change the bus,” Grease said after talking to the others by radio. “I don’t know if we’re going to reach your target area by tonight.”

“Yeah, I was thinking that myself.”

“You have to talk to them, don’t you? You haven’t checked in.”

“Oh, God.”

“Keep driving. They’ll wait.”

Turk hunched forward, leaning toward the wheel as if that would help him focus. He needed to use his pilot’s head—he needed to be clear and precise, not dreamy, not distracted. Being on the ground unhinged his concentration.

No more thinking of Li. No more thinking, period. Except for the job.

“Road,” said Grease.

This time Turk jerked back. His fingers gripped the wheel so tightly they started to cramp.

“I’m thinking maybe we just abort,” said Grease, his voice almost a whisper. “Go straight north while we still can.”

Shocked, Turk jerked his head. “No fuckin’ way.”

Grease stared at him for half a moment, face blank. Then, though the rest of his face hinted at sadness, the ends of his lips peaked upward ever so slightly. “You’ve been hanging around with us too long.”

THE FIRST PLANE PASSED NEARBY ABOUT AN HOUR LATER.

They were south of Sar-e-Kavir, a small town in the shadow of the desert hill where Highway 81 connected with the east-west highway they needed to take. Turk couldn’t see the aircraft, but from the sound he knew it was propeller-driven, something small, very likely similar to the aircraft they had crashed the night before. It didn’t linger, but that was small consolation; for safety’s sake they had to conclude they had been spotted.

Not that they had many options.

Granderson turned up a mountain path about two miles from the town. The steep and rocky path turned out to be a driveway to a pair of small farms dug into the rock outcroppings. Both had been abandoned some years before, though when they first drove up they didn’t know that, and they spent ten minutes checking and clearing the dilapidated far buildings on the larger of the two properties. Sure they were secure, they took the bus into the barn, where there was just barely enough room amid the clutter of old crates and a dilapidated trailer to hide it.