“It’s not a matter of trust.”

“I haven’t done anything stupid yet,” said Turk. “Except get involved in this.”

Grease helped Turk put Gorud into the cab of the pickup. The CIA operative was still running a fever, though he didn’t feel quite as hot as he had before. It was dark in the cave now, too dark for Turk to see anything more than Grease’s shadow as he backed out of the truck and closed the door.

“Stay by the mouth of the cave,” Grease told him. “Just stay there. No matter what happens.”

“Agreed.”

“I’ll come back and we’ll drive out. Or we’ll go the back way.”

“Got it.”

It was hard waiting. The darkness made it impossible to see. Turk was anxious. For the first time since the mission began he felt very alone—more alone than he had ever felt in his life.

He started thinking about what he would do if Grease didn’t come back.

He heard a vehicle in the distance, driving in his direction. He waited, saw the faint arc of the headlamps.

They disappeared. The night fell quiet again.

Ten minutes later he heard someone scrambling across the rocks to his right. He went down on his right knee, brought the rifle up and moved his finger to the trigger, ready to shoot.

“Me,” hissed Grease, still unseen outside.

“Come.”

“There’s a patrol down there,” said Grease when he was closer. “They have a checkpoint on the road. My guess is there’s another one on the north side that we can’t see.”

“Can we take them?”

“Going Rambo’s not going to help us complete our mission.” Grease moved past him to the pickup.

“What are you doing?”

“Watch the mouth of the cave.”

Turk hesitated for a moment, then started after him. He didn’t catch up to Grease until he’d reached the truck.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

Grease ignored him, working inside the pickup. Turk peered over his back as he jabbed Gorud’s side.

“What are you doing?” said Turk again. “Hey.”

“Shut up,” snapped Grease.

Turk tried pulling him away, but the sergeant was built like a bear and wouldn’t be moved. He jabbed twice more.

“Grease, what the hell?” he demanded.

“He’s not going to make it.”

“You’re giving him morphine? Why?”

Grease remained in the truck. Turk pulled at him.

“Just get back,” said Grease, voice shaky. He turned and shoved Turk with his free hand. Caught off guard, Turk stumbled back and fell down. He felt powerless for a moment, then gathered his energy and leapt back to his feet.

There was a muffled gunshot. Grease closed the pickup door.

“Get your stuff,” he told Turk. “We gotta walk.”

13

Iran

COLONEL KHORASANI STUDIED THE MAP. HE HAD made the mistake of reporting the vehicle to General Arfa, the political commander who in ordinary times was his boss. Arfa had immediately seized on the theory that it belonged to saboteurs—defectors, rather than commandos or smugglers—and demanded that Khorasani find them. Khorasani knew he had only himself to blame.

“It is getting rather dark,” said Sergeant Karim.

“I’m quite aware of the time, Sergeant,” said Khorasani.

“Every house and farm within five kilometers has been searched. The roads are being patrolled. But some of the troops—”

“What about this block here?” asked Khorasani. “These mines. Were they checked?”

“The search area didn’t go down that low. And, the map says—”

“I know what it says.” The legend declared the hills a special reserve area—in other words, a place owned by the nuclear research projects, though as far as Khorasani knew, there were no labs there.

Mines would be a good place to hide.

“Get Captain Jalol back on the radio. Tell him to have his men begin searching the hills north of the Exclusion Zone, in this area here. There are old mines—check each one. Look for caves in the hills. Each one to be checked. No excuses! And I want a house-by-house search in Saveh. And it’s to start now, no waiting for morning. If there are questions, have them speak to me.”

“There’ll be no questions, Colonel,” said the aide, gesturing to the communications man.

14

Iran

MOVING THE ROCKS THAT BLOCKED THE BACK ENTRANCE of the cave was easier than Turk expected, and within minutes they were outside, walking along a narrow ridge and trying not to fall off the side or start a small avalanche of dirt.

Turk was tense and tired, his nerves raw. He felt as if his colon had twisted itself into a rat’s tail of knots on both sides of his abdomen. The fresh air, though, was a relief, a blast of oxygen blowing away a hangover.

They were on the far side of the hills, away from the patrol. As the path widened the walking got easy. Turk felt as if they had escaped into a different country, free of the men who would kill them on sight. But he soon heard more troop trucks.

They’d made the right decision, even though he hated it with all his soul.

The gentle slope they walked out to had been farmed many years before, and in the twilight provided by the sliver of moon and the twinkling stars, he could see not only the outlines of a dirt road but a network of drainage ditches long since filled in by blowing dirt and neglect. The land here must surely be among the most difficult in the country to cultivate, excepting the absolute desert, and yet people had tried, apparently with quite an effort.

“Don’t lag,” said Grease.

“I’m moving.”

“We have two hours to go eight miles,” said Grease. “Come on.”

Past the ridge, they were about three-quarters of a mile from the paved road they needed to take south. They angled westward as they walked, gradually getting closer. Turk saw the lights of one of the checkpoints: headlights from a truck, and a barrel filled with burning wood or other material. Shadows flickered in front. Turk counted two men; Grease said there were three.

Rather than taking the road, they walked along a very shallow ravine that paralleled it. Roughly a quarter mile from the road, the ravine had been formed ages ago by downpours during the rainy months. It was wide and easy to walk along, and at first Turk felt his pace quicken. But gradually the weight of the control pack seemed to grow, and he slowed against his will. Grease at first adjusted his pace, then fell into a pattern of walking ahead and waiting. He was carrying his own ruck, filled with ammunition and medical gear, water, and some odds and ends they might need. They’d changed back into fatigues similar to those the Iranian Guard used, and decided not to take spare clothes. Even so, Grease’s pack was heavier than Turk’s, and though he offered to take the control unit, Turk refused.

“Pick up the pace, then,” muttered Grease. He repeated that every few minutes, and it became a mantra; before long Turk was saying it himself, almost humming it as he trudged. His knees ached and his left calf muscle began to cramp. He pushed on.

After they had walked for about an hour, Turk heard the sound of an aircraft in the distance.

“Jet,” he said, without bothering to look.

“Will they see us?” Grease asked.

“Nah. They don’t have the gear.”

Turk listened as they trudged onward. The plane was low—no more than 2,500 feet above the ground.

“You sure he couldn’t see us?” asked Grease after it passed.

“Nah,” insisted Turk, though he was no longer sure. How good were Iranian infrared sensors? He didn’t remember—had he ever even known?

After about fifteen minutes Grease spotted some buildings that hadn’t been on the map. Making sure of their position with the GPS unit, they walked into the open field to the east of the settlement. The area looked to Turk as if it had been soil-mined; mounds of dirt sat on a long, gradual slope southward. They reached the western end and climbed up an uncut hill, then walked along the edge and continued south for about a half mile.