TOOLESBORO, IOWA

DESPITE the urging of the mentally challenged Moroccan, Hakim took his time. He put on his pants and a shirt before grabbing his pistol and gas mask. He’d thought about this exact moment many times since purchasing the safe house. Escape was an illusion. Yes, they might make it to the river, but America was a country with vast resources. In the aftermath of the attacks on the Towers and the Pentagon every county and city in the country had received federal dollars to bolster law enforcement and critical response to terrorist attacks.

Local law enforcement went on a spending spree, snatching up state-of-the-art communications gear, biohazard suits, and weapons that rivaled those used by elite Special Forces units. Budgets for training increased in some cases by a thousand percent. Planes and helicopters with night vision equipment were added to the arsenal as well as boats and specialized vehicles of all shapes and sizes. And that was just at the local level. Chicago was less than an hour away by air, and the FBI Field Office there had a SWAT team that was considered every bit as good as their venerable Hostage Rescue Team that they kept in Quantico, Virginia.

Hakim, in general, was equal parts optimistic and pragmatic, but on this issue it was hard to be optimistic. He knew from the moment he found this place that they would be dead if the Americans ever found them. They went through the motions of discussing escape routes, and the provisions had been put in place, but both he and Karim knew it would do them little good. Ahmed, on the other hand, was probably naïve enough to think they could get away.

Hakim started down the hallway at an almost casual pace, his pistol in his right hand and his gas mask in the other. He made no attempt to stay low to the ground. The Americans would not fire first. They would try to contact them, ascertain the situation, negotiate their surrender, and if all of that failed they would strike or they might simply wait them out. That last point concerned Karim more than any other. If they were going to go down, he wanted to do it in one final, glorious battle, taking as many Americans with him as possible. The idea of being surrounded and forced to choose between suicide and surrender was extremely unappealing.

A few steps before Hakim reached the front of the house he heard the squawk of a radio. It was Ahmed calling out the distance to his targets. Hakim walked past the center staircase and reached the front portion of the house. A small dining room was on his left and a living room on his right. Karim was in the living room, kneeling at the window ledge, peering through the lace curtain.

Karim looked at Hakim and ordered, “Get down.”

Hakim ignored him and walked straight to the front door, where he looked through the small twelve-by-twelve-inch window. Two men were coming up the gravel driveway and they were definitely dressed in orange-orange hats and orange vests. Hakim was slack-jawed for a moment, and then began to snicker as he thought of Ahmed’s confusion. In Afghanistan the Americans would drape their vehicles and positions in orange panels to reduce the chances of their own planes bombing them. Ahmed assumed these men were wearing orange for the same reason-that they were federal agents and they did not want their own men shooting them.

“Get down,” Karim hollered.

“Relax,” Hakim said. “They are hunters.”

“How do you know?”

Hakim often grew tired of having to explain the obvious to his friend. “Hunting is very popular in this part of America. Animals are color-blind. They wear orange so they don’t get shot by another hunter.”

Ahmed’s voice crackled over the radio. “I have the shot. Do I have your permission?”

Hakim looked up the staircase and yelled, “No. Do not shoot.”

Anger flashed across Karim’s face. “It is not your place to give such orders.”

“They are hunters.”

Karim’s eyes narrowed. “What if they are agents posing as hunters?”

Hakim hadn’t thought of that, but he wasn’t about to admit it to Karim, so he looked out the window and studied the two men. They were now just fifty yards away. They’d made it up the long, straight stretch of the driveway and were now entering the large gravel square that sat between the house and the barn. The man on the left was half a head taller and quite a bit heavier than the other man. A few seconds later Hakim realized the shorter man was a teenager.

“They are not agents,” Hakim said assuredly. “One of them is a boy.”

“It could be a trick.”

Hakim didn’t even have to think about this one. The Americans would never try such a stunt. In a voice loud enough to carry up the stairs he said, “Both of you stay calm and keep out of sight. I will see what they want.” He bent over and set his gas mask on the floor.

“No,” Karim ordered.

“Trust me for once, you fool.” He slid his gun into the back waistband of his pants and covered it with the tail of his black long-sleeved T-shirt. As he started to open the door he heard Karim hissing obscenities at him. Hakim stepped onto the front porch and put a warm smile on his face. Holding his right hand up in a casual, friendly gesture, he said, “Good morning. Can I help you?” His English was near perfect, with only the slightest accent. If a stranger had to guess, he was more likely to think he was Indian or Pakistani than Saudi.

“Sorry to bother you,” the older of the two said. “My name is Ted White . . . this is my son, Hayden.”

“Hello, my name is Harry. How can I help you?”

The two men stopped about twenty feet from the front porch. “Well . . . I’m sorry to intrude, especially this early. I saw the No Trespassing signs.” The father looked over his shoulder back down the long drive. “But I didn’t know what else to do . . . you see, I’m a cousin of the Terwilligers . . . the family who used to own this place. I assume you’re the new owner.”

“That is correct.”

The man smiled a bit awkwardly. “Do you like to hunt?”

Hakim smiled back and said, “No . . . but I have nothing against it.”

“That’s nice to hear.” The man looked at the ground for a moment and shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

Hakim was extremely calm. He looked down the driveway and saw nothing but open gravel road. These two were not the advance element of some larger force. It was obvious the man had a question on his mind. “So what brings you out here at this early hour?”

“Well, I was wondering if you would give us permission to hunt down by the river. You see, I’ve been hunting turkey on this land ever since I was a little kid, and so has Hayden here. I promise you we won’t disturb you. We’ll just be using little .22s. Nothing more than a little pop really.”

Hakim nodded. Things were beginning to make sense. “How early do you like to start?”

“Well, that depends.” He gestured at his clothes. “We were hoping to get some in this morning. Got the rifles back in the truck. But if now’s not a good time I don’t want to disturb you.”

“I suppose now would work,” Hakim offered, already thinking the best way to handle this was to be nice. They had monitored the media closely, and while Karim’s photograph had been everywhere, Hakim’s involvement had yet to be reported.

“Thank you,” the father said and then pointed at him and asked, “You a Hawkeye?”

Hakim looked down at his black University of Iowa T-shirt and its bright yellow lettering. “Yes. I went there for graduate school. Their writing program.”

“You an author?”

“Yes. That’s why I bought this place. Nice and quiet.”

“I understand,” the man said, holding up an apologetic hand. He seemed to sense this would be a good time to leave. “Well, we really appreciate you letting us use the land. We’ll just skirt the creek down there and make our way down to the river. You’ll never see us. Really appreciate it. It means a lot.”