“All right,” he said. “If you can jump a car.”

“With my eyes closed.”

HERA HAD LEARNED HOW TO DEFEAT ALARM SYSTEMS AND jump cars long before she joined the CIA, though the details of her training were glossed over on her résumé.

The problem was finding a vehicle to take. Danny had chosen the marina because the Voice’s analysis of activity there showed that it was nearly always deserted after evening prayers, and tonight was no exception. That meant no one was there to ask questions as he and Hera lifted the suitcases from the boats and rolled them up the dock. But it also meant there were no cars in the parking lot. Nor were there vehicles near the houses or on the road leading up to the small village nearby. The houses were small and battered, and didn’t even look occupied.

The village was centered around a very small mosque. Structures leaned up against it on all sides; these were more stalls than buildings, painted and repainted, covered with tarpaper, and lean-to roofs. Half of them had not been used for years. The others were small stores and stands where a variety of goods were sold when the owners took the time to open them.

Beyond them sat the bus stop, a post on the main road. There were more houses on the other side of the highway. These were modern structures, far larger than the ones in the village. The owners were more prosperous than the people who lived in the village, though none were considered rich, even for Iran. The real money and power—as in most places, they tended to go hand in hand—lived in the hills overlooking the seaside.

“There’s something over there,” said Hera, pointing to a battered pickup truck. It was a late nineties Toyota, easy for her to jump.

“Looks like it’s their only vehicle,” said Danny, examining the property. “I’d hate to take somebody’s only car.”

“You can’t have a conscience in this game, Colonel. It’ll eat up your gut.”

“Go.”

Danny took the bags and walked with them over to the bus stop. A few minutes later Hera drove up at the wheel of a late model Hyundai Genesis.

“I saw a house with two cars in the driveway. This was the fancy one,” she said, rolling down the window.

Danny brought the bags around the back.

“I have to change,” said Hera, running over to the bag. She pulled out the long dress and scarf, covering her black jeans and shirt. The outfit was somewhere between conservative and fashionable, typical of younger women who lived in Tehran, but had strong ties to tradition.

“You better drive,” she told Danny. “Women usually don’t when they’re with a man.”

“I intend on it,” he told her, adjusting the seat so he could fit his knees under the dashboard. He made a three-point turn and headed down the highway, in the direction of Tehran.

“How far we going?” Hera asked.

“That bus stop at Karaj, I guess. It’ll only be a half hour or so from there.”

“Why don’t we just drive it all the way to the city?” she asked. “We can get there before Nuri and Flash.”

“Let’s not push it.”

“There’s no traffic. Which means no police,” she insisted.

“The briefing I heard said there was the possibility of roadblocks.”

“Not at night. That stuff happens down in the south, near Iraq and Afghanistan. Here the police all sleep. Even during the day.”

“You seem pretty sure of yourself.”

“I’ve been in Iran a lot, Colonel,” said Hera. “I know the country pretty well. It’s not as bad as you think. There aren’t police on every corner, or checkpoints everywhere.”

“All we need is one.”

He leaned back in the seat, trying to relax a little. His neck muscles had seized up on him, and his knees felt as if they were stiff wooden hinges—old injuries reminding him of the past.

“I didn’t cause McGowan’s death,” Hera blurted.

“I know that,” said Danny. The comment seemed to come out of left field; no one had accused her of that.

“You think I don’t fit in.”

“You don’t.”

“Why not?”

“You’re pissing everyone off.”

Hera pressed her lips together, trying to think of what to say.

“I’m not a screwup,” she tried finally.

“I didn’t say you were…but you do have to get along with the people on the team.”

“If I point stuff out—”

“There’s a way to do it, and a way not to do it.”

“And I don’t do it right?”

“No,” said Danny bluntly. “You come off—you’re being a bitch, basically. You second-guess everyone.”

“I’m just giving my opinion.”

“Maybe you should hold onto it a little tighter.”

“I’m trying,” she said.

Hera could feel the tears coming again, hot at the corner of her eyes. She hated that—hated the cliché of the weak woman.

“Just do your job,” said Danny. “We’ll discuss this all later.”

“I am. I didn’t have anything to do with McGowan dying. Nothing.”

Danny reached his hand across and patted her shoulder. “Every one of us—we all were affected by it.”

“Not you.”

“Yeah, me too,” he said.

“You don’t have to worry. No one thinks you’re a screw-up.”

“I don’t think you’re a screw-up, Hera.”

She choked back her tears, feeling like a fool. Danny sat silently, thinking of his own doubts, his own fear, and the terrible knowledge of the price that had already been paid on the mission, not just by McGowan, but by everyone who’d died.

“I’m sorry Carl died,” Hera said again. “I never had someone—another officer—someone on the team—die on me. Not during the op.”

“It sucks,” said Danny, leaning back in the seat. “It affects us all. More than we know. Or want to admit.”

42

Base Camp Alpha

DANNY HAD LEFT BOSTON AND SUGAR TO PAY OFF THE mercenaries, close the camp, and get McGowan’s body and the rest of the gear back home.

The mercenaries were now a liability. Boston couldn’t just dismiss them—they’d sell him out in a heartbeat. But they were clearly on edge, and just from the expressions of the men on watch, he guessed he had a fifty-fifty chance of making it through the day without trouble. Boston told the bus driver, Abul, to find out what the men were thinking. Abul told him he didn’t have to ask.

“They’re anxious about getting paid. They’re wondering what happened to Kirk. And they’re worried about the government making trouble for them.”

“They’ll get everything they’ve been promised,” Boston said. “Unless I’m shot.”

Abul smiled nervously.

Danny and Nuri had driven the Land Cruisers to Khartoum, leaving them at the airport, where they could be picked up by a CIA contact and driven back to Ethiopia. Boston and Sugar had the bus, and two options for evac.

He could have Abul drive them over the Ethiopian border and then to the airport at Bole, just south of the capital of Addis Ababa. Crossing the border with a dead body was a problem, however. Without proper papers, it wouldn’t be allowed. Hiding him would be hard—the Ethiopian border guards thoroughly searched incoming traffic, and by reputation were difficult to bribe.

Driving north to Port Sudan would take longer and probably bring them into contact with regular army patrols—including the one that tried to hold Danny up on the way down. If anyone remembered the bus, they were unlikely to get by without a bribe large enough to buy Manhattan.

Boston opted for Ethiopia, and had asked Breanna to see if something could be arranged with the Ethiopian government to allow the body through without any questions. They were still working on it as night fell. He decided they were bugging out no matter what; it didn’t make sense to give the Sudanese army another day to recover from the drubbing it had taken.

Which brought him back to the question of what to do with the mercenaries.