All clear. I literally crawl into Iran.

I continue to walk in the darkness, remaining off the highway. The sky is beginning to turn deep orange and red. The sun will be up within minutes. I have to find a place to stay put through the day, and I think I see a good possibility about a mile ahead, where the highway crosses a bridge.

Ten minutes later I'm at the bridge just as the sun peeks over the hills directly in front of me. The bridge spreads across a ravine that appears to be a good two hundred feet deep. This is very hilly country--these foothills eventually become the volcanic Sabalan and Talesh mountain ranges.

Bridges are among my most frequented hotels. The accommodations are not always of the four- or five-star variety, but they usually offer me what I need the most--privacy.

I make my way down the hill to the edge of the highway, then inch down the steep slope next to the bridge. I grab the steel supports and climb up and around to the inside. It's an easy ascent to the underside of the highway, where a hollow section--a ledge--runs the complete length of the bridge. It's about four feet wide, with headspace of a couple of feet. It's perfect for me to lie in, as long as I don't roll over in my sleep and fall off. It's never happened before.

Before retiring for the day, I send a text message to Lambert via my OPSAT, telling him I'm in Iran and on my way to Tabriz. I then eat a very satisfying pack of rations. It's not a gourmet meal by any means, but it reduces the hunger pangs and lulls me into the disposition to get some shut-eye.

And that's where I sleep most of the daylight hours--underneath a bridge, the highway into Iran directly over my prone body.

MYOPSAT wakes me at nine o'clock that night, after the sun has set. The constant rumbling of vehicles passing over the bridge hasn't kept me awake--on the contrary, there's something akin to white noise about it. I slept like a log.

I carefully slip out from my crawl space under the bridge, grasp the support, and climb down to the ground. I move away from the road and into the brush, where my presence will go unnoticed. I sit behind a tree and check my OPSAT. Lambert has left a message--

CONTACT REZA HAMADAN IN TABRIZ BAZAAR "TABRIZ CARPET COMPANY" HE IS ON CIA PAYROLL AND EXPECTS YOU

Okay. Now the trick is finding a ride to Tabriz. Hitch-hiking isn't an option, so I start the long walk to the next town, which is Mahabad--about thirty miles away. I estimate I can make it in seven or eight hours. The drawback is the up-and-down terrain, which contributes to the wear and tear on my legs and feet. I silently thank Katia Loenstern for all the leg exercises she had us do in Krav Maga class. It's tough going and I have to stop and rest several times, which makes me realize it's going to take a lot longer than I initially thought. What the hell, I've had to rough it many times in my career, though, and this is a relatively tame sojourn compared to some.

Along the way I pass through a couple of seemingly deserted whistle-stop villages. While Iran is a very modern country, the rural parts still contain vestiges of the past. You'll see shepherds dressed in the same type of clothing that was worn hundreds of years ago. Not everyone drives cars. If I happen to get hurt or ill, I'm on my own. There aren't going to be any emergency clinics on the road. This thought flits through my mind when I hear wolves howling in the deep woods to my left.

It's nearly morning when I finally reach Mahabad. Not a large town, but bigger than a village, it's a rural community that is just beginning to rouse from slumber. I hear the musical intonations of Islamic morning prayers drifting through the air--something I have to admit I find very soothing. Besides the dominant Persian population of Iran, the region where I'm headed is full of Kurds and Azerbaijanis. Persians are direct descendents of the Aryans that first inhabited the land about four thousand years ago, and they make up over half the total population in the country. Nearly everyone in Iran is a Shiite Muslim, the Islamic branch that dictates the cultural, religious, and political direction of the country. Sunni Muslims make up a small ten percent or so. It's interesting to note that in the rest of the world, almost all Muslims are of the Sunni variety--but in Iran, and most of Iraq, the majority is Shiite.

I wander into town, now dressed in casual clothing with my uniform underneath. It's not as hot here in the mountain region, so I'm fairly comfortable. Most Persians are light-skinned and can pass for a Westerner if they have to. I blend right in, even with my darker complexion. I probably look as if I've just come off the bus from Tehran. No one looks twice at me. As long as I don't have to talk I'll be fine.

Most of the men are wearing the traditional jeballa, a full-length robe, and many wear turbans. In the bigger cities you'll see men wear Western clothing--suits, casual trousers, and shirts. The women, however, are almost always covered in the hejab, the modest dress. This is usually represented by the chador, a tentlike cloak that is draped loosely over the head, legs, and arms. Nothing that suggests the shape of the body can be worn. All bits of skin except for the hands, feet, and face above the neckline and below the hairline must be covered. In the cities women can get away with wearing a full-length skirt or even trousers worn beneath a long dark coat known as a roupush. The hair is covered by a simple headscarf. Here, though, everything's more traditional, more old-fashioned.

I find what I'm looking for at the edge of town. It's a sort of minor truck stop for commercial vehicles traveling to the north. I walk around to the back of the place where I can't be seen and sit down to wait for my ride. Thirty minutes later it arrives.

It's a ten-wheeler truck--perfect for my needs--with the words "Tabriz Moving Company" painted in Farsi on the side. I wait until the right moment, when the driver is inside the station using the washroom, then I run to the back of the rig, crouch, and crawl beneath the hot flatbed. I turn my belt all the way around so that the buckle is on my back and pull out the hook. I then lodge my body up above the axles, facedown, and position myself so I can hold on to and rest my legs on parts of the chassis with the hook securing me in place. It's not the most comfortable way to ride a hundred miles, but I've done it many times, and it really isn't so bad as long as you keep your wits about you, don't fall asleep, and never let go.

Five minutes pass and the driver gets back in the cab. The engine fires up and we're off. For the next three hours I have a lovely view of a speeding blur of highway, four feet below my face.

TABRIZis the largest city in northern Iran and is occupied primarily by Azerbaijanis. It seems to be an unsightly spread of high-rise apartment buildings, but the areas in the old town center are more representative of traditional Iran. After slipping out from under the truck, I make my way to the bazaar, just south of the Mehran River. It's the oldest and largest bazaar in all of Iran and is typical of the maze-like medinas of most Middle Eastern countries. I arrive midday, just as business is bustling. The teahouses are full, lined with men smoking water pipes or having lively conversations over Persian tea. The hawkers are out in force, soliciting every person that walks by to come into a particular shop and buy something. The atmosphere is much more relaxed and pleasant than it was in Iraq--understandably so.