“What is it?” asked Bennett.
Hamid laughed. “It is not illegal, if that is what you mean. Believe me, my drug-running days are long behind me.”
So Bennett swallowed the capsule.
He liked Hamid.
They’d spent a day and a half together conspicuously avoiding any talk of themselves or the dangers that lay ahead. The less they knew about the other, the less that could be forced out of them if either was captured. Still, Bennett was curious about Hamid’s story, and how he’d met Mordechai. There was something about this man — no more than thirty years old — that suggested Bennett could trust him.
So he did.
Mordechai typed another e-mail.
“Sasha — haven’t heard from you — any news at all?”
He hit Send, then got back down on his knees to pray. Bennett was counting on him to get some answers — and get them soon.
It was Gogolov’s first TV interview since the coup.
And it wasn’t even with a Russian network.
A German news network was airing the program, which would be retransmitted throughout the world over and over again for the next twenty-four hours.
Gogolov sat in a red velvet chair by a crackling fireplace in his ceremonial office within the Kremlin. He was dressed in a charcoal gray suit, a crisp white shirt, a gold tie, and the trademark round, gold wire-rimmed glasses that made him look far more like some sort of scientist or professor than the ruler of a rising new Russian Empire. But for a small bandage on his forehead and some scabs on the left side of his neck, one might not have had any evidence he’d just nearly been killed.
“Czar Gogolov, first of all, you look remarkably healthy for a man who was almost assassinated.”
“I was very fortunate,” Gogolov replied in a firm, measured voice. “Sadly, a number of agents in my protective detail were not so lucky. There are grieving widows in Russia tonight, and I believe they deserve justice.”
“Foreign Minister Zyuganov indicated at Saturday’s press conference that you have three suspects in custody and that all of them have confessed to being operatives of the Israeli Mossad. When you speak of Russia’s grieving widows deserving justice, are you referring to the kind of punishment these men will receive if they are found guilty?”
“Yes, in part. The case is a very serious one. It is about far more than the individuals we captured. This assassination attempt was, in my view, an act of war.”
“By Israel?”
“Who else? We have no one else in custody but three Israeli hit men.”
“Does this account for the mobilization of Russian forces?”
“There is no correlation. The U.N. vote triggered the mobilization of our forces so that we and our coalition will be in position to enforce the wishes of the global community, if such action is required.”
“Would you say the actions of the Israeli government over the past few days, particularly if they were behind the plot against your life, have made war more likely?”
“They certainly have not improved the situation. The Israelis should take a serious look at Saddam Hussein’s miscalculations in the days leading up to the U.S. — led war. No one is interested in war with Israel. We are all interested in peace. Only peace. But the decision is not ours to make. It is Israel’s alone.”
It was time.
The closer they got to the border crossing, the more Bennett’s pessimism rushed to the fore. He pulled out his new passport — the Iranian passport — and glanced at it one last time before handing it to Hamid.
Nadia Mehrvash.
It was crazy. How in the world was he supposed to pass as Hamid’s twenty-eight-year-old wife? A pregnant wife, at that? It was madness.
He wiped the fog off his window and caught a glimpse of himself in the side mirror. For the first time in weeks, he was grateful Erin couldn’t see him now.
Over a false pregnant belly made of rubber — under which were hidden the Berettas and ammo, his satellite phone, and Russian cash — Bennett wore a traditional Persian dress. His face was nearly covered by scarves more suggestive of a religious Saudi woman than one from rural northwestern Iran, but who was he to argue?
Mordechai and Hamid had said it would work, and there was no backing out now. They couldn’t exactly shoot their way through the border with fifty thousand heavily armed troops passing by.
“Ever read God’s Smuggler by Brother Andrew?” Hamid asked.
Bennett shook his head.
“Ever hear of the smuggler’s prayer?”
Bennett shook his head again.
“It goes like this,” said Hamid. “Lord, when you were on the earth, you made blind eyes see. We pray now, Lord, that you would make seeing eyes blind. Amen.”
“We’re going to die, aren’t we?” Bennett said, feeling his stomach cramp up.
“Hopefully not. Just keep quiet, and whatever you do, do not make eye contact with the guards. Remember, you are an eight-and-a-half-months-pregnant Muslim woman. If any of these guards touches you, I will cut his throat.”
Bennett looked at Hamid, not sure if he was serious. He’d know in a moment.
The line continued to move. Only one more car to go, a filthy white Toyota with Turkish plates. Bennett tried to remember what kind of plates the VW had, but just then he felt a series of intense pains shoot through his stomach and doubled over.
What was wrong with him?
Bennett looked over at several soldiers standing by the guardhouse ahead of them. They seemed to be looking at the VW. One of them checked a clipboard and pointed in their direction.
Hamid jammed the stick shift into first.
Bennett winced in pain again.
“Good, that is good,” Hamid said as the lead guard waved them forward. “Pretend you are having contractions.”
“That pill,” Bennett groaned as the pain increased. “You did this to me.”
“Shut up and pray,” Hamid shot back. “And for heaven’s sake, do not go into labor.”
Bennett felt like his appendix was about to burst.
He glanced in the side mirror. A large truck had pulled in behind them. Even if they wanted to escape, there was no way out now.
Suddenly, there was commotion ahead.
The Toyota ahead of them wasn’t moving. The truck behind them inched forward, blocking them in. Was it a trap? Bennett looked at the guards again and saw the concern on their faces turn to alarm as one of them got off a cell phone and drew his weapon.
“Get out! Get out of the car! Get your hands up!”
Bennett didn’t understand the words, but the tone was unmistakable. He looked up to see guards with machine guns racing in from all directions.
Desperate, he began to pray as the most intense pain set in. This was it. They weren’t going to make it into Iran, much less Russia. They weren’t going to be able to save Erin. They couldn’t even save themselves.
And then, ahead of them, the driver of the Toyota hit the gas and raced for the border.
“Stop! Stop!” one of the guards shouted.
The night erupted with gunfire.
The windows of the Toyota exploded as the body of the car was riddled with bullets. Moments later, the car plowed into a Russian fuel truck and erupted into flames.
People were shouting furiously. Bennett couldn’t understand a word but assumed they were calling for fire equipment. A border-patrol agent ran to their car and shouted something at Hamid, who quickly handed over their passports.
“We’re trying to get to Tabriz as quickly as we can,” Hamid said, “before the pain gets any worse.”