Chapter Thirty-Three

OUTSIDE FARMVILLE, VIRGINIA

The bald eagle soared a hundred feet above the circle of the woods-fringed lake, banked, and wheeled about. It folded its wings against its body and dropped like a white-headed bullet. Then, just when it appeared certain to crash into the waters of the lake, it opened its wings, flared, flipped its yellow talons forward through the surface, and came up with a small bass. Turning the fish head-forward for better aerodynamics, the great bird picked up its tempo and flapped heavily for the sky.

“Magnificent!” Farrokh Nassiri watched the eagle as it disappeared over the trees on the far side of the lake. “And this is the eagle that prevailed over your beloved wild turkey to become America’s national bird. Is that correct?”

“It is.” General Sam Wilson chuckled as he said it. “As you can see, both species have their merits. The turkey is practical. The bald eagle . . . awe-inspiring.”

“And awe won out?”

“Doesn’t it always?”

Now it was Nassiri’s turn to laugh. But his laughter died away quickly. He turned on the seat of the small, utilitarian, off-road vehicle, and looked at his host.

“General, I dreamed last night of my Zari . . . in Iran.”

The general said nothing, listening.

“Zari is a generous person,” Nassiri said. “Perhaps it is her faith; perhaps it is how she was born. Perhaps it is both. I have never known her to be selfish.”

“She sounds,” said General Sam, “like a fine young woman.”

“She is.” Nassiri nodded. “And if she knew what I have been doing, keeping my information away from you, I know what she would say of that. She would say I am being selfish.”

General Sam examined the sky above the lake. It was blue and cloudless.

“What of you, my friend?” He did not look at Nassiri as he asked it. “What do you say?”

Nassiri sighed.

“I say . . .” His voice was barely a whisper. “I say it is time for us to leave this beautiful lake to the eagle and go back to your house. In your safe I have some materials and I have need of them.”

THE GENERAL DIALED THE combination on the heavy old Mosler safe and turned the handle down, releasing the bolts.

“There you are, Colonel.” The general moved to the doorway. “I’ll just step outside and give you some privacy.”

The Iranian nodded his thanks and the heavy oaken door clicked shut.

Nassiri slid the leather portfolio out, then retrieved the small, black Moleskine notebook. He slipped the elastic band off the cover and opened it, flipping pages all the way to the pocket in the back. He took the slip of paper out, shook his head when he recognized Zari’s handwriting, and read the brief note twice. Then he shook the SD card out into the palm of his hand, secured the elastic band around the cover of the pocket-size notebook, closed and locked the safe, picked up his materials, and opened the office door.

He found General Sam in the kitchen, making coffee.

“General,” Nassiri said. “This is a beautiful home, with splendid country around it, and you have been a gracious host.”

The general spooned coffee into a filter. “I trust, Colonel, your visit here is only beginning.”

“It will not be necessary, sir. Everything you are looking for is here.”

Nassiri put the portfolio and the SD card on the kitchen table.

“In the portfolio,” he said, “are maps, site schematics, spreadsheets detailing the fortification of launch sites, complete plans for our Shahab 3 missile, including the latest upgrades, and a thorough down-to-the-minute timetable for the upgrade protocol. The SD card is the high-capacity version: thirty-two gigabytes. It contains everything I just described to you, in digital form.”

General Sam picked up the SD card. It was smaller than a postage stamp and weighed about the same as a business card. He looked up at Nassiri. “Would you mind if I copied this?”

“It is my gift to you, sir. It is yours to do with as you will. I have no further need of it.”

“Thank you, sir.” General Sam put the card back on top of the leather portfolio. He poured a cup of coffee for each of them. “There’s cream and sugar here. Why don’t you make your coffee as you like it and then we can retire into my study?”

Nassiri smiled. “You are a wise man, General.”

“I am complimented. Why do you say that?”

“Because this . . .”—Nassiri patted the leather portfolio—“. . . could be a ruse, disinformation to make you think Iran is at a greater state of readiness than she actually is. It could be a feint, to convince America and Israel to make a first strike, which would incite anger among Iran’s Middle Eastern neighbors. And by speaking with me, you hope to determine what I have here: a fabrication or genuine intelligence.”

General Sam added a little milk to his own coffee. He looked up.

“Yes, Colonel,” he said, “I have a responsibility to my country and that is exactly what I hope to do. Why don’t you gather up your materials and go make yourself comfortable? I’ll put some of this coffee into a carafe and join you momentarily.”

General Sam ran hot water into an insulated, stainless-steel carafe, and set it aside so the water would warm it and help it keep its temperature longer. The cabin was built so the bedrooms and the kitchen all faced east, toward the lake, and the old soldier looked out the window.

His cabin was at approximately 37 degrees north in latitude. He tried to remember the latitude of Tehran—it was about 35 degrees north, if he recalled correctly. And some parts of Iran extended even farther north than Virginia. So by looking due east, there was a good chance he was looking in the direction of his protégé, a young man whom he sent, albeit indirectly, into harm’s way. And from what Amos Phillips told him, Blake’s young lady was in Israel, so she was at risk as well.

Blake Kershaw, Alia Kassab, Zari Nourazar—the general did the math: if he added all of their ages together, the number was still less than the number of years he’d spent on Earth. And it didn’t matter if Iran launched first or if America and Israel orchestrated a preemptive strike; either way, there was a very good chance all three of those young lives would come to a very violent end.

He thought back to the last time he’d been in combat and then to his Cold War days, when he’d last been in harm’s way. It was long before Blake Kershaw was born.

It didn’t seem fair.

But General Sam was a general. He had made hard decisions before: decisions that put excellent people—friends good and dear—in the path of almost certain destruction. He accepted and willingly carried out orders that had likewise put himself at great risk. It was the nature of soldiering.

General Sam had long been a Christian and he believed in the prescience of God and the omnipotence of God. But he also believed God gave man free will and that quality was distributed without bias, available equally to saints and to madmen alike.

He emptied the hot water out of the carafe, filled it with coffee, and switched off the coffee-maker. Then he walked down the hall to his office, praying as he went that, in this case, the wills of the madmen would not prevail.