"What can this guy tell us, if he's for real?" Franklin asked.
"What we need to know is what highway they took out of the port city, how far they went, how long they drove. We know the trucks were closed so the riders couldn't see out except occasionally. Time will be a big factor. If we know they traveled north for over an hour up into the mountains, we're starting to get a general idea on the location, but that's about all."
Both the SEALs nodded.
"Now, how about something to eat? My man, Coman, has been working on it. Figured you haven't eaten since yesterday sometime. Not your usual American meal, but we have some goodies."
As if on command, the small Iranian, who had vanished through a curtained door, appeared with a tray. It was filled with food two kinds of meat, thick slabs of bread, a jar of American peanut butter, and steaming cups of coffee. On another platter were four kinds of fruit.
A half hour later most of the food was gone.
George watched them eat, had some himself, and then asked the question of the day "The meat sandwiches, how did you like them?"
Both said they were good. Different, but good.
George grinned. "Probably the first time you've ever had a dog meat sandwich." He held it for a moment then laughed at the wild expression on the two men's faces. "Just kidding. I don't think they eat dog meat over here. It was most likely goat or lamb. I try never to ask what I'm eating."
Twenty minutes later they had walked to the soccer field. It was bare brown earth with no chalk lines but with goalposts on either end. No one was there practicing. George left the SEALs on the side where small buildings evidently housed equipment. Franklin went around the end of the field to the shacks on the far side, where he vanished. Both had their 9mm pistols.
Douglas saw the Iranian come from the other side of the field. He came partway, looked around, saw only George and then slowly walked up, and evidently began to talk with George. Douglas watched around him — the street, half a block away — and checked out anyone walking nearby. One man came directly toward the field, then when he saw the two men there, he turned and walked away quickly.
Douglas kept one hand on the gun under his outer garment, but relaxed when the stranger left.
He looked back at the conference in the middle of the field. All seemed to be going well. They did not shake hands, but he saw a curt nod from each man. The contact went back the way he had come, and George waved at Franklin, who followed him back to where Douglas watched.
George smiled. "All right. So far, so good. This lens grinder said he was sure that they traveled fifty miles almost due north on a new road. There were no seasonal gullies washed through it, so it was new or finely maintained. From the fifty miles, he isn't sure where they went next.
"This does nothing more than corroborate information we already had. But it's good to know we have at least two witnesses who put the work north and into the mountains. He thinks he fell asleep after the fifty miles. He does know a woman here in town who he thinks may be able to help us. She's at one of the city's good restaurants. He will meet us there tonight and introduce us."
"How did he come up with fifty miles?" Franklin asked.
"Time and speed. He said the truck had a governor on it so it couldn't go over forty miles an hour. The roads would support that speed, but not much more. He says he had a stopwatch feature on his wristwatch, and timed it at an hour and fifteen minutes. That would be fifty miles at forty miles per hour. But where did they go after that? This woman might be able to help us."
"I thought women were like slaves in this country," Douglas said.
"Oh, they are, believe me. Can't vote, can't drive a car, can't hold a job worth anything. They are baby makers and child raisers. That's about it."
"But this woman you want to meet?"
"She's remarkable. I've heard of her. Something of a star performer in this country. She's married with two boys, and is one of the best belly dancers in the country. Persia, remember, the heart of the belly dancing trade. Because of that, she has been given certain allowances and privileges."
They went to the cafe that night. George's man, Coman, led the way and eased them into the place. He knew someone there. It was more like a nightclub than a restaurant, but there was no alcohol. Not in a Muslim country. The surroundings seemed typically Persian to Douglas curtains, drapes, incense, low lighting, strange music on even stranger stringed instruments, and far off some woman's singsong voice echoing through the eatery.
They met the man George had talked to in the soccer field. He kept looking around as if someone were after him. At last he relaxed. He had them seated in a corner away from most of the other diners. A few minutes later he brought a beautiful woman to their table and introduced her to them. He didn't used their names. She said her name was Murrah, the Arabic equivalent of Mary.
Murrah smiled at them, and spoke in heavily accented English. "My friends. I will see you later and dance for you. Enjoy yourselves. Perhaps we can do something good for Iran and the rest of the world. It could start tonight."
She left then, and their food came. Again the Americans weren't sure what they had for their dinner. It was good. Soon, Coman stood and motioned the five of them to a private room, where they sat down at a low table. The room had heavy drapes, more incense, and soft lilting music. On the table were five tall glasses of some kind of special drink. They sampled it and talked quietly. A few moments later the music changed, and then took on a throbbing, intense beat.
From the drapes, a belly dancer came out and did her dance to the accompaniment of the faster and faster sensual music. It was Murrah.
Douglas tried to figure out how old she was. He'd heard that belly dancing was an art that took years to learn. This woman had to be in her forties, he decided. Yet she was still slender, with well-rounded hips, which are the featured part of the body for the dance. She had changed from the dress she had worn in the cafe. Now it was the traditional belly dancer's skimpy and revealing costume.
Before it was over, the four men were tapping the low table in front of them to the beat of the music.
She came to the end of the dance, but the music continued, and she sat down close to George. She whispered to them in English.
"I can help you," she said. "But not here. Too many know me and watch me. They pay to watch me." She laughed. "I know what they are doing in the south. I don't like it. The devil bombs are too many already. Iran does not need them. I will help you. Come to my house later tonight." She gave Franklin a piece of paper.
"Be there at midnight, and we can talk in private."
Then she was gone.
The five men stood. Franklin looked at the note. "It's an address." He showed it to George, who smiled.
"Yes, a good address in the better part of town. The three of us will go; Coman will keep the home fires burning." They said good-bye to the man from the soccer field, after giving him a sheaf of rial notes.
They took a taxi most of the way back to the safe house, then walked in twos the last eight blocks. They paused, backtracked, and circled around. No one followed them.
Douglas sat in the safe house and field-stripped, cleaned, and oiled his pistol. It didn't need cleaning. He looked up at George, who was reading a newspaper, trying to understand the Farsi.
"George, how far are we from Chah Bahar?" Douglas asked.
"What? How far? To hell and gone way down there in the south almost in Pakistan. Must be fifteen hundred miles." He frowned. "Won't do. We have to find the location here. Somebody here knows exactly where that facility is. All I have to do is make the right contact. Maybe Murrah is the one. She seems to know that they are working with nukes down there and doesn't like it."