The doctors who treated him sometimes said it would be better that way.
Stoner had been through an extremely rough time. Captured after a horrendous crash in Eastern Europe, he had become a human experiment. Designer drugs and steroids were pumped into his body to rebuild his muscles and erase his will. He’d been made into an assassin, controlled by a criminal organization in the dark recesses of the old Soviet empire.
Better not to know, said the doctors. Even his friend Zen Stockard agreed.
Stoner didn’t have an opinion, particularly. Opinions belonged to a realm beyond him, housed in a metaphysical building some towns away. The only thing he cared about now were his present surroundings—a gym on a quiet campus of a federal prison. Stoner wasn’t a prisoner, exactly; he just had no other place to go, at least not where the government could keep an eye on him.
For his own protection, the doctors said.
Stoner looked at the boxing gloves on his hands, checking the tape. Then he began hitting the weighted bag. It gave slightly with each punch, though never so much that he felt as if he were a superman.
Jab-jab-punch. He danced left, jabbed some more, then moved right. He wasn’t a boxer. He could box, but he wasn’t a boxer. He just hit the bag for something to do.
“Hey, Mark. How’s it going?”
Stoner stopped in mid-jab and looked behind him. Danny Freah was standing near the door next to two of Stoner’s doctors—Dr. Peralso and Dr. Rosen. Rosen was the case doctor; Peralso was the head of the psychiatric section responsible for him.
Both men were afraid of Stoner. It was obvious from the way their eyes darted when he approached.
Danny wasn’t afraid. He was a friend. But his eyes betrayed a different emotion: pity.
Stoner greatly preferred fear.
“Danny, hi.” He turned back and began pounding the bag again.
As he continued to wail away, he heard the three men walking across the large gymnasium floor toward him. His senses of hearing and sight were greatly improved, thanks to the ordeal he couldn’t remember. Or so the doctors said.
Stoner slammed his fists against the thick canvas. It didn’t really feel good, but it didn’t feel bad. It just was.
Finally, he turned toward Danny.
“Business?” he asked.
“Yeah.” Danny nodded. “A couple of weeks ago you told me you wanted something to do. Well I have something. It’s not easy. Actually, the odds are against success.”
Stoner shrugged. “Sounds good.”
DANNY FOLLOWED STONER AND THE DOCTORS DOWN the long hallway. His friend’s reaction was exactly what he had expected. There’d be no joy or disappointment, no excitement, and no fear. He wondered if Stoner really understood.
The doctors, though they didn’t know the actual outlines of the mission, clearly suspected it was suicidal, because they began peppering Stoner with objections from the moment he agreed. They were still at it now, talking about “treatment modalities” and “long-term rest.”
Stoner ignored them, continuing to his room. He pressed his index finger against the reader at the lock, then raised his head so the laser reader embedded above the door could measure his face. The biometric check took only a few seconds. The door snapped open as the security system recognized him.
The room was as spare as a Buddhist monk’s. A bed covered with a single sheet sat in the middle of the room. There were no blankets, no pillows. An orange vinyl chair sat in the corner. Stoner’s clothes, the few he had, were closeted behind a set of folding doors opposite the bed. Having removed his gloves while walking down the hall, he pulled the last bit of tape from them and dropped it in a nearby wastepaper basket. He put the gloves on one of the shelves, then started to change.
“Do you want privacy?” Danny asked.
“Why?”
Danny backed out of the room anyway. The doctors stayed. He guessed they were continuing to argue with Stoner about not going.
Danny didn’t mind. Part of him agreed with them.
Stoner emerged from the room, dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt.
“Is that all you’re taking?” Danny asked.
“Do I need anything else?”
“No. I guess not.”
Stoner glanced at the two doctors, who had fallen silent.
“I don’t know when I’ll be back,” he told them.
They walked together to Danny’s car, neither man talking. Danny got in, but hesitated before turning the key to the ignition.
“This may be a suicide mission,” he said, staring straight out the front window. “Assuming it’s authorized, you’ll be dropped into Iran. It’s doubtful they’d keep you alive if you are captured.”
“OK.”
“You have to locate someone,” added Danny. “An American. He may be in custody by the time the mission is approved. If so, the mission will continue.”
“OK.”
“He can’t be allowed to tell the Iranians anything.”
“OK.”
Danny turned to look at Stoner. The former CIA officer was looking straight ahead, as if he were watching a movie. It would have to be a boring movie, as his face was expressionless.
“You’ll have to leave promptly.”
“Sure.”
“Immediately.”
“Yes.”
“You can say no,” Danny told him.
“Understood. Let’s go.”
6
Iran
THEY HID THE CAR ABOUT THREE MILES FROM THE CAVE that would be their sanctuary, parking it behind a ramshackle cottage off Highway 81 that the advance team had scouted a few weeks before. Grease arranged some threads on the seat as markers to tell them if it had been disturbed—the last of their surveillance devices had been destroyed with the truck—and then ran to join Turk and Gorud in the pickup. Grease suggested he’d drive, but Gorud insisted on staying at the wheel. He was better with the language.
Turk, exhausted, slumped in the middle, giving way to fatigue. He drifted into a vague sleep. Li was there, walking with him, talking. They were in Sicily, though not anywhere that he could remember being, even though it felt very familiar.
The beach was made of rocks rather than sand. Surf frothed up, running over their shoes and pants—he was in his dress uniform; Li was wearing shorts and a T-shirt that clung between her breasts.
A truck careened down on the beach. It was the military vehicle the team had been driving when they first met.
Dread was at the wheel, eyes fixed on some destination beyond them, in the water. When the truck drew near, Grease leapt from the back. The truck burst into flames as it reached the water’s edge.
It exploded. Li ran. Turk turned and saw Grease coming at him, an AK-47 aimed at his skull—
“Hey, come on. You’re too damn heavy to carry.”
Turk bolted from the dream back into reality. Grease was standing outside the truck, leaning in and shaking him. They were in the cave.
Turk shook his head, as if that might shake off the horrible image that lingered.
“You’re drooling,” said Grease. “I hope she was worth it.”
Turk wiped his mouth as he got out. There was a faint bluish glow to his right. He walked toward it, cautious at first, worried that he was still in the dream.
He found a turn and was nearly blinded by the flood of late afternoon sun. Gorud, an AK-47 cradled in his arms, knelt on one knee behind some rocks ahead. The mouth of the cave was another fifty feet away, up a gentle slope.
“How long did I sleep?” Turk asked the CIA officer.
“A bit.”
“I don’t remember getting here.”
“Uh-huh.”
“This place is bigger than I thought it would be.”