The door of the house opened as Sattari approached.
“General, my general, how good to see you,” gushed the tall man who stood on the threshold. “I received word two hours ago—an honor.”
“Thank you, Razi,” said Sattari. “May I come in?”
“Of course, of course. My manners.”
Razi was the size of a bear, and awkward in his movements; he pushed back and knocked into a small table as he made way for his guest. Two chairs were set up in the front room, with an unlit candle between them; Razi gestured for Sattari to sit, then bent to light the candle. The light made small headway against the room’s dimness.
“How are you, General? I was sorry to hear about your son.”
“Yes.”
“I am assured that the burial was prompt and proper,” said Razi, reaching to the floor and picking up a large manila envelope. “The location is on a map. The people who discovered the body were devout Shiites.”
Sattari nodded. He opened the envelope and looked inside.
He could see that there were two photographs, intended to seal the identification. He hesitated, then pulled them out, determined to confront the bitter reality.
His son’s face was bloated from the water, but it was definitely him. Sattari slipped the pictures back inside the envelope.
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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
“I greatly appreciate your service,” the general told Razi.
“You have done much for me.”
Razi nodded. Now the second in command of the Iranian spy network in Pakistan, his father had served with Sattari in the days of the shah. Not quite as tall as his father, who had been a true giant, he had inherited his hard gaze.
“And so, what are the Pakistanis up to?” Sattari asked, changing the subject.
“In chaos, as usual. Some want to make peace with the Indians. Some want to continue the war. They are so disorganized. They have not even been able to mobilize to recover the missiles that the Americans disabled.”
“Can they be recovered?”
“The Americans are already hard at it. That is what we have heard, anyway. There is no reason to doubt it—the Americans are everywhere.”
“Yes,” said Sattari.
“The Chinese are doing the same thing, we believe,” said Razi. “They are very, very busy. They have made an alliance with the bearded one, the Saudi. An alliance with the devil.”
Sattari had nothing but disdain for the Saudi, a Sunni fa-natic who had built a terror network by giving money to every psychotic madman in the Middle East. The Saudi hated Shiites, and hated Iran.
Still, there was a saying: The enemy of my enemy is my friend.
“What is the Saudi doing?”
“He has offered money for the recovery of a weapon, that much we know. And, from the two camps he had in the Baulchistan, some followers were sent north. They must be looking for it. Perhaps the Chinese helped him. Rumors …”
Razi was silent for a moment. “The Pakistani army actually tried to stop them, but after a gun battle they slipped away.”
“The Chinese are helping him?”
“It is not clear,” said Razi. “One of my people works at the Chinese consulate, the headquarters for the Chinese spy operations. There was a meeting a day ago, with a representative of RETRIBUTION
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the Saudi. After that, more activity. Their cryptologists were so busy they could not go home. The consulate is one of the few places in the city with its own power and satellite dishes,” he added. “Even the local government has asked to use them.”
“Do they know where the missiles came to earth?”
“The Pakistanis do not. The radars tracking them were wiped out by the American weapons.”
“The Chinese must,” said Sattari. “That is why the Saudi is working with them.”
“Or perhaps they just want his money.”
Sattari leaned back in his chair, thinking. Here was his opportunity after all.
Perhaps.
“I would like to go to Islamabad,” he said, making up his mind. “Is this possible?”
“Anything is possible, General.”
“Are there men there who can be counted on?”
“Yes.” Razi looked up, and their eyes met. “There is one thing, though.”
“What is that?”
“The oil minister was found dead in a mosque complex yesterday.”
“The Pakistani oil minister?” said Sattari, feigning ignorance.
“Our minister. Jaamsheed Pevars.”
“I had not heard that.”
The two men’s eyes were locked.
“My superior was a friend of Pevars,” said Razi.
“No one is closer to the oil minister than I,” said Sattari.
“Are you sure that he is dead? I saw him myself just a few days ago.”
“Very sure. His murderer should be brought to justice.”
“As quickly as possible.”
Razi grinned faintly, then rose. “For myself, I did not like Pevars. Too corrupt. Come, let me give you the name of a man who might help you in Islamabad. You should leave immediately.”
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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
An atoll off the Indian coast
Time and date unknown
THEY MOVED TOGETHER IN A DANCE, THEIR BODIES SO CLOSE
together they seemed to be welded, his leg between hers, her back nestled against his stomach. They rolled on the bed in a timeless trance, restless but peaceful in sleep, so used to the other’s movements that even their breaths were in sync.
Then something gripped him and he began sliding away, pulled back by a force greater than gravity, yet slower, more painful. He tried to cling to her but could not, found himself twisting in hot wind. An intense heat enveloped his head. His throat became parched, then burned. He was alone and felt empty, thirsty, for water and for her.
Alone.
Zen pushed himself away, rising on his chest in the darkness before twilight. He was sure that Breanna was gone.
But she wasn’t. He heard her breathing before he saw her, saw her before he felt her. He let himself slip back against her, trying to reassure himself that what he had felt was just a misshapen remnant of a bad dream induced by thirst and nothing else.
He was very thirsty but they had to conserve their water.
Perhaps this was what had caused his nightmare.
Thirst.
Zen wrapped his arm gently around his wife, cupping her breast. He tried to remember the first time he’d done that, concentrating not on the day or the time but the sensation, the way it had felt the first time to be in love. That was what he wanted to remember. He slid closer to Breanna, pressing his body on hers, huddling against the pain until the faint memory of falling in love lulled him to sleep.
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Northern India,
near the Chinese border
0220
THE WATER WAS AS CLEAR AS A POOL. LIU MOVED HIS WRIST
light around, playing it in front of him as he slid downward.
The large rocks at the bottom were smooth and shiny white, as if they’d been polished.
A piece of jagged metal lay on the floor of the lake to his left. He paddled to it slowly, still getting his bearings. The water wasn’t quite as cold as he’d thought it would be, but it was far from warm. The scuba gear stored on the Osprey was standard Navy gear, without the heating circuits that were part of the Dreamland equipment.
The metal twisted into a C, the curved end pointing toward a shallow ravine twenty feet away. Liu swam toward it, guided by the light from Captain Freah’s wrist as well as his own. The captain pushed ahead of him, then moved to his right. As Liu began to follow, a shadow emerged from the rocky bottom.
The baby. Not breathing.
It wasn’t the baby. Liu knew it wasn’t, but he had a hard time clearing the notion from his mind. He forced himself to look away, but the idea persisted, as if the ghost had managed to get inside his skull.
Danny Freah was waving at him. He’d found the warhead.
Liu pushed up to the surface, grateful to get away.
“Here!” he yelled to the others. “Here!”
JENNIFER WATCHED FROM THE SHORELINE AS THE OSPREY