"Oh, I don't think that'd be a good idea," Sarah replied.
"Why not? Don't you like me?" He winked at her.
She punched him and said, "Of course I do! But, you know, I'm staying with Rivka's parents and all. How would it look?"
He shrugged. "It would look like we're together."
She shook her head. "I wouldn't feel right. Sorry." She took his hand.
"It's okay. Your daddy might not approve, either."
That struck her as an odd thing to say. "I don't think my father would even know. He doesn't keep tabs on me like that. We live in different cities, remember?"
"Oh, right. Your father is the CIA spy."
"He is not."
"What's his name again?"
"Sam Fisher."
"Why not 'Sam Burns.' "
"My mother changed our last names legally after the divorce."
"Right. Sam Fisher. Sam Fisher--Government Agent."
She punched him again. "Stop it. He is not."
Eli kept at it. He hummed the "James Bond Theme" and pointed his finger like a gun. Sarah laughed. "Cut it out," she said.
"Okay. But I still think he's a government agent and not some kind of salesman."
"Why do you say that? Why do you even care?"
"I don't know. I guess I just want to know what my future father-in-law is like."
Sarah blinked. "Your what?"
"You heard me."
"Eli."
He grasped her hand and said, "I know, it's too soon to talk that way. But listen, if you do decide to come live with me in New York, it might happen. I care for you, Sarah. Really."
She looked down. "I know. Me, too."
"Tell me about your mother. What was her name?"
"Regan."
"She worked for the government, too?"
"Yes, I told you that. She was in the NSA."
"National Security Advisory?"
"Agency."
"National Security Agency--whatever."
"She was stationed in Georgia. You know, the former Soviet satellite."
"Uh-huh."
"That's where she met my father. At the time he wasin the CIA."
"Once a spy, always a spy, that's what I always say." She gave him a look. "Sorry. Go on."
"Anyway, they had this torrid love affair and eventually got married. In Germany. That's where I was born, on a military base there."
"Army brat."
She nodded. "I guess so."
"But they didn't stay together?"
"No. It lasted three years. I really don't remember much about my father living with us at the time. I was three when he left. My mom always said that the breakup was mutual--in fact it was her idea for him to go away--but I can't help thinking that he abandoned me. I guess any kid whose father leaves would think that."
"So what happened?"
"Mom took me back to the States. She continued to work in Washington and raised me by herself. I didn't really get to know my dad until I was a teenager. I'd see him every now and then, and he was like this strangerwho'd come see us, claiming to be my father. He'd bring me presents and stuff, but it all seemed very detached. Then there was a period of time I didn't see him at all. Several years. It was between the time I was nine years old and . . . fifteen, I guess."
"Where was he?"
"I don't know. Mom never said. Maybe she told him to stay away, I really don't know. Anyway, it was after mom was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. That's when he showed up again. He came to see her in the hospital and even tried for a reconciliation, but it wasn't to be. After she died, he became my guardian."
"And then you lived with him?"
"Yep. And it was weird. I was in high school and suddenly I lived with a man who was supposed to be my father. It was rough going at first, but I guess it turned out all right. We became friends, especially after I graduated and went to college." She shrugged and smiled. "Now I think he's a great guy."
"Even though he's so mysterious." Eli exaggerated the word with a whisper.
"Oh stop."
"Hey, I'm going to run downstairs and get a couple of sandwiches. How does that sound?"
"Okay."
"Stay here and I'll be back in a few minutes. You want meat, right?"
She laughed. "Whatever. I don't care."
"Coming right up."
He got up from the table and left the apartment, leaving Sarah shaking her head and wondering how she got involved with such an interesting man.
Downstairs, Eli stood outside the deli below his apartment, pulled out his cell phone, and made a quick call.
"Everything checks out with Sam Fisher," he said. "He was with the CIA in the nineteen-eighties and he married a woman named Regan Burns. She died of cancer and they had one daughter. He lives in Baltimore, Maryland, and supposedly works as a 'salesman.' "
Eli listened to the voice on the other end and then said, "Right. Definitely. It's just as you suspected. It's him--he's the one."
13
I have to enter Iran illegally. Iraq wasn't a problem because of the U.S. presence there. Iran, however, is a different story. Of course, an ordinary tourist or official governmental representative could simply apply for a visa and enter the country. Despite the prevalent notion in America that Iran is a hostile and dangerous place, it is actually a relatively warm and friendly place. I have been to Iran on numerous occasions, mostly to Tehran, and I've always found the people to be helpful and welcoming. Things have relaxed in the country since the heyday of the Islamic Revolution. There was a time when the komite, the religious police, were comparable to the Gestapo. Not anymore--today they are hardly visible on the streets. Nevertheless, you have to watch yourself. You must abide by the laws, especially the religious ones, stay away from rallies and demonstrations, and avoid talking about politics.
But since I'm on a Third Echelon assignment, I can't very well get a visa and enter the country by the normal channels. Even my Interpol cover won't fly in Iran, and I certainly wouldn't get anywhere telling the Immigration authorities that I'm with the NSA. So, even more than in Iraq, I have to be invisible.
The worst part about it is that I have to abandon the Toyota Land Cruiser in Iraq and make my way across the border on foot. Once I'm in Iran, I have to find transportation to Tabriz. Walking isn't an option.
I drive east before dawn, through Rawanduz, until I'm a mile away from the border checkpoint. I pull off the highway at the first dirt road I see, drive a ways, and stop. I make sure I have all my belongings, and then I leave the keys in the car. Some lucky son of a bitch is going to find himself a free SUV! I get out and walk across the rugged terrain, avoiding the highway, until I see the checkpoint in the distance. I'm on a hill overlooking the highway. I count three armed guards stopping vehicles traveling in both directions. On the other side of the border is another checkpoint run by the Iranians. The sun hasn't risen yet, but I have only an hour or so before daylight destroys my chances of getting across today.
I strip down to my uniform, stuff my outer clothes in the Osprey, and make my way down the hill. I dart from one large bush or tree or boulder to another, pausing at each step to make sure I haven't been seen. It's unlikely. My uniform is dark and there are no lights on the hill. The guards' attention is focused on the vehicles entering and leaving the country.
In fifteen minutes I'm at ground level, lying on the slope of a ditch, my head barely peeking over the top so I can see the checkpoint. They don't expect anyone on foot to try and cross over. If I stay down and move laterally east, I should make it. I wait until a car approaches the checkpoint and one of the guards talks to the driver.