The Leveling

The landscape reminded Mark of the spaghetti western movies he used to watch as a kid, in which someone always wound up dying of thirst.

He floored the accelerator. From behind him, he heard a tapping at the narrow slider window in the back of the cab. Daria was perched in the space between the cab and the trailer. When they got to a relatively straight section of road, he muscled the window all the way open. Daria was just slender enough to squeeze through it.

“Welcome to Iran,” she said.

“The asshole in the truck behind us must have said something. He was the only one who saw us make the switch.”

An army jeep a couple of hundred feet behind them was gaining. Mark kept the accelerator floored. The whole cab rattled madly, and the steering wheel had way too much play in it.

A sets of headlights appeared in front of them.

Mark peered through the gloom. Between the approaching headlights and his current position, the road narrowed as it squeezed between the side of the mountain and the drop-off below.

“Buckle your seat belt,” he said.

“There are no seat belts.”

He felt for his own and grabbed air.

“Then hold on. I’m gonna—”

He gripped the wheel tighter as the truck bounced dangerously over a bump in the road.

“—try to block the road,” said Daria, finishing his thought for him.

“Yeah.”

“I’m with you.”

When the road narrowed, Mark braked as hard as he could without skidding out. He yanked the steering wheel to the right, so that the cab of the truck smashed into the wall of the mountain and the trailer fishtailed out into the center of the road. For a moment the whole rig teetered, then the trailer slowly tipped over, pulling the cab down with it.

The front windshield shattered. Mark smelled diesel fuel. His shoulder had slammed into the asphalt. Daria had fallen on top of him.

“Go, go!” he yelled. “Out the top!”

She pushed off his shoulder and squeezed through the passenger-side window. Mark was right behind her.

The jeep that had followed them from the border was nearly upon them. A few shots rang out as they jumped to the ground, putting the truck between themselves and the bullets. The car that had been approaching came to a stop about a hundred feet down the road.

Mark sprinted over to it, reaching it in seconds.

The bearded, middle-aged man behind the wheel was frantically trying to execute a K-turn in the middle of the road, but he was constricted by the steep mountain face above him and the precipitous drop-off. No one else was in the car.

“Get out!” yelled Mark in English. He yanked the door open and pulled the man to the pavement. More gunshots rang out.

Daria reached the car and climbed into the passenger seat.

“Stand in the center of the road with your hands up,” said Mark.

When the man didn’t move, Daria repeated the command in Farsi.

“Tell him to stand with his hands up and not to run, or he’ll get shot,” said Mark.

Daria did, and the man raised his hands above his head, shaking as he did so. Mark got behind the wheel, deftly turned the car around, and slammed his foot on the accelerator.





49


Ashgabat, Turkmenistan



LI ZEMIN UNBUTTONED his pants and loosened his belt just enough to allow himself freedom of movement. He loosened his tie and unfastened the top two buttons on his dress shirt.

The blinds were closed inside his spacious corner office at the Chinese embassy in Ashgabat, and the light was dim.

By the time he got to the twenty-fourth tai chi chuan posture—White Crane Spreads Its Wings—he was just beginning to perspire. So he was irritated when his routine was disturbed by a call from one of his field operatives.

“There was an incident.”

“An incident?” repeated Zemin.

“We believe Sava has crossed into Iran.”

Zemin listened carefully as he was told about the debacle at the border. Before hanging up, he noted, “This will affect your standing within the directorate.”

Zemin sat down in his chair, legs spread apart, and ran a hand through his hair.

The situation had not been contained. He had to assume the worst. Which meant he would need to speak to his uncle, the fat general. In person, in Beijing.

There was no other way.





50


Quchan, Iran



ONE MOMENT THEY were speeding across the empty desert and the next they were careening into a roundabout on the edge of the city of Quchan. Mark pulled off onto a side street lined with factory buildings and crumbling walls painted with advertisements for kitchen appliances.