“We can dance around this thing all night.” Duboe’s face was iron hard in the passing headlights. “It still comes down to orders.”
Marc decided there was nothing to be gained by further argument. But as he turned away, Duboe added, “I thought Walton was nuts, sending a greenie into the Red Zone. I told him that too. Want to know what he said?”
Marc wasn’t sure what he wanted, beyond rescuing Alex and bringing his team back alive. But he said, “Fire away.”
“Walton told me that if I gave you a chance, you’d knock my socks off.”
Marc had no idea how to respond, so he remained silent.
Duboe glanced over to where Josh was surrounded by his team, their faces lit by the laptop screen. Hamid Lahm sat two rows back, his cellphone attached to his ear. He said, “I’ve been bouncing around the Middle East for twenty-three years. What I’m looking at here is a genuine first. These people aren’t just taking aim. They’re building trust. With each other. With you. They’d follow you anywhere.” Duboe went quiet for a moment, then added, “Tell the truth, so would I.”
Chapter Forty-Two
O nce they passed the final Iraqi village, the road became much rougher. Concrete pyramids littered the fields to either side of the highway. They shone in the headlights like broken teeth. Hamid said, “Antitank barriers. From our war with Iran.”
They knew when they had reached the border because the traffic ground to a halt. They all worked to stow their gear at the back of the bus. Then Hamid passed out black shirts and pilgrim headscarves emblazoned with Farsi script. That done, he opened the bus door, shook Josh’s hand, saluted Marc, and trotted back to the second bus.
Over the comm link, Hamid confirmed the second bus was ready. Marc said, “Time to shift over, Josh.”
“On it.”
Marc had decided he would rather have his top fighter controlling the first bus in case of trouble. He watched as Josh traded places with his man who had been driving. Marc took a seat across the aisle from Fareed. “We clear on everything?”
“Oh, very much, yes.” The stout Iranian had already sweated through his black T-shirt. They were all hot. The A/C in both buses was out and only a few windows opened. Marc moved in close enough to study the man’s eyes. Fareed looked scared, but also eager.
“Okay, Josh, let’s roll.”
Fareed had explained that the customs officials normally flagged the buses forward, ahead of the line of crawling trucks. The pilgrim traders paid special bribes for this swift processing. Hamid had obtained a go-anywhere letter from the security minister. But using it on the Iraqi side of the border risked showing their hand. They were planning to talk their way through.
Traffic was relatively light, one of the reasons Marc had wanted to make this approach in the dead of night. Several truck drivers leaned against their vehicles and watched as the buses crawled past them.
They threaded their way through the traffic cones and approached the brightly lit border. Marc said, “Okay, Fareed. You’re on.”
The Iraqi Customs guard was exactly what Marc had hoped for. The man was so sleepy he stumbled as he climbed the bus steps. He would have gone down if Fareed had not been there to catch him. The customs officer swatted at Fareed’s hands, which caused Fareed to drop the cash he held. The customs officer came to full alert when he spotted the five fifty-dollar bills scattered at Fareed’s feet.
Fareed’s hands fluttered in protest as the officer scooped up the money. He glanced down the bus aisle, but the only working lights were the dashboard controls and the officer’s own flashlight, which the man could not aim because of his fistful of dollars and Fareed’s rising protest. He grunted and swatted at Fareed a second time. Fareed ducked the hand and tried to claw back some of the money he had dropped. The officer’s light bounced over Josh, who had slumped over the wheel, one hand pushing back his black bandana to rub at tired eyes. The customs officer snapped at Fareed and clambered back down the stairs, stuffing the bills into his pocket.
Once the man was outside, Fareed’s voice rose a full octave, picked up by one of the Iranians riding in the second bus. This second man hollered at Fareed. Marc assumed the second man was displaying anger after hearing how Fareed had dropped all of their bribe money. Someone farther down the bus’s aisle laughed softly. Marc hissed the men to silence.
The customs officer must have realized he risked losing at least some of his cash. He turned away from the second bus. With a final disgusted swipe at Fareed, he stomped back toward the guardhouse. He had not asked for any papers.
Josh started the bus, ground the gears, and greeted Fareed with, “Way to play the scene, baby.”
“I do good, yes?”
Duboe intoned, “And the winner for best actor is, can I have the envelope please.”
Marc let them cheer a moment, then said, “Okay, get ready for Act Two.”
– – The Iranian border crossing was something else entirely.
They rounded a concrete barrier and rolled forward the quarter mile. Ahead of them stretched the same pitted asphalt, the same limp flagpole, the same decrepit house. But the three bearded guards who awaited them all wore tailored black uniforms and very alert expressions.
Fareed hissed, “Revolutionary Guard.”
“Is that normal?” Marc asked.
“I have never legally passed the border.” Fareed discussed it with the other two Iranians on their bus. “We are thinking, yes.”
From his position behind the wheel, Josh muttered, “We got trouble.”
“What is it?”
“I’m being pointed to a parking spot on the other side of that truck to our left. Looks like they’re sending the second bus to the right side of the customs house.”
Marc keyed his comm link. “Hamid, you there?”
“Very much yes.”
“Tell your driver to get in tight to our bumper. Don’t let them split us up.”
“I hear and obey.”
“Everybody check their comm links are on, then lock and load. Here we go.”
The customs officers wore their trousers tucked into their boots, like paratroopers on parade. But their beards were scraggly, and the fronts of their shirts were stained. They carried side arms, with the holster flaps snapped in place. Josh drove the bus slowly, saluting the officer through the windshield.
Marc asked, “Who’s behind the wheel in bus two?”
“Is Yussuf.”
“Have him pull over to our left,” Marc ordered. “Ignore that guard yelling at you out there; his gun is still holstered.”
Outside their bus, the first officer had been joined by a second. Both began shouting and waving their arms. Josh pulled around a truck laden with burlap sacks filled with vegetables. Through the open window, Marc smelled earth and some peppery fragrance. The truck driver stood by his load, gaping at the two buses moving against the officers’ orders and now grinding to a halt on his load’s other side.
Fareed asked, “Do I go out?”
“Stay where you are,” Marc said.
“If I am not coming, they will grow more angry.”
“Hold tight.” Marc crouched and edged forward. “Josh, can you handle their backup?”
“Got it.” The buses had old-fashioned windows that slid open on runners. Marc would have thought it impossible for a full-grown man to exit through one. But Josh made it out so swiftly that he was gone before the customs officer started pounding on their door.
