Whiplash

improvements in the wing design not only minimized the impact of the aircraft’s larger payload capability, but subtly improved its handling characteristics when compared to the stock model. The avionics were also cutting edge, a considerable improvement over the 1990s era technology in the C-17s she was used to.

But the largest difference, Breanna realized, was in her own attitude. She felt content in the seat, happy even. She was far more relaxed than she’d been at any time since taking the Offfice of Technology position. There was something about being in the air, and being on a mission, that felt right. Unlike at work, where even at the most intense times her thoughts often strayed in a dozen different directions, here her focus stayed on her instruments and responsibilities.

Her “office” was an all-configurable glass control panel not unlike those she had helped perfect in the EB-52 Megafortress. While a basic configuration was preset to show the instruments and gauges a copilot would typically need in flight, Breanna was free to reconfigure the board just about any way she could imagine. A small world map at the lower left side showed their progress; above that, the Sky News International worldwide cable feed played.

“Mind watching the store while I take a little break, Colonel?” said the pilot, Captain Pete Dominick. Breanna had told everyone to use her Reserve designation; it seemed more professional than “Ms. Stockard.”

“Go right ahead,” she said.

“Just thought I’d take a constitutional,” joked the pilot. “And check to see if Greasy Hands’s coffee has eaten through the pot yet.”

“He does like it strong, doesn’t he?” said Breanna.

“I think when a guy becomes chief, they replace his stomach with a cast-iron wood stove. Nothing harms it.”

Parsons was oblivious, sleeping in his seat directly behind the pilot.

Breanna checked the instruments. They were on course, slightly ahead of schedule.

A few minutes later her satellite phone buzzed in her pocket. Thinking it was the embassy in Ethiopia — they still hadn’t received an approval from the government — she pulled it from her pocket without looking at the screen and flipped it on.

“Stockard.”

“I’ll see your Stockard and raise you a pair.”

“Zen!”

“Hey, babe. What’s up?”

“Oh, same-old, same-old,” said Breanna. “Is something wrong?”

“No — but I do have someone here who wants to talk to you.”

Breanna’s heart jumped. She’d meant to call Teri earlier. It was way past her bedtime — she must not have been able to sleep.

“Mom?”

“Hey, baby, how are you?”

“Dad said you listened to the concert by phone.”

“That’s right. It was wonderful. Now you really should be in—”

“How come you didn’t come?”

“Well, I didn’t — I’m on a mission, actually.”

“Like, a military mission?”

“Something like that.”

“Why couldn’t it just have waited until after my concert?”

“Teri — honey — unfortunately, it doesn’t quite work that way.”

“When are—”

Teri stopped, though the rest of the question was clear: When are you coming home?

Breanna thought of all the times when Zen had to work late. Teri had never objected, not once, that her father wasn’t around.

But the person she was really angry with was Zen, who in her mind had put Teri up to calling and embarrassing her. Even if it wasn’t his idea, she thought, he should have know what would happen and not let her call.

Or maybe, she thought, he resented her working as well.

Not working, just having something important to do.

“Teri, are you there?” Breanna asked.

“She’s a little overwrought right now,” said Zen, who’d taken the phone from their daughter.

“Well of course she is — why did you put her up to this?”

“I didn’t. She told me she wanted a good-night kiss.”

“God, I can’t believe this. I would never do this to you.”

“Listen—”

“Where is she now?”

“Sounds like her bedroom.”

“Zen.”

“Relax, Bree. She’ll get over it. I apologize. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have called. It won’t happen again.”

“Good,” she said angrily, before clicking off.

53

Tehran

Flash picked up the others in the van he’d rented at the Tehran equivalent of Hertz. The man at the desk had never rented to a foreigner before, but he was in Rome a few years back and happily engaged in small talk as he handled the arrangements on the computer. Flash had only been to Italy as a passenger on military flights stopping to refuel. He’d memorized a great deal of information about pipelines and related tools, but knew very little about the country he was supposedly from. He didn’t let that stop him, however — he told the man several stories of the incredible things going on in the country, including a plan to extend Venice’s canals to Rome.

“Roma? Really?” asked the man.

“Si, si,” said Flash. The conversation was in English — fortunately for him — but Nuri had advised him to throw in an Italian phrase every so often. Si, si—yes, yes — and dove il bano were about all he knew.

“Canals up the mountains?”

“Under,” said Flash. “Tunnels. Si?”

“Ah, yes.”

Flash’s congeniality got a hundred thousand rials knocked off the rental price as a special perk. But while he thought the van would be perfect because of its size, it turned to be less handy that he’d hoped. It barely fit down some of the streets in the old part of the city, and kept threatening to stall when he stepped too hard on the gas.

By the time he got over to the hotel, Tarid had already gotten into a taxi. Nuri and Hera flagged down their own, leaving Danny to wait for Flash.

The Voice steered them away from the knotted traffic in the center of the city, following as Tarid had the taxi take him southeast. They were still about five miles away from him when he stopped in Kahrizak, a small village in an agricultural area south of the city. They continued until they got to within a half mile, and then the Voice started picking up Tarid’s conversation. Flash pulled off to the side of the road while Danny listened.

Everything was a confused jumble for the first minute or so. Gradually, Danny realized this wasn’t the meeting they’d hoped to be led to. Tarid was looking up an old friend who apparently had died a year before. The woman who owned the house now had no idea where the family had moved.

Nuri called in from the taxi, which had been stuck in traffic and was still several miles away.

“Sounds like he’s looking up an old friend,” said Nuri. “What do you think?”

“Has to be.”