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Suddenly David wondered if they’d even make it to Karaj.

As they inched toward Azadi Square in the stop-and-go traffic, they saw the flashing lights of police cars ahead of them. More seemed to be coming from every direction, and despite the roar of jumbo jets and cargo planes landing at Mehrabad International Airport, the two men could hear the sirens approaching.

“We’re only a few blocks from the motel,” Najjar said. “Look, over there, to the left—it’s just a few blocks.”

“That explains it,” David said.

“What do you mean?”

“All the police.”

“That’s just because of the traffic, all the people trying to go to Mecca, right?”

“No,” David said, “they’re setting up a roadblock.”

Najjar stiffened. “Then we need to get off this road.”

David agreed. They did need to get off the main thoroughfare and avoid the roadblock. The problem was that every side street from here to the square was clogged with hundreds of other drivers trying to find their way around the logjam as well.

“Is this your car?” David asked.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, do you own it? Is it registered in your name?”

“Yes, yes, it’s mine.”

“We’re going to have to get rid of it.”

“Why? What for?”

“The moment a police officer runs these license plates, it’s going to come up with your name. We don’t want to be in the car when that happens.”

“What do you recommend?”

“Hold on,” David replied.

Then, without any more warning, David pulled the steering wheel hard to the right. He darted across two lanes of traffic, triggering a wave of angry drivers honking their horns before he got off Azadi onto a street called Nurshahr and began to head north. Unfortunately, it, too, was practically a parking lot. It wasn’t totally stopped. They were moving, but progress was slow, and David was getting edgy.

He needed to get Najjar out of Tehran. He was too exposed. They both were. At any moment, David knew, the Iranian police would in all likelihood be issuing an all-points bulletin. Every police station in the city was about to be faxed a wanted poster with Najjar’s face and details, which would be bad enough. But David had other concerns to worry about as well. Under no circumstances could he allow himself to get caught or implicated in Najjar’s extraction from the country. To do either would blow his cover and compromise all the work he’d done. The Twelfth Imam’s inner circle would stop using their new satellite phones. The MDS technical teams would be thrown out of the country. The CIA’s multimillion-dollar effort to penetrate the Iranian regime’s command and control would be ruined. And given that Iran already had the Bomb and a war now seemed both inevitable and imminent, the CIA needed every advantage it could possibly get.

Suddenly they heard a siren behind them. David cursed as he glanced in the rearview mirror and saw the flashing lights about ten cars back. He guessed that a police cruiser had spotted his rapid and reckless exit from Azadi Road and gotten suspicious.

Najjar, cooler than David would have expected under the circumstances, bowed his head and began to pray. David admired the man’s courage. He was trying to do the right thing for himself, his family, and his country. But already he was paying an enormous price. David couldn’t imagine the grief he and his family were suffering. His wife had almost certainly been captured by his enemies, as had her mother and their baby daughter. Who knew where they were right now? Who knew what kinds of torture they were now being subjected to? Yet Najjar’s initial anxiety seemed to be fading, and the worse things got, the more calm the man became.

The siren and flashing lights were getting closer. David knew what he had to do. He turned the wheel, jumped the curb, pulled Najjar’s car off the congested street and onto the sidewalk, and hit the accelerator. Najjar’s eyes popped open as he was thrust back against his seat. Pedestrians started screaming and diving out of the way as David plowed through trash cans and mowed over fire hydrants. Every driver on the street was cursing at him. Every horn was honking, but the police cruiser was left in the dust, and David let himself smile. He hadn’t had such fun in a car since training at the Farm.

The escape, however, was momentary. By the time David reached Qalani Street and took a hard left, another police cruiser was waiting for him and began pursuit.

David wove in and out of traffic, blowing through one light after another. The traffic on Qalani was not nearly as bad as the other streets they’d been on, but David was steadily losing ground. Najjar was not praying anymore. He was craning his neck to see what was happening behind them and urging David simultaneously to go faster and be more careful.

One block passed. Two. Three. The police car was hot on their tail and gaining. But the road ahead was coming to an end. They were coming up to a T. David suggested Najjar grab the door handle and brace for impact.

“Why?” Najjar asked at the last moment. “What are you going to do?”

David didn’t answer the question. It was clear he wasn’t going to be able to successfully turn right or left without rolling the car. Instead, he slammed on the brakes and turned the steering wheel hard to the right, sending the car screeching and spinning across four lanes of traffic.

They were hit twice. The first was by the police cruiser itself since it was too close behind them and the officer hadn’t expected David to slam on the brakes. The second was by a southbound delivery truck that never saw them coming. The air bags inside Najjar’s car exploded upon impact, saving their lives but filling the car with smoke and fumes. But theirs was not the only collision. In less than six seconds, David had triggered a seventeen-car pileup on Azizi Boulevard, shutting down traffic in all directions. Up and down the boulevard David and Najjar could hear the clash of twisted, tangled metal and smell burning rubber and burning engines.

David quickly unfastened his seat belt. “You okay?” he asked.

“Are we still alive?”

“Yeah,” David said, checking his new friend for any signs of serious injuries. “We made it.”

“Are you insane?”

“We needed a diversion.”

“That was a diversion?”

“It was,” David said. “Now listen, are you okay?”

“My arms are burning.”

“That’s from the air bags. You’ll live. Any broken bones?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Check yourself. Check the computer, and stay here. I’ll be right back.”

David couldn’t get out the driver’s-side door. It had been too badly mangled from the force of being hit by the delivery truck. So he climbed into the backseat, which was littered with shards of broken glass, and kicked out the back passenger-side door. His hands were covered with blood, he felt blood on his face, and his arms were badly burned by the air bags as well. Other than that, he was fine. He jumped out of the car and surveyed the scene. It was a terrible mess in both directions, but he saw what he needed—the police cruiser—and made his way to it as quickly as he could.

The car was a smoldering pile of wreckage. Gasoline was leaking everywhere. David feared a single spark could blow the whole thing sky-high. Inside, the solitary officer was unconscious. He couldn’t have had any time to react to David’s slamming on the brakes, and that had been the point. David had needed the element of surprise, and he’d gotten just that.

Using all his strength, David pried the driver’s door open and checked the man’s pulse. Fortunately, he was still alive, but he had an ugly gash on his forehead, his face was covered in blood, and David realized to his regret that no air bag had deployed. But he saw what he needed and pocketed the officer’s .38-caliber service revolver and portable radio. Then he pulled the officer from the wreckage, carried him a good distance from the glass and gasoline, and laid him on the sidewalk.

David hobbled back to Najjar’s car, suddenly realizing his right knee had gotten banged up worse than he’d first realized. He looked down and noticed his pants were ripped and that blood was oozing out of the knee. But he had no time to worry about it. They needed to get out of there before the place was swarming with more police.

“You ready to move?” David asked, coming over to the passenger side.

“I think so,” Najjar said, his arms filled with the laptop and accessories.

“Is that everything?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Follow me.”

“Where are we going?” Najjar asked.

“You’ll see.”

They walked north about a hundred meters before David turned, pulled out the .38, aimed at the gas tank of Najjar’s crumpled Fiat, and pulled the trigger. The car erupted in a massive ball of fire that not only obliterated the vehicle but all traces of their fingerprints and DNA as well. The force of the blast threw Najjar onto his back. David, still standing, gave him a hand and helped him back to his feet.

“What was that for?” a stunned Najjar asked, shielding his eyes from the intense heat of the flames.

David smiled. “Insurance.”