Slaton looked up, but without a mask he could see no more than the shadow of the small craft. It was enough. Aft, starboard side, a ten-foot line hanging straight down from the surface. There was Slaton’s salvation. Hamedi began thrashing for all he was worth, fighting the man who he imagined was trying to drown him, fighting the insistence of his lungs to breath. In a matter of seconds, everything would be for naught. Slaton paused just long enough to deliver a short, compact elbow to the side of Hamedi’s head. It did the trick, stunning the man, and with one last heave Slaton reached the regulator with his free hand.

He ignored his own mouth, instead feeling blindly for Hamedi’s face and stuffing the mouthpiece between his lips. Slaton hit the purge button, forcing air out of the system and into the scientist. Either by basal instinct or good sense, Hamedi began breathing, sucking long draws from the tank. The rig was a standard octopus setup, two regulators, and as his own lungs strained Slaton found the second mouthpiece and took his first breath after a minute of strenuous work. He disconnected the rig, put one strap over a shoulder, and then donned his mask and fins.

The kidon began kicking furiously.

*   *   *

Direction was everything.

Slaton referenced the luminous compass on his diving rig and pushed southeast. Overhead he saw all colors of light playing the surface, yet they were patternless and chaotic. Not yet searching. In twenty minutes that would change. By then Entrepreneur would be resting on the bottom of the lake, and things would begin to organize.

The lighthouse was less than a mile away, and when he got closer it would act to the inverse of its design—it would guide Slaton straight toward the rocky jetty. His problem was speed—he was dragging a full set of gear and a two-hundred-pound physicist. Hamedi had at least gone still. Slaton knew he hadn’t drowned, because the regulator’s exhaust port was venting a rhythmic flow. More likely the man was dazed from prolonged immersion in fifty-degree water. Slaton’s thick wetsuit gave him protection, but the scientist would soon succumb to hypothermia.

Slaton did everything he could to lighten his load. He ditched all his equipment, including the damaged MP7, until the only thing left was the scuba rig. The next twelve minutes were an underwater sprint that felt like a marathon. It was the most challenging physical test he had ever faced, and there had been many, both in training and in the field. His lungs heaved and his legs burned. He shifted to different strokes as cramps set in, and following a long-honed practice Slaton translated his pain into anger. He cursed Mossad and Director Nurin, cursed Iran and the depraved genius he was dragging behind him.

Finally, he saw the glow of the lighthouse.