Marks laughed. “You know what they say about the three-letter agencies. If there’s metal out there that works, they’ll use it. This girl has got some years on her, but she’s aged like a fine wine. She’ll get us where we’re going—fast and low.”

“Just don’t start blasting any Wagner out of the speakers.”

“Roger that.”

Nir moved back into the cabin, counted heads, and then took a seat. They’d be in the air for only about an hour, but that was long enough to transport them to a different world. While a team of Jews would not be well loved here in Iraq, once they landed in Iran they would be in the belly of the beast. And if they were caught, they would undoubtedly be tortured, tried, and executed.

Just have to make sure we don’t get caught.

The rotors reached full speed, and he felt that familiar drop in his stomach as the chopper lifted off. No matter how many times he flew, the sensation was always the same.

While the propeller pounded the air outside the cabin, no one made any noise inside. Nir had instructed his team to stay absolutely silent to ensure that no details of their mission slipped into the ears of the two up front. Although the Americans were well aware of the identity of their target, there was no reason they needed to be let in on the technology of the hit. If later the ramsad determined he wanted to fill his U.S. friends in on how the operation was accomplished, that was his decision.

The ground raced by just 90 meters below, hilly and barren. About 20 minutes into the flight, Lieutenant Marks keyed the coms and said, “Welcome to Islamatopia, folks. Beware the ayatollahs—they bite.”

Another 45 minutes later, and the chopper was touching down.

As the rest of the team piled out, Nir put his head back into the cockpit. “Thanks again for the ride.”

“Send one right up Khamenei’s keister,” Marks said.

“Will do.”

When he jumped out, he saw the rest of his team already making their way to a large white panel truck. The terrain they were in was hilly and dirty. Two kilometers to the east would be the city of Sanandaj, the capital of Kurdistan Province in northwestern Iran. Then seven hours’ travel beyond that would be their destination.

Two men stood at the rear of the truck, helping Nir’s guys climb in. Although Iranian citizens, they were ethnic Kurds and both had been Mossad assets for over a decade. Anytime you work with locals, you put your life at risk. But on paper, these two appeared to be trustworthy.

We’ll find out, Nir thought as he walked toward them.

Putting out his hand, he said, “As-salamu ‘alaykum.”

The older of the two took his hand and replied, “Wa-‘alaykum salam.”