The cops were in their own city and they had radios. To Tesla and Charley, the streets were a maze. To the cops, the streets were a map they knew by heart. Alleys had exits and exits could be blocked. Sirens were howling everywhere, feet were pounding, whistles were blowing, radio chatter was loud in the air. Twice Tesla and Charley had to jam to a halt and spin around and take off again in the direction they had come. Twice the streets behind them were blocked, so they ducked into stores and barged through and came out through rear entrances to start all over again. Once a cop got his hand on Charley’s sleeve, and she whirled and ducked and pulled loose and fled.

In the end, Tesla’s pain saved them. They stopped running. Counterintuitive, but the right move in a mobile game. Fugitives run. Pursuers look for rapid movement. People sitting still pass unnoticed.

They dragged themselves through a shirt maker’s door and collapsed breathless on a sofa. Two seconds later a squad of police ran past the entrance to the store without a second glance. The shirt maker approached, tape measure around his neck.

Charley said, “We’re waiting for my father.”

The shirt maker withdrew.

Charley whispered, “What now?”

Tesla said, “Airport.”

“But our stuff is at the hotel.”

“Passport?”

“Here.”

“We’ll leave the rest of our stuff. We have to go.”

“Where?”

“Can’t talk to Wiki, can’t talk to Harold. It’s up to us now.”

“So where?”

“Kashmir.”

Thirty-eight thousand feet, but Middleton saw mountains ahead on the right that looked almost exactly level with the plane. Hundreds of miles away, probably, a trick of perspective in terms of distance, but there was no doubt about their elevation. A gigantic range, white, icy, jagged, majestic, shrouded with low clouds down around their knees.

Unmistakable.

Famous.

The Himalayas.

But: on their right?

Middleton asked, “Where the hell are we going?”

Chernayev said, “Who do you think is painted on the innermost doll? Who do you think we all serve, ultimately?”

And at that moment two jet fighter planes rose alongside, one to port, one to starboard, both of them slow and respectful and gentle. Unthreatening. An escort. For safety and for courtesy. The fighter planes were painted with muted camouflage patterns and toward the rear of their slim fuselages they had bright red bars separated by red five-pointed stars.

Middleton said, “China?”

15 - JON LAND

15

JON LAND

Middleton tried to use the mountains to orient himself, keep his bearings. But before long the sky stole them from him, the jet vanishing into the clouds. In the moments of silence that followed, he felt its steep descent in the pit of his stomach. The clouds cleared to reveal the mountains gone from sight and some sort of airstrip below.

“We’re landing.”