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Pascal Arriet, to do a snap inspection. This was a rogue snap.
    Suddenly four Iraqi vehicles detached from the column and took off after the Nissan, which had picked up considerable speed. Its engine howled. The Nissan hit sand drifts that covered the road in places, flinging out boiling yellow-brown puffs of dust. It seemed to leap out through the dust with its headlights glowing, surfing waves in the road, nearly becoming airborne.
    “Damn it, Hopkins! We’re going to roll over!” Mark Littleberry said to the man driving, Supervisory Special Agent William Hopkins, Jr., of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
    Will Hopkins was a rangy man in his early thirties. He had brown hair, a square face, and a seven-day beard. He wore baggy khaki trousers and a formerly white shirt (now streaked with dust), and Teva sandals with green socks. There was a plastic pocket protector in his shirt pocket. It was jammed with pens and pencils and bits of junk. The belt that held up his trousers was a length of nylon webbing. Slung on the webbing was a Leatherman Super Tool, a combination pliers and screwdriver and knife and various other tools. The Leatherman on his belt identified Hopkins as a “tech agent”—an F.B.I. agent who deals with gadgets. Anything secret, especially if it’s high-tech, is guaranteed to break down, and a tech agent never goes anywhere without a Leatherman tool.
    Hopkins had earned a Ph.D. in molecular biology from the California Institute of Technology, where he had become adept with the machines and gadgets that are used in biology. He was a Caltech gadgeteer. His current job title was Manager of Scientific Operations—Biology, Hazardous Materials Response Unit, Quantico.
    As the vehicle lurched and bounced, Littleberry watched the screen mapper in his hands, and he compared it to the military map on his knees. The mapper was a glowing panel that showed a changing outline of the terrain. It was linked to some Global Positioning Satellites overhead. The current location of the car appeared on the screen.
    The Nissan hit a dip in the road. Two black metal Halliburton suitcases sitting on the back seat went bouncing into the air.
    “Watch it!” Littleberry yelled.
    “Are you sure this is the right road?”
    “I’m sure.”
    Hopkins mushed his foot on the accelerator and the Nissan moaned, the tires whomping over cracks in the road. The engine was running hot and hard, just under the redline. He looked in the rearview mirror. Nothing. He could almost hear the satellite calls to New York and Washington, Paris, Baghdad, Moscow: two U NSCOM inspectors had just gone out of control in Iraq.
    A long line of vehicles stretched behind the Nissan. First came the four Iraqi chase vehicles, which seemed to be losing hubcaps and bits of metal every time they hit a bump. Next came the entire U NSCOM 247 convoy, lumbering at a more dignified pace. Pascal Arriet had given orders for the rest of the convoy to follow Littleberry and Hopkins, and now he was speaking in French and English to various relay contacts on his shortwave radio, telling them there was a problem. As the leader of the convoy, Pascal Arriet had the same authority as the captain of a ship. He was supposed to be obeyed without question. Behind the U.N. convoy came yet more Iraqi vehicles. In all, there must have been at least twenty vehicles following them.
    In the Nissan, a hand-held shortwave radio beeped; it was sliding around on the dashboard.
    Hopkins picked it up. “Hello?”
    A crackly voice came out. “This is Arriet, your commander! Turn back! What are you doing?” He was speaking on a secure radio channel. The Iraqis couldn’t hear him.
    “We’re taking a shortcut to Habbaniyah Air Base,” Hopkins said.
    “I command you to turn back. You have not permission to leave the group.”
    “We’re not leaving. It’s a temporary detachment,” Hopkins said.
    “Nonsense! Turn back!” Arriet said.
    “Tell him we’re lost,” Littleberry said,