Also by Andrew Britton

The Operative

The Exile

The Invisible

The Assassin

The American

THE COURIER

ANDREW BRITTON

PINNACLE BOOKS

Kensington Publishing Corp.

www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

Also by Andrew Britton

Title Page

PROLOGUE - ALTONA, GERMANY, 1915

BREST, FRANCE, 1944

CHAPTER 1 - DAHLGREN, VIRGINIA, 2013

CHAPTER 2 - WASHINGTON, D.C.

CHAPTER 3 - BERGEN, NORWAY

CHAPTER 4 - RABAT, MOROCCO

CHAPTER 5 - WASHINGTON, D.C.

CHAPTER 6 - TEHRAN, IRAN

CHAPTER 7 - SALÉ, MOROCCO

CHAPTER 8 - DAHLGREN, VIRGINIA

CHAPTER 9 - SALÉ, MOROCCO

CHAPTER 10 - FÈS, MOROCCO

CHAPTER 11 - FÈS, MOROCCO

CHAPTER 12 - FÈS, MOROCCO

CHAPTER 13 - FÈS, MOROCCO

CHAPTER 14 - FÈS, MOROCCO

CHAPTER 15 - WASHINGTON, D.C.

CHAPTER 16 - SOUK EL ARBA DU GHARB, MOROCCO

CHAPTER 17 - MOULAY BOUSELHAM, MOROCCO

CHAPTER 18 - TANGIER, MOROCCO

CHAPTER 19 - ALGARVE REGION, PORTUGAL

CHAPTER 20 - TANGIER, MOROCCO

CHAPTER 21 - TANGIER, MOROCCO

CHAPTER 22 - TANGIER, MOROCCO

CHAPTER 23 - TANGIER, MOROCCO

CHAPTER 24 - NATIONAL HARBOR, MARYLAND

CHAPTER 25 - TEHRAN, IRAN

THE OPERATIVE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Copyright Page

PROLOGUE

ALTONA, GERMANY, 1915

When he was growing up in Altona, Germany, Karl Rasp owned a wooden boat he used to sail on the Elbe. It was a hand-carved replica of a steamer, and it had been given to him on his eighth birthday by his grandmother. He named it Adelheid, in her honor, his father having told him that ships were always named for women. Each Sunday, if it wasn’t raining, Karl and his father would go to church, have lunch at a busy café, and walk to the riverbank. There, after attaching the hook-eye at the front of the vessel to a sturdy rope, the boy would watch it surge forward on the current, then twitch from side to side when it could go no farther. While he watched the boat struggle, Karl would listen to his father talk, between thoughtful puffs on his pipe, about dispatches he received at the telegraph office where he worked. This was the part of the ritual Karl loved best. The messages had come from places around the world, many with exotic names like Calcutta and Veracruz, some of which, the elder Rasp assured him, were filled with very dangerous people—just like the evil knights and deceitful lovers in the books they read and the operas his mother played on the piano while singing “arias.” The stories sometimes frightened Karl, but his mother’s voice made him feel safer, as did the confined, cozy embrace of the tiny salon in their small flat right on the border of Hamburg.

After each excursion, Karl would take the boat home and repaint the hull—bright blue with a green stripe along the top—to repair the ravages of the current. Without the paint, the hollow balsa wood would take on water and the vessel would sink. Karl also went to his father’s old atlas and looked up some of those places, determining which of them were connected to the Elbe. From the stories and operas, he learned to be afraid of the Russians and the Britons—and marked carefully on his own hand-drawn maps how they might reach Altona via the river, from the ocean.

Shortly before his tenth birthday, Karl decided it was time to let the Adelheid go. He had watched it struggle for nearly two years and it was listing now, ailing. Besides, he wanted a larger boat, one that would sit lower in the water, command the current a little more. He wasn’t sure what kind, but he would find one—perhaps a fireboat with working hoses—and put it on his birthday list. Without telling his father, the short, gangly boy picked at the strands of the cord with a piece of broken bottle he found in the empty lot beside the school he attended. He frayed it in the center so his father would not be tempted to lunge after a strand trailing along the shore. Into the smokestack on top, Karl stuck a rolled, handwritten note that read: Russians and English: do not come to Germany. I, Karl Rasp, will stop you.

It was a chilly October morning when the ship set out on its final voyage. With his heart thumping hard in his little chest, Karl watched as the tiny fibers strained and unraveled, like the fair little hairs on his arm in the cold. Then, in a particularly strong current that tugged the boat left, then right, the rope snapped.

“Oh!” he cried, not in loss but in a sudden rush of excitement.

To Karl’s surprise, his father did not run after it. Standing behind the boy in his old wool sweater, his slender shoulders hunched forward against the wind blowing from behind them, he put a firm, restraining hand on his son’s shoulder, expecting that it was Karl who would give chase.

“Father—”

“She craves her freedom,” his father said softly.

“But she is trapped—”

“The river craves her as well, and the river is mightier,” his father said. “Do not grieve. We had a good run with her.”

Karl did not mourn the loss but his own thwarted plans. Now, who would warn the invaders to stay away from their shores? He watched the boat rise and fall and occasionally twist like a weather vane on the rapid waters. The young boy watched until he could see her no longer, and then with a misty rain rising against their necks, they went home.

The next day, on his way to the schoolhouse seven blocks away, Karl walked along the river as always. Only this time his eyes were not on the other children or the automobiles or the horse carts that moved through the cobbled streets. It was on the murky olive-colored waters. Nearly at the school, he saw something that caused him to stop short. His little boat was lying on its side in the shallows, on the rock, more under the water than above it; he had seen the blue and green colors glinting dully in the sun. The rope he’d sawed in two was tangled on a metal projection from a barge parked along the shore: it had snagged the toy boat and dragged the Adelheid backward. There was a tiny rent in its hull and water burbled in and out. It reminded him of the ocean liner his parents had been talking about two or three years earlier, the British ship that had collided with an iceberg and went down.

Karl was sad, but only for a moment. His ship was dead, but there was something peaceful, natural, even beautiful about it. The Adelheid had ceased to be something belonging to people and was now more of a fish. He mentioned at supper that night what he had seen; his father smiled.

“So! It is still just resting.”

“Yes . . . we need to find a way to free her. Perhaps we can throw stones, sticks.”

“You do not understand,” his father said with a wink at Karl’s mother. “It has changed into something wonderful, like a caterpillar into a butterfly.”

“Father?” Karl asked, confused by that and by his mother’s smile.

“It has become an Unterseeboot—a U-boat.”

“A U-boat,” he repeated. The word, the mysterious way his father said it, sounded fascinating and strange; for a moment the boy forgot his loss. “What is a U-boat?”

“It is a ship that sails beneath the water,” the man replied.

“Beneath?” the boy said reverently.

His mind immediately conjured a version of the Adelheid with a tail and a fin made of metal like a smokestack, with mermaids in the bridge and on deck. But after dinner his father took him to the desk where he wrote his correspondence and, dipping a pen in ink, drew out a cigar-shaped object with stick-figure men inside and an air tube running to the surface of a roughly sketched sea. He added a pump inside, in the back, and explained that from what he had read the boats draw in air, then withdraw the tube and submerge. He sketched a propeller in the back and explained that, like an automobile, it used fuel to drive the U-boat forward.

Karl never thought of the Adelheid again.

In all their talks, in all their reading, in all his own studies, in all the classes he had sat through, Karl had never heard of anything like that. Immediately after eating, the young boy went across the hall to Herr Lang, a retired schoolteacher who sometimes helped Karl with mathematics and who owned more than an atlas and a dictionary: he possessed an encyclopedia, an incredible library of knowledge. Together, Karl and the old bachelor looked up “U-boats.” There was a little about how the French author Jules Verne inspired engineers with his novel Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Sea in 1869, how the first working designs were tested later in the 19th century, and how the U-boats were being deployed to protect Germany from the aggression of the English and the French in the Great War.

Even though Karl had seen troops in the cities and batteries of guns beyond it, the idea of war was foreign and terrifying. But underwater was a world Karl could imagine, had imagined, many times. He had been to the two artificial lakes in Hamburg—the Binnenalster, the Inner Alster, and the Außenalster, the Outer Alster. He had gone many times to the beaches at the North Sea. He had pictured the fish, the whales, the old sunken vessels and skeletal sailors he had read about. The world below excited him, and now he was transfixed by the idea that men could travel under that water. He had seen an airplane once, and the idea of flying had never appealed to him. Humans could not fly, but they could swim. In the air, your machine could malfunction. You could fall. Or someone could shoot you down for sport or out of fear. Only angels flew, not men. But a man could not harpoon a metal whale or snare it with a hook. And if something did happen, you could come to the surface and float on life preservers or you could swim. Undersea, you could go farther than by air. You could travel to those places with strange names, spy on them, even stop those who would seek to hurt you. That would make his father proud and his mother safe!

“But you know,” said Lang, “the sea is a place of mystery. Unlike the empty sky and the void of night with its stars, which we can study with telescopes and record with cameras, we cannot see very far in the water. We do not know what creatures inhabit the depths, what wrecks, what dangers.”

Karl already knew those things, and that made it even more exciting. He knew, at that moment, at that young age, the moment his eyes had settled on the drawing in Herr Lang’s volume, just what kind of larger boat he wanted.

BREST, FRANCE, 1944

Captain Largo Kealey did not want to be here. At the same time, there was nowhere else he wanted to be other than running Operation Blackbird, named for the color and insignia of the target.

He had already done the groundwork at Anklam, followed the trail here. Done some interrogating at the perimeter of the facility—rough, ugly, but necessary. It had been an exhausting haul, and the Florida native needed a long rest.

Not long as in permanent, Lord, he thought, in case God was listening. Just a couple of months, sir.

It was nearly dusk as Kealey, having picked his way through high grasses, his radio on his back, crouched behind a concrete bunker. Inside the aboveground structure was a pair of Germans doing exactly what he was doing: looking out to the sea through two narrow, pane-less slits in the concrete. The Germans were watching to see if the RAF appeared from across the Channel just as the stubble-jawed Marine watched for the Luftwaffe. By six p.m., if there was no air support making a test-run fly-over, he would send the simple code “Doughboy” to his liaison in the town proper and then leave. If he saw enemy fighters coming after the vessel, he would send the code “Broadsword” and then leave. In the first case, the mission would proceed in roughly thirty-six hours in a surgical formation, increasing the chance of hitting the target. If the latter, fighters would have to be dedicated to battle the German planes, leaving fewer to strike at the objective.

Two of those planes had been earmarked as “Stopgap 1” and “Stopgap 2.” It meant that if the bombing run looked like it was going to fail, they were to kamikaze the target like Japanese flyboys. It was that important. Compared to them, Captain Kealey’s escape plans were like a day at the beach. His survival, his wife’s status as “married” instead of “widowed,” depended on the two young men in the bunker—one an Unteroffizier, a corporal, the other a Mannschaft, a junior enlisted man—doing their primary job so well that they were unaware of him, which meant reporting on the incoming planes; it also depended on the German soldiers of the 266th Infantry opting to safeguard the harbor at the harbor, as they usually did, and not take up positions on this overlook, as they occasionally did. If they came up the road behind him, saw him with the radio, that was where he would die.

The sun was just vanishing into the blackness to his right. He got as comfortable as he dared here. He had chosen the spot so the glow from the radio would not be seen below, by spotters in the harbor. He had memorized the route back since he would have to negotiate it in the dark. Escape should be easier than his belly-crawling approach. If this place was to be where he made his final stand, this mission his last, at least it was a responsibility that validated him and the life he had chosen.

A life? Largo Kealey was just twenty-two and it had only been three years since war broke out in Europe and he joined the French Foreign Legion. He returned after Pearl Harbor and enlisted in the Marine Corps. Because of his reconnaissance work behind the lines in Poland and Austria, he was sent to the Recruit Depot on Parris Island, South Carolina, for two months as an assistant training officer. After that he was shipped to Camp Lejeune, North Carolina, to join the Twenty-third Marines, where he attended parachute school. That had always been his ambition since watching the gulls swoop and glide off Key Largo: to fly, not in a cigar tube but on wings.

Because his mother’s side was Cajun, Kealey spoke French. That, his experience in Europe, and his flawless jump record brought him to the attention of the nascent Office of Strategic Services. The OSS had been formed to coordinate Allied activity behind enemy lines—and France, now, was a main target of their activities. Colonel Kent Gailey of the Division of Plans and Policies at OSS contacted Kealey’s superior, seconding him to the Army through COMINCH, the chief of naval operations, commander in chief, U.S. Fleet. In that same communication, Colonel Gailey recommended a promotion to first lieutenant. Kealey got that, and then a bump to captain after a successful stint in Tangier, Morocco, where he worked recruiting informants while serving as assistant naval attaché.

Then came France. He parachuted into the Haute-Savoie region, which was home to more than 3,000 French Resistance fighters who would form the backbone of any diversionary action to distract the Germans whenever D-Day finally arrived. The collaborative effort with American, French, and British spies was code-named UNION and, against all odds, German troops and supply lines were hounded right up until the landings. In mid-June of 1944, Kealey was called to England to prepare for his current mission. That included a crash course in German so he could eavesdrop on the enemy in Anklam—which was actually safer than being in France because he spent the entire time in that German town hiding by the Peene River. Now, he lived with a French baker and made daily deliveries to the occupied port. Hiding in plain sight was the more difficult task by far.

No mission on the planet, perhaps no task in all the war, was more important than this one. The one that rested almost entirely on his shoulders.

And now the day he had been preparing for was here. He refocused his binoculars from the air to the sea. It wasn’t just aircraft he was watching for. It was the vessel that was due to leave the submarine pen that morning. He had been tracking the movements of the presumptive captain since his arrival. It had made sense that the Germans would give their most important assignment to their most decorated U-boat commander.

It was a showdown Kealey had been both looking forward to and dreading. Kealey hoped that the German high command hadn’t done to him what the Allies had done to them: placed one of their top commanders, General George S. Patton, in charge of a fake army to draw attention from the real army being readied for D-Day.

No, Kealey told himself as the last of the sun glittered red across the water. It is too late in the war for tricks.

This was a project the Germans needed to succeed.

Karl Rasp was the man for the job.

As the Allied armies pushed south and west through France, the men who lived and worked at the U-boat bunker in Brest were working around the clock to evacuate essential materiel, persons, and most important, the boats themselves from the sprawling facility. The Flotilla Secrets Act of 1941 had largely been lifted here after the D-Day landings, allowing crews and engineers from the ten different bays to exchange information, personnel, and equipment as needed to expedite the evacuation of the facility.

However, that did not apply to the personnel working in Pen 10, where the U-246 was berthed. Korvettenkapitän Karl Rasp was about to embark on a mission of Blank 69 importance: nothing about its cargo, schedule, and destination was written. Everything was communicated verbally from the Abwehr, German Military Intelligence in Berlin, directly to Korvkpt. Rasp. He told no one but his second-in-command, Oberleutnantzur See Fritz Kuehle; if anything happened to Rasp once they were underway, the new commander would tell his own second, Leutnantzur See Curt Vater. That information was never to go further than the next officer or petty officer in succession. With the crew of forty-five traveled the sole hope for Germany to win the war, but secrecy was the key to the mission. If the men themselves knew what was onboard, some of them might become distracted—even afraid—and there were few things that could frighten men who had seen so much since the vessel was commissioned in October, 1941.

It was shortly after dusk when Rasp took his place on the conning tower, just after Helm, the anti-aircraft gunner, took his position aft of the tower. If the ship were to be attacked, its captain was protected.

His crusher-style cap was pulled low and tight against the damp wind that swept from the sea, its brim tugged low to shield his eyes from the glare of the lights. The brutes were affixed to the underside of the ceiling, which was concrete 6.2 meters thick. The lights shone directly down on the U-boat, stern to stern, with virtually no bleed into the water. The illumination was efficient and it was safe: to strike the target, an aircraft would have to fly directly into the boat’s guns for half a kilometer. No Allied plane could survive that assault, especially if the other U-boats joined in the defense.

Rasp was dressed in a leather jacket for warmth, zippered over his two-piece navy blue uniform. He was squinting through the glare, watching for the arrival of the convoy from Haigerloch. They had taken a route that carried them in a long, looping journey to the south; Berlin did not want them running into advance units from the US VIII and XV Corps, among the few that were pushing south instead of east to Paris. High Command had run the risk of fielding the three trucks without air cover; presumably, Allied spotters and even the occasional aircraft were scouting for trouble spots, and a squadron of Messerschmitts would have attracted their attention.

Rasp hooked back the jacket sleeve and glanced at the illuminated face of his watch. The trucks were due in less than two minutes. The last radio check, from Lorient, had it precisely on time.

That validated the U-boat philosophy, Rasp reflected. Travel under the surface and they will learn of you when it is too late.

His gloved hands gripped the iron rail that had been freshly scraped of rust and repainted. He sucked down the clean air, if breaths tinged with sea salt mingled with the heavy odor of diesel fuel could be called fresh. For someone who lived on recycled air, it was close enough. He stood there and thought about the cargo they were to carry. It scared him, too. He and his crew understood ordnance. They knew how to stalk and sink ships. They were experts at transporting fifth columnists and putting them ashore. They were masters at decoy, using themselves as bait to draw destroyers or aircraft into position for counterattack.

But this—

The officer didn’t see the headlights of the lead truck because they were swallowed in the glare of the overheard arcs. But he heard the rumble of the diesel engines. They stood out among the squeaking of gears and pulleys, the hum of transformers, the whine of drills, the sputtering of screws under the surface, the slap of the water on the hull, noises to which he’d grown accustomed during the three days they had been here. In a U-boat, one’s survival often depended on noticing sounds that were out of the ordinary, from the hiss of a leaking pipe to the hum of an approaching vessel. Though it was the lack of sound that was most unforgettable: the awful silence of every hand, of the shutdown of every unnecessary system, that anticipated the explosion of a depth charge.

The vehicles were all three-ton Opel “Blitz” trucks, painted in camouflage green with matching canvas backs. These were the later versions with tires, not the original, treaded Maultiers meant for rapid movement through field and wood. On this mission, speed was essential, and aerial scouts had determined that the road conditions were satisfactory.

Rasp swung over the ladder and climbed to the deck. He jumped from there to the concrete pier. If the cargo worried him, the importance of the mission was an effective counterbalance. Succeed and the Reich could be saved. Fail—

No. The reaction was instant, emphatic. But Rasp had never failed. Not in his resolve to join the German navy, not in his determination to be assigned to a U-boat crew, not in his rapid rise from a Maschinist, a motorman responsible for maintaining the engines, to an Electro Obermaschinist, a chief petty officer who looked after the electric motors and batteries, and then through the officer ranks, nor in sinking more enemy vessels than any other U-boat commander. It had been a rewarding seventeen years. Rasp had his differences with the Reich, though he never articulated them. Hitler had raised Germany from the ruins of the First World War, a war that had cost him his father. Though he was in his thirties, telegraph operators were needed at the front and they had sent that loving man to France shortly after his son’s tenth birthday. He was killed when an artillery shell made a direct hit on his trench. His mother went to work as a typist for the local newspaper, then as a secretary for one of the first offices of the German Workers Party in 1919—the group that evolved into the National Socialist movement. She encouraged her son’s military career, not that he needed the push. She wanted him to avenge his father’s death, to punish the oppressors, to destroy those who sought to twist the German character into something weak and decadent.

The Russians and the British, whom he already disliked. Now the Americans. No, a push had not been required.

The convoy stopped at the inner mouth of Pen 10, just twenty meters from the gently rocking prow of the U-boat. A complement of eight armed guards surrounded the vehicles. Rasp went directly to the second truck. His contact was a civilian, Professor Paul Dammann, who would identify himself with a single word. That word had been radioed to Rasp on the submarine just an hour before from Oberkommando der Wehrmacht, the Armed Forces High Command in Berlin. It had been given to Professor Dammann when he left. The OKW had also given Rasp one additional instruction.

A slender young man in a white overcoat and black fedora stepped from the back of the truck. He was followed by two brawny soldiers. They lowered a wooden crate from under the canvas and carried it between them. It was about the size of a steamer trunk and was supported by two strong leather handles.

Rasp was the only one standing on the pier, and Dammann went up to him. He examined the chevron of rank on the officer’s cap. Then his pale blue eyes drifted to the brown eyes of the commander.

“Captain Rasp?”

Rasp nodded.

“I have been instructed to say nothing,” Dammann said.

“Nothing” was correct. Now it was Rasp’s turn.

“Professor Dammann, I have been instructed to ask for the item Obergruppenführer Holtz gave you when you left his office,” Rasp said.

The scientist seemed puzzled, but only for an instant. He smiled and reached into the pocket of his overcoat. He handed Rasp a silver Reichsmark.

“It was for good luck on my journey,” Dammann said. “I agree, though, it is fitting you should have it.”

It wasn’t for that, though Rasp didn’t bother telling him so. It was for identification. Had Dammann been captured and replaced en route, the package stolen, the impersonator would not have known what to give Rasp.

The soldiers brought the heavy crate to the deck, where two of Rasp’s crew took charge of it. With a bit of effort and more hands—two men on top, two on the bottom—the object was lifted to the top of the tower. It had to be turned on its side in order to lower it through the hatch, though Dammann assured the captain that was all right.

“The item is secure,” he said.

Physically, Rasp thought. On his last leave, right before the Allied Invasion, when he first heard whisperings of this project—without knowing that he would ever be involved in its potential salvation—he read from a book in the library he had purchased from Herr Lang. The object itself was not fragile. The risk, the danger, was what could not be seen.

Once the crate was inside and safely stowed in the captain’s small aft cabin, Dammann nodded, lit a cigarette, uttered a small but heartfelt “Heil Hitler”—which Rasp returned—then offered the captain his hand.

“I will await you on the other side,” Dammann said.

Rasp gave him a little smile, then motioned to the Head of Security that it was all right for the convoy to leave. The trucks would head for the airfield at Lannion, a hundred kilometers to the northeast. From there, the scientist would fly to their destination at Bornholm, Denmark. If something happened to the U-boat, the OKW did not want to lose their wunderkind physicist along with his creation. If Dammann were lost, there were others in Denmark who could continue his work. Those concerns were the reason the OKW staged the mission outside Germany. The logical port from which to disembark was Kiel, just a short run across the Kiel Bay to Denmark. But military intelligence believed the base had been infiltrated; a similar operation, with an empty chest, was being conducted with the U-70 in case the Allies were watching.

The guards withdrew from the trucks, the men boarded them, and Rasp returned to the conning tower. When the hands ashore had released the two cables on each side that held the U-boat securely in the pen, Rasp picked up the radio handset and gave the order to leave port. Steuermann von Harbou, on the helm, knew the order was twofold: he was to back the U-boat from its berth and immediately submerge, since they would no longer be protected by the concrete roof. By the time they cleared the pen, they would be underwater.

Rasp had entered the hatch immediately after the order was acknowledged. Hooking one arm on the inside ladder, he pulled the iron cover down and secured it with clockwise turns of the wheel. The officer hurried down the seven metal rungs, the thump of his hard-rubber-soled shoes lost in the surrounding rush as the sea closed in around them. He remembered how it had hurt the first time he had heard that sound from in here, the combination of the noise and the immediate change in pressure. That was before he had learned to swallow, hard, right before submerging.

The sounds of both men and machine were heightened underwater. Rasp had expected that when he was assigned to his first U-boat, the Type IIB U-120, with just twenty-five officers and seamen aboard. Using an electric hearing aid that was inserted directly in the ear, he was trained to be aware of the many background sounds he would hear but to ignore the details. Otherwise, the mind would become overstimulated and tire quickly. Wearing padded leather earmuffs, Rasp was also taught to listen very carefully to what was being said by those sharing his station. During periods of “silent running,” when surface vessels or other underwater boats might be listening, orders would be given at a whisper. During training sessions on a mock-up in Kiel, Germany, when pumps and ventilator fans had been shut down, when all movement ceased, the whispers actually seemed louder than normal speech.

What did surprise Rasp on his first run in 1936—a weeklong patrol in the Baltic Sea—was how, once undersea, the crew and the boat became a single organism. He was part of the fish he had so long ago imagined. And the fish was part of a school of brothers, the school part of a larger system. It was there, packed inside forty meters of metal and equipment, that he understood what his mother had meant: Man was made great by a unity of purpose.

Rasp stood by the communications console on the port side of the vessel, Oberleutnant Kuehle to his left. Except for their stature, a broad-shouldered 5’8”, the men were opposites in almost every way. The two even stood differently, the commander standing at ease with his arms at his side, his second poised more rigidly, clasping his hands behind his back. Kuehle was a fun-loving womanizer, raised in Berlin, a competitive boxer and weightlifter. He was blond, square-jawed, clean-shaven. Rasp’s hair was black, and on the days when he shaved he had a stubble by noon. He preferred to read—science and history, mostly—and when he had leave he went to see his mother. He did not drink and found no comfort in 48-hour liaisons. When Rasp was younger, there was a career to prepare for. Now that he was older, there was a war to salvage. Those thoughts had never been far from his mind.

However, the two shared a passionate love of country. If Kuehle shared Rasp’s concerns about the dangerous cargo they carried, it was not evident in his manner. Neither man had admitted anything other than the fiercest desire to see this mission to a successful conclusion. At present, life held no other purpose.

Rasp did not go to the periscope. The Brest harbor was closely protected by around-the-clock sea and air patrols. There was no chance they would be approached by sea until they were at least ten kilometers out. With luck, with the Allies focused on Paris and beginning to shift other assets to the assault on Germany, this journey would go unnoticed.

The voyage to bring the core of an experimental thermonuclear device, an “atom bomb,” to an area where it could be completed, mounted on a V-2 rocket, and used to utterly destroy London today, then Moscow, and then Washington, D.C.

Captain Kealey had watched as the truck approached the submarine pens, then watched as it had departed. No fanfare, no excessive guard, as befitted a valuable cargo. He watched as the U-boat disembarked. He saw it go under at once, signaling the importance of its mission: it would strain its resources rather than risk being seen with its tower above water. They would surface only when they were certain Brest itself had not been targeted for a twilight raid.

That was the most important of the circumstantial evidence.

Kealey waited a few minutes more, then cranked his radio, and sent the one-word message: “Doughboy.”

There would be no audio response because he didn’t carry earphones. He had to wait for the red light on top to pulse twice.

He dropped low behind the bunker to make sure he had not been heard. From inside his black leather jacket he wore his single-shot .45. The so-called “Lighter” was a palm-sized handgun, millions of which were made by a small U.S. weapons firm from sheet metal stampings. Extra shells were stored in the grip. They were dropped by air for use by the Resistance, whose members would approach a soldier and produce papers or ask for directions or a light for a cigarette—hence, the nickname—and fire. If the Germans happened to find the weapons after airdropping, they were of little practical use

Kealey heard distant sounds from the harbor, barely audible over the thump of his heart. The wind picked up a little and he bowed his head to keep it from rushing into his ears. He couldn’t turn away entirely because he had to keep one ear trained on the dirt road to his left. He wished he could hear something from inside the bunker, anything. But the walls were too damn thick.

He thought of his wife, May. He gave her soft cheek a mental kiss. He smelled her in his mind, thought about their brief leave-time honeymoon in New Orleans a year before, on Columbus Day—

A year? He’d forgotten his anniversary. Not that he could have sent her a letter or a cable. He was not permitted contact with the world beyond Brest, except by radio to London—and those were typically one-word messages. May was living with his parents in Key Largo. He hoped they would have remembered and made a fuss. His mother would have. She wrote everything on that little desk calendar of hers. As a boy, that was how Kealey knew when she and his father were going to visit his teacher at the one-room schoolhouse he attended. Young Largo knew to be away from the house on those days.

He thought one last time of his smiling bride. I’ll make it up to you, he promised. If I survive the next ten minutes.

The light on top of the radio winked twice. The message had been received—blink one—and understood—blink two.

Kealey felt his chest deflate as he hurriedly closed the flap over the radio, slipped his arms through the straps and heaved it onto his shoulders, and squatted low to make sure his retreat was clear. He made sure he had his balance, that his breathing was steady so that he wouldn’t feel dizzy when he rose, then got up slowly—

The bunker door opened. Kealey heard the hinges squeak faintly and he crouched back down. He hunkered as low to the ground as he could go and still remain on the balls of his feet. The “Lighter” grew hot and damp in his sweaty palm. He flexed his fingers to redouble his grip and held tight to keep it from slipping. A moment later he heard the gentle crumbling of boots on dirt, heard paper crinkle, saw the glow from a flaring match. Then he heard a long inhale. Kealey guessed that this was the corporal allowing himself a short break after what had been a tense departure. The noncom wouldn’t have known what was onboard the U-boat, only that its timely departure was imperative. That had been accomplished; protocol now allowed him to open the door and stand down from Höch-stealarmstufe—high alert.

Kealey was no longer thinking of home. He had been in this kind of situation before, living moment to moment. Each instant was extended, each sense heightened, each stimulus magnified. Every move of the man’s boot was like a beacon: was it an idle motion, a step away, or a step toward him?

The dirt crunched. It was nearer than the last step. A second step, the glow of the lighted cigarette was nearer, the smoke wafted around the wall—and then the man stopped. Another pair of steps and he would be at the edge of the wall. He would see Kealey.

The American agent breathed slowly through his nose, his breath softer than the wind. It would not be heard. He didn’t swallow, however, and saliva pooled in his throat. He considered his options if the gun misfired, which was a possibility.

The footsteps moved—toward Kealey.

Suddenly, a voice came from inside. “Unteroffizier Lang, hast du eine Zigarette für mich?”

“Ja,” the corporal replied.

“Ich habe keine.”

“Warten sie eine Minute.”

“Wurden sie mögen Kaffee?”

“Ja, ja,” the corporal said.

The kid was out of smokes, Kealey thought, but he didn’t need to tell his superior that. He was probably green. Really green. That was why he asked about the coffee, too. He just needed to talk.

Kealey knew that if he took one he’d have to take them both, but that wasn’t what concerned him. When the team didn’t check in—probably on the quarter-hour, which they must have just done, hence the break—the infantry would descend on the spot like sharks on an injured porpoise. They would know the U-boat’s departure had been observed. They would radio the sub to wait or divert. The course that the British Admiralty had carefully left them—through battleships and openly mined waters—might not be used.

If he stayed there, the noncom might see him. If he moved, the man might hear him. If he were found with the radio, Kealey would have to shoot—which would bring reinforcements.

Don’t take another step, Kealey thought—

Unteroffizier Lang came around the edge of the building. The glow of the cigarette was like the headlight of a jeep. Kealey acted instantly—but not with the gun. He dropped it, at the same time grabbing the man’s left arm with his right hand. He pulled him around to the back of the bunker and pushed his left forearm against the man’s throat, hard. He could literally feel the contours of the man’s windpipe against his own bone. The cigarette clung absurdly to the German’s lower lip as his mouth went wide and his hands became claws that tore at Kealey’s sleeve. The loudest sound the man made was a croaking one that sounded like a cough. Kealey dug his feet into the ground and put his body into the choke and felt the man’s body go from tense to floppy to inert. The American didn’t release his victim until his tongue rolled forward and knocked the smoke to the ground.

Kealey crushed it, then lowered the man to the base of the structure.

He had about ten minutes before the next check-in. He had to kill the enlisted man but he couldn’t do it with the gun or dagger the corporal was carrying. There must be no wounds when the body was found.

Kealey took off the radio, laid it on the ground, then removed his own leather belt. He took the pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and went around to the front of the reinforced structure. He ducked under the open slit of window, then peeked inside through the “letter slot” in the door—the opening by which visitors were identified before being admitted. The enlisted man was sitting at the radio set. There was a small hot plate to his right, as Kealey had surmised. Coffee was percolating in a pot on top.

Kealey took a practice fling, then let the half-empty pack of cigarettes fly through the door onto the far side of the desk.

“Ah, danke—” the young man said, looking away from the door.

Kealey moved in. He looped the belt around the man’s throat from behind and pulled the two ends across one another tightly. The blond, pale-faced boy turned red under the glow of the single lightbulb as every inch of him kicked, wormed, struggled, then died. Kealey left the limp body in the chair. He hurried back to the rear of the bunker, carried the dead corporal inside, then went back and smoothed out the man’s footprints. He also picked up the cigarette and moved it to the side of the bunker.

Back inside, Kealey closed the door, then examined the bolt on the inside. It could work. He put the buckle of his belt on the back of the bolt, then placed the other end on the letter slot opening. Then he laid the sleeve of the enlisted man’s jacket on the hot plate. It was literally red-hot: there was no heat up here and chances were good they left the plate on round-the-clock to provide at least a little radiant warmth. The fabric began to smoke at once and Kealey hurried to the door. He closed it from the outside and used the end of his belt to maneuver the buckle to the right.

It took a little jiggling, but the bolt slid in enough to lock the door. When help arrived, it would appear to all that the men had been asphyxiated and then burned.

An accident.

Gathering up his belt and the radio, Kealey hurried down the hill just as the first wisps of smoke were borne toward him by the wind. As he retreated he saw the faint glow of orange light on the dirt road ahead. He moved quickly, since it was essential that he reach the fork that took him along the coast before the fire brigade came the other way from Brest.

Captain Kealey gave no further thought to the men that he had killed, only to the prospect that, with this behind him, he was one step closer to going home.

It started as a low buzz that built to a sound like a bass cello.

The U-boat had been at sea for thirty-six hours of their two-day journey. They had achieved the most difficult part of the journey, maneuvering northeast through the English Channel, and had just submerged to a depth of forty meters, moving at six knots, after entering an area where Allied aircraft had been conducting reconnaissance and escort duty for ongoing landings in Dunkirk.

Rasp was with Obersteuermann Dietze, reviewing the course—there was a strong current behind them, putting them nearly an hour ahead of schedule—when he heard it. So did the men around him, a moment later. No one moved. The captain looked at his watch. The skies had been overcast earlier, but there was still an hour of daylight.

“Dive, one hundred meters,” he ordered.

The captain was concerned about not only the aircraft spotting them but also the possibility that they were accompanying a convoy. The boats would be equipped with sonar.

“One hundred meters,” Steuermann von Harbou said, the young man’s voice steady and unafraid.

“Ahead thirteen knots, on course,” Rasp ordered. That was the top speed the 402-horsepower electric motors could provide.

The helmsman acknowledged the order just as the world turned red. It wasn’t blood or fire the crew saw, but sound: the explosion of depth charges all around them, bursting in their ears, inside their heads, punching against their eyes. None of the hits had been direct, and there was no serious structural damage. But they had occurred in concert so that not a man remained upright, the blasts rocking the ship and spilling them forward in their seats or down to the floor; the concurrent vibration caused each man to tremble as though he were electrified.

Rasp tried to rise from the rubberized floor, reaching for the back of the swivel chair in front of him. As he did, the U-boat dropped toward the stern, sending him back several meters, where he struck Oberleutnant Kuehle. He tried to shout an order to cut the engines, since the new angle combined with their speed would send them to the surface. But his voice was lost in a second set of explosions, which dropped the nose of the vessel below level and sent the U-boat down. The lights went out, the red emergency lamps came on, and Rasp was dimly aware of screams, including his own. The collision of men with men and men with hardware created pain and chaos. A cry was the only thing a man could recognize—was the only source of relief.

Another explosion and the red lights died. Rasp couldn’t hear anything but the humming in his head, but he was still alert enough to feel the floor for water. There was none. The dampness he felt on his clothes was just his own sweat. If the diesel engines were still functioning, there was still a chance of getting out of harm’s way—

A final set of explosions ended any thought of recovering control of the boat. The blasts punched the vessel in successive directions, after which it went spiraling—down, it seemed, though Rasp could not be certain because he wasn’t sure where exactly he was. He had lost all sense of place, only aware that he was piled atop writhing, pushing men and that others were skidding onto him. He tried to shout a command to the men tumbling onto him, but the depth charges had deafened him. He could not hear his own voice and doubted anyone else could. In moments he could no longer speak, or breathe, as he was buried beneath a pile of deadweight crewmen.

Too weak to struggle, Rasp drew a piece of paper from his inside vest pocket, then lay limp where he was. As he fought to stay conscious, to seize any opportunity that might present itself, he felt a hot tingling, as though the air itself was electrified. Then a glow punched through the darkness, something white and hot.

Rasp looked at the paper and smiled. In the dark he could barely see what he knew so well by heart: the crude drawing his father had made of a U-boat.

It was the last thing Rasp saw before his world went black.

CHAPTER 1

DAHLGREN, VIRGINIA, 2013

The Naval Space Command in Dahlgren, Virginia, was established on October 1, 1983. A division of USSPACECOM at Cheyenne Mountain Air Force Station, Colorado, its primary function is to intercept and decode telemetry sent by space-based craft and satellites and see which of it may be relevant to the security of the nation.

One of the smaller groups at the NSC is the Earth Monitoring Systems and Analysis Division, a subsection of Defense Satellite Communications Systems Management. The EMSAD monitors a network of twenty-three different satellites that, in addition to intercepting data streams from foreign space assets, monitor radioactive spikes on earth. All EMSAD does is watch for up-glow; if there is a nuclear test, a leak at a nuclear power plant, or a deposit of uranium newly exposed by tectonics or mining, Web-23 will spot it.

At 5:19 in the afternoon, Lt. Jr. Grade Mark Mason was seated at his console, the last in a row of seven consoles that filled a small narrow room in Sub-basement 814. His round face had a bluish tint from the Barents Sea, the area he was studying. Just moments before, a Code Nine “ping” had alerted the 28-year-old data-processing technician that a small heat bloom had been detected at latitude 57.7 degrees N, longitude 36.2 degrees W. The number designation put it high on the one-to-ten list of being a non-natural occurrence.

As it was programmed to do, the satellite that had picked up the anomaly, the Redbird Geostationary Operational Platform, automatically turned its array of sensors to the spot. The data streamed into a chart that appeared in the lower left quadrant of the screen. As the numbers appeared—going from blue to red, indicating a dangerous hot spot—Mason’s neutral expression darkened. He sent an instant message to Station 2, which managed the Greendog GOP, and asked for confirmation of the Redbird readings.

Forty-seven seconds later—all communications were time-stamped and stored off-site in a bunker two hundred feet under the Pentagon—Lt. JG Heyder Namjoo IM’ed back: “One hundred percent match.”

Mason picked up a red phone to his right and punched in the number of Lt. Cmdr. Alan Bobbitt, head of EMSAD. While he did so, he IM’ed to ask Station 3 for a geological survey from Bluetiger.

“Go,” said the deep voice on the other end. There were no salutations. Not when someone called on the red phone.

“Sir, we have a North Polar reading from Redbird that triggered a Code Nine,” Mason said. “Greendog confirms: 175.8 MeV, Alpha decay. Source core 1.3 meters in diameter. The readings are one hundred percent consistent with Plutonium 239.”

There was a moment of silence as Lt. Cmdr. Bobbitt digested the information. Both men knew there was no way a natural deposit would occupy a spot that small. It was what the NSC described as a “toothache” reading: very intense at one location with virtually no bleed to surrounding spots.

An IM popped on from Lt. JG Kamala Ivy at Station 3, and Mason read it to Bobbitt: “Air temperature thirty-four degrees Fahrenheit, edge of Salmassinia Glacier. Ice loss thirteen percent over the last seven months.”

“What’s the image database got?” the EMSAD chief asked.

Mason was already accessing the weekly satellite image of polar regression. He got hits on the first four.

“Eight days ago, that ice was forty-three meters deep,” the officer said. “The edge of the ridge has lost seventeen percent of its mass since then, retreating ten meters back and twenty-three meters down.”

“That’s not just global warming,” Bobbitt said.

“It would appear not, sir.”

“Lock Redbird on the site and give me continuous full-spectrum readings,” Bobbitt told him. “I want to know if it’s heating. I’ll get visuals from the NRO.”

“Yes, sir.”

Bobbitt hung up and Mason programmed Redbird to override its ongoing sweep to remain focused on the anomaly. Some satellites used plutonium as a power source, but there hadn’t been a report of one falling in that region. Besides, the radioactive material was still inside the ice. When that glacier froze, chances were good no one on the planet was using plutonium to power anything.

The mystery was acute, but it wasn’t the only concern. If the NSC had picked up the heat bloom, chances were good that other nations had or were about to see it. Though plutonium may not have had many uses in previous years, it had many applications now.

The kind USSPACECOM was singularly devoted to preventing.

As Mark Mason anchored the coordinated investigation, something occurred that was as unexpected as the precipitating event itself: four minutes and three seconds after it appeared, the heat signature vanished.

THE NORWEGIAN SEA

Nakhoda Yekom Ebrahim Elham stood on the roof forward the funnel on the guided-missile frigate Jamaran . The captain was dressed warmly in the big, navy blue greatcoat he wore over his uniform, the collar upturned and his white cap pulled low against the sharp winds. After a trip along the American coast, and then a pass along the British shores, the vessel headed north. This was the crew’s first voyage into cold-weather environs. It would also be the first dry run of the Iranian-built weapons systems in below-freezing conditions; though no weapons would actually be discharged, the data on crew reactions and lubricant gelidity would be crucial in designing future armaments and Arctic wear.

The Jamaran was a Mowj-class vessel, one of two that the Islamic Republic of Iran had launched from the port facilities of the Bandar Abbas Air Base since 2010. The other vessel, the Velayat, was newly commissioned and sailing the southern Atlantic. The purpose of the “Wave”-class ship was expressed in a directive from Daryaban Ali Hammad Sayvari. The rear admiral wrote that the ships would sail “internationally but with particular strategic attention to the maritime borders of the United States.” A cooperative arrangement with Venezuela allowed Iranian vessels to refuel in South America, giving them access to virtually all the open waterways on the planet.

Nakhoda Yekom Elham was equally proud of and humbled by the vessel he captained. For over thirty years, since the dawn of the Islamic republic, the seaman had watched, with frustration, as his nation was forced to purchase outdated vessels from Russia—such as the clumsy Kilo-class submarines that had, until recently, comprised the entirety of their underwater fleet. Now, the Iranian Navy had their own Ghadir-class midget submarines patrolling against imperialism and Zionism in the Persian Gulf... their gulf. Soon, the larger Qaaem class would make its way through the seas beyond. Standing on the bridge, Elham let his eyes run slowly over the gleaming white surface-to-air missiles set in their box launchers on the main deck. Beside them was the helipad, which was outfitted with a rapid-deployment Toufan helicopter. The name, which meant “storm,” was a streamlined version of the AB 212 anti-submarine-warfare helicopter. It was a tidy little craft that could move against any air-or-sea-borne target with state-of-the-art weapons including rocket-launchers and two 20mm cannons.

The Jamaran was armed with other weapons as well. There was a Nour surface-to-surface missile, which, with recent upgrades, had a range of three hundred kilometers. Below, the ship was equipped with a pair of triple torpedo launchers on either side of the stern. They were armed with 324mm light torpedoes. Like the Toufan, the vessel was equipped with two 20mm manned cannons as well as a 40mm automatic cannon that offered both assault capabilities and point-defense against incoming fire. Yet it was the main gun that was a prize, a 76mm Fajr-27 set on the forecastle. The gun had a range of over seventeen kilometers and could fire eighty-five rounds every minute.

Below deck was some of the finest technology afloat, designed by Chinese and German scientists and built in Iran. The sensor array included a low-frequency variable-depth sonar and radar, a long-range air/surface search and tracking radar, and a navigation radar with a backup system. Sensors attached to the main mast could detect bacteriological, chemical, and radiological attacks within a two- to ten-kilometer radius, depending on the concentration and potency of the materials. Two powerful 10,000hp diesel engines and four auxiliary diesel generators allowed for a brisk maximum speed of 30 knots.

And then there was the crew, 127 of the finest young men in any military service anywhere. Elham was a man of peace, but as a lifelong sailor there were times, like now, when he ached to test his ship, his crew, himself, in the kind of confrontation for which they had been trained.

Drill first, he reminded himself. There was no dishonor in learning. But rushing—

A dull, bass cello sound rang across the deck. Then another. Then again. Elham was already moving toward the bridge before the first alarm had faded.

A navidovom, a petty officer third class, was already running toward the captain. The swarthy young man saluted as he reported. He was trembling. Elham did not think it was merely from the cold.

“Sir, we have encountered a radioactive source that registers 4,000 millisieverts,” he reported, his teeth chattering audibly. “It is coming from Ice Floe 48589.”

The captain stopped just short of the bridge. The glacier and iceberg designations were from the European Space Agency’s environmental satellite ENVISAT ASAR, data that was publicly available to all shipping. Even if they departed at once, by the time the ship reversed course and sailed out of range, that level of radiation would kill half the crew within a month. And they would have learned nothing for the price. That was unacceptable.

Elham punched the stopwatch function on his wristwatch and hurried onto the bridge. The five-man command saluted and he motioned them back to their positions.

“Approach the radiation source at full speed,” the captain ordered.

The helmsman acknowledged the order. Standing behind him, the captain looked out at the dreary sea. He could just about make out a large shape in the haze. Icy sea mist had gathered on the back of his neck. It melted now and ran down his nape under his collar. He unbuttoned his coat as he went to the radio. He snapped his cap crisply under his arm—he would never have tossed it casually onto his seat—and took the headset from the operator and pressed a green button on the console.

“Engineering, this is the captain.”

“Sir!”

“Prepare welding equipment. We will be sealing radioactive materials.”

“Yes, sir.”

Elham pressed a red button. “Sonar, what do you have?”

“Captain, we aren’t sure,” the operator admitted. “At first we thought it was a plutonium-powered satellite from America or Russia, but the configuration is—strange. So was the radiation burst.”

“Strange how?”

“It wasn’t there and then it was,” the operator said. “It was as if someone had twisted a fruit open to reveal its pit. Then squeezed the fruit into something unrecognizable.”

He killed the open line. “Helm, distance?”

“Two kilometers and we are mutually closing,” replied the young man who sat directly in front of the captain. Perspiration was running from under his cap. His hands shook. Elham laid a hand on his shoulder. The man steadied.

A short, lean figure had stepped to the captain’s right elbow. He was Nakhoda Sevom Azizi, second-in-command.

Without turning from the looming shape in the mist, the captain said, “Lieutenant Commander—I want a shore crew in the water in five. If there is a way to seal the object, do so and bring it back. Please command the detachment personally.”

“Yes, sir.”

The man saluted sharply and left the bridge. If he knew that proximity to the source of the radiation was certainly a death sentence, the forty-year-old Azizi did not show it. Elham had given him the mission not just because he was a supremely competent commander but because he had two brothers and sisters and was unmarried. If the rest of the crew had any chance at all, Azizi’s parents would suffer less than some others.

In just over four minutes, Azizi and six other men were paddling north in a black inflatable dinghy. The men wore black wetsuits and appeared as a dark smear in the mist. The boat was kicked around in the rough waters, but the men were well trained and held both their bearing and speed.

“Sir, this is Paria,” a voice came over the headset. It was the sonar chief.

“Go ahead,” Elham replied.

“The computer has assembled the pieces in the ice. It’s an old submarine. It appears it was sealed inside and literally pulled open when the floe separated. The satellite images put the breakup concurrent with the radiation spike.”

“Is it an early American nuclear submarine?” Elham asked. The propaganda value of finding a lost U.S. naval treasure, especially a failed one, would be high.

“We aren’t certain, Captain,” he said. “The pieces have been too badly compacted by the ice.”

“Thank you.”

Elham did not bother relaying the information to Azizi. They would find out soon enough. Now that it was too late, he second-guessed himself: if he had known it was something old, not something new, would he have committed the crew to the mission?

Yes, he decided. Even in the earliest days of his career, in the eight-year war against Iraq, he always put the security of assets—such as oil platforms—and the capture of any enemy craft over the security of himself and his fellow soldiers. Protecting service personnel was God’s job. Serving the Ayatollah was his. The honor of having this responsibility thrust upon him overwhelmed all other considerations.

The captain wished he had a visual on the team. That was one of the areas Iranian technology lagged. It was important to field home-made assets, but many of them were little different from the old models on which they were based. Modern technology was not easy to come by, especially in this era of heavy sanctions against trade. Sadly, due to international hatred of his people, even science students were not coming back from Russia and China with the levels of education they received in America and Europe during the days of the Shah.

Every moment brought the Jamaran nearer to the ice. He could see, now, the jagged edge where a smaller piece had fallen away. The raft was tied to an icy outcropping and the men were standing on a flat shelf; he could see their black shapes moving.

There were white sparks, just a few, but so brilliant they seemed like fireworks in the dull gray afternoon.

“Captain, the Geiger counter found the object,” Azizi radioed. “We are resealing the container.”

“Do you know what it is?” Elham asked.

There was a brief hesitation. “It appears to be the inner workings of a crude nuclear device.”

“A bomb?”

“It would appear to be, but not like anything we’ve seen in briefings. There’s a perfect sphere in a large metal container—I believe the box is lead. The radiation levels are dropping fast.”

The sparks flashed a moment more, then died. After a moment the blue afterimages faded from the captain’s eyes, leaving the outside world once more pale and hazy.

“We’re coming in now,” Azizi reported. “Two of the men feel sick.”

“Understood.” Elham glanced at his watch. “Full stop,” he ordered the helm, then turned to Navsarvan Farshid, who had taken Azizi’s place on the bridge. “Lieutenant, have a recovery team on deck. All medics on hand.”

The officer saluted and left. The navbanyekom who manned the External Sensor Array in the sonar room reported that radiation levels had returned nearly to normal. The voice of the lieutenant junior grade did not sound relieved. Nor should it. The nearly eight-minute exposure they had taken was no reason to rejoice. He thought back to other personnel who had made this same critical, fatal decision. In 1961, the crew of the Russian K-19 submarine had spent ten minutes repairing the nuclear reactor’s cooling pipes to prevent a thermonuclear explosion and twenty-eight of them perished. Fifty workers accepted “suicide missions” to tend to the crippled Fukushima nuclear power plant exactly fifty years later. There were probably others, many others, though that kind of information did not receive wide dissemination.

And now God has handpicked another crew to join their heroic ranks, the captain thought.

Although the captain wished he could meet the crew himself, he did not want to leave the bridge. Whatever the object was, it would have to be taken to Bandar Abbas as swiftly as possible—though that might not be possible if enough of the crew were stricken. He turned thoughtfully and went to the nautical chart on the wall behind him. It was an old-style paper chart; an electrical failure during a trial run had convinced him it was unsafe to rely on digital maps.

There is another consideration, he told himself. An object that hot would have been picked up by the intelligence agencies of at least a dozen nations. Even now, military vessels would be converging here to investigate. Spotting the Jamaran from the air or sea, enemies of the Islamic state would be waiting to intercept her along the way. At best, they would be shadowed; at worst, they would be quarantined or sunk in the open seas. The Russians would not hesitate to sink them for transporting nuclear materials in opposition to maritime law.

Contacting their home base would be risky, but it had to be done. The cargo had to be offloaded.

The chart was broken into three dozen sectors, pinned with friendly ports of call and marked with the courses of North Korean, Syrian, and Yemeni vessels. Elham decided there was one place where safe harbor for their cargo might be found.

Elham wore a key around his neck. He removed it, turned, and inserted it in the console. As the communications officer watched, the captain twisted the key and input a series of numbers into the keypad beside it. This brought up an encryption program through which all typed messages would be run until it was disengaged.

The captain stood beside the radio operator and dictated a message. It was what the Vezarat-e Ettela’at Jomhuri-ye Eslami-ye Iran—the Ministry of Intelligence and National Security of Iran—called a “double bind”: even if Washington or Tel Aviv or Moscow managed to break the code, they would not know what was meant by the terse message:

ROGUE STARFISH TO AREA THIRTEEN N

CHAPTER 2

WASHINGTON, D.C.

“It’s too early to be thinking.”

Ryan Kealey was staring at the ceiling when Allison Dearborn touched his forehead. Her fingertips were light and had the desired effect of relaxing his brow.

Kealey turned and regarded her. He pushed the lump of pillow down so it wasn’t covering his mouth. He didn’t ask how she knew what he was doing. She’d known him too long—and too well.

“Is that my—what’s the acronym? BBF?”

“BFF,” she said. “Best Friends Forever.”

“Right. Is that my BFF or my shrink talking?”

The woman appeared wounded, though it was tough to make out details with the hotel drapes drawn and the only light coming from the red-glowing digital clock behind Kealey. He could just make out the slight dip in her eyebrows, felt the disapproving tap of her index finger, which was still on his forehead.

“It’s the whole me, the amalgamated self.”

“Oh, ‘amalgamated,’ is it? It’d say it’s too early for twenty-dollar words.”

“Don’t try to turn this on me, Ryan.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m right here, in bed with you. You’re the one who’s off somewhere. I’m just trying to reel you in. It’s okay to take some down time. You’ve earned it. You deserve it.”

Her tone wasn’t accusing or critical. Allison wasn’t like that. He surrendered to her concern by smiling.

“Since you know what I’m doing, you know I can’t help myself.”

“I know you don’t want to help yourself,” she said. “But I’ve had my say.” She peered over him. “It’s not even six a.m. I’m going back to sleep.”

Her companion took her finger from his forehead, kissed the tip, then lay back and continued to look at the ceiling . . . and to think. It wasn’t about work, as Allison seemed to think. It was about her.

Kealey was accustomed to waking in unfamiliar beds—though more often than not they weren’t actually mattresses but cots, sleeping bags, or even piles of scrub tucked against a big rock. They were located in places like South Africa, India, and Iran. The longest he had ever been anywhere was Maine, when he resigned from the CIA. He got a teaching gig, bought a three-story house in Cape Elizabeth, and spent his spare time fixing it up with Katie Donovan. Kealey suspected that when he was lying on his final bed, if he still had all his marbles, he would look back on that period with Katie as his happiest. At least, if he could slide from this world with that thought in his head, he would be content.

But being an itinerant was a lonely business.

A couple months earlier, Kealey had reluctantly gone back to work for his former bosses, CIA Director Robert Andrews and Deputy Director Jon Harper. It was a onetime assignment, preventing the destruction of Manhattan, but it had cost him both physically and psychologically. Apart from the pressure of rooting out the imminent plot, Kealey had been partnered with a man in turmoil: an agent who had just lost his daughter in a bombing. Harper’s wife had been badly injured in the same blast. Early in his career, Kealey had learned to push emotional matters to the side, like unwanted asparagus when he was a child. But eventually the “mental vegetables,” as Allison called them, had to be dealt with.

You can’t feed that kind of psychic damage to the dog under the table, he thought.

That was one reason he had begun seeing Allison Dearborn. She ran the Agency’s deprogramming division and she also handled what were called HAS—Hardcore Agent Studies. The designation did not mean that the agents were necessarily ruthless killers or so stressed that they were open to being turned by enemy operatives. The symptoms manifested in those individuals were clear and unambiguous: increasing temper at home, deepening suspicion of those around them, withdrawal from previous social activities.

No, the HAS was designed to find individuals who had seen, caused, or been chin-deep in death and suffering, shouldered responsibility for countdown-clock danger, and showed absolutely no ill effects.

That suggested a self-anesthetization—emotional shutdown that could, in the middle of a mission, cause an individual to suffer a complete, unannounced meltdown. After her first interview with someone she nicknamed “even-keeled Kealey,” Allison Dearborn felt that he was a textbook case for repression/suppression tendencies.

So, of course, we became lovers, he thought as he looked over at her dark silhouette. I sure didn’t repress that desire.

They didn’t act on it until Kealey had resigned from the Agency. Not because they thought the rules were fair—regulations can’t stop most people from doing what they want or need to do; if they had, Kealey would have been a far less effective operative. He and Allison just didn’t want their superiors to suffer any disciplinary blowback. Kealey felt that Harper, an old romantic, might have covered for them if he found out. It wouldn’t have been fair to put the deputy director in that position.

And here they were. Kealey felt that their sessions, the ones in her office, had helped him to open up. He trusted Allison as a psychologist but he had always found it easier to talk to women. He felt that they actually listened.

Kealey knew he wouldn’t be going back to sleep. Once his mind turned on, it was like a perpetual motion machine. Maybe that was one of the reasons he’d been such a puzzle to Dr. Dearborn as opposed to Allison. Kealey didn’t think he internalized anything. He just burned it off as thought.

The hotel’s terrycloth robe lay in a pile on the floor. He scooped it up as he walked by. He shut the bedroom door as he left and made a pouch of coffee in the kitchenette. The curtains weren’t drawn here, and as the smell of strong coffee filled the room, he went to the window. Across Lafayette Square sunrise showed dully on the East Wing of the White House. It had been dark when they arrived on Friday night. They’d stayed in most of Saturday, except for a late stroll to the Off the Record tavern in the hotel—he hadn’t paid the White House any attention until now.

It was odd how his impression of the President’s home had changed since he first laid adult eyes on it. He had been working on his master’s degree in business from Duke University and was about to enter special forces training—the result of a strange meeting with an even stranger relative, his Uncle Largo. Kealey hadn’t been to Washington since grade school and made a point of spending a week here. Seeing the so-familiar structures, face-to-face; gazing upon the Declaration of Independence and other documents on display at the National Archives, it all had a kind of Disney World quality, everything sterile and looking the way it was supposed to look. But not the White House. Uncle Largo got him a tour and he was surprised to see it wasn’t quite the museum he had been expecting. It had “operative function,” as a CIA white paper once accurately described it. The presidential portraits were there, of course, and it was both thrilling and momentarily surprising to turn and see Gilbert Stuart’s famed portrait of George Washington hanging innocently on a wall—no fanfare and crepe, no special lighting or restrictive ropes. It was a wall hanging. But the White House was also an office building. People were always in a rush, typically in packs. Back then, Kealey couldn’t have defined the cliques but he had sensed them, just as at school where you knew the jocks from the economists from the chemistry majors, the scholarship kids from the moneyed brats, the frat boys from the affirmative action students. After retiring from the Green Berets as Major Kealey and joining the CIA, Kealey wasn’t surprised to find that the White House was not about the famous facade or the celebrated garden or the historic art. It was a place where legislative deals were made, where strategies were hammered out in long, draining sessions, where wars were plotted—typically in shorter, more direct sessions—and impending disasters were studied and, for the most part, averted. It was about unfolding narratives that were not history yet. It was a place where the bottleneck of responsibility rose upward, sometimes at a slow boil like LBJ struggling to enact and enforce civil rights legislation; sometimes rapidly, such as FDR learning about Pearl Harbor as he lunched in the Oval Office study or JFK and his team huddled in the windowless “woodshed,” built where the Truman bowling alley once stood, deciding the fate of civilization during the Cuban Missile Crisis in October, 1962.

The sun-reddened walls and columns at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue paled with each passing moment. Filling the white mug with black coffee, Kealey returned to the window. The White House was now its familiar self, surrounded by green with the Washington Monument rising proudly behind it. Kealey could make out the snipers and security personnel on the roof. It was Sunday morning and there were, for the first time he could recall, no protesters at the front gate. Perhaps it was too early in the morning or too late in the summer; perhaps no one cared much about the lame-duck president, David Brenneman; most likely all of the above. The sparse air and ground traffic did nothing to dispel the quiet.

Yet—

Native Americans used to talk about the telegraph wires “singing” across the plains. Kealey always felt like that when he was anywhere near the White House, that the spot was singing—or, perhaps more accurately, humming. Countless wires were alive, the hive was quietly humming. The computers and their sophisticated programs were sorting, analyzing, and flagging intel even while the staff slept. Auto-call alerts let them know if they needed to log on to websites from home or come to the office for secure access.

But there was something the machines didn’t have: instinct, a sense that something was building. It was an elusive quality, a little hum all its own, a buzz in the base of the spine, an alertness behind the eyes.

Without knowing why, Kealey suddenly felt as if his weekend non-getaway getaway with Allison was ended.

Rayhan Jafari showed her Office of the Director of National Intelligence ID badge at the West Wing, plopped her handbag and light fall coat with silver trim on the X-ray conveyor belt, went through the metal detector, then collected her belongings and walked down the quiet corridor to the office of the National Security Advisor. She felt the admiring eyes of the three security guards on her as she left the antechamber and headed down the white-walled corridor. As an attractive, twenty-eight-year-old woman, she expected that. As a Muslim woman, she found it unsettling.

Her high heels soundless on the blue-and-gold carpet, Rayhan declined an offer of help from the young guard at the next metal detector. She knew the way, even though she had only been called to a meeting of the National Security Council one other time in the past seven months. That had to do with communications between the Iranian forty-megawatt thermal heavy-water reactor under construction in Arak and the Ministry of Science in Tehran regarding isotachophoresis. Rayhan checked the translation, making only minor corrections, then explained that isotachophoresis was a component of gel electrophoresis that was primarily used to detect biological agents.

“So Tehran would be using the science to detect attacks aimed at them rather than to initiate attacks,” President Brenneman had said.

“That is correct, sir,” Rayhan had told him.

He thanked her and, with a nod from the director of the National Intelligence Program, she had left. Until today, that had been the nuclear physicist’s four minutes in the sun.

She wasn’t able to share that event with anyone, not even her parents or her housewife sister in Ipswich, England.

With a chin she had always felt was a little too pointy and dark eyes framed by straight, black hair, the petite, slender woman exuded calm confidence. Since an incident in school, she had never put herself in any situation without studying it, whether that was school in the United Kingdom or a date with a fellow student. Her sister Nasrin once remarked that secular life seemed more important to Rayhan than the Koran. Rayhan had maintained a smart, respectful silence.

As she passed the quiet offices, Rayhan still remembered the details about the NSC she had learned prior to beating out six other Farsi-speakers for the coveted job of senior advisor, nuclear threat assessment, for the director of national intelligence. The NSC was established by the National Security Act of 1947 and was placed in the Executive Office of the President. It is the principal source of information and counsel for the Commander-in-Chief regarding national security and foreign policy matters. The NSC also serves as the President’s representative for coordinating administration aims and efforts with the other intelligence agencies, all of them operating through the hub of the Office of Homeland Security. Chaired by the President, NSC meetings often included the vice president, the secretary of state, the national security advisor, the secretary of the treasury, the secretary of defense, and the assistant to the President for national security affairs. The chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff is the NSC military advisor and the director of national intelligence—General Fletcher Clarke, who was Rayhan’s ultimate boss and had recently replaced Shirley Choate—is the intelligence advisor. Other non-statutory members are the chief of staff to the President, counsel to the President, the assistant to the President for economic policy, the attorney general, and the director of the Office of Management and Budget. Other members of various government agencies were invited at the pleasure and sole discretion of the President.

Rayhan doubted they would all be present this morning. Only the President’s chief of staff, Stan Chavis, was already there. The balding, middle-aged man, who always resembled a harried accountant, was in shirtsleeves and a loosely knotted tie. He had been bringing up data on the laptop the President would use.

“Good morning, Ms. Jafari,” he said to the young scientist. He half rose and shook her hand.

“Good morning.”

“Sorry to call you in on a Sunday morning,” he said as he went back to work. “How long did it take you to get here?”

“Door-to-door, just fifteen minutes,” she said.

“Not much of a hassle from Pimmit Hills at this hour on a weekend,” he said as he typed.

“None.”

She wasn’t impressed that he knew where in Virginia she lived. Whatever the alert was that had brought her here, the computer would have attached her file to it before shipping it to whoever had called this meeting—most likely the President’s national security director, Bruce Perry.

“If you’ll have a seat—there’s a name tag at the end—I wanted to take a few minutes to brief you before the President and the others arrive.”

Rayhan walked smartly to her seat in the corner of the small room. She would have the most information—otherwise, why call on her?—yet she would be farthest from the President. The young woman would never understand politics or egos. She settled into the leather swivel chair behind an open laptop. The only thing on the screen was the seal of the NSA: an eagle holding a key against a dark blue field.

“Very early this morning—before some of us had even gone to bed,” he remarked with affected complaint, “the Naval Space Command picked up a radioactive signal on the edge of the North Pole. It lasted a little over four minutes before it vanished—just as if it had never been there. Concurrently, the National Reconnaissance Office placed an Iranian frigate at the scene. The vessel was in the vicinity for less than an hour. However, the NRO did pick up a message from the ship as it turned about—I’m sending that to you now.”

Rayhan watched as the laptop image dissolved into a typescript in Farsi.

“How does that translate to you?”

“Rogue Starfish to Area Thirteen N,” she said.

“The NRO came up with ‘lone,’ not ‘rogue,’ ” he said. He finished typing, went to the seat beside the young woman, took a swallow of cooling coffee, and sat back. “Help yourself, by the way,” he said, pointing to a silver coffee service in the opposite corner.

Rayhan just smiled. She was a tea drinker. No one ever had that at these meetings.

“The word used in the communication, istiqlehl, means ‘independence.’ In the context of the military, it is more likely to mean an ‘independent operator without instructions,’ rather than ‘one acting alone.’ ”

“I’m not really clear on the difference.”

“The NRO interpretation has the vessel on patrol, which it probably was,” she said. “One of two Iranian warships at sea. But I believe the meaning is that something occurred outside the parameters of a routine voyage—and that it has taken action.”

“Hence, rogue,” Chavis replied thoughtfully. He regarded her for a moment. “Your father was a combat medic.”

“Yes, he received his medical training during the war with Iraq.”

Chavis seemed to be considering this. She knew from experience that her interpretation would pit the DNI against the NRO. He would want to have as much ammunition as possible for both sides.

General Clarke, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff Admiral Breen, and the President arrived within seconds of one another, in that order. Rayhan and Chavis both rose and remained standing until the men were seated. Chavis shut the door. So she would be the only woman in the meeting, and a Muslim woman to boot. Despite the exhaustive background checks to which she and her family had submitted, she would be treated with a maximum of respect and a minimum of trust.

Chavis introduced her, the President seemed to remember her, and Admiral Donald Breen simply acknowledged her. As soon as everyone was seated, Chavis—still sitting next to Rayhan—repeated what he had told her, asked her to tell the others what she told him, and then everyone sat in silence for long, contemplative seconds. Rayhan stared at the President. He had just turned fifty-eight—she had read accounts of the surprise birthday party for “a few hundred friends” at the Kennedy Center. He was wearing a yellow sweater and khaki slacks. His hair was grayer than it had been when they first met, and his face seemed more lined and careworn than it did on TV. His voice, once the most resonant on the debate team at Georgetown University and, later, in the halls of Congress, sounded raw and strained after nearly eight years in the Oval Office. She couldn’t tell whether he was eager to be rid of the job or just bone-tired. Possibly both.

“General, what the hell could be out there?” the President asked at last, turning to his right.

Clarke shook his head. “We’ve checked satellites, submarines, and even migrating whales who might’ve swallowed a nuke,” he said. “There’s nothing.”

The President turned to his left. “Admiral?”

“We’ve got the same nothing right now,” he said. “We’re working on trying to grid-out their maritime charts. International waters are new for the Iranian Navy—we broke the code easily enough, but we aren’t sure how they’ve portioned the globe.”

“Admiral?” Rayhan said.

He looked at her without expression.

“Try any combination of these elements—al-F’iz, 1154, and 1160.”

“What’s their significance?” the President asked.

“That is the name and the dates of the Thirteenth Caliph of Islam,” she said.

The room went dead for an instant and then seemed to come to life for the first time.

Breen looked at the President. “The heat bloom was just east of the Prime Meridian,” he said. “Fifteen degrees—the one and five buried in that first number—are due east and west of that.”

“The N would be north,” the President said. “The location for a rendezvous?”

“Not with any military vessels,” Breen said. He began typing. “A handoff to a mercantile vessel, though—that would be doable.”

“The frigate was a Mowj-class vessel,” Clarke said. “They’re air-equipped, range about 370-odd miles.”

Still typing, Breen said, “NRO doesn’t show a takeoff.”

“The NRO doesn’t show anything after they turned into a damn fogbank,” Clarke said. He glanced at Rayhan. “Pardon me.”

“It’s all right, sir,” she said. She didn’t like being ogled but she also didn’t like being treated as something porcelain-fragile.

“We’ve got a red spot in the fog, picked up with infrared,” Clarke went on. “That could have been a helicopter takeoff.”

No one said what was on everyone’s mind: to where and carrying what?

“What was this ship doing there?” the President asked.

“Sea trials,” Breen replied. “They came up the Atlantic coast, outside the territorial limits, just to show us they could. Then they turned toward the North Atlantic, presumably for cold-weather maneuvers. It’s a standard shakedown drill.”

“As for commercial shipping, Iran sails to virtually every Scandinavian port,” Clarke said, checking the laptop. “It’ll take a while to sort through the images, check those routes, and see who was in the neighborhood.”

The President looked from his computer to Rayhan. “Best guess,” he said. “What did the frigate find out there? Could it be a natural source of plutonium?”

The young woman had been expecting that. She continued to formulate her complete answer even as she spoke. “Mr. President, plutonium is exceedingly rare in nature. I would rule out a natural occurrence. If there are no reports of fallen satellites, that leaves reactors and warheads. Obviously, sir, it is not a reactor.”

“The Mowj class ships—of which there are just two—is not missile equipped,” Breen said.

“General, could it be an old missile?” the President asked. “Something that came in over the DEW line?”

The DEW line was the Distant Early Warning system, a radar array managed by the U.S. and Canada near the seventieth parallel to give advance warning of an over-the-pole Soviet attack. Rayhan had written a white paper on the repurposing of the surviving structures to detect nuclear material being smuggled across the borders.

“The Soviets would never have fired a live warhead at us, not even at the height of tensions between Kennedy and Khrushchev,” Clarke said.

“What about a dirty bomb—or whatever the equivalent might have been fifty years ago?” the President asked. “Could they have contaminated a small region as a warning?”

“The risk that we would retaliate before ascertaining that the missile was ‘only’ a dirty bomb would have been too great,” Clarke told him.

“Mr. President, maybe we’re looking at the thing bass ackwards,” Breen said. “This could be material on its way to North America. A little CARE package dropped off by the Iranians to be picked up by local operatives?”

“They had to know we’d pick it up on satellite,” Clarke said.

“Not if they opened the package by accident,” Breen said.

Rayhan tensed. The President noticed. “Ms. Jafari?”

“Mr. President, Admiral—jihadists are murderers and some lone wolves are reckless,” she said. “But anyone assigned to a nuclear package would not open it to see what’s inside, like a box of chocolates.”

“That wasn’t what I was implying,” Breen said testily.

“I understand, Admiral, but even the theoretical transport of nuclear material from a rogue state would have come from trained scientists and turned over to schooled couriers,” she said. “They would understand the basic protocols of handling plutonium—which, at close range, is one hundred percent lethal in a matter of hours. Moreover, sir,” she addressed the President now, “such parcels would be packaged in such a way that they could not be opened without some kind of key. Dropping them would not be like dropping a jack-in-the-box where the lid would simply pop open.”

The silence was uncomfortable now. Rayhan did not allow her eyes to drop or her shoulders to sag.

“What was the answer to the President’s question?” Clarke asked at last.

“I’m sorry, sir, I’ve forgotten—”

“Best guess,” Clarke said. “This is your field. You have the data. What’s out there?”

The young woman looked at the laptop and brought up the initial readings from the Naval Space Command. “The only match that comes to mind is the Manhattan Project,” she said. “These readings are consistent with the radiation levels of some of those early nuclear experiments.”

“An old device?” Clarke asked. “Is that what you’re saying?”

“All the studies we’ve done, ranging from home-made devices to missing Soviet-era warheads, would have very different readings—all of them far less potent than this. That heat bloom was produced by something extremely powerful and extremely raw.”

The silence returned, more thoughtful.

“What would an old nuclear device be doing in the Arctic Circle?” Breen asked.

The President said, “When we find it, we’ll know. Ms. Jafari—thank you. Gentlemen? Let’s track this thing down.”

CHAPTER 3

BERGEN, NORWAY

Thirty-seven-year-old Bijan Parvin, captain of the container ship Ghorbani, did not care about politics. He did not care about religion. But their impact on his life—that was another matter. He nurtured that like a fine tobacco.

He had served in the military as a young man, mostly so he could learn about shipping; when he had done his time, he went to sea as an assistant crane operator on a freighter. He was twenty-one at the time and had spent two years in the navy. For most Iranian men mandatory military service was twenty months. But if you were from a poor area like Parvin was—when he left drought-stricken Sístánva Balúchestá, his twelve-year-old sister was already a roadside worker, willing to do anything requested by passing motorists—four extra months were added to your tour of duty. The idea was that you would return to society with added skills and discipline. Parvin learned two things. One was his sea skills. The other was not to be an ideologue. Regimes came and went. Within regimes, petty warlords rose and fell. Standards were inconsistent and often in conflict. Beards that were permitted in one district were considered too long in another, too short in yet another, too thin to mean you were a man, too gray to qualify you for youthful labor. Religion? Most villages were Shi’a, some were Sunni, and then there was a smattering of Christians, Jews, and others. The combination of ways in which a man could be unacceptable in his surroundings was profound.

Not at sea.

On his way to and from naval vessels—mostly broken-down Russian ships that he learned to repair with spit and a prayer—Parvin had learned never to stray far from the international harbors. He never engaged in quiet political discussions or social debate, avoided cafés where he might be asked an opinion, and was a practicing Muslim only when he was among others who decided to pray. He had few possessions: the money he earned he sent home to his mother, his goatherd father, and his unwed sister.

When he went to work for Ostad Shipping three years earlier, Parvin knew there would be days like this one. Ostad was one of the smaller members of the Islamic Republic of Iran Shipping Lines Group. The entire IRISL operation had been sanctioned by the United States, the European Union, and the United Nations for allegedly advancing Iran’s nuclear and ballistic missile programs by smuggling technology, parts, and the occasional scientist to the homeland in defiance of international law. Not only had Parvin witnessed some of the smuggling, he had become increasingly involved—and recompensed—for his hands-on involvement. He did not care about the right and wrong of it. He had no opinion other than this: the more money he made, the more comfortable he could make his family. Until his sister, now twenty-seven, could move to another village where her teenaged activities were not known, she stood no chance of being married. That required money, not just for her physical relocation but for a new identity. A potential suitor, especially one who was well-to-do or well connected, would routinely check to make certain the young woman was not hiding precisely the past she was hiding. The irony, of course, is that the chances were good said husband had employed the services of several women for whom selling their bodies was the only means of securing an income.

Parvin refused to let that embitter him. Unlike his sister, who was always angry, he was too practical. That was the way the classes functioned, had functioned, and probably would continue to function for the rest of his life. Which was why, when the government gave him an assignment in defiance of sanctions and outside lawful maritime practice, he closed his eyes and accepted. Not only could he use the additional income, it kept him connected with members of the military and intelligence communities. There was no way of knowing when those relationships might prove useful.

So when he received a message at 156.575 MHz, channel 70 on his digital signaling device, he plugged the encryption drive into the USB port and answered. The filter would sift the static that would be all a casual eavesdropper would hear. Even American or Israeli surveillance would require hours to pull the words from the variable frequency interference.

The beep that brought him to the radio secreted in his cabin was from the Iranian Ministry of Intelligence. Parvin did not know the name of the caller: only that he must do as he was told. The requests were typically to make pickups and drop-offs along whatever route he was traveling. Upon completion, payment would be made to his special bank account in Tehran. It was a profitable low-risk arrangement.

The Ghorbani had just left the Norwegian port with a cargo of shipbuilding equipment and parts bound for ports along North Africa and the Mediterranean. Parvin was told to divert to a spot in the Norwegian Sea ninety-eight kilometers due south of Sørkappin Svalbard, an Arctic archipelago. The caller provided the exact longitude and latitude and informed the captain that he should be prepared to receive, at ten p.m., and immediately conceal in its entirety, under tarpaulin, a Toufan helicopter. The pilot and his cargo were to be taken below, the aircraft was not to be approached by any of the crew once it had been secured, and the Ghorbani was to proceed to its initial port of call—Rabat, Morocco. Parvin was informed that he would receive further instructions, by radio, upon arriving.

The captain’s only comment during the entire recitation was to acknowledge it at the end. He passed the new destination to the helm. They informed him that the transit would take approximately an hour. Parvin would hold off on informing the radio room of their instructions until after the rendezvous. Then he grabbed a cola from the mini-refrigerator and sat on his bunk, where he hand-rolled a cigarette. He used Balkan shag tobacco, one of his few personal indulgences.

Parvin felt the faint, faint tickle of the constantly vibrating metal hull. He heard the distant hum of the ship’s powerful two-stroke, ten-cylinder engine. The order from Tehran was unprecedented. It made the captain afraid, as if the eyes of the world were somehow upon him. Certainly the eyes of the Minister of Intelligence were. The one constant in his occasional activities for the government is that they were not watched very closely and were relatively risk-free.

Why would they want me to quarantine an aircraft? he wondered. And why under the shadow of night?

He wished he felt excited or patriotic or something other than worried.

“Whoever thought the shipping business would be more dangerous than the navy?” he asked himself with a nervous laugh after he had lit the cigarette with a wooden match and drained the can.

He thought about his sister and his parents and how this was helping them. That calmed him somewhat, and he reminded himself that he was not alone; he had a very powerful ally in this particular assignment. The ministry itself was going to make sure that the harbormasters who were expecting him would stand down. That gave him a slight thrill of importance—not enough to offset the fear but not a bad sensation.

The captain finished his cigarette, washed his face in the small basin beside his fold-down desk, and went up to the bridge. He would not be able to tell the crew anything about their mission, but that, too, was a consolation. It would elevate him in their eyes.

The more he thought about it, the more surprised Parvin was to find himself growing excited about the next few hours. By the time they reached the coordinates, he was actually thrilled to be doing this, happy for the challenge and responsibility and whatever he might learn.

DAHLGREN, VIRGINIA

It had been a long day and a frustrating one.

The great strength of intelligence analysts is that they can easily come up with a multitude of explanations for all the data they have to process. The great weakness of intelligence analysts is agreeing on which of those evaluations is correct.

Lt. Jr. Grade Mark Mason had spent the entire day at his console, swapping information and interpretations with other analysts both inside the Naval Space Command and without. They had already collected radar and sonar records of all NATO shipping in the region to try and identify who did what, when, exactly where, and most important, why. There was no clear consensus because no one had a clue about what analysts refer to as the “big bang”: the object that set the events into motion.

What was known, Mason had told Lt. Cmdr. Bobbitt, was that after passing along the western coast of the United Kingdom, an Iranian frigate in the Norwegian Sea had encountered an ice floe that had been charted by ENVISAT ASAR. The frigate paused in the vicinity for forty-eight minutes, then aborted what were apparently intended to be cold-water maneuvers. The frigate now appeared to be on a full-speed course home. Before departing the Norwegian Sea, however, it appeared as though a boat or aircraft departed the frigate. Satellite confirmation was vague because of fog; the nearest vessel, the Ohio-class submarine USS Henry M. Jackson, was in the North Sea as part of the Commander Undersea Surveillance fleet monitored at the Naval Ocean Processing Facilities in Virginia Beach. It was ordered to shadow the frigate out of sonar range, using satellite guidance. In the words of the commander, the Iranian military vessel seemed to be “making tracks” toward home.

It was also trailing radiation. The big question was whether the frigate had been sent to retrieve something; whether they had been testing something, such as a new weapon; whether the frigate was a front for a seagoing nuclear laboratory—something India and China had done before they produced their own bombs—or whether global warming had unearthed a vein of nuclear material the likes of which no one had ever seen. Dr. Dave Pearl, a physicist at DARPA, Defense Advanced Research Projects, suggested it could be a meteoroid that had landed anytime from the day before up to four billion years ago. Dr. Cyril Planke of the U.S. Geological Survey said that a plutonium-laden space rock was unlikely. Both men agreed that a half-life reading would be of inestimable value—which was precisely the information Mason did not possess.

After an initial encrypted communication that was still being decoded, the frigate had gone into complete radio silence. So there was no information to be gleaned there. Added to that was the administration’s deferential stance toward the Iranian theocracy: bent on diplomacy rather than confrontation, there was a strict hands-off policy toward any lawful operations on international waters. Mason could not imagine that Admiral Breen and the Joint Chiefs of Staff would define an irradiated Iranian vessel as “lawful,” but that was a matter for the International Energy Agency to handle; by the time the bureaucracy had done even a fast-track study, the frigate would be back in the Persian Gulf.

The NSC had thick files with countless white papers containing “what if” scenarios, everything from a plausible event like a tsunami striking a U.S. naval base or a great white shark attacking a SEAL rescue mission to an unlikely event like Somali pirates commandeering an American nuclear submarine. Mason word-searched “plutonium” and “Arctic” from the start of the nuclear age to the present and came up dry. He expanded his search to NATO files and also found nothing.

However, he did find an interesting footnote in the files of Bundesnachrichtendienst, the foreign intelligence service of the Federal Republic of Germany. It was a reference to an Office of Strategic Services file that mentioned “plutonium.” The OSS file was among the more than 35,000 documents declassified by its successor, the CIA, in 2008, and sent to the National Archives. Mason went to the NA website and looked up the document in question. It was the personnel file on an operative, Largo Kealey. The flag came up because Kealey was tested for radiation exposure due to “proximity to plutonium in Brest.”

Why would there have been radioactive materials in the French port in 1944? Mason thought.

There was nothing about that in any of the files he checked. He got in touch with Dr. Pearl who directed him to Sally Massina, DARPA historian.

“Sally’s a living library of R&D,” he said. “She’s seventy-two and retired now . . . but there’s no one who can connect historical dots better than her.”

Mason called but she insisted on Skyping.

“I don’t get to see many faces these days,” she told him.

“Why? Where are you?”

“The Temecula Valley, California,” she said. “I’m on twenty-three acres of mountaintop. I’ve got golden eagles, rattlesnakes, scorpions, tarantulas, mountain lions, illegal immigrants—and a shotgun. But no neighbors.”

Mason was happy to make the video call. Sally was not what the young man had expected. She had a long sun-bronzed face and long henna-red hair, both beneath the largest cowboy hat he had ever seen on a human being.

“Here’s the connection,” Sally said without preamble. “In October 1941, Allied intelligence operatives working in Denmark eavesdropped on a meeting between a Danish physicist whose name they did not know and a German scientist whose name, unfortunately, they did know: Werner Heisenberg. This chat, in a park, I think, convinced MI6 in London that the Nazis were moving full-ahead to develop an atom bomb. At the same time, a heroic gent, Professor Leif Tronstad—who designed and helped construct cutting-edge power plants—had not fled Scandinavia like most of his colleagues when Hitler’s goons took over. He stayed to spy. At great personal risk, he sent coded telegrams to Sweden that made their way to MI6 about the Nazis using a plant in Norsk to produce heavy water—which, as you probably know, is necessary to produce nuclear weapon isotopes such as Plutonium-239. Brit commandos tried, and failed, to destroy the plant. It was called Operation Freshman and it was a disaster. The Allies tried again in Operation Gunner-side. This was pretty late in the game, mind you—1944. MI6 learned that the Germans were planning to ferry a butt load of heavy water across Lake Tinns for a rail trip to Germany. A second team of commandos used eighteen pounds of plastique to sink the ferry. Lotta passengers drowned along with most of the heavy water.”

“Most.”

“Most,” Sally said. She took a swallow of beer from a stein that sat on a pair of curled ram’s horns. “Brewed this myself,” she said proudly. “Anyway, the Nazis salvaged three canisters. The containers made their way to a materials testing laboratory at an air base in Anklam, a town in the Western Pomerania region of Mecklenburg-Vorpommern, Germany. The OSS learned about the transfer after bombing the crap out of Germany’s other R&D sites, notably the V-2 rocket facility at Peen-emünde. They dropped in paratroops and recovered documents that pointed them toward Anklam. This was a classic good-news, bad-news scenario: they got that new facility with bombs, plastered it flat, but aerial recon suggested that the contents had already been relocated.”

“To Brest?” Mason asked.

“No—don’t get ahead of me,” she said.

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay. I like ambition in a young man. Just not when I’m telling a story. What happened was, there was a mirror lab. That’s what they called backup facilities, and Berlin was smart enough to have them. The backup to Anklam had been built in Denmark. The Nazis always expected to have to finish the work there. They were close. Real close to getting their bomb. So close that they had already worked out a means of getting the finished product out by U-boat.”

Sally went silent and regarded the monitor.

“MI6 picked that up by following the trail from Anklam with a Geiger counter,” Sally went on. “Then, with Kealey as a spotter to ID the sub and its departure, the RAF blew the U-246 all to hell and back. Nothing was ever found of it—not even trace radiation. Of course, after the war no one went looking because the files were still classified.”

While Mason was absorbing what she’d told him, Sally grinned at the camera.

“Someone find it?” she asked. “I know, you can’t answer. But—jeez. If that’s the case, I only hope it was someone who doesn’t mean us any harm.”

“Is there any reason you would say that, apart from the obvious?” Mason asked.

“Mind you, I don’t know this for a fact—no one alive does. But there were rumors about the device. If I were you I’d skip whatever my next meal is to have a look at the debrief files of Professor Paul Dammann.”

She spelled it for him. Mason brought the file up. “There are a lot of pages here,” he said. “Can you give me a clue where I should start?”

“Sure,” she said. “Look up ‘steamer trunk.’ ”

CHAPTER 4

RABAT, MOROCCO

Rabat is a modern-looking port city that spreads in all directions from the wide, busy Ave Mohammed V. Beyond its towering palm trees, on the northern end of the concourse, is a sprawling bazaar.

Qassam Pakravesh looked like any other bootleg DVD vendor, his wares spread on a blanket between the mountainous, somewhat haphazard piles of shoes being sold by two other young salesmen. But Pakravesh was neither ordinary nor Moroccan. He was a sarhang sovom of the Seph-e Psdrn-e Enqelb-e Eslmi, a lieutenant colonel in the Army of the Guardians of the Islamic Revolution. He had only arrived in Rabat the day before and, after exchanging currency, immediately purchased both the goods and the spot of the previous bootlegger. He also gave him enough extra to start a new business in any neighboring town of his choice.

That was what Pakravesh did. Using passports meticulously counterfeited in Tehran and a business credit card from a Venezuelan energy company, Caracaz Oil, that was co-owned by Iranians, the short, mustachioed man received his assignment in a coded post on a website run by the company, went to the location, took over some public spot where he would be seen and known, and waited for further communications on the website. In the last two months he had been to Thailand, where he planted a bomb in a pro–United States bank, killed the editor of an anti-Islamic newspaper in India, assassinated a terrorist leader in Yemen who used Iranian money to kill a rival al Qaida leader, and purchased the specs on a new pipeline in Azerbaijan—in case it ever had to be destroyed. He had been schooled in over a dozen languages and there were few places in the world where he could not fit in easily.

The trip to Rabat was unusual because it had been ordered quickly—while he was already en route by rail to Tbilisi, Georgia, from Baku, Azerbaijan. He continued on to Kars, Turkey, at the end of the line and caught a flight to Rabat. Flying from Georgia was never a good idea, what with labor strikes and mechanical breakdowns.

At nine in the morning, Pakravesh received a text message with a series of numbers. They referred to paragraphs, and words within the paragraphs, on the Caracaz Oil website. Because of where he had been sent, the harbor, the Iranian agent knew that the first letters of those words—G-H-O-R-B-A-N-I—spelled the name of a vessel he was to meet. If it had been an individual, an honorific—such as agaye for “mister”—would have been provided.

Wearing sunglasses and a pleasant smile, he made sure he was facing the port so he would see the ship when it arrived. Pakravesh had to wait three hours until it was cleared to dock. He knew that his contact onboard would have the remainder of his instructions. As always, it was with a welling of anticipation that he awaited the orders. The challenge was always exciting, though the pressure was also great: he had a reputation for achieving impossible goals. He never wanted that to be sullied. In a society where an uneducated man from an impoverished village could never have been the nation’s greatest cleric or politician, the highest military leader, or even a mediocre physician, it was important that he be the best at the brand of intelligence work he had embraced—and that had embraced his particular talents for patience, observation, and deceit. Failure on any mission would be unacceptable not just to his colleagues in Iran but more to him. In a world where he could—and did—kill people who bothered him too much, that was Pakravesh’s one hair trigger.

As soon as he saw the gangway stairs lowered to the dock, Pakravesh bundled his wares in the blanket and threw them on his back. He made his way to the ship casually, ostensibly to sell entertainment to the sailors for the long voyage.

He lit a cigarette, looked around, then climbed the stairs. At the top he was met by a seaman who had been told to expect him. Pakravesh was told to open his blanket on the deck. Almost at once he saw that something was different: a tarpaulin stretched over an object, guarded by an armed sentry. From the way the shroud radiated outward on a ribbed surface, it had to be a helicopter.

Several men gathered around the blanket, selecting DVDs and paying for them. One of those men was the captain. He was carrying a canvas sack over his shoulder, as if he were going on shore leave. It was large and it was pointed in several places; a box, Pakravesh surmised. It was also heavy, about eighty pounds he guessed, judging how it pushed against the canvas and the way the captain carefully, slowly eased it from his back. Pakravesh cleared the DVDs from the fabric and they spun across the deck. He didn’t think the box was fragile; when the captain placed it on the blanket, it landed with an echoing thunk.

The captain bent, picked up several DVDs, and paid for them with a 5,000-rial note. Pakravesh glanced at it as he tucked it in his pocket and scooped up his blanket. There was writing on the face. He made sure to run the edges of the blanket through the thick cord at the top of the canvas bag. If the sack broke, the blanket would hold the contents.

Pakravesh was prepared for the heft when he slung the parcel on his back. Even so, he revised his estimate upward by about ten pounds. He was not going to get very far with whatever it was, not this way. He staggered down the stairs, then stopped on the dock. He walked to where a group of seven stevedores were waiting to be hired.

Pakravesh carefully laid his burden on the concrete. “Would one of you sell me a wooden dolly?” he asked the group.

There was general laughter. “Then how will we make our living?”

Pakravesh grinned. He pulled a 200-dirham note from his pocket. “I need one man to help me for an hour.”

The laughter ceased abruptly. The sum was more than any of these men made in a month.

All of the men volunteered. Pakravesh selected the one who looked the most relaxed, the most anonymous, someone who would seem like a natural companion for him. The volunteer was a shorter man, compact but thin, in his mid twenties. He looked like a native; his accent definitely was. The Iranian tore the bill in half and handed it to the young man.

“I’ll pay you the other half when we reach our destination,” Pakravesh said.

“Which is where?” the man asked eagerly as he used his foot to scoot the dolly to the parcel.

“The Royal,” he said, indicating the direction of his hotel. He had already rented a first-floor room and set it up according to his needs. “What is your name?”

“Mustapha.”

“I am Abass,” Pakravesh told him.

They started out. The dolly had a clothesline looped to the front. It threaded through a leather strap that went around the stevedore’s waist. Pakravesh lit a cigarette, offered one to his companion. Huffing with the effort of his labors, he declined.

“What have you got in here?” the youth asked. “It’s heavy!”

“A safe,” Pakravesh said. “I plan to be here for a while and I do not trust hotel security.”

The young man laughed as he grunted.

The Iranian hoped that that was all the young man asked about the parcel. Pakravesh really did want to give him the other half of the dirham note.

It was far more convenient, and less complicated, than a knife in the throat.

MCLEAN, VIRGINIA

From above, the National Intelligence Counterterrorism Center looked like a giant X.

The gleaming white, seven-story structure was set on a plot of land between 287 and Lewinsville Road, nestled between a large parking lot on the northwest and smaller structures on the southeast—the largest of which looked unsettlingly like a big white handgun pointed at the heart of the X.

The Nuclear Threat Assessment division was located in four offices along a corridor on the top floor. One of those offices belonged to Rayhan Jafari.

She arrived early Monday morning to see what was new with the frigate that had brought her to the White House the day before. Researching the vessel at home, she realized this was the same frigate that drove pirates from an American cargo ship in the Gulf of Oman in 2012. It was northeast of Fujairah, where oil tankers refueled. The Jamaran had just passed through the Strait of Hormuz when they picked up the distress call, fired shots at the “fishing vessel” as it tried to attach C-4 to the hull. She suspected, though it was never proved, that Iran had, in fact, paid for the attack in order to show that the military supported peaceful, seafaring activities.

Satellite images and other data revealed that it was traveling at thirty knots—its top speed. She noticed that the helicopter it had been designed to carry was missing.

More interesting than the physical appearance and activities of the ship was the lack of communication between the vessel and its home port on Iran’s southern coast. She suspected it was headed there—but radio silence was virtually unprecedented. She also wondered about the speed being different than Iranian frigates typically used in international waters.

She phoned John Duke, senior analyst in the Maritime Tracking Office on the fourth floor. She asked to superimpose this trip on a history of Iranian naval traffic.

“Any aberrations?” she asked.

“Displacement, for one,” he said. “Even without the weight of her helicopter she’s carrying a great deal of extra weight—fuel, I’m guessing, probably picked up during her stop in Venezuela. I’m sure we’ll be seeing more take-ons like that as the Iranians establish a permanent presence near our coast.”

“Which makes me wonder why she’s making this sudden retreat.”

“Here’s something strange,” Duke said. “When she turned home, she was making sudden midcourse adjustments to avoid other traffic.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Every time they picked up another ship, they maneuvered into a non-proximity stance. It’s not like they’re going to collide—they seemed to want to avoid any kind of visual or instrument contact.”

“All past tense,” Rayhan said.

“For the last three hours and change, they’ve been chugging along. Two knots slower, too, according to satellite records.”

Rayhan asked Duke to forward her the data. She was going to put this in front of General Clarke. Whatever was going on out there, the United States needed to have eyeballs on the scene. If it was what she suspected, it needed to be done sooner rather than later.

DAHLGREN, VIRGINIA

“Steamer trunk” turned up exactly once in the OSS archives.

Lt. Jr. Grade Mark Mason found it in a debrief from October 26, 1944. It was conducted in London, England, at the Kingsway Tunnels under the city—where operations were safe from spies and from German bombs. Present were the interrogator, Colonel Tim Maxim, and the stenographer, Second Officer Kathleen O’Neill. The transcriptions had been scanned, so he was looking at the actual document from the files of the OSS. The words he had been told to look for came in the middle of the five-hour-plus conversation. They meant nothing, so Mason scrolled to the beginning.

The narrative was like nothing the young intelligence officer could have imagined. The tale that unfolded was about Captain Largo Kealey of the United States Marine Corps, who had been on the trail of a prototype atom bomb constructed by the Third Reich.

“A prototype,” Mason muttered. He had never seen it reported anywhere that the Germans were close to that level of deployment.

He skimmed through the debrief, which followed the standard procedure: the subject was told to talk, omitting nothing, pausing only when a question was asked. Kealey’s story was precise and detailed. Mason knew, from training, that subjects did not bring crib sheets to these sessions: Kealey was remembering everything. Mason read the account about how the nuclear material was found, tracked, and finally placed on the U-boat at Brest. That was where the steamer trunk came in.

Page 212

M: You said a moment ago that intelligence reports placed the target parcel at about the size of a “valise,” you called it. Were you given any information about what a completed device might look like? Size-wise, I mean.

K: I was told to watch for something as small as a bowling ball and as large as a steamer trunk. My understanding was that the former would be a container for nuclear material only. The latter might be a finished bomb lacking, it was presumed, a functioning detonator.

M: And you believe that only the former, as you called it, was sent.

K: Yes, sir. I couldn’t see anything because of the heavy roofing Doenitz and his boys had laid on. But I’d done some calculations about the turning radius inside the conning tower of a U-boat. The enemy would have had a very tough time maneuvering a large trunk and making the turn into the vessel. And time was something they did not have in abundance.

M: Sorry to interrupt again, Captain—you’re being very thorough—but was there any indication, any at all, that this device was close to being active, or potentially so?

K: Only the haste of the departure, Colonel. Figure the war ends next summer, God willing. If Hitler has a shot winning this, it’s with a single bomb that can wipe out London, Washington, New York. My gut tells me they were close because they rushed that U-boat out like nothing I ever witnessed. And Ike must’ve agreed, because the RAF went after it with the kind of firepower—well, I don’t have to tell you.

M: No. You don’t. And I guess we can all thank bloody heaven they succeeded. So, the U-boat left port. What did you do then?

Mason skimmed the rest and then checked the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Association website to see what the sea currents were like in that part of the world. He had no idea what he was looking at when it came to the Coriolis effect and the North Atlantic Gyre. But he could follow arrows and it looked to him—it looked very much to him—as if they pointed from the area that Captain Kealey had described as the U-boat kill zone to the region where the Iranians were giving the vessel its cold-water wings.

The Lt. JG wrote a summary for Lt. Cmdr. Bobbitt that concluded with the following summary:

We should determine whether this object could be what the Iranians discovered and, if so, do something else: find out whether this hero Kealey is still alive and could possibly ID the object or its signature.

Nakhoda Yekom.

Ebrahim Elham said the word again in his mind. Captain. You are the captain of this vessel. More than that, you are the captain of a vessel of the Islamic Republic of Iran.

What a plateau to have reached! His father worked in a carpet factory and rose to foreman of the loading dock. The Elhams were natural leaders—but who could have imagined this?

He sat on the bridge with a skeleton crew of three seamen, looking out on clear gray skies and a slate-black sea.

Now it was time to lead.

Two-thirds of the crew were incapacitated. The medical staff said it was radiation poisoning. They were not going to recover. Elham himself felt dizzy, nauseous; the men beside him were perspiring.

You are in command of a ghost ship, he finally admitted to himself.

The frigate was not going to make it to port. The crew would not even reach the nearest friendly port in Cabo Bojador, Western Sahara. Even there, without a crew to defend her, the government would look the other way if any international power agreed to support its territorial claims against Morocco in exchange for possession of the frigate. His command, his crew, would become a pawn in a political chess game.

And then there is the radiation, he thought. The harbor would have sensors to check cargo ships. Alarms would surely sound. And that was if the ship could even reach the Atlantic port—

Already, it was becoming increasingly difficult to maneuver away from international traffic. Tehran would not want him to fall within the range of radiation detectors. By law, that would give any nation the right to quarantine the vessel. Unable to mount an effective resistance, the crew would be compelled to watch some NATO-allied ship, or perhaps the Russians, seize and study a jewel of the Republic’s navy.

That must not happen. Perhaps there were no secrets for them to learn; the navy was still new at the production of its own ships and had not yet developed advanced technology. But Iranian pride would suffer as the Jamaran was violated.

That must not be.

The frigate was equipped with a pair of triple-tube 324mm torpedo launchers. There were four torpedoes onboard. Each warhead was packed with forty-five kilograms of high explosives in a shaped charge. Elham radioed below and told all able and available hands to head at once to weapons stowage and dismantle the warheads and stack all the ammunition with it along the hull. The order was repeated for confirmation but not questioned. Elham suspected that in their hearts and minds, every seaman knew what lay ahead.

He heard prayer from the navigation bay. There would be a lot more of that after they finished the task at hand.

Navostavar Dovom Larijani notified the captain when the task was completed. The chief petty officer asked if the captain would be coming below. It was a question Elham had been weighing.

“I will remain on the bridge,” he answered. “Please decide among yourselves who will honor his family name with the task at hand.”

The captain heard the muted shouts of volunteers over the radio. Tears joined the perspiration running along his cheek. Larijani was a good man. He asked if the young man wanted the job.

“Very much, Captain,” was his reply.

“It is yours,” the captain said. “At will, CPO Larijani.”

Elham sat back in his vinyl chair. He looked proudly at the men on either side of the console ahead. They did not look behind them. They continued to guide the ship, though he could hear their gentle prayers.

O Allah, keep me alive so long as it is in my best interest and give me death when it is in my best interest.

The captain began to pray as well.

“Allah-humma ah-yini ma kaanatilhayaatukhairall-lee —”

He got no further. He heard the immense blast, felt himself catapulted from his seat as though it were a bucking bull. He fell hard on the console, which was tilted amidships and rolled onto the floor, the other men piling against him as the wall behind him became the floor and dropped like an elevator. He heard the pounding rush of seawater below, then beside, then above him. It crashed through the double-pane glass, slamming the men where they lay, pushing them into the water that rose quickly from below.

Cold salt water filled his mouth, his throat, and finally his lungs as his arms flailed helplessly against the flow.

And then the captain, the crew, and the rest of the frigate were gone beneath the dark waves.

CHAPTER 5

WASHINGTON, D.C.

It was a beautiful day, and Ryan Kealey had an urge to hunt dinner and cook it on an open fire. Since both of those were frowned upon in the nation’s capital, he settled for gyros on a park bench in Constitution Gardens near the Vietnam Veterans Memorial.

He and Allison had done nothing but walk since breakfast. Though Kealey hadn’t shaken the feeling that something was in the shadows, waiting for him—perhaps explaining his desire to grab a shotgun and shoot something—he managed to push it far enough aside to enjoy the day, the sights, and the company of Allison Dearborn. He didn’t know where, if anywhere, the relationship was going. Or if it even was a relationship, as opposed to a good friendship with sex. But whatever it was, it was easy and relaxed for both of them.

Even so, throughout the day, from Ford’s Theatre to the Lincoln Memorial, Kealey felt phantom vibrations from his cell phone. He enjoyed the downtime and he did not miss carrying the fate of a city or field operatives or even his own survival on his back. Counterterrorism was an unending relay race in which the baton had to be passed to others. The problem he had—and which he was sure his predecessors had with him—was that every generation had its own way of doing things. This younger generation, the late twentysomethings on up, relied so heavily on ELINT, electronic intelligence, that he feared they would lose the intuitive skills necessary for the job. They, in turn, felt that he put too much trust on intangibles like instinct and patterns of human behavior—which had been drummed into them as an evil thing: profiling. The kind of thing that had kept El Al Airlines safe from hijackers for decades.

So they kept circling each other with more suspicion than they applied to the enemy. And, of course, the numbers of youngsters were swelling while the numbers of old-timers decreased.

That’s why the movies keep casting younger and younger James Bonds, he mourned privately. No one would believe that someone even in his forties would have the energy for these kinds of sustained operations. The stakeouts alone tried strong men’s bladders, he had to admit.

A man with an iPod and new wedding ring walked by. The fortysomething looked at Kealey, then did a double take when he saw Allison. Kealey was relieved, then a little perturbed—she had a life outside of him?—when the man half smiled at Allison, tamped down the apparent kneejerk reaction to talk to her, and moved on.

“Friend?” Kealey asked when they were a half block away.

“Patient,” she replied.

“Don’t ask, don’t tell?”

“You know I can’t tell,” Allison said. “But what makes you say that?”

“Checked me out first, I heard a distinct disco beat from the iPod, and he had a new now-it’s-legal wedding ring,” Kealey answered.

“Jesus, Ryan,” she said lightly but with an edge of disapproval in her voice.“Did you ever meet a stereotype you didn’t embrace?”

“Was I wrong?”

She didn’t answer, which was an answer. She had released his arm to protest. He took her hand in his.

“Putting aside the sensitivity training that you got that I missed,” Kealey said, “is that what bothered you? My profiling?”

She walked in silence . . . in thought. He gave her time. He glanced at an alternative press headline in a plastic newspaper kiosk. He remembered when the concerns of those things were about people’s liberty, not pets and the rights of the physical planet.

“It isn’t the profiling,” she said.

“Good, because you know it’s a useful tool.”

“I don’t want to get into rights issues, Ryan. It’s the fact that I’m trained to do this kind of analysis, and I still have to talk to people to root out what they’re about. You do it in about a second—”

“Less,” he said with a wink.

“And you’re generally close to a bull’s-eye.”

“I have to be, but it ages me,” he said. “My body draws energy on account, and I never really stop to replenish. We’ve talked about that. I’m like a weightlifter who doesn’t eat enough meat.”

“It’s funny,” she said. “It’s your body that reacts—yet we call it intelligence work.”

The oxymoronic assessment was not as sarcastic as it sounded. Kealey had often told his former CIA boss, Jonathan Harper, that the biggest drawback to any bureaucracy was what he called the 3Bs—the Brawny Brain Bank. Good ideas entered any system at the bottom. By the time they reached the top, hoisted on the tops of shoulders, the idea had been replaced by muscle. That was how targeted assassinations became full-scale invasions, how secret ambassadorial missions became declarations of war, how stakeouts became raids. It didn’t matter which level or branch of government it was—that was how it went.

“There, you see?”Allison said.

“What?” Kealey asked. He had already forgotten what they were talking about. His brain didn’t really want to work today.

“You’re looking around, humming. I think about things. You don’t.”

“Actually, I was thinking.”

“You were musing, ruminating—I know the look. It’s free-form, your mind drifting free as a little cloud.”

“If you say so—”

“I do. My brain is like an old adding machine and we end up in the same place—your instinct and my thought. Only you get there faster. It’s mildly annoying.”

Her little smile and tight hug on his arm didn’t soften . . . much less the frustration she obviously felt.

“But I do the process less completely than you do,” he said. “And I’m not looking to cure someone. Usually, I’m deciding whether or not to shoot them. I create an outline of some person or event. You assemble a treatise. I form instant impressions, you conduct careful studies. There’s a big difference in what we do.“

She liked that. He could tell by the way her mouth relaxed; her hold on his arm relaxed just a little, and she looked down. She always did that when a topic was done. That was something else that came with profiling: it made dating easier.

No, Kealey thought, I am happy to be here now, doing what I’m doing, not rushing to someone or someplace in crisis. Which was exactly why, a few hours later, astzatziki sauce dripped from pork to the napkin on his knee, coating his fingers, he was not surprised when his cell phone finally did vibrate. Fate disfavored the contented.

Kealey glanced at the number as he chewed.

“Fletcher Clarke,” he said, answering Allison’s querying look.

“Does he know you are in D.C?”

“I didn’t tell him,” Kealey said somewhat uneasily since Clarke rarely called for social reasons. But he unlocked the phone and answered the call.

“General, you’re on speaker, so don’t say anything sensitive.”

“I called your office at the university, and they said you were in town for a few days. Exactly where are you?” Clarke asked.

“Not far from the foot of the Great Emancipator, on the edge of the Reflecting Pool—trying to decide whether I should jump in.”

“Not just now,” Clarke said.

“I’m listening, General.”

“Your Uncle Largo—are you close?”

“Well, I guess you could say sort of. I don’t see him much because he lives on Long Island, about a half hour by train outside New York City.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“About a decade ago at my aunt’s funeral. Why? What’s up?”

“I’ll tell you when you get to the White House,” he said.

Kealey hesitated. Clarke heard it.

“Come on, Ryan. You know I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important.”

“It always is. When do you need me?”

“As soon as possible.”

“Scale of one-to-ten—”

“Multiple converging lines. An eight with a possible ticking clock.”

“Who else?”

“Breen, the President, a physicist on her way—and Carlson.”

“Aw, jeez.”

“You don’t have to work with him, Ryan—just listen to whatever he has to say.”

“Why? It’s usually too cautious and too late.”

“Ryan? We need you here.”

Kealey looked at Allison. She understood it was serious. Kealey stuck the rest of the gyro in his mouth and picked up his can of Sprite Zero.

“On my way now,” said, rising. “And I’m sorry, General.”

“For?”

“That ‘always is’ crack. It wasn’t aimed at you. I’m just—”

“Tired. I know,” Clarke said. “Me, too.”

Kealey said he’d see him in a few minutes and hung up. He looked at Allison. “Sorry, babe.”

“Hey, if you don’t want to be alone, you don’t date a doctor, a firefighter, or Superman.”

“I’m off to find a phone booth.” He smiled and kissed her.

“Mmm. Oniony.”

“You want to power walk with me?”

“No—I think I’ll sit here for a while and savor. It was a good weekend.”

He kissed her again. “The best. I’ll call you later.”

He saw in her eyes that she didn’t really believe that, and she wasn’t wrong. When you went to the White House on business, you were either out in a few minutes or stuck in a black hole where time vanished.

It was just about a quarter mile to the White House, and he walked briskly along Constitution Avenue NW, sipping his soda, and trying to imagine what national emergency could possibly involve his secretive Uncle Largo.

Whatever it was, he found himself uncharacteristically eager to get to the meeting and find out. He tossed the empty can in the trash and picked up the pace as he hurried along 17th Street NW, past the Ellipse toward the White House.

“We need to know what the damn thing smells like.”

Kealey sat in the Oval Office with General Clarke, Admiral Breen, the President, Secretary of Homeland Security Max Carlson, and Secretary of State Jeff Dryfoos. It was Carlson who had made that colorful declaration.

“After nearly sixty years in the ice, I’d say it smells pretty fresh,” Kealey said.

“Too fresh,” Clarke added.

“And what about this sinking?” the President asked. “Was the blast on the frigate self-inflicted?”

The men were seated around a glass-topped coffee table in the middle of the room. The President was at one end, Breen at the other. Clarke and Kealey were sitting side by side, sharing a folder of gathered intelligence. Carlson was across from them. The white folder, boldly printed “Top Secret” in red across the top on front, contained the relevant section of Captain Kealey’s transcript, data records of the Arctic coordinates going back a quarter century, photos of the Iranian frigate taken as it cruised international waters prior to the encounter—and now printed images, just brought in by the President’s chief of staff, emailed to Carlson, showing the last seconds in the career of the Jamaran.

“The explosion took place aft, in the weapons bay,” Breen said. “Not in a series, as if a warhead had detonated and then took out others, but in a single blast.”

“So, intentional,” the President said.

“Clearly.”

The President’s executive secretary knocked on the door and announced Rayhan Jafari. The President waved her in. Dressed in beige slacks and a white blouse, the young woman stepped in. The President continued waving her over. He indicated an empty chair beside Admiral Breen, who was looking at a laptop to his right.

“We just had a flyover by a Seahawk from the USS Harry S. Truman,” Breen said as the woman sat. “That was twenty-one minutes ago, an hour and five minutes after the explosion was detected. Chopper crew reported slightly elevated levels of radiation in the sea.”

“What is ‘slightly elevated’?” the President asked.

“The raw readings are 400 nm, up from 280 registered on the ship—”

“Those are nanometers—ultraviolet from the sun,” Rayhan said. “That uptick would be from a lack of cloud cover, not from plutonium.”

Breen’s jawline stiffened as he continued. “The seawater also had a radiation level of .2 pc.” He stopped and waited.

“That’s definitely from the ship—or whatever the ship had onboard,” she said. “Since the Japanese tsunami, all oceanic radiation has been elevated slightly. This reading is double that level.”

“Would you say the object was still onboard?” the President asked.

“No, sir. I would expect to see somewhere in the neighborhood of ten picocuries per gram for exposed plutonium, even underwater.”

“What impact would that have on a human being?” Kealey asked.

“They would die,” she replied. “Quickly.”

Clarke and Breen looked at the President at the same time.

“Suicide,” Carlson said. “Mass suicide.”

There was a moment of silence, broken by the President. “But after the plutonium had been handed off.” He shuffled through the papers, stopped at a satellite image. “By this hot spot in the fog.”

“That is not a radiation signature,” Rayhan said, looking across at the image.

“Heat,” Clarke said. “Oh, I’m sorry—Ryan Kealey, this is Rayhan Jafari, my radiation expert. Rayhan, Mr. Kealey is formerly of the CIA, now—”

“Not,” Kealey interrupted, smiling at the woman. “Happy to meet you.”

“The same.”

“So we have a source of plutonium. We have it leaving the frigate, but we don’t know where it went,” the President said.

“Sir, we’re scanning and coordinating data now,” Carlson said. “Satellite, radar, and radio chatter between commercial vessels. We’ll find it.”

“ ‘It,’ ” the President said, flipping back through the folder. “Ryan, what about your uncle? Do you think he can help us here?”

“Mr. President, I sincerely do not know. Uncle Largo has never discussed his wartime service with me, even when I asked.”

“This is national security, not the Kealey Thanksgiving table,” Carlson angrily pointed out.

Kealey smirked. “And yet—we have turkey.”

“Don’t!” Clarke snapped.

Carlson glared. The President ignored them, as he did all intramural squabbles, checking the message alert on his laptop. Kealey caught Rayhan’s little smile. That made the rebuke tolerable.

“Sorry, Mr. Secretary,” Kealey said.

“You do understand that we’re concerned with national security and untold lives here, not your feelings.”

“I understand it as well as you do, Mr. Carlson—”

“Back on topic,” Clarke said angrily.

“—but I have asked my uncle, man to man, to talk about what he did for the OSS. It’s something I wanted to know. He has always refused. Not declined: shook his head and said no more. I think secrecy is so deeply bred into him he literally couldn’t do it.”

“Would you get him to try?” Clarke asked in a hard voice that was more of a command. Since Kealey no longer worked for the government, the general had to couch it with the lightest dusting of deference.

“Of course, sir,” Kealey said. “I’m just not clear what we’re looking for. His debrief seems pretty thorough.”

“He’s—what, late eighties?” Breen inquired.

“That’s about right,” Kealey said. “I wouldn’t count on age to have—what’s the expression? ‘Withered him’?”

“ ‘Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale her infinite variety,’ ” Rayhan said. “Shakespeare. Antony and Cleopatra. He helped me to learn English.”

The President looked up. “Thank you for restoring civility to this meeting.”

The young woman smiled slightly, blushed, and looked down at Carlson’s file.

“I’ll check to see if he’s home—” offered Kealey.

“He’s home, Mr. Kealey,” the President said. He indicated the laptop. “An FBI field agent is mowing his lawn right now.”

Kealey nodded. “I’ll grab my toothbrush and leave at once.”

“I’m wondering if it would help to have Ms. Jafari with you,” the President asked.

Kealey regarded her. “I think most men would rather talk to her than to me.”

Carlson was professional enough not to comment.

The President regarded her. “Would you mind? You might hear or ask something Mr. Kealey could miss.”

“Not at all, sir.”

The meeting broke up quickly, Carlson remaining behind and the President’s chief of staff arranging for a car to take Kealey and Rayhan to get their belongings and then to Quantico. From there, a Marine Corps helicopter would ferry the two to New York.

Clarke buttonholed Kealey in the corridor outside the Oval Office. They stepped away from the earshot of the Secret Service agent stationed there.

“Does everything have to be a battle getting to the actual battle—” Clarke asked in a loud whisper.

“It’s how I stay in shape.”

“And a joke?”

Kealey looked down. He was looking at his shoes but what he saw was a park with Allison Dearborn and a sense of peace. “If I didn’t jab at these guys I’d kill them.”

“We’re not here to be best buddies,” Clarke said. “We’re here to protect the nation.”

“These guys? They’re here to wield power. Against enemies if they can, against allies if they can’t. Sharing information—horse hockey. The unified intelligence services made a big intelligence bureaucracy with fewer seats on top. Carlson’s king of his hill and a big part of his job is to swat at guys like me who help elevate guys like you. You respect the people in the field, General, because you’ve been there. Carlson’s just a user and a self-promoting bureaucrat.”

“With whom I defend our shores.” Clarke pulled Kealey closer to the wall, his voice a hoarse, conspiratorial whisper. “I told you I was tired, Ryan, but that’s not the half of it. We’ve thrown this big K-rail of Homeland Security against enemy traffic, but instead of fighting for the win, the services are fighting to get their mouths to the trickle-down flow of intel. That only allows us to flex certain muscles. Plus I’m doing double the work.” He jerked his head toward the Oval Office. “I have to play the diplomat at every meeting. I don’t tell. I suggest. I don’t require, I requisition. We’re all doing that.”

“You’ve got Streaming Intelligence—”

“Yeah, with a couple of kids, one of them a freaking genius, basically sitting on their hands and watching computer programs do all the work. Programs written by one group, shared by all of us, non-actionable without going through the proper channels. I tell you, Ryan, my damn hands are tied in a way that they never were in the field. All that bonhomie after September 11—it got big-governmentized the way everything does. It’s enough to make me a MiLF.

“Come again?”

“Military Libertarian Fanatic,” Clarke said. “Breen and I came up with that.”

Kealey’s mouth twisted. “And I’m a joker?”

“I know, but we needed something to smile about in these sweatbox sessions.” Clarke sighed. “It’s tough to stay focused, Ryan. I wouldn’t tell that to anyone but you because I know what you’ve accomplished. That’s why you keep getting dragged back in. I need someone I can hand off to.”

Kealey wished he didn’t understand; it would be easier to turn Clarke or Andrews or any of these guys down whenever they called. But he knew what Clarke was facing here, what the country was facing “out there,” and so he kept coming back.

“I wonder how he did it?” Kealey asked.

“Who?”

“Uncle Largo,” Kealey said.

“We beat the enemy that was on his plate,” Clarke said. “He probably felt the Reds were the next guy’s problem.”

Clarke wished Kealey well, then went to confer with Breen in the admiral’s West Wing office. Clarke understood that Kealey’s independence was what made him so effective, but his outspokenness had always been an abrasive part of their relationship dating back to when they first met in the Army. Military men like Clarke and Breen at least had some schooling in the essentials of détente; civilians like Carlson did not; and Kealey had simply never cared.

Kealey and Rayhan followed an intern toward the West Wing exit, where a black sedan with smoky windows was already waiting.

“I’ve never flown anything but commercial,” Rayhan said excitedly.

“It’s convenient,” Kealey said. “Best thing is, no nanny flight attendants.

The first stop was Kealey’s hotel room across the street. Even though he was here on vacation, out of habit, he always had a bag ready and was out in less than two minutes.

“You’ve obviously done this before. I guess at home you don’t have pets or plants,” Rayhan remarked after he’d placed the backpack in the trunk.

“When I had my house in Maine, I had a garden. I found a three-legged box turtle in that garden one day. All of them—the turtle and the garden—died within days of one another. And I was home the entire time.”

“I hope you did not attribute that to bad karma or a touch of death.”

“Why do you hope that? Worried about me already?”

“I am worried about myself,” she said. “Whatever happens I will be in close proximity to you.”

Kealey laughed. “No, it wasn’t that. I attribute it to reality: not taking an injured turtle to a vet and having a brown thumb.”

“I am relieved,” she said. “What did you bring with you? What should I bring?”

“Bare essentials for a day or two. And your passport.”

“All of that for a trip to New York?”

He grinned. “I was never a Boy Scout—in any sense of the word—but I always subscribed to their motto: Be prepared.”

She understood.

“How long have you worked for the DNI?” Kealey asked, wanting to know more about his traveling companion.

“Nearly two years. It is a perfect home for a Farsi-speaking physicist.”

Kealey didn’t ask her how often Tehran tried to get her to work for them. He suspected that apart from being an asset as an employee, she was probably unwitting bait for several counterespionage agencies. He would be shocked if eyes weren’t on her round-the-clock, if her electronics were not being watched, if everyone of Middle Eastern descent whom she knew, contacted, or who contacted her weren’t being observed—closely.

The young woman’s eager reserve was a welcome distraction. They could not discuss the matter at hand—not until they were onboard the chopper, whose flight crew would have the appropriate security clearance. So during the comfortable backseat drive they talked about her background, her training—she received her Ph.D. from Oxford—and how she came to the U.S. He had pinned her as a long-time London resident from her accent and wondered why British intelligence hadn’t sought her out.

“They did, but I felt I should be on my own,” she said. “My parents are very traditional. The pressure to marry is unrelenting.”

He left the comment alone. It was a familiar story with few variations. She asked about him. He told her how he had a master’s degree in business from Duke, ROTC’d his way to first lieutenant on graduation, and immediately signed up with the Green Berets. He made major in eight years and would have been happy to serve his twenty—until a traitor killed everyone in his outfit and left Kealey for dead. After months of recuperation, Kealey tied up that inside job in such a way as to leave him two options: court-martial or resignation. He opted to quit and was immediately scooped up by the CIA.

“But you left that, too,” she said. “Because of men like—back there?”

“Partly that, but partly the bloodshed,” he said. “You’re either watching someone or killing someone. There isn’t much gray. So I went up to Maine to teach and now I am guest lecturing at the University of Virginia—but they kept calling and I kept coming and here I am again.”

“The killing—it’s to protect the country.”

“It is. As Thomas Jefferson said, the tree of liberty does require occasional bloodshed. Making that call, though—it requires both intellectual certainty and emotional detachment. I never mastered the latter. You remember the massacres in Houla, Syria, last year?”

“Of course.”

“The group that did them, the Shabiha, were the government’s strong-arm mercenaries,” Kealey said. “I read the interviews with survivors. They went into homes and stabbed, face-to-face, men, then women, then children. Or they lined them up and put a bullet in the foreheads of each individual. The Shabiha ignored their pleas. Maybe they enjoyed them, I don’t know. But they did the job methodically and thoroughly—over one hundred times. That’s the kind of ruthlessness a killer needs.”

“I heard many such stories growing up, listening from behind closed doors. It is sadism.”

“That’s another word for it,” Kealey agreed. “Whatever you call it, it was never just a job to me—even when I was going after a killer, even when I was saving the life of one of my men. What was worse, though, was that part of me envied the guys who could kill.”

She looked at Kealey the way Carlson had twenty minutes earlier. “They have no humanity.”

“They don’t smell a barbecue and think of a hut they torched with someone inside. They don’t splatter soup or tomato paste and think of a knife opening someone’s heart or throat. They don’t have a normal conversation and find themselves looking at a person’s eyes and wonder what the technical difference is between a living eye and a dead one. They do their deeds and move on.”

“But life without a soul . . .”

“Not one I’d want,” Kealey agreed. “That said, I could do without the thoughts and visions and nightmares that won’t let you write over them. Somewhere in here”—he tapped his nose—“there’s always the tart smell of gunpowder or the almond smell of C-4 or the combination of iron-scented blood and landfill rot they left behind in a cave or village or sniper’s post in a lonely apartment. Desk jockeys like Carlson back there don’t understand that. They don’t understand that sometimes, men like my Uncle Largo don’t talk because if they did, this is what would come out. Bitter, unbidden disgust. Revulsion about what you do, however necessary, and what you had to overlook to do it.”

“I understand,” she said. “But I would have pulled the trapdoor on Saddam Hussein without thinking, for what he did to the people of Iran during the war. I would do the same to those who oppress that nation now, hanging gay men from construction cranes. I do not think I would feel the anger you feel.”

Kealey grinned. “It’s not anger, Rayhan. I’ve never said it wasn’t necessary, and I do it all very, very well. My shrink, Allison, thinks my id likes killing and my ego and superego team up to keep that desire in check.” He shrugged. “She’s probably right. She usually is. If I hated it the way I just described, why would I be back?”

“You call your shrink by her first name?”

Kealey laughed inside. The things that make an impression on people—

“Yes. We have an unorthodox relationship.”

Rayhan sat back. “I do not doubt that all of what you say goes on inside. But I believe you are a patriot. I believe one can kill justly, and that you have. Not liking it—that is what makes sure the cause is righteous.”

Kealey was smiling to himself. What she had just told him was Psych 101. He knew all that even before he was ordered to see Allison.

From the first, their sessions had not been what he was expecting. Unlike civilian psychologists who let the patient do the talking and tend mostly to guide the conversation, shrinks who work for law enforcement and intelligence have to determine, pretty quickly, whether patients, who were relatively few in number and trained at great expense, are fit for duty. That requires more pushing and harder probing than typical “real world” sessions.

Also, Allison had a service file she had been able to review. Within minutes after they had started talking she had taken Kealey to what Rayhan had missed—perhaps because of her age, perhaps because of her limited experience. The psychological combat zone that Allison called “the gray areas.”

“I don’t mean just the hazy areas between black and white,” she had said in one of their early sessions. “I’m talking about the aging of the individual. We play our own devil’s advocate. That fudges the clean, clear certainty of youth.”

“But I am clearer about so many things,” he had replied.

“Only politics,” she had said. Kealey had been about to protest. She held up a hand. “Religion? Movies? Romance? If you didn’t have money on a big game, would you care that much who won?”

“No—”

“Dating. Looks matter less, other qualities matter more. Your views are blended.”

She was right. He was mellowing.

“Why politics—and music?” he had asked.

“Politics? Because the non-grays—not just the physically young but the emotionally immature—think they know everything. They support politicians who tell them they’re right. Music? A lot of it is inherently political,” she had gone on. “And loud. Your graying ears don’t like that.”

What Allison had described was true about both combat and covert missions. The sliding scale didn’t slide so much. He tracked down mostly really bad men: warlords, ethnic cleansers, homicide bombers. Later, at the Company, he went after moderately bad men like paid assassins, arms dealers, drug traffickers, and only the occasional genocidal maniac. By his hand or by his efforts, they all got the same death. But the higher his security clearance climbed, the more apparent the gray areas became—like the impoverished villages that harvested opium to survive, the cartels who put money into local education and health care, the people who saved four children by selling one into slavery. If Americans and Europeans and Asians chose to stick powder up their noses or juice in their arms, if they went to Thailand and paid staggering amounts of money for young virgins, how did that merit a block of plastic explosive under the Humvee of the middleman?

“I’m my own Stockholm Syndrome,” Kealey had admitted to Allison in one of their sessions. That was his parting comment and resulted in her suggesting they continue the session over dinner. Over a shared key lime pie, they both agreed that the gray areas of doctor-patient relationship were also worth exploring a bit.

They were at Rayhan’s house before she realized she hadn’t given the driver the address. It was scary, even to Kealey, how much information was transmitted electronically. In the old days—less than a decade ago—the deputy chief of staff would have hand-delivered the destination typed on pink slips of paper. Those would be time-stamped in the vehicle and turned in after the pickup or drop-off.

Before the young woman left, Kealey took careful note of her straight black hair, which reached to her jawline.

While the young woman was gone, Kealey texted Allison that he was going out of town, probably for no more than a day. She wished him a pleasant trip. No details were expected or provided.

Kealey sat back in the leather seat. There was a Plexiglas screen between the front and backseat. Kealey used to roll those down and talk to limo drivers whenever they stopped at a light or pickup. But these days the “dashboys” as they used to call them—White House drivers always faced front, like coachmen for the Queen of England—were texting or checking email about road and traffic conditions, security concerns, and schedules. This driver, a man of about thirty-five, dressed in a black suit, also wore a Bluetooth headset.

Instead of chatting, Kealey looked out the smoky window that turned afternoon to dusk and thought about Uncle Largo. He had to confess to some genuine excitement about the visit. Kealey never got to talk to many veteran field agents, let alone one who came from the same gene pool. He was optimistic—or at least cautiously hopeful—that Uncle Largo would consent to talk; the situation seemed to demand it. He was eager to learn not just about his uncle’s wartime experiences but also about the psychological issues they might have caused. What Kealey had told Rayhan about his experience wasn’t an understatement. It was taking more and more effort to saddle up; and perhaps worse, more and more effort to enjoy life when each day was finished. He would fall into bed, sleep the sleep of the just, then wake up looking for someplace useful and satisfying to put his energies. Uncle Largo’s insights from further down that road were a potential treasure.

Rayhan returned with a thickly stuffed shoulder bag that she carried with her into the car. She seemed eager bordering on excited. That was good. More important, Kealey noted, she had not bothered to brush her hair. That was even better. He noted that with male agents, too—mostly about their ties or shirttails. Vanity raised a red flag that an operative was not fully engaged. It was a crude barometer, like sticking a wet thumb into the wind, but it never failed him.

They sat in silence, each with their own private expectations, as the sedan got on 95 South for the forty-five-minute trip.

CHAPTER 6

TEHRAN, IRAN

It was late at night and the lights of Tehran glittered proudly through the dark outside his window.

Mahdavi Yazdi crushed out his cigarette and sat staring at them through the bulletproof window of his office. Cigarette smoking had recently been pronounced haram—forbidden—to followers of Islam. Yazdi was not a scholar but he knew that smoking had not been invented at the time of the Prophet and so there could be no true fatwa on its religious legality or illegality. It was one of those details he chose to overlook, and he did not believe it made him a bad Muslim. To the contrary. His life was about belief in the Word of God.

Which is why he was thinking just now, with a sense of frustration, how he did not like the Majles-e Khobregan—the Council of Experts. He liked their religious beliefs enough. He shared most of them. He had a good relationship with some of the Experts and a very close personal relationship with their intelligence advisor, Farhad Salehi of the Bakhtiari tribe of the Bakhtiari province.

What Yazdi resented was their arrogance.

The body of eighty-six mujtahids—an assembly of Islamic clerics and scholars—represents the interests of every province with the sole official function of telling the actual leaders of the Islamic Republic of Iran what they were doing wrong.

As the director of Vezarat-e Ettela’at Jomhuri-ye Eslami-ye Iran, the Intelligence Ministry of Iran, Yazdi had no use for the so-called Experts. They were inexperienced outside their fields and knew nothing beyond the borders of their localities. Yet they spoke loudly, publicly, and often about how foreign influence was undermining youth, how foreign ideas were undermining Islam, how foreign powers were strangling the nation.

They weren’t wrong, but they were like university professors: they didn’t understand how things worked in the real world. A non-nuclear Iran, an Iran with an infant navy, an Iran with no allies in the region—that was not an Iran that could do anything more than selectively harass enemies in Iraq and Afghanistan, root out agitators at home, and quietly continue to use oil revenue to develop both conventional and nuclear weapons. He wished the last of those were not so. He believed that the Hand of God was more than adequate to shield them and that He would punish those who did not trust in this. Yazdi was a radical in his fervor, in the strength of ideas—not in the weight of arms.

Director Yazdi understood the desires and frustrations of the Council. He had spent thirty years rising through the ranks as an intelligence officer of the Army of the Guardians of the Islamic Revolution, the elite, theocratic warriors of the military. He began in the field, spying on Iraq in Iraq. Life was simpler then, more exciting, and he missed those days. What he learned there was that the Seph-e Psdrn-e En-qelb-e Eslmi had plenty of sabers and they knew how to rattle them. But an occasional skirmish, in the shadows or worked by proxy, was not a great victory.

Which is why Mahdavi Yazdi was smiling as he sat at his desk in his fourth-floor office on Second Ne-garestan Street, Tehran. He turned back to the computer monitor on his desk. He had just read a decrypted report from field operative Qassam Pakravesh in Rabat. The events that had begun suddenly, startlingly, had been a gift and blessing from God. They started with the report from the heroic Nakhoda Yekom Elham about what had been discovered and then, incredibly, recovered in the Arctic. There would be repercussions among the military leaders about the price of that recovery, the loss of the Jamaran—but it had been the correct call. That crew was doomed. Other nations had to have picked up the anomaly and were surely en route to investigate. The evidence of what was uncovered had to be eliminated.

I will see to it that the crew receives accolades on earth as they will in Paradise, Yazdi reflected.

For now, however, he was considering his options for recovering the item. He had to make arrangements for Pakravesh to leave Morocco, as he had arranged the operative’s departure from so many other nations in the past. By land, through Algeria and across Africa, then east over the Mediterranean to Iraq or Saudi Arabia where money would guarantee safe passage. And then Iran would have a nearly functioning nuclear weapon armed with what appeared to be high-grade plutonium.

The United States and Israel will know it is authentic because they will visit the recovery site, he thought. Then the vision of the Council and the other government ministries would align, finally and fully, with the patriotic heart that beat in every Iranian.

Negotiations for a nuclear Iran, without the resistance of the international community, could begin in earnest.

RABAT, MOROCCO

Qassam Pakravesh usually slept well when he was in the field.

Being asleep did not mean being dead to the world. He could fall asleep—or wake—in a heartbeat. There was no sound that didn’t rouse him, no draft, no smell. He had spent a year training himself to do that by riding the train from Bagher Shahr, where he lived with his parents, to Nabard, where he trained with Mahdavi Yazdi and his team at the Army of the Guardians facility. The rail trip was three-quarters of an hour and Pakravesh trained himself to go to sleep as soon as he boarded and snap awake at any sound or movement or smell out of the ordinary. Remaining alert was one of the four commandments of survival, in addition to: do not lie on the bed or bedroll; do not eat food you did not bring or capture; and in a room, do not sleep while exposed to the door or windows.

Pakravesh typically slept in a bathtub, or if there wasn’t one, he curled himself—as now—on the floor in the closet.

As he dreamt, Pakravesh became aware of the odor of garlic. His mind instantly snapped to arsine, a dense form of arsenic, one of the most toxic compounds on the planet.

Someone knows who I am and where I would be asleep, he thought as he lay there double-checking his senses. He listened for a hiss, something that might be releasing the toxin; it was possible the smell was garlic, coming through the fan ventilator in the bathroom.

He raised himself into a crouch position so that he would be above the heavy gas if it were being pumped under the door or through the ventilator—the only openings besides the windows, and he had checked those. There were locked. The drawn curtains were not moving; no one had cut through.

He picked up the SIG P226 handgun that was never out of reach along with the belt-folder in which he kept his cash and passports. He sniffed. The odor was definitely coming from the area of the bathroom, which was on the other side of the closet. He drew his handkerchief from his pocket, put it across his mouth, and breathed through it as he waddled, duck-like, toward the short corridor that led to the front door and to the bathroom. He stopped when he saw the flat piece of rubber tube jammed under the door of the hotel room.

If he went to remove it, he would be gunned down.

He dropped flat on his back and kicked his way back to the sleeping area, to the foot of the bed. He was being gassed. He had no choice but to go out the window.

Pakravesh slept in his clothes, including his shoes. He went back to the closet to recover the parcel with which he’d been entrusted. Holding his breath, he crawled around the foot of the bed toward the window. He had disconnected the room telephone and left it there. He went to the edge of the drape, pulled it back with his left hand, and with his right hand he smashed the phone hard against the window. It broke with the second forceful crack.

The Iranian ducked back; there was no gunfire. But there would be as soon as whoever was at the door heard him. Rolling to the break, he kicked out the shards of glass that stuck in the bottom of the frame. Crouching again, he stuck his head through the window to look both ways before going out—

Two men were waiting for him on either side of the window. The one with the baseball bat swung it down on the middle of Pakravesh’s neck, shattering it and causing him to fall face forward onto the asphalt of the parking lot. He felt nothing anywhere in his body except for the insides of his skull, which seemed electrified. He knew he was resting on his right cheek but he had no idea that the rest of his body was still inside the room.

The top of the baseball bat was pressed into his left cheek, pushing the Iranian’s face to the ground.

The second man crouched beside his face, turning his head so that Pakravesh could see through tear-misted eyes. Pakravesh reached for him, clawed at his forehead before the man swatted his weak, clawed hand away.

“I have been following you,” the man said, placing the barrel of a gun in the Iranian’s mouth. “You killed my brother in Yemen. This is for him.”

The man with the bat stepped aside an instant before the back of Pakravesh’s head and most of his brain were sprayed across the asphalt.

VALLEY STREAM, NEW YORK

The suburban community a half hour outside New York City was more than just a snapshot of an era. For those who knew where to look, it was a time capsule of the birth of a generation.

The village was now called Millbrook. But when it was established within greater Valley Stream in 1939, the enclave was called Green Acres. Built largely on what was once the Curtiss Airfield beside Sunrise Highway and the Long Island Railroad—home of Amelia Earhart and other early aviatrixes—it was one of the early nests of the Northeast’s baby boom generation. Soldiers, mustered out after the war and helped by the Servicemen’s Readjustment Act of 1944, better known as the G.I. Bill, married and went to work or school in New York City and bought homes built new, fast, and inexpensively. The houses cost between five and ten thousand dollars for a small plot of land and a couple of bedrooms on streets that were described as “crime-free”: there was only one way in and one way out of sprawling Green Acres, and the cops could get there faster than the bad guys could leave.

The growth of Green Acres produced a strong school system, surrounding houses of worship, offices for war-trained doctors, a boom in movie theaters, clean new chain supermarkets, chain gas stations, car mega-dealers, a shopping center that became a shopping mall that, by the 1970s, had become a magnet for shoppers and then crime. That was the reason the community changed its name: Green Acres became synonymous with the gangs that roamed the same-named mall.

But the moment when the new homes first went on the market and the air was fresh with postwar promise—and TV antennas; that brief period encapsulated what was best in the 1950s. It was a haven free from bias against Jews or the few blacks who could afford to live there.

That security layout was one of two reasons Largo Kealey purchased his home on Forest Road in 1954. He knew he’d sleep easier. The second reason was the new school up the road, Forest Road Elementary. He and his wife, May, never had the children they expected would go there, and that was a surprising hole in their lives. It was difficult being surrounded as they were by children who played in the streets and on the curbs and in backyards and at the schoolyard. But Largo coached Little League and May taught piano, and they managed to live a little through the families of others.

Largo had stayed in government service for a number of years but not enough to receive a pension from the OSS. So he worked for a milk delivery company. He liked the predawn hours, the hours he had felt safe in France. He would drive to nearby Hewlett to pick up the bottles and truck and then went door-to-door throughout Green Acres and also several streets in the older adjoining section of Valley Stream.

That left Largo’s late mornings and afternoons free. Three months of the year, he sat outside on a chaise lounge or on his hammock and read—mostly classics he had missed as a youth. A Tale of Two Cities. The Great Gatsby. Moby-Dick. He tended the poplar trees he’d planted. He grew roses. In the summer, he put up a three-foot-deep pool and relaxed on an inflatable raft.

Sometimes, lying there, he relived snatches of his own violent handiwork. The hearts he had punctured with his knife. The men he had strangled. The weight of a dying man was always more than he expected, and he had learned quickly to go down to the ground with them. He had never bothered to look up whether that was where the term “deadweight” had originated. It was bad enough thinking that a milkman had once been a killer. The idea that some coiner of phrases had also murdered and found words to describe it was too much.

Maybe that was how some other tortured soul came to terms with what he had done, Largo thought. By making it impersonal. An improper noun.

He fought the improper sense of power he had felt at those times. Not that he killed but that he knew something a mother or wife did not: that her loved one was gone. It was strange, he thought, that both perpetrator and victim were probably thinking the same thing at that very moment. It was a bond unlike any other on earth. Returning stateside, he felt pride in the victory of the Allies but none in his own achievements. It was constant, daily torture.

And that was just the half of it.

Largo spent about a dozen years getting over the constant, low-burn sense that he was in danger. The first thing he had to overcome was associating the moon with danger. That had been his life, moving cautiously and ever alert through the darkness. He could only do useful reconnaissance during a full moon, but that also meant he could be seen. He literally had to say aloud, so he could hear the words, “It is not your life now.”

But it wasn’t just the moon. There was never anything that was a threat or even resembled one, except superficially. The sounds he heard were the grinding of a hand mower, the sound of a bird or rustling leaves, a telephone worker climbing a pole, a car shifting gears. Sudden sounds did not startle him. Even the low-flying prop planes passing directly overhead on their way to Idlewild Airport—before there were jets, before the field was JFK—became part of the accepted background noise. In France, aircraft had never impacted him much. They were usually Luftwaffe squadrons on patrol for other aircraft . . . or, later, single planes sneaking some high-ranking German to safety.

What troubled Largo were what he called the “danger sounds.” These had burrowed into his muscles and mind and nerve endings. Slowly, as he made his delivery rounds each morning, he allowed himself—permission was a big part of it—to get used to the idea that barking dogs didn’t mean he had been discovered, that men leaving home to go to work in dark suits were not Nazis, that there wasn’t a Partisan hidden in his truck to be smuggled through a German checkpoint. There was only milk and he was safe in this young American community. One of the last danger sounds to go was the involuntary fear, a little flinch, when he turned on the radio. No one was going to overhear. And he was listening to music, not waiting for a hidden message from London. He would never—could never—forget the two messages to the Resistance that came before the D-Day invasion:

Les des sontsur le tapis followed by Il fait chaud a Suez.

“The dice are down” meant it was time to risk everyone and everything in order to destroy cables and telegraph wires. “It is hot in Suez” told them to go after the phone and all other methods of communication.

Even lying in a hammock in his backyard, as he did now—looking up at the high swaying treetops of dusk, right before the mosquitoes came out to play—he could still hear every static scratch in those lines, the inflection in each syllable, the reactions and breathing and smell of the three men and two women gathered around him outside the outhouse in Brest.

And he heard the inner sounds as well. The sounds that never left. His own doubts and struggles arguing without words. He had often thought that he enjoyed good health because he never stopped feeling, even if it was pain. That caused his nerves and cells to constantly renew and refresh themselves.

To keep him alive. And to punish him, too.

To what purpose? he often wondered. He would do it again if he had to. Others would do it despite the horrendous body count of this war. There was no collective learning, no evolution of the species.

It was a double-edged sword, all of those memories: accolades and medals, nightmares and fear. But he did not think about them now. Because among the few sounds that still made his eighty-nine-year-old ears perk up, there was one he did not hear often. One that he heard now.

The sound of an automobile stopping at the curb in front of his home.

While Kealey and Rayhan were en route, the CH-46 Sea Knight received a secure transmission from the National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency based in Springfield, Virginia. On command from the President, the two pages were printed out and delivered to Kealey in the nominal passenger section of the aging tandem-rotor aircraft. He studied the two photographs, then snickered.

“I love it,” he said to a pale-looking Rayhan.

The woman was seated beside him in one of the thinly padded bucket seats that lined the vibrating cabin. Her eyes were tightly shut, her lips pressed together. She was not having a good ride on the bucking, forty-two-year-old transport.

Kealey had to lean toward her to be heard over the slamming hum of the engines. “This thing was picked up by Naval Space Command but it was the NGIA that carried the ball across the finish line.”

“I . . . don’t follow,” she said weakly.

“Agency that found the object isn’t the one that got to deliver the last word,” he said. “Everything got ‘cooperative’ under the Department of Homeland Security, but I guarantee you there are wounded feelings and bruised egos over at the NSC.”

“Mmm-hmmm.”

“Anyway, here’s what we’ve got.” Kealey showed her the top images.

She glanced at them, then looked away, shut her eyes. “A black mass inside the ice.”

“Not all of it’s inside the ice,” Kealey told her. Rayhan opened her eyes and he showed her the second picture. “Here’s a higher magnification. Part of the hull came through. The ice calved. You can see how it flipped over from the way the water is dropping—then the side cracked off. Looks like it just twisted off the top part of the object and carried it who knows where.”

“They should be able to find the other part,” she said. “Radiation traces. But not from the air. It would have to be on the sea.”

“I’m sure they’re on the way,” Kealey said. “But this is what the Iranian frigate found. It’ll be something if my Uncle Largo can positively identify it.”

“It will rewrite history,” she said.

Kealey examined the two photographs. The woman was right, and that was the part of the job that always thrilled him—how history was fluid. If the object in the ice were a U-boat and its backstory were true, the Nazis were close to an atom bomb and the Allies had been on the precipice of a very different outcome than the textbooks described. And that was just from what they surmised. He wondered what else about this they did not know.

The helicopter landed at the shuttered Terminal 5 at JFK. A black sedan from the New York FBI Field Office was waiting on the tarmac to hurry the passengers to their destination. The driver was an eager man in his late twenties, standing by the back door, leaning into the strong rotor backwash as he tried to hold his tie and gray blazer in place. Kealey and Rayhan hurried over, jumping through the open door as the driver slammed it and scooted around the other side.

The agent turned and showed them his ID, then confirmed their identities by snapping their pictures with his iPad. Facial recognition software gave him the go-ahead. Only then did he pull away.

Kealey offered Rayhan a stubby bottle of water that was slung in the black mesh behind the front seats. She accepted and took several short swallows.

“Better?” Kealey asked.

She nodded.

It was a quick drive along the Belt Parkway. In less than twenty minutes they pulled up to the small colonial. The curtains were drawn but somewhere inside a light was on. The car, a Camry, was in the driveway.

“Your man did a nice job on the lawn,” Kealey told the driver. “Even edged it. Pulled the weeds.”

“I’ll tell him you commended him, sir.”

It was their first exchange since leaving the airport.

Kealey didn’t say that the man had probably spent more time here than any working landscaper. If Largo were paying attention, he could not have missed that.

Kealey was on the street side of the car. He checked for traffic, then got out. Rayhan exited at the curb. She seemed steadier than she had at the airport. Kealey gave her space as he went up the concrete walk that looped around a slender black lamppost. The light was off, but the number of the house was visible in the glow of the streetlight. It was burned into an old wooden board. Suspended from an arm on the post, it creaked slightly, a lonely sound in the gentle night air. Or maybe that was just Kealey’s empathetic side talking. It had been about a dozen years since his Aunt May died of throat cancer. He knew how he felt in that situation. Confused. Did you stay to savor those wisps of memories or did those same memories drive you out?

Or maybe you reached a point where you were just too tired to move, Kealey thought. For an intelligence officer, he was often surprised how little he truly knew.

Kealey hadn’t spent a lot of time here as a kid. As was always the case with childhood memories, the place seemed smaller than it had then. He remembered playing stickball in the street with neighborhood kids and, once, going with Uncle Largo to make his early morning rounds. That was a fond memory. It was the only time he could remember his uncle being truly open and relaxed.

The tiny front porch was dark but Kealey found the lighted doorbell. He pressed it once.

He heard slow steps on a carpeted staircase, then a high, whispery voice. “Who is it?”

“Uncle Largo, it’s your nephew Ryan.”

The outdoor light came on and the dead bolt slid back. The door opened slowly and a narrow, deeply wrinkled face looked out from beneath a short-cropped brush of white hair. Pale gray eyes squinted out as shaky hands slipped on eyeglasses.

“What was my wife’s name?”

Kealey smiled. He wanted a password. For fun or was he serious? “May,” Kealey said.

“She taught piano. I learned how to play ‘Anchors Aweigh.’ It was difficult. Made me swear off ever going to sea.”

The white head bowed a little in thought—in memory? —and the man stepped back. He opened the door. Largo was wearing light gray sweatpants, white socks, and a Little League sweatshirt that read “Royal Card Shoppe.” It was torn in at least five places. The nearly colorless eyes shifted to the woman.

“You’re taller than I remember,” Largo said.

“You’re the same.”

Largo said, “Truer than you know.”

Kealey wondered what Allison would have made of that remark. God, she had him thinking like her now. “This is Rayhan Jafari,” Kealey said.

“Rayhan,” he repeated. “You’re Ryan . . . she’s Rayhan. That would’ve been confusing in the old days, on those big, crackly radios.”

“We would have had more colorful noms de guerre,” Ryan suggested.

The older man backed away in little steps and waved them in. His shoulders were hunched with age but his hands were as steady as his gaze. He seemed to be studying the younger man—critically, but with a dawning admiration.

“Yes, I can see now it’s you,” the older man said. “I never noticed your mother before, only your dad. She’s in the strong set of your mouth, mostly.”

“She got hers dealing with Dad,” Kealey said. “I got mine dealing with bureaucrats.”

Largo smiled and closed the door. He motioned the two up a short flight of stairs. “Why didn’t you call? I could have dressed for the occasion.”

“You look fine,” Rayhan assured him.

“Besides, if you turned me down I wouldn’t have gotten to see you,” Kealey said.

Largo followed them up, holding the banister. “Why would I have turned you down?”

Kealey waited until his uncle reached the top of the stairs. “Because I’m here on business.”

CHAPTER 7

SALÉ, MOROCCO

Salé comes from asla, which means “rock” in Berber. Dating back to the seventh century BC, it is the oldest city on the Atlantic Coast. Today it is a rock of extremist Islam, the home of many active jihadist groups and fanatical Muslim beliefs and practices. With radicalism at its core, and staggering poverty throughout the streets and alleys, the city is effectively isolated from the rest of modern Morocco.

Mohammed and Aden, the men who murdered Qassam Pakravesh, drove a rusting, thirty-year-old VW van from the N1 to the N6. Mohammed was behind the wheel. It was late at night, the highway was relatively free of traffic, and the men were both more relaxed now that they’d achieved their goal.

They didn’t speak, each man lost in reflection. Mohammed’s head was full of remembering. Not just about his brother; that was in his body, in his flesh. What was in his mind was training he had undergone with al Qaida in Yemen. First, the manual that had comic strip illustrations of how to stab a man or woman, where to shoot to kill or cripple, sensitive areas of the body to extract information with anything from a pencil to a shard of brick—of which there were many from explosions caused by enemies without and rival factions within, like the misguided Shi’ite separatists who fought them instead of the imperialists. He remembered the awful heat at the training camp in Southern Yemen, a flat, barren desert where nothing grew but men. The hours spent under the sand at night, breathing through a straw; learning to use his ears to listen for vehicles and voices; learning to lie still for hours at night so the sand would blow naturally above him. And the days learning to endure the heat; digging tunnels with hands or a child’s plastic shovel for concealment and storage of weapons; and physically toning by climbing on or swinging from ropes.

Putting knives or bullets in dead bodies taken from morgues. Tying wire around throats and garroting them. That came naturally.

His grief was tempered with excitement that the arduous months had borne fruit. The men were also tired from the long shifts of watching and tracking the Iranian. Before they hurried away, they collected what they thought was useful from the dead man—the belt he wore with the passports and cash and the box he was trying to carry off, but not his gun. That was a sad reminder of why Mohammed and Aden were here. The dead man’s identity would probably never be known, but his controllers in Iran would know what happened to him—and they would figure out why. Mohammed had shot him in the mouth the way his brother had been shot by this man for defying an order to assassinate a local mayor who was hostile to Iranian influence in the nation. He was a leader in the Zayi order of Shi’a, to which Mohammed and his brother belonged, and that took precedence over the funds Tehran gave to Yemeni al Qaida—the group to which Mohammed and his brother also belonged.

They were staying in the back room of a café across the street from the railway station. It wasn’t until they parked—in the darkness beside the metal trash barrels near a high wooden fence—that they completely relaxed.

Mohammed leaned across the seat and embraced his companion.

“Thank you, dear friend, for making my vengeance your own,” Mohammed said.

“We have an unbroken bond now,” said the younger man. “I am your brother now and proudly so.”

The men unloaded the van—the supplies they had carried with them in case their stay in Rabat had been a long one, rolls of money, maps, the diagram the stevedore had drawn them of the hotel interior, and the box they had taken from the dead man. A box, they now saw, that was more than it had appeared in the dark. They had known right away that it was heavy, and presumed it held ammunition or gold, which was why they had taken it. Now that the two men looked at the gunmetal container in the open hatch of the van, and saw a black swastika stenciled on the four sides, they knew it was something more. Especially since someone had taken the pains to weld it shut.

“What do we do with it?” Aden asked.

Mohammed shook his head. He tried to go through the victim’s phone messages, but the phone was locked with a password. He stuck it in his back pocket.

“I’ll find tools,” he said upon reflection.

“Maybe we can use the tire iron.”

“Why not a rock or a brick?”

“Why not?” Aden asked.

Mohammed smirked. “I was joking.” He handed Aden the pistol. “You wait here. I’m sure I can find a hammer and chisel. We may want to close it again.”

“What is the story about the box? The curious girl?” Aden asked.

Mohammed did not know, and he couldn’t imagine why Aden knew a story about a girl.

He was raised on the Koran and tales of the great caliphs. Nothing else mattered. He walked off, thinking he could find something in the rail yard. Aden watched him go, then ran his fingers along the silver weld.

“It doesn’t look that strong,” he muttered. He moved the container aside and opened the tool compartment in the back. He removed the tire iron, tapped at the weld, then noticed a crowbar in the well. He took the warm, rusty tool out and angled it against the thick smudge of melted lead. He stabbed it repeatedly until the weld started to come away from the metal. It did not break off but remained attached, like a tight metal band; still, the slight gap allowed him to work along the front side of the box. Jiggling it with the crowbar inserted in the gap allowed him to loosen the broken lid.

Setting the crowbar aside, Aden put both his hands on the sides of the top and wriggled it until it came free.

Mohammed returned after ten minutes. He saw his friend slumped half in, half out of the back of the van interior and ran over. He dropped the tools he’d stolen and ran forward. His first thought was that the young man had been shot, since Aden appeared to be lying in a soapy pool of reddish blood. As he neared, however, he saw that Aden was not dead and that the fluid was vomit, not blood. Then he saw that the young man’s limbs were convulsing with short staccato tics.

Mohammed pulled him to the ground, laid him out gently, saw in the light from the van that his eyes were rolled back in his head. Aden was trying to raise his arms.

“Lie still,” Mohammed said. He winced as he used a sleeve to wipe the young man’s mouth. There was blood in his spittle. “I’m going to find a medic.”

Aden shook his head once.

“I must—” Mohammed said but Aden tried to grab his shirt, stop him.

“Box . . . hot,” he croaked.

“Hot?”

Aden lay back. He nodded, gagging on the froth in his throat.

The realization hit Mohammed like a bullet—what was in the box. He looked over at it. The contents—were radioactive. The Iranian had picked something up on the ship, perhaps uranium, and was carrying it to a destination. Most likely on a schedule, with other intermediaries to meet him.

That was a delivery someone would absolutely be expecting. And would miss. What had they stumbled into?

Mohammed looked down at his friend. The lid was shut but the seal had been broken. Was this his own fate now? He had to do something about that.

And about Aden. That is, if anything could be done for him. The young man was trembling and red-tinged saliva was dribbling from both sides of his mouth. Either he was biting his tongue or he was hemorrhaging internally. In either case, he would not leave him lying on the ground. Mohammed scooped him in his arms and laid him in the back of the van. He picked up the tire iron and used it to nudge the box back just enough so that he could close the back door. Then he stood away from the van.

For something to work this fast, with so brief an exposure—the purity and deadliness was unfathomable to him. This was too important for Mohammed to decide. Aden, like himself, was a martyr to the cause of Islam: to obtain—and protect—a weapon this powerful he would gladly give his life.

And now Mohammed was being asked to give over his new brother’s life for the cause. He knew he was being asked to do so because it had to have been the Hand of God that sent him away while Aden opened the seal. Otherwise, they should have opened it together and both men would have perished.

Mohammed would not stay here, at the café. It occurred to him that he must first locate a dentist’s office. They had coverings to shield radiation. That would help to slow whatever exposure Mohammed might be receiving. Then he would go somewhere and get rid of the van, steal a different vehicle, and contact Yemen. He would find out if there were contacts here he could trust. Salé was rich with sympathetic souls, but he could not be certain which of those souls might also be sympathetic to Iran. Many would be happy to take his money to provide safe haven—then report him to agents of Tehran. Mohammed needed to get away from here. That was first.

“I will make sure that your sacrifice matters, my brother,” he said as he climbed into the van.

He could hear Aden breathing in desperate little gasps. Mohammed wasn’t sure how he himself felt, whether the weakness in his arms, the trembling in his wrists, was shock or exhaustion or something worse. He didn’t think that anything in nature, other than a snakebite or certain kinds of poison gas, could kill so swiftly. If it was something radioactive—he had always heard that even intense radiation, like the fallout in Hiroshima or the meltdown in Chernobyl, killed over time. Days on average, hours at the worst.

What in the name of God had that Iranian been carrying ?

Whatever it was, the toxicity made it imperative that Mohammed make his next moves quickly and carefully. He pulled away from the café and drove to a new medical center the United Nations had helped to build. He would get what he needed there, then drive to the Bou Regreg River. The waterfront was populated by people who were accustomed to smuggling arms, drugs, people. Now, with the cash he had taken from the Iranian, he should have enough money to buy information, allies, pockets that would serve as sanctuary. It could only be temporary, until someone on the other side came along with more cash. But he didn’t think he would need very long.

Something more important was beginning to take root in his mind.

A way to use what they had found.

VALLEY STREAM, NEW YORK

They sat in the living room with its worn gray carpet and sofas in need of reupholstering. There was an old, black Baldwin upright piano opposite the sofas and shelves lined with framed photographs. None was from the war. None was only of Largo. All had May or Largo and May. On the piano, on the glass coffee table, were trinkets like snow globes and music boxes Kealey was sure May had placed there. There was a hardcover novel with a toothpick stuck in the middle. War and Peace. It seemed eerily appropriate.

Largo gestured to the sofa while he sat in an armchair kitty-corner from his nephew.

“This is a cozy home,” Rayhan remarked.

“I’m comfortable,” Largo said. “All my good memories are here. They’re tough to move.” His eyes were on Kealey. “How are you, Ryan?”

“I’m okay, Uncle. You seem well.”

“I am. My life is about day-to-day contentment. The sound of the poplars in the wind, the chatter of the birds, the smell of the roses. I walk. I garden. I read. It’s a little like a hoedown.”

Kealey smiled a little at that. Either it was intentional or Largo was slipping. That was an old OSS term for someone in the center of an operation. With no way out, the only option was to keep dancing with an eye on the exit. The country boys among them gave the expression their own down-home twist.

“You don’t have people shooting at you,” Kealey said. “That must mean something to you.”

Largo turned to Rayhan. “Did you ever see or hear a car accident?”

“Once,” she said.

“Do you remember the sound of the crash and the silence?”

“Vividly,” she replied, shuddering.“I was just five or six—both sounds were terrible.”

“That’s just one bomb, one bullet chipping a stone near your cheek, the spark stinging you and leaving a phantom burn that never goes away.” Largo looked back at his nephew. “You’ve experienced that, I’m sure.”

“I have,” Kealey said. “But it’s different for me.”

“How?”

“I’m still in the game,” Kealey said. “Remembering is part of the survival drill, keeping the instincts sharp.”

Largo said, “Don’t worry: they never dull. The word Ms. Jafari said—‘vividly.’ It’s all there, still.” The older man looked at Rayhan. “Can I get you anything? Juice? Tea?”

“Thank you, no.”

Largo’s gaze shifted back to Kealey. They were guarded now, those old eyes that had seen so much. “How about you?”

“I’m fine,” Kealey said.

The innocuous phrase hung in the air. Largo was waiting. Old habits? Kealey wondered. Social talk, activities, were completely safe to engage in . . . while you watched, listened.

“Uncle Largo, I want to talk about Brest,” Kealey said. “About the U-246.”

Kealey watched his uncle carefully. His gaze was impenetrable. It was like a clash of two different generational mind-sets. The post-9/11 field agents of which Kealey was one—not the bureaucrats Clarke had been complaining about, but the spies—had a shared-information mentality. But the old guard who fought the Nazis, the Communists, were all a tight-lipped, eyes-only breed. Talking to colleagues came only a little easier than talking to the enemy. Kealey had seen that in the debrief. Even though the war was over, getting Uncle Largo to loosen up took time.

“The enemy lost a lot of good men that day,” Largo said. He seemed to choke up. His hands were fists, twisting slightly; he probably wasn’t even aware of it. The older man looked back at Rayhan. “What is your specialty?”

She looked to Kealey for guidance. He nodded his okay.

“Nuclear physics,” she told him—quietly, as though she were reporting the death of a loved one.

Largo’s demeanor changed. Something seemed to sink inside, slowly, dragging the rest of him down with it. “Oh, God.” His eyes rolled toward his nephew. “Someone found it.”

Kealey nodded. “Yes, Uncle. Not us.”

Largo’s hands relaxed and he sat very still for a moment. He seemed to be staring through Kealey—into the past or into the future, neither of his guests could be sure. He inflated as slowly as he had deflated moments before and nodded. His eyes came alive: they were young eyes again, not weary but curious. “We didn’t have the technology to go and retrieve it, though I heard we got most of the scientists. I often wondered about it, if it was forgotten. That bomb. What do you want to know?”

“I read the transcript of your debrief,” Kealey told him. “You were thorough. It was brilliant. It was also very, very factual. What I want to know is what did you think or guess about the project itself? What did the OSS fear? It wasn’t just the plutonium.”

“No,” Largo agreed. He seemed to be searching his memory for long lost, perhaps long suppressed details. “It was frightful to them, I know. I heard hints about a debate, whether to storm the pens and try to retrieve the cargo. What to do about plans and blueprints in Berlin. A team was being assembled to try and infiltrate the German high command, get it before the Russians. But apparently everything was burned.”

“There were no V-2s where the U-boat was headed,” Kealey said. “Was there any indication that the bomb they were constructing was going to be an airdrop, like Hiroshima? Do you have any idea how far along the device was?”

Largo placed his palms on his knees and stood. Decades seemed to fall away. This was his life, his life’s blood, the thing he had lived, that had powered his actions, his psychology for those hellish years. Now the dragon was back and he had risen to meet it.

“I had no evidence of what I am about to say, only a feeling,” Largo said. “An impression. I did not have it then, of course. This was all undiscovered country at the time. After Hiroshima, when we learned some of the details of the Little Boy bomb, I realized that the Nazis had apparently taken their research in a different direction. Radioactive material alone could have been smuggled from the country in a smaller package than my initial recon suggested they were carrying. I believed—this was in 1947, when it no longer mattered—that their bomb was not designed to be fired by missile or dropped from an aircraft. It was created to be exploded on the ground.”

A chill went through the two guests as though they were one. It was enough for Largo to notice.

“You are not talking about a dirty bomb,” Rayhan said, “a mass of TNT packaged with exposed radioactive material.”

“I am not,” Largo said.

“A suitcase bomb?” she said.

“We called it a trunk bomb back then, but it made sense,” Largo said. “Security-wise, there was no advantage to having the Kriegsmarine carry out the mission instead of the Luftwaffe. And there were disadvantages. Those submarine pens in Brest were a rich, looming target. The chances of them being hit before the transfer could be made were high. A solitary aircraft, a Stuka, leaving at night, flying low, would have had a better chance of avoiding Allied attention. But an aircraft could not then fly to Paris or London or New York harbor.”

“You think they were that close?” Kealey asked.

“Why not? They had the scientists, the resources, the will, and the greatest need,” Largo said. “After the war, I was allowed to go through the German naval charts and records. I was looking for mines and secret missions involving stolen art and gold. Most of that material—” he stopped. “Forgive me. Most of those possessions, those treasures that belonged to families and national institutions, were smuggled out by train. But so much was still unaccounted for. It was in the records of the Baltic Command in Kiel that I came across the mission log for the U-246. There was a red line through the dates following its mission from Brest. When a vessel was destroyed, a black line was put through the remainder of the diary. A red line indicated ‘top secret.’ ”

“There was no black line after that?” Kealey asked.

“There was no black line after anything,” Largo said. “It was over for the Baltic Command, and after the Bulge a few months later, it was over for the Reich.”

“A portable device,” Kealey said. He looked at Rayhan. “You know what that means?”

She nodded.

“There was one other piece of evidence,” Largo went on. “At a time when Berlin needed its best men at sea, its very best to cut the supply lines from America and Britain to France, they were prepared to hold one of their top submariners, Korvettenkapitän Karl Rasp, in port. Doing nothing but waiting.” He grew thoughtful. “And yet, waiting there gave him something we all had in common. The desire to die with his boots on.”

“Sorry to get clinical on you, because I understand that sentiment—but if it were only a matter of connecting a few wires, why didn’t they just finish up in France?” Kealey asked.

“It would have been more than that,” Rayhan said. “They could have been close but not in that way. During the Cold War, the United States and the Soviet Union both had nuclear bombs that were compact enough to be carried in a large backpack. We always suspected that technology came from the German scientists both nations had captured. But there was a lot of work left undone.”

“What did the Germans need to finish the project?” Largo asked eagerly. “I’ve always wondered about it.”

“According to the few records that survived, they were trying to find a means of stabilizing the nitroglycerin that would be necessary to trigger the blast,” she said. “Some sort of gyroscopic system or neutralizing agent that would have kept it from blowing up prematurely, especially in a U-boat that would be surfacing and diving and experiencing changes in pressure that might not affect a sailor but could impact an explosive mechanism.”

“What would the potency have been of such a weapon?” Kealey asked.

“A bomb like that would have been limited in its sheer destructive power and localized radiation, because it cannot cause a fission progression,” Rayhan said. “That’s the domino effect that produces the exponential blast. But a bomb like that would still explode at a level comparable to some twenty tons of TNT and—this is important—it would yield a five-hundred-rem burst of radiation. That would produce a one hundred percent fatality result roughly fifteen hundred feet beyond the blast radius. Probably higher in a city because the heat of any metropolis would cause the irradiated particles to rise and carry the fallout even farther. Of course, that would diminish the potency of the fallout, but that is all relative. Such a device would have destroyed several city blocks and poisoned the survivors for a wide radius beyond that. And think of the medical resources the survivors would have consumed, the military patrols that would have to have been diverted from combat to guard ports, terminals, and airports.”

Largo was nodding. “My biggest fear was never the one bomb alone but that others might be produced if this one reached its destination. We believed the Nazis lacked additional stores of plutonium. But we did not know that for sure. There was talk that Japan was working on enrichment programs in conjunction with German scientists, possibly in one of the Japanese-occupied islands or in South America. We never found evidence of that, but it was a major concern.”

Kealey regarded Rayhan. “I gather, from your expression, that whoever has this might not need an R&D program like the Nazis were running.”

Her face had been taut, unhappy. She relaxed a little.

“Nothing like it, unfortunately,” Rayhan said. “These days, any capable IED maker could find a way to set that off.” She turned to Largo. “How much do you estimate this device weighed?”

“That’s an interesting question,” he said. “We had no idea, other than to guess by what you would now call reverse engineering. In order to fit the bomb through the hatch of the submarine, it could not have been much larger than one of those carrying cases, the kind people use for cats. A large cat. A solid lead container would have been too large for that purpose, so we believe they came up with a kind of layered mesh of lead film and lead-laced fabric to contain the radiation by steps.”

“So there would have been a little flexibility and possibly reduced weight overall,” Rayhan said.

“Exactly,” Largo said. “There was corroborating evidence in plans we found entirely unrelated to this involving bullet-resistant vests for soldiers made the same way we figured the lead box would be made.”

“Spin-offs,” Rayhan said. “Even then.”

“We also knew the package would have to be loaded and unloaded quickly, for secrecy. That meant no block-and-tackle rigs. That meant something one or two men could handle. To answer your question, we put the weight of the device, fully loaded, at around eighty to one hundred pounds.”

“Not fun but not a backbreaker,” Kealey said.

“Moving it along the conning tower, two men under, two man above, we figured it was manageable,” Largo said. He snickered humorlessly. “An odd kind of word, a little neutral, don’t you think?”

“Sorry?” Kealey said.

“I just remembered it. We kept referring to the device container as ‘manageable.’ Like it was a problem child. You have to remember that none of us knew about the Manhattan Project. We suspected our people were working on something but we didn’t know what or where or how it would be delivered. And we really didn’t know what our bomb would be capable of. We thought—well, it will be a bigger bomb than we were used to, is all. And we’d seen the results of some pretty awful sorties. Multi-ton bombs, carpet bombing, firebombs. We saw films of poison gas from the previous war. We never really quantified what ‘much worse’ would be until after Hiroshima.”

“What did you think then?” Rayhan asked.

Largo was still and silent for several seconds. “I thanked the good Lord in Heaven and all His angels that we had got it and not Hitler or Tojo. That was all. Every other thought, about the casualties and the aftershocks, were—I’m sorry to say—insignificant beside that. Years later, when I heard that the Russians had it, I still wasn’t scared. I met some of those guys from Moscow and Kiev and Leningrad during the war. They were chest-thumping, hard-drinking loudmouths, but they weren’t nuts. I wasn’t worried until the religious crazies got enough cash to try and buy them. There’s no quicker way to get to Paradise than on the wings of a mushroom cloud.”

Kealey heard the oil burner come on in the basement. He remembered thinking, as a boy, that it was a monster. He didn’t know anything, then, about monsters. Not the way he did now.

“Well,” Kealey said, “this has been very helpful, Uncle Largo.”

Largo knew better than to ask who had it. He didn’t need to. If it were someone rational, or even someone irrational who already had a nuclear weapon—like the North Koreans—his nephew wouldn’t be here.

Largo did ask, “Who’s been watching me all day? G-Men?”

Kealey snickered. “Yeah.”

Largo shook his head. “My lawn care guys don’t bother with bug spray. And their shoes have grass stains.”

“Glad it was you covering our asses in France, Uncle Largo, and not the Bureau.”

Largo seemed to appreciate that. And the visit. Security demands would not have permitted this conversation to take place over an unprotected line, but Kealey didn’t want his uncle hauled into FBI headquarters for this chat. He owed him the courtesy of talking to him face-to-face.

“Are you sure I can’t get you anything?” Largo asked.

“We’ve really got to get back,” Kealey said.

“I understand.”

The visitors rose. Largo extended his hand toward the doors and followed them toward the stairs.

“The place hasn’t changed,” Kealey told him. “I mean that in a good way. It’s very warm. Always was.”

“That’s all May’s doing,” Largo said. “It’s just sad that the rest of the world hasn’t changed, either.”

“You don’t think so?” Rayhan asked as they reached the door.

Largo looked at her young eyes, still clear with hope. “It’s the same weapon, different enemy. We’re facing the same goals large and small—death, conquest, aggressive ideology. Instead of Nazism or Communism it’s radical Islam. The technological changes we’ve seen . . . those are all on the surface. The awful furnace—that’s the same.” He looked at his nephew and, with tears that quickly reached his smile, threw his arms around him. “Thank you for including me. Thank you.”

“It’s an honor. I’ve always wanted to.”

“If you need a good field hand, let me know. I still do chin-ups downstairs. No one will suspect an old man.”

“If there’s any way, I will. I promise.”

Largo’s eyes still glistened, and his mouth trembled as he stepped back. Kealey could relate to his uncle’s pain. He took out his cell phone.

“You have an email address?” the younger Kealey asked.

Largo gave him a .gov address.

“Who set that up for you?” Kealey asked.

“The VFW,” he said. “It was their idea. They said it was to send me notices about benefits and in-home services like hot meals and sponge baths, but I think it was to keep track of old spies like me.”

“Spoken like an old spy,” Kealey laughed. “Do you take them up on the baths?”

“Once,” he said. “Did you know they have male nurses?”

Kealey laughed again as he finished tapping in the address. Then he sent his uncle an email. “I’ve given you a telephone number, a good friend of mine in D.C. Call her if you want to talk.”

Largo grinned through his tears. “I haven’t ‘talked’ to anyone since I was debriefed.”

“Those were different times,” Kealey said. “I don’t promise it will help, but you know better than anyone that information is essential. You might get some.”

Largo thanked his nephew. There was a final embrace, then a quick one for Rayhan before she and Kealey walked out the squeaky screen door back along the old cement path. They walked in silence.

Kealey did not look back as they drove away, toward the lights of the distant mall. If he had seen his uncle watching them go, he might have gone back to get him. He understood, now, what had kept his uncle silent all those years: the sense that the job was never really done and that it was somehow your responsibility to do it. Kealey felt that, too. But Largo had chosen a domestic life and the chance, at least, to forget the awesome responsibility that had been part of his every waking hour. Kealey felt that in his own life and it frightened him to think that just a few years of service had impacted Largo in this way.

Still, the reason he couldn’t bring him to D.C. had nothing to do with any of that. He didn’t want to get the old man’s hopes up that he could be hands-on again. The Company boys would honor him at “hello.” At best they would patronize him with busywork, at worst, ignore him while they pressed on.

They both knew it. That’s what the tears told Kealey. No operative Kealey had ever known could get used to the idea that, at some point, the only future he would be able to impact was his own.

“What do you think will happen when Iran realizes what it has?” Kealey asked as they got back on Sunrise Highway.

“I couldn’t begin to imagine,” she said. “I’ve never worked with anyone there.”

“Of course. It wasn’t a fair question,” Kealey realized. “Let me reverse engineer it, then. What would you do with the object? Scientifically.”

“Study it, of course, though I imagine the mechanism will seem crude to a seasoned eye. And then—it might not be possible to divide the material to make several smaller devices, but that could be an option. That was a very, very hot site when we first saw it.”

“Funny it didn’t show up before, even under the ice.”

“Actually, it did show up but we didn’t correctly identify the source,” Rayhan told him.

“In 2012, a large, hot phytoplankton bloom was discovered beneath the Arctic ice. Their extraordinary growth—dozens of miles of it—was due to the elevated levels of CO_2 in the atmosphere. The algae was also uniformly radioactive, which we attributed to seasonal holes in the ozone.”

“But it wasn’t on anyone’s to-do list to check.”

“It wasn’t in anyone’s budget,” Rayhan said. “We thought, reasonably, that the readings were simply because there was more algae to suck it up and store it. We never thought the source could be below the ice.”

“Luck of the draw,” Kealey said with annoyance. All that technology, countless agencies watching everywhere on the planet, over the planet, under the planet—and Iran stumbles upon a suitcase nuke. It was enough to make one turn away from religion or toward it—Kealey wasn’t sure.

They did not speak again until they were aboard the helicopter and headed back to Washington. Kealey had been trying to work his way through Iran’s options. His biggest concern was not that they would have a working bomb but that the plans to make one could make their way into the hands of a group that managed to get fissionable materials. A dirty bomb was bad; this was incredibly worse.

“I’m still confused why you had me pack a bag.” She sat back in the uncomfortable seat, the shoulder bag on the seat beside her.

“Because, as I said back there, one never knows where information will lead,” Kealey said. He took a cell phone from his jacket pocket.

“Did this interview lead you somewhere?”

“Quite possibly,” he told her as he punched in a number. The helicopter had a secure signal, which the FBI car did not. “This thing Iran found was leaking radiation and now it’s not. If it hasn’t shown up again, we need to go where it might have gone and start sniffing around. Fast.”

TEHRAN, IRAN

Mahdavi Yazdi had dinner in his office before a scheduled meeting with two members of his Department of Disinformation—a large and well-funded division that was currently engaged in a massive program to spread falsehoods about dissidents. He had already been briefed by his counterespionage deputy, who had been monitoring transmissions and maritime activity that appeared to relate to the Iranian discovery in the Arctic Circle. Although most of the messages were coded, their frequency and point-to-point origins and destinations told Yazdi that America and its allies had a good idea what had been found in the ice and who had it—though they had no idea where the discovery had gone, since no vessels made their way to Rabat. He liked the feeling of not only having the weapon but having eluded, so far, the world’s frantic efforts to try and locate it.

As Yazdi aide arrived with the ghormehsabzi, an herbal stew, Yazdi received an email alert from the International Communications Center in the sub-basement. The location of MISIRI operatives around the world was tagged to local police reports of activity in those regions. If an agent could not communicate directly with the ministry, he or she would generate an event that was sure to be reported and sent different messages: arson in a parked vehicle meant “success,” broken windows in a government building meant “failure,” and the absence of either of these meant that the task was still ongoing.

Sometimes murder was a situational update.

The homicide was picked up on a police frequency in Salé. The location and room number told Yazdi that either his agent was dead—or his agent had killed someone on his way out the window. The MISIRI chief did not eat as he waited for updates. He sat with his hands folded on his desk. The next report said that nothing suspicious was found in the room. The body had been robbed but theft did not seem to be the motive.

Then the description of the body came in—height, hair color, eye color, facial hair, scars on the left arm. It was Qassam Pakravesh.

Yazdi ordered his chief of records to go back through Pakravesh’s dossier and find out everyone who might have been an enemy. He called his reconnaissance team, which tracked the movements and communications of agents, to find out where the man had been in the preceding two weeks. He wanted the information delivered to him personally, in his office, in an hour. Then he picked up the phone and called Farhad Salehi at his apartment in Tehran. This was not a situation the MISIRI dared deal with alone. The implications were troubling enough to solicit the advice and support of the Council of Experts.

Yazdi ate a few bites of food while the housekeeper summoned the elder. Salehi, affable as usual, agreed to meet the minister at once. Yazdi didn’t have to tell him why; the fact that he was calling at this hour told him it was a matter of some importance. Yazdi had some more dinner while he ordered his car brought from the garage.

The modern twelve-story apartment building was located on Esfandiyar, not far from the Greek Embassy. It was home to many foreign officials, most of whom Yazdi recognized from surveillance—though, of course, none of them knew him. The minister’s driver pulled into the small parking lot after dropping Yazdi at the front door. A concierge announced him as Mohammed. It was the name he had always used in public. He felt a sting of irreverence when he realized the implications of using that name to visit this seasonal home to seven of the Experts.

The “mountain” would never come to him.

Farhad Salehi, an imam in his home province, greeted Yazdi in a traditional white coat, a short-sleeved wool garment that reached to the knees. The old man wore loose-fitting black trousers and a white collarless shirt. A black skullcap sat on his long white hair, which seemed to pour seamlessly into a white moustache and beard that flowed to his chest. Salehi’s dark skin and brown eyes had a healthy look, the glow of a man at peace with his life.

The men hugged briefly before Salehi invited him to sit in one of two armchairs on either side of a small coffee table. A few pleasantries were exchanged. Salehi sat and the housekeeper brought tea, which he poured. When he was gone, Yazdi edged the chair around so he could lean in to the older man.

“I don’t have much time, Imam, but I wanted you and the Society to know that one of our agents has been murdered in Morocco,” Yazdi told him.

“I grieve and will pray for him.”

“Pray for us as well, holy one,” Yazdi said. “In his possession was what we believe to be a nuclear weapon small enough to be carried in a suitcase. We recovered the device from an old German vessel. The device is now in the hands of persons unknown.”

“Persons—on whose side?” the imam asked. “You deal with so many individuals, old friend.”

There was humor in the statement, but also a great deal of truth. Part of Yazdi’s job was to keep Western eyes looking anywhere but on Iran, its nuclear program, its sale of oil in defiance of sanctions. He did this by secretly watching and at times aiding foreign interests who were actively opposing the West, from Hamas and Hezbollah on the Israeli border to al Qaida in Afghanistan and Yemen to small, little-known groups that worked in the shadows waiting for an opportunity to strike.

“The people who took the bomb are thieves,” Yazdi said. “They are on their own side. We know that this device was being tracked by multiple intelligence agencies around the world. And they know that we are the ones who found the bomb.”

The imam said, “You are afraid the international community will blame us if there are consequences.”

“Yes. Even if we were not a part of any act of terror, we made it possible. Our denials will amount to nothing. Even our allies will turn on us. It will hurt everyone but the most militant Muslims among us.”

“They will be empowered as they were in the aftermath of the September 11th attacks,” the imam said. “They will embrace what was not their doing because it supports their ends.”

“This will embolden the domestic forces who oppose us and strengthen foreign intervention,” Yazdi said. “Owning the device would have given us power. Using it removes that power.”

“A strange inconsistency in that,” the imam said. “But true.”

“We will be isolated,” Yazdi said. “Not in name, as we are now, but in fact. Our people will turn on each other. We will see fratricide.”

Despite international sanctions, China, India, and Russia were still purchasing Iranian oil—not from Iran directly but through corporations with foreign bases, such as the National Iranian Oil Company and the Naftiran Intertrade Company. Their out-of-country locations made them immune to many of the international sanctions imposed on Iran due to its nuclear program.

Nuclear. That one word carried the weight of the worst of the potential consequences.

“It is one thing to challenge Iran’s enemies with words, as our president does,” Yazdi went on—imparting a high degree of sarcasm at the mention of a president whose effectiveness he had always questioned. “It is one thing to intimidate a naval ship or send up a rocket, as the military does. It is one thing, an altogether acceptable thing, to provide succor to the enemies of one’s enemies.”

“But it is quite another to actually use a nuclear weapon against an enemy,” the imam said. “I understand.”

“That wasn’t the reason I wanted that device,” Yazdi told him.

“I believe you, but if a major European or American city is laid waste—”

“At worst, it would lead to reprisals, possibly even nuclear. At best, it would quarantine us until there is a regime change.”

The imam sipped his tea slowly. It was so quiet his guest could hear the man’s beard rustle.

“What do you propose?” he finally asked.

“I am going to gather all available resources to find the device,” Yazdi said. “But the Society must be made aware of the risks—and the steps I must take.”

Salehi regarded his companion. His eyes seemed darker than before beneath their thick white brows. “You wish to contact foreign intelligence agencies? Warn them? I am not sure I could sanction that.”

“No, Imam,” he said quickly. “Many of them would never believe that we are not involved.”

“Then what?”

“To begin with, I want to wake a sleeper who is deep in American intelligence. Qf-3.”

“A letter of the alphabet? Is that all you know of him?”

“In fact, that is all I know,” Yazdi admitted. “No one knows the names of our sleepers, not even in my office. “

“I assume that is a prudent way to run your organization?”

Yazdi ignored the elder’s sarcasm. Even the good Experts thought they knew more than they did.

“It is essential that he have what we call ‘plausible deniability, ’ ” Yazdi explained. “If uncovered, our sleeper would not be able to tell the Americans anything about our operation. We know how to contact them via disposable cell phones, but that is all. They replace the phones after the initial communication. Then they are on their own. We are simply assured of their loyalty to the Ayatollah.”

“By the Ayatollah?”

“That, and by their deeds,” Yazdi said. “The only drawback is that once they are unleashed, they are on their own initiative to interfere with operations. Before you remark on the extreme nature of that, it is the only way to secure the services of many younger agents. The Ayatollah’s loyalists are eager to create havoc, not just mischief. They start small, so as not to be discovered, but their acts grow more elaborate if they think there is a chance of doing severe damage to the Great Satan.”

“I can support that,” Salehi remarked. “How do you reconnect when their work is done? They have thrown away their mobile phones—”

“They contact us with a new number,” Yazdi said.

“It sounds like a passage from one of our laws after a compromise has been achieved,” the Expert said.

“Fortunately, my focus is simpler,” Yazdi went on. He did not have the time to chat as he usually did. “I want to keep the Americans away from us until we can recover the device. It may cost us an asset but it will gain us leverage.”

Salehi took more tea as he considered this. “This sleeper has been a constant source of information?”

“Not the highest level of information, but steady. If the individual is found out now—and most likely they will be, for providing disinformation—it will at worst cause some embarrassment and an end to the flow of information.”

“But we will have more time to recover the weapon.”

Yazdi nodded.

“I approve of this. What else will you do?” the imam asked, sensing that his old friend was not quite finished.

“I’m going to go to Morocco myself,” he said. “There is no one else I trust to do this job as it must be done.”

The imam reflected for a long moment. “I will support you in this.” He raised his hands, palms out. “May the blessings of God be upon you.”

Yazdi bowed and left. He was eager to know what his chief of records had found out in his absence.

Energized in a way he had not been for years, the intelligence minister motioned for his waiting driver.

CHAPTER 8

DAHLGREN, VIRGINIA

When the Jamaran went down, the nearest American naval vessel was the USS California. The Virginia-class submarine of Group Two had been en route to study the radioactive heat bloom when the frigate went down. A mandatory isotachophoresis sweep of the zone revealed a complete absence of aviation fuel. Lt. Jr. Grade Mark Mason had looked at previous satellite images of the Jamaran. The chemical analysis told him that in all likelihood the helicopter he saw in photographs taken just a day before had not been present when the ship went down. Even if the explosion had not destroyed the Toufan, the underwater pressure would have ruptured the gas tank. Some trace of the aircraft-specific fuel would have shown up. There would also be more than just trace radiation, low residual levels from the time the object had been onboard. The findings were clear: neither the helicopter nor whatever Iran had found in the Arctic appeared to be present on the frigate when it sank.

Mason assumed that the discovery had been placed aboard the helicopter, though without the kind of radiation leakage that was present at its discovery. He charted the range in all directions and found just two potential targets in the flight radius: a scientific research vessel from the University of Tehran—which was probably a listening post eavesdropping on Western Europe—and the container ship Ghorbani. Only the latter had room to accommodate a small helicopter. Mason had a look at satellite surveillance of the local seaways and found the ship—with a tarpaulin stretched across part of the deck. Without requisitioning a closer look, which could take hours, he concluded it was probably the Toufan. If nothing else, the size was just about right.

Mason sent his findings to Lt. Cmdr. Bobbitt. He was pleased to see that his conclusion was confirmed by an independent analysis run over at the CIA. He grinned. The Company’s write-up came in nearly a full minute after he had sent his document to his superior and to liaison desks at the other intelligence organizations. Best of all, according to a tracking flag that appeared on all classified correspondence, it was his report that DNI director General Fletcher Clarke sent to the President of the United States.

“Let’s hear it for the boys in the bunker,” he chuckled to himself in his cubicle.

Lt. JG Heyder Namjoo followed Mason’s report with up-to-the-minute photos of the ship at sea with the helicopter still covered on deck.

Mason skyped over. “How’d you do it?”

Namjoo grinned. “The X-37B picked up encrypted Tehran-to-ship communication. Auto-video-recorded terminus. I asked for that image.”

Nice, Mason thought.

The X-37B was the Air Force space plane that was in a low orbit over the Middle East. One of its functions was to chart all outgoing communications from hostile territory to see where they ended up. It didn’t matter as much what was being said as to whom it was being said. That was one of the ways targets were selected for drone strikes.

“Destination?” Mason asked.

“She’s slow-boating home,” Namjoo said.

“Cargo offloaded?” Mason typed.

“Possible. Or hiding it in plain sight.”

“Do we know if they have assets on the ground?”

“Likely,” Namjoo said. “Question is, would they trust any of them with radioactive materials? A lot of these guys—most of ’em, I’d bet—will turn loyalties on something like that and sell to the highest bidder.”

He had a point. One of the benefits of dealing with local resources in countries like Afghanistan, Iraq, and Libya is that national loyalty was a distant second to personal financial gain. They would rather make a profit than prop up a government they didn’t particularly like in a nation they didn’t necessarily even recognize. That wasn’t as true in Iran. He had seen the debriefs of a number of Iranian operatives; they were among the intelligence documents seized in Iraq after the fall of Saddam Hussein. These agents were trained by men who had profited under the mercenary days of the Shah and were opposed to the dogmatic interests of the Ayatollah. Many of them agreed to work for Hussein and were sent back to Iran to spy.

“We can watch the container ship by satellite,” Mason said. “They’re going to need someone in Rabat.”

“They needed someone in Rabat hours ago,” Namjoo said. “And they need to do more than watch that ship.”

“What about us? We can get someone over there from our embassy in Rabat—”

“Our resources there are not only limited, they’re working in the Western Sahara right now,” Namjoo said. “I saw an email not five minutes ago.”

Namjoo was right. It was time to punt.

“You want to write it up?” Mason asked.

“Already half-written.” The other intelligence officer smiled before killing the hookup.

Mason frowned. Iranian spies weren’t the only ones who looked out for themselves. Even with the unprecedented cooperation between U.S. intelligence agencies, Mason sometimes forgot that high-level jobs were like a game of musical chairs and officers were in competition with one another for seats.

Hey, it’s national security that matters most, he reminded himself. Though it still stung that his colleague had used the delay to one-up him. Mason went back to work, requesting priority-one surveillance of the Iranian container ship Ghorbani from the National Reconnaissance Office.

Having already received Namjoo’s analysis, Lt. Cmdr. Bobbitt had authorized the request within moments of receiving it.

QUANTICO, VIRGINIA

Situated near the Naval Reserve flight line at Andrews Air Force Base, the two-story office building was designated as a ready-room during the Cold War, a staging area for emergency flight crews. It was a drill-and-wait assignment: the teams had nothing to do unless there was a nuclear attack on the nation’s capital. In that case, their job would have been to evacuate key officials to heavily fortified mountainside aeries.

Today, the ivory-colored building was little more than a relic of the Cold War. Behind the neat lawns and gardens, the once-important beige-colored building was used for storage of files that had not yet been scanned and the handful of personnel whose job was to know what was in those files. Walking into the lobby, Kealey felt as though he were slipping into a horror film populated with zombies. The military and civilian people working here were all quiet, slow, expressionless.

The chopper pilot had arranged for him to be met by an airman in a golf cart. Kealey and Rayhan were taken to a comfortable office, served coffee and sandwiches, and were told that their “party” was already en route.

Kealey was surprised when big Fletcher Clarke entered, dressed in his uniform, looking every inch a man waging a campaign.

When Kealey called from the helicopter to tell him about the portable nature of the nuclear device, Lt. Cmdr. Bobbitt had just copied Clarke with the findings of the team at Naval Space Command. Clarke told Kealey he’d brief him when he landed. Kealey hadn’t expected it to be in person.

The general entered the building with an aide, who remained outside the office while Clarke went in.

“Afraid of eavesdroppers?” Kealey asked.

“Way above their security clearance,” Clarke replied.

Right then, Kealey knew this was larger than even he’d anticipated. Rayhan watched with what struck Kealey as a look of cautious-bordering-on-fearful interest as Clarke sat at a gunmetal desk and opened a laptop.

“If you’re right about the suitcase bomb—and we believe you are—there are two places it could be,” Clarke said, bringing up an annotated map and getting right to the matter. “One is onboard a container ship that just headed into the Mediterranean. That’s the red line. We’ve got eyes on that from the air and sea right now. Those are the blue lines. The ship’s showing radiation, which means the package was onboard—but not that it still is.”

He brought up a chart. Rayhan looked at the numbers.

“If it’s onboard, it’s been resealed,” she said.

“Not very hot, right?” Clarke asked.

“No, sir.”

“That’s a kick in the head,” Clarke said. “The ship’s showing no outward signs of urgency, there are no suspicious communications—it’s doing everything you’d expect from a vessel that doesn’t want to call attention to itself. Naval Space Command believes the target is onboard. But—”

Clarke let the word hang there. He brought up a police bulletin from Rabat.

“We grabbed this write-up at our listening post in Melilla, a Spanish territory on the coast of Africa. It was sent by police car uplink to the dispatcher in Salé, Morocco. They were answering an alarm at a medical facility. A dentist’s office was broken into. Initially, they didn’t think anything had been stolen—there was no medicine missing, no money. Then two minutes later they filed a second report after noticing that the X-ray apron was missing.”

“What was their protocol after that?” Rayhan asked.

“Nothing to speak of,” Clarke told her. “We contacted our embassy in Rabat, our spooks were in the field, so we woke up Mostpha Bensami, INTERPOL Vice President for Africa, to ask. He said that without what he called ‘triangulated evidence,’ it would not be considered anything more than a routine theft. He said that rebel forces often use X-ray aprons as bulletproof vests.”

“Not the worst idea I’ve heard,” Kealey said.

“But that was not the reason it was taken,” Rayhan suggested.

“We don’t believe so,” Clarke went on. “That’s why I need you two to go over there. If the device is onboard the Iranian ship, we’ll get people onboard to find it. If not—”

Kealey was smiling and looking at Rayhan. She grinned back.

“What is it?” Clarke asked.

“She asked why I had her pack a bag,” Kealey said. “Did you bring a head scarf?”

“In case there was air-conditioning—but it will do.”

Clarke made a face. “You’ll have a lot of time to bond over that en route to Naval Station Rota, Spain. They’re holding a Baby Herc supply ship for you. I’ll take you over.”

“What kind of support are you giving me other than INTERPOL?” Kealey asked.

“Hell, I can’t even guarantee them completely,” Clarke said. “Apart from Bensami, we don’t know which side of the fence a lot of those boys play. Many of them are Muslims first, Moroccans second—and among those, we don’t know how many are radical.” He looked uncomfortably at Rayhan. “Sorry, Ms. Jafari. That’s just the way their loyalties fall.”

“I’m an American first and only, sir,” she replied.

“I know. That’s why I apologized. I didn’t want you to misunderstand.”

“Can you give me the APHID?” Kealey asked, trying to break this inevitable but uncomfortable talk.

“I’ve already told Valigorsky to prepare the transition.”

Rayhan gave Kealey an inquiring look. He ignored it.

Clarke handed the couple their passports, to which customs stamps from Morocco had been affixed by the DNI’s printing department. That was the end of the meeting. Clarke snapped the laptop shut and left, followed by his aide, Kealey, and Rayhan. They did not speak as they got into the golf cart that was to take them out to the airfield.

The C-27J Baby Herc was a stubby but sleek, gray two-prop aircraft with an overhead wing structure that didn’t seem sufficient to lift the thick fuselage. It was designed to deliver troops and supplies to airfields that were too short for its big brother, the C-130 Hercules. As such, the interior was constructed to be roomy—not comfortable. Especially not for a flight to Africa.

In addition to a pair of jeeps and crates of ordnance, the plane was carrying members of Congress who were headed to Egypt. Their scowls told Kealey how happy they were to be held up—though part of that was probably also due to the accommodations. The seats in the Baby Herc were literally red slings hanging from the curved, padded sides of the aircraft. Kealey selected a pair that hung between the two jeeps so they wouldn’t have to look at their travel companions. He helped Rayhan into her harness, which had loops for the arms—though no one used them unless there was turbulence. There were no windows here, not that it would have mattered since the slings faced in.

“Is this functional or comfortable?” Rayhan asked as she wriggled from side to side, then forward and back as if the seat were a swing.

“Definitely the former, very nominally the latter,” he said. “I think I’m gonna like these better than the C-130s, which had seats, if you can call them that.”

“Seats were worse?”

“They rattled. Constantly. You didn’t want to sit for a week after riding in one of those. Many of us couldn’t sit for a week.”

“Rattling I can handle,” she said. “I ride ATVs on the weekend. Hours at a time.”

“Oh? I wouldn’t have guessed you were an off-roader.”

“Why? Too petite?”

“No,” he said. “Too sane.”

She smiled. “I took it up because of a former boyfriend. I think he broke up with me because I was better at it.”

“Better or took more chances?”

“Actually, both. I liked playing chicken with him.”

“Well, at least you’ve got some measure of control there,” Kealey said. “These things—they’re like riding barrels over a waterfall . . . for hours. You got used to it in the air but when you land—that’s when the delayed reaction sets in. It’s like trying to walk after you’ve been running on a vibrating bed.”

“Something you’ve tried?”

“I only use metaphors when personal experience is attached,” Kealey told her as the hatch was closed. “It’s kind of a funny story. I turned one of those beds on in a motel in Istanbul. It had been a long day of staking out a Turk who was trying to sell arms to Syrian rebels. I wanted to help him, but he didn’t know that, so he hired someone to kill me. I figured they’d figure no one would pay to turn the bed on unless they were in it. I was watching from the closet. I pinned the guy easy enough but then spent the next fifteen, twenty minutes shaking all around as I interrogated him.”

“That’s a funny story?”

“It is, when I think back on it. Wasn’t, then. He put a nine-inch blade in the blanket and the knife was wobbling back and forth like some kind of baby toy.”

Rayhan was looking at Kealey—at his little smile, not his eyes. “You really enjoy this work—despite how it has treated you.”

“Enjoy? I don’t know. It’s all so seat-of-the-pants I think I’m afraid to pull out. You develop a feel for something that makes you responsible for it.”

“I’m confused.”

“There is no formula,” Kealey said as the propellers revved overhead. “That fact turns you into a control freak.” The cabin shook, and he had to raise his voice to be heard. “The intelligence services have written enough white papers about different scenarios to fill the Grand Canyon. But in all that, there are no magic bullets. Every situation is different. And the more that agents are trained to rely on them, the greater the danger to the country.”

“You’re saying we need loose cannons?”

“I prefer to call us vigilantes for the American way,” Kealey laughed.

“Speaking of assets, I know that Astrida Valigorsky is head of integrated intelligence services. What was that you asked for earlier—the APHID?”

Kealey smiled. “An asset.”

Rayhan waited for the rest. It didn’t come. Kealey did not strike her as the kind of man to play games or withhold information unless it was necessary. This was obviously beyond her security level. She let it drop. She studied Kealey. He seemed distracted. He snapped out of it when the four powerful turbines began to roar in turn.

“Is everything all right?” she asked. It was a fair question, she felt; her life was at risk, too.

“Missions, even impromptu ones like this, should have a little prep time,” he said. “There was a time when I’d spend the flight studying maps of the region, memorizing phone numbers of contacts.”

“Will you not?”

“I’ll make sure I know Rabat, but this is a highly fluid situation,” he said. “We could end up miles from there, and we don’t have time to learn the entire coastline up and down.” He wiggled his phone. “Electronics. Uplinks. We’re forced to rely on that now. Not like my Uncle Largo, eyeballing a target until it was part of his DNA.”

The two fell silent as the big plane taxied and rose with a roar that was far greater than its labored angle of ascent. The bank of the plane was more noticeable, as even the tightly lashed objects shifted and caused Rayhan to start. Once they were airborne, they found they were not as isolated as Kealey had hoped.

“Good evening,” said a slender, balding man. Kealey made him out to be about forty, from Philadelphia judging by his accent. The man gripped a free sling with his left hand while he offered his right. “Representative Tim Thomson from Pennsylvania.”

“I’m Ryan,” Kealey said, accepting his hand. “This is Rayhan.”

Thomson turned to her, smiled, offered his hand. “A pleasure.” There was something unctuous in just that word, even more so in his leering smile. But it was business before pleasure and he turned back to Kealey. “We’re with the House Committee on Homeland Security, Border and Maritime. I’ve seen you somewhere.”

“I’ve been around,” Kealey said.

“In what capacity?”

“All kinds.”

Thomson smiled back thinly. “Spooks.”

“And you haven’t even had your first swallow from the flask in your pocket,” Kealey said.

“Oh, we’re all friends here or we wouldn’t be here,” Thomson said. He put his hand up and leaned hard against the padded fuselage to keep from falling to one side or the other. “I admire you folks. You’re what we call ‘executors.’ You go out and do the things we all just talk about.” He regarded Rayhan. “That’s not the same as executioners. Though I guess sometimes you have to be that.”

Kealey looked at him. How did a man so tactless succeed in public office? Or maybe that was the trick: he disguised bullying as advocacy. “So, Congressman. Is there anything I can do for you other than suffer in near silence?”

The blow didn’t even graze the man. “No, Ryan. I just wanted to see if I could place you. I like to know what’s going on in our end of the business.” The congressman’s eyes shifted back to Rayhan. “Iranian?”

She replied, “American.”

“By birth?”

“By choice.”

He smiled. “Well done.” Thomson acted as though he were congratulating a competitive skater.

In less than a minute, Kealey had already grown to hate that practiced politician’s smile. He was surprised General Clarke, who met with them and testified before them regularly, had not already murdered one of these guys.

“Enjoy your flight,” the congressman said.

“The rest of it, we will,” Kealey said, smiling as though he had steel wool tucked in his cheeks.

Thomson looked at him, still smiling. “I wouldn’t push that too far, Ryan. I know people who can throw people like you to the wolves out there.”

“And how does that help the nation we both love and serve?” Kealey asked.

“My e-blasts do more to influence our future than anything you’ve ever achieved,” he replied.

Kealey wanted to say, “I just saved New York,” but this job was about results, not ego. He just flipped the man a dismissive salute to end the conversation.

Thomson walked unsteadily back to his sling. When he disappeared behind the jeep to the right, it was as though air had returned to the bay.

“And they call us heartless,” Kealey said.

“What an unpleasant man,” Rayhan agreed. “He threatened you.”

“Worse than that, he didn’t feel a thing. Not the stone wall we threw against his questions, not your parries—which were beautiful, by the way—and not the last jab. Nothing. These guys are like automatons. They just move as close as they can get toward the center of power. Hit a roadblock and they turn till they can find a way around or muster other bullies to form a committee and push through. That’s our official government in action.”

“Official?”

“We’re the real government, Rayhan,” Kealey said. “You and I and everyone in the trenches are the people who do the work. Without us, without the so-called functionaries, everything stops. We don’t want to be President or speaker of the house or senator. We are generally apolitical people who want to see the country succeed and grow as a whole. Not in demographic pieces or along ethnic lines. As America. It’s the same in the Middle East. We the People get along fine. We see our neighbors hurting, we help.” He nodded in the direction Congressman Thomson had gone. “It’s these idiots who make a mess of things. You asked why I continue to fight? Because if I don’t, if you don’t—who will?”

Rayhan started as the plane bounced. She settled quickly.

“You’re getting good at frill-less travel,” Kealey said.

“I have to, if I’m going to be a spook,” she replied.

The benefits and drawbacks of travel by cargo plane are the same: if you don’t have reading material, a laptop, or a tablet, there’s nothing to do but sleep and talk. Despite the ground they’d covered, it was still a little early and adrenaline was still a little high for a nap.

“I’ve told you a little about me,” Kealey said. “How did you become a nuclear physicist working for American intelligence?”

“Better you should ask how I became a nuclear physicist,” she laughed.

“Okay. How did you?”

“Every parent in Iran wants their son or daughter to become a doctor,” she said. “That is the way to ensure respect and employment. But I was never as interested in how people work as how everything works. I didn’t dissect frogs, I dissected my audiocassette player—with a high school friend who was alarmed that I had a tape of singer Michael Jackson. That was not permitted. She reported me to our teacher, who informed the authorities. After two months of harrowing observation, of midnight visits, of harassment and threats, my family bought our way to Egypt, then to London.”

“What did your father do?”

“He was a combat medic, but after the war he became a news reporter for television. His public face is one reason they let us leave. He had always covered stories the government approved of, so it would have been difficult to prosecute him. The sad thing is, my mother and my older sister have not been happy in London. They are very modest, very traditional women who do not leave home without a head covering. As a result, they are always viewed with suspicion.” Her eyes drifted toward the jeep. “As I was even without it.”

“What is your father doing now?”

“He publishes several newspapers that cater to expatriates from Iran and its neighbors.”

“What about the leap from London to Washington?” Kealey asked.

“I was recruited by the DNI when I posted a flyer about giving Farsi lessons at university,” she said. “They made me a very handsome offer and agreed to pay for the rest of my education. That lifted a big burden from my father.”

“How did he feel about your working for U.S. intelligence?”

She made a face. “He doesn’t know. They know I work for the government, but I have not told him in what capacity. Tehran has eyes and ears in every Iranian community abroad. I do not want them to find things out from my family.”

Kealey was taking it all in uncritically. The DNI would have vetted her but it would have been unlawful to keep watching her; a lot of nationals found themselves growing nostalgic as they grew older and found themselves drawn back into the interests and causes of their homeland—especially if they had friends abroad. Kealey did not fixate on that but was always aware of it in his dealings with foreign-born intelligence workers.

As the plane crossed the Atlantic, he was literally rocked to sleep in a cabin lit only by a few small halogen lights set along the top of the wall. At some point—about four hours later, according to his watch—a member of the flight crew came back to tell him there was a call for him in the cockpit.

“From the general,” the young radio officer said.

Kealey slipped from his harness, noticed that Rayhan was asleep, and followed the man to the flight deck. It was a sleek, very modern environment. There were two big trapezoidal windows ahead, two more on the sides, and a pair of rectangular windows overhead. There was very little that wasn’t electronic. The displays were all glowing green, as were all the digital buttons and lettering.

Kealey greeted the crew and sat at the station facing the starboard side, behind the copilot. He slipped on the headset and adjusted the microphone.

“Ryan here.”

“It’s Clarke,” he said. “You secure?”

“Yes.”

“We’ve got a dead John Doe in Salé, Morocco. He was found not far from where the lead apron was stolen. INTERPOL got ahold of the crime scene dossier. The images match an Iranian drifter named Qassam, who’s showed up at a couple of trouble spots over the last few years. According to the manager at the inn where he was murdered, he checked in that day. About the time that container ship was docking.”

A drifter was an agent who rarely went home, which made him extremely difficult to spot: eyes on the embassies and intelligence agencies was how most agents were noticed and eventually ID’d as such.

“Had he made a pickup?” Kealey asked.

“Hotel manager says he had a guy help him bring a parcel of some kind to his room.”

“And it isn’t there now.”

“It is not.”

“So much for the container ship,” Kealey said. “Salé’s a stronghold for radical Muslims. We lose it there, it’ll be a nightmare of a shell game trying to find it.”

“I agree,” Clarke said. “In the meantime, we have no idea what Iran’s going to do. If they have assets in the area, we don’t know them.”

“If they had assets in the area, the agent wouldn’t have been flying solo,” Kealey said. “There’s always the chance someone will offer it back to them, for a price.”

“If that’s our best-case scenario, we’re in trouble,” Clarke said.

“At least it buys us a little time. Flight from Tehran to Rabat takes about seven hours, an hour less than it is from D.C. They probably needed a little more ramping up than we did—I’m guessing someone will just be getting to the scene of the murder when we land. How are we getting from Rota to Morocco?”

“We’ve rented you a boat—you’ll be able to make landfall wherever you want. It’ll also give you a place to stay while you’re there.”

“Good. I’ll be on the ECP as soon as we land.”

The Encrypted Cell Phone was standard CIA issue, using 1024-bit RSA key encryption and 256-bit random key encryption that changed twice every second. The RSA stood for Rivest, Shamir, and Adleman, the inventors of the process.

Kealey returned to his sling. He had an idea he needed to mull over. He hadn’t bothered telling Clarke about it because the intelligence chief wasn’t going to like it. But that was the risk he took by sending Kealey into the field with a Farsi speaker.

Rayhan was still asleep, and Kealey joined her after a half hour of mulling pros and cons.

The pros won, even though they were vastly outweighed by the cons.

CHAPTER 9

SALÉ, MOROCCO

Mohammed spent the night in his van.

Though Salé is the sister city to Rabat, it has not advanced in the way the capital has. The buildings are old, the streets cobbled, the alleys impassable by modern conveyances. Three centuries ago, the city’s economy was driven by pirates who not only dealt in goods but slaves—white as well as black. To a large extent, piracy still drove the city’s cash flow. Coupled with radical Islamists, Mohammed knew he could not be in a better place. The key was not to be found by Iranians or anyone else before then.

He drove to the beach along the river and, spotting a boathouse, parked among a pile of rotting fishing boats within view of the place. The boats were small, not much larger than canoes, and judging from the rot revealed by his headlights, they looked as if they’d been there for at least a half century. Two of them sat prow to prow and formed a pyramid that would protect him from being seen except along the river. He had noted that there were no footprints in the sand and, feeling sufficiently isolated, used his hands to dig a shallow grave for his companion. He found a tattered old sail to use as a shroud and, stripping Aden’s body, lay his companion to rest beneath the stars while murmuring a heartfelt prayer. With reluctance, he took his tire iron and applied it to the man’s face, averting his gaze the entire time. Then he covered the hole. Then he went back to the van and against his best efforts to remain vigilant, fell asleep for several hours. He was tired—he recognized it as the exhaustion of effort, not illness—and awoke with a guilty start as the sun rose through his windshield.

His mind was clearer now, not just from the rest but from the time his new circumstances had to settle in. He was no longer shocked by what had happened but resolute. He poured water from a plastic bottle into his eyes, rubbed it over his face, then looked back along the waterfront. The sunlight glared off the window of the boathouse so he couldn’t see inside. But there was a motorbike that had not been there the night before. It was a new Vespa, a two-seater with the kind of elegance that suggested the owner made money from more than fishing or renting boats. Mohammed started the engine and drove over.

A young man came out to greet him. Dressed in a white shirt and jeans, he was swarthy and had a wary look. His beard was short-cropped, like his hair. He stood in the doorway, one hand still inside—on a firearm, no doubt. Mohammed emerged with his hands raised slightly above his waist. He was glad to see the man’s caution: he would not have to waste time. He had come to the right place.

There was no need to speak. The young man nodded once, turned to go inside, and Mohammed followed. There was, indeed, a shotgun leaning against the wall, the stock resting in an empty metal water basin on an old wooden stand.

“Tea?” the young man asked.

“Please.”

“Have you eaten?”

“Not since lunch, yesterday.”

That told the young man a great deal. It had been a busy night for the newcomer. He hadn’t wanted to—or didn’t dare to—stop at one of the city’s countless cafés. He hadn’t abandoned his vehicle, so he probably didn’t need passage; the waterways were more heavily policed than the roadways here.

He needed information.

“Sit.” The young man gestured to a small card table.

The newcomer sat—with a view toward the van. So there was something in it. Had he come to sell stolen property?

“I am Hassan,” the young man told him.

“My name is Mohammed.”

“Is there something I can do for you, Mohammed?”

Mohammed looked around. The trappings here were old, spare. He saw a row of wooden chairs along the back wall that looked, oddly, as though they were bolted to the floor. There was a potbelly stove in the corner—that was where the water was being heated—and he saw a closet with a vented generator. He didn’t have electricity here, but he had a smart phone on a small desk. When the man left each night, whatever command center this was reverted to being an old shack.

“It was built by my grandfather,” Hassan said, watching Mohammed’s eyes. “He was a fisherman. Not a very good one. But he managed to make a living.”

“How?”

“God is generous to the pious man, and the river offered many opportunities.”

The young man poured tea, set out bread and honey.

“Praise be to God for his kindness—and to you for yours,” Mohammed said.

The young man sat across the table—after adjusting the chair and placing himself between Mohammed and the van. The visitor suddenly felt naked. The move and now Hassan’s steady look were brutally purposeful.

“What are you trying to move?” Hassan asked.

Mohammed chewed a mouthful of bread. He took out his entire bankroll and lay it on the table. Hassan didn’t have to touch it. The smallest bill was visible. The man wasn’t trying to deceive—or insult—him by placing the largest on top.

“I am not sure how much is there,” Mohammed said. “But it is all I have. That, and the vehicle.”

Hassan grinned. “I have been offered much in the past. Never everything.”

Mohammed took another bite as he considered what he was about to say. “I must ask you a personal question, my brother—”

“You want to know if I am devout? Am I your brother? Do I serve the Prophet?”

Mohammed should have realized he was not the first person to come here like this—scattered and searching. He answered Hassan’s question with silence.

“You offer me all you have and, if that is short, hope to pay for the rest with my devotion to faith,” Hassan said. “I will be frank. It is not my preferred way of doing business. I have a family, including my blessed grandfather, and I am their sole provider. If you tell me something and I can get more compensation from some other party I will take it.”

Mohammed stopped chewing. He resisted the urge to spit out the bread; that would cross a line from rejecting the man’s hospitality to insult. If he could not find an ally in Hassan, neither did he want an enemy. He placed the rest of the bread back on the plate and pushed the chair back.

“Thank you, Hassan, for your gracious welcome,” Mohammed said and rose.

Hassan remained seated. He looked at the cash as Mohammed reached for it. “Were you naive enough to think a man of faith could be found on the waterfront? You saw those chairs.” He jerked his head toward the back of the room. “We sell young girls to the highest bidders, my brother.”

Mohammed looked at him with disapproval. “I do not have young girls in my van.”

“I did not think you did. You have no scratch marks. But I will make you a deal, Mohammed.”

Mohammed hesitated.

“Leave the cash and tell me your proposition. If I do not feel I can help you, this will buy my silence. You may take your van and go. You have my vow. Be aware, Mohammed, that unless you are very, very fortunate, you will face this same question from whoever you approach. Men of faith, purely of faith, do not work where I do, as I do. And you dare not go to a mosque, where you will be asked about your own beliefs and, more likely than not, you will find you are in the house of the wrong sect . . . for there are many here.” Hassan smiled. “I like you. That advice is free.”

Mohammed considered this . . . not that he had a choice. Everything in his world, in this world, was like a bazaar. Haggling for goods, services, or lives was the norm. Following their victim to Rabat had been no different: it was pay as you go for extra eyes and ears so he would not see them everywhere he went.

Mohammed said, “I have a portable nuclear device in the van. It is shielded now but it is so hot it killed my companion in minutes. I wish to find someone who can complete the wiring so I can use it to attack the enemies of Islam.”

Hassan did not show surprise often, but he showed it now.

“This—thing. It is from here?” Hassan asked.

“Not originally, but this is where I found it.”

“Found?”

“Stolen. By accident. An honor killing—an Iranian who killed my brother in Yemen.”

“Last night?” Hassan asked. He would have heard about it otherwise.

“Yes.”

“Where is your companion now?”

“In a grave in the sands,” Mohammed said. “By the boats.”

“He will be found, eventually. You—”

“Stripped him. He has no identification. He has no record, so his fingerprints will be of no value.”

“Did you enter this country legally?”

“Yes, but with counterfeit papers,” Mohammed said.

“His face?”

“I—I made sure he will not be identified by sight.”

Hassan nodded. He had wondered where the blood on the man’s shirt had come from. The poor fellow probably didn’t realize it was there. “The Iranian was passing through?”

“Yes.”

That meant other Iranians would be looking for the device, and very soon. There was no science in Hassan’s choices: he acted by his gut. What instinct told him now tore him in two. Any man who helped in this project would be hunted by Americans, Europeans, and Israelis. If he were known to be a participant, then one day he would be found and killed. Possibly with his family. On the other side of the argument: what would his father and the rest of the group do if God had dropped this man at their door? Hassan was not religious enough or old enough to be overly concerned about Paradise just yet. But to be guaranteed an eternal place by the side of God—that was not unattractive.

My life is about risk-taking, he thought. How is this any different?

And there was a third part of the equation, though it only surfaced when he had weighed the other two: vanity. To have a hand in something of this magnitude would make Hassan a legend among the few people in whom he could confide. There were not many, since other smugglers would sell him out as quickly as he would sell them. But his father and grandfather, his wife and, one day, his children—he would never earn that kind of stature doing what he did day after day.

He thought for a moment more. Those were the abstract aspects of the problem. There was a practical side as well: how to do what needed to be done.

“I will help you,” Hassan said. “But I want a promise from you first.”

“Anything.”

“If you are discovered, you will not be taken alive,” Hassan told him. “You will not speak of my involvement. Not even to the people to whom I send you.”

“I swear it.”

Hassan picked up the pile of cash and selected a dozen 100,000-rial notes, which he stuffed in a front pocket of his shirt. Each was worth roughly ten dollars U.S. He pushed the rest of the stack back to Mohammed. “You will need this along the way.”

Mohammed smiled and bowed gratefully.

“Do you have a cell phone?” Hassan asked.

“I do.”

“Passport?”

“Yes.”

“Firearm?”

“I would not travel without one.”

Hassan nodded his approval with great seriousness.

“You are to get on the Maghreb Highway and stay on it,” Hassan told him. “Wait for my call. I will tell you what the situation is here and whether you need to stop along the way. When I give you your final instructions, you will crush the cell phone under your tires and throw the pieces into any body of water you pass.”

“I understand,” Mohammed said. “Is there anything you can tell me about where I am going?”

“All I can tell you,” the man said, “is you are going to meet a well-connected professor. I am sure he will help you.”

ROTA, SPAIN

Kealey woke when he felt the plane begin its descent. Rayhan was asleep beside him. He gave her a gentle shake.

“I’m awake,” she said.

He waited a moment with a crooked little smile. She fell asleep again. He shook her a little harder.

“I’m awake,” she repeated. This time she opened her eyes.

Kealey moved a little closer and looked at her. “Your lips are dry, and your voice isn’t quite connected to your brain,” he said. “What did you take?

She didn’t answer.

“I asked you something, Rayhan.”

“Ambien,” she said as she wriggled semi-upright in her sling.

“Dumb,” he said bluntly. “Are you going to be alert? You need coffee?”

“I’ll be fine,” she said. “I wouldn’t have been if I couldn’t sleep. Don’t worry. I used to do this when I was a kid. My mother gave me Valium. Otherwise, I could never have rested in the bomb shelters.”

Kealey did worry, though he let it rest. It was one thing to risk his life on a partner, which is why he didn’t like having them. It was something else to risk his life—along with the security of the nation—on a partner with a drug hangover. The only drug he had ever carried into the field was a cyanide capsule, and then only in places like Chechnya and Iraq, where capture meant torture and beheading with a knife.

A Petty Officer First Class came aboard to collect Kealey and Rayhan. The two got a big “good-bye” from Representative Thomson as they deplaned.

“Stay safe, you two, and look me up in D.C.,” Thomson said.

Kealey did not think the invitation was for him and hoped their paths did not cross. He did not want to be reminded that people like this were deciding the policy he had to execute.

The joint U.S.-Spanish Color Guard aboard Naval Station, Rota—NAVSTA Rota—covers six thousand acres on the north shore of Cádiz, the Gateway to the Mediterranean. It was established in 1953 by Spanish dictator Francisco Franco, who was looking to shore up relations with the United States. The United States Navy is responsible for the upkeep of the 670-acre airfield, the trio of piers and hundreds of military structures, and over eight hundred homes for the soldiers.

The unobstructed sunlight was a shock to Kealey and his companion as they emerged before the jeeps and before the Congressmen. They were taken by the Petty Officer First Class to a waiting Humvee. Just before the seaman deleted them, Kealey caught their photographs on the dashboard display.

The man introduced himself. He was Johannes Megapolensis, which the young man spoke proudly and clearly as the Humvee hummed and he drove them across the six-thousand-acre base toward one of the piers. The red-tile roofs and low white buildings were pure Mediterranean, a contrast to the purely functional bases Kealey was used to. The United States had been here for sixty years, since 1953—it was an ideal stopping-off point halfway to the Middle East, the Suez Canal and oil shipments, and Southwest Asia. For Spain, it was a boon to the local economies.

When they reached the pier, a sleek, twenty-seven-foot powerboat was waiting for them. It had a canvas canopy, a food locker, and a radio.

“Do you know how to run ’er, sir?” Megapolensis asked.

“Twin 250 HP Yamahas? No kicker engine?”

Megapolensis smiled. “No, sir. If you’d care to wait we could rig one—”

“No thanks. I used to troll for steelheads with an 8 HP. How many gas tanks?”

“Three, sir. Two hundred gallons per. Will that do?

“That’ll do,” Kealey said appreciatively. The boat wouldn’t get the best mileage on the open sea, but the extra tanks more than compensated—and, better, they would provide extra weight and greater stability. Rayhan would probably appreciate that. She still looked a little dazed. And if she weren’t used to it, knocking around at sea was not like bumping up and down on an ATV.

“There are requested add-ons—binoculars, some fishing gear onboard, and some sandwiches in the locker in case you don’t have time to fish,” Megapolensis said. “If I might ask, sir, where did you fish? Out here, it’s always nice to hear stories from home.”

“Maine,” Kealey said as he stepped in and offered his hand to Rayhan. Megapolensis was already putting her overnighter onboard. “I had a house there for a while. Really rustic.”

“I love that. I’m from Vermont,” the enlisted man said with a longing look atop a big smile. “Grew up on Lake Champlain.”

“Ever see the monster?”

“No, sir. I don’t believe in that sort of thing.”

Kealey smiled as the sailor handed him a pair of Navy-issue sunglasses. “Monsters exist,” Kealey assured him as they untied the boat from the pier.

“The kind with flippers and fangs, sir?”

“Worse,” Kealey said. “The kind with smiles and power.”

The young man offered a confused salute as Kealey started the engines. Rayhan was familiarizing herself with the GPS.

“We good?” he asked her.

“The boat appears to be,” she said. “Are we?”

“I sure hope so.” It wasn’t a commitment, but then she didn’t deserve one. Kealey was angry, but he would have a few hours of sea air to rid himself of that and for her to clear her head.

“There’s an iPod in the music bay,” she said. “Should we leave it?”

“Yeah. And it isn’t an iPod. It’s a TAC-X receiver. If Clarke needs to send us maps, dossiers, or anything else, he’ll do it there. If you hear a ping, check under “Kealey Playlist.” The device wipes its memory every ten minutes except for Vladimir Horowitz playing Chopin, Eugene Ormandy performing Tchaikovsky, and Arthur Fiedler whipping up the best of John Philip Sousa.”

“How do you know what’s on it?”

“Standard playlist,” Kealey said. “One way to know if someone’s replaced it.”

“Why not just send the maps to your cell phone?”

Kealey held up a finger while he ran a radio check. He would remain in contact with Rota until they reached Africa. Then he was on his own. As he noted the location of the fire extinguisher and emergency flares, he answered Rayhan’s question.

“The general’s going to have his eyes on both devices,” Kealey said. “They will be on me at all times. An iPod may get left behind. If we are separated, he’ll assume that something is wrong.”

“But we’re the only ones in the field,” she said. “If something goes wrong, how will that help us?”

“It won’t,” Kealey said. “It’ll tell him our mission is in jeopardy and he should go to Plan B, whatever that might be. They’re probably figuring that one out now.” The operative smiled appreciatively. “The general’s philosophy is ‘Do something now.’ He likes to develop his available pieces ASAP. That’s us. There’s nothing sentimental about him, not when he’s on the job.”

Rayhan was wearing the same fall coat she’d been wearing when they went to Valley Stream. Kealey yanked a black sweater from his grip, slipped into it, then pulled from the pier. He eased skillfully into the blindingly bright water. The boat had four seats, two of them facing back. That was where the sportfishermen sat. Rayhan was in the one behind Kealey, right beside the low railing. The canopy protected her from the sun but not from the motion of the vessel. Though Kealey was traveling at the maximum speed of forty-five knots, the skimming action was mitigated by the added fuel weight. The powerboat cut through the water rather than rode up and slapped down.

“I’m sorry about the Ambien,” she said, turning her head back and shouting to be heard over the sound of water and twin Yamahas. “I should have asked.”

Kealey nodded. He was angrier than before. Now that they were boots-on-the-ground, he found that he wasn’t willing to rely on her as completely as he needed to. That was the kind of quirk that would have been knocked out of a person during training. You learned to sleep hard and fast. During survival runs in the Rockies—which was where a lot of the special forces teams going to Afghanistan did their drilling, seven thousand feet up—you knew that helicopters were going to be looking for you in two-hour cycles. That gave you exactly one hundred and twenty minutes to rest between flyovers. If you didn’t seize that time, you didn’t sleep. If you didn’t sleep, your chances of falling from a slope and dragging your companions with you, of dooming the mission, increased.

“Going forward, you don’t do anything without being told,” Kealey said. “And when you are told something, you do it. I need your eyes and ears and brain, and I need them at one hundred percent. Everything we do is to preserve the only Arabic speaker and scientist on this mission. Understood?”

“I understand,” she said, then turned aft again.

Kealey knew that no one liked being upbraided. She probably felt safe because he had gotten chummy with the enlisted man.

She was wrong.

“I need you to watch the iPod,” Kealey said.

Rayhan used the back of the seats to support herself as she swung around. She fell into the seat without complaint. He would have told her to sit there from the start if he had known she wouldn’t get seasick. Now, he had no choice.

“What am I looking for?” she asked, turning it on.

“It’s a four-hour trip to Rabat. Clarke’s eyes in the sky are watching the area around the motel where the Iranian was killed. The satellite feed is in my file. Assuming Tehran has someone in the area now, that’s where they’ll go for starters. There’s also—”

“I see it,” she said. “A crawl of radiation levels. How—?”

“A plane from Rota fired a DART into the motel roof two hours ago,” Kealey said. “A Direct Access Radiation Test. Which also happens to be a dart. What does the data tell you?”

“It’s a hot spot but falling,” she said. “Someone most likely opened the container and shut it quickly.”

“After taking a lethal dose?”

“Without a doubt,” she said. “My God, if this is the residue—it was a hell of a burst. The individual wouldn’t have survived an hour.”

“So we’re looking at a pair or more of perps or a device that’s still in Rabat or both.”

“I’m betting on both,” Rayhan said.

“Why?”

“Because there’s a secondary reading coming from the northeast,” she said. “Very faint but it has the same—let’s call it a fingerprint. Nothing close to lethal but elevated from ambient radiation.”

Kealey did a pullback on the GPS map. He saw the river. It wasn’t a real-time image, so he couldn’t tell whether there was anything of interest on it. He took his cell phone from his belt and called Clarke at home.

“Did I wake you?” Kealey asked.

“I wish you had. Where are you?”

“On the Mediterranean, where it’s sunny with a hint of fallout.”

“Too tired to find that funny. Are you saying there’s a trail?”

Kealey explained the twin radiation readings, then asked him to have his INTERPOL connection, Mostpha Bensami, get someone to follow the radiation trail from the motel to wherever it leads.

“Open or not?”

“Open,” Kealey said. “We might as well see if anyone else is watching.”

“You got it,” Clarke told him.

Kealey hung up.

“May I ask—?” Rayhan said.

“About open or not?” Kealey said.

She nodded.

“Do we want a theoretical Iranian operative to see what’s being done,” Kealey said. “The answer is yes.”

“Why?”

“A twofer,” Kealey said. “Hopefully, we find the killer and the device. Mr. Bensami or whoever he sends will be waiting and watching. With luck, we may also get ourselves an Iranian agent.”

RABAT, MOROCCO

He was dressed like a tourist, in white shorts, a green T-shirt, and a nondescript white baseball cap. He had preregistered at the motel, arrived with two carry-on-bags, and stubbed out his cigarette before entering the lobby. When he saw that one of the other guests was smoking, he lit up again. There were three good reasons for smoking. First, it was one way to ferret out Americans. They tended to hang back from cigarette smoke, especially the younger ones. Whoever was farther away than a careful observer should be—he could be an American operative.

The second good reason for smoking was that it was an excuse to loiter, which is what Mahdavi Yazdi was doing now.

It was late morning and he was in the parking lot, under an oak tree, beside his rental car, watching the room where Qassam Pakravesh had died. The broken window had been boarded with plywood and covered with a waterproof tarpaulin. The light was off inside. Yazdi stood there through three cigarettes. No one came or went.

The Iranian agent went back inside. He walked down a corridor lit darkly with functional fixtures every few feet. The room was near the end, well away from the lobby. The door was old, operated by key access; Yazdi didn’t bother picking the lock. He slipped on a rubber glove, got a solid grip, and turned while pushing the door with his shoulder. The latch gave with a little snap. He stepped inside and braced it shut with a wooden chair.

There was enough light that he didn’t need to turn one on. He didn’t expect to be here long. He went directly to the rickety night table, opened the top drawer, felt inside along the top. He found what he was looking for, duct-taped out of view: Pakravesh’s cigarette lighter. He tugged it free, put it in his pocket, and left.

Back in his room, Yazdi drew the drapes, worked the bottom from the lighter, and pulled out a memory chip. It was the job of every field agent to create a visual diary of his travels and everyone with whom he had a meaningful encounter. That was the third good reason for smoking. An instinct lost from the Cold War: no one suspected a cigarette lighter of being a camera.

The intelligence chief plugged the stick into a slot in his cell phone. He scrolled through the images until Pakravesh arrived in Rabat. He studied them carefully, comparing the people he saw one to the other. Who was staring at him? Who appeared in more than one photograph? Who was the man who helped him to his room?

He transmitted a selection of photographs back to his office at VEJE: the other vendors at the waterfront, the stevedores, and the one who came to the hotel. He wanted to know if any of the faces matched those in their database. One came back positive in just a few minutes: Mohammed Tahir.

A revolutionary contact in Yemen was all the data that was in the open file—a file that was accessible to low-security workers.

He sent back an encrypted text to his deputy, Sanjar:

URGENT: I WANT EVERYTHING ON THIS MAN.

Then, eating a pita sandwich he’d bought, Yazdi sat on the bed, looked out the window at the parking lot, and waited.

Until something going on outside caught his eye. Scooping up his phone—and the cigarette lighter—he hurried outside.

The Royal Moroccan Gendarmerie had a good working relationship with INTERPOL. The two police groups left each other alone. When INTERPOL had an area of concern it had to be serious enough to merit cannibalizing their limited resources.

Lt. Abdelkrim el-Othmani was actually happy to get out into the field. For the past two weeks he had been investigating a scam in which senior citizens were phoned by a man allegedly representing their health care insurance firm and wanting to return the cost of medications. All the seemingly helpful officer needed was their bank account information—which he used to empty those accounts. The thirty-seven-year-old was no closer to finding the perpetrator than he had been when he started. All of the crimes, from solicitation to execution, were committed somewhere else in the world. The closest he got was finding out that the signal apparently originated in China. Given the number of Chinese throughout the continent, that did not surprise him. There were literally thousands of nationals, mostly training and financially supporting local militias to make them financially dependent. A lot of data was going home with them to Beijing, Shanghai, Hong Kong, and other hotbeds of black market activity.

But now el-Othmani was on a terror watch. Not a criminal investigation, which is what he thought when the captain gave him the address. He had recognized the motel from the morning reports.

At the request of INTERPOL, el-Othmani was to carry a Geiger counter—one of two owned by the RMG—and follow a trail of radiation from the crime scene to wherever it took him.

“We have reason to believe this crime may have been connected to the break-in at the medical facility,” the captain told him. “We need to know whether radiation was involved and where it ended up.”

“Am I at risk?” el-Othmani had asked.

The captain—a former bodyguard to HM King Mohammad IV—replied matter-of-factly, “Only if you find the source.”

The lieutenant was told that if levels rose above twelve millisieverts he was to return to the station, where a soldier trained in the use of the district’s only nuclear protection suit would take over. The lieutenant did not have to ask why that individual wasn’t chasing the radiation. It was the captain.

After receiving an initial jolt at the motel where the readings began at eight millisieverts by the broken window and spiked again in the parking lot, el-Othmani was relieved to find them drop to seven as drove his white-and-black patrol car, following the trail wherever it led. The trip took nearly two hours, as the signal frequently fell to normal levels. That happened after he reached the medical center, proving that the captain’s theory was correct. Driving around, el-Othmani would find it again. It struck him as curious that the lead apron stolen from the dentist’s office did not seem to impact the intensity of the radiation. The signal eventually took him to the banks of the Bou Regregin neighboring Salé, and the Stack—the unofficial graveyard where small boats were left aground for whoever wanted to repair them or use them for parts or kindling.

The police officer stopped when he saw the tire tracks in the sand. He got out, holding the Geiger counter, and walked it slowly around the periphery. The digital readout hovered between 7 and 7.5. The higher readings were near a rough patch of sand.

The lieutenant called the captain, told him to bring the suit—and a shovel.

It was late morning when Kealey and Rayhan reached the coast of Morocco. A message was relayed by Clarke from Mostpha Bensami, INTERPOL Vice President for Africa, informing him that radiation had been detected in a patch of beach northeast of Rabat. Clarke sent him the coordinates, which Rayhan plugged into the GPS.

Two minutes later, Clarke called with an update. Kealey put it on speaker.

“They just dug a body out of the sand there,” Clarke told him. “Apparently died of radiation poisoning, if the Geiger counter’s any indication. The area is cordoned off for a half mile in all directions, including the waterway. No other details until the one guy with a radiation hazmat suit gets through looking over the site.”

“But it’s just a body?” Kealey asked.

“Seems to be. They’re not getting readings from anywhere else in the vicinity.”

“Crap. Would’ve been nice to wrap up something quick and easy for a change. Who’s handling the investigation?”

“Local police,” Clarke said. “Liberal Islamists, loyal to the king, want to protect all the investment dollars and foreigners in Morocco—just a checklist of good stuff. They don’t resent the questions, but we have to let them run with this for a while.”

“Understood. Any twitches from Iran?”

“You’re going to have to tell me,” Clarke said. “The news is all over town, on TV and the Web. If anyone’s in from Tehran, that’s where they’ll be.”

Clarke told Kealey the nearest place he could berth the boat was in Rabat, across the river. Kealey glanced at the map Rayhan had brought up and acknowledged their destination. He was about to hang up when he noticed that Rayhan seemed distracted: she looked up, her eyes following the shore as the high minaret of the coastal medina loomed nearer. Kealey asked Clarke to hold.

“Something on your mind?” Kealey asked.

“Yes. I’d like to go ashore as soon as I can,” she said. “We can meet up later. There’s no point in both of us being inactive for a half hour or more.”

He looked at Rayhan. “What’s the objective?”

“To put educated eyes and ears on the scene as soon as possible,” she said. “I may hear something about the radiation. Or I may see something. Someone.”

She looked like she was alert mentally and okay physically. “Fine with me,” Kealey said. “General?”

“You’ll be without a translator.”

“Lots of languages spoken in this town,” Kealey said.

Clarke was silent for a long moment. “I have no problem with that. We can track her if you lose touch. Ryan? Your mission, your call.”

“Sounds okay,” he said. “I can relay any updates. I’m about ten minutes from the mouth of the river—the target sandbank is right there. I’ll leave her in Salé, then swing back to park the boat.”

Clarke gave his okay and Kealey put the phone back on his belt.

“You haven’t been in the field before,” Kealey said.

“Blend in, eyes open, mouth shut except to ask relevant questions. I took the mandatory JICT.”

That was “just-in-case training.” Along with rudimentary weapons skills, it was required of all DNI employees. It didn’t carry the actual risk to life and liberty, but it was not bad for what it was.

“Do you have any particular agenda, or is this a scouting mission?” Kealey asked.

“I honestly don’t know,” she said. “I’ve been in the air and on the water so long I may just be eager to get on solid ground and do some real work.”

Kealey smiled a little. He liked that answer. It was honest. “Find a spot for me to let you off—I don’t suppose you brought a bathing suit?”

“No, and they are not wildly popular among Muslim beachgoers. A woman of my descent would stand out. I would get disapproving glances.” Rayhan was looking at the satellite image on the GPS. “There appears to be a natural sandbar. If you come in on the eastern side I can wade ashore. I will put on a head scarf.”

“No one will think that’s unusual?”

She picked up one of the fishing rods and a small tackle box. She placed her passport and wallet inside. “Not now they won’t. If anyone asks, I’ll say I was looking for—steelheads.”

“Perch and mullet,” he said. “I’ve fished off the Spanish coast. That’s what I caught.”

She repeated the names. Kealey admired her resourcefulness. He handed her the wheel as he picked up the binoculars.

“Wait! Ryan, I’ve never—”

“Throttle up slowly and it’ll be more like an ATV, slapping up and down instead of side to side,” he said.

He looked along the shoreline beyond the river and spotted the sandbar she was talking about.

CHAPTER 10

FÈS, MOROCCO

The Maghreb Highway is a mostly modern road that runs through Mauritania, Morocco, Algeria, Tunisia, and Libya. The section Mohammed was on consisted of a two-lane roadway headed southeast, a lush tree-lined divider, and then a two-lane highway running the opposite way.

But he was not mindful of the scenery, the greenery that looked nothing like his native Yemen but more like Internet photographs he had seen of the countryside in Europe. Countryside he had hoped to set aflame one day. At least, those were the thoughts that helped him to sleep each night, that helped him get past his hatred for the oppressive West and their Middle Eastern allies.

He was tired but otherwise felt well, apparently having survived whatever exposure he had received from the cargo he carried. He actually felt refreshed. Losses were expected in his line of work, supporting the cause of jihad. After the initial blow had been absorbed, balance returned along with focus. That sense of purpose nurtured him even more than the clean, dry air around him.

Mohammed had gone nearly one hundred miles and was nearing Morocco’s second largest city when his phone beeped. It was Hassan.

“As-Salmu ‘Alaykum—” Mohammed began.

“Get off in Fès,” Hassan said quickly. “Go to the University of Al-Qarawiyyin. Find Professor Mustapha Boulif. Tell him you are from the River Dahwah. Do you understand?”

“The University of Al-Qarawiyyin, Professor Boulif. The River Dahwah.”

The River for the Propagation of Islam, Mohammed thought. He smiled at that. He felt proud.

“Offer no information other than what he asks,” Hassan added. “Nothing, do you understand? If anything happens—”

“He will know nothing, I understand,” Mohammed said.

“Hassana, you will hear from me no more,” the caller said and hung up.

The sun, already luminous, seemed to shine even brighter, directly on Mohammed as he looked at the sign coming up. From the highway, Morocco’s second-largest city looked like a stretch of old, ivory stone with tile roofs and an occasional minaret. He got off the highway, boldly asked a traffic officer for directions, and reached his destination in ten minutes.

There was only street parking in the old Arab quarter, but punishments for theft were severe, and theft of battered old vehicles like his were rare. Still, rather than driving around to try and find a spot, he located a public lot on the northeast side of the medina. Before he left the van, he dutifully destroyed the cell phone as he was instructed and dropped it down a sewer grate. From there, it was only a short walk to the university.

Founded in the ninth century as part of a mosque—which is, today, the largest in North Africa, able to hold tens of thousands of Sunni worshippers—Al-Qarawiyyin is the oldest university in the world. For a man from a small village in Yemen, the youthful activity in the courtyard was an inspiration. Beyond the large rectangular area was row after row of long, white buildings with green tiled roofs and clean white columns. To his right was the high minaret that had led him here. All around, young people, like him, moved in pairs, in groups, conversing, reading, filled with obvious respect for their surroundings and the topics of discussion. He felt like he was part of it without knowing a single soul.

He asked for Professor Boulif and was directed toward a small room in one of the long buildings in the center of the complex. It wasn’t an office like he had imagined, but a white room filled with long tables. A young man sat in the back, typing on a laptop. He was thin, dressed in a Western-style suit, button-down shirt, and no tie. His hair and beard were black.

“Pardon me,” Mohammed said, entering the room quietly. “I am looking for the professor.”

“You have found him.”

“Professor Boulif?”

“Yes. And I am, as you can see, engaged—”

Mohammed ignored the burning in his belly and stepped forward tentatively. “The River Dahwah,” he said softly.

The man glanced up from his laptop. He wasn’t just looking—he was studying the newcomer. “Who sent you here?”

Mohammed’s voice was dry, raspy. “I was instructed to not give his name.”

“Where did you meet him?” the professor queried.

“Do you wish to know the city or the place within the city?”

The smallest smile tugged at the professor’s lips. “The structure and its location.”

“I met him in a shack. On the river.”

Boulif had no doubt who and what this man before him was. He was draped in uncertainty, afraid of a strange world outside his homeland, and a stranger mission. But he was urged forward by some kind of certainty. That could only be faith or money, and this man did not look like he had a dirham.

The professor motioned Mohammed to sit where he was and place his hands on the table. The young man obliged.

“Why did he send you?” the professor asked.

“I have something—” Mohammed stopped as he heard footsteps in the hallway. He turned around until the student had passed.

“Shut the door,” the professor said.

Mohammed rose—unsteadily, finally feeling the long hours and the stress of events. He clasped the doorknob to steady himself as he closed the door. He turned.

“I have come into possession of a nuclear device,” Mohammed said.

The professor’s demeanor changed. Suspicion and caution gave way to a flickering sense of urgency. “Go on.”

“I believe it is an unfinished suitcase bomb. An Iranian assassin had it in Rabat—it appears to be German, from the Second World War. My companion died after being exposed to it. It is sealed in a very heavy box—lead, I believe. It is in my van under an X-ray apron for added protection.”

The professor had listened intently. He had shown no expression after that little grin.

“I am going to ask you a series of questions,” Boulif said. “Answer them immediately and truthfully. Where is your van?”

“In a lot not far from here.”

“Where are you from?”

“Yemen.”

“How did you come to meet the Iranian in Morocco?”

“He killed my brother in Yemen. I killed him.”

The little smile returned. “You trust a stranger with a confession of murder.”

“No one in this river is a stranger,” Mohammed said in earnest—naive, trusting truthfulness.

The smile broadened and the professor nodded once. “Go back to your car and drive to Jarir, number twenty-six. You have a watch?”

The man raised his wrist.

“Good. I will meet you there in one hour.”

SALÉ, MOROCCO

Mahdavi Yazdi stood at the back of a small crowd of onlookers, most of whom were men who told each other that they were too old to be worried about the effects of a little radiation. Many of them were fishermen who had already made their morning haul and brought it to market. They were talking about the Stalk and how it had been there for decades, about how bodies were occasionally found in the river—mostly people who thought they could swim or criminals who shook down the wrong black marketer—but no one could remember an instance of someone having been buried on the beach.

Yazdi had arrived with the police lieutenant. After parking his car in the lot of a shop that rented beach umbrellas, he hung well back. From the way the lieutenant had circled the spot and then stayed away, Yazdi knew it was more highly radioactive than the other locations. He watched, from behind parked trucks, from behind a nearby shack, as a police unit arrived in a van. A man in a radiation suit emerged and dug at the sands with his hands, like a dog. He stepped in and removed only a body, which he placed in a red hazmat bag. Then he tested the hole with the Geiger counter, covered it, and placed stakes with red tape about two meters beyond, until the Geiger readings seemed to drop. Yazdi knew then that the box he sought was not there. The question was where had it been taken? The Iranian moved about as he watched to see where the police went. One of them talked with a man who had been inside the shack Yazdi had hidden behind. The officer asked him to come outside and the two men spoke for some time, the occupant of the shack shaking his head and shrugging over and over.

He didn’t know anything. He hadn’t seen anything. He hadn’t been here when anything happened.

He was lying. He barely looked at the spot where the body had been recovered. He showed no curiosity, asked no questions. Yazdi had seen that kind of body language in countless interrogations over too many years. He also wore his Western-style shirttails outside his waistband. He could have a weapon hidden there.

Only when the pocket of locals had gathered did Yazdi finally move closer to the crime scene. The men had been bold because they belonged here, they had alibis, they did not care who saw them.

“Did anyone see the victim?” Yazdi asked after standing among them a few minutes, becoming part of the landscape, one of the group.

“I did,” said a leathery man with white hair. “I didn’t know him.”

“What did he look like?” Yazdi asked.

“Dead,” the man chuckled.

Yazdi had been on his feet in the sun for three hours. He wanted to knife the fool. “God does not appreciate such levity.” Anywhere from Africa through western Asia, Yazdi could always count on a percentage of people in any group to be religious; he knew that would shake loose an answer from someone looking to erase that flip comment.

Another man said to no one in particular, “He was a small man. He had a square face—like that Egyptian actor, the one from the war film about Feisal and the Englishman.”

“Omar Sharif,” said another man.

“Yes, that’s the one!”

Yazdi had heard of the actor. He looked him up his phone. He did not look like Mohammed, the man he sought. He did look like one of the known confederates of the killer—Aden. His office had sent him the man’s photograph twenty minutes before. It had been in the dossier of Yemeni contacts collected by Qassam Pakravesh.

The operation was over by one p.m. Yazdi wasn’t happy to have spent so much time here, but this was the only place where he was likely to find clues about Mohammed’s whereabouts. And he knew where he was going to start his investigation: with the man who had seemed much too comfortable with the fact that an irradiated corpse had been found just meters from his place of business.

As soon as the police van and the coroner were gone, Yazdi went to the shack. It was a small warehouse of fishing supplies from which the young man had not left—nor had anyone come for supplies. The entire time he was there, the only soul who entered had arrived on a motorcycle, gone in with a tattered backpack, and left with it. The license plate was from Algeria. There was mud on the bike. He had come across the border off-road, probably with cash. Money laundering was one of the most profitable businesses in this region. When he went through the records of the Shah’s regime, Yazdi found a list of top-ranking generals who could be called upon to use military convoys as part of a cash-moving operation from the Middle East to Africa and into Spain and Europe.

The Iranian intelligence officer found the door slightly ajar. He noticed there were windows on all sides. The man didn’t like to be surprised. Yazdi knocked, was invited inside. The young man was seated on the corner of a rickety card table, talking on his cell phone. He held up a finger, asking Yazdi to wait.

The cell phone light wasn’t on. The man was using the delay to size the newcomer up, to see what he did. He assumed an aggressor wouldn’t act when he was on the phone with someone who could send help.

Yazdi didn’t give the charade more than the moments it took for him to recognize it. He saw something in the man’s shirt pocket that told him all else he needed to know. Yazdi jumped forward and kicked his foot hard against the wooden leg directly beneath the man. The table shuddered and went down as if there had been an earthquake. The young Moroccan didn’t fall to the floor; he fell against Yazdi. The intelligence officer stepped back, sliding one arm around his back to where he suspected a gun might be.

It was there: a baby Luger, big stock, short barrel. A skilled knife fighter, Yazdi wouldn’t have to take the switchblade from his pocket. Not yet. He would use the handgun to get the man’s attention, keep him settled.

Yazdi kneed the disoriented man in the gut to drop him to his knees. He swung behind him like he was riding the man’s back and dug the high, sharp gun sight deep into his right ear.

The Moroccan did not buck, did not try to get out from under the intruder. He was breathing heavily but seemed otherwise composed as he raised his hands from the floor.

Yazdi reached around, pulled the cash from his shirt pocket. “Where did you get these bills?”

The man replied in French.

Yazdi reached into his pocket and snapped out his switchblade. He held it in his fist, pressed it point-down in the back of the man’s neck. He said in Arabic, “I am going to press this down until you answer the question.”

He started to push down, twisting the point of the blade as he went. The man shrieked deep down in his throat, winced, then asked the assailant to stop—in Arabic. Yazdi halted, though he did not remove the blade.

“A man brought the money this morning,” Hassan said.

“Why?”

“It was a bribe. He did not want me to tell what I saw.”

“Which was?”

“He buried a body out there, in the sand,” Hassan told him. “The body that was just removed.”

“Where did the man go?”

“I don’t know.”

“A man like you did not inquire?” Yazdi said. “You tried to lie to me about speaking Arabic, so I assume you’re concealing more. He had more money than this.”

“I did not know—”

“I do. He took it from someone he murdered.” Blood was trickling from the wound, running along the man’s spine. “You would have taken everything unless he convinced you that he needed it.” Yazdi gave the blade another push. The man yelped and squirmed. Yazdi dug the pistol in harder and Hassan settled uneasily. The Iranian rotated the blade around its point. Hassan bit his lower lip hard. “That is bone,” Yazdi said. “The next thrust will begin to penetrate cartilage. Tell me everything about this man and his cargo and his destination or the next stop will be your spinal cord.”

“He was Yemeni . . . he buried the body—”

“Did you know who the dead man was?”

“Yes! I mean—it was his friend. They had done something and he was killed.”

“How did he leave?”

“He was driving a white van. He wanted to know how to get out of Morocco.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I sent him to the Maghreb Highway.”

“How long ago?”

“Three hours . . . maybe four.”

“Why? What was he carrying?”

“I don’t know! I swear it!” Hassan sunk to the floor, to his forearms. Yazdi remained on top of him, sitting on his shoulders. Blood flowed down the man’s back and over the sides of his neck.

“Either you are lying or you showed an uncommon lack of curiosity.” The knife began to turn downward. “What was in the van?”

“God . . . God! No . . . please!”

“What was in the van?”

“I don’t—” the words were lost in a scream as the blade slipped between vertebrae and hit soft tissue. The man howled into his closed mouth, tried to wriggle away, then began to tremble violently.

“Talk,” Yazdi said. “I know what was there. He stole it. I want it back. I want you to confirm it.” He stopped moving the knife. “Last chance.”

“It was a box!” Hassan gasped. “A metal box! I sent him to someone who could . . . please stop! I’ll tell you!”

Yazdi relaxed his fist. His victim was panting, shaking. The Iranian gave him a few seconds to compose himself.

“I’m waiting,” Yazdi said.

“I sent him to the University of Al-Qarawiyyin in Fès,” Hassan told him.

“To see whom?”

“Professor Boulif.”

Yazdi had been leaning forward, over his victim. Upon hearing the name, he pushed the gun deeper into the man’s ear. Hassan tried to turn his head away but Yazdi forced the gun to follow him. Blood dripped thickly to the floor. Yazdi leaned over and said into the other ear, “Faroonee Mustapha?

“Yes!”

Though the epithet technically meant “pharaonic”—and referred to the fact that Boulif had been born and raised in Cairo—it was intended to mean that his will was law. The physicist was reputed to be among the top nuclear researchers in all of the jihadist world. He was one of the scientists Tehran had tried to recruit in the early twenty-first century; he had turned them down because he professed that their goals were too modest.

Yazdi sat back on his victim’s shoulders. His full weight was resting on the man’s spine. He lay the gun down, confident Hassan would not be going anywhere. Wrapping both hands around the hilt of the blade, he jammed it down hard. The thrust severed the man’s spinal cord and he went lifeless, splayed like a bow-shot stag.

Yazdi withdrew the knife, picked up the gun, and stood. He was careful not to step in the blood that was pooling around the dead man. He wiped his fingerprints off the dead man’s gun and dropped it on the floor. He looked down. The Muslim world was better off without this human scum. Yazdi then wiped his switchblade on the man’s shirt—it would be going with him.

Moving to the door, Yazdi opened it by laying his elbow on the latch. It closed behind him on its own. He squinted in the sunlight as he headed for his car. There was only one reason to take the device to the Pharaoh, and that was to arm it. Once that happened, finding it would be even more difficult: it could be detonated at will by a man who was already anxious, probably tired, definitely a jihadist, and no doubt willing to die. The West would blame Iran. Iran would have no way of defending itself against complicity in such an event.

With increasing urgency, Yazdi hurried to his rental car. He knew the Pharaoh’s modus operandi—and he also knew that, unlike the crushed little man he left behind him, Mustapha Boulif would not be so easy to break . . . if he could get to him at all.

Rayhan arrived as the body was being taken away. Though she could have used the name of their INTERPOL liaison to get information, she felt it would be better to look at the faces around the perimeter, see who didn’t belong.

That was easy. The Arab who was standing among the fisherman: he was not leathery from exposure but smooth from sitting behind a desk. He was not burned by the sun but swarthy by birth. His clothes were not Western despite his efforts to make himself look like a tourist. There were no brand names, not even on his cap.

And he was not just looking at the pit on the beach but at the shack to his right, along the access road, behind him at the narrower section of beach. When he left the group and went to the shack, Rayhan moved closer. She could not see what was going on behind the curtains but she could hear. There were cries.

Rayhan withdrew until she saw the visitor leave. He did not look around but went directly to his car and left. Before, he had not known where he was going. Now he did. She looked around, saw no one was watching, and ran to the shack. She entered, setting her fishing rod and tackle box on the floor beside the door.

The man on the floor was dead. A hole in his neck was burbling blood. The woman looked away and took a break.

There is no time for this, she thought. You must not be squeamish. You came in here for a reason.

The reason was to find the keys, take the motorbike that sat out back, and go after the car.

She squatted by the body, looked away, and breathed through her mouth. The man was wearing cologne. She didn’t want to inhale it, think of death every time she smelled something like it. She patted his pants pockets, found the keys, hooked them out with her index finger. She rose and turned—as the door opened outward.

A big man stood silhouetted against the blue sky and darker blue river. The figure took a moment to understand what he was seeing before taking a step back into the sunlight. He drew his firearm and turned it on the occupant of the shack.

“Get up!” he said in Arabic.

Rayhan raised her hands slowly, face high, and stood. “I did not do this—the man who just left is responsible. He drove away.”

Lt. Abdelkrim el-Othmani used his radio to call for assistance and told her to face the wall, her hands above her head.

“I am with law enforcement!” she said. “I have identification.”

The officer entered the room, circling the body as he had the radioactive mound of sand.

“Who are you with?”

“American intelligence,” she replied. “My passport and my identification card are in the box by the door. I have been looking for the man who did this. I came in for the keys to the motorbike.”

“Why have you been looking for the man?”

“That information is classified—we can talk when I’ve seen where he is going.”

The lieutenant shook his head. “I will have your statement when the arrest is completed.”

Rayhan dug her fingernails into the bare wood of the wall. She was about to turn and get the ID herself when someone else entered the room. It wasn’t a police officer: it was Ryan Kealey.

Lt. el-Othmani looked Kealey over once, then turned back to Rayhan. The young woman still had her hands on the wall and was looking over her shoulder.

“Ryan, this man was killed by someone looking for the device,” she said in English. “I saw him leave. I was going to follow him.” She rattled the key ring that was around her right index finger.

“What device?” el-Othmani asked—also in English.

Kealey made a face. Rayhan knew she’d screwed up and said nothing else.

“I’m going to take out my cell phone,” Kealey said to the officer.

“Why?”

“Just to make a call,” Kealey said. Given everything that had happened, the lieutenant apparently—perhaps justifiably—feared an improvised explosive device.

The Moroccan nodded just as his backup arrived. The lieutenant held the other policeman back by raising his hand.

Kealey scrolled to a number, punched it in, and when the voice answered he said, “Sir, I’m going to put someone on the phone, a lieutenant with the local constabulary in Morocco. Please tell him who we are and why we need to be about our business at once.”

Kealey listened to the answer and handed the phone to el-Othmani. He glanced at the number that had been called. His eyebrows knit.

“This is Lt. Abdelkrim el-Othmani.”

“This is Vice President Abdul Bensami of INTERPOL,” said the voice on the other end. “I am working with these people. Do not detain them.”

“Sir, I’ll have to clear this with—”

The lieutenant’s cell phone beeped. It was his captain texting. The officer looked down. The message was:

LET THEM GO.

“I understand, Mr. Vice President,” el-Othmani said.

Rayhan lowered her arms and turned toward the door. She clutched the keys in her palm. She was rocking on her feet, ready to run to the bike when she got the go-ahead.

The lieutenant handed one phone back to Kealey and put the other back in his shirt pocket. He threw up his hands. “Go!” he said as he motioned the other officer away.

Kealey said nothing as Rayhan grabbed the tackle box and ran past him. He didn’t know if she saw the critical look he gave her. As she hurried to the motorbike and switched it on, Kealey brought her the helmet.

“Wear this,” he said. “I can’t afford to lose you.”

“Thanks.” She tugged it on.

“Don’t engage. We won’t be able to help you.”

“I won’t.”

“And don’t lose your phone,” he said. “I need to know where you are.”

“It’s in the tackle box.” She jerked a thumb toward the storage container behind the seat as she revved the bike. “Sorry about the misstatement back there.”

“We recovered.”

She gave him a look as if to ask if there was anything else. When he said nothing, she tore in the direction the car had gone.

Shielding his eyes from the sun, Kealey watched her go. A good agent always drew on diverse skills from his or her past. He wondered what her former boyfriend would think if he could see her now.

Kealey went back to talk to the lieutenant, who was conferring with several officers about the new crime scene. One man ran off to seal the area from further contamination. The officer went about his business efficiently and Kealey hated to intrude. However, there was another favor he needed from the Salé police force.

He didn’t have time to go to the rental agency at the airport.

He was going to need to borrow a car.

CHAPTER 11

FÈS, MOROCCO

Twenty-six Jarir was a schoolhouse. It was a religious school for children and it was only occupied during the late afternoon, when the secular education at several schools came to an end. That was one reason Boulif had selected this building and converted it a decade before: it was occupied only three hours a day.

It was a brick structure, two stories tall, with a mosque on the eastern side and a playground to the west. The building had a basement, accessible by a side entrance; it was marked “Electrical Room.” The windowless bunker was much more than that. Professor Mustapha Boulif and his Sword of Fire collective had purchased the building in 1998 with the express purpose of turning the small concrete basement into a research lab.

When Boulif received his doctorate in nuclear physics from MIT, he had it in mind to combine his skills with masters of other sciences—chemistry, biology, math—to further the cause of jihad. A few military officers had joined them, mostly refugees from Iraq and Syria who had settled in northern Morocco. There, they sold information on their former regimes to the Americans based in Rota.

The lab was not well equipped with anything but great minds; most of the work they did was on networked laptops that they took with them after each of their weekly meetings. This was highly intentional. Although they had at their disposal the resources of one of the world’s wealthiest men, a Saudi banker and jihadist named Khalid al-Otaibi, they preferred to work as low under the radar as possible. They designed the tools and outsourced the usage. It was their designs for IEDs that helped to kill invaders in Iraq and Afghanistan. It was their analysis of household goods that provided formulae for homegrown terrorists to manufacture bombs. It was their application of science and ordinary objects to create the horror they hoped soon to release on the West: toxin-infused bar codes activated by scanners on goods coming through ports.

They had a transparent, trunk-sized containment shell for handling small amounts of radiation. It was made of lead with gloves for handling hot materials; it was an old Soviet unit with a black-and-white video monitor for observation. It was surrounded by other tools of the trade, including a small centrifuge for separating chemicals and a small freezer for storing bacteriological samples including the smallpox virus acquired from a Japanese who had once worked with the nation’s notorious wartime Unit 731. If Mutual Assured Destruction ever became necessary, unleashing a disease for which there was no longer immunity or stores of vaccine would ensure the ultimate triumph of Islam. There was also a small refrigerator with food and a little vegetable bin next to a sink. Sometimes it was necessary to stay here and work through their modest meals.

Boulif was already at the lab when Mohammed pulled up in his van. He had bicycled the short distance from his flat and brought the conveyance downstairs with him. Mohammed looked exhausted. His clothes were thick with perspiration and his beard and hair were unkempt. But there was a light in his dark eyes that made Boulif happy and proud. It was for young men like him that their work was done. The brave, eager soldiers of Islam who were willing to risk everything to advance the True Faith.

“Thank you for making time—” Mohammed began.

Boulif cut him off. He did not leave the doorway. “Bring the package inside.”

Mohammed hurried to the back of the van and put his arms around the box wrapped in the X-ray apron. He hefted it to his chest and walked briskly toward the doorway. Boulif had turned on a Geiger counter. It was clicking dully, slowly on the wooden lab table behind him. He suspected the box itself was providing most of the shielding; the apron alone would have been insufficient to stop raw nuclear material.

“Put the box on the table, beside the Geiger counter,” Boulif told him, shutting the door behind him.

Mohammed did as he was instructed. He released his burden gratefully, shaking out his arms.

“It is definitely lead,” Boulif said.

“How can you tell through the apron?”

“The sound,” Boulif said. “It is like a musical instrument to me. Have you ever had anything like that in your life, Mohammed?”

“Music?”

“Something you knew so well it was like a part of you.”

“Only the Koran,” he replied.

Boulif smiled at the fellow’s beautiful innocence. It reinforced what he had believed about the man and about so many Muslim young men. The scope of the world was between the covers of that book. It was like having a garden where no weeds could grow.

The scientist turned his attention fully to the black container. Though it was unmistakably made of lead there was something unique about it. He gently lifted the edges of the apron as he listened to the Geiger counter. There was an uptick but it was small. Mohammed instinctively stepped back.

“That won’t help,” Boulif said. “But you’re all right. This isn’t much more than you’d get from standing in front of the microwave oven over there.”

“I have never used one,” Mohammed told him. “Only a hot plate. What do you use it for?”

“Truly—just soup,” he replied. “Tell me, Mohammed. Did you know Hassan before today?”

“I did not,” Mohammed said.

“He has very good instincts, a fine judge of men,” Boulif said. “He was raised among us, the son of our chemist. He has been instrumental in raising money for our cause.” Boulif laid the apron aside. Above him the room’s sole air vent clattered like rattled dice. He looked more closely at the faded markings on the box. “This is astonishing.”

“They are German markings, yes?”

“Very much so,” Boulif replied. “Mohammed, have you any idea where this device was found?”

“An Iranian had it in Rabat—”

“You took it from him?”

“That was not my initial intent, but yes.”

“And before that?” Boulif inquired. “Do you know where he found it?”

“I know nothing more than that.”

“It couldn’t possibly have been in Morocco all this time,” Boulif said. “The Nazis were reported to be working on a nuclear project in France.” He circled the box slowly, admiringly. “Incredible, but no matter. It is here now. Miraculously, it is ours.”

“Not miraculously but by the hand of God,” Mohammed gently corrected the other.

“Is that not a miracle?” Boulif asked.

“The only miracle was the revelation of the text to the Prophet,” Mohammed said. “That is what I have been taught. All else, everything we do, is by His divine direction.”

“You are right, of course,” Boulif replied. “I was speaking in a secular voice. It is indeed an act of divine intervention that this has been delivered to us. God be praised for this.” His voice choked when he said it. “You have no idea how long I have waited for something like this—for something to justify all we have done, all we have wanted to do.”

With a small level on top to make sure the lid remained centered, Boulif and his companion moved the lead case to the slightly larger containment box. After the lid was secured with bolts on all four sides, Boulif switched on the camera. Using the insulated gloves, he removed the top of the lead container. It was a tight fit, with just enough room to slide it to one side. The camera could not be moved: it was set inside the lid and looked down. What it revealed literally caused Boulif’s heart to race.

“This casing is remarkable,” Boulif said. “It appears to be some kind of spun lead—almost like layers of fiber. Lightweight. Like the girders of the German airship Hindenburg,” he went on as he studied the device itself. “Those support structures were made with big holes in them, reducing the weight considerably while barely impacting their strength.”

Mohammed did not understand; he was glad Boulif did. It made him feel as if he were in the best of hands.

Boulif was silent for nearly a minute. Then he said,

“They nearly did it. They nearly finished a suitcase bomb.”

“A nuclear bomb?”

“Yes, my friend.”

“What were they missing?”

“A firing mechanism,” he said thoughtfully. “You see? There are actually two sources of plutonium in here. In essence, one is fired at the other to achieve critical mass—that is, the point at which the chain reaction that leads to the explosion is self-sustaining. The Germans would have needed a place where they could experiment without poisoning the scientists and actually cause detonations. It wasn’t that the process was beyond their grasp. Only it had to be done in secrecy.”

“You’re saying it isn’t difficult to finish this device?”

“I’ll have to examine it more thoroughly,” Boulif told him. “The components are nearly seventy years old and we have to work carefully to avoid radiation leaks. But, yes, my friend. I believe it can be made to function.” He smiled, still staring at the monitor with disbelief and gratitude. “We need not go searching for fissionable material. That has always been the difficulty. You—and God—have brought it to us. The dawn of the last jihad is finally at hand.”

Yazdi’s arrival at the university was accomplished without subtlety, quiet, or discretion. He had found the place without difficulty; there were signs everywhere in the old quarter, and the pockets of students got thicker as he progressed. When a security guard stepped from a small booth and stopped him from entering the parking lot allocated for professors, Yazdi got out of the car. He told the older man it was an emergency and demanded to see Professor Boulif.

“I will call his department so you can—”

“I must see him now.”

“Sir, he has already left for the day. You may make an—”

“Where can I find him?”

The security guard, in a neat brown uniform and shorts, did not take his eyes from the new arrival as he reached into the booth for his radio.

Yazdi pushed the man bodily into the booth, took the radio, and threw it to the concrete floor. It cracked somewhere along the black plastic shell and hissed static.

“Listen to me,” Yazdi said. “I’m a government official. The professor is in great danger. Where is he?”

“It does not matter who you are,” the guard informed him, undaunted by the aggression. “I do not have that information.”

“Get it!” Yazdi yelled.

“How?” The man nudged the smashed radio with the toe of his shoe.

Yazdi looked around the booth, saw nothing that looked like a layout of the university, and went back to his car. To be this close to his target and be unable to find him—

He backed from the booth and pulled onto the narrow main street that ran along the south side of the university. He pulled up next to students, asked for the professor. Many did not know him. Those who did knew only where he taught and gave him the number of the room. That did Yazdi no good.

He pulled to the curb, called his office, asked them to find the professor’s address. They gave it to him. He drove to the academic housing maintained by the university a few blocks to the north. Yazdi found the address, a modest, very narrow townhouse, and went to the door. No one answered. He glanced around for security cameras; there weren’t any. No one was around; students and professors were all in class. Placing his shoulder against the door, close to the jamb, he gave it a few test shoves. There were no bolts at the top; there was only the knob. He pushed in and the frame cracked. He was able to jiggle the knob loose of the latch and the door opened. He shut it behind him with a hat rack. He switched on a light.

The living room was simply furnished. There were no photographs, paintings, diplomas, nothing to identify the occupant. Except for a prayer mat and a weathered copy of the Koran, there was nothing personal. Yazdi searched the living room and kitchen, went upstairs to the bedroom. There were several bookcases filled with science texts in several languages. He didn’t find a computer. In the closet were cardboard filing boxes filled with articles clipped from magazines, also in many languages. The diagrams and charts suggested they were all scientific texts. It wasn’t as if the site had been scrubbed; it had never been used for anything dangerous.

The windows were closed and the sun cooked the place mercilessly. Yazdi was sweating heavily as he checked for a false ceiling in the closet, looked under the bed and mattress, examined the inside of the toilet, shook out every book to make sure there were no hidden maps or papers or addresses.

He went to the phone on the nightstand. It was a dial phone. There was no memory to access. No redial function. Any important calls obviously went through his cell phone. Getting those records would take time. Even to a trained eye, the man was nothing but what he appeared to be. Yazdi kicked a footstool in the bedroom.

Could the boy at the beach have lied to him?

The logical thing to do was to wait outside for the professor to come home.

But what if he doesn’t? Yazdi thought. The Yemeni may have turned over the device, and Boulif could have taken it somewhere else.

Calm yourself, Yazdi thought. It had been years since he had been in the field. He had done everything he could think of, everything he used to do. It was time to think of things he had not considered.

The man did not work here. He slept here. He stored old records here. He would not work at the university; there were too many educated eyes around him, many who might not share his radical thoughts. That meant he had another local base of operation. He checked the soles of the man’s shoes. There was nothing on the bottoms to indicate where he might have walked—scuffs from concrete, abrasions from sand. He looked in the pockets of his pants. He checked the shirt drawer, the sock drawer. The man’s hamper. There was nothing to suggest a location, a smell—clothes near a factory retained a smoky odor or the scent of whatever was made there. He looked in the medicine cabinet. There was nothing unusual—

A new box of aspirin. Yazdi smiled. He picked it up, examined it.

There was a price tag on it. And an expiration date.

And the name of a shop. It was not from any of the streets he had noticed and remembered around the university. With the box in hand, Yazdi ran down to his car and texted his office asking for the address of the dispensary.

Then, as he sat in his car waiting for the information, he saw something that would need attention.

“I am not going to be able to finish the work in this fashion.”

Boulif’s statement caused Mohammed’s spirits to sink. The professor removed his hands from the gloves and sank on the stool. Mohammed, who had been standing beside him, looked at the scientist’s grave expression.

“What is the problem?”

“Room,” Boulif said. “There isn’t enough room to maneuver inside the box.”

“Is there somewhere else we can take the box?”

“Not locally,” Boulif said. “There is a facility in Libya—but I do not know who currently controls it.”

“Then what can we do?”

Boulif considered the problem. “You see this box here?” He pointed to an object between the large and small balls of plutonium that were designed to fuel the explosion. It was a squat H-shaped object. “Initially, I believe clamps were going to be connected to the four prongs. They would, in turn, have been attached to a device that was the key to the bomb’s operation: a smaller explosive that would start the chain reaction without destroying the plutonium container. The German scientists were looking for some kind of box that would house the initial explosion. We can do that now, of course, with remote detonators and a small explosive charge placed directly inside the box.”

“You mean like nitroglycerin?”

“That is too unstable,” he said. “A small block of a plastic bonded explosive, so-called C-4, would achieve the desired result. It would break the container but it would not impact the plutonium before fission occurred.”

“Do you have that?”

“Easy to make,” he said. “The problem, as I said, is installing the workings.”

For the first time Mohammed became aware of the sounds around him. The traffic in the street. The occasional low-flying airplane. His own breathing.

“Can I do it?” Mohammed asked. “If you remove the lid—can you tell me what to do?”

“You are an honor to the faith, but you will not have the time. This level of radiation will weaken you within minutes. You will die before you are finished.”

“Even with this?” he asked, picking up the X-ray apron.

“Even with that,” Boulif told him. He snickered. “It is the problem we have always faced. Men of courage, men of conviction, men with knowledge. The righteousness of our cause. Yet physical limitations so often stymie us. Obtaining raw materials. Transporting them.”

“Can we not use this as a dirty bomb? Blow up the container and simply disperse the radiation?”

“We can, but I am not yet willing to go that route,” Boulif said. “The destructive power of a nuclear bomb, even a low-megaton-yield device as this one, will devastate an entire metropolis, kill and sicken millions, instead of irradiating a few blocks and affecting one-tenth that number of nonbelievers. Why poison a part of Washington or Tel Aviv when you can erase it from the map?”

“You mean, like the bombs in Japan?”

“Exactly so. A way must be found for you to transport this to the enemy’s beating heart and cause it to go still.” Boulif looked around with growing excitement. “It is possible. It is possible.”

“What is, professor?”

“We needn’t use the original wiring,” he said. “We shouldn’t. We don’t know anything about the integrity of the circuits inside. And . . .”

Boulif’s voice trailed off as he went to a cabinet stocked with powdered chemicals. He selected potassium nitrate, sulfur, and carbon that had been extracted from shaved graphite. He shook the bottles to free the particles from inevitable bonding due to condensation. He brought the vials to the table and took a set of kitchen measuring spoons from a drawer. There was a box of oatmeal near the sink. He filled a glass with hot water and brought it and the oatmeal to the table. He stirred the oatmeal into the water and let it sit. Then he removed his cell phone from his pocket and snapped off the back. He opened a wooden drawer in the table and drew out a small package. He pierced the back with a long fingernail, removed one of two cadmium batteries, placed it inside the phone. He got another phone from the drawer and did the same thing. He gave Mohammed the first phone.

“This battery will run for one hundred hours,” Boulif said. “That’s four days. Do not turn it off.”

“Why?”

“There are reasons,” he said. Boulif wrote down the number of the phone from the drawer. “Memorize this and then destroy it. The success of this mission depends on it. “

“I understand,” Mohammed said gravely. He understood what Boulif was doing—the second phone would eventually go inside the device. It was the detonator. The phone he held was what activated it.

“Do not program the number of the detonator into the other phone,” Boulif warned. “If you dial it by accident, the detonator will explode. Powerfully. Do not drop it and try not to fall on it. There is nitroglycerin in this mixture. It will explode. Powerfully. In either event, you will probably die without accomplishing your goal.”

The thought amused Mohammed. His brother had often called him from the market or from his girlfriend’s home without meaning to. He had heard many conversations that were not intended for his ears.

Boulif slipped his hands in the gloves and closed the container. He secured the latches on the side, then told Mohammed to remove the lid of the Soviet box. He watched the Geiger counter as Mohammed lifted the lead top. The radiation leak was the same as before: nominal. The Germans had built a box that exceeded all expectations. Boulif helped lift the lead container and set it on the table. He stirred the oatmeal until it was a thick paste, then went and got a pair of flexible metal bands from a drawer. He began to attach them to the lead box, like they were ribbons on a gift. Mohammed helped him by lifting the container so the professor could slip them underneath.

“These are shipping bands,” he said. “They will secure the lid, make sure there is no leakage. You release them by popping the latches like so.”

He demonstrated how the small, seatbelt-style locks worked.

“You seem to have everything we need,” Mohammed marveled. “It is as if God prepared you!”

Boulif smiled. “God . . . and years of shipping explosives that I could not have jiggling around a container.” He returned to the oatmeal. “And this is how I will turn the cell phone into an IED. I’ll mix the chemicals into the oatmeal and apply a coating to the inside of the cell phone, both the workings and the lid. When you call, it will create a small explosion, like a hand grenade.”

“But how will that penetrate—” Mohammed stopped as he understood. “I will remove the lid and place it inside. Then I will call the number.”

Boulif nodded soberly.

“Blessed be God,” Mohammed said. “I will be the direct instrument of his vengeance.” He studied the scientist’s actions. “Will we need so much?” he asked, indicating the mixture.

“Not for the bomb, no. It is for other things. Get me the backpack on the hook behind the door.”

Mohammed did as he was told.

“There is a cell phone inside, wired with open ends to the bag,” he said.

“Open ends?”

“Live wires. They’ll generate a short, hot spark and when I’m finished that will complete a circuit five seconds after you punch 911. Can you remember that?”

“Of course.” Mohammed watched him work. “You have a great many cell phones, professor.”

“I give a great many lessons here,” Boulif replied. “Now—we must also figure out where you will go and how you can get there. I have some thoughts.” He looked at his watch. He suddenly seemed concerned, as if he’d remembered a missed appointment. “How was the man in the shack when you left him?”

“Sir?”

“His mood. His manner.”

Mohammed thought for a moment. “He seemed all right—I don’t understand.”

“He should have called to tell me you were coming,” Boulif said. “The man you killed couldn’t have been the only one who knew,” he thought aloud. “We must move quickly. We need to get this, and you, out of here. There is something you must do first. Number one,” he added, referring to the countdown he’d mentioned a moment ago.

“Gladly.”

As the scientist went to work mixing the explosive, Mohammed experienced a strange detachment from his activity and from life itself. He was overcome with an immediate sensation of rapture and relief.

Your time in this life will end very soon, he thought. Paradise awaits and in it a reunion with your brothers.

All he had to do was transport this weapon to a suitable goal. Then he, his name, and his deed would be enshrined forever among those of the great martyrs. Tears of joy filled the edges of his eyes as he watched this great man at work.

God—and life—were great.

VALLEY STREAM, NEW YORK

Largo Kealey sat at his dining room table staring at his laptop.

It was early evening, less than twenty-four hours after his nephew had given him the phone number of Dr. Allison Dearborn. It was her personal phone, not her office. He wouldn’t be calling to schedule a discussion. There was no firewall. He would be calling her to talk.

About what? he asked himself.

What had made him cry the night before . . . and several times throughout the day? He had ideas about that. He had had a lifetime to think about them. He seldom shared those thoughts with his wife, with anyone, because what would he say?

“The best years of my life were spent in France, and those days are gone.”

“What was it about those days that made them so special?” he asked himself. He had hated them at the time. He had feared for his security, prayed he wouldn’t botch his mission, prayed harder that he wouldn’t get one of his colleagues killed.

That was what made them special, he told himself. The stakes.

But what man—what young man—was so masochistic that life was only precious when it was at risk?

He picked up his cell phone and called the number.

“This is Allison,” said the voice on the other end.

“Hi, All—I mean, Dr. Dearborn. This is Largo Kealey. Ryan’s uncle. He—he gave me your number.”

“Is Ryan all right?”

The urgency in her voice surprised him. “Yes!” he said quickly. “God, yes—I’m calling about me.”

He heard her breathing relax on the other end. He wished he could hang up. Talk about a blundering first step—

“Mr. Kealey—hello. Sorry about that.”

“No, it was my fault.”

“You are the uncle who was in the war?”

“That’s right,” he said. “I’m in G.I. Bill suburbia now on Long Island. I . . . I don’t know. Ryan said I could talk to you. I need to talk to someone. Is this a convenient time?”

“I am sending out a text to make it convenient,” she said.

“Please don’t—I can call back.”

“It’s done. This is a pleasure for me, Mr. Kealey. I don’t get too many of those. What’s on your mind?”

He didn’t know how much Dr. Dearborn knew of Ryan’s activities, so he thought it best not to tell her he’d seen his nephew. “I worked behind the lines in France during the war,” he told her. “When the war ended, I left the OSS, got married, and became a milkman. I wanted a life where I wasn’t always afraid, where there weren’t terrible responsibilities.”

“Do you have children, Mr. Kealey?”

“No. And my wife has passed on—and I am not afraid to join her. What I am afraid of is that I have wasted my life. Most of it, anyway. And will continue to do so.”

“Is there anything you wanted to do but didn’t? Someplace you wanted to visit? A memoir you wanted to write?”

“No,” he said. “No. I spent so long searching for peace that I never had a backup plan.”

“Have you found peace?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “My brain says yes but I’m realizing that with no provocation whatsoever, my body, my nerves, my instincts have never relaxed. I’ve spoken with guys at the VFW center who say the same thing about Omaha Beach, about the Bulge, about Berlin. One man who liberated Dachau sees those faces every week in nightmares. I don’t have it that bad. But I realize I’ve spent my life in hiding, and I’m tired of it.”

“Did you ever tell your wife about these thoughts?”

“Not—in words.” He started to sob. “I just withdrew. She comforted me. She was so giving. I miss her, and now all I have is this foxhole. It’s not a life.”

Allison allowed him to cry. He apologized. She told him it was natural and healthy. He set the phone down and wept into his hands. After nearly a minute, he picked up the phone.

“I want to do something,” he said. “I want to do anything.”

“Come to Washington,” she said.

That was something Largo had not expected—or considered. He didn’t know what to say to the woman.

“We can talk—I would love to hear about your experiences. Have you been here recently?”

“I haven’t been to D.C. since Eisenhower was Commander-in-Chief.”

“When was the last time you left Long Island?”

He replied, “When Mr. Ford was Commander-in-Chief.”

“Then come,” she said.

“Doctor, I’m not a charity case—I’m not even sure what I need.”

“You’d be giving me a great deal,” she said. “I see a lot of people who work in government, who have served in the military. Not from before the Vietnam era, though. Your thoughts, your perspectives could be enriching. And it sounds to me like a change of scenery would be beneficial. The Defense Department maintains a number of apartments for visiting dignitaries, foreign officers, that sort of thing. I shouldn’t have any problem setting one up. If you come tonight, I can meet you at the airport.”

“Tonight?”

“Why not?” she said. “It sounds like you’ll just ping-pong the pros and cons all night. Sometimes it’s better to do something a little more proactive. You can leave from JFK up to around ten p.m.”

Largo decided. “I’ll be there,” he said. “I’ll book online and forward the flight information as soon as I have it.”

“Perfect. I’ll send a photo back so you recognize me,” Allison said, and then she gave him her email address.

Largo thanked her, hung up, and booked a flight that left at 10:22. That would give him time to get his caboose in gear, as his wife used to describe it. He had to pack, get a taxi for the half-hour trip to JFK, and accept the fact not just that he was doing this but that it was a good thing to do. He looked at May’s picture and, when he packed, he took a moment to run his fingers along the sleeve of her favorite sweater. It still hung in the closet, on the hanger where she left it.

There were no tears now. Just a smile for the memories he cherished—and a fresh, firm resolve to understand those that had eluded him for the better part of his life.

He pulled a dusty suitcase from the closet and, with as light a heart as he had known in decades, he started packing.

CHAPTER 12

FÈS, MOROCCO

Mahdavi Yazdi purchased a pack of cigarettes from the dispensary where the aspirin had been bought. He had already checked the medications, made sure that the labels were the same. There was no point interrogating the boy behind the counter. He was watching a movie on a laptop set on a stool. He wouldn’t notice anyone who came or went. It didn’t matter. The target was somewhere near.

Yazdi went out to the sunny street, a short but busy block full of small shops catering to young people. He lit a cigarette and looked around. He saw a bookstore, an emergency medical facility, a gift shop, a mosque. He would go to all of them, starting with the medical facility; that would be the ideal place to run a nuclear lab of any sort.

First, however, he had other business to attend to.

Moving purposefully toward the nearest corner, as though he knew exactly where he was going, he stopped as soon as he rounded it. The woman on the motorbike— the one who had been trailing him since he had arrived at the Professor’s home—was on foot, as expected; on a street filled with pedestrians and two-wheel bicycles, her sleek, noisy machine stood out. She was more dogged than skillful, having stuck with him at the same distance, unaware of how her motorcycle was reflecting in the sun—and apparently never thinking that he might recognize it from the shack on the beach.

She was carrying her helmet under her arm and he got a good look at her when she swung around the corner and awkwardly put on a head scarf. She looked Semitic, that was for sure; young and healthy, her step a little uncertain, and her clothes were Western.

She was not a veteran. A coworker or relative of the dead man? She didn’t seem angry enough to be on a mission of vengeance.

All of this he noticed in the moment it took for her to come toward and then past him. She did not want to seem as though she was following him, but he noticed the flicker of hesitation when she saw him waiting there, looking in her direction. He waited until she had passed before he spoke. He would try Farsi first. If she didn’t understand he would speak in Hebrew; there was always a chance she was Israeli, a field agent who happened to be converging on the same target as he was.

“What do you want?” he asked.

The woman kept walking.

Yazdi didn’t have time for this. Her hands were outside her casual clothes. If she were carrying a weapon, it was not visible in her waistband. His instincts told him she was an amateur. He walked up beside her and matched her pace.

“You’ve been following me,” he said. “Why?”

She didn’t answer. She kept walking.

Yazdi let her go. He had to get over to the medical center and find the device. The woman was not going anywhere and he would deal with her when he had to. He would start by disabling her bike.

He turned and went back around the corner. The bike was parked against the curb, nose in, between two cars. He took his keys from his pocket, pressed a button on one. A small blade snapped from the end. Yazdi dropped the cigarettes by the rear tire, bent to pick them up, went to puncture the tire.

A hand stopped him by grabbing his bicep. Before he even turned, Yazdi knew that the grip was strong, very firm, not the small fingers of the woman he had been trailing. He had made a mistake even a novice would have been smart enough not to commit. He had assumed the woman was traveling alone.

Yazdi let the keys drop to the asphalt, rose slowly, and turned. He looked into the dark, unblinking eyes of a man he did not know and who clearly did not belong here. He was a tall American who looked like a cross between a Marine and a poet. There was something powerful but not immediately threatening about him—and wise. Those eyes seemed to know more than Yazdi could or would have confessed.

The woman, the borrower of the motorbike, came hurrying around the corner. Yazdi was now doubly caught off-guard: she seemed as surprised as he had been to see the other man. She entered the space between the cars from the front end of the motorcycle.

Yazdi offered the American a cigarette. Kealey shook his head once, slowly. The Iranian lit one for himself.

“I’m going to go now,” the Iranian said in Farsi.

“Tell him we’re going together,” Kealey said to Rayhan, though his eyes were on Yazdi.

She translated and waited. Yazdi shook his head. He started to go. Kealey stopped him with a hand to his chest. “You won’t get anywhere without my help,” he said.

When Rayhan had translated, Yazdi blew smoke. “Why?”

Kealey replied, “I have a Geiger counter in my car.”

The Iranian listened to the translation, then relaxed slightly. “Who are you?”

Kealey lowered his hand. “Tell him I’m the only guy in American intelligence who would rather work with him than stab him with my much larger knife.”

When Rayhan had translated Yazdi looked down at the American’s hand. Low, where he hadn’t noticed it, Kealey was holding a switchblade. It wasn’t pointed at the Iranian. Yazdi appreciated that. In the language of spies that was known as a “give.” The American could have coerced him but didn’t.

Yazdi didn’t have time to analyze or debate. He nodded and asked Rayhan if he could pick up his keys. She did it for him and put them in her pocket.

“Do you think I’m going to run?” he asked. “At the very least I’d follow you now.”

She made no response other than to motion him along.

“We’ll go to my car, right over there,” Kealey said, leading the way. “What should we call you?”

As Rayhan translated Yazdi was inwardly amused by the wording of the question. It didn’t matter because the American assumed he wouldn’t tell the truth. Should he answer honestly? It could provide an enemy with a priceless hostage, a source of information—though the American was the outsider here, not him. Yet it would also establish a hierarchy. The American was simply a functionary. He was a subordinate in status, knowledge, and access. There was also a question of credibility. How much more influence would he have as Mahdavi Yazdi than pretending to be Qassam Pakravesh or someone else? These were typically the life-or-death questions he decided, without emotion, for others.

As they crossed the street to the front of a bakery, Yazdi said, “I am Mahdavi Yazdi, Director of Vezarat-e Ettela’at Jomhuri-ye Eslami-ye Iran.”

Kealey reacted by looking back. “The director? What’s your annual budget?”

Rayhan translated and he replied at once. “Nine hundred billion rial.”

“What’s the name of the frigate you lost yesterday?”

The man did not answer as quickly—or as unemotionally. His jaw shifted unhappily as he said, “Jamaran. ”

Kealey didn’t know if the Iranian was right about the funding—there were about twelve thousand rial to the dollar, making it about seventy-five million dollars, which seemed a little low—but he answered quickly and confidently. And he didn’t like being asked about the ship, but he knew about it. That kind of news would not have been publicized in Iran. Kealey was inclined to believe the man.

“Who are you?” Yazdi asked again, through Rayhan.

“We’re United States government agents,” was all Kealey replied.

“That is hardly an equal trade.”

“No, but this isn’t a prisoner swap and I’m not interested in what’s fair,” Kealey said, Rayhan translating as he spoke. “I will tell you this, however. My uncle’s the man who sent your treasure to the bottom of the ocean. I know exactly what it is. So do you, more or less, or you wouldn’t care that I have a Geiger counter.” They reached the unmarked police car Kealey had borrowed. He waited for Rayhan to catch up with the interpretation, then said, “So here’s the deal. You can go—I won’t try and stop you. You’ve led us to where you think the device is and I’ll probably find it before you do. Or you can help us. We don’t want the thing floating around, and I don’t think you want it out there with your nation’s fingerprints on it.”

Yazdi considered all this as Kealey opened the front passenger door. He retrieved a leather case from the passenger’s seat. It was black, with an extensible sensor built into the side in the event the user needed to check a specific spot. There was an audio bud, which Kealey placed in his ear. The newest field models were designed to keep from alarming anyone who might hear the familiar clicking. Only the user could see the gauge in the top of the unit, an old-fashioned needle mechanism: radiation could affect and skew the readings if the counters themselves were digital.

Kealey held it low along his side. He regarded Yazdi. “Are we working together?”

Yazdi took a long look up the street as he waited for the woman to translate. “You already know the answer to that.”

The American opened the glove compartment, which was where he had retrieved the knife and also the derringer that was tucked in his pants pocket. The lieutenant was well prepared: the .22 caliber pistol, whose serial number had been scratched off, was a “throwaway,” something to plant on anyone he shot by accident or accidentally on purpose.

“I’ll have your phone, please,” Kealey said.

After Rayhan had translated, Yazdi’s reply was firm: “No.”

“You may not be here alone,” Kealey said. “Or you may take our pictures and keep them in your files.”

“Those are both true,” Yazdi agreed. “But I am expecting information on our quarry. I don’t want to miss that. You can have the switchblade in my pocket as a sign of trust, but I will keep the phone.”

Kealey thought for a moment. “Give both to her.”

Yazdi was obviously dealing with just one novice, the woman, who was probably along to translate. She had that aura of Westernization, of independence, of time spent at university, a radicalization that plagued too many Arab women. This man—he was a veteran. If the American hadn’t thought this through he was improvising wisely.

I wonder if our inside source can provide information on this man, Yazdi thought.

With a short, unhappy exhale of breath, Yazdi turned and handed the phone and switchblade to Rayhan. She pocketed the phone and gave the blade to Kealey, who tossed it in the glove compartment.

“Who are we looking for?” Kealey asked.

“A professor of physics.”

“Name?”

Yazdi said, “This is not a swap.”

“All right, keep that,” Kealey told him. “You have solid intelligence that he’s in this region?”

Yazdi nodded.

“I noticed a medical center down the street,” Kealey said. “That would be the obvious place to hide or work with radioactive material. It has to be checked out. You can do that. I’m going to sweep the street, see if it might be somewhere else.”

“If it is, how do I know you’ll inform me?” Yazdi asked. “It may be just a few steps from here.”

Kealey thumbed on the Geiger counter. The needle didn’t move. “We’re wasting time. You and I and the nations we represent do not want Armageddon. We gain by détente. You have my word. I will involve you.”

It was concise and he seemed sincere. Yazdi wondered for the first time if years at a desk had mellowed him: he agreed to the American’s terms.

“She’ll go with you,” Kealey added.

Rayhan seemed surprised. From her expression, Kealey couldn’t tell whether she felt like a ballplayer being benched or a third-stringer being given a shot at the majors. She would have to wonder a few minutes more. It was not a problem as far as Yazdi was concerned. It was better to have two sets of eyes and to be a couple. A man and woman together were rarely suspected of espionage.

Kealey did not know if Yazdi was merely pretending not to speak English. So he said to Rayhan, “Work with him. Stay in touch by text.” The Iranian wouldn’t be able to eavesdrop on text communications.

Rayhan agreed and they turned to the right, walking along the modern sidewalk which sat beside a road that had been established before the last millennium, when the greatest dangers facing civilization were disease, natural disasters, and the bow.

Yazdi was not afraid of the power of the device, which was far less than God could—and had—visited upon His children. What he feared was the erasure of the boundary that divided man from God in the mind of man. The power to spread radiation and blind destruction did not seem to fit with spreading of the word of the Prophet. The people who had the bomb were as bad in their way as infidels were in theirs.

Despite the millions of adherents at home and abroad, for the first time in his life Yazdi felt more like a buffer between opposing forces than a force himself. He felt like a caged animal, and that did not sit well with his temperament.

Or his mission.

Before he had gone more than a few steps, Kealey had already picked up a faint ticking on the Geiger counter. It could have been from any number of sources. Everything from radon to fallout from old atmospheric bomb tests produced background radiation. But those levels tended to remain relatively consistent in an area. This was getting stronger the farther east he went. Not significantly stronger but measurably.

He did not immediately notify Rayhan. She was still green, and she needed time to get her feet under her. Kealey also needed time to think. He trusted Yazdi only as long as he didn’t have the device. If Kealey found it first, he had no intention of folding the enemy into the process—not if he could help it. Whatever Yazdi said, whatever he believed, he would do as instructed by his masters, from the Ayatollah to the Experts to the President. If that meant sending a young mother or student with the bomb into Tel Aviv or an oil field in Saudi Arabia, he would do it. Kealey would not hesitate to perform a surgical assassination to prevent that. On top of which, the man had a wealth of information that could be of enormous use. He might not know the names of cells or sleepers in other countries—to prevent exactly this kind of compromise—but he would know how to get in touch with them. That could be enormously useful to Clarke.

That meant Rayhan’s function could go either way. She could learn something about the man by what he knew or said; or she could run interference if Kealey found the bomb. In any case, being around a potential enemy, listening to what he said, and restricting what she said for an hour or so would be good for her. Though there was another option, which he tried not to think about. There was always the possibility that Yazdi could take her hostage. In which case, like Kealey himself she was expendable. The device was the goal, not a one-hundred-percent survival rate. That was the nature of the business. Every field agent knew that. If they didn’t, they learned it fast. And learning it, the fact of that grotesque disposability was never far from the surface. If you allowed it to, it poisoned everything. Kealey remembered a reception where he met the quarterback for the Washington Redskins. The guy was telling a small group what an awful emotional wrench it was getting close to players who ended up being traded and playing against you. And how it was a tactical pain, since the squad all knew the playbook. Kealey would have been content to stick a shrimp fork in one of the man’s vaunted scrambling knees. An officer he did not know saved him the effort. He glared at the quarterback and said, “When I was in ’Nam, behind enemy lines doing recon with a buddy, he fell in a ditch and broke something big. Made him moan like a sonofabitch. The Cong were coming and I couldn’t get him out. He shot himself so he wouldn’t talk about what we learned. It’s like that, right?”

Kealey didn’t think it would come to the Iranian threatening Rayhan. No doubt Yazdi had sized Kealey up—at least enough to know that he wouldn’t have left them alone if he were concerned about what the woman knew. But if it came to a worst-case scenario, the recovery of the device, not Rayhan, not Kealey, was the mission.

He paused to text the man’s name and title to Clarke. He did not want to complicate matters by letting on they were all together, but he wanted photo confirmation of the man’s identity. He got it within five minutes of a steady, elevated radioactive reading.

Clarke texted:

IF HE’S IN THE FIELD THEY’RE SERIOUS ABOUT RECOVERY.

Kealey wrote back:

NO: BELIEVE THEY’RE SCARED THAT WHOEVER HAS IT WILL USE IT. MORE SOON.

Kealey followed the straight roadway, looking at the students, the shoppers, making sure that no one was watching him, wondering what he was doing—and, more important, that whoever took the device had not stationed a lookout. If they were dealing with a physicist who was sympathetic to jihad, someone with a little experience, he might not count on a hidden lab as his only means of protection.

He or his agents might also recognize what I’m carrying, Kealey thought. That was fine; his job was not to alarm civilians. ID’ing him would make his job easier: they’d come to him or they’d run. A good deal of intelligence work was getting close to the hornet’s nest with a big, swinging stick.

He got a slight uptick as he approached a mosque. It was a squat structure about three stories high with a green, white-bordered minaret that was about sixty feet high. Attached to the minaret, on the other side, was a brick building with a trio of satellite dishes on top. It could be a civic hall of some kind—or possibly a school. The latter seemed likely the nearer Kealey got. There appeared to be a playground on the other side.

It was a school. Kealey saw young children arriving for afternoon classes. They were boys, about eight to ten years old. Something in or around the building—possibly in one of the cars parked in the narrow street—was causing the Geiger counter to hover around eight millisieverts. Kealey had a good idea what it was. Those levels were acceptable for incidental exposure, maybe two or three hours. Kealey hoped that whoever had it intended to get the device out of there before then. Which also raised the question: if the container had been opened, what the hell was Kealey going to do with it?

The first thing he needed to do was pinpoint the location. He moved past the school. There was a slight uptick between the school and the playground; there was also a bump from a circa mid-1980s Volkswagen van parked in the street. That was probably what had been used to bring the device here. Kealey took a picture with his cell phone and asked Clarke for an ID. He thought about disabling it, but he wasn’t sure that leaving a man with a suitcase nuclear weapon stranded and desperate was the best tactic.

He walked past the playground and the needle dipped slightly. The bomb was in the building. Kealey noted that there was an electrical room on the side and it was the only place where—at least from the street—there did not appear to be any windows. The location certainly fit the terrorist mentality: an underground bunker protected from an assault by the presence of children.

Clarke texted back that the plates were Yemeni but it would take a while to attach an owner. Even then, both men knew, it could well have been stolen.

Kealey could not see behind the structure, but that didn’t matter right now. As long as the needle remained steady the device was inside. And as long as he remained near the van, it was likely to remain inside.

There were times when the best strategy was to have none. That wasn’t the same as being inactive; it was letting events dictate your response, in much the same way as jujitsu-ka let the actions of others determine your own defense or offense. The one thing he did need was a plan to follow the van in case it left. The van was parked on a very narrow two-way street. There was no room to turn around. Kealey walked ahead: it was tight and congested in that direction as cars moved slowly around parked vehicles. He calculated that he would have more than enough time to walk back to his car and follow the van. Even if he didn’t, Clarke had a photo. INTERPOL could follow from the air if they had to.

But with all the preparations made, with his instincts on alert, with his options generally mapped out, Kealey knew there was still room for the unexpected.

Which was exactly what he got.

“What should I call you?”

Yazdi asked the question as they were nearing the front of the hospital. His question was practical, not impertinent.

“What is your mother’s name?” she asked.

“Afshan.”

“That will do.”

“All right, Afshan.” He began to limp. “We’re going in to inquire about my foot. We will require X-rays.”

She nodded as Yazdi’s phone vibrated. She took it from her back pocket. After leaving the motorcycle, she had put her passport there as well. She could not remember a time when she had traveled so light

“It’s an email,” she said.

Yazdi stopped. “Let me see it, please.”

“Open it so I can see.”

“Fine, fine,” he said impatiently. It was from Sanjar, his deputy. It was a file of photographs with a covering email. Sanjar said he had opened channels with Russian intelligence on this matter. In addition to data, they were making regional satellite surveillance available to them. That was part of program in which Russian electronic intelligence—ELINT—was swapped for Iranian human intelligence—HUMINT—in places like Chechnya, Azerbaijan, and other areas where Muslim infiltrators were needed.

It took long, agonizing seconds to download the images, during which time Yazdi thought of a dozen ways he could have hurt or killed the woman standing next to him. How did the American know he wouldn’t?

Because there are students around, and students are idealistic. Someone would have stopped me. The chances were good I’d be arrested. He gambles her life on the effectiveness of a system.

That was a man who understood the heart of this awful business.

Yazdi enlarged the images as they finished downloading. They showed blurry images of a man, creased and obviously scanned from printed photographs. There were scans of the back as well. The writing was in Farsi.

Jerusalem, 2008—Mohammed and me

Istanbul, 2007—Farzad and tourists

Bagdad, 2004—Brothers

The men looked alike. Yazdi had a vague recollection of these two. Though his ministry was financing their group, one of them disobeyed an assassination order and had been executed. When he came to the fourth image, Yazdi started. The killing in Rabat had been vengeance—but, by chance, it had become something much greater.

“We’ve got to go,” he said urgently.

“Where?”

“Back to where we began.” He tapped the screen. “I’ve seen this van. Here. Down the street.”

He started off at a brisk walk with Rayhan hurrying behind. She put his phone away, took out her own.

“Don’t text your partner,” Yazdi said. He was staring ahead, craning to see past the other pedestrians.

“Why?”

“You’ll distract him. I see the van—there’s someone opening the door.”

“How will we distract him if he doesn’t know—?”

“He knows. That van has to be hot. He just didn’t tell us.”

Rayhan held off texting. She peered ahead as they hurried along. There was a figure, a slender man with a beard. He opened the door of the van, put something inside, and shut the door.

“He didn’t look around,” Yazdi said. “He didn’t want to appear suspicious. But he still may have been checking to see if anyone was outside, watching.”

The man started back toward the schoolhouse, down a passage along the side of the building. He opened a door in the side of the building. Yazdi was slightly ahead. He slowed, held up his hand.

“I don’t like this,” he said.

Rayhan didn’t have the intuition or experience of the Iranian, but there was something strange about what they’d just witnessed. The man had placed something inside but she hadn’t noticed that he was carrying anything—

The van exploded.

The blast actually happened in two stages, as far as Rayhan could tell. The first was the muted pop inside the van that blew out the windows and poured cottony black smoke from the openings and dented the front doors with fist-like blows from inside. The second stage, which occurred roughly one second later—an eternity in the slow-motion horror of terrorist time—occurred when the fuel tank exploded. The car flipped up onto its front end, then fell forward onto the roof, while every piece of metal in the undercarriage flew outward in every direction. For an instant, the exposed bottom of the van resembled a flaming pinwheel.

The force wave and sound arrived a moment after the first and second explosions. The first was barely felt but the second was like a wave from passing a tar truck: hot, malodorous, and oily. The air stung her eyes and she had to look away.

She turned back quickly, realizing she shouldn’t let Yazdi out of her sight. He was still there, taking in the situation. The car had settled into a barely recognizable mound of misshapen metal and flame, puffing ugly plumes of inky smoke into the air. It lay just ahead of where it had been parked; in a circle around it, bodies lay in ugly little lines—straight this way and that and charred black. In a larger circle were other bodies that had been dismembered, not burned. The street clothes and head scarves, the dismembered limbs and scattered, burning backpacks were splattered bright red under the shifting shadows of the smoke.

A few car alarms had been roused to activity by the explosion. Rayhan heard their muted sounds through the ringing deafness caused by the blast.

As the scene settled and the uninjured came to life in starts and jerks, Rayhan looked around for Kealey. She didn’t see him. She texted. There was no answer.

“Let’s go,” she yelled to Yazdi, motioning in case he couldn’t hear.

The Iranian followed, not because the woman told him to but because he recognized the explosion for what it was: a cover. Somehow, the Yemeni and his associate must have known—or at least suspected—they were being watched. Or they may have feared that the van had been identified or followed. They created the explosion in order to get out another way—with the device.

“I don’t see him,” Rayhan said as she ran. She covered her mouth with her sleeve and pushed through people who were moving from the choking fumes. Her eyes scanned the burned bodies as they neared. It was impossible to identify the bodies.

Sirens broke through her muffled hearing. Within minutes the area would be roped off. She slowed as she neared the destroyed van.

“No!” Yazdi said, pulling her along. “We must keep going! The bomb is this way!”

CHAPTER 13

FÈS, MOROCCO

Kealey was standing near the playground, behind a tree, when the man emerged from the side door of the schoolhouse. He was holding something; Kealey decided to move closer to see.

It was a laptop, tucked under his arm.

The American ran toward the playground. There was no time to get to his car and, if he were correct, it wouldn’t do him much good: the road was about to be effectively blocked. He considered trying to get to the phone but couldn’t be sure whether the terrorist was watching. He might detonate it to prevent Kealey from stopping him.

Kealey entered the playground. He dropped to the asphalt, low beneath a bench that afforded him some protection as well as a view of the side door. He protected the Geiger counter by putting it on his left side, wrapped his handkerchief around the lower half of his face, pressed two fingers against his right ear and, with his left hand—the hand away from the van—had his cell phone ready to take pictures.

The blast arrived before the terrorists did. Kealey tried not to think of the people in the streets or on the sidewalk who had been killed. If he had attempted to warn them, the bomb might have been detonated prematurely. If he were on one side of the building, warning people away, he might miss the bomber leaving by another exit. There is no way to win in a situation like this except to be among the survivors and apprehend the people responsible.

This close to the explosion, Kealey felt the heat. He shut his eyes but he felt it through his lids. Pinpricks of sand and grit, lifted from the street, were thrown against his right side like hundreds of pins jabbing his cheek, bare hand, and ankle. Larger shards of the van clanged all around him without syncopation, like dissonant cymbals. A piece of rusted fender hit hard against the leg of the bench, wrapping around it and missing his face by inches. The dust cloud that followed was expected, and Kealey had held his breath despite the protective handkerchief. After the explosion, he pulled his fingers from his ears and used his right hand to shield his eyes on that side. The cloud obscured details, but it couldn’t hide shapes moving straight ahead of him. Kealey snapped a series of images. Computer enhancement might find a detail the human eye missed.

He saw them. Amid the churning wall of dusty gray he saw two dark shapes moving toward the back of the school. He didn’t think they were from the school: the figures were outside within seconds when the air was thickest with the residue of the blast. Kealey waited until they had passed to the left, away from the street, before he slid from under the bench, grabbed the Geiger counter, and went after them. There was a secondary explosion, much smaller, from inside the room under the school.

There goes any traceable evidence, Kealey thought.

The only exit from the playground was on the street side. He ran back, leaping over and around the shapes that had once been swings and seesaws. The golden sands of a sandbox were still sprinkling down, glittering in the now misty sunlight. He got to the side of the building, reached the door, and continued running in the direction the two shapes had gone. There was a zigzagging street that went around the backs of old brick structures, painted white. The shouts of people at the far end made it impossible for him to hear footsteps retreating along the narrow cobbled path. Kealey wasn’t concerned about losing them in a crowd. Not as long as they were carrying an eighty-or-so-pound container with an atom bomb inside.

But they won’t let themselves be hobbled for long, he told himself. Which was why he was hurrying. The van could not have been their only way out.

Kealey found himself navigating against a thickening mob. He couldn’t tell whether they were running to investigate the blast or to get off another main street in case there was another one. The Geiger counter was still ticking its steady beat—and then, as he was just about to emerge from the jagged passage, it slowed.

The reading was residual, he thought. From behind me. They were working in the school.

There was no point going there. He continued ahead.

He emerged on a street that looked like it belonged to another century. It was a large courtyard filled with vats. There were at least one hundred of them, ranging in size from bathtubs to hot tubs. The smaller ones were hewn from white stone, the larger ones formed from clay or adobe. They sat side by side by side and were full of colored liquid that smelled like freshly dyed Easter eggs. The few people who hadn’t run were balanced on the edges with large wooden poles churning the contents. It was an ancient leather tannery, and the only way through it was around the periphery. That perimeter was surrounded by equally ancient white stone structures, one or two stories high, that were the shops and manufacturing facilities and homes of the workers. There were more than two dozen structures that formed the enclosed courtyard. Each had one or two doors. The terrorists could have gone through any of them.

Smoke had filtered over the rooftops of the buildings to the south, forming a misty veil over that side of the courtyard. Kealey followed the Geiger counter but it was losing the trail.

He slowed as the needle returned to normal. He swung it back, toward the vats, around in a full circle. He got nothing.

Angry and frustrated, he called Rayhan. She picked up at once.

“Thank God—” she blurted.

“Where are you?”—he cut her off.

“We’re just coming behind the school—people rushing through.”

“Knock them over. I’m in the courtyard at the other end. I need you here now.”

He hung up. He texted Valigorsky. He asked for an APHID reading at his current location. The APHID was the Atomic Perigee–High Intelligence Drone, a robot space shuttle program activated in 2010. The two drones were on permanent deployment now, in low geosynchronous earth orbit, their uppermost range exactly matching the lowest reach of existing intelligence satellites. Drone A-1 kept an eye on radioactivity in the Middle East; Drone A-2 watched North Korea. They could detect, analyze, and track any radiation source above the level and duration of a medical X-ray. If any rogue nation transported fissionable matter to a bomb-testing site or attempted to sneak raw nuclear materials across their borders, the APHID would find it in whatever millisecond it was exposed. High-definition cameras would simultaneously record images of the scientists, receptacles, and conveyances used in the operation so they could be hunted and retrieved—or terminated, as the Israelis had done with Iranian nuclear scientists. Clarke had “borrowed” the A-1 for this mission.

The problems with the current situation were twofold. The millisieverts he’d picked up were on the lowest end of the APHID’s detection capabilities; and it required an unvarying exposure of at least ninety seconds. It was like an old photographic plate in which the subject had to be still and sufficiently well lit. Otherwise, background radiation from the planet and outer space diluted the signal.

During the active part of any mission, Valigorsky or her deputy, Dick Levy, were at their desk in twelve-hour shifts. Valigorsky was on now and was texting back as Rayhan arrived.

Kealey shot her an enquiring look.

“Yazdi is checking the schoolhouse for clues,” she said.

That made sense. It was the right call.

“All right. Talk to these workers,” Kealey said. “Find out which way the men with the case went. They had to have come through here.”

Tightening her head scarf, Rayhan ran off to talk to the men working the vats. Kealey was angry because he hadn’t known where the zigzag street led, didn’t know the area, didn’t know to go around it. Neither did Yazdi, but if the three of them had been in the playground together—

It still would have gone the same way, Kealey told himself. There was only one Geiger counter. And there might be a clue in the schoolhouse. And you don’t get to give up, he thought angrily. He looked around. They went in some direction. His chances of finding it were better if he moved.

He looked at the doors near the back of the courtyard, the way he’d come. The figures had been carrying something heavy. They wouldn’t have wanted to negotiate the narrow perimeter. He walked briskly in that direction. He looked for a door without a knob or latch. Saloon doors, perhaps. Something they could have backed into and opened. There was nothing like that, but there were two doors on the same side that were propped open. He started to run toward them. The nearest door was the larger of the two. He stepped in, got no reading. He went to the next one.

There was the faintest uptick. The device was probably not inside, but it almost certainly had gone this way. The room inside was dark, made darker because Kealey’s eyes were adjusted to the bright light outside. The two men had been inside the schoolhouse, able to see better than he.

Kealey turned to Rayhan, who was on the other side of the vats. He whistled. She looked over. He motioned toward the door. She nodded.

Kealey crouched low in case one of them had stayed behind with a gun. He turned on the flashlight app of his phone, shined it inside. The room was full of racks loaded with hanging leather goods, drying in the ventilated room—which is why the door was open. Kealey rose and made his way through. The Geiger beats were slightly elevated and steady.

He moved sideways through the narrow spaces between the hides. They were moving slightly, probably because of the gentle breeze. He was looking ahead, watching the leather from the corner of his eye—there was a whitish scrape mark on one. Something sharp had rubbed against it after it had been dyed.

Kealey took off toward the door on the opposite end. He swung around a table that had leatherworking tools. His phone beeped. He ignored it. He was out the door, on a market street where there were still vendors, still consumers, and a lot of animated discussion—probably about the blast. Kealey looked down the one side street. Cars were parked facing away from the market. The bomber would have had an escape vehicle as near to the school as possible.

A silvery Daewoo Lanos pulled from a spot at the end of the street and sped away. Kealey took pictures of the car, sent them to Clarke as he started after it. He thought he saw just one man inside—

“Awzalohniswid!”

A voice, hard and taunting, came from Kealey’s right. The American stopped, looked over as a clean-cut older man rose from between two cars. The Geiger counter clicked a little louder. That was what he had been picking up. The man had a gun pointed at the American. Kealey lifted his free hand.

“I don’t speak Arabic,” Kealey said.

The man snatched the Geiger counter and threw it against a stone wall. It shattered. The audio bud hung stupidly from Kealey’s ear. Then he reached for Kealey’s phone. Kealey stepped back and shook his head. He made sure his eyes remained on the enemy and the enemy’s eyes on him.

The man lowered his gun at Kealey’s chest. Watching his adversary, Kealey jumped to one side, between the cars, as Rayhan used two hands to bring an awl down hard into the back of the man’s neck. She stabbed him with a force strange to her limbs, with a cry she probably did not think she possessed, with an urgency unlike anything she had ever experienced. The man went down without a sound. It was doubtful anyone behind Rayhan had seen what had happened. Kealey quickly drew the man between the cars. He snapped a photo of his face in the shadow of the fender.

Rayhan was standing in the street, breathing heavily from the run—and from what she had done. Her dark hair framed her face, which was looking out from hunched shoulders with a kind of animal ferocity. Kealey examined the shattered Geiger counter, wiped his prints from the handle, and scooped up the gun. He searched the man. He had a billfold, which Kealey took. There was no money; of course not. He had likely given it to the man who drove away. The only other item he carried were keys, which Kealey also pocketed. Then he stepped in front of Rayhan and bent a little. He lifted her downturned eyes with his.

“He was a killer,” Kealey told her. “You saved my life.”

“I know. I’ll be all right. We—we need to get Yazdi,” she said distractedly.

Kealey looked ahead. Traffic was moving slowly. “You go back the way you came and hook up with him. We’ll meet at my car. I want to see if I can spot the vehicle, see which way it’s going.”

Kealey ran off along the street. He half turned, shouted, “Don’t let Yazdi get his phone from you.”

“Not a chance,” she promised.

Kealey believed her.

He checked the text he’d received as he jogged in the direction of the car. It was from Valigorsky:

WE HAVE NO READINGS.

Kealey continued to race ahead, but the car was out of sight. He slowed on a street where police cars and ambulances were racing by. The terrorist had gotten out before they had gotten in. This was not a careless, casually improvised escape. Kealey was angry at how it had unfolded.

He did not want to go back the way he’d come. He did not want to be anywhere near the body when it was found. He would follow the road the official vehicles had taken. Before turning to go, he took out the man’s wallet and tapped out an email sending the key information to Clarke.

Ryan Kealey wasn’t accustomed to having things go wrong. Even though he couldn’t think of a damn thing that he could have done differently—and he was mentally bashing himself, trying to come up with something—he was supposed to be the best at what he did. At the moment, there was only one thing he was sure of: that he was the guy who’d let a suitcase bomb, possibly armed, slip from his hands. And though he didn’t blame her, the only man who could have helped them had a leatherworker’s tool in his spine.

Screw it, he thought. It’s a setback, not a defeat.

He had been in the business long enough, at least, to tell those apart.

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Largo Kealey didn’t recognize air travel. He didn’t even recognize the cab he was in, with video streaming into the backseat.

Arriving at JFK International, he felt like a two-liter bottle on a cola assembly line being shuttled along rollers to be filled and capped. He had bought his ticket online—he could do that—but he still went to the counter where he was told he could go right to the gate after listening to a series of questions that could not really and truly have been designed to ferret out terrorists. He waited in a long security line, even at this hour, since many European flights tended to leave late, he discovered. So did flights out west. So did flights with children, whose parents hoped they would sleep while airborne . . . because they surely weren’t in the line. He chose to be body scanned rather than patted down because at his age, what the hell were a few X-rays? He knew about taking off his shoes, expected to have to remove his belt with its big U.S. flag buckle, but he didn’t anticipate the hustling and banging he took at the end of the line while he tried to get his clothes, keys, overnight bag, comb, pen, and eyeglass case from the plastic bin. Of course, the scanner missed the plastic credit card he kept in his wallet, with one end sharpened to a razor-fine edge. Valley Stream had changed over the years, and a mugger trying to take his wallet would get, instead, a slit throat.

All of that was just the preamble to a hurried boarding that finally took place fifteen minutes before their scheduled flight time. Largo entered a small cabin with a seat that barely had a cushion or a recline or the width to accommodate anyone larger than a child. The overhead bin was full with someone else’s carry-on before he got to it, so he asked the stewardess for help. The flight attendant—she was no longer “a stewardess,” the young woman sitting beside him gently but firmly reprimanded him—hurriedly and with a tense smile offered to check his bag for him.

Largo said he would put it under the seat.

The flight attendant said it wouldn’t fit and she would gladly check his bag. The woman had a script from which she didn’t diverge.

Largo removed a sweater and tied it around his shoulders, over the sweater he was wearing. Now it would fit, he told her. She left—not to make the preflight announcements but to turn on a recording that did that while she mimed all the movements.

There were no earphones in the seatback. There were no beverages during the flight. The only thing that hadn’t changed in about two decades was the pilot still said “uh” every few words. When they deplaned after the short flight, Largo and the others were reminded to take their personal belongings. He wanted to ask what other kind there were—and decided he would take a train for the return trip. There had to be a more civilized way to travel.

There was no one waiting at the gate for him. He had to go to the baggage claim area to find Allison Dearborn. Where was the magic in that, the memories for kids waiting at the big windows, waving to the plane as their grandparents left or arrived?

“Didn’t Benjamin Franklin say something about the uselessness of sacrificing liberty for security?” he asked as he approached the paper with his first name written on it.

The woman holding it was a tall, slender blonde with hypnotic blue eyes. It was funny how Largo realized just then he’d become an observer of women, not as a shopper but as a browser at a museum. He was old and they were younger. Yet when he saw Allison, he was twenty years old again, seeing lovely young women in France and remembering his own beauty back home. How he so very much wanted to return to her and say that he was never tempted, even by the live-for-today Partisans who wanted him. He had always felt that so many of them wanted anyone who wasn’t German . . . wanted a Resistance fighter to rub away the stench of having been with the enemy.

Which was one reason he greeted her with a handshake and Benjamin Franklin: it spared him from possibly making a bigger fool of himself.

“Freud or Jung, I’m right there with you,” she said. “Founding Fathers? I’d have to cheat and look it up.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter,” he said. “I made it, somehow, through the gauntlet.”

She offered to take his carry-on bag. He assured her he was fine. She turned and he followed.

“When was the last time you flew?” Allison asked.

“Let’s see. They were showing One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. On a TV suspended over the aisle.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah. You were probably still watching cartoons.”

She smiled. “I did not see that movie on its first run, no.”

It struck Largo how tired he was as they walked toward the exit. He remembered how it used to be, long ago, gearing up for a mission and not realizing how much energy he’d expended until it was over and he crashed. They enjoyed a brief get-to-know-you talk as they went to the car, though Allison could see he was tired and, while not offering overt support, backed off pushing him too hard.

She drove Largo to the Archstone at the corner of First and M Street NE and showed him to the fourth-floor one-bedroom apartment kept by the Department of Defense. She had purchased some groceries, which she brought up with her: bottled water, fruit, crackers, instant coffee, microwavable biscuits and jam.

“I’ve cleared the morning schedule,” she said. “Call for you at nine?”

He nodded, and she hugged him lightly and left. When she was gone, Largo sat on the hard bed.

“Oh, God,” he sighed and shuddered into a gentle sobbing release of whatever was inside him that prompted him to make this trip. Missing his wife, missing his old life, missing a reason for getting out of bed when the sun rose.

He lay back and fell asleep with his extra sweater still tied around his shoulders. But he woke with the sun as he always had and was ready for Allison when she arrived.

FÈS, MOROCCO

Mohammed did not look back once he pulled from the curb. He was afraid that he had been spotted, the car identified. He had to get away and seeing the enemy would not make him go faster. He watched for openings in the traffic, ignored the honks, and he cut people off, heard the onrushing sirens, knew he had to get back on the highway before he was blocked in.

He did not know what was going to happen to Boulif. What he did know was that the scientist had been possessed with the kind of quiet excitement he had never seen in any man. The look in his eyes told Mohammed that this man would die to see the device get to safety. He had seen that look before, in many eyes—though without the genius and wisdom that this man clearly possessed.

He reminded Mohammed of the great imams he had met. Boulif was an imam of science, if there could be such a thing.

Even though the two powerful fans were running, they were blowing in warm air. Mohammed had to wipe the perspiration with his sleeve as he drove. His mouth was drier than it had ever been. He silently prayed to God all the while that Boulif was all right, that the enemy had not harmed or detained him.

With the bomb, a backpack, and the IED cell phone beside him—and the X-ray apron spread over them all—the Yemeni carefully knit and picked his way through the narrow streets, braking now and then to avoid bicycles and pedestrians walking two abreast, as well as the occasional cart carrying goods from any number of bazaars. A tester of smoke had begun to form above him, the residue of the explosion. He was humbled by the ease with which Boulif had created the bomb, built from a laptop and triggered with a spare cell phone that he then destroyed in the microwave oven. In Yemen, that sort of project would have taken hours.

Mohammed finally emerged at a roundabout Boulif had described. He was to take it onto the A2, stay to his right, and get on the A1. His goal was Tangier, 195 miles to the north, at the Strait of Gibraltar. There, he was to contact a friend of Boulif’s who would help him plan the next phase of the operation.

An operation that would cripple the West in such a way that Islam could easily and irrevocably pour through the breach.

First, however, he had to do something about the possibility that the enemy knew exactly which car he was driving.

CHAPTER 14

FÈS, MOROCCO

By the time Kealey arrived, the area around the school was blocked by police and firefighters. The school had been evacuated—without injury, it appeared, save for smoke inhalation, for which seven children and one teacher were being treated.

He paused and looked around. Kealey spotted Rayhan by his car, but not Yazdi. She was standing by the trunk, talking to a medical technician. Her hair was still down around her face, so he could not see her expression. Kealey noticed that there was blood on her blouse. He waited, wanting to make sure the medic’s suspicions weren’t aroused.

The young technician ducked his head down, looked up into the woman’s eyes, checked them, nodded, and headed back to the cordoned-off area around the school. He said something into the radio he was wearing and then left.

Kealey took a moment to place a call before jogging over. Rayhan was holding a cell phone—Yazdi’s, he noticed.

“Is everything all right?” he asked.

“They thought I might have been injured and in shock,” Rayhan said. “I assured them I was not.” She looked at her right hand. The palm heel was flecked with dry red spots. “I told them the blood belonged to someone I tried to help.”

Kealey didn’t bother reminding her that she did help someone: him. After a kill, the brain did not process information as it normally did. It shut down. It was literally drained by that moment of commitment when the body and brain teamed to override their mutual stop reflexes to pull the trigger or use the knife or detonate the bomb. In a terrorist, that decision was propelled by hate, an afterburner that mowed down all other considerations. In a rational human being the urgency of the moment served that function. The collapse of inhibitions left the individual drained of will and decision-making capability. Allison had told him that was the reason so many crimes of passion were solved quickly: the killer just sat there, unable to move after committing the crime.

Kealey knew that feeling. He had been there. All he could do was move Rayhan along until she got her feet back under her.

He took Yazdi’s phone from her, saw the photo of the van. There had been no messages since that one. They had his keys, and his car was still parked where they had left it. “Have you seen him?”

“No.”

Kealey looked around. The police were photographing the license numbers of the vehicles in the area. They would get to the bike Rayhan had taken. This would be connected to the dead man. Kealey and Rayhan needed to stay ahead of the local investigation. He didn’t want to have to put in calls to his INTERPOL contact again.

“We need to get out of here,” Kealey said. “When you can, charge the phones in the cigarette lighter.”

He put her in his car. There was a police helicopter in the air, but they wouldn’t have any idea who they were looking for—not yet.

“What about Yazdi?” Rayhan asked as Kealey stood looking at the road, planning their exit.

“I don’t know. He may be gone, imagining that we’ll just sit here and wait for him.” Kealey shut the passenger door and went to the driver’s side. He was angry at himself again. He’d let the bastard get away. This whole thing had slipped through his fingers like water. At least he knew which way the terrorist headed and he had the make of the car. He had sent the photos of the Daewoo to Clarke, followed by the images of the dead man. Something would turn up.

Kealey was about to get in the car when he spotted a familiar figure down the street. It was Yazdi. He was walking slowly so as not to attract attention. Kealey snapped his fingers at Rayhan to get her attention. “I need you,” he said and pointed at Yazdi.

Rayhan got out. Yazdi came to her side of the car. He glanced at her hands and clothes.

“I saw a body and police on the other side of the school,” he said. He noticed the gun bulging under Kealey’s shirttails. “Your doing?” he asked Rayhan.

“My doing.”

He didn’t have to ask if it was her first. The virgin blood was on her hands and the no-longer-a-virgin look was on her face.

“Where were you that you could see it?” she asked.

“I went where your colleague could not,” he answered. “Up into the minaret to try and see where our quarry was headed.”

“And did you?”

“If he was driving a silver Daewoo rather hurriedly, yes.”

Rayhan translated. Kealey asked, “Is he going to tell us?”

“No,” Yazdi answered, anticipating the question. “I will tell you as we go. And you will return my cell phone.”

Rayhan translated. Kealey hesitated.

“There may be other mosques you wish to enter,” Yazdi told him, “some of which place restrictions on women, segregate them.”

“No phone,” Kealey said.

Yazdi didn’t like that. “These people will not be attacking Tehran with the device.”

“These people will not be attacking anyone,” Rayhan said. She looked at Kealey across the car. “Let him walk after the Daewoo.”

Whatever latent anti-Iranian feeling lay deep inside Rayhan was not inside any longer. Kealey understood from her tone and from Yazdi’s stony reaction that she’d reinforced what he had said. Rayhan got in the car. Kealey followed.

So did Yazdi.

“Which way?” Kealey asked through Rayhan.

“Drive,” Yazdi said. “I will tell you as we go.”

Kealey didn’t trust him but he had nothing else at the moment. Just before starting the car, he had a message from Clarke.

THE DEAD MAN IS PROFESSOR

MUSTAPHA BOULIF, NUCLEAR

PHYSICIST. GOOD KILL. SUSPECTED

AFFILIATE OF TAHEHLIB GROUP.

LOOKING FOR AREA CONTACTS.

“What is ‘Tahehlib’?” Kealey asked.

“Foxes,” Rayhan replied.

“Mean anything to either of you?”

Rayhan translated. Yazdi said, “It’s not a real alliance.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that your poor superiors have bought a lie.”

“I still don’t understand,” Rayhan said. “What’s the lie?”

“Groups who name themselves after animals are not actual terror groups,” he said. “They are distractions. Decoys. They are two or three radical sympathizers who run around suspiciously and do nothing but tie up countless resources on your side.”

“This man meant to kill,” Rayhan said.

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. We’ll never be sure.”

Rayhan felt a little ill. If this were true, killing a man was bad enough. Killing one who was no threat, merely bellicose, was worse. But real or not, he was allowing a terrorist to get away.

“How do you know these Foxes are not also members of other groups, groups who do do something?” Rayhan asked.

“Some are,” Yazdi admitted.

Kealey asked Rayhan what was going on. She held up a hand to ask him to wait.

“If the individuals were recruited as Foxes, then whoever did the recruiting may have been a terrorist.”

“That is also true,” Yazdi said. “Again, we will never know now. A skilled agent would have taken the man prisoner, not dispatched him.”

“I’ll remember that for next time,” she said angrily.

Yazdi snickered and Rayhan turned around. If he were trying to bait her, he’d failed. If you play this game you run the risk of injury. The blood on the side of her hand belonged to the man who was holding a gun on her partner. It did not belong to her. Kealey would probably tell her that made it a good afternoon.

Rayhan translated the conversation for Kealey, who took it in without comment. He started to pull out—just as a compact police vehicle drove up behind them.

“This is interesting”—Yazdi grinned as he turned and looked at the car. “I spoke to the local police when I left the mosque, said I might have a lead on the bomber. Maybe they’re coming over to talk? What if I tell them you’re an accomplice? Who will they believe, me—or an American?” The smile faded. “Give me the phone and my keys and I will tell them only about the Daewoo.”

Rayhan translated.

Kealey looked at Yazdi in the rearview mirror. He also saw two officers emerge from the vehicle.

“You won’t tell them anything,” Kealey said. “A few minutes ago I called my contact at INTERPOL. I told him I needed an escort out of the city. I sent him a photo of the Daewoo to forward to the police. I believe they’re here to help me.”

“I don’t believe you,” Yazdi said.

“I don’t care.”

Rayhan had been translating as he spoke, her mood brightening visibly.

The men walked toward the driver’s side. They were only a few feet away.

Kealey said to Yazdi, “You tell me where the car went or I swear to God I will tell them you are the accomplice.”

The officers reached the window. Kealey rolled it down. One of the policemen saluted. He spoke briefly.

“He wants to know where we would like to go,” Rayhan translated.

Kealey glanced at Yazdi in the mirror.

“Northwest,” the Iranian said to the officer at the window. “I believe it is the A2.”

The officer saluted again, and they went back to the car. Kealey rolled up the window. He did not look back again. He didn’t have to. Not every tactical play needed to end with an awl in someone’s neck.

Its siren breaking the quiet that had descended on the site, the police car made its way through the barricades, Kealey driving close behind. The showdown with Yazdi had been a small triumph, but right now Kealey would take that.

Kealey did not see Yazdi smile. At some point— very soon, in fact—they would give him back his phone. And his autonomy.

They would have to. It would be the only way they would be able to find out which information they were receiving was valid . . . and which was not.

And then, finally, he would have the device.

DAHLGREN, VIRGINIA

Lt. JG Heyder Namjoo studied the image of Professor Mustapha Boulif. Except for the blood smeared on the cobbles beside him, the obvious result of the body having been dragged, the scientist looked like he was napping in the shade on a summer day. It seemed a benign, even gentle face; yet it would have killed millions of Westerners, given a chance.

It is a strange, deceptive world in which we live, he thought.

The twenty-six-year-old was running the facial recognition software. Since the logistical integration of all the American intelligence services under the Homeland Security tent, DNI computers had access to literally every record in government files, from birth certificates to daily small-town newspapers when they were still being published, from white papers dating back to the early Cold War to patents to digital files of peer-reviewed papers on every subject imaginable. Right now he was looking for images of Boulif that had appeared in any conference, lecture, or reunion he attended. Anything that would point to colleagues with whom he might be in league.

The man had a surprising past. He was educated at the Sorbonne and MIT. He knew the West—of course. From Washington to Berlin, the members of NATO were their own worst enemies. Not only were the doors always open, NATO applauded the freedom they gave others to undermine them. There was a notice, in the files of the Israeli intelligence service, the Mossad, that in 2011 Boulif had refused an offer to work on the Iranian nuclear research program. As a result, the filing agent saw no reason to have eyes on the man full-time—that was only done when the Mossad intended to eliminate an individual. They had taken out a number of Iran’s scientists, which they assumed could have been one reason Boulif declined the employment offer.

Or maybe he was an ideologue who wanted to do more than rattle sabers, Namjoo thought.

The scientist was born and raised in Cairo, Egypt. He had only taught at the University of Al-Qarawiyyin—though he was a frequent guest lecturer at the University of Algiers, something that showed up in several scientific journals but was not listed on his official résumé.

Because you were meeting fellow terrorists there? he wondered.

He clicked on name after name of scientists with whom he lectured. Two of them, a Moroccan chemist and an Algerian biologist, had both showed up on Mossad watch lists based on a logarithm they had developed in 1999: men and women were tracked based on their specific skill sets plus a narrow degree of separation from known terrorists. Boulif showed up in the same place as the chemist and the biologist several times. Within the last year, they had all been in Morocco at the same time—for no reason that he could find in any public record.

Members of your team, he suspected.

That was a possible terror cell, possibly—probably? —the Tahehlib group General Clarke had asked about. But the cell wasn’t the issue right now. The suitcase bomb was. ESMAD chief Lt. Cmdr. Bobbitt told them that based on the latest intel from the field, they should assume the device was already armed or armed-capable. That being the case, would the terrorist want to place himself in the hands of a Boulif colleague, a biologist in Algeria; a Moroccan chemist, who lived to the southwest, in Marrakech; or would he want to go somewhere else? Somewhere he could actually use the bomb?

The latter, Namjoo decided. The terrorist had a car. And a nuclear bomb. Why risk crossing a border into a nation where there was a strong tradition of moderate Islam?

Namjoo looked up the history of the border crossing. Each nation was graded with a porosity rating based on dry runs conducted by the intelligence services. Algeria had a 91 percent “get” rate on drugs, found cash 79 percent of the time, took bribes eight out of ten times offered, and had zero acquisitions on nuclear material.

They would not be expecting it. Would the terrorist know that?

Namjoo looked into Tangier. The dead professor had extended family there, according to his official biography cross-referenced with current voting records. But there was no indication that he was close to them or even in contact. It would take a while to obtain phone records and check those against other Boulif family members. There was only one thing that suggested a possible ongoing relationship: he had coauthored a monograph with a cousin, a military officer, in 2010. If any of them were terrorists, they would not spring into action. DNI had possession of the man’s wallet and the Moroccan police would not give a photograph of the dead man to the news media. They would run a fingerprint check. It was approaching evening in Morocco; that information would not be made public until the next morning.

If a man is on the run with a suitcase bomb, where does he want to be? Namjoo asked himself. The answer: not in a dusty desert but where there was no real enemy. In the event of discovery, he would want to be in a position to do damage against America and its allies. For a decade, allied shipping in the waters off Tangier—in particular, the chokepoint at the Straits of Gibraltar—had been protected by NATO’s Standing Naval Force Atlantic, supported by American and Portuguese maritime patrol aircraft and helicopters from Spain.

Tangier was also a gateway to Europe. If Namjoo were advising a man with a bomb, that was where he would tell him to go.

He’s also on the run for murder. That underlying panic had to be factored into the man’s thinking. If he has had even rudimentary training, he would always have it in mind to take hostages. What better hostage than the SNFA?

Tangier, Namjoo thought. He must be headed there.

Mark Mason’s face appeared in the corner of the screen. Namjoo wondered if the man were really a team player or just annoyingly insecure of his own analytical abilities.

“Where do you put him?” Mason asked.

“Still working on that,” Namjoo replied. He glanced at the update across the bottom of the screen. It was from INTERPOL via Homeland Security. Two police helicopters were in the air looking for the Daewoo.

“I guess the question is, does this guy want to get the bomb home or does he want to use it?” Mason said.

It was a rhetorical question with a tinge of pass-the-buck. The Profiling and Assessment Division hadn’t said anything yet about the man or his objectives. Whenever any division was stymied, it was customary to blame some other department for the delay.

“If you had to throw a dart?” Mason asked. He smiled. “Keeping in mind that you are only batting five hundred after saying the nuke would be on the container ship.”

Namjoo ignored the remark. He never thought it would be there. That was simply what he had opined.

“A man stumbles on a suitcase bomb,” Namjoo said. “That’s a bigger trophy than blowing up a city in Africa or even Spain. I’d say he takes the Maghreb Highway to Algeria. If he can get to Libya or even Egypt, he’ll be protected and celebrated by confederates with the Muslim Brotherhood.”

“That’s a long stretch of ‘if,’ ” Mason said. “About—what, a thousand miles to Tripoli.”

“We’re the ones in a rush,” Namjoo said. “Not him.”

Americans often forgot that about the jihadist mentality. If it wasn’t this year it would be next. If it wasn’t this generation it would be next. Inevitability, not immediacy, was their objective.

Before Mason could reply, an image was overlaid on his video feed. It was a photograph from a police helicopter in Fès: it was the Daewoo, abandoned on the streets of the city. The picture gave Namjoo a more or less definitive answer about what the terrorist was doing. He wondered if the rest of intelligence would agree.

He would wait and see before forwarding the answer to Iran.

THE A2, MOROCCO

Mohammed pulled out of the line of traffic headed onto the highway. People were beginning their homeward journey and he did not want to be caught in a line of cars. More important, he did not want to be in Boulif’s car any longer.

He had spotted a charity kitchen run by the Roman Catholics, an effort to win by bribes what they could not earn by God’s will. There were bins at the back of the structure to deposit food and unwanted clothing, books, and other goods. He parked under a tree in the small parking area and waited. Over the next ten minutes three cars pulled up. One dropped off a volunteer worker. Another brought elderly women who went into the clothing racks. The third was what he wanted. It was a blue Renault. It slid into the space beside Mohammed and a middle-aged woman got out. She went to the trunk and opened it. She took out two paper bags filled with bread and walked along the building to the back. She left the trunk open. There were several other bags waiting to be taken in.

Mohammed hurriedly got out of the car. Unless the woman turned, there was no way for her to see what he was doing. He put the device in her trunk, shouldered the backpack Boulif had given him, then scooped up the remaining three bags. He closed the trunk with an elbow. He still had the gun he had used to shoot Pakravesh. It was in the back of his waistband under his shirttails. It wasn’t as convenient a spot as it had appeared in movies: he wasn’t wearing a belt and it threatened to fall down the leg of his trousers. He had to bend slightly to prevent that from happening. Fortunately, he wasn’t going far.

With the three bags bundled in his arms, he met the woman as she was coming out.

“Oh!” was all she said. She was about fifty, dark skinned, black hair, a Spanish expatriate, he guessed. She smelled of flour.

“I was waiting for someone to come out,” he told her. “I thought I might help.”

“That’s kind,” she said as she took one of the bags from him. They dropped them off inside and he held the door for her, following her as she walked back to the car.

She turned to thank him as she opened the driver’s side door. She felt, then saw, the gun poked low in her belly, just above the waist.

“You are going to take me somewhere,” he told her. “Do as I ask and all will be well with you.”

Her only reaction was a quickening of her breath.

“Get in,” he ordered.

“I have children—”

“Get in now, lean over, and open the other door. If you try to drive off I will fire through the windshield.” Her children could not be very young. Mohammed was sure they could fend for themselves.

The woman grasped a cross around her neck as she got into the car. She did as she was told and Mohammed sidled along the front of the car, the gun held just high enough to fire over the hood. He got in.

“I am expected at home—”

“When we are underway, you will call and tell your family you met an old friend,” he said. “I need you for about three hours. To drive, nothing more. Do that and you will see them tonight.”

“No, please—take the car . . .”

She heard the gun click. “Get in now.”

“All right,” she said, anxiously starting the car. She looked around outside as though seeking help.

He pointed the gun at her rib cage. “I warn you, do not alert anyone. Do not crash into anything. It will be the last thing you do.”

“I won’t,” she said tremulously. “I swear. Please . . . that could go off.”

He lowered the gun to his knees, covered it with his hand. “There.”

“All right. Thank you. Where do you want me to go?”

He opened the glove compartment. He put both cell phones Boulif had given him inside and removed a map. He did not have to look at it; that was for emergencies.

“Get on the highway going north,” he said. “I’ll direct you from there.”

“You are not from here—”

He shot her a look.

“Your accent,” she said. “I may know a shorter way. If you would tell me—”

“You talk too much,” he said. “Drive.”

She did. The evening traffic had thinned and they had no trouble getting onto the A2—other than the woman driving slowly, tensely, her mind and body rigid with fear. That was going to cause an accident.

“I will put the gun away,” he said. “You must relax.”

“All right,” she said, breathing deeply and exhaling as he put the weapon beside him, near the door. “I just want to get home to my family.”

“You will sleep in your own bed tonight,” he assured her.

Mohammed did not know if that were true. If it became necessary to sacrifice her to protect his goal of jihad, he would not hesitate to kill her. If it was God’s will, many, many like her would perish.

He asked for her cell phone and told her to dictate a message to whoever was expecting her. She said she was going to dinner with someone from work and would be home as soon as possible. It was addressed to her daughter Sarah.

It seemed safe enough, no hidden messages. He sent it. Sarah texted back that she would make dinner for herself and John, and that they’d do their homework and Bible reading. He gave her back the phone.

“You have strong faith,” Mohammed said as he slipped the phone in her pocket.

“It is the center of our lives.”

“There is no husband?”

“He died. A boating accident.”

Mohammed looked out the windshield. She missed him. He heard the hurt in her voice. It meant nothing to him. He missed his brother, but he was in Paradise. He missed his comrades, but they were in Paradise. That is the blessing of the Prophet. Death for True Believers was only the beginning of a man’s great adventure.

It felt good to sit and reflect. Mohammed had been on the move since he left Yemen. He was tired and his eyes wanted to close, but he could not allow that. The woman seemed to have accepted her fate, but if he fell asleep she might reconsider, try and get the gun. He turned on the fan and adjusted the blower so it was in his eyes.

The woman drove in silence. Soon they were off the modern stretch of highway and were on the A1 that would take them directly to Tangier.

“The police found the Daewoo.”

Clarke had called Kealey with the information rather than texting. That meant he wanted to kick some tactics around.

“Where is it?” Kealey asked.

“At the foot of the A2,”Clarke said.

Kealey took a moment to get his bearings. He looked north, saw the helicopter over the site. He briefed Rayhan, then stopped, honked his horn, and sent her out to tell the officers there had been a change of plans.

“Any idea what he’s driving now?” Kealey asked.

“Nothing. The police are just arriving now. We’ve been crunching data here and we can’t find any known contacts Boulif had in that area.”

“Morocco’s not exactly dense with active terrorists,” Kealey said. “Why bother when they have safe haven everywhere from Western Sahara to Mali?”

“Just R&D or support systems to pass people along, that’s our thinking,” Clarke said. “So unless Boulif had a safe house somewhere else, which is doubtful, we think the cargo is going east to Algeria or north Tangier. We’ve got some loud voices on both sides, here and at the other agencies who are crunching this one.”

Land route toward the Middle East or sea route to no one knows where, Kealey thought. Helluva crapshoot . . . but he was betting on the sea route. There was just one target to the east, Tel Aviv, and lots of Israeli security concentrated on every inch of that passage. The other way was rich with fat cities.

Rayhan returned, and as the cars changed course Kealey told her to ask Yazdi about their options. Before she could do that, the Iranian’s phone buzzed. She looked at it. Then she looked at Yazdi.

“What is it?” Kealey asked.

She replied, “It says, ‘He thinks Tangier.’ ” She asked Yazdi, “Who does?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Give me the phone.”

She held it so he could see. He studied the text message then answered truthfully, “I have no idea.” He added, less truthfully, “It was forwarded by someone in my intelligence analysis department. Do you wish me to speak with them?”

Kealey shook his head. He could send a coded message about his whereabouts or situation.

“How did your people get the information at the same time as our people?” Rayhan asked.

“We have sources, too.”

Rayhan translated for Kealey. He looked at Yazdi in the rearview mirror. He could tell when a man was lying. The Iranian was trying too hard. He was too relaxed, his voice was too much of a monotone. He was telling the truth, but only as much as suited him.

They had reached the Catholic charity. Kealey couldn’t be bothered with Yazdi right now. He took the keys and got out. There were two police officers at the Daewoo. They were joined by the men who had brought Kealey here.

“Do any of you speak English?” Kealey asked.

“I do,” said one young man.

“Did anyone see what happened?”

“No one, sir.”

“Security cameras?”

“No, sir. We are waiting for laboratory technicians to examine the car.”

That was great. The man was out of sight for less than ten minutes and he was gone. Kealey looked back at the car. But someone thinks he is headed to Tangier.

Kealey glanced around him. He felt trapped by the blank faces, blank landscape, blank data. He liked it better when the enemy was shooting at him. At least then he could return fire. He called Clarke back.

“They’ve got nothing here,” Kealey said. “What about the satellites?”

“They’re sifting through everything in the region,” he said. “Morocco has not exactly been a high-priority target for us. You know what the chances are that we had eyes-on there, at that time.”

“Yeah.”

Very, very little. Kealey was still looking around. That was the wrong thing to do. He thought about Uncle Largo. He had no tech to help him, just his eyes and his instincts and a radio. And he found the damn container.

“I’m going to Tangier,” Kealey said suddenly. “That’s only a couple hours’ drive. If he took the Algerian route, he’s got a border crossing. They’re sure to examine the backseat, the trunk. There’s no way he’d get the device across.”

“That may be true going into Morocco,” Clarke said. “Arabs get waved through the other way. He might risk it.”

Clarke had a point. Algeria to Morocco was one of the toughest crossings on the globe. The frontier had been closed since 1994, when Algerian intelligence was accused of abetting an attack on the Atlas Asni hotel in Marrakech that was linked to an attack on a McDonald’s the year before. The blockade ended in the summer of 2012, when the governments agreed to strengthen ties between North African Muslims by reopening the border. The truth was, Morocco was the tourist destination, the one that had assets to lose, not Algeria. Security would be tight going in, not out.

“Still, if we’re talking endgame, not logistics, why bring the device to the Middle East?” Kealey asked. “There are juicy targets in Europe. Hell, Madrid’s accessible across a short stretch of water.”

“One of our guys here, who has family in the Middle East, who says he knows these screwballs, is absolutely adamant that the terrorist will bring it home.”

“To do what, show it off?”

“He says it’s too big a responsibility for a foot soldier to decide its final disposition. He has a point.”

“Agreed, but this foot soldier had a high-level sponsor right here,” Kealey said. “General, I looked into that man’s eyes. He had the damn calling. If he told our terrorist to try and get the device to Paris or London, he’d be on the way. You know the drill. The last strong voice they hear . . .”

“Yeah, I know,” Clarke said. “We’re still figuring it out.”

“Dammit, we don’t have time for figuring,” Kealey said. He was getting impatient. Clarke didn’t bother pointing that out; Kealey knew. He scrolled it back. “Isn’t there someone we can pull off the Western Sahara, get them into Algeria to watch for him?”

The Western Sahara was disputed by both Morocco and the Polisario Front, a ferocious liberation group. It was among the most lawless territories in the region and a hotbed for the drug and arms trade.

“I could never get that done in time,” Clarke informed him. “You know those are all Andrews’s people. I’ve told him we could use the extra hands and eyes—he said he’d get that done as soon as possible.”

Robert Andrews was the head of the CIA, Kealey’s former agency. He tended to absorb any operation in which his talent pool was involved. Kealey didn’t care about the credit or the chain of command, only about results.

“How long?” Kealey asked.

“Ten, twelve hours,” Clarke said.

“A plane from here could put the bomb anywhere east of the Appalachians in that time,” Kealey said. “General, Professor Boulif was a nuclear physicist who had the world’s first suitcase bomb fall into his lap,” Kealey said. “He was a jihadist. He had to see that as an act of God. When he confronted me, he was covering his boy’s retreat. He didn’t expect to die—he expected me to die. I’m sure he wanted to see that baby blow up. He had to.”

Clarke considered that, too.

“All right,” the general said. “There’s a toll station on the A1 at Kénitra, not even twenty minutes from your current position. It’s usually pretty crowded at the tail end of daylight. There are a lot of tourist motor homes slowing things down, heading for the campgrounds. If your target is on that road and he doesn’t know it’s coming, he’s got to stop and go through it. Anything you can do with that?”

Kealey thought. He was going to go after him, despite the fact that the terrorist might recognize the car. He had looked around before he planted the bomb outside the school. These men might not be educated but they weren’t careless. Or stupid. In this narrow area of responsibility, they were very, very focused. But there wasn’t time to get another car. Any police car would raise red flags. He would have to risk it. In the meantime, it hit him—a way they could ID the target.

“Get word up there,” Kealey said suddenly, looking behind him. “Tell the toll agents to look for a hostage.”

“You have more than that?” Clarke asked.

“Yeah,” Kealey said. “Look for someone who looks afraid—and might be wearing a cross.”

CHAPTER 15

WASHINGTON, D.C.

To Largo, Washington would always be a wartime city. That might have had something to do with his elementary school education. He vividly remembered the lessons from his American History class in Miami, how the colonies formed a union of autonomous states banded together primarily for their mutual protection. Largo didn’t actually come here until the Second World War, when the city was a hive for men and women in uniform. Every meeting he had here was about the war. Every person he met here asked about or talked about the war. Every billboard he remembered warned citizens not to talk about the war because agents of Hitler or Tojo or Mussolini might be listening.

Like everything else in his life, Largo knew it was going to be tough to let that go. He explained that to Allison when she called for him at nine a.m. He hadn’t intended to. But when a man had been alone as long as he had, there was virtually no functional difference between talking to someone else and talking to yourself. It just came out.

“Automatic associations are tricky,” Allison said as they pulled from the curb in her Prius. “We hold tight to the good ones—songs that remind us of a loved one, smells that recall a vacation or a happy time. But we seem to hold tighter to the bad ones.”

“Why? In life, I never wanted to be surrounded—” He stopped.

“Yes?”

“But I did,” he said. “I did want to be surrounded by the enemy. I did want to challenge myself.”

“With physical danger,” Allison said. “Or rather, a physical experience.”

Largo snickered. “Am I, are we, really that simple?”

“Not simple—but there is a baseline and it still goes back to the hunter-gatherer gene. The difficulty is that our brain has outstripped that. It recognizes that atavistic desire, knows it is necessary sometimes—hence the fight-or-flight reaction. But for some people, like yourself, and God knows like your nephew, it is an addiction. I don’t mean that as a pejorative. Most people live in the center, with joys and stress more or less balanced. Some people spend a day or two on the fulcrum of the seesaw before they go buggy and slide from elation to dejection. They say they want to be in the middle—but they don’t, really.”

Largo thought about that while they pulled up to a café. He didn’t know where it was or what it was. Until a waiter handed him a menu he was racing through his life like he was scanning a DVD.

“What if I had never gone over to France?” he asked.

“What were you doing before that?”

“Going to school. During the summer, I worked with my father on his fishing boat.”

“Would you have become a fisherman?”

“Probably. I enjoyed being on—” He stopped again.

Allison smiled. “Another thought?”

“Another one,” he said. “I enjoyed being on the water when a storm threatened or the sea was rough. It would have come out, right? This—what did you call it?”

“Atavism,” she said. “The reappearance of some ancient, primitive need or instinct.”

Largo smiled—not just outside but inside, for the first time in a long time. “So I couldn’t have helped it. I couldn’t really do anything about whatever that trigger might have been. I’d have been this way anyway.”

“Most likely.”

Largo ordered coffee, strawberries, and granola.

“Do you have any dietary restrictions?” Allison asked after she ordered eggs, rye toast, and tea.

“No,” he said. “I like grains and fruit. Always have. Must be the monkey in me.”

Without knowing exactly how or why, Largo felt as if a cloud had parted just a little to let in some sun. It was an uncharacteristic feeling.

It was a good one.

KÉNITRA, MOROCCO

The two-fisted American, the classic clean-cut, beardless, steely-eyed American returned to the car, barked something at his companion, and sped onto the highway without his police escort. Yazdi was not surprised when the woman turned and asked him again about the message he’d received.

“Persistence will gain you nothing,” he answered. “I do not know who sent it.”

“I’ve seen that kind of wording before,” Rayhan said. “ ‘He thinks Tangier.’ Someone in the field briefed someone in your department and they passed the information to you. Who and where is ‘he’?”

“I cannot help you.”

“Will not.”

“No,” he said firmly. “Cannot.”

She regarded him dubiously, then translated for Kealey. He gave her new instructions. She said, “Can you help us in Tangier?”

“If you give me the phone.”

She translated. Kealey said one word, which she repeated. “How?”

“Let me contact my staff. These people we’re chasing—they’re not going to attack my country. I am trying to help.”

The woman’s partner said something without being asked.

“He says this is all that’s keeping you here,” Rayhan told him. “You can’t have it back. We’ll do what we can to accommodate classified information.”

Yazdi knew there was not likely to be anything else from their sleeper. Unaware that he was the Americans’ guest, the sleeper had done what he could to direct their efforts elsewhere. But this American man was too intuitive to be misled. The real danger lay in what names and contact numbers and stored emails remained on the phone. Yazdi needed to get it and put in a kill code to burn that data. He considered snatching the phone from her and smashing it, but they could still make something from the chips and pieces.

There was no rush. The American was on the phone again, racing north on the highway. He was talking animatedly to the “general” on the other end; the woman was listening attentively. The traffic was growing thicker, slowing, and Yazdi realized they were coming to a toll plaza. As they neared, the American swung the car from the left lane to the right and from there onto a very narrow shoulder. Yazdi saw men with donkeys moving along the other side of the wire fence. They were leaving satchels that farmers would fill and leave for pickup in the morning, vegetables bound for market. Beyond them, sheep were grazing in a field and several landscapers were trimming the grass with hand shears. None of the animals started but a few horns complained as the American cut over. He drove around traffic along the maintenance road, toward the side of the toll booth. A security officer was there to wave him around the last of the glass and metal booths.

Yazdi didn’t see radiation detectors anywhere. Someone must have spotted the terrorist based on information the American had provided.

The way this man could envision a mosaic from a few tesserae impressed and worried him. More than ever, Yazdi was determined to share nothing.

And to make sure the American took nothing.

Except for occasional tears and the way her cross sometimes glinted tauntingly in the reddening sun—as though ‘Ibls, the Devil himself, was present in the car—Mohammed found nothing distracting or uncooperative about the woman. She asked no questions and she did not answer her phone when it chimed. There was a bit of tension as they waited in line to go through the toll booth: surrounded by motor homes that blocked them in and impeded his view, Mohammed felt that the crawling pace would never end. When they finally reached the booth, Mohammed made a point of putting the gun back on his lap and covering it with a map from the glove compartment. The woman paid the toll without looking at the guard. They eased through, headed along the coast. The signs said that the next major town was Moulay Bouselham, a fishing village.

“I don’t know if I can do much more of this,” the woman choked. She was still staring ahead but there were tears on her cheek.

Mohammed remembered the gun, moved it to his side. “Think of your family.”

“I am. Please. Take the car—leave me on the road.”

“You will talk.”

“No! No, take the car. I will say nothing. I’ll walk home.... I will say I remember nothing. I will tell them I had a seizure. I am a nurse.... I can make them believe me.”

“Be quiet,” he said. “You will take me where I wish to go.”

They drove on, the woman occasionally weaving, starting back to alertness. Mohammed put the gun back in his lap.

“If . . . if you shoot me, you will crash,” she said boldly.

“And you will never know my fate!” he snapped. “Do not imagine I have never driven before, on the run, on more difficult roads. You do not understand the power a man has when God is with him!”

“God is with me,” she said quietly, as though reminding herself. “He is here.”

Mohammed heard horns blare behind him. He glanced in the side mirror, saw a car speeding ahead. He recognized it from the city; it was a police car that had been parked across the street from Boulif’s laboratory. Was it coming toward them? The car slowed. It was following him at a distance. This cannot be.

Had they found out about the device? Had Boulif told them something? Had they gone into his laboratory, somehow discovered what had been there?

Mohammed assumed the worst: that they knew what he was carrying. The nuclear device was not armed, though the police could not know that. They would not charge him. But he did not want to be followed.

He picked up the gun with his left hand, aimed it at the woman’s head. He grabbed the steering wheel with his right.

“Open the door,” he ordered.

“I—what are you going to do?” She lifted her foot from the gas.

“Do not stop!” he yelled. “You are getting out! Alive or dead, you are leaving!” He stretched his leg over, jammed his foot on hers, pushed the gun to her temple. “Open the door!”

She froze as he released the wheel, leaned across her, and pulled up the handle. She had her old-style seat belt on, across her waist, and cried out as he tried to pop it. She fought him now, releasing the wheel, turning her head, shrieking with fear she had tamped down since she was abducted. The car swerved as the door opened. The swing startled Mohammed; his finger tightened on the trigger and the gun went off, tracing a trail of red across the back of her head. The woman screamed and was thrown toward the door by the glancing impact, just as Mohammed managed to release the belt. She tumbled out, a strangely silent pile of clothes and limbs with an expression of frozen disbelief. Mohammed grabbed the wheel as a car swung wide toward the shoulder to avoid him. He righted it, slid into the seat, and pulled the door shut with the hand that was still holding the gun. He was energized but calm as he placed the weapon on the driver’s seat and reached toward the floor mat in front of him.

Kealey saw the door open and immediately sped up.

He was in the right lane, the Renault in the left. The American accelerated, got in front of the car nearest the terrorists, and cut in front of it. The driver had to brake and honked loudly but Kealey ignored him. He slowed, allowing the Renault to pull away.

The driver behind Kealey swung right, tried to cut him off. Rayhan rolled down the window, motioned him away with both hands. He gave her the finger. Kealey handed her his gun and she stuck it out the window.

The driver backed off.

Almost at that same moment, the woman exploded from the car and bounced on the road. Kealey braked, swung diagonally to keep anyone else from trying to cut in, and stopped.

“Tell him to get out and help her,” Kealey told Rayhan.

She relayed the information. Yazdi started to argue.

“If she’s conscious, I need her debriefed!” he snapped. “We’re losing time!”

Rayhan translated and Yazdi jumped out. He pushed the door shut and Kealey tore away, after the Renault. Kealey looked in the rearview mirror. The woman seemed to be moving. Other cars were stopping, people getting out to help.

“What about the device?” Rayhan asked.

“If it’s armed, he’ll use it as a threat to get away,” Kealey replied. “What I want to do is see if we can stop the car. If I can fire a shot, perfect. If not, I want to get close so you can take a picture, video—record his voice if you can. We’ll see if it matches any phone conversations on file. We need to know who his associates are, who might help him.”

“Do you think we can stop him?”

“If he gets out of the car, maybe,” Kealey said. “But I can’t see why he would. He’s still got plutonium at his fingertips. Just kicking it out the door kills God knows how many people, including us. At the very least I want to try and make the guy—buck this over to the brain trust so they can figure out how to haul him in.”

The man was driving wildly, bumping cars that came too close or got in his way. Kealey wasn’t closing the gap but at least the man wasn’t getting away. It was strange to smell the sea, a vacation smell, a relaxing smell, while engaged in a high-speed chase after a terrorist.

“Do you think we’ll see Yazdi again?” Rayhan asked.

“Not sure,” Kealey said. “That phone is obviously a gold mine of information. He won’t want to leave it if he doesn’t have to.”

The chase looked as though it was going to take them into the fishing village as the terrorist sped up and appeared to make for the exit. Kealey was still on his tail, sped up himself, Rayhan bracing herself against the dashboard with her left hand while she gripped the gun with her right. If they got a shot at the man, she didn’t want Kealey to have to fish for the gun. It was right there, the safety off—

Kealey saw the package arc from the driver’s side window. It looked like a black bird, even though it was airborne for only a moment. It struck the roadway with a skidding twist as Kealey realized what it was.

“Get in the backseat, on the floor!” he screamed at Rayhan.

She processed the command before she understood what was going on. She threw herself over the seat and hunkered down. She was still holding the gun.

It was too late to stop the car and to try and block the vehicles rushing in behind him—the big motor homes and trucks were perilously close. There was nothing he could do. Kealey swerved around the backpack and floored the gas pedal and barely avoided a van in front of him just as the IED exploded.

The rear window shattered and was blown from the frame, raining glass on Rayhan. But the trunk and backseat absorbed any other debris. In the rearview mirror Kealey could see two motor homes on either side of the explosion literally knocked to their sides, like the pillars pushed over by Samson. They threw sparks into the air as they slid forward, bumped hard by cars behind them that drove or were blown into them. A dark, ugly cloud rose from the middle of the road and a motorcycle came pinwheeling through it without a driver. It crashed hard in front of one of the fallen motor homes. Cars had driven onto the shoulder, and were banged ahead in fits as other cars collided with them.

Kealey could only see the collisions, not hear them; his ears were still ringing slightly from the explosion in Fès and this new blast was even louder. It had been enough to momentarily deafen him.

“Are you all right?” he shouted toward the backseat.

A hand came up over the seat, indicating Rayhan was all right.

As Kealey looked ahead to see where the driver had gone, he became aware of his car wobbling. He couldn’t hear it but he knew that something had punctured his rear tires.

Kealey pulled over to the shoulder. He jumped out, climbed on the hood, and looked down the highway. He saw nothing. He looked toward the fishing village. It was getting dark, but he thought he saw the Renault speeding away.

“Put your cell number in his phone and leave it,” he told Rayhan.

“Leave it?” she shouted to clarify.

“Yes!” Kealey nodded in emphasis, then jumped from the hood and started running through the field, toward the sea.

Rayhan did as he asked, then rose and opened the back door, stretched a leg out crab-like and followed. She was still holding the gun. She put the safety on.

She watched her step in the fast-fading sunlight, though she still managed to step in sheep manure—which, under the circumstances, had the oddly reassuring result of tweaking her senses and making her feel oddly, gratefully alive.

Yazdi knelt beside the fragile heap that was piled awkwardly on the asphalt. Limbs were broken, judging from their marionette poses; not her back, he guessed, since one leg was moving and her head was shifting from side to side. He took off his shirt and tucked it under her bloody head wound.

“Can you hear me?” he asked.

“My children,” she said. “Want—to see them.”

“You will.” Several people were getting out. He heard two of them calling for the police and an ambulance.

“Is there anything you can tell me about the man who abducted you,” Yazdi asked.

“Muslim—young.”

“Anything else?”

She moaned, shook her head slowly.

“I want to catch him, see that he is punished. When he spoke—”

“My phone,” she said, lurching awkwardly. “He handled it.”

People were beginning to gather. Yazdi felt delicately around her body, as though he were checking for broken bones. He was also touching a woman familiarly—and in public. He looked away to show the others that he was uncomfortable with that; it was the truth. When he found the phone, he palmed it and stepped back.

A doctor announced himself and made his way through the few onlookers. There was an ambulance in the distance.

And then the road erupted ahead of them. Yazdi saw it an instant before he heard it or felt it. A black plume shot straight up, like a crow’s feather, then quickly smeared around the edges. The bang was like a child hitting a Dumpster with a stick. And then the roadway beneath him literally rolled, like the sea.

Yazdi knew who it was, what it was, and who the target had been when he saw the column of smoke flash-form. He was up and running toward it, dodging cars that stopped as other cars, ahead of them, were knocked, pushed, or rolled back. It was about a quarter mile away from him but the heat of the explosion—and the smell of the ingredients—reached him before he had gone more than a few steps. It had the odor of a kitchen where something was burning. It was a home-made explosive, just like the car bomb, made with oatmeal. He knew all of that before he taken a dozen steps yet he didn’t know the most important thing: what he hoped to find. He did not know if he wanted the Americans dead or not. The man was arrogant, the woman was inexperienced, and they had gotten in the way of his mission.

But that man had been seasoned and, because of that, he had been fair. That was a quality lacking even in his own department, especially the younger men who only knew how to hate—even their fellow Iranians.

Yazdi drew a handkerchief from his pocket as he neared the bomb site. The cloud was dissipating in all directions now, with choking, particulate matter from both the bomb and the vehicles that burned around it. The heat came in waves, from hot to hotter, and he ran with his left hand above his brow so he could cover his eyes when the furnace temperatures were their worst.

The police car the American had been driving was not there. Yazdi circled around ground zero, upwind from the heat, saw the vehicle parked on the shoulder. He hurried over and saw the damaged tires, the blasted windshield—and through it he spotted his cell phone on the seat. It wasn’t exactly an act of trust, he knew, but a calculated gamble: the American had put stopping the device above all other considerations—and hoped that Yazdi felt the same.

He did not know if two people could arrive at the same course of action for two very different reasons.

Right now Yazdi needed to get information and the explosion itself might help. Behind, where he had left the woman, he could see the lights of the ambulance through the smoke. Other sirens were approaching from both directions. He would have to act fast before the crime scene was sealed. He made his way as close as he dared, to where the cabin of an overturned motor home had been scorched by the blast. The driver and passenger were dead, charred, their bodies and the seats still ablaze. He had not come to help them. He held his breath and, in the dark, by the light of the burning car, he pinched particles of ash from the ground—burned leather, powdered rubber, human flesh. It didn’t matter. He lay it in the handkerchief and hurried back to the remains of the police car. Spreading the fabric on the seat, he held the injured woman’s phone close to his mouth and exhaled. He quickly put it facedown in the ash and pressed it down lightly. Then he picked it up carefully and lay it faceup. He took his own phone and put it close on top. The built-in camera was equipped with finely engineered optics. He snapped several images, then sent them to Sanjar, in his division, with a text:

URGENT: MOHAMMED’S FINGERPRINTS.

IF LEGIBLE, CHECK CUSTOMS. FIND

DOCUMENTS AND ALIASES.

He considered ordering them to send the D.C. mole to ground—but felt he might still be useful. Yazdi still hoped to obtain the nuclear device and having someone inside was worth the risk of possibly losing him. He did send a second, different, text, however. When he was finished, the Iranian rubbed the phone clean and threw it toward the nearest fire so his own prints would not be found on it. He saw a suitcase lying in the road and, hurrying over, opened it. He found a man’s shirt, roughly his size, and pulled it on. He also took a sweater he found and threw it around his shoulders. Then he went back to the shoulder and pushed down a section of the wire fence—helped by a huge section of tire that had been blown against it. Scampering over it he ran into the field, in the direction the Americans had to have gone.

CHAPTER 16

SOUK EL ARBA DU GHARB, MOROCCO

Mohammed did not stop in Moulay Bouselham.

The Yemeni was not sure whether the backpack bomb Boulif prepared had stopped his pursuers. If the force were as big as the bang it made, he would be surprised if the asphalt hadn’t been reduced to tar. Regardless, the car he was driving had been seen and could be identified. Somehow, something had given him away. That didn’t concern him. He was safe for the moment. It was nighttime now. Only a massive aerial search or blind luck would allow them to find him. Between prayers of thanks to God, Mohammed decided it was worth the risk to keep going—especially if his pursuers had survived. There was a town to the east, Souk el Arba du Gharb. According to the map from the glove compartment, there was a rail line that went all the way to Tangier. That was how he would get there.

He had noted the direction of the setting sun and went away from it, following the signs when they appeared. He was no longer on the highway but on rural roads. He felt he would be safer here, with fewer eyes on him and more places to pull over and hide—even if the trip took longer.

Mohammed was hungry and thirsty and he stopped at a small café that had a coffee cup painted on its white wall just below two satellite dishes. Inside, the place smelled of tobacco and chickpeas. There were big-screen televisions inside—one over the bar and one in a back room where a few men were gaming. He ordered couscous with spicy vegetables and coffee to go. It was not yet crowded for dinner, and his meal came quickly. He left and ate in the car, which sat by a small park well beyond the nearest streetlight.

It was a simple supper but the best he had ever eaten. The exhaustion from earlier began to return. He took several swallows of black coffee, set the cup in a holder on the dashboard, and was about to set off when a jingling sound caused him to start.

He looked around the car, realized it was coming from a cell phone. It was inside the glove compartment—the phone Boulif had given him to detonate the nuclear device. Mohammed retrieved it. The number of the caller was blocked. But who would have this number, though, other than Boulif? He thumbed the lighted screen to answer.

“Yes?”

“I am Abdeliah,” said the caller. “I am a friend of the professor you were to call. But things have changed. Do not speak unless I ask a question. In what building did you receive this telephone?”

“A—a school,” he said. He had to think before answering. He wanted to make sure it was a question.

“The explosion on the A1. What was the number you used?”

“I used 911.”

“Listen to me,” the man said. “You are to stay on the road you are on. It will carry you east, past the industrial quarter. Wait at the cemetery for further instructions. Go now.”

Mohammed wanted to know who the caller really was and how the man knew where he was—but stopped himself. Don’t ask questions, only answer them. He had been trained in Yemen to do as he was told. Only at the last moment of life would he earn the privilege of being free.

He did not even finish his coffee but set out in the dark, following his shaky headlights along a narrow asphalt road among bicycles and motor scooters, old cars and trucks, most of them coming in his direction. The lingering smell of ocean and fish vanished as he drove toward the more isolated region of the city’s industrial heart.

Kealey was breathless by the time he reached the outskirts of the village. Rayhan was just a few paces behind him.

The last Kealey had seen of the Renault, it was headed eastward along what looked like a main road. He turned slowly, gathered in the view. They were in an exchange market, closed for the day, where fishermen brought their catch and sold it to middlemen. A few naked bulbs were visible in dirty windows, misty with decades of sea air. He heard a radio playing what sounded like Berber folk tunes somewhere in the distance; he had heard them in a visit to Gitmo, where they were used for sleep deprivation. If the beat didn’t keep you awake, the nasal atonal sound of the vocalists would. Kealey stopped turning when he found what he was looking for. He ran toward an old Ford pickup truck parked along the side of a small warehouse. The door was open.

“Get behind the wheel,” he said.

While Rayhan climbed in—legs weary, still breathing heavily, but uncomplaining—Kealey went around to the front of the truck and raised the hood. It complained, loudly.

“Open the door—I need the interior light,” he said

She cracked the door and Kealey looked around, squinting. He found the truck’s ignition coil. He recognized it from all the copper wire bundled inside. He snatched a piece of wire from what he thought was a headlight but was definitely outside the engine block. He didn’t know everything he should about cars and trucks and he hoped he wouldn’t need whatever he’d just disabled. He connected one end of the wire to the ignition coil, the other end to the red rod of the battery. That was usually the positive side. If it wasn’t, the only sound he’d hear would be the thump of his heart. He needed something to make a connection and remembered the keys he’d taken from Boulif’s body on the off-chance he’d need them. Most times, when he did that, the items ended up being used in ways for which they were not designed. That was just how this business worked. He lay the entire key ring across the two poles of the solenoid near the battery and quickly withdrew his hand. There was a sizzling spark, a cough, and the truck was running with a throaty rumble.

Rayhan went to move over, but Kealey motioned for her to stay. He shut the hood and went to the passenger’s side.

“Anyone stops us, I won’t know what the hell they’re saying,” he told her. “Let’s stay on this road—looks like the side streets all go north. Easier to look for him.”

She started out, relieved that the truck had automatic transmission. “What if we’re stopped by police?”

“Fine with me,” Kealey told her. “We could use the extra eyes.”

The old Ford bounced along the road, its shock absorbers shot, Kealey assuming they’d been made because their target recognized the car. Or the target may have panicked seeing a police car in his wake. Or he may have wanted to get rid of his fellow traveler and then just covered his tracks. It didn’t matter, really. Kealey just needed to keep his mind active. It had been a damned long day and they hadn’t stopped since departing the Baby Herc. Rayhan seemed alert, but she was younger. That really made a difference.

Rayhan looked ahead and Kealey stared down side streets. There were too few streetlights, and those he saw weren’t bright enough to reveal much about the traffic. He was beginning to doubt that the terrorist would have taken any of these roads: his objective would have been to put distance between himself and pursuers—whom he had possibly seen were on foot—and find someplace to get rid of the car. Kealey saw nothing that gave the bomber that option.

“Let’s speed it up,” he said, gesturing ahead.

Rayhan obliged, though there wasn’t much they could do in the rattling truck on a street that needed paving. There were no pedestrians and fewer commuters and they found themselves at the end of the road, just past Avenue Mfadel Cherkaoui. There was a large empty lot ahead with a dirt road cut through it.

“Wait here,” Kealey said. He jumped out, motioned her forward, and studied the ground. Water was pooled in the middle where the lot sloped down. He ran back to the truck. “There are fresh car tracks on this side and muddy tracks ahead,” he said. “Go straight.”

They went through the open lot. There was a shed immediately to the left and an expanse of gravel to the right, somewhat closer. A derrick, bulldozer, and other construction equipment sat still and dark in front of them, silhouetted against distant spotlights. There was a beaten-up white Volvo parked near the bulldozer. The lights surrounded the functional structures of what looked like an industrial park.

Peering ahead, Kealey said, “That would be a good place to lose—”

He was interrupted by a hard cracking sound against the door on the driver’s side of the truck. Rayhan started, wasn’t sure what she heard, but Kealey knew.

“Down!” he yelled, and simultaneously grabbed her arm and pulled her toward him, low on the seat. The truck swerved toward the passenger’s side as a thud kicked stuffing from the dashboard and filled the air with cottony, floating fragments.

They were under fire from the direction of the shack. Handguns with silencers, judging from the lack of sound apart from the bullets striking.

Kealey reached across Rayhan and swung the wheel so the back of the truck would take the gunfire. Without her foot on the gas the Ford drifted to a stop. A pair of bullets struck the seat behind them in quick succession.

Kealey drew Boulif’s gun from his belt. He didn’t know who the attackers were or whether they planned to move in. He assumed they would. There was nothing the attackers needed to know. Detention wouldn’t be as efficient as elimination.

Rayhan was breathing quickly, lying as flat as she could make herself, staring into the dark of the seat back.

“They opened fire to pin us down,” he said. “From up ahead we could have seen that industrial park and the rest of the roadway.”

“Then why are we staying here?” she asked.

“Because we don’t know how many shooters there are,” Kealey told her. “From the spread I’d say we’ve got one gunman firing right now. But there could be additional people just out of range, behind the gravel. The lot dips in the middle. They’d be able to fire down on us there.”

“We can’t just sit here. The terrorist is getting away.”

“We’re not going to sit here,” Kealey said as another bullet struck the truck, shattering the front windshield. Glass fragments covered the hood. “That came from behind, like the others. He was firing in twos till now. Six shots. He’s pacing himself to buy time now. After the next one, I’m going to swing us back the way we came. We’ll go around the lot.”

“How could anyone be waiting for us?” she asked breathlessly. “There wasn’t anyone with him in Fès.”

Kealey assumed they were associates of the man she’d exterminated. But there was no time to explain and no reason to speculate. They had to get out of here. The Volvo was probably the associate. If they couldn’t find the terrorist, at least they had that.

He had snaked along the forward part of the seat so his left hand was on the gas pedal and his right hand—still gripping the gun—was on the steering wheel. If it were just him, he would have charged the shed with his lights off. But he didn’t know if he could make it before the guy reloaded and he hadn’t been able to spot the muzzle flashes before turning the truck around.

There was a strange hum, then, followed by pops of un-silenced gunfire. It came from the driver’s side but it wasn’t aimed at them. Kealey braved a look. There were flashes from a scooter, a single return shot from the shed, and then silence. He rose a little higher, looked over the backseat at the rear window. A chill breeze was blowing through, carrying the tart, faint smell of gunpowder. He watched as the scooter skidded to a stop. A shadowy figure got off, approached the structure furtively, then went inside. There was a flash—the silencer?—and he emerged a few moments later and, before mounting the motorbike, he shouted ahead: “Ahlan wa sahlan!”

“Yazdi?” Rayhan said, brightening.

Kealey’s mouth twisted. “Yeah.” He couldn’t remember the last time he had been glad and humiliated at the same time. But he also felt vindicated; it was his decision to leave the phone as a show of trust.

Rayhan squirmed from beneath Kealey and he looked ahead, toward the gravel, as Yazdi approached from the opposite direction. No warning shots: he was guessing it had been a lone gunman. To the right, he did not see movement in the Volvo. He’d keep an eye on it as they approached. Now it was time to go.

“Tell him to get on,” Kealey told Rayhan. “His gunfire may bring the police.”

Yazdi was ahead of him. As Kealey and Rayhan switched places, the Iranian jumped off the bike, loaded it on the back, and followed it up. He came to the broken window, the gunman’s silenced 9mm and another weapon bunched in his left hand.

“Stolen at gunpoint?” Rayhan asked, nodding at the motorbike.

“Bought on a street corner,” he said, “and I overpaid. I was in a hurry.”

Rayhan smiled. Kealey told her to thank him and ask if there was anything on the shooter.

“No identification, no cell phone,” Yazdi said. “Perhaps in the car.”

They drove to the Volvo. It was empty. Kealey ran his palm around the perspiration-damp wheel, smudging his fingerprints. “The man who sold Yazdi the bike,” Kealey said. “Did he get a good look at Yazdi?”

Yazdi said he made all his transactions where he couldn’t be seen—or the other party did not survive. Whichever side Yazdi was on, Kealey could not help but respect a professional.

“Get in the Volvo,” Kealey said suddenly. “We may be able to get closer to them in this. You can check it out while I drive.”

They got in, Yazdi in the back. As Kealey continued along the east-west road, Rayhan searched the car. She went through the glove compartment, felt across the dashboard, checked the door pockets and seat. Yazdi examined the back. He shook his head.

“After what happened in Fès they’re working clean,” Kealey said. It was a relief to be in a quiet car. He could hear himself think and talk.

A helicopter flew overhead. Kealey heard another going north-south.

“They’ve interviewed the survivors of the explosion,” Rayhan said. “They know what car to look for.”

Kealey nodded. “If he hasn’t changed it by now, he’s got it hidden.”

“Do you think this was part of the plan from the start, to have him hook up with these people?”

“No,” he told her. “If Yazdi is telling the truth—and I believe he is about this—the terrorist got the bomb by accident. He may have had a name to go to or else it was just luck that he stumbled on that beach shack. You can pretty much throw a dart here and hit someone who knows someone with connections to radicals. So we have a group that embraced our man and may have a mission for him. My guess is that after what happened to the professor, they didn’t want any other members being ID’d and compromised.”

The Volvo sped down the empty two-lane road. There were infrequent side streets here, just surprisingly modern shops; if not for the Arabic writing, some of them would have been at home in a D.C.-area strip mall.

When they reached the industrial area, all eyes turned left. There was no gate, no security. Just a long road leading to white buildings. Kealey slowed. Ahead, on both the left and right, was a suburban-style development with evenly placed street lamps and tract homes. That, too, could have been Anywhere, U.S.A. The little white cones of light went on for at least three-quarters of a mile in both directions.

Kealey didn’t realize how hard he was gripping the wheel until sweat trickled from his palms. He relaxed. They passed the complex and neared the development.

Does he try to lose himself or outrace us? he wondered.

He leaned forward, looked up through the windshield at the helicopters. One was circling the lot, one the complex. A nose-mounted spotlight played around the grounds. The Moroccan police had this covered. It didn’t matter who got the bastard, only that he was apprehended. Kealey gunned the engine, throwing Rayhan and Yazdi back in their seats.

Kealey sped forward until he reached a fork in the road. One went southeast. That would take their quarry back toward Algeria. The other—

A glow caught his eye in that direction.

“No!” he snarled and charged down the road. The helicopter over the industrial complex saw it at the same time and joined them.

The right fork ended at a Christian cemetery. The Renault was burning. Whether the site was symbolic or not, the group was taking no chances: they had torched any trace of the terrorist and his cargo.

Kealey did not stop. He sped around the cemetery looking for a car that was heading away from the fire. He hadn’t seen any cars coming past him on the fork—they had to have gone this way.

Into the housing development, through the southern side. With dozens of side streets and endless garages. Where nothing but a complete cordon and lockdown, followed by a door-to-door search—or blind luck—would turn up their quarry. And only that if none of the officers were sympathetic to the cause. Kealey couldn’t count on them. Not to a man. Then there was the possibility that the target had simply swung through the community, exited on the north side, and headed west—back to the highway.

He drove through the neighborhood, saw a few cars, but none of them reacted to the Volvo. It was another case of having the target within reach and not being able to close the damn deal.

Rayhan and Yazdi were silent. He didn’t know whether they were thinking or keeping a respectful distance from the mission leader or both. Not that it mattered.

Kealey pulled to the curb. He called Clarke and asked him to have the authorities go into big-net/little-net mode: set up roadblocks on the highway headed north while they organized a grid search within that.

“I’ll see what I can do,” the DNI chief replied. “I’ve still got to work through INTERPOL.”

“This isn’t a hypothetical, General. There’s a briefcase bomb headed somewhere. Remind them what it’ll do to their tourist billions if they’re implicated. Buck it up to POTUS. Have him point out it’s the same guy who just blew up the A1.”

Clarke hung up and Kealey looked around. The name of the game had always been cat and mouse. He took some comfort in the fact that the mouse was still near. Because the trail was still warm, the group had two options: keep running or sit until it cooled. Sitting with a nuclear device was chancy: if these guys were as educated as the professor, they wouldn’t want to babysit a lead container that was seventy years old and had been packed in crushing ice for most of that time.

They wouldn’t count on getting out by the highway, he thought. That left air and possibly rail. If they had a second car—and they would—they could double back to Moulay Bouselham and get out by sea.

Kealey’s internal motor was revving, but in neutral. Again.

“Ask him how the hostage was,” Kealey said. “Please.”

Rayhan posed the question and Yazdi answered. “He said she was alive and semiconscious. He doesn’t know how severe her internal injuries may have been.”

“But she was talking?”

Rayhan asked; Yazdi nodded.

The authorities would ask for a description of the man who abducted her—and who tossed an IED on the Moroccan highway. His likeness would be everywhere within an hour or so. Unless he was planning to hunker down with plutonium, he would have to get out of the country as soon as possible.

Kealey started back for Avenue Mfadel Cherkaoui

Yazdi asked a question. Rayhan said, “He asks where we are going.”

Ordinarily, Kealey wouldn’t answer. But the man had a pair of handguns and hadn’t used them to seize the car—yet. He felt he could trust him with information he probably already knew.

“There’s even more reason now for our terrorist to want to get out of the country,” Kealey said. “We don’t know what the resources of his new associates are. We need to be ready to leave the country. Does he have his fake passport?” Kealey asked, cocking his head back toward Yazdi.

Rayhan posed the questions exactly. Yazdi laughed and said he did.

“Great,” Kealey said. “We’re going to Tangier.”

“What about the North Atlantic Coast?” Rayhan asked. “If they double back the way they came and get a boat, they can sail to the coast of Spain or Portugal, find a way ashore.”

“I know,” Kealey told her as he took out his cell phone. “That’s why we’re going to need help.”

There was a terrible moment—a longer moment than he was expecting—when Mohammed was not sure he was going to survive.

Within a minute of pulling up to the cemetery a vehicle pulled up behind him, its headlights off, interior dark. Mohammed didn’t know whether to remain seated or to get out. He tasted his meal in the back of his throat. He tasted it still as a man emerged from the driver’s side of the car and walked over. He glanced in the backseat before stopping by the window. It was dark and the Yemeni could not see his face.

“Where is the device?” the man asked Mohammed.

“In the trunk,” Mohammed replied.

“Please get out,” the man said.

It was more of a command than a request. He stepped back as Mohammed opened the door.

“Bring the device to my car,” he said as he went back to the trunk.

Mohammed did as he was told, popping the trunk and lifting the lead box. It seemed heavier than before. He was arm weary and tired. He lugged it to the open trunk of the other car, a Nissan Tiida. While he did so, the other man ran back to the Renault, emptied liquid on the seat and dashboard and inside the open trunk, and lit a match. He hurried back to the Nissan, and Mohammed got in—there was no one else in the car, as he had suspected—and they drove off. Mohammed heard the whoosh of the Renault being consumed by flame.

The man concentrated on negotiating the roads through the dark eastern reaches of the city. He stopped when they reached a squat white building. A sign said Hagasaa. Soft drinks. They were too small to be a distributor. Perhaps they made flavorings for beverages and other foods. The driver pulled around the back, under a white canvas canopy that protected the car from direct sunlight during the day.

They got out. The man closed the flap of the little tent and shut it with a padlock. The ends were bolted to the ground. It was a secure little place and just a few steps from the back door of the structure.

The man looked around before he ushered Mohammed inside. Mohammed walked quickly across the noisy gravel driveway. The man propped open the back door with a wedge of wood. He did not turn on the light but gestured toward a straight-back wooden chair. The man sat on the edge of a wooden desk, close to Mohammed. There was a wall behind him and, to his right, machinery sat silent in the darkness. The man picked up a cell phone, called a number. Mohammed still could not see his face. The only light came from a street lamp somewhere in the distance, behind the high wooden fence that stood behind the canvas.

“We are back,” the man said into the phone. He listened for a moment. “No. No word from Ali.” He listened again. “Very good, sir.” Then he shut the phone and set it beside him. “Would you like a drink? Food?” he asked Mohammed.

“I’ve eaten, thank you.”

The man said, “I am Yousef. I am a colleague of the professor. I am sorry to inform you that he died in the service of our cause, murdered by the people who were chasing you.”

Mohammed’s tired mind processed the news slowly. It seemed to him like that was impossible: he had just been with him. But then, he had only left Aden a few moments and then he was dead. If the deaths hadn’t quite gotten hold of his mind and soul, resolve did: he would complete this mission, proudly, at any cost, and they would all be together again.

The man stretched out his arm and lay a hand on Mohammed’s shoulder. “The professor saw you as a gift from God and was willing to make the sacrifice he did. I fear, now, for Abdeliah—the man who spoke to you on the phone and who protected your back when you arrived in Souk el Arba du Gharb.”

“That is why—the fire?”

“Among other reasons,” Yousef replied. “I have been listening to the radio. The car was seen, described. But that is no matter now. We all feel the same about your achievement. You have come far and have brought so much. There is more to do, and for that reason we would like you to rest now. There is a cot in the office behind me. You have about three hours until we will be taking you from here.”

“May I ask where I am going?” Mohammed asked.

The man smiled in the shadows. “To Paradise,” he said. “But before that—to America.”

CHAPTER 17

MOULAY BOUSELHAM, MOROCCO

Kealey had just crossed into Moulay Bouselham when Clarke reached him. He had been in a meeting when Kealey phoned and said he would call back.

“You’re going to have to pull some strings with the Spanish Civil Guard,” Kealey told him.

“How many and for how long?” Clarke asked.

Kealey told him what had happened and explained that they were concerned about the waters between Morocco and Spain.

Clarke did not jump to that immediately. “I just got out of a meeting with the President and the rest of the Homeland Security team. They’re not happy with how we keep losing him.”

At least Clarke said “we.” He understood the difficulty of the cat-and-mouse operation and wasn’t dropping this all on Kealey. Yet.

“They can have the whole thing back.”

“You know that’s not what they’re saying,” Clarke said. “It’s the package. They’re scared.”

“Me, too,” Kealey said. And starting to feel the weight of that damn bomb. And doubting myself just a little. But though he had always had a pretty candid relationship with Clarke, this wasn’t the time to get into any of that. “Which is why we need the Guardia Civil. We can watch the Strait, but if the guy heads out to sea we need a blockade. Don’t know what kind of boat, don’t think there will be any detectable radiation—but these guys are trained to spot smugglers, they know the currents, they know the likely ports. We need them out there ASAP.”

Clarke agreed and said he would fast-track it personally through his intelligence contacts with the Armada Española in Rota.

“Optimally we need eyes-and-ears-on within a half hour,” Kealey said.

Clarke hung up as Kealey headed toward the A1, beyond the explosion site. The smell of burned rubber and the distinctively different, pungent odor of melted plastic both hung in the air like a crashed Osprey in Afghanistan and the pit at the World Trade Center for months after the attacks.

As soon as he got on the highway—where all cars had to pass through a cordon of squad cars if they wanted to go north—Yazdi’s phone hummed. Rayhan looked at Kealey.

“If it’s a text, have him read it. If it’s a call, on speaker,” Kealey told her.

Rayhan translated the instructions. It was a text.

“I sent photographs of fingerprints from the crash site and the shed,” he explained. “The first were from the woman’s cell phone that the terrorist had used. Those proved not to be helpful. The ones I sent from the shed were identified. They belong to a man named Abdeliah Ali Makdissi. He is a Syrian officer who sought asylum in Morocco during the rebellion against Assad. He is known to be affiliated with the highly secretive KOO—the Khalid al-Otaibi Organization.”

Highly secretive was right: Kealey had never heard of them. “Do you know that name?” he asked Rayhan.

She shook her head, asked Yazdi who they were. He hesitated.

“Is that another name of the Foxes, which you told us wasn’t a real group?” she pressed.

“No.”

“Then what?”

“You asked only that I read the text,” he replied. “I do not wish to share classified information with Americans.”

Rayhan told Kealey what he had said. There was a time when practically every terrorist or terror-affiliated or terror-sponsoring group was known to him. In this age of hydra-headed jihad and Internet jihad and lone-wolf jihad and anti-Israel jihad, it was impossible to remain informed. Maybe that was the advantage Uncle Largo had: back then, it was just the Axis powers and his bailiwick consisted entirely of occupying Nazis. The mind didn’t have as many routes and players to consider. Right now, he still didn’t know whether Yazdi was an ally or an enemy or an enemy posing as an ally. He risked everything on “ally” because nothing was more important than getting the bomb from the terrorist.

“Will you tell us what we need to find the device?” Kealey asked.

“Yes,” Yazdi informed Rayhan. “The KOO has the will to utilize weapons such as this—and vast financial resources. If they are here, we cannot discount any method by which our quarry will escape.”

“That suggests air or sea,” Rayhan speculated after she had translated. “Private, fastest, most mobile.”

Kealey wasn’t convinced. There were still countless moving parts, including Yazdi.

“Would you show Rayhan your phone,” Kealey said. It wasn’t a question.

Yazdi handed it to the woman. She studied it for a moment. “The text has been deleted.”

Kealey looked in the rearview mirror. “Why?”

Yazdi’s expression was neutral. “I did not want you to see the name of the sender.”

Kealey definitely didn’t believe him now. But that wasn’t his immediate concern. He heard Yazdi’s guns clatter—intentionally, he was convinced—as Yazdi shifted in his seat. The American didn’t trust the man, but he also did not want to fight on two fronts. If he did not return the phone there was no telling what Yazdi might do—now or perhaps five minutes from now. Part of Kealey—a big enough part to get his attention and create an internal struggle—wanted to turn his own handgun around, fire through the seat, and be done with Yazdi. But he still might need what the Iranian had in his head and, even if that weren’t the case, the drumhead-tight modern world had not yet turned him cold-blooded.

Kealey passed her his phone along the seat. He touched the letters KOO and said, “Clarke.” She understood. Then he considered the options pertaining to the bomb. If this group arranged for a private jet, they’d need a runway from four to six thousand feet long. After Rayhan had finished, he had her check to see the nearest airports that met the requirement.

She showed him the phone. He nodded. He wanted to have the flexibility of a port city in any case.

They were going to Tangier.

Later, as Yazdi relaxed, the car went through the roadblock, helped by the security officer who had been on duty when the American had arrived just an hour or so earlier. The faces of the police officers had an uncommon intensity about them. After an attack, men and women used to being in authority stayed that way, shirking the impact of the incident until their job was finished. But two bombings in one day, so nearby, had them appearing focused on the outside while they had to be wondering what was next on the inside.

The Iranian did not know what was next, though he knew what he would be contributing to that. He had not told them the entirety of the text. He did not tell him that the request he had sent from the highway was being expedited.

He had not told them about Zl-5.

MCLEAN, VIRGINIA

Largo Kealey had expressed a strong interest in wanting to see the way the OSS had changed. Largo had been present for the birth of America’s first spy organization. It was gone now, but Allison Dearborn arranged for him to visit the Office of the Director of National Intelligence.

They drove out to McLean, Virginia, and turned into the complex at 1500 Tysons Mclean Drive, also known informally as Liberty Crossing.

“That’s a lot bigger than what we worked out of,” he said, leaning forward to look at the large white buildings and lush, even lawns. “I used to feel like those old vaudevillians who lived out of their suitcases—right down to the costumes and disguises.”

“At least your colleagues knew when you were putting them on,” she said.

Largo gave her a sideward look. “A little disapproval there?”

“On one level, no: it gives me a job,” she said. “On another level, it’s the reality that takes over every industry town whether it’s D.C., Detroit, or Hollywood. Beyond the far-reaching game that impacts the nation, the world, there are the little games being played as people jockey for power.”

“There was jockeying then, too, after the war, which is one reason I got out,” Largo said. “The whole Red hunt—who was, who wasn’t, who could be branded even if he wasn’t—had nothing to do with the very clear right and wrong I was used to.”

“We had that after the World Trade Center and Pentagon attacks,” Allison said. “For about a month. As soon as we got into Afghanistan, then Iraq, it was backstabbing and undercutting as usual.”

Largo grinned humorously. “The distraction of war has become the black market for power grabs. I wonder if it’s idealistic youth or aggressive youth who are going into government service these days.”

Allison had no answer because no one had ever posed the question. As with anything, she supposed it was a mix of both.

The visit was what government agencies called the “pinball tour”: guests bounced from cubicle to cubicle with the sense that they’d racked up a lot of information and experience—but hadn’t really. That was all right. Largo hadn’t really wanted to see brain centers or maps or white papers. He had wanted to look into the eyes of people who were the same age as he was when he went to work for the OSS. They looked younger somehow, unseasoned by strife and the Depression. He didn’t hold that against them, though he did wonder how it impacted their worldview.

When Largo had seen all the temporary white walls he needed to see, they went up to Clarke’s office. The general had arranged Largo’s clearance and had specifically asked to meet him.

The two had to wait a quarter hour before they could get in. They sat beside each other in armchairs like they were in a dentist’s office, facing an aide who offered them beverages—Allison declined, Largo took a black coffee to see if it had gotten any better in six decades—and they listened as Clarke’s muted voice came through the closed door.

“The coffee’s not as bitter and the air tastes different,” Largo said. “No cigarette smoke or mimeograph ink. What a combination that was.”

“Calm you and make you high at the same time.”

“Really? I mean, about the mimeographs?”

“Those were made with methyl alcohol,” Allison said. “The effects weren’t permanent, but it caused euphoria that quickly shifted into dizziness, blurred vision, and nausea.”

“I’ll be damned,” Largo said. “We should’ve printed leaflets with that, dropped ’em over Berlin.”

“Did you ever serve anywhere but France?” Allison asked.

Largo hesitated. Allison noticed. It couldn’t have anything to do with secrecy, not this far after the fact—

“Hell,” he said. “I served there. I know everyone says that—the boys who were at Pearl Harbor, the soldier in Dunkirk who had to hang on until the evacuation, the first guys on Normandy Beach. But there’s a different kind of hell from bombs falling and bullets biting the poor GIs all around you while you pray to God for the first time since you were five. There’s the hell you inflict. I was always taught that killing was the worst thing you could do. It isn’t. That’s simple math: him or you. No. Feeding this—” he looked around at the sterile walls, the calm demeanor of the general’s aide—“that is the worst.”

“You don’t have to go on,” Allison said.

Largo didn’t seem to hear her. He was looking ahead but he was somewhere else. “Cutting a man apart, dissecting him with a Swiss Army knife . . . that’s hell. One kind of hell for him, of course. He was just the sap who happened to know something you needed to know and then, in a show of courage or patriotism or loyalty to his buddies or maybe to prove something to himself—he decides to not share that information. So you take an earlobe. Or a fingertip. Or a toe. Eventually all of those and more. You have to take him past a threshold when there’s so much pain he’s talking only because his brain is running loose, like a dog in the backyard. Only you have to do it with your hand on his mouth so his screams don’t carry. Only when he calms down for a moment do you dare lift a finger and ask him again. When he finally tells you, when you’re sure he’s giving you accurate information, then you stick the knife in his chest out of pity.” Largo laughed. His hands began to shake. “Only the blade’s too short to reach his damned heart so you have to choke him. You don’t realize how hard you’re squeezing until there’s blood in his mouth, between his teeth, like he’d just bitten a strawberry. Even cut up like pork at a souvlaki joint, he’s struggling to live! He has maybe four working fingers between his two hands and they’re beating at you. His legs with his toeless left foot are kicking. His one working eye is glaring like something out of a Frankenstein movie. I don’t think he was in hell. He was in pain, but that’s not the same thing. I often wondered, driving my milk truck, what that German sentry outside the submarine pens was thinking after he told me when extra security had been called for. I think he was probably thinking of home—a wife, a mother, a pet . . . I don’t know. But I suspect that he was alive in those moments. Very alive and somehow content.” He finally looked at Allison. “Do I look content? Was I ever really happy again?”

At some point Allison had broken her professional demeanor and taken his hand. They both realized it and he gently withdrew it.

“I’m okay,” he smiled thinly. “The information I got out of him told me when it was likely the nuclear device was arriving.”

At that, Allison noticed the aide’s head start slightly. He had been half listening, like they were Muzak; he was fully engaged now. The word had triggered a response, like he was software scanning the Internet.

“I know the rest of the drill. I figured it out for myself,” Largo said. “What I did saved countless lives. I understood that. It’s easy to understand. There’s the math again. But that eye, the eye of a man, the eye of all men, the eye of God—or the Devil, I’ve never figured out which it is—never goes away. I read a book about the third eye, the inner vision we’re all supposed to have. Mine left the building.”

“No,” Allison said firmly. “It was externalized. You started examining yourself instead of the world, and you never stopped.” She lowered her voice. She wasn’t accustomed to conducting analysis with an audience, and she had been half expecting this; Largo was a man who had repressed everything that happened in the war though its branches had infused everything since. “No human being can exist outside the world. When we cocoon ourselves, we effectively stop living. You felt different coming down here, didn’t you?”

“Different,” he said thoughtfully. “Yes. I was excited.”

“By what? Just tell me what comes to mind.”

“New scenery. Being home—yes, home,” he said, more to reinforce that notion. “This is where I was made. Where I grew. The relationships, the responsibilities. I was eager to meet you.” He grinned tearfully. “Not just someone new but someone young. Maybe a daughter. I don’t know. See what the missing pieces were like.”

She took his hand again as he wiped his eyes with a sleeve.

“Jesus,” Largo said. “Where did all that come from?”

“You plugged it at a submarine pen in 1944.”

As if by magic—in fact, via Bluetooth—the young aide was informed that the general was free. He informed the visitors and the door buzzed open. He did not look at them after making the pronouncement. Apparently, they weren’t concealing anything or bringing something actionable.

Largo leaned toward Allison as he collected himself. “I saw Truman easier than this. And I got a piano recital.”

“Did you?” she asked as they rose.

Largo smiled wanly. He remembered having appreciated the gesture and feeling honored to be in a back room of the Oval Office, but it seemed a little flip under the circumstances.

“Yeah,” he said. “The President played ‘Bye, Bye, Blackbird.’ ”

SOUK EL ARBA DU GHARB, MOROCCO

Mohammed was shaken awake by a firm hand on his shoulder.

He hadn’t experienced that sudden jolt of wakefulness pouring in for over a year. It was a good feeling, like when he was bundled in a blanket on a wooden plank in the desert and the camp drill instructor, a man with facial scars, whose name they did not know, would kick him awake with the toe of his boot. It was dark then, just bordering on sunrise, and it was dark now—though bordering on Paradise, Mohammed thought with a smile.

He didn’t linger on the blessed past or the prospects of being in the brilliant presence of God and His Mercy. He sat upright and looked at the dark figure standing in the charcoal-dim paneling and fixtures of the office. The room was very cool and the door was still open. A gentle night wind was blowing through.

“There is a meal on the desk,” a voice said softly. “Be quiet when you use the toilet—the back door is still open.”

The man had obviously remained on guard the entire time. Mohammed looked at his wristwatch, which he’d put on the desk beside his gun and the cell phones the professor had given him. He had slept for nearly four hours. He could have slept many more but there was important work to do. He heard helicopters in the distance but no sounds coming from the roadway. There were insects and birds outside. They sounded the same as in Yemen; he wondered if they were the same everywhere. He had never missed not having an education beyond the basics of reading and writing and the Koran, though there were things like that he sometimes felt it would be useful to know—to identify a place by sounds, like he identified jeeps and trucks in the sand pits in the desert.

He made his way through the dark to the bathroom—a curtained stall beside the office that had a toilet and a sink. Mohammed took his time washing his face, scrubbing his eyes, making himself alert, then came back and ate a breakfast of cold cereal, yogurt, and fresh berries. There was strong tea and it felt good to wash down the meal, to dissolve the lingering shroud of sleep.

The man returned with a change of clothes for Mohammed. They did not speak. His host left again and Mohammed changed. He put on the jeans and a Western-style gray sweatshirt that had the name of a university on the front, in black letters. He heard clattering outside the office and saw the man wheeling a steamer trunk forward on a dolly.

“I’m going to need your help,” he said.

“Gladly. What can I do?”

The man walked the trunk from the dolly and replied, “There are boxes of food coloring on the other side of the office. Bring them over, please.”

Mohammed went to get them. There were two dozen boxes the size of a toaster. As he started bringing them over, four at a time, he heard the sound of tires on gravel in the back. That was the reason for the gravel: no one could approach without being heard. The man motioned Mohammed to be still and left to check on the visitor. He was holding a handgun, which he drew from inside the Windbreaker he was wearing.

The vehicle approached without lights. Mohammed did not know if that was a good sign or bad. It turned out to be good, for the driver got out and chatted quietly with Yousef as they walked back toward the building. Mohammed continued bringing the small boxes to the trunk. There were sounds outside, gravel shifting, voices, grunts, and then the sound of the Nissan starting up. Mohammed stopped working and walked stealthily around the office toward the door. There was a minivan parked by the opening. It had consular plates from the Saudi Embassy in Rabat. The device was sitting on the ground beside it. Yousef turned and saw Mohammed.

“The fewer faces you know and can identify, the better,” was all he said. “In case you are apprehended.”

“I understand,” Mohammed said.

“You will be leaving soon in this new vehicle,” Yousef told him as he opened the trunk wide. There was something lying under a thickly padded blanket. Mohammed did not ask what it was. “I will be driving. First, however, we must take your photograph, then go back and secure your treasure. Quickly, because there isn’t much time.”

“My photograph?”

“For a new passport,” Yousef said. “Saudi.”

Yousef took the picture then brought the lead box to the steamer trunk, went back and got the X-ray apron, then eyeballed the room they would need to fill around it.

My treasure, Mohammed thought as, under Yousef ’s direction, he went about the work of stacking the boxes. Men of accomplishment such as Professor Boulif and Yousef were complimenting him. Everything in his life, everything God had caused to happen, all the sorrow, had been leading to this. To this pinnacle that would not just be the crown of his life but inspire countless generations to come.

He wept with pride and gratitude as Yousef got a roll of bubble wrap and cut it into sheets that he spread alongside the boxes so that when his precious device was placed inside it would be secure.

The vengeance of generations was pouring through him. He steadied himself, but inside he could not move fast enough, he could not get to his destination quickly enough—he could only savor, in his mind, the glory of that final moment before he triggered the bomb. He wanted it to be here, now.

He could hear the voice of his father, a police officer who died after being struck by a car when Mohammed was twelve, a car driven by a foreign official who paid no penalty for his crime. Yet now and then Mohammed still heard his father’s gentle voice. It was telling him now to be joyous, not frenetic. It assured him that the final and greatest adventure of his life had begun. It advised him to be humbled and uplifted and to pray for only one thing.

That he be worthy of the task.

MCLEAN, VIRGINIA

The general’s office was exactly what Largo had been expecting: a large mahogany desk in front of a row of windows immersed in a sea of photographs, flags, some sports memorabilia, and models—missiles instead of the spy planes he was imagining. In his mind it wasn’t a dig but a reassurance that some things hadn’t changed.

Dressed in civilian clothes since he was retired from the military, the general came around the desk, his gray eyes deeply lined, his half smile an effort. He greeted Allison, then clasped Largo’s hand warmly and showed him to another armchair—this time facing his desk.

“It’s an honor to meet you,” Clarke said sincerely.

“I’m grateful to be here,” Largo replied. “How’s the temporary state of things?—as we used to say.”

“I like that,” Clarke said. “They’re a little slippery at the moment. I was just texting with your nephew. He visited you, I understand.”

“He did.” Largo wasn’t sure how much he should say. He sat, waited to take his cue from the general.

Clarke picked up a red-and-white football and gripped it tightly in his right hand, tapped it gently with his left.

“If we’re intruding, General—” Largo said.

“No, I’m glad to have you here,” he said. “Waiting for some intel—need to move a little.” He looked wistfully at Largo. “There are times, believe it or not, when the armchair generals like me envy the people in the field like you and Ryan.”

“I know that, sir,” Largo replied. “No one I ever talked to about D-Day wished they were Ike making the go, no-go call.”

“That’s the damn thing. It’s because other people are out there risking their lives and I’m not—” Clarke stopped, looked at Allison. “This is off the record.”

“I’m not on psych profile duty today, General,” she assured him.

He had stopped handling the football. He resumed now. He was clearly distracted. “And a situation like this, where so much depends on moving parts that haven’t been tested in a situation quite like this—”

His computer beeped. He tossed the football to a leather couch on the side and went to the monitor. He tapped a button, looked down without sitting.

“Dammit.” He exhaled angrily. He picked up the phone. “Get me Max Carlson.”

“Do you want us to wait outside?” Allison asked.

“Actually, no.” His eyes shifted to Largo. “Have you ever been arrested?”

“No—”

“Allison, your clearance is sufficient. Mr. Kealey, I’m reinstating your rank and raising your security to Level Three. I want you to hear this. You are aware, I believe, that your device is out there.”

“Yes.” Largo didn’t take the general’s “your device” personally. He’d helped send it to the bottom of the ocean. He knew what Clarke meant.

“It’s in the hands of a terrorist,” Clarke said. “In Morocco. He’s suddenly got help—”

Max Carlson picked up. Clarke put him on speaker.

“General, we’ve got nothing on this group named KOO,” he said. “Where did Kealey pick it up?”

“I don’t know,” he checked a notepad. “He said it’s funded by a Saudi banker, Khalid Otiba, Otabi . . . he couldn’t quite get it.”

“Khalid al-Otaibi? Impossible.”

“Why?”

“The man’s a national treasure,” Carlson said, “an oilman turned banker. He’s one of the closest advisors of the royal family and one of the largest contributors to charities at home.”

“Like the drug cartels in Colombia and the Mafia in Sicily?” Clarke said.

“No,” Carlson replied. “He’s legit and he’s always been legit.” Clarke could hear the man typing. “He’s head of the Advisory Committee to the Supreme Economic Council, a board member of the International Chamber of Commerce, founder of the Saudi Electricity Company—which he funded with his oil billions—a trustee of Prince Mohammad bin Fahd University . . . the list goes on. Way on. He supports the Swimming for Clean Water events in the Gulf Coast, in the Pacific off San Diego, and in the Chesapeake. He’s got a world to lose if the whole thing goes south.”

“Better to serve in heaven or reign in hell?”

“No,” Carlson said emphatically. “He has everything he wants.” But his voice had lost a little volume, a little certainty.

“How old is he?” Clarke asked.

“Sixty-seven.”

“I’m not quite there myself and I have everything I want, materially. Just not the esoteric stuff—” he looked at Allison. “The stuff that would show up on a psych profile if our friend Khalid ever took one.”

Carlson was silent for a moment. “I still want to know where Kealey got this.”

“You’ve seen my updates. He’s in Morocco, found a cell backing the rogue. Look, if this guy is using his fortune to underwrite terrorism he’ll have private resources, unquestioned access to some of the last places on earth you’d want to find a suitcase bomb. Khalid probably has a fleet of jets, yachts, limousines, helicopters, Christ knows what else.”

“Submarines,” Largo said. “It’s been tried.”

Clarke looked at him. The possibilities for escape—and silent running—just grew more onerous.

“Who’s with you?” Carlson asked, alarmed.

“Captain Largo Kealey, the officer who originally tracked the device,” Clarke said. “He has mission-specific clearance.”

“I read his debrief from 1944,” Carlson said with a tone of voice that suggested he knew the man. Carlson was that kind of administrator: everything he felt he needed to know came from the reports on his desk. “Nice piece of work, Captain. General—I think this is a false positive. If we put people on this and he’s innocent, manpower is wasted and butts go out the door.”

“You got something else?”

“Rota. Bob Andrews and Charles Cluzot agree that we should mobilize every asset we can spare.”

The Brawny Brain Bank, Clarke thought bitterly. The CIA and the FBI, added to the voice of Homeland Security, poured like liquid gold into the ear of the President.

“To do what? They’ll hunker down until we get tired of looking.”

“If we can pin them down, that gives your man time to look under rocks,” Carlson said.

“If they’re in the open, thinking they’re clear, he can look across the rocks.”

“General, there’s an atom bomb out there,” Carlson said angrily. “I’ve got the Joint Chiefs on the other side urging the President to let the commander, U.S. Naval Forces Europe, seize and occupy northern Morocco until the explosive is recovered.”

“We’ve already got the Spanish Civil Guard in motion to watch the coastline,” Clarke said.

“Which is good for Spain,” Carlson said. “Not that I don’t agree with that, but all it does is bounce the cue ball off in another direction. The White House Press Department is making a video for news outlets showing how the bomb got there. They’re on location in the Arctic now, securing the U-boat.”

Largo stiffened. “The crew?” he asked.

“I don’t know, Captain,” Carlson said.

Allison reached over and took his hand. Sailors rotated in and out but Largo would have studied the officers, known who to watch for. Of course it had been personal on some level.

“General, we’ll do some due diligence on Khalid,” Carlson said. “I’ll urge the President to give Kealey time. I make no guarantees.”

“It’ll take at least six hours to mobilize COMUS-NAVEUR, a little more so they don’t bump into the Spaniards on their way in,” Clarke said. “Give me at least that long without anyone getting in the way.”

“In six hours, a private jet could have landed in London or Paris, been well on its way to the U.S.”

“It will still leave a trail,” Clarke said. “If we find that, at least, Admiral Breen can have the Joint Chiefs shoot the damn thing down.”

“I can’t promise anything, other than to check up on Khalid,” Carlson said. “The President wants to pen this in as soon as possible, get the world focused on it.”

Clarke felt helpless: his man in the field and very little he could do to support him. Even more boots on the ground, from Rota, would just increase the noise, up the chances of being spotted. There was no one he’d rather have on the mission than Kealey—but it was a mission that seemed too much for any one man.

He hung up and looked at Largo Kealey. They were the eyes of a cornered cat, narrow and plotting.

“We were able to track the device in France because of the heavy security, because of the high-profile people they put on the operation,” Largo said in response to the look.

“The MO of al Qaida and its affiliates is to stay off the radar,” Clarke said. “The question is, do they follow that tradition or are they just too damn eager to use this thing and get back in the jihad game big-time?”

“Detonating it off-target, wasting it, would have a deleterious effect, psychologically,” Allison said. “It would discourage recruitment. That was the finding after Desert One and the aborted hostage rescue effort in Tehran. Military recruitment didn’t recover until Ronald Reagan replaced Jimmy Carter in the White House and even that took a couple of years.”

“Put it all in the blender and profile it,” Clarke said. “What have you got?”

“Not enough to act on,” she said.

“Let me decide that,” Clarke told her.

Allison thought for a long moment. The only sound was the squeak of the general’s chair as he sat back to wait. She wished she were back in the park. Her forte was careful analysis, not Kealeyesque educated by-the-pants guesswork. “The key to this is the individual carrying the bomb. If he appears excitable, if there’s leakage—rational thought being trumped by the idea that God has selected him and he must act—then his handlers can’t afford to let this play out for very long.”

“What’s ‘very long’?”

“Hours if they’re afraid he’ll go over the edge,” she said. “They will keep him in as relaxed an environment as possible for as long as possible but they can’t afford to drug him. He needs to be alert.”

“That would suggest a nearby target, wouldn’t it? Europe?” Clarke asked.

“Or a beeline here, in a place of semi-isolation,” Allison said. “I don’t think they’ll counterprogram. I don’t think they’ll put him on a bus and have him proceed as he obviously has been.”

Clarke sat slowly, contemplatively, as though someone were pushing him down and he was resisting. He looked at Largo. “What do you think?”

“If the Nazis had known I was pursuing them, they would not have done what they did,” he said.

“What would they have done?”

Largo said, “They would have killed everyone in a nearby village as a distraction.”

CHAPTER 18

TANGIER, MOROCCO

Tangier is both the past of Morocco and its future.

Settled in the fifth century BC, it has been home to countless cultures—all of whom have left their mark on the land and its people. In the last century, its location between Africa and the Middle East and Asia made it a stopping point for European and American diplomats, all of whom boosted the ancillary banking, military, and transportation facilities that come with being an international hub. The city is now leapfrogging beyond the financially strapped European cities by becoming a sports hub for the region with coastal resorts, world-class hotels, and state-of-the-art communications and transportation services that include a modern new airport and upgraded rail service to and from Rabat, Casablanca, and Marrakech along the coast and Fès and Oujda inland.

Kealey had never been to the city and was immediately suspicious—not of the people or the history that was still readily discernible in the architecture and markets, but of the wealth. It had to come from somewhere, and in this region “somewhere” was often petrodollars or black market and drug income being laundered. That meant behind each legitimate businessperson was a hierarchy of thugs.

The drive took three and a half hours. It would have been quicker without a half dozen checkpoints where police were looking for faces, not cargo. Rayhan had slept and Yazdi had mostly rested but occasionally texted. Kealey didn’t bother waking Rayhan to find out what he was writing. He had decided that as long as it got the bomb out of the terrorists’ hands, he could live with it—for now. And since the group handling the terrorist wasn’t stupid, he was considering what they might do to prevent that.

Clarke had called—not texted—to tell him who Khalid al-Otaibi was and what the other intelligence divisions had recommended to Brenneman . . . and what he was doing. Unlike Clarke, Kealey didn’t mind the time squeeze. He worked better under pressure and, besides, the longer this dragged on the colder the trail. So he had six hours.

“Your uncle is here now with Allison—a remarkable man who had one perspective for you.”

“A distraction,” Kealey said.

Clarke’s brief hesitation told him that was exactly what Largo had suggested. “A distraction,” the intelligence chief said. “I just ran some numbers. They’ve tied up half the police force in northern Morocco without even trying, looking for one or two bombers. Imagine what they could do with a bigger attack.”

“Which, because of their lack of manpower, will most likely be near where they plan to leave.”

“What makes you say that about their boots-on-the-ground?”

“There was an ambush back in Moulay Bouselham with just one man. This is a boutique operation.”

“With big explosives, possibly more,” Clarke said.

“I never did trust university professors,” Kealey said. “Most’ve got more brains than common sense. Don’t worry—I’m watching.”

He said a closing “Hi” to Allison before hanging up. It seemed like weeks, not a little less than two days, since they were sitting by the Lincoln Memorial having one of their personal but non-relationship talks, doing the dance that both of them were reluctant to acknowledge was at arm’s length.

Kealey spent the rest of the time keeping his tired mind busy by putting himself in the terrorist’s place. He started over at that Moulay Bouselham cemetery more times than he could remember and it never got him closer to where he needed to be. The device was presumably en route here. The terrorist would be hidden with it—possibly in a van, possibly in a limousine, possibly in a fruit truck. His face was likely known, so it could not afford to be seen. Perhaps the agents working with him would take the highway, possibly back roads, or they might even try a helicopter. The point was, to get out of Africa quickly they would most likely come to Tangier. It wasn’t just the length of a runway. Here, they had proximity to Europe and honorable targets if they were forced to pull the trigger quickly: there was Madrid and there was Paris, two targets that Muslim extremists had struck before. And if this Saudi banker had the resources Yazdi had said, then a private jet or yacht would be less obvious here among the other transports of the rich.

It was all more tenuous and seat-of-the-pants than Kealey would have liked, and it didn’t have the dominos-falling trail he usually followed. This was a new kind of enemy, a fiercely radical nomad with top-flight guides and handlers and a lot of money. It was one target, not a fish in a barrel but a bird or snake in a continent. The trails were now being carefully obliterated, not simply concealed. He was traveling with a potential enemy. And he was playing catch-up, sifting for clues, not waiting somewhere with a catcher’s mitt as intel flowed toward him.

I’m here to react to a scent or misstep or something that doesn’t seem right, he thought. He told himself over and over, Spain’s got the waterways. I have to cover the airport. Relying on institutions was something else a field agent did not do happily. And as they passed the signs that directed them to Ibn Battouta Airport, Kealey reeled in all the frustrations and thoughts that were as much a part of an operative’s life as his bottom-line ability to face reality: Now stop your goddamn complaining and catch that bastard.

The roomy expansion of the N1 created an easy access to the low modern buildings. Set under clear, star-filled skies and palm trees, with the smell of seawater on one side and jet fuel on the other, the floodlit main terminal looked like a highly polished block of sandstone set under a suspension bridge, with high silvery columns reaching skyward, each one anchored by a cable on two sides along the facade. The writing was in English and Arabic, a nod to the global status of the airport.

Rayhan was awake now, and Yazdi was looking out both windows in turn. The Iranian was on edge. He seemed to be looking for something and Kealey almost aborted. But this was about the bomb, not about who took it from the terrorist. He went to long-term parking. His intention was to get a look at the field and search for likely aircraft.

Kealey exited the car, took a moment to stretch—but also to steal a look at Yazdi. The man was clearly distracted. A veteran field agent had a certain look when he was focused. Not the stereotypical signs of a creased brow and hesitant movement but the exact opposite. He was not a deer sensing danger but a man prepared for action. He was loose limbed and ready to act in whichever way events dictated or his intuition or mind told him. But the eyes: those were the giveaway.

“Why did you park so far away?” Rayhan asked quietly.

“Because if the terrorists are here they’d expect us to go to the curb or short-term,” he replied.

As the group walked into the big brick-tiled courtyard in front of the terminal, Yazdi stopped. Kealey kept walking. Rayhan stayed with him, though she looked back. Yazdi said something to her.

“He said there are two armed men in the terminal,” she told him. “They will shoot us if we enter.” Her voice was steady but her eyes were restless as she looked from Kealey to the guards to Yazdi.

Kealey peered ahead. It was easy to see inside the lighted terminal. There were a few dozen travelers inside, some crossing the lobby, others at ticket kiosks. A few were outside, to the right, checking luggage with skycaps. Just inside the revolving doors were two security guards—or men dressed as security guards. They seemed watchful, no more. Each wore a handgun.

“Tell him to prove those men are his,” Kealey said. He wanted to move, not stand here and debate primacy.

Yazdi listened, then replied.

“He said, walk through the door,” Rayhan said. “You are armed with a dead man’s gun. They will tie you to one murder at least and two bombings at worst. Your identity will be exposed.”

Kealey stopped a few feet from the door. He stepped aside so other travelers could pass. He put a hand encouragingly on Rayhan’s arm as he moved her with him. “Ask what he wants.”

She asked and Yazdi answered.

“He and his team are taking charge of this mission,” she said. “We can join them or get on a plane and leave Morocco.” He was speaking and she added, “He wants to know who the authorities will believe: three Arab nationals or two Americans.”

Rayhan seemed proud to be included in the latter group. That was something.

Kealey allowed one scenario to play out in his mind: he took the gun he carried and put it to Yazdi’s belly. That might get them away; it wouldn’t get them into the airport. He did not think they had a lot of time. Leaving Moulay Bouselham, by road, the terrorists could be arriving the same time as they did.

He faced Yazdi. “Tell him we need as many eyes on the tarmac as we can get,” Kealey said. “If we’re with him, if his two men are with him, that lessens our chance of spotting our target or his cargo.”

Rayhan translated.

“Tell him I swear we will join him after we sweep the field,” Kealey said before she had finished translating.

Yazdi came forward. Kealey was trying to keep an eye on the people arriving for flights. It was difficult in the dark. It was difficult not knowing whether the terrorist, if he was here, would enter by the shadows or walk boldly inside. Or if he was inside already—a private jet could already be loaded without having undergone any checks by customs. Only papers were checked for private flights, not luggage.

“You will come with me,” Yazdi said as Rayhan translated.

Kealey handed Rayhan his gun. “I’m going into the terminal. If they shoot me, shoot him.”

Yazdi glared at Rayhan, who surprised him by stepping forward, not back, and pushing Boulif’s gun into his side. The move was fueled by courage that grew from years of quiet rage over what Iran had become, a state more oppressive than that of the Shah.

Yazdi looked at the men and the men looked at him. Kealey was about ten feet from the door. The American watched their hands, their eyes. They weren’t going to fire. Like Kealey, Yazdi wanted the device to be found. All he’d achieved with his game of chicken was to waste time.

The air rumbled as a big jet took off. Kealey looked up and to his left. It was a Brussels Airlines passenger aircraft. The whistle of the engines actually caused the cables holding the poles on the roof to vibrate a little.

He saw a flash from the corner of his eye, to the right. There was a loud pop, like someone bursting an air-filled paper bag. It came from the shadows behind a row of palm trees. That sound launched another whistle. It was higher and shriller than the whine of the jets.

A faint, white contrail streaked skyward over the roof of the terminal until it was lost in the dark beyond the spotlights.

The jet was out of reach. It wasn’t the target. Kealey ran inside as, to the left, the top of the tall, blocky control tower erupted into the shape of a cotton ball. Glass glittered in the dark for a moment, like stars, and then the glow of the explosion faded. Shards of window and metal rained on the terminal roof and tarmac, bits of flesh and clothing tumbling down among them.

Like waters changing their course after a rockslide, the people in the terminal flowed as one toward the two revolving doors. Yazdi’s men, still uncertain what had exploded or where, initially tried to step aside but were quickly pushed through the emergency doors on the sides. The crowd flooded out along with terminal employees and aircraft crews. It wasn’t quite a panic, but it was not an orderly evacuation. Police who had been outside, in a patrol car parked on the far left side of the terminal, cut through the mob toward where they had seen the flash that launched what was obviously a rocket.

Kealey did none of that. Taking out the control tower could only mean one thing. Whatever flight plan had been filed, a jet was next in line to take off and did not want to be tracked.

“Watch the next takeoff!” Kealey shouted back at Rayhan. “Watch the lights—see which way they go!”

He shouldered his way through the masses to get inside the terminal. He wanted to get to a window overlooking the tarmac. Behind him there was gunfire, well off to the right. The police and whoever fired the rocket, he suspected. Neither Yazdi nor Rayhan had anything to shoot about. Kealey reached the large picture window as the small white jet rose through the thin cloud caused by the explosion. It wouldn’t have had clearance and the pilot was obviously told not to concern himself with that.

Kealey could not make out any distinctive marks on the jet as all but the winking lights were swallowed by darkness.

Furious, he turned back to the entrance. The two-minute delay had made a difference between having eyeballs on the plane and not. He took out his cell phone, updated Clarke as he stared into the nearly deserted terminal, told him to have the Department of Defense turn everything they had on planes that had just left the field. Even if he landed in fifteen minutes somewhere in Spain, one of their satellites should be able to spot the damn thing.

“Don’t let anyone shoot it down till we can be sure the target’s onboard,” Kealey said. “And make sure they follow whoever gets out. They could set a half dozen false trails in motion.”

Kealey heard keys typing orders on the other end. “I know what to do,” Clarke assured him.

“I was just thinking out loud,” he said apologetically. “Sorry.”

Kealey hung up as sirens screamed from all directions. Vehicles were clogging the two exit roads, driving over grass dividers, trying to get away from the third terrorist attack in Morocco in one day. Kealey understood. This country wasn’t like Iraq or Lebanon or Syria. People were militant but restrained about it. Now that restraint was gone, all they wanted to do was get home and stay there. Kealey wished he could do the same.

Rayhan was looking toward the terminal. Yazdi was standing behind her with his two security officers

“Let’s get out of here,” Kealey said when he reached the woman’s side.

Yazdi said something. Kealey didn’t care what it was.

“Ask the sonofabitch why he had people on the ground here and watched me instead of the terrorists?

“He was just telling me that they say they didn’t see the men we were looking for,” Rayhan told him. “The terrorist did not show up. He says he was hopeful that we were ahead of him.”

“How can they be sure they didn’t show up? These guys didn’t know what he looked like.”

Yazdi was still talking. Rayhan seemed surprised. “He said they know what passport he had been using. They were watching for it to show up.”

Kealey glared at Yazdi. “You knew that and didn’t tell us?”

Rayhan translated. Yazdi said nothing.

“Has it shown up anywhere?” Kealey asked.

Yazdi shook his head. Kealey exhaled through his teeth. The sirens were getting louder, horns were blaring as people tried to get around one another and make way for the fire and police vehicles, and Kealey needed to find the bomb.

“What do your people think?” Kealey asked. He indicated the two officers. “You have any more like these?”

“We don’t know where the device is,” he said through Rayhan. “If I did—if anyone did—we would not be standing here.”

Outwardly, Kealey was calm. But his mind was racing. Two thoughts were foremost. First, the shelf life of a terrorist was short—especially if he were a suicide case. A white paper commissioned by Homeland Security decided that they could remain focused for four days at most, roughly two days on average. These killers were not, as a rule, highly educated. They bought an uncomplicated narrative about dying and going to Paradise. But that target remained firmly fixed in their sights only as long as fear of dying did not start to make inroads: over 30 percent of suicide bombers lost their courage at the last moment. More than 20 percent backed down before that, often as the normal mortal desires of a young man got the upper hand. Why die to have a harem of virgins when you could have sex right here? Was it better to leave a grieving mother or a grieving sponsor? Then there was anxiety: many pulled the trigger on their bomb vest or car bomb or automatic weapon at the first sign of a challenge, as at a border crossing. For the 50 percent who managed to go through with their mission, psychologists—Allison among them—concluded that reinforcement had to be constant.

The terrorist is being hand-held now but at some point he’ll be solo again. Kealey thought. Then the clock inside begins ticking, the doubts and loneliness and fear seep in. Time matters to these people.

The second thought was that an enemy force did not create a distraction far from the theater of operation. The point was to decisively draw the eye somewhere else, to draw resources away. That was only risked if the target feared discovery since the very act of creating a distraction invited capture and, as clues were assembled, reprisals.

If the private jet were empty, that alone would have siphoned off resources: quarantining the field, getting on board, searching the baggage. But that would have been over and done in under two hours. For Kealey, finding that their target was not onboard would have taken far less time. But if all eyes, including those of American intelligence, had to be turned on the jet because it was able to take off in shadows, if it had to be identified and forced down, if teams had to meet it on the ground, Kealey among them, that created a window for the terrorist and the bomb to get away.

Not by sea, Kealey thought. The Spaniards and the U.S. Navy had that covered. But how?

Everything pointed to an H-hour that was close and a terrorist who was still even closer. They would want to be near Europe, not the Middle East. Even someone like Khalid, with all his resources, would not risk sending them into Israel when the West was so utterly porous.

His tired eyes smarted as the smoke began to settle. The sirens were making it difficult to concentrate. The traffic was beginning to thin as fender-benders and traffic signals were ignored. It was time to get out.

“Let’s go,” he said to Rayhan.

“Where?”

“To the car. You drive.”

Yazdi said something as they began walking away.

“If he wants to shoot he’ll be doing me a favor,” Kealey said before he was finished.

Rayhan didn’t know if Kealey’s courage impressed or frightened her. Right now he seemed as obsessed as the men they were chasing. “He wants to come with us,” Rayhan said.

Kealey wasn’t surprised.

“You keep his phone, his guns, and no goon squad,” Kealey said.

Rayhan was about to repeat the instructions but Yazdi was already sending the men back to their posts. He handed the phone and weapons to Rayhan.

“Why was that so easy?” she asked Kealey.

“He showed his hand before the blast because he thought they were closing in on the device,” Kealey said. “The clowns with him probably arranged for a charter plane, but that’s not happening now. Yazdi had no plan B, so he’s trying to walk everything back.”

They reached the car and got in.

“Where are we going?” Rayhan asked.

Kealey had plugged his cell phone into the cigarette lighter. He accessed a map of the city. He looked at it then pulled back to a larger view.

Not in a jet, not in a boat, he thought. A terrorist would come here because that’s where the targets were: to the north. He wouldn’t come up here to take a train south; that was the wrong direction. More eyes on the roads, more chances of discovery, more chances of losing his resolve. What was left? Kealey touched the phone to expand a view.

Nothing. He looked up, saw lights on the horizon through the fast-dissipating smoke. He looked down at the map. He glanced at some names, then went to a wider view.

“Tangier-Med,” he said quietly.

“Sorry?” Rayhan said.

He showed her the map. The airport had a star. He pointed to a spot on the northeast coast of the city.

“Here,” he said. “As fast as you can.”

Rayhan turned the ignition. The car did not start. It wasn’t just engine trouble; the transmission didn’t even make a sound. Kealey’s gut grew taut and he reached for the door handle as two men approached either door. They were carrying K100 Grand Power semiautomatics, just above waist-high, each aimed at the heads of the Americans.

“What do they want?” Rayhan asked angrily. Like Kealey, she felt stupidly sucker punched.

“All of your electronic devices, weapons—and you. We are transferring to another vehicle,” Yazdi told her, opening the car door. “If you wish to stop the bomb, and if you ever expect to go home, I recommend that you cooperate with the members of Zal-5.”

One man took the cell phones, shut them off, and gave them to Yazdi while the other man smashed what he thought was an iPod under his foot. They searched the two for guns and knives. Then they walked toward a car parked a few spots away.

The Citation CJ1 light jet slashed through the night, quickly crossing the Strait of Gibraltar and entering Spanish airspace at 25,000 feet. It crossed land at Gibraltar and headed northwest toward Seville.

Naval Station Rota routinely tracked all aircraft arriving in or departing from Morocco. When the Tangier tower went down, the Air Operations unit TAP—threat assessment protocol—automatically went active. That meant not just tracking all aircraft but scrambling jets to intercept any that might fit category red: deviating from a flight plan that had been filed before the shutdown. The Saudi-registered aircraft had registered its destination as Tripoli.

Information from American Homeland Security indicated that the aircraft might be carrying a nuclear device. According to the TAP, its present course would carry it over Lisbon, Portugal, in about three-quarters of an hour.

Fighters from Morón Air Base in Arahal intercepted the jet with orders to shoot it down if it refused orders to land. The pilot acknowledged the order and turned to follow the escort to their airfield. The jet set down on the longest and most remote of the landing strips, one that had been designated TAL—Transoceanic Abort Landing site—for NASA’s space shuttle. The jet was surrounded by armored personnel carriers while a team in hazmat suits approached the jet. The pilot informed the tower he was going to open the door and step out. The emergency response unit stood back while the hatch was popped and the stairs were lowered and two men emerged with their hands raised. They lay down on the tarmac as instructed, with their hands flat on the asphalt before them, in a caricature of the devout praying to Mecca. The men were handcuffed and searched, the hazmat team boarded the aircraft with Geiger counters, the interior baggage hold was searched, the engines were examined—and nothing was found. The jet was towed to a hangar and the men were held for a return to Tangier, charged with violating the rules of the Government of Morocco’s Civil Aviation Authority.

The findings were relayed directly to Brigadier General Alexander Kokkinos, commander of 86th Airlift Wing, who communicated the findings personally to Secretary Max Carlson at Homeland Security. Carlson informed the heads of the other agencies in a conference call.

General Fletcher Clarke called Ryan Kealey to tell him the bomb was not aboard the aircraft. He got voice mail.

CHAPTER 19

ALGARVE REGION, PORTUGAL

During the summer, the Algarve region of Portugal is one of the most popular holiday spots in Europe and the most popular tourist destination in Portugal. Nearly ten million people make the pilgrimage to the resorts each season, not just for the epic beaches and glorious hidden coves but for the food. It is prepared with local, world-class ingredients in time-honored methods.

Traditionally, after tourism, this southernmost region of mainland Portugal relies on fishing and fruit export as its life’s blood.

But now there is a new income center, one that began with oil prospecting in 2007. The government established no-sail zones covering more than six thousand square kilometers, which impacted fishermen and sportfishermen, with fines of up to thirty thousand euros for trespassing. Though those contracts were short term, the discovery of oil in 2013 triggered an automatic thirty-year lease on the seabed. Heavy-duty drilling commenced, along with the planned construction of large oil platforms. To the surprise of no one, the once-powerful Algarve Fisherman’s Union was crushed by the oil interests. The fear of a Gulf-of-Mexico BP-style spill was squashed by assurances and payoffs.

And Khalid al-Otaibi added to his fortune, as one of the bankers who underwrote the venture and one of the oil sheiks who profited.

Mohammed was also an unexpected beneficiary as the under-construction platform gave the Bell 407 helicopter a place to land.

It had been a refreshingly uneventful ride from Souk el Arba du Gharb to Tangier. The diplomatic tags allowed them to pass through the roadblocks unhindered and the delays behind them made the trip pass with relatively little traffic. They arrived at the helipad at the massive Tangier-Med port complex; the helicopter was waiting and was airborne within minutes. All the while Mohammed’s heart raced as his place in history came nearer. The sun was just beginning to rise behind him as he craned to see the brightening ocean below. He had never flown in a helicopter—it was louder than he had anticipated, and he had been given headphones to wear—nor had one make a trip especially for him. He wished his mother could see him and that he could see her one more time. Mohammed knew that his father would be proud and strong, but his mother . . .

At least she will know what happened, he thought with satisfaction. Yousef had sworn that she would be informed and recompensed for her loss. She would be told not only that her other son had been avenged but that his death had delivered to Mohammed the most powerful weapon for jihad since the Prophet received the word of God. He was sad at the loss she would feel—both of her sons, gone. But she would understand, in time.

From a cell phone conversation he heard on the drive north, Mohammed gathered that one of the geologists who worked on this project was a member of the team Boulif had assembled. Such educated men, and he among them. He would have asked Yousef to tell his mother that as well, but he did not want to embarrass himself. It would be unseemly fawning over the others. Yet after the way the Iranians had treated them in Yemen, as if they were mere bloodhounds who should be ready to do the master’s bidding, he told himself the connection he felt with these men was understandable. As the clear blue water began to sparkle with the first red brushstrokes of dawn, he thought back, with relish, to how Professor Boulif had changed from a man who was on his guard to someone who could not express deeply enough the gratitude he felt for what Mohammed had done. In the end, he expressed that with his life.

There was a fighter!

The sun rose on a sight that was more impressive than the vast ocean below it and brightening sky above it. It was a deepwater drill ship. It was a red leviathan that seemed immune to the gentle wave of the water.

“How big is it?” Mohammed muttered. It was more an expression of awe than a question but the Moroccan pilot answered anyway.

“The Star of Algarve is over eight hundred feet long and nearly one hundred and thirty feet high at the top,” he said. “Some here do not appreciate the vessel. To me it is a thing of beauty.”

“You are not a fisherman,” Yousef remarked.

The Moroccan shook his head. “My father is, since he was seven years old. I wanted something better for myself and my family. These people sent me to flight school, trained me.” He nodded forward, almost as if in prayer. “This is the way to achieve change. Building great new things. Growth.”

Mohammed disagreed. He had grown up hearing the stories from his grandfather about how the British came to the Middle East over a century before. They built it and then they owned it. The way to achieve change was to destroy the footprints of the conquerors and start again. That was what he had been raised to believe.

The helicopter settled lightly onto the elevated pad at the stern of the vessel. Two men in white coveralls came over to assist the passengers. One of them was pushing a dolly. They went to load the steamer trunk on it. Mohammed helped them lift it, not walk it, and place it carefully on the dolly.

Yousef and Mohammed followed the men to an elevator housing and rode it two stops to the crew deck. There, they were shown to very small, cramped guest quarters. The men placed the trunk against the far wall. Even upright, it occupied nearly half the tiny room. When they were gone, Yousef turned and looked into Mohammed’s eyes.

“You have the gun and the phones?”

Mohammed was wearing a corduroy jacket over the sweatshirt Yousef had given him back at his little plant. There were deep pockets inside for both. The Yemeni patted them and nodded.

“I will be leaving you here,” Yousef went on. “An aircraft will be along within the hour to pick you up.”

“From here?”

“A seaplane,” Yousef said. “It will be delivering a very important person to this ship. You will take his place.”

“I don’t understand—”

“You will,” Yousef said. “One of the crew will explain before you land.”

“Land,” Mohammed repeated. “But the plane will be seen—”

“We have already arranged to immunize our generous provider,” Yousef assured him. “It is essential that we continue to move quickly. The crew will take you out to sea, to your destination. For obvious reasons, they have no knowledge of what you carry. You are not to divulge your true mission to them. Is that clearly understood?”

“It is.”

Mohammed’s first thought about the secrecy was security—and then it hit him. That wasn’t the reason. No one on the airplane would be leaving the vicinity alive.

This was real, he thought again. Each moment now seemed like a flame tickling his arms, the back of his neck. Mohammed had not thought his heart could beat faster. He had to take a long breath to steady himself.

“Do you have any questions?” Yousef asked.

Mohammed did not, but he wanted to appear intelligent, inquisitive. “What do the sailors believe they are carrying?”

Yousef smiled. “A very important friend of our backer and his luggage, and they are.”

Tears had already formed in Mohammed’s eyes. Now they spilled over. Yousef opened his arms and threw them tightly around the Yemeni.

“Stay calm,” Yousef said. “All you need to remember is exactly what you must do with the phone, as Professor Boulif instructed. The men will bring you right to your target. They will let you know when you are there. You will be able to do it in the privacy of your cabin. It is not just the explosion but the radiation that is important. The device will not only destroy one of the most important American waterways, it will poison a major city for a generation. All by your hand.”

“I understand,” Mohammed said.

With a final reassuring smile, Yousef was gone. The drill was not yet in operation for the day and Mohammed felt the floor hum gently with the distant sound of the engine. That must have been why Yousef had the device packed so carefully: to keep anything from being shaken loose.

He lay on the thin cot, aware of the slight sway of the massive vessel, still tasting warm tears at the edges of his mouth.

Stay calm, he repeated to himself as he stared at the white ceiling and tried to imagine the clouds of Paradise. Stay calm . . .

MCLEAN, VIRGINIA

General Fletcher Clarke hung up the phone. The plastic receiver felt so light as it settled in the cradle. He remembered when those things had heft, substance worthy of the gravitas they often carried.

“General, would you like us to leave?”

Allison’s voice startled Clarke, though the question was a lifeline. How had she known he wanted to be alone? His silence? His expression? Or was it just the tight set of his mouth? He relaxed it as soon as he realized he was pressing his lips together.

“No—” he said. But that was tentative. “No,” he said more firmly.

Clarke had thought that having Largo Kealey in the office would be a steadying influence. The general had faced life-or-death situations many times in many contexts, starting with his earliest battlefield command in Vietnam. But added to zero intelligence coming from the naval blockade or from the satellites turned on the region, and the absence of actionable words or phrases being picked up on cell phones or emails by the listening posts in Rota, there was the added concern of neither Kealey nor Rayhan answering the phones. Worse, the signal division could not track the phones; they had been disabled.

The only news he’d received was no news: that the Citation forced down by the Air Force looked clean. He had been trying to relay that information to the only eyes he had on the ground in the region.

Now he didn’t have that. His concern for the two was secondary to not having any idea where the suitcase bomb had gone. He was staring at the phone without realizing it when Largo spoke. Clarke turned to the computer and looked at the map. It showed the new radius of operations provided by Homeland Security. It included the last known whereabouts of the device within a crushed teardrop shape, showing all the places the bomb could have reached by now using various modes of transportation. It was about 80 percent larger than it had been ten minutes before and there were no hot spots, potential hiding places, which would be pulsing with a red dot. Not a one. The bomb was lost somewhere within a space of approximately 110,000 square miles. The only good news is that as the radius expanded over the next hour or so, only Madrid would be added to Lisbon as a potential target. It was the belief of everyone working on this project that the terrorists would hold off for something that would make a much stronger statement.

“You have family, General?” Largo asked.

Clarke answered the question automatically, like he did at so many receptions and parties over the years. “We have two daughters and one grandchild,” he said. But the question hadn’t been casual.

“What do your daughters call you?”

Clarke replied, “Dad.”

Allison started to rise. “I think we should probably go—”

Largo waved her down. “What does everyone else call you?”

Clarke frowned with impatience. “Where’s this going?”

“My age buys me your indulgence,” Largo added. “At least another few seconds.”

Allison was also bewildered but said nothing. Now she was curious to see how this would play out.

“The girls call me ‘General,’ ” Clarke said.

“What’s the difference between ‘dad’ and ‘general’?”

“There are plenty—”

“One big one,” Largo said. “Kids think you’re never right. Soldiers pray you’re never wrong.”

The hint of a smile crossed the general’s face. “Okay. Never heard that one.”

“Wild Bill Donovan himself told me that,” Largo said with a chuckle. “That was before his OSS had manuals and guidelines and white papers. He sent us out there with one basic rule: I’m the only one who can see the big picture. You just do what I tell you and hope I’m right.” Largo leaned forward and rested on his knees. “I never expected miracles from my commanders, only orders. You’ve got the big picture to worry about. Give everyone you know an order, including me. Anything. Let me work on this.”

Clarke looked at Allison, who shrugged. He considered the request for a moment, then pressed the intercom on his plastic phone. “Gentry?”

“Sir?”

“Take Captain Kealey to Streaming Intel,” the general said. “Set him up with Juan August.”

“Yes, sir.”

Clarke turned to his computer. “August is one of our best tech people. Allison, you can go with if you want.”

“Thank you.” Largo rose slowly on uncooperative knees. “What should we do?”

“You want an order?” Clarke asked. “Find your nephew.”

Juan August was twenty years old, the youngest civilian employee at the DNI. He had been recruited after winning a local science competition during his senior year in high school: he had outfitted a helium-filled balloon with an anemometer, a small remote-controlled valve, and a packet of flour below the valve. He trained a high-definition video camera on the balloon. The valve released the helium at a rate that held the balloon steady just above the window of the principal’s office—a window that vibrated faintly from the sounds within. That same valve rained a fine mist of flour past the pane. The camera recorded the powder patterns stirred very slightly by the window’s vibrations, while a computer program factored out atmospheric movement recorded by the anemometer. That left only the vibration-caused motion of the powder, which the computer translated to audio. August knew which teachers the principal was planning to let go before they achieved tenure. He proudly played that recording at the science fair. The principal was not impressed, even if the judges were.

Reading about the school’s threat of seeking criminal charges, Gentry said it was either keep a full-time eye on the boy or see him arrested. August was given a full scholarship to the National Intelligence University at the Defense Intelligence Analysis Center in the compound while he worked part-time in Streaming Intelligence. He was searched daily for data storage devices . . . and balloons.

Streaming Intelligence was the brain center of the DNI. It was an area where data from other intelligence groups, both national and international, was stored, sorted, and compared. Most of the system was automated, but someone had to be on duty in case the program detected something that suggested a cause for alarm—like a name on a no-fly list showing up on facial recognition software in Lower Manhattan’s Ring of Steel video surveillance system. When that occurred, the technician had to make sure all appropriate analysts received the alert, even if it was three in the morning.

From Gentry’s description of his achievement, the young man—whose mother was Latina, father of English ancestry—was hardly what Largo had been expecting. He was not a slacker but a polite, alert, clean-cut kid with a soft voice and a look that was what they used to call “gosh-wow”: he clearly could not believe his good fortune at being here.

Gentry introduced Largo and Allison, told them all that there was no need to be secretive about the item Kealey was searching for, and left. August offered Largo his swivel chair. Largo offered it to Allison, who told Largo to take it. He did and proceeded to tell the young man who they were looking for. August leaned over the keypad.

“The general is right,” he said. “Both cells shut down in Tangier. The TAC-X tracking device is also done for.”

“How could you not have longer-life batteries?” Largo asked.

“We do. The devices were killed.”

August didn’t realize that he could have chosen a better word. Largo let it pass.

The young man brought up a summary box of intel from the region. “Okay. We’re all still processing data from the attack on the control tower—no one has claimed responsibility, the airport is closed, and the last jet to leave was forced down in Spain, nothing suspicious found. It is being held for further examination. It is owned by a Saudi charter jet company . . . the pilot says he diverted from the flight plan for fear of another rocket attack.”

“He’s probably lying, but that’s not our problem,” Largo said. “Do we have some kind of Google map view of the airport, something that may show my nephew and Ms. Jafari?”

“As soon as the cell phones shut down, anything showing the region was recorded, stored, and searched for possible causation,” August said. “Nothing came up.”

“Can you bring up those images?”

August typed. They were fuzzy green pictures that were smudged with a tester of smoke from the burning control tower. The images grew fuzzier with higher magnification, became less fuzzy with computer enhancement, but were still unhelpful at revealing significant details. Largo leaned closer.

“Can you enlarge this?” he asked, pointing to a spot in the parking lot.

August zoomed in. “What do you want to see there?”

“This figure on the right of the car,” he said, pointing. “There’s a bright line—can you punch that up?”

August hit a few keys. Largo nodded.

“That’s Ms. Jafari,” he said.

“How do you know that?” Allison asked.

“The silver fringe on her coat—I saw that yesterday morning.”

“That is brilliant!” August said. He began typing.

“What are you doing?” Largo asked.

“Passing the information along—that we found her.”

Largo lay a hand heavily across those of the young man. “Hold on. Let’s see what else we’ve got here before we confuse the matter with help.”

Allison grinned and August stopped. He became attentive. Independent action was obviously something he stifled in order to work here.

“If that’s Ms. Jafari, then we can assume this is my nephew,” Largo said, pointing to the passenger’s side. “There wasn’t a third person on the mission, so we don’t know who’s getting out of the backseat of the car or who the other two are. But the phones died right before this, correct?”

“Within seconds.”

“Our people wouldn’t have let that happen, so we have to assume the guy in the back was responsible for that. Question is, was he waiting for them or was he with them?”

August scanned the footage backwards. The smoke was thicker, the movements were blurred, but there were clearly three figures moving toward the car: Kealey, Rayhan, and their mystery man.

“So he was with them, probably working with them because it doesn’t look like they’ve got guns on him,” Largo said. “Not someone they just picked up, either, because our two aren’t really with him. Looks like they’re talking to each other.”

“Ryan doesn’t trust outsiders,” Allison added. “If he’s that close to them, he’s been around them long enough for Ryan to know him.”

“But not to anticipate that the third wheel would have two confederates waiting,” Largo said.”

The five people left the frame. August pulled the image back, saw them all get into a car. The smoke made the details indecipherable, and the car heading toward the exit did not help them at all.

Kealey looked at the time stamp. “We know they were alive about ninety minutes ago. Probably taken somewhere for questioning.”

“Or murder.”

“If Ryan thought that, he would have made a stand in the parking lot,” Largo said.

“How do you know?” Allison asked.

“Explosion, authorities minutes away, security on alert—that would have been the time to make a move. If he knew where the target was, he’d have sacrificed himself to keep Ms. Jafari on the trail—or vice versa.”

“So what can we do to find him?” Allison asked.

“Nothing,” Largo replied.

“Should I try and follow the car?” August asked.

“Negative. Ryan’s on his own. Perhaps the people who took him have intel he wants. If that’s the case, Ryan will find a way to let us know. No, we have a more important project to work on. I assume all our resources are looking for this terrorist.”

“I’ve only been here six months, but I’ve never seen virtually all eyes turned on a single project,” he said. “You see this number?” He pointed to a small bar graph scrolling right to left in the lower right corner of the screen. “That’s the DAF—data attention factor—this thing is getting from every part of Homeland Security. It’s ninety-one percent. That’s the upper limit of satellite, human intelligence, electronic intelligence, and every other resource that can be turned on this region, on this project.”

“Why is it so difficult?” Allison asked.

“Because it’s completely off the radar,” he said. “We had no personnel in Morocco watching, other than the two agents. Secretary Carlson didn’t send anyone in because protocol, going back to before we got Osama bin Laden, says you watch with as few eyes as possible to keep from alerting the quarry.”

That sounded to Largo like the university talking. But he agreed with that. It was how he tracked the damn nuke in the first place.

“So Ryan will be the scapegoat if this doesn’t work out,” Allison said.

“Hazard of the business and the least of our worries,” Largo said. “We didn’t count on someone else getting involved—”

“The intel that’s coming together on that theoretical third party may be following up on the murder of an Iranian in Rabat,” August said. “I saw an alert about forty-five minutes ago. Police in Morocco did an autopsy on a dead man they found on a beach. He died of radiation poisoning but they found mellawach crumbs in his beard—Yemeni bread. The Iranian’s blood was also on his hands.”

“So an agent from Tehran kills the Yemeni, gets on the trail of another Yemeni who stole the device, and runs into Kealey,” Largo said.

“Wouldn’t he have mentioned that to the general?” Allison asked.

“Tough call,” Largo answered. “The higher-ups here might have ordered him shot or arrested—again, more attention on the chase. Possible leaks to the press by Iran, headlines. Ryan must have felt the guy was value-added.”

“There was a university professor, a scientist murdered shortly after the car bomb in Fès,” August said. “That could have been Mr. Kealey.”

“How was it done?” Largo asked.

“A leatherworker’s awl. Back of the neck.”

Largo nodded. “Sounds like a spy’s improv.” “That’s where they started to run into opposition,” August said. “The IED on the highway, reported gunfire at a construction sight outside of Moulay Bouselham—the police there just found a body in a shed. He had no ID and there are no fingerprint results yet. The last thing was a burning car the terrorist had been driving. They left it outside a Christian cemetery.”

“Subtle,” Largo remarked.

“Mr. Kealey expected him to go to Tangier, almost everyone concurred, and you know the rest.”

“The speed bumps started to slow him and gave the quarry just enough room to wriggle away,” Largo said. “Now there’s no trace.” He looked at August. “Let’s put away the graphs and collaborations. We need to figure out how to sprinkle flour in the air between there and here to find a nuclear bomb.”

August smiled.

And then the system shut down.

CHAPTER 20

TANGIER, MOROCCO

“Right now, I am the only one who has a chance of stopping that weapon.”

Even before Rayhan translated, Yazdi’s pronouncement had the authoritarian stink of every regional dictator Kealey had ever heard, from the Ayatollah on down. His brain rejected it—without denying that there was some truth to it.

Kealey, Rayhan, and two of their hosts were sitting in the back of a produce truck. They had been transferred to the vehicle after the Iranians’ car was driven past the disorganized and haphazard security massing at the airport. One of the Iranians was still behind the wheel; the other had accompanied Yazdi into the back, his gun trained on the Americans, who had been told to lie facedown with their hands on the back of their necks. The canvas top was tied tight to the sides, the rising sun causing the interior to heat quickly. They had pulled off the road after driving for about a half hour. All Kealey could smell was his own body odor and a vague, dank, rotting residue on the floorboards. He felt the vibration of the engine, assumed the driver was simply awaiting instructions.

Kealey did not bother to ask what Yazdi wanted. The Iranian would get to it soon enough. He didn’t want that bomb to leave the region, either.

“I want you to provide me a list of the names of agents working in my country,” he said. “If you don’t have it, I will give you the opportunity to get it. When Tehran confirms a few of the names, I will go after the device. You can choose to give us data or you can give the terrorist lives.”

Kealey had to admire the man’s improvisational skills. He had come up with an awful choice on the fly.

“You act as though we have no resources of our own,” Kealey said through Rayhan.

“Soon, you will not,” Yazdi replied. “Will you cooperate?”

“I don’t have the information, and turning it over wouldn’t be my decision,” Kealey replied.

“I suggest you begin the process and stress the importance to your people.”

“How does that help us get the device? What can you do?”

“I didn’t say it helps you get the device,” Yazdi said through Rayhan. “I said you save lives. We still get the device.”

“How?”

“We have people inside KOO,” Yazdi said. “They are working on pinning down the method of conveyance.”

“Let me know when they get it,” Kealey said.

“You do not have that luxury,” Yazdi said. “Did you tell your superiors about me?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because they’d have wanted me to do the same thing you’re doing to us,” Kealey said. “That wasn’t my top priority.”

“Of course not. You’re a field agent. But I am not. We must multitask. Their main concern, like mine, is that our countries are threatened from within by one another. Even if they lose a few hundred thousand citizens to this device, they still must deal with Tehran. Whether or not I recover the device, I must still deal with Washington. I want to know who their contacts are. We will not act on any intelligence we receive until I have the information I want.”

“Act how?” Kealey asked, getting back on point. Time was running out.

“We have a frigate that has been tasked with intercepting the terrorist, if the senior commander gives the order to do so.”

Kealey looked at Rayhan. “Do you know if they have that asset?”

She nodded, her cheek rubbing the floor.

And this is how the guts of the system really works, Kealey thought. It wasn’t von Richthofen and Rickenbacker manfully and honorably gunning for enemies in the skies of World War I. It was chess with masses of the population as pieces and cold, certain ideology as the players. Often, sacrifices had to be made for victory. Kealey wasn’t accustomed to bargaining on that scale. He wasn’t surprised to find an Iranian cell here. Tehran had them all over the world, ready to give aid and succor to any lunatic bomber who needed it. But even if Kealey hadn’t asked for it, the responsibility of stopping this plot was now on him. Betray a city and its populace or betray a nation by strengthening a conquest-minded theocracy.

Kealey was still looking at Rayhan. He knew there was something terrible in his eyes and in his heart.

“Tell him he has us as hostages,” he told her. “That’s all he gets.”

She repeated Kealey’s words in a firm voice. Yazdi whispered something. Kealey did not know if it was to the driver in the cab or to the man with the gun. He waited for the impact of a bullet. From her expression, he could see that Rayhan was waiting for the same. Instead, the truck started off.

“You may have to finish this on your own,” Kealey whispered. “They’re going to bind us or drug us—I can’t let that happen. You make for the exit.”

Yazdi barked at them to be quiet.

Rayhan shouted back at the Iranian, “I’m telling him to please cooperate!”

She told Kealey what she’d said. Yazdi did not reply. He was greedy and he was annoyed that he couldn’t have it all, right now. Maybe he was under pressure from the Ayatollah back home. Kealey didn’t care. He listened. There was crunching below them, no sounds of traffic around them.

“We’re doing about thirty on a dirt road, probably isolated.”

She nodded.

Kealey saw motion from the side of his eye. “Ready?”

She nodded again.

It was time to make his move.

MCLEAN, VIRGINIA

“What the hell happened?” Largo asked.

August checked his DNI-issued cell phone. “It’s still working. Something poisoned the streaming system.”

The phone beeped. It was August’s counterpart at the CIA. “Et tu, Hunt?”

“Yeah. Hold on—there’s a tweet from the FBI. They got hit, too.”

“Crap.” August hung up and started typing on dead keys. “Sounds like the entire Streaming Intelligence grid is down.”

“Can you restore and reboot?” Allison asked.

“Nothing’s responding,” he said. “So it’s not just incoming but outgoing.”

“I thought we have firewalls to prevent that,” Allison said.

“We do. Good ones. This could be a homegrown job. Makes getting in a whole lot easier.”

“Let’s not waste time with that,” Largo told him. “Do you have an atlas?”

“A book one?”

“Yeah. A book one.”

“No, but I’ve got this.” August wiggled his cell phone. “What do you need?”

“The North African coast up through the top of Portugal,” he said. “We need to narrow the search window.”

“Hypothetically.”

“Yeah, hypothetically,” Largo snapped. “What else have we got?”

Largo apologized but August brushed it off with a little roll of his head. He was too busy typing with his thumbs. That was Largo’s frustration showing. He was disgruntled with youth and their obsession with gotta-have-it-now. He saw it in the Green Acres Mall, he couldn’t avoid it in the street when he walked along Forest Road, he heard it on TV. The sad thing was, compared to this, no one really needed to have anything “now.”

The map came up. It was small, but Largo’s eyes were good. He got close to it. “Can you print that?”

August jacked the phone into his printer and the image slid out.

“Now the east coast of the U.S. from New York to Washington, then the ocean in between. Let’s keep the scale the same.”

August brought up the images and printed them. There were eight pages in all. He got on his knees, and when they were assembled on the floor between them, Largo said, “Assuming the enemy has to act before we can muster all our resources, they’ll come by air. Let’s draw cones from the cities here to the other side of the Atlantic and mark the areas by longitude and latitude.”

“The zone where we sprinkle the flour,” August said.

“Correct. We inform—who would it be, NORAD?”

“They only watch us now, the continental U.S.,” August said. “That would be—”

The phone went out.

“Oh boy,” August said. “We’re being totally cyber-attacked.”

“The Chinese?” Allison asked. She looked afraid. Largo didn’t blame her. The blunt-force unfolding of another 9/11 was on his mind, too.

“Not likely,” August said. “Beijing has nothing to gain if we’re nuked.” He turned on his personal iPad. It was fine.

Largo looked down at the map. “We’re not going to be nuked,” he said. “Goddamn it, we’re not. They’re moving this quickly. We’re blinded now for a reason. They have to be coming in by air.” He eyeballed the map. “They’ve got three thousand, five hundred miles and change to cover. That’s a couple of hours and a lot of open water.”

“For us to do what?” August asked.

Largo looked over at him. “What do you mean?”

“We lost this thing because it’s sealed in lead, apparently. Even with your cones, that’s a lot of air traffic. We don’t know what kind of aircraft we’re looking for and even if we did, suppose they decide to remain silent. I’ve been studying our protocol manuals in class. The military can’t just shoot down an aircraft they suspect may do us harm. They have to force it to land. Worse, if the incoming aircraft declares an emergency, pretends to be in distress, they have to allow it to land at the nearest airfield. Mr. Kealey, this may be an off-the-cuff operation, but there are clearly some smart people behind it. And they will want to land, sir. I looked up the specs of theoretical designs. This doesn’t get them the spectacular visuals they like with an air burst, or the deaths—especially if hot air from the city carries the radiation off and dissipates the fallout. An explosion on land is what they need.”

Largo looked back at the map. It suddenly seemed useless—not like the maps he used to carry on fabric sewn inside his shirt back. He felt useless; worse than that, he felt stupid. He wished he were back home watching whatever unfolded happen on TV.

“Why don’t we take a walk,” Allison suggested.

Largo nodded. He got up stiffly, suddenly feeling a lot older. She took his arm and they walked to the elevator, took it to the lobby, stepped outside into the sunshine. Streams of people were coming toward the building, none away. Tellingly, none was on a cell phone.

“All hands on deck,” Largo said. “The system is broken, we need to fix it.”

“You ever see anything like this?”

“After Pearl Harbor,” he said. “People running toward newsies who were selling extras in the streets. Not again until September 11.”

“We come together with purpose and fear,” Allison said. “And it all gets booted upwards. The general, Carlson, Admiral Breen, the President—they’re all having to deal with what just knocked us back on our heels.”

“Did it ever!—and I’m not proud of that.”

“Hey, I was no real help, either,” Allison said. “This isn’t what we were trained for. Who is?”

Largo nodded. “Wild Bill was right.”

“About what?” Allison asked.

“Being an armchair general is much tougher than it sounds.”

TANGIER, MOROCCO

As the truck continued at a steady pace, Kealey heard movement behind him. The man coming toward the prisoners did not have a gun: turning slightly to the right on his chin, Kealey could see the end of several lengths of rope dangling from the fists of whoever was approaching.

He caught Rayhan’s eyes. She was alert and ready. Even under the single bulb in the back of the truck, he could see the vein in her slender neck pulsing hard.

There was no tension in his body, no anxiety. Kealey was aware that these might be the last seconds of his life, yet he was not afraid. The seconds, the fractions of seconds seemed to him right then a dear, precious gift and he was actually cherishing them, enjoying them, smiling to have them as he made his move.

Kealey still had his hands on the back of his head. He tucked his elbows toward his face and when the man stepped between them—to bind him first, as Kealey had expected—the American rolled toward him like a child going down a country hill. The Iranian stumbled back, and as Kealey kept rolling toward the side of the truck he went down. He did not fall on Rayhan, however; she had bolted as Kealey had ordered. She took off like a sprinter, making for the slit in the canvas in the back. She swatted the flaps aside, took a moment to mark the speed the truck was moving, and jumped. Kealey heard a thud, did not know whether she had landed on her feet, her side, or her face. Whatever the case, she was on her own.

Yazdi had the gun, but the tangle of Kealey and the Iranian prevented him from firing. With an oath, he half ran, half jumped around and over the two men. Kealey took the punches the Iranian guard was throwing and grabbed Yazdi’s leg as he passed. The Iranian spy chief hopped awkwardly on his free foot, tugged on the other, but had to stop and pull in an effort to get away. Kealey wasn’t letting go. Not even when Yazdi turned the gun and aimed at his head. He was betting his life that one high-level American agent was more valuable alive than two American agents dead.

Yazdi went down as Kealey pulled his leg toward him. The Iranian yelled something and the truck stopped hard. The driver got out. He did not come into the back; Kealey assumed he was going after Rayhan.

The Iranians wrestled Kealey onto his back, Yazdi having to tuck the gun in his belt to free his hands. The American refused to be pinned. He kicked, flopped, moved his arms, and clawed with his fingers. He bucked up with his forehead, hoping to hit Yazdi as he bent over. Kealey had received rudimentary training in krav maga, a close-proximity combat style developed by the Israeli Army. But none of that was useful with the weight of two men on him. The guard had moved so that he was straddling Kealey, despite the American’s knees clubbing him in the middle of his back.

Kealey’s body began to react to the punches it had taken. His side and chest throbbed, it hurt to breathe, and that moment of distraction allowed Yazdi to kneel on his forearms and open his face for the guard to punch it. Blows rained left and right on his cheeks and on the side of his head, causing dark circles to spin in front of his eyes. His head snapped from side to side. His energy drained rapidly; it was as if someone had stuck a tap in his spine and flipped it wide open. His body relaxed, then went completely limp, and his hearing was lost to the drumming sound of blood racing through his temples. A moment later, Kealey was unconscious.

All kinds of heroic moves went through Rayhan’s mind as she poised on the lip of the truck. Hold onto the flap, swing around to the side, and cling there so she could eavesdrop. Or cling there and swing back in, like an acrobat, kicking whoever came to get her. Then she could grab his dropped gun and rescue Kealey. Or what about climbing onto the top of the truck, lying flat until it was daylight, then signaling for help.

Poised on the bouncing edge of the truck, her arms trembling from being turned back around her head, Rayhan knew she could do none of those things. She simply jumped into the dark.

Rayhan hit the ground on her feet. But she, like the truck, was moving roughly thirty miles an hour and she fell forward on her knees, tearing them open on the rough surface. Her palms followed her down and were also badly scraped. Though she hadn’t been trained for this, it didn’t seem so long ago that she was on a playground playing “parachute”: jumping off a swing while it was moving forward, her mother yelling that it was unladylike. Rayhan’s childhood instincts returned, and when she hit the ground she rolled forward in a crude but effective somersault.

The truck continued to move forward, but Rayhan knew that would not last long. She rose on wobbly legs as blood trickled from her knees down her legs. She peered through the dark. She could see water to the right, a downward sloping field to the left. She opted to head for the water, unaware that as she pushed her way into the high growth she was entering a wetland. Rayhan’s first hard step onto what she thought would be solid ground threw her forward with a splash and she was unable to find her footing in the muddy silt beneath. She didn’t panic but started moving her arms like wings, thrusting herself forward while trying not to linger long enough on the mud to allow the suction to pull her down. Living things moved around her, wriggled, slapped water, croaked, rasped. They brushed her arms and bugs hummed around her eyes and ears. Something stationary snagged the ends of her hair but she yanked without pausing. In the distance she heard the squeak of brakes. She looked over, saw the rear lights of the truck. It had stopped.

She took a breath and went under the water, not swimming exactly but staying as low as she could among the high reeds. Her head popped up now and then for breath but she did it quietly, to create as little disturbance as possible. During one of her breaths she saw a flashlight play on the road. She did not fear whoever it was coming after her; she was afraid he’d shoot. She was less valuable as a prisoner than she was dangerous as an escapee.

Her clothes grew heavy as they absorbed water. She didn’t dare pull anything off and leave it behind: she needed to get out of range of the light. She couldn’t see it now but she could hear the footsteps on the dirt. The beam poked again to her right. She went underwater entirely and stayed there as she swam-walked ahead. She didn’t understand how she could smell the rankness of the water while she was in it, not breathing, but she could. When Rayhan couldn’t hold her breath any more she stopped, turned on her back, and poked her mouth up like a fish going after a waterbug. She remained still so the waves she’d created didn’t lap over her lips. Her hair floated below her like a mass of weeds; it was a strange sensation lying there, looking at the stars, having committed herself to a course of action that might result in her death.

The light shone just to her right—but below her by about ten feet. It reached up slightly, then swept down. It returned, coming toward her. She closed her mouth tightly, sucked air through her nose, lowered her face. Murky water covered her, seeping into her nostrils, but she did not swallow it. She moved her hands to and fro to keep from sinking. She literally prayed that nothing brushed her face, startled her, caused her to jump. The darkness behind her closed eyelids brightened to dull red as the light passed near. Her ears were full of a burbling noise as water filled them. It seemed longer than a minute that she was under but she knew it could not be; that was about all she could ever hold her breath.

And then the light softened and was gone. Rayhan turned over, lifted her head so the mass of tangled hair covered her surfacing, and got her nostrils above the waterline. She snorted down air in the most ungraceful manner but did not care that she sounded like a bullfrog. She opened her eyes, saw the light to her left now. She remained where she was until the light had moved several yards over.

It snapped off. She heard footsteps run for a moment, then stop. He must have entered the field.

Rayhan began to swim away slowly, gently, gratefully. She did not forget to thank God, and only now began to pay attention to how wet and waterlogged she was. Still, she did not complain. She had no doubt that Ryan Kealey would be delighted to change places with her right now.

The wetlands emptied into a region of dunes that lined the coast. Rayhan didn’t know how far they stretched, only that she needed to go toward lights, toward people. Soaked and stumbling, her arms and legs heavy with exhaustion, she fell flat among the high grasses and did not immediately get up. She knew she had to; there were gentle waves to her right, in her ear, and she could not hear anything to the left. The desperation of her flight had left her drained and it felt good to collapse.

But he might come, she thought. He might still find you.

Rayhan put her palms to the sand. Her arms wobbled as she pushed up, got her knees under her. She looked back, through the reeds. The truck was still there but she could not see the flashlight. She could only imagine what they were doing to Kealey. They would want to keep him alive but they would make sure he could never again do what he did. She needed to get in touch with General Clarke. She had no money, no identification, no phone, no weapon. She needed to get to a local police station and call the DNI.

She fell back to a crawling position and fought the urge to drop back down onto her chest. But she was so tired. She breathed deeply because she could. The salty taste of the marsh water was still lodged in her throat, and she swallowed several times. It was still there. She shut her eyes. Maybe if she rested—

No, she thought.

The water. She had to get to the sea. Rayhan turned to her right and crawled toward the water. The surf was relatively calm. She wasn’t looking up, it took too much effort. She crept into the Mediterranean and allowed the surprisingly warm waters to cover her hands and knees. She used her toes to kick off her shoes, which were like sponges. She rested on her knees again, splashed herself, let the sea move around her. She put her face in the water, used her fingers to comb the marsh weeds from her hair. She looked to the right and left. There were lights on the water to her left. She could not tell whether it was a boat or a restaurant and had no idea what hour it was. But it seemed to be only about a mile away and she would head in that direction. Maybe she would find someone along the beach.

She walked on her knees back to the dry sand, pushed herself up and, after steadying herself, started walking toward the lights. Her head pounded, her ears filled with the sounds of the sea, and she had trouble staying on a straight line. Her mind was a muddle.

I wouldn’t need Ambien to sleep now, Ryan, she thought.

Suddenly there was a glow at her feet. She looked down, saw it grow. It was coming from behind her.

Rayhan did not turn, did not try to make a stand. She started to run.

The driver pushed his way in through the flap in the back of the truck. From his expression, Yazdi knew what had happened.

“She’s gone, sir,” he said as he stepped up to the intelligence chief.

“Unharmed?”

“I didn’t see her,” the man said.

Yazdi looked down at the unconscious figure of the American agent. The Iranian did not get angry at his subordinate. He had long ago learned that living with the shame of failure was sufficient punishment. He had a more immediate need, more practical applications of time and energy.

“She will be found,” Yazdi said. “We need to get rid of the truck and wait for more intelligence. Where can we go?”

“We have a little operations center behind a barbershop,” the man said.

“All right,” he said. “Head there while we await word. I need to send a text.”

While the other guard stood over the bound American, Yazdi leaned against the back of the cab. He wrote to Sanjar:

WHERE IS THE FRIGATE VELAYAT?

The deputy intelligence chief replied:

ROUGHLY ONE HUNDRED KILOMETERS WEST OF SENEGAL

That was at least twelve hundred kilometers from his present position. It was no help.

WE ARE TRACKING KHALID’S CONTACT IN REGION

By that, Sanjar meant the Vezarat-e Ettela’at Jomhuri-ye Eslami-ye Iran was looking into the Saudi’s efforts to move a package from the region by land, sea, or air. Because of the close relationship between the United States and Saudi Arabia—or rather, Saudi oil—Iran had eyes and ears on the payroll in control towers and at ports—and their own radar on everything that moved into and out of the region. A computer program in Tehran would filter out anything that wasn’t an American transport or Saudi military vehicle. KOO would not risk using a government asset for this project: too many officers were loyal to the royal family . . . and their money.

Of course, the information on KOO’s activities would be helpful but only if those conveyances and personnel were within reach. Right now, Yazdi was not feeling as if he had control of that . . . or very much else.

As the truck grumbled and rattled along the road, Yazdi glared down at the American.

“You’re going to sleep through the worst of it,” he muttered. “But however it goes, you are going to be my guest for quite some time. You, and your phones, will tell me everything I wish to know.”

While this would not go exactly as the Iranian had hoped, he would still come out of it with a solid net gain.

That was not something the Americans were likely to be saying before the day was out.

THE MEDITERRANEAN SEA

Mohammed did not rest at all. He was too excited. He did squat thrusts to prepare himself for his mission, he prayed, and he spoke to his mother as though she were in the room.

All the while, still lashed to its dolly, the trunk made its presence felt. It was like he imagined the burning light of God or the Prophet Himself would feel.

He listened for sounds of activity, heard nothing that suggested anyone was coming to get him, and soon found himself growing restless. He knew he should not; he knew he needed to relax. But he wanted to be about this business. More than the revenge he so recently sought, Mohammed wanted to be the emissary of He for whom he was named.

And then the door opened. Someone entered whom Mohammed had not seen. By his dress, he was a member of the ship’s crew.

“We are going to take you and your trunk on deck,” the man said.

“Is Yousef there?”

“The man who brought you?”

“Yes.”

“He has gone,” the sailor told him. “We will get you safely to your aircraft.”

Making sure he had the cell phones that Professor Boulif had given him, Mohammed went along as two more men took him and the trunk back to the elevator and onto the deck.

Mohammed felt special. He felt rich in spirit. He could not stop smiling and watching the railing at the side of the ship, looking for the seaplane.

Soon it arrived. It was about twenty meters long with a wingspan of roughly thirty meters. It was a pale blue-green with ivory-colored wings. It rested on a pair of fat torpedo-shaped flotation devices. A crane-mounted block and tackle with a sling affixed to the inside of the aircraft was being extended through the open hatch under the wide wing.

Mohammed’s trunk was removed from the dolly and placed in a flexible steel harness at the side of the ship. As it was hoisted up and over the rail, the Yemeni looked over the side. There was a sturdy and spacious pontoon boat waiting below.

“You and your trunk will be escorted to the amphibious aircraft,” the sailor told him. “You will be airborne in less than a half hour.”

In his eagerness Mohammed started to ask him where the aircraft was headed. Then he remembered Yousef said that only the crew on the aircraft would know. And probably it would be known only to the pilot.

The seamen worked swiftly and very, very competently. Once the trunk was off-loaded Mohammed climbed a ladder to the boat. It sped the short distance to the aircraft. The plane, named the Murghen—Coral—was a beautiful sight and fitting: the wrath of God should come from above. He watched on the rocking boat as the trunk was carefully raised and pulled inside the cabin. When that was done, the pulley system was swung back inside and a gangplank was lowered for Mohammad. He ascended slowly, gripping the rubber-topped rails, since it upset his balance to be going one way and then another way as the boat and aircraft rose and fell in different ways.

He entered the sparse cabin, where the copilot was securing the trunk inside a closet. To his right, the pilot sat in a cockpit illuminated with an array of green, blue, and red dials. When he was finished, the copilot withdrew the gangplank and secured the door. The pilot began to rev the two nine-cylinder radial engines.

“Welcome,” the copilot said with a professional smile. He was a square-jawed man with a close-cropped beard. His uniform was khaki with the logo of an oil company on the breast pocket and hat. He pointed toward the only seat. “Sit where you like. The other seats were removed to give us added range. If you are hungry or thirsty, there is a small food locker in the corner.”

Mohammed thanked him and walked toward the plush leather chair. Even with screws on the floor where tables and other amenities had been, the seaplane seemed very luxurious. The sound of the engines was not as loud as he expected as they turned from the ship and taxied along the open sea. The pressure pushed him back in the seat. This was only his second time in an airplane—the first was following that accursed Iranian killer—but he was prepared for the pressure and exhilaration of takeoff. Within moments the sound changed—the slapping of the sea vanished and the aircraft tilted into the darkness.

He wondered if the other men knew what they were setting out to do. He wondered if they were expected to remain with him. He did not see how they could get away from what was going to happen.

But that is not your problem, he thought.

He checked the phones again, then thought of Professor Boulif and all the others who had brought him here. Mohammed was asleep before the seaplane had reached its service ceiling of 21,000 feet.

CHAPTER 21

TANGIER, MOROCCO

Even as the white light enveloped her, even as a batting noise overpowered the hard lapping sound of the waves and grew nearer, Rayhan kept moving. She was loping now, shifting quickly from leg to leg as each threatened to give out. Once they did and she sprawled on her chest, only to scamper to her feet, push off the sands like an Olympian, and keep on running. The lights ahead of her didn’t seem to be getting nearer but through it all there was just one thought in her mind: Get to them. Get help.

The light kept getting lower, spreading her shadow longer and longer before her. Finally, when her silhouette stretched so far ahead of her the top was lost in darkness, the light stopped moving. Rayhan was wheezing, stumbling now, and when she fell again she did not get up. She writhed forward, clawing, but could not escape the powerful fingers that gripped her shoulders from both sides and picked her up.

“I’m sorry,” she said, remembering not to say Kealey’s name aloud. “I failed—”

She heard a distinctive Arab dialect in her ear. It was not the Farsi of her captors but the distinctive inflection of Moroccans.

“Are you the American? From Washington?”

“I am American,” she answered. She thought about not answering the question fully then realized that if these men knew that much they were probably looking for her. “Yes, I am from Washington.”

“Are you alone?”

“Yes—now.”

“There is a man—”

“Taken,” she said. “He was taken.”

Two men conversed quietly, then lifted her firmly but carefully and carried her back the way she had come. She was thinking how unexpected that was even as she was turned toward the light and loaded into the police helicopter. She lay awkwardly stuffed across the two backseats, her legs across the man’s lap.

“Your embassy has been looking for you,” one of the men said as the helicopter took off.

“Embassy,” Rayhan said. She stared at the man who was wearing a charcoal-colored uniform. Police, it looked like.

“Yes, in Rabat,” the man said. He put a blanket around her. “Do you know where you are?”

“Tangier,” she replied.

“That’s right,” the man said.

Rayhan pulled the edge of the blanket tighter around her chest. She felt a plastic bottle against her lips. She drank quickly, not caring how much she spilled. Washing the dank taste from her mouth was like a tonic to her.

“You were reported missing from the airport. You must be important. We are looking for terrorists, but your ambassador insisted you must be found. You and another man.”

Rayhan became more alert. “They took him,” she said. “We need to find them.”

“Who are they? Where are they?”

“In a canvas-backed truck,” she said. She did not provide the only name she knew. That would be considered confidential. “The other side of the wetlands . . . a dirt road. They chased me but I escaped.”

There was more conversation. She gathered they were deciding whether to get her to a hospital or pursue the truck.

“The truck,” she insisted. She threw off the blanket and tried to sit. She ended up slanting with her shoulder against the door. She was still wet and shivering from the air-conditioning in the helicopter, but she shrugged off the man’s efforts to help her. “Go after the truck! You don’t want to lose them!”

The pilot got on the radio. Rayhan squirmed erect. She could not hear anything because he was wearing headphones. She took the water bottle from her companion and poured it on her face.

“The men who have my—my friend knows who is behind this,” she said. “You must get them before they escape.”

The pilot had evidently received the same orders, because after nodding he swung the helicopter around and set off in the direction he had come. The interior light was switched off and Rayhan placed her face to the window, blocking the lights of the control panel with her hand. She looked back past the marsh, which was far narrower than it had seemed when she was in the middle of it. The helicopter went lower when it reached the dirt road.

“This is a construction road for the expansion of the Tangier-Med facility,” the man beside her said, yelling to be heard over the powerful rotor. Her eyes scooted ahead. Those were the other lights she saw: a massive city within a city, a complex of industrial structures, residential buildings, offices, ports, and various support facilities.

She did not have to say what was on everyone’s mind. If they were in there, it would be difficult to find them—and practically impossible to find them in time for the information to be of use.

The helicopter went lower, and the pilot spotted tracks that could have belonged to any vehicle that had passed that day—and then swung over the truck so fast they passed right by. It was dark and parked by the side of the road just outside the complex. The pilot had to swing back to take another look at it. He directed the spotlight at the vehicle and made a hand gesture over the seat.

“He says it looks abandoned and I agree,” the man beside Rayhan said.

They landed behind the truck, shined the light around it again, then finally got out. The officer told Rayhan to stay in the helicopter.

Handguns drawn, the two men approached on either side of the truck. They checked the back first, found it empty, then went to the cabin. Rayhan’s spirits had spiked when they saw the truck; now they plummeted. She looked just ahead of it at the enormous white structure at the end of a long, beautifully tiled courtyard. The building looked like a squared-off sports arena. There were other structures around it, along with parking lots and construction equipment; she began to wonder if all of Morocco was being renovated. As one of the few strongholds of capitalism and tourism on the continent, that was probably the case.

But why wouldn’t they have driven in? she wondered. She looked behind her, at the older streets. Because they didn’t go in here. They only wanted us to think they did. They didn’t want to be seen on the security cameras.

They went somewhere else.

She pushed at the door on her side. It took several shoves with her shoulder but she managed to open it and half fell with it. She hung on to the handle and looked into the dark. There were a few people standing ahead—they were not Yazdi and his men. They looked like locals who were probably wondering what a helicopter was doing just outside their community. Beyond them she could dimly see lights outside a café and a small inn. She shucked off the blanket and started to walk forward. It occurred to Rayhan that if she found Yazdi and his people they would also find her. But she didn’t think they would go after her—not with the police a few steps away.

She took a few more steps. They were slow, sluggish. She was angry that she was so drained. As she shuffled forward she heard the crunch of feet on the dirt road behind her. Hands grabbed her and she started, but it was only the police officer who had given her the blanket and water.

“That way,” she said.

“I know,” the officer said. “My partner is calling for a cordon. We’ll find them.”

That was the last thing she heard as her head grew light and her legs gave out and she fell into his arms.

MCLEAN, VIRGINIA

Clarke slammed down the phone, cracking the receiver, and then screamed out his office door, “I want it fixed and I want to know who did it!” He didn’t care about the phone or his aides’ hurt feelings. The affected intelligence systems were down and coming back very slowly. But more important, judging by the time stamps on incoming images, it hit the DNI first and spread. This whole damn thing was an inside job by someone in his division.

The ramifications loomed large. Someone had shut them down while they were trying to find a missing nuke. He had no idea how many other people might be working against them—people who did not mind risking a slow death if a bomb was detonated in Washington just eight miles away.

Personal phones were not affected and security cameras were not impacted, but Clarke felt that anyone who was smart enough to do this wouldn’t be stupid enough to walk out when it happened. He or she was probably part of the team working to get the backup units online. And possibly sabotaging those as well. The system backed itself up constantly, so the only loss of data would be anything that came in from the time it went down to the time it came back up.

Which was probably the point.

The Navy was arranging eyes on the Atlantic, but that meant hundreds of aircraft, hundreds more seagoing vessels, and the ability to process the incoming data.

They wanted to poke a stick in our eye.

In addition to that, still no one could raise Ryan Kealey or Rayhan Jafari.

Clarke had always felt that intelligence work was 10 percent intelligence and 90 percent luck. So far, he and his teams had managed to find a near-perfect balance between the two; at the very worst, no mission had ended with disaster.

But the enemy was multiplying and each group was getting better, like mutating cockroaches who became immune to new strains of pesticide. This was the kind of situation he had always dreaded, and he did not know how to handle it.

Not this way, he told himself. Not by yelling to hide how afraid you are.

So he did the only thing he hadn’t done in a while. He shut his eyes and prayed.

Which is why he was startled when the phone rang with an ill little ring that poured through the crack in the receiver. It was INTERPOL. He scooped it up.

“Yes?”

“They found the woman and the truck that abducted her from the airport,” said Mostpha Bensami. “She is alive but currently unconscious. They are putting up roadblocks to try and find your other agent.”

“The cargo?”

“Nothing,” the INTERPOL officer told him. Clarke thanked the man and hung up. This time he knit his fingers tightly when he closed his eyes.

He thanked God but knew he was going to have to pray a lot harder.

TANGIER, MOROCCO

Yazdi’s two men helped their “drunk” companion along the cobbled streets of the town. The men had assured the intelligence chief it was a common enough sight that no one would comment. The street lamps showed the beardless man to be a foreigner, and they often drank too much when they were in Morocco on business or vacation. Yazdi’s concerns were not so much getting him to the barbershop but getting him onto the Mediterranean into Syria and then to Iran. Yazdi hoped he would not only prove a rich source of information about American intelligence operations but a valuable hostage.

The device still bothered him, however. Now more than before, Iran would be blamed for having been behind this. They were the ones who found the device. If the American woman survived, she would tell her superiors that Yazdi spied on them and interfered with their operations. He would have to go public with the interim details, but Tehran would still be accused of having been supporting the terrorists. He also wondered what the president and the extremists in his own country would do. They might very well want to take credit for the operation. It would boost their standing in the radicalized nations of Libya, Egypt, Syria, and across the midsection of Africa. Terrorists in Yemen would be proud that one of their own had been engaged.

That was not what he had hoped for from the operation. He wanted parity on a nuclear scale, not a reputation as God’s flaming sword on earth.

Their destination was a surprisingly modern structure, a glass facade on three sides. It was attached to an old single-story brick structure painted white. The barbershop was closed, and the men made their way to the side entrance. They had chosen this spot partly because the door was not in the back: there was nowhere around that anyone could hide. Opposite the door was where they parked the car they took to work. There was only the solid wall of a bookshop next door with one high window looking out at them. The shade was drawn. They were alone.

The inside was spare: three beds tucked against walls, a dresser, a desk, an old picture tube television with an aerial, and a computer. There was a small stove and mini-refrigerator in the kitchenette, a tiny shower next to the toilet behind a wall, a small safe, and prayer mats rolled on the floor beside it. The members of the cell lived off their salaries as security guards, but they had their fake Moroccan identity papers, several passports, and stacks of cash in the safe for emergencies. It was not uncommon for Moroccans to have safes; most local transactions were conducted with cash, and it was not always convenient to get to banks.

The truck they used had been purchased for cash. When the police traced it to the former owner in Casablanca, he would be able to tell them nothing about the identities of the persons who bought it.

The men lay the American facedown on one of the beds. He was beginning to come around. Yazdi told one of the men to gag him. He was tied but he could still yell. The men wouldn’t be speaking to him in any case; they couldn’t speak his language.

Yazdi washed his face, then asked for food. One of the men gave him bread and jam. It was all they had but it was enough. The Iranian sat at the desk, drained and frustrated. There was no joy in his trophy. He had wanted the device. There was still a slim chance he could get it; that depended on Tehran.

“We’re going to need a boat,” Yazdi said after taking a few bites of bread.

One of the men brought over a cup of tea. “That will be easy enough. We can put him in a trunk—”

“No,” Yazdi said. “No trunks. They may be watching for trunks. A canvas sack.”

“All right,” the man said.

Yazdi’s phone buzzed, and he snatched it up eagerly. It was Sanjar.

“We believe you may be too late, sir,” Sanjar said.

Though he was expecting them, the words caused Yazdi’s mood to darken.

“We monitored KOO communications with the field and picked up instructions to strip a seaplane moored off of Khalid’s platforms in the Bouri Oilfield.”

That was one of the richest oil repositories in the Mediterranean, located 120 kilometers north of the coast of Libya.

“The work was done quickly and the plane took off for the Algarve, Portugal. It landed, refueled, and took off in a little more than a half hour.”

“Bearing?”

“Northwest,” Sanjar told him. “Russian intelligence tells us that shortly before that, according to satellite surveillance, a helicopter from Tangier landed on a Khalid drill ship in the region. The helicopter offloaded cargo and departed.”

“A trunk?”

“The images are not clear enough to tell,” Sanjar said. “It could very well be. Would you like to see them?”

“Yes,” Yazdi replied. “And I want to see the amphibious aircraft.”

As the images were being uploaded, Sanjar said, “We also believe that the men who attacked the control tower were KOO. Possibly mercenaries rather than sympathizers.”

Chances were good they would never know. Based on the training people like that received in Afghanistan, Yemen, and Mali, it was likely that had blended in with the crowd that was fleeing the airport and gotten away.

One of the security guards snapped his fingers at Yazdi. “Sir—I hear something.”

Yazdi listened. He heard nothing. But then he did not live here. Every sound was new. He watched the other man.

“There are cars,” he said. “More than usual.” He listened a little longer. “Coming from both directions.”

“They’re searching for the terrorists,” the other man suggested.

Or us, Yazdi thought. “We’re leaving,” he said. “Clear the safe.”

The men did not question the order. Yazdi looked at his prisoner. The man was awake now. Yazdi knew they couldn’t take him. If cars were being searched they would find him. The question was what to do with him.

The Iranian knelt beside the American. He looked into his eyes. Beyond the blood and bruises there was defiance, steel. The man was not thinking about himself. He was thinking about the mission. And from what the American could hear, the activity, he had to have some idea what was going on. Undoubtedly he himself had been in situations like this.

Yazdi decided. He was still holding his cell phone. He held the phone up in front of the American, who was breathing hard through his nose. It showed a picture that had just arrived, an image of the amphibious aircraft moored beside the drill ship.

“Bomb,” he said in English. He pointed to the aircraft and the time stamp.

The American nodded several times. His eyes appeared grateful.

Yazdi did not want to send the image himself; he did not know where to send it and, in any case, the Americans must handle this—and the consequences, without his involvement. He did not want to share Russian intelligence without their approval; their cooperation was vital to the security of the Iranian state.

He went to the kitchenette, got a butcher knife, and placed it on the desk. He did not remove the American’s bonds or gag. It would take the man a little while to get to the blade—enough time for them to get away.

The Iranian men told the chief they were ready to leave. The intelligence officer knelt once again beside the American. He had nothing else to give the prisoner; it was for himself. Yazdi felt a kinship with the man, who had been nothing other than professional during their time together. They had vastly different views of the world but he did not think—and this was intuition talking, nothing more—that the man would allow a suitcase bomb to be detonated in Tehran if he could help it. And perhaps if the situation were reversed some day, this man would warn him of some evil—or give him safe haven. A spy in a theocracy where Experts warred on politicians and the military battled the Experts and religious factions battled each other, a spy living in those conditions might one day need safe asylum.

Yazdi shut off the light and left the room.

Kealey heard the car depart. He did not bother with the knife. His feet were unbound, so he wormed into a sitting position, rose, and backed over to the door. He got his fingers around the knob, turned, and stepped into the darkness. He looked toward the street, ran ahead, only saw the car in the distance. It was too far to make out the license number or make of the car.

The American saw headlights to his left and ran into the street. He might not be able to communicate with whoever was coming, but they would see that he was bound and gagged and assume he wanted to go to the police.

Fortunately, he was able to save some time: it was the police coming down the road.

The police car stopped a few feet from Kealey. It sat for a long moment, Kealey standing still in the headlights; then two men got out. They approached Kealey cautiously, one man talking into his shoulder radio, the other looking him up and down with a flashlight.

One of the men spoke in Arabic. Kealey stood patiently with a gag still tight in his mouth. While one of the officers stood back, the other approached. He removed the tightly knotted fabric. Kealey said, “I am American. Do you speak English?”

They did not. Uncertain whether he was friend or foe, they put him in the car and continued their sweep.

CHAPTER 22

TANGIER, MOROCCO

Rayhan sat sipping orange juice and eating a granola bar in the first-floor infirmary of the quiet Tangier police station. The former train station was a three-story white building with a partly latticed facade and the ghosts of constant activity still present in the wide street out front and the big, open lobby that served as the hub of two long corridors and a series of stairwells. There were red-lettered signs in both Arabic and Spanish in the hallway; this facility and a sister building in Cádiz shared intelligence, personnel, and resources. They were part of an urgently needed Police Cooperative that was established in May 2012 to safeguard the neighboring countries—in particular the airways and sea-lanes.

The on-duty male nurse had given Rayhan a robe, though the woman kept her clothes nearby. She had showered, washed the wetlands from her hair and skin, and sat waiting for someone to come and get her. The nurse did not speak English, but his commanding officer did. In urgent terms Rayhan had told the short, slender captain—a former military man with a big scar on his forehead—that she needed to get in touch with the American Embassy. However, with her documents still in Yazdi’s possession, she could not prove she was American—or anything but a terrorist who had come in from the sea or Algeria. The nation had experienced attacks that originated in both. Even though the captain had listened to the story his men had told him about the truck, he was not convinced she had not originated there as part of a scheme to get her in the country. For all he knew, she was the one who had fired the rocket-propelled grenade. Perhaps she had gone through the marsh to wash the explosive residue off her hands.

The captain had ordered the woman’s picture to be taken. He assured her he would send it to Rabat to confirm she was the missing American woman. Rayhan felt certain it was a mug shot. She resolved to give the man ten or fifteen minutes before she found some way out of this place. The primary reason she was giving him this long was because she needed the food, drink, and a moment’s rest.

And a little time to compose herself.

There was urgent business outside: Rayhan was keenly aware of that. She needed to contact General Clarke and get instructions, tell him what little she knew. The captain had not allowed her to make a call, obviously fearing that she would be letting some theoretical ally know where she was. When the nurse was on the computer she bundled her clothes under her robe and went into the small, white-tiled lavatory to change. Her clothes were wet and cold from the air-conditioning and she wished it were forty-eight hours ago when she was comfortable, home, and working on projects that a human being could get her arms around.

She needed to calm down because this was all so literally incomprehensible. She began to understand something of the mind-set of the people who dealt with high-caliber threats on a daily basis. The general seemed to do that. He had tried to treat this challenge as he would any danger, any mission: something to be intercepted and defused. To factor in magnitude, to allow one’s personal, emotional, and psychological response to ramp up, would literally cause the brain to lock. Rayhan suspected that Broadway actors on opening night or athletes before a championship game or presidential candidates before a first debate had to, in some way, convince themselves it was just another show, another competition, another night of political thrust and parry.

It’s another terrorist. It’s another bomb. Don’t think of the millions of lives.

Rayhan put the robe back on over her clothes before she left the bathroom. She was prepared to hit the nurse if she had to. If nothing else, she would get to see the captain again. She had not told him that they were on the trail of a nuclear weapon, but she was prepared to do that if she had to.

The nurse looked back at her, smiled—there were times when it helped to be an attractive young woman—and she smiled back. He returned to his computer and she returned to the examination table, looking around the infirmary for something to hit him with. She had settled on a rather prosaic vase by the barred window when there was a knock on the door. The nurse unlocked it. The captain stood there and stepped aside so two men could walk in. They were bearded but clearly not natives. They were dressed in knee-length djellabas, white with maroon stripes, the hoods thrown back. They spoke the local language but with slightly flattened accents. One of them went to the nurse and showed him a piece of paper. The nurse—who obviously held dominion within these walls, not the captain—read the paper and sat at the computer. The other new arrival came over to Rayhan. His features were sunbronzed and youthful, his eyes dark. His beard was a little straighter than the curlier hair of the locals.

“Ms. Jafari, I am Chuck Davis with the American Embassy in Rabat,” he said. He gestured behind him. “This is John Logan. We need to talk.”

The three were shown to a conference room down the hall. The door was shut and while Logan stood in front of a video surveillance camera Davis invited Rayhan to sit at the round table in the center. He sat after she did and pulled his chair close.

“We were in the Western Sahara with gunrunners, and it took a while for detailed information to get to us,” he said. “What is the status of your mission?”

Rayhan hesitated. Davis smiled knowingly. He took out his cell phone.

“Text General Clarke,” he said. “His number is in my directory.”

She scrolled through the man’s phone list, saw many familiar names. They could have been stolen, hacked from some website. But Rayhan realized she was not in a position to doubt him. As Kealey had said to Yazdi, it’s all about the bomb.

The woman returned the cell phone. “We were never far behind the terrorist,” Rayhan said. “He was a lone wolf for a time and then picked up a team supported by a group called KOO.”

“KOO,” he repeated. “K-O-O?”

“I think so,” she said. “I’d never heard of it, but we always assume there are terrorist organizations we aren’t familiar with—”

“You learned about them how?”

“From the Iranian intelligence chief we picked up in Fès,” she told him. “He was looking for the bomb, which they had recovered and then lost. My partner was careful with him—he took information, gave very little back. We had control of the situation until they ambushed us here, at the airport, after the explosion. They seemed as surprised by the attack on the control tower as we were.”

Davis continued to look at her as he weighed what she had told him. It sounded dubious even as she said it. She became afraid. She was tired, her words sounded a little hollow, and she needed some help.

“I need to talk to General Clarke,” she said

The man sat back. He pushed his phone forward. “What are you going to tell him that you haven’t told me? And how is any of that going to help him?”

She didn’t know. Now that she thought about it, the call was probably for her own peace of mind. Davis was right. He could do more here than Clarke could do in Washington. If only he knew what to do.

There was a rap on the door and the captain entered without waiting to be asked.

“One of our units just called in,” he said. “They found an American bound and gagged in the medina. They want to know what to do with him.”

Kealey had never been arrested in the United States. Like most Americans, he had heard the complaints about allegedly overzealous police, about batons and fists being too-liberally applied, about the harshness of mace and tasers and other forms of subduing a perpetrator. He also appreciated the liberties even a prisoner had in the United States compared to here. No punishment could be as dehumanizing as being helped into the back of a police car, still bound, behind a presumably bulletproof and definitely soundproof screen, and being ignored.

The two officers continued their sweep while one of them contacted what Kealey presumed was his dispatcher. The sweep consisted of stopping to ask people if they had seen anyone they didn’t know for, apparently, people in the old Arab section of the city knew everyone who lived there or frequented their establishments.

Kealey worked on getting his hands free, but the Iranian guard had tied them tight. His wrists were bleeding and painfully raw. He was sure the doors were locked as well, but one step at a time.

They had just gone past a tobacconist’s that was shuttered for the night when the car stopped. The men were conversing with a voice coming over the car radio. With some kind of acknowledgment, they turned and headed back the way they had come. Soon they were on the dirt road heading into the heart of the city. Kealey saw the abandoned truck, saw a helicopter moving along the beach to the northeast, wondered—hoped—something had happened that convinced these men their prisoner needed to be brought to a station.

Kealey shut his eyes. His face ached in a way it had not for years. It had to have been at least a dozen years since he’d taken that kind of beating—in Afghanistan, he thought, at the hands of bandit marauders in the service of the exiled Taliban. He didn’t know why being hit was tiring, made one really want to nap, but even after being knocked out that was what he wanted now.

The car left the bumpy road for a smooth, wide roadway. In a few minutes they pulled up in front of a large white structure. Several people were waiting outside. Kealey choked on a breath when he recognized one of them. It was Rayhan.

The driver let Kealey out, cutting his bonds with a pocketknife before allowing him to go. Rayhan hugged him before stepping back and taking stock of the wounds on his face and wrists.

“I’m fine,” he said. His eyes drifted past to the men from the embassy. “I know you,” Kealey said to Davis.

“And I you,” the man replied. “She didn’t say you were her partner.”

“Good,” Kealey said, grinning crookedly as he walked toward the man. “I need to talk to D.C. Now.”

They went inside, back to the conference room, where Logan shut the door and Davis gave Kealey his phone.

“Did you find something out?” Rayhan asked. She gave Kealey a bottle of water as Davis put in the call.

“I did,” he said. “The problem is going to get anyone to act on it.”

THE NORTH ATLANTIC

Commander Ray Limpet of the guided-missile destroyer USS James E. Williams was having dinner alone, in his stateroom, when he received a prompt from the Operations Room. He was already using the time to catch up on alerts from SIPRNet, the Secret Internet Protocol Router Network used for interconnected computer networks within the ship.

The USS James E. Williams was in the North Atlantic Ocean at forty degrees north, three hundred miles from the Azores. The alert from the tactical center indicated that three more aircraft were just entering the airspace the destroyer had been ordered to watch. They were the twenty-third, -fourth, and -fifth to pass over the vessel since the general alert had been issued to the task forces of the Sixth Fleet.

Commander Limpet looked at the data. His pale blue eyes shone from skin darkened by thirty-nine years at sea. There was a TAP Portugal Airbus 310 from Lisbon to Atlanta, a British Airways 777-400 from London to New York, and a Gaz Algarve Grumman HU-16 Albatross headed from Tangier to Washington, D.C.

The Tangier departure immediately placed the aircraft on the watch list sent by EUCOM and US-AFRICOM—the United States commands in Europe and in Africa.

Commander Limpet checked the box beside the update to note that he had seen it and placed a red flag icon beside the Albatross. He wrote back that the information should be forwarded to the Department of Naval Intelligence direction and also to Homeland Security. The officer on duty acknowledged the order. Neither command center had indicated why the Tangier location was important, only that anything on or above the sea be identified and targeted.

With improved radar and satellite uplinks, assignments like this were rare—and he remembered why they were grateful for that. He did not know what bug had hit Homeland Security and the Department of Defense, but unless he was ordered to assist in a takedown of one of the aircraft—something that had never happened in his four years of command—it was still a routine operation.

Limpet went back to his meal and reading email.

WASHINGTON, D.C.

General Clarke had gone to the White House even as systems were being restored across the intelligence services. He did not want to sit still, and he did not want to be outside ground zero of the intelligence debate. Max Carlson had already gone to the situation room along with CIA director Robert Andrews and National Security Agency chief Bruce Perry. Admiral Breen of the Joint Chiefs told Clarke he would be going there as well.

The drive over in his personal car was short but extremely bittersweet. He did not know if Washington was a target. But as he looked through the smoky windows he had no idea whether it would be the last time he saw the city—even assuming he survived whatever the terrorists had in store.

He told himself he shouldn’t think that way—he couldn’t afford to. But though he was generally an optimist, he was also a realist. He still had not heard from his agents, though the CIA men from the embassy in Rabat were finally on the way; and they still had no idea whether the bomb was airborne, on the sea, or under it. Or if it was even headed to the United States at all.

Ryan Kealey was right, he thought as the car made its way toward Pennsylvania Avenue. He once remarked that all of these operations were like a parachute jump. Whether your chute opened or failed, terminal velocity truly did not matter—not really—until you were inches above the ground. Whether the weapon was a gun, a knife, or a nuclear bomb, it was useless and largely irrelevant until just before it was used.

Clarke had argued that Kealey’s perception was academic rubbish: that intelligence organizations needed targets to follow, not just to stop. Kealey did not disagree.

“Let me put it another way,” Kealey had said. “Does a long-bomb pass matter if, right before it lands in the waiting arms of a wide receiver, a cornerback gets a finger on it, just a finger, and deflects it out of bounds?”

Clarke agreed it did not. Now he understood. That was how Kealey maintained hope in the face of miserable odds. All any of them needed to do was get a finger on the ball.

In this case it’s a very different kind of bomb, but the idea is still the same, Clarke thought. He snickered humorously. The good news was also the bad news: at least the damn thing would be delivered to their door.

The car pulled up at the West Wing. General Clarke walked through the security checkpoint—though he did not have to wait in line with the other workers. He acknowledged the security team with a smile and a nod. They were vigilant. They did their jobs. It filled him with pride and also with resolve. His step quickened as he walked past the portraits of the Presidents, past another checkpoint, to the elevator that would take him to the underground situation room. His destination was the Executive Conference Room, part of the five-thousand-square-foot White House Situation Room complex. Occupying half the basement level of the West Wing, the bombproof complex had been set up by President John F. Kennedy so that operations such as the handling of the Cuban Missile Crisis could be carried out in absolute secrecy and security. The complex continued to function as a command center for the president and his advisors, though after a 2007 technological upgrade—efforts that were continually ongoing—the operations were taken over by the National Security Agency.

Clarke was admitted by an NSA security guard stationed outside the door. Everyone except the President was already in the ECR when Clarke arrived. These included not just the top officials but a half dozen security analysts from their respective agencies. Clarke had not even sat down when one of the security NSA analysts said there was a call for him, forwarded from his office.

Clarke took his usual seat around the long table and picked up the phone.

It was Ryan Kealey.

THE NORTH ATLANTIC

Mohammed was reviewing the phone number in his head, as he had done from time to time. He had not forgotten it, just as Professor Boulif had ordered. While his eyes settled again on the trunk, the Yemeni thought back to the brief time he had shared with the scientist. It was just a day before and yet it seemed as if he had known the professor his entire life. Perhaps he had. God had chosen them all for this sacred mission. Perhaps He had given them spiritual awareness of one another. Mohammed felt so comfortable with all the men he had worked with on this journey. There had to be a reason.

The more he looked at the trunk, the more it seemed to have a personality: proud and defiant. Perhaps the large black container was God Himself in another form. He wondered if it was blasphemous to think like that. Probably not. God was all things—why not that?

“Soon it will be time for you to give up your secret,” Mohammed said. “Sadly, I do not know which will apply to you. It is said, ‘Whoever recommends and helps a good cause becomes a partner therein,’ yet I do not know if a ‘thing’ can be a partner. The holy book says, ‘Whoever works righteousness, man or woman, and has faith, verily, to them will We give a new Life, a life that is good and pure.’ You are neither man nor woman. Yet you have been a strong and reliable partner and I will speak on your behalf.”

He chuckled. It reminded him of when he was a boy and he made a figure of sticks and cord and called it a brother, for he did not yet have a brother and wanted one very badly. And then a brother came. He had spoken to his creation so many times, done so much with him, that it seemed to have a life of its own.

Perhaps it does, he thought. Did not Moses fear the Calf of Gold?

The pilot emerged from the cockpit and crouched beside Mohammed. “How are you?”

“I am well,” Mohammed said. “Very well.”

The pilot smiled. “I have instructions for you about our cargo.”

Mohammed felt a tickle in his belly. Our cargo. He was not a pathetic loner, not a servant of the Iranians. He was part of a great team with a greater purpose.

“We are directed to bring our plane to the National Harbor just outside of Washington, D.C. We will be met there by a customs broker—this has been arranged by our sponsor. He has landed his seaplanes here and elsewhere in the United States many times.” The pilot smiled. “It is a popular sight with tourists and familiar to customs agents in several cities. Our papers will show that we carry just one man and his luggage, a very important person to our employer.”

“But this will expose our sponsor—”

“No,” the pilot said. “He will not have known that a radical group run by your contacts placed you onboard at the drill ship. At least, that is the tale he will tell.”

So simple, yet what an ingenious scheme, Mohammed thought.

“You understand that I will be remaining onboard,” the Yemeni asked cautiously.

“We do. We know that you carry a bomb and that the destruction of this plane will destroy the harbor. That is why we will remain ashore. In the confusion that follows the explosion, we are to make our way into the city and remain there, the foundation of a new operational unit in America.”

“Of course,” Mohammed said. Yousef’s words had remained alive in his ears: he was to say nothing about the full scope of the mission.

“We have another four hours or so until we land,” the pilot went on. “Is there anything you need? Anything we can do?”

“I was thinking,” Mohammed said. “Would it be possible to speak with my mother in Yemen?”

The pilot smiled sympathetically. “We are to have no communications out of the ordinary. I’m sorry.”

“I understand,” Mohammed said.

“Is there a message you would like me to deliver?”

Mohammed smiled at the innocence of that question. “Thank you, no. The event itself will be the message.”

It had been an impulse, a desire, not a real need. The young man wondered if he might have been able to use Boulif’s cell phone for that purpose. He realized it was too risky to think along those lines. He did not want to be responsible for causing the mission to fail. And he wondered, too, what he would say. If his mother did not understand . . . if she asked when she was going to see him again . . . would he waver? He had to trust that Yousef would give her his message.

The aircraft hit a patch of turbulence. It was the first he had ever experienced, and after the pilot came on the speaker and told him he would be climbing out of it, Mohammed actually welcomed the distraction. It was also a reminder that everyone must expect the unexpected, himself more than most. As he sat back hard in his seat, trying not to be afraid of the jumps and bumps, he decided that he must trust in God to get him to Washington and put everything from his mind except the trunk.

That was all he could control.

That was all he needed to control.

CHAPTER 23

TANGIER, MOROCCO

Kealey took a long swallow of water, then allowed Rayhan to rinse his wounds and wrap a pair of towels around his wrists.

The two men from the embassy left the room and said they would try to make sure no one was listening on another extension. Kealey could not be concerned who might be listening. It reminded him, as he had been feeling all day, what things did not matter much this close to disaster.

He sat on the edge of the table and waited impatiently for Clarke to come on. Kealey imagined that he was not in his office, was probably at the White House, and it took time for calls to be kicked forward. When Clarke came on it was without the usual edge. Clarke knew that Kealey was safe; otherwise he would have given him the name on his passport, William Loman.

“Good to hear from you,” Clarke said. “Your partner?”

“With me on speakerphone,” Kealey answered.

“Where are you?”

“Tangier police station with your embassy boys,” Kealey said. “Sounds like you’re on speakerphone—where?”

“ECR,” Clarke said. “The President has just arrived.”

“Mr. President,” Kealey said as he collected his thoughts. He wasn’t sure how he was going to sell this.

“Glad you’re all right,” Brenneman said. “What’ve you got?”

“Sir, I’m ninety-nine percent sure the device is onboard a seaplane.”

Kealey looked at Rayhan who stood anxiously beside him. She looked like she had been through trench warfare.

“Did you see it? The plane?” Clarke asked.

“Yes and no. We spent the day bumping heads with an Iranian intelligence head who had a cell waiting at the airport,” Kealey said. “Rayhan got away, but they held me until the police swept through the medina. Before they fled, he showed me a photo.”

“And you believe him,” Clarke said. It wasn’t a question. Obviously Kealey believed him.

“He was a straight shooter till the end,” Kealey said. “Gave us a lot of useful intel. Took out a sniper who had us pinned down.”

“Because?” someone asked. It sounded like Carlson.

“They were the ones who found, then lost, the device,” Kealey said. “The terrorist was a lone wolf until he fell in with the group I told you about, KOO. Then it was as if he had afterburners—bombs to spare and transportation. We both wanted him. The Iranian doesn’t want to see a bomb they possessed blowing up in one of our cities.”

“Gotta love their priorities,” Carlson said.

“That’s not the issue,” the President said. “The question is whether we can trust him.”

“This plane supposedly belongs to Khalid?” Clarke said.

“I don’t know that,” Kealey replied. “It would be a reasonable assumption.”

“Khalid al-Otaibi?” the President asked.

“Yes, sir,” Clarke answered.

“Jesus. That’s a helluva bramble to go tromping around in.”

There was a voice from someone in the room. A back row along the wall; an analyst on a laptop, most likely. “The USS James E. Williams picked up a seaplane, origin the Bouri Oilfield in the Mediterranean, a little over an hour ago.”

“Where?” the President asked.

“Just north of the Azores, sir.”

“That puts them about four hours from our shores if that is the plan,” Clarke said. “Can we get a flight plan?”

“We also don’t know if it’s another feint, like the jet the Spanish forced down,” said a distinctive voice, that of NSA Chief Perry. “The Iranians are not friends of the Saudis. This could be some kind of plan to get us to do dirty work for them. We alienate the Prince, he withholds his oil, we have to buy from Iran.”

“I don’t think so,” Kealey said as patiently as he could. “I believed him.”

“You believe him enough to shoot down a plane that—according to what I’m seeing here—is owned by one of the most important figures of an essential ally and does not appear to have been hijacked.” Carlson made a disgusted sound. “I don’t like it.”

“We can force him down,” Breen suggested.

“Over international waters?” said CIA Chief Andrews. “If we do that, and we’re wrong, we will be dragged in front of the World Court for sanctions and a hamstringing the likes of which we’ve never seen. Even if we’re right, we couldn’t prove they were going to use the device.”

“Oh, please,” Kealey said. “There is probably a terrorist onboard!”

“ ‘Probably,’ ” Andrews said. “That’s not enough. We would bring it down, the Iranian frigate would sail over—it’s in the region—a Russian sub would surface, and we’d have an ugly little standoff that ended with us turning the plane over to the Saudis, who don’t even have to be there. It would be the Cuban Missile Crisis and Vietnam rolled into one on the high seas: we’d be stigmatized for years, which is also something Tehran would love to see.”

“At the very least, if we force the aircraft down the device will not make it to our shores,” Kealey said. “That’s what we’re all after, isn’t it? We bow to international pressure, release the seaplane, maybe blame it on Iran, and it goes to Tangier or Riyadh. Meanwhile, Ms. Jafari and I go there and wait. We call in the troops before the damn thing can come back at us some other way.”

“And how do we explain our actions?” the President asked.

“We lay it out, from the U-boat to the seaplane,” Kealey said.

“We did that before we invaded Iraq,” Perry said. “That was a dozen years ago and the world’s still laughing.”

“Since when did thin skin trump national security?” Kealey asked. “Mr. President, the Iranians sunk one of their own frigates to conceal what they found. Terrorists covered their trail in Morocco with bombs. We have evidence.”

“Three-quarters of the world couldn’t tell you where Morocco is,” Perry remarked. “They won’t care. All they’ll hear are indignant Saudis all puffed in their robes, international bankers rushing to the defense of Khalid al-Otaibi, and threatening financial sanctions—which the Russians and Chinese will rush to support, I should add—and our military put on trial for roughing up a man who has done so much good with his billions.”

“Including funding a terror group,” Kealey said.

“We can’t prove that!” Perry snapped.

“We probably could, if Kealey is right, but not in time,” Andrews said.

“There’s always the chance that if there is a terrorist onboard, he’ll trigger the bomb in a panic,” Clarke said. “Many of these suicide bombers do when cornered. We may even sink a Russian sub in the process.”

There was nervous laughter.

“That outcome makes us look bold and puts Moscow on our side,” Clarke went on. “There’s also the possibility the terrorist may lose his nerve and surrender. Almost twenty percent do that. Then we can take the device and show it to the world.”

“Khalid will claim we planted it there,” Perry said. “Mr. Kealey’s Iranian friend will back him and expose him and Ms. Jafari.”

“He did not know our names,” Rayhan snapped.

There was a brief silence. “Thank you, Ms. Jafari,” the President said.

“What if we force the seaplane down and have a team waiting to board her from underwater?” Clarke went on. “No one will know.”

“If it blows, we suffer one hundred percent casualties,” Breen pointed out.

“I realize that, Admiral,” Clarke replied tensely.

“We’ve got the flight plan,” Carlson interrupted. “After leaving the oilfield it landed briefly in the Algarve and continued flying southwest over the North Atlantic—destination the same as it’s been two times in the past eighteen months. Right here.”

The room went dead. Kealey couldn’t tell if they were gripped by contemplation or by a sudden stab of fear. He hoped it was the latter.

“Hold on,” Perry said. “We’ve got data coming from the NRO.”

The National Reconnaissance Office was the spy-eye-in-the-sky organization responsible for collecting and analyzing audio and visual data from all sources and from all vantage points. Someone must have requested surveillance of the seaplane.

There was barely audible chatter in the room, no more than a hum on the speakerphone. Presumably the President and his counselors formed their usual little pockets. Clarke and Breen huddled together, Andrews had turned to consult the analysts, Perry and Carlson were talking with the President. Ultimately, the President would have to make this call. Brenneman tended to be cautious, but he was a lame duck. That species was unpredictable. Either they had their eye on preserving an overall legacy or on finding something that would define them, that would serve as the centerpiece for a presidential library. Some of them actually had the well-being of the nation foremost. Kealey did not know which way this would go as the little cabals prepared to give him their strong, last advice. None of them had seemed interested in shooting the plane down, let alone eager. Kealey wasn’t sure he blamed them. All he was giving them was his impression of skimpy intelligence provided by an enemy of the state.

Kealey looked at his partner. He didn’t realize how bad he must look until he saw the distress in the young woman’s eyes. Her hand was on the table, some mud still under her manicured fingernails despite the shower. He squeezed her fingers lightly, wincing as his wrist rubbed against the towel. Rayhan winced, too, as though they were the unlikeliest of twins. He poked the mute button on the phone.

“Hey, at least neither of us was shot,” he said.

“Yet,” she joked, “you’re running up quite a phone bill.”

Kealey chuckled.

“What would you do if you were the President?” she asked.

“I was just wondering that myself,” he said. “You?”

“I like General Clarke’s plan. Force it down, get onboard.”

“Then deal with the red faces if we were wrong,” Kealey said, nodding. “I’d back that one, too. We could get a team over from the Sixth Fleet pretty quick, probably be over and done before the Iranian frigate or the Russians get there.”

Perry interrupted the chatter. Kealey killed the mute button.

“Analysis of the seaplane is Code Green,” he said. “Conversation from the cockpit normal. Airspeed trending a little fast against headwinds, but not significant. There is nothing overtly actionable.”

“Except Mr. Kealey’s report,” Clarke said. “That’s not going to show up in the NRO analysis.”

“And we deeply respect both Mr. Kealey and his report and his courage and that of his partner,” Carlson said. “But our policy, Mr. President, by charter and by deed, is to act on what we know or strongly suspect, not what we hear from an enemy.”

“There’s also the virus to consider,” Perry noted. “That came from inside, possibly from the very same people Mr. Kealey wants us to trust.”

“Or the Chinese,” Andrews said.

Kealey had no idea what they were talking about. “I’m a little at sea here,” he said. “All I know for certain is that over half a million lives are potentially at risk, including your own. Our policy has mutated and adapted during this administration. There’s a briefcase nuke out there and we need to stop it.”

“Thank you for your perspective,” the President said.

Kealey didn’t know if he was being told to shut up or if that was for everyone. He didn’t care. What came next was what mattered.

“We have time to deal with the takedown option,” the President went on. “In the next hour I want operational overviews for that operation and for a quarantine if we allow it to land in accordance with its flight plan. Questions?”

That was the end of the debate. At least a takedown was still on the table—which was different from a shoot-down. The aircraft was not going to be molested. Kealey waited until Clarke got back on. He was no longer on speaker.

“What virus?” Kealey asked.

“Something that spread through all the intelligence divisions, blinded us when we started looking for the plane,” Clarke said.

“Inside job?”

“Seems like it,” Clarke said.

“Like someone was watching the clock and knew when to punch it.”

“Do you have any idea who it is?”

“Not yet,” Clarke said, “and until we get the system up and running and forensics working on it, we won’t.”

Kealey wondered if that was a plant from Khalid—or the Iranians. “You said something yesterday, I think it was. About voices raised against us doing something. I’m a little foggy—do you remember what that was?”

“Yeah, whether the terrorist was headed to Algeria instead of Tangier,” Clarke said. “Most people said Tangier.”

“Who didn’t?”

“I can’t remember offhand . . . it’s been a long day for me, too. Are you saying they could be right?”

“No. I’m saying the top priority of any mole is to protect his position,” Kealey said. “You do that with disinformation to start. You only move to sabotage if you have to because your fingerprints will be traceable. You bolt as soon as it’s safe.”

“So—the algorithm is who backed a wrong horse or two on this, then left,” Clarke said. “Right. Should’ve seen that.”

“Not our priority yet,” Kealey said. “Finding him or her won’t lead us to the terrorist.”

“True.” Clarke took a moment to refocus. “How solid are you on this Iranian? And why didn’t you tell me about him?”

“Because I didn’t want you worrying about two things,” Kealey said. “We had it covered.”

“Not as fully as you thought.”

“No,” Kealey agreed. “Do we ever?”

Clarke didn’t answer.

“Everything he did, everything he told us, convinced me—we both wanted the device out of the hands of the terrorist,” Kealey said.

“Everything he did led you into a trap.”

Now Kealey was silent. What could he say? That was true, too.

“I’m for the takedown,” Clarke said, “but I don’t know that we’re going to get it. I’ve been reading up on Khalid. He could choke hell out of banking and oil.”

“The perfect guy to paralyze us from acting. Like Osama, but without the narcissism.”

“That may be,” Clarke said. “But there are certain cats you let in before you try to bell them.”

“Except that you’re not dealing with Khalid. You’re dealing with a terrorist who has been on the run, on the go, and may pull the trigger the moment he is spooked.”

“Ryan, if you can think of anything else I’ll put it in front of the President,” Clarke said. “You’ve been on the run, on the go as well. You’ve got to understand why there’s skepticism here.”

“I understand completely,” Kealey said. “But if all you count on us for is our ability to infiltrate and kill, not our ability to analyze, why have boots on the ground at all?”

“You’re taking this too personally—”

“No, dammit. I’m scared, and I’m scared for a reason. It’s because I believe the guy whose eyes I was looking into. I know when I’m being played, General, give me that. This guy was serious. He did the same to me, sized me up before he showed me the picture of the aircraft with a time stamp I’ve seen on other images—Russian images. The police were closing in and he stopped to do that. Why? Why share intelligence that could compromise Iran’s relations with Moscow unless he meant for us to stop the damn plane?”

“I agree he meant for us to stop it,” Clarke said. “The leap of faith is why. You say one thing, everyone here says something else.”

“I was the only guy on-site.”

“Which is the only reason the takedown got any traction at all,” Clarke said. “Give them some credit for giving you credit. That wasn’t just lip service from the President. But look at the facts. Even assuming the Iranian was sincere, no one has proven that the device is on the plane. We thought it was on another aircraft—it wasn’t. We acted boldly, correctly, and we’ve got egg on our faces over that.”

“The plane’s headed toward D.C. Is there any event scheduled? One of Khalid’s charities?”

“We’re checking,” Clarke said. “Even if there isn’t, the bomb could still be somewhere in Tangier.”

“Suicide bombers don’t have a long attention span, General. You know that.”

“I do. Again, that’s why something other than ‘let it land’ is being discussed at all.”

Kealey sipped more water, poured a little in his hand and rubbed it into his face. He felt as if he were outside the flow of time, things moving in slow motion where he was, speeding in real time, increasingly out of reach, everywhere else. He had a strong urge to call his uncle and ask what he thought.

“Not to be an alarmist,” Kealey said, “but would you do me a favor?”

“Allison?”

“Yeah. Would you strongly suggest that she drop what she’s doing and drive up to see my uncle or something?”

“I can’t do that,” Clarke said. “They’re both here. He flew down last night at her request.

Kealey took a moment to process that. His first thought was fleeting but telling: Good. She’s not alone. He worried for them both before going back to his initial thought. “General, I think we should talk to him.”

“About what? The device? What can he tell us?”

“I don’t know,” Kealey said. “That’s why I think we should talk to him.”

“I’m going to be a little busy for the next few hours—”

“No,” Kealey said. “Conference him in. The three of us.”

“Ryan, the directors are ready to get back to work on this—”

“If we ever need fresh eyes, General, it’s now,” Kealey interrupted. “He has been in a situation like this, by himself, and he’s had six decades to think about whatever he thought then. Let’s use that perspective.”

Clarke exhaled. “Hang on. I’ll take this in the breakout room.”

The general was referring to the small office off the Executive Conference Room. That was usually reserved for one-on-ones with the President. Kealey didn’t think Brenneman would be feeling possessive right now.

Rayhan was sitting on the desk facing Kealey. Despite the dirt, despite the exhaustion, there was still a fire in her eyes. That gave Kealey strength and resolve. She was the next generation of U.S. intelligence. Part of his job was to show her the kind of determination he was fighting hard to muster. To show her to look at things from as many perspectives as he could think of. To keep going even if you didn’t know what was ahead.

“I’m calling him now,” Clarke said when he got back on. “I’ll plug him in as soon as he picks up.”

Perspective, not noise, Kealey thought. Not just new eyes but old eyes. Know or intuit what to use and what to leave on the table.

“Do you need anything?” Kealey asked Rayhan.

She smiled. “A magic lamp and three wishes?”

Kealey smiled back. “You grew up on those stories.”

“I was obsessed with the tales and folklore of young heroes and ruthless villains and naive caliphs whose kingdoms were at risk,” she said. “That was why I learned to read when I was still very young, so I could learn what the lush, beautiful paintings in the books were all about. That is one reason I went to work for America.”

“Because you saw in Iran that the stories weren’t just stories,” Kealey said.

“They were more than that,” Rayhan said. “Every day, King Shahryr would marry a virgin and then the next day put her to death to marry another. Scheherazade told stories to enthrall him and save her life. I did not want to be part of a society, part of a world, where women had to do that.”

Kealey was reminded, right then, about why fresh eyes were necessary. He was a man in America. There were some things that just would not have occurred to him.

“Ryan, are you there?” Clarke asked.

“I’m here,” he said.

“Let’s do this but make it quick,” the general told him.

MCLEAN, VIRGINIA

Largo and Allison had not bothered going back to August’s cubicle. They went to the commissary for coffee and a long, thoughtful sit-down. The commissary was empty as workers either tried to fix the broken systems or waited impatiently at their stations for them to come back online.

This was one of the reasons Allison had invited the older Kealey down. One reason analysis isn’t over and done in a few weeks is it takes time and maybe an additional trauma or two to open patients up, to get them out of their own way. For Largo, a strong, proven, once-reliable rope had suddenly and unexpectedly played out. She didn’t know if it had been cruel to let that happen, to leave him standing alone and naked like that. She did know that Largo was a man not just rooted to the past but in many ways stuck there. Profound, youthful events not just shaped us but also limited us in many ways. For the first time in nearly seventy years this man was in terra incognita. She hit the playbook.

“What are you feeling right now?” she asked.

“Lonely,” Largo replied, his chin on his chest, his coffee untouched. “God damned alone.”

“Like in France?”

“Christ, no,” he said. “God, no. I had an army behind me. Several, in fact. I had a nation behind me—a couple of those, too. I had a girl at home.” He stopped, looked up. “A woman. Sorry. But she was my girl till the end.”

“It’s all right, Largo.”

“She never minded,” he smiled tearfully.

Though she usually kept a physical distance from her patients, Allison reached across the Formica tabletop and lay a hand on his. “You aren’t alone now, you know.”

“It isn’t the same,” he said. “The people I loved, the things I loved, all fell off the cliff ahead of me. Oh, that’s the nature of things. When you scratch at ninety years of age there isn’t going to be a whole lot of ‘the familiar’ around. But the things that are close to you tend to be things that came up behind you. You, Ryan—however much you care or learn to care it isn’t the same. This is a cold ledge. I don’t feel sorry for myself—I never have. I made it out of something that many of my friends and colleagues did not. Even when I was delivering milk and trying not to go on high alert with every unexpected noise, I never forgot to be grateful.”

“Survivor’s syndrome is natural.”

“That’s what they call it now, like shellshock became post-traumatic stress disorder and streetwalkers became sex workers. Pardon me again.”

“Not a problem.” She could see it in his eyes: he was back there, reliving the experience. Missing it.

“But I was happy to be alive and there was not a day that I didn’t thank God for giving us victory. The sacrifice had been necessary and it had been worth it. That was always my bottom line. What I just realized, though, is how my focus kept changing.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s like those shots in movies where you move away from something but it gets closer,” Largo said. “I feel like the older I get, the more vivid my memories become. Not like they say it happens with dementia or Alzheimer’s or whatever that is called now, where you can’t remember what you ate for lunch but you remember a shell you picked up on the beach when you were five. I mean I held onto the past because I knew it. Back there”—he jerked his head in the direction of the Streaming Intelligence wing—“Back there, I felt like one of those spacewalkers whose tether just got cut.”

Allison was about to turn him toward the future, not the past, when Largo’s phone beeped. He didn’t seem to hear it so she reached over and answered it for him. It was General Clarke.

“Allison? I’ve got Ryan on the other line. He wants to talk to his uncle. Is he there?”

“Just a minute,” she said, not hiding her relief that they found him. “How is Ryan?”

“Pretty good,” was all Clarke could tell her. “I’ve got to make this quick. Ryan, you there?”

“Here,” he said. “Uncle Largo? Allison?”

“We’re here,” Allison said.

“Hi, Allison. Can you bring a map of D.C. up on your phone?”

“Okay—”

“Uncle Largo, I am out of country and at odds with everyone from the President down over a very crucial matter.”

Allison said nothing as she went to MapQuest, only thought, What else is new?

“I believe your device is on a private aircraft belonging to an international VIP, probably headed to Washington—”

The general interrupted, “Possibly via the harbor, if they stick to their flight plan.”

“Allison, you have the map?” Keely asked

“Right here.” She put the iPhone in front of Largo; he held it back a little to see.

“Assuming it remains on the aircraft, where on that map does the device get used?” Kealey asked.

“Not before they cross the border from Maryland into D.C.,” Largo said.

“Agreed,” Kealey said. “There’s a lot more publicity value actually being inside D.C., even if it’s just a few feet across the border.”

“Why would you assume they don’t offload it?” Clarke asked.

“Simple equation, risk versus reward,” Kealey said. “Customs is going to have a look at the aircraft before it enters the harbor proper. You can check their records, see where they’ve done it before. The terrorists can’t afford to risk eyes on their point man, who has been drawn into something he wasn’t expecting, hasn’t been trained for, and has just had a few hours to contemplate. Either he’s frightened or euphoric. Either way, he stands out.”

“If we’re talking old school, the enemy lets the agent aboard, keeps him there, and hauls ass for D.C.,” Largo said.

“Where the Harbor Patrol is waiting with heavy artillery to stop the pilot and choppers to take out the plane,” Clarke said.

“After the President is convinced, finally, that the plane is a danger,” Kealey said. “If we’re off by seconds, we’re too late.”

“And we don’t know how they may have this thing rigged,” Largo said.

“I was just getting to that,” Kealey said. “How’s your gut? Your sixth sense?”

“Haven’t had to use it for a while.”

“It’s like riding a bicycle,” Allison said.

“Exactly,” Kealey said. “I don’t think the terrorists have had the time or resources to swap out the device or its inner workings. An X-ray apron was stolen, but that wouldn’t have bought them any kind of help. Someone died after being exposed to it. On top of which, the thing hasn’t sat still long enough and I don’t think it’s the kind of thing they’d monkey with on an airplane. Or it may have been too fragile to rewire. For all anyone knows, it may not even work.”

“In which case they still have the core,” Largo said. “That’s potent.”

“Especially if it’s riding the cloud of an IED meant to trigger the device,” Kealey said. “But we don’t know anything except that it is probably in the original lead container, which, as far as our readings tell us from the time it was sealed till now, is intact.”

“So you need me to be a customs agent and eyeball it,” Largo said.

“I need someone to get onboard and assess the situation,” Kealey said. “I doubt it will just be sitting in the luggage rack, but you can profile, you can sniff around, you’ll know if something is off.”

Largo didn’t breathe. It wasn’t that he couldn’t; he simply forgot to. This was madness. But what, in war, is not?

“And if he thinks there’s a problem?” Clarke asked.

“He puts the guy at ease, signals us that everything is A-OK—which it won’t be, of course—and that encourages the enemy to get closer to shore, buys us a few more minutes. We pull everything back to make sure they buy it—including Uncle Largo—and sharpshoot the terrorist before he can make his move.”

There was a short silence broken by Largo saying, “I can do that.”

“Your gut,” Kealey said. “This part is personal. I really need to know this.”

“Nephew, if that thing is onboard, I think I’ll know it.”

Clarke made a huffing sound. “No disrespect intended, gentlemen, but we are betting an ugly international incident at the very least, a city at the most, if you’re wrong about any part of this.”

“I know a rat when I see one,” Largo said, “and I followed that thing across a big chunk of continent. I had nightmares about it when I wasn’t on my feet. I killed to make sure it didn’t leave my sight. You’re talking to Captain Ahab here.”

Both Kealey and Allison laughed. Clarke did not.

“You remember how that story ended,” Clarke said.

“Yeah. The guy we called Ishmael lived to whale another day.”

“General, I’d rather be wrong than face the alternative,” Kealey told him. “Look, if Uncle Largo says the plane is clean I’ll agree that we can stand down. But we need eyes-on. You know that.”

“Right,” Clarke said. “Weapons?” he asked Largo.

“Wouldn’t want one,” he said. “You walk differently. Stronger.”

“Isn’t that what we want?” Clarke asked. “You scare the terrorist into doing something suspicious?”

“Like detonating a bomb?” Largo said. “No. If he’s got something, if he’s armed, I’ll know what to do.”

Clarke sighed. “Allison?”

She looked at the man sitting across the table. She didn’t know exactly what the device was they were talking about, but she had gleaned from the conversation that it was potent enough to destroy the nation’s capital. This was bigger than making Largo Kealey feel good about himself, and useful, or revisiting his White Whale.

His hands were as steady as his gaze. He wasn’t asking for a chance. He wasn’t interested in doing his nephew a favor, any more than his nephew was off on a personal crusade to prove himself right and everyone else wrong. Again. What she had just heard was about country, about others.

“Sounds like a perfect fit,” she said.

Largo’s forehead dropped slightly as he acknowledged the evaluation he had just witnessed—witnessed carefully. The psychologist felt a tingle in her own gut, the thrill of seeing an old man’s instincts renew the man in whom they resided. For all her schooling, despite the abundance of theory, there was nothing like witnessing the right stimulus causing a perfect rebirth.

“I’ll talk to Carlson, find out who they’re using when they land,” Clarke said. “Allison, I suggest you two get over to the harbor—wait for my call.”

“If it doesn’t come, just knock the agent out and take his place,” Kealey said.

Largo replied, “As if you had to tell me.”

Clarke said, “Don’t. I’ll get the okay.”

Kealey told Clarke that the two embassy agents had a chopper waiting to take them to Rabat. He would be in touch again from a secure location, within the hour. Largo rose. He was still stooped, his shoulders rolled forward, his legs a little bowed. But his fingers were not drumming his thigh and his mouth was set, and he seemed younger than he had when they’d entered the room.

The terrorists would probably buy him as a seventy-something who was on the cusp of retirement. They would never see him for what he truly was: the kind of invaluable resource that had once helped save a nation and a world.

And could do so again.

CHAPTER 24

NATIONAL HARBOR, MARYLAND

By law, an American port of entry is any access point to a nation at which a Customs and Border Protection agent is authorized to inspect cargo and collect the appropriate duties. Ports of entry are monitored exclusively by the CBP, which is one of the most important divisions of the Department of Homeland Security.

Shippers who frequent international ports work with bonded brokers who expedite the process of clearing cargo. In the case of the Murghen, the operators typically filed a standard customs declaration form that was checked by the broker, who took responsibility for the validity of the claim.

SeaLions was located in a glass building on the corner of Fleet Street and Mariner Passage. The firm built the three-story structure, with its modern warehouse facility and inventory system, after swallowing several smaller brokers ruined at the onset of the Great Recession. SeaLions was a mix of veterans from the older companies and newcomers brought on for the new enterprise.

One of the veterans was Joe Cuthbert. He was in his early seventies, and it had been suggested several times that he retire. But he had been the owner of Docktors, one of the companies purchased by SeaLions, and he had a great many friends and supporters at CBP. He needed the income, he liked to work, so he was allowed to stay.

Today, however, he was told he’d be getting the remainder of the afternoon off.

“Who says?” he asked as he stepped from the lavatory, still wiping his face with a paper towel, and was met by the office manager.

Gerr Brown, the office manager—a young, balding man with a pie face and dark currant eyes—handed him his cell phone.

“Max Carlson, the head of Homeland Security,” Brown said. “He’s also going to need your uniform.”

Largo was looking out the window at the Potomac. “If I walked across the river, someone would say, ‘LBJ can’t swim!’ ”

“Did the President really say that, Largo?” Allison asked.

“I’m paraphrasing, but it was something to that effect,” Largo said.

“That’s Washington,” she said.

“It’s a shame,” Largo went on. “Think of all the miracles that have originated along the banks of this river. Raising the capital from a swamp. Delivering an entire race of people from bondage. Passing legislation about human rights—all of that against awesome odds with results that inspired the world. Miracles are almost commonplace here, Allison. With the help of God, we just have to do one more.”

Allison wasn’t religious but she still said a quiet “amen.” She had her doubts about this one, not because of Largo—he seemed a new man—but because she always heard about these efforts after the fact. It was something else to be part of one, to watch it unfold in terrifying real time.

An hour before, driving by rote, her brain defiantly locked on what could be a countdown to the end of her life, Allison had gotten off the Capital Beltway and was heading south on National Harbor Boulevard. They had pulled up to the sliding gate at SeaLions, where a sentry checked Allison’s license against the data he’d been given on the phone and told them where to park.

“Did you give them your license number before we left?” Largo asked.

“I never spoke with anyone here,” Allison said. “Homeland Security must have it. I guess it’s efficient.”

“That doesn’t bother me the way it would the ACLU,” Largo said. “What gets me is that with all those eyes and intel, a bad guy still slipped through and poisoned the system. I’m with my nephew. The technology is helpful, of course. But you’ve got to feel danger to know it’s out there.”

SeaLions manager Gerr Brown had been informed that the visitor was going to do an onboard stakeout for Homeland Security. Just routine, he was told, more a drill for onshore personnel to keep tabs on Largo. Since that was not why Largo was here, and he wouldn’t be on duty for very long, it didn’t matter greatly if the information leaked. That was called a limited need-to-know or a flash-burn, an operation that was so quick local civilians became partial deputies in the process. The term had particular irony here. If Kealey was right and Largo failed, there wouldn’t be any people to leak anything.

Now Largo was dressed in the powder-blue uniform they had just borrowed from Joe Cuthbert. They could have gotten one that was freshly laundered but Largo wanted something that looked worn, had a trace of body odor on it—not just under the arms but behind the knees and below the waist. People saw when things were off, of course, but they also smelled when things were not right. The impact of familiar scent-types was to put people at ease. The opposite was true with unfamiliar scents. Largo had learned that lesson in France when personal gas from eating new rations was sufficient to tip him off to the location of an entire German unit. He circled wide around them instead of walking right into them.

An electronic tablet sat in Largo’s lap. He hadn’t been expecting to pick up a new skill set on this mission, but Joe Cuthbert had insisted he take it.

“If you’re doing a stakeout and someone sees you, they’re going to expect you to have it,” Cuthbert had said.

He was right, of course. So while Allison waited for a photo ID to be produced by the two-person human resources department, Largo learned how to work the device. His spy-brain immediately went into overdrive. Can I use this to call the cell phone and block the signal? Will the electronics shut down the aircraft like they warned about when I flew down here? Will the signal accidentally trigger the nuke?

The river loomed big and alien as they neared. It was no longer scenery; it was a field of operations. It wasn’t just a surface; it was depth, it was flow, it was a multitude of boats. Largo filtered out most of it. All that mattered was the single target that was on the way.

The seaplane was, in fact, headed here. It was a little more than an hour from touchdown. Allison had remained in contact directly with General Clarke, who told them that the pilots had signaled the tower at Reagan National of their intent to set down on their previous route, which had dropped Saudi oil executives off for meetings. While the execs were gone, the seaplane went to the maritime refueling station at Reagan, which was across the river from Joint Base Anacostia-Bolling. Even Carlson, who disputed Kealey’s analysis, agreed that the 905-acre base, which supported 17,000 military and civilian employees, would be an ideal ground zero for a theorized attack. Clarke had gone to JBAB by chopper to organize a small assault team with Joint Base Vice Commander Mary Coppersmith. It was a small unit consisting of Air Force divers armed with magnetic mines and various flotation devices, and a quartet of sharpshooters, two on each side of the river. Four sleek speedboats were idling on the river waiting to take them to the seaplane if need be. Clarke was of the opinion that only a surgical strike could take out a nuclear weapon. Admiral Breen had concurred and the President had authorized what was an uncommon plan, even in the modern world: a military defense of American soil.

Allison dropped Largo off at the pier that serviced the customs brokers clustered along the river. He made his way to the SeaLions motorboat. As soon as he changed, Brown himself was going to meet Largo there and take him out.

“It’s what I did when I started out here as an intern,” he said proudly.

This seemed, to Brown, like the most exciting thing that had ever happened. As Allison said to Largo, everyone in D.C. wanted to be an insider. This was Brown’s turn on the carousel.

Allison waited until Brown arrived on a bicycle. He chained it to the rack and Largo popped the door.

“Good luck,” Allison said.

He seemed surprised by her presence. He was already in mission mode.

Largo turned and smiled. His face had previously had avuncular moments or looks of longing, of disappointment, of distress. This was the first time he seemed fully engaged.

“Thanks,” he said.

“You have the cell phone?”

“I have the cell phone. And the general’s number,” Largo assured her.

“You can wait in the car, you know.”

“I’d rather get the feel of the field,” he said. “It’s an elusive thing but important.” He put his hand on hers. “What I was saying before, about ‘feeling’ versus ‘knowing’—When you asked me down here, which was that?”

“A feeling,” she said.

He nodded. “Don’t ever forget that, Allison.”

He squeezed her hand and, tucking the tablet under his arm, stepped onto the landing.

The American coast.

For Mohammed, it was like seeing the shores of jahannam —hell itself. He felt anger boil up in his throat. He wanted to hurt these aggressors, the oppressors of his faith, the heart of Judeo-Christian arrogance. In a few minutes, he would.

He shut his eyes and sat back and prayed silently for God to guide and assist and then welcome him. He felt the plane descending. The propellers seemed louder, the speed faster. He opened his eyes and was surprised at how near the ground was. He saw the countryside, green and hilly, packed with structures of all kinds, ribboned with roads, stuffed with vehicles—all of them running on the sweat of the backs of his people. His stomach burned and he wanted to give voice to that rage; but he sat silently, watching, waiting. He felt the wonderful fullness of his inside jacket pockets. That was where he had placed the telephones along with the passport Yousef had made for him. The heavier phone, over his heart, was the one with the explosives. That was for the device. The other was to call the number, which he remembered as well as his own name.

Mohammed was told to put on his seatbelt. The aircraft was now moving so fast that the terrain that had seemed so dull and slow was whipping by. The plane slashed the water with such force that he would have been thrown from his seat were he not fastened to it. The hull cut deep in the water, sending spray up and out; then it rose as if the river were a springboard heaving it up. Still racing forward, the plane settled on the surface, bobbing left and right as it steadied on the pontoon under each wing. It continued to push ahead, the wide waters narrowing as it entered the river. The plane slowed swiftly, the throaty roar of the propellers increasing as the speed decreased.

Mohammed was breathing heavily, his heart slamming against his chin. The seatbelt suddenly felt tight, and he undid it. He patted his jacket pockets again, looked at the trunk across the cabin. It sat still and proud and unmoved by the multiple jolts of the landing. The aircraft slowed quickly, but Mohammed’s nerves remained electrified. He wished he could go to the trunk now, open it, take out the container. But the pilot had said to wait until after they had passed through the quick customs check and then moved the plane over to D.C. for refueling.

“We will leave you onboard while the plane refuels,” the copilot had said. “You will be alone to complete your mission.”

“And the customs agent?” Mohammed had asked. “What of him?”

“We will hand him a paper, he will look inside, he will leave,” the copilot had said. “That is all he ever does.”

“What if he does more?” Mohammed asked. He felt like he was being belligerent. But there had been agents following me through Morocco. What if they had figured out more than anyone was expecting?

“To begin with,” the copilot had said, “if you are relaxed, there will be no problem. You must not seem agitated. But if the worst should occur, these men are typically older and not especially hale. You will strike him on the head and he will slip from the open hatch. The boatman will be below. I will assist him in the recovery of the agent as the plane taxis out of the way of other traffic. If we are caught, we will tell the authorities we did not see what happened, did not know you were waging jihad.”

Waging jihad. The words returned like a forgotten faith, filling him. He was no longer practicing it, dreaming about an elusive goal. He was doing it.

He looked out the window at the boats that had given them room, at the people waving from their decks, at the pawns of Shaytn who were soon to meet him in flames Mohammed would create.

Mohammed gulped down long, calming breaths.

“We are going to come to a stop,” the copilot said over the loudspeaker. “The agent will be aboard in less than five minutes.”

I will be ready for him, Mohammed thought, popping the seatbelt and shutting his eyes one last time before they were shut for all time.

Largo hadn’t been on the water since he’d taken May to the New York World’s Fair in 1964. They rode the big, gently rocking boat at Disney’s It’s a Small World. Largo didn’t know what part of his brain remembered that; he wasn’t aware of it until he caught himself humming the damned song and thinking, It’s not much of a world of laughter, is it?

He was squinting through a pair of dark sunglasses as Brown steered them toward the slowly taxiing aircraft. He wasn’t nervous; he was energized. After all these years, it reminded him of the feeling he had waiting behind that outpost on the bluff, waiting for the U-boat to leave its pen.

The world vanished. There was just him, the target, and whatever happened to come between them, things that had to get pushed away or eliminated. Not killed: destroyed, including the moral plumb that told him he should feel revulsion.

He remembered Bill Donovan’s words. We didn’t start this. We didn’t ask them to be there. This is on their head.

They were coming up to the nose of the seaplane, the coral blue-and-white bird that seemed so clean, so innocent.

Like the throngs of French welcoming the conquering Nazis until you looked close and saw the tears.

The boat throttled down and drifted sideways to a gangplank that was lowered steeply from the open hatch. A uniformed oil employee with a logo on his cap and wings on his lapel waved and smiled down at him. Largo smiled up and waved back. Clearly, this was not the man he needed to see.

The boat sidled up to the lowest rung and, helped by Brown, Largo held the tablet in one hand, gripped the handrail with the other, and made his way up. It was strange to feel rubber grips under his feet. For—God, how many years?—all he’d felt was his worn foyer carpet.

“Hello, sir,” the flyer said in thickly accented English.

“Welcome to the United States,” Largo replied jauntily as the man helped him aboard. He tugged off his sunglasses but did not put them in his pocket. He did not want to make it appear as if he intended to stay. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the relative dark of the cabin. He peeked into the cockpit, waved back when the pilot waved at him. Largo assumed that people were always nice to customs agents. He turned back to the cabin. “Missing some furniture,” he said.

“This is a convertible aircraft,” the copilot replied. “We had some large deliveries to make at a drill ship before coming here.”

The man handed Largo the customs declaration. It was a single sheet, presumably truthful as far as it went. These boys had nothing to declare.

Largo saw a man rise from his seat and bow toward him. Largo nodded back.

“The gentleman?”

“A guest of our chief executive,” the copilot said. “There is his luggage.” He indicated a steamer trunk standing in the tail of the cabin like the centerpiece of a shrine.

“Only what he needs for his stay,” Largo said, looking at the sheet.

“That is correct,” the copilot said pleasantly. He handed over three passports.

Largo looked at them. He glanced up at the man in the cabin and walked toward him. There were no seat-backs to hold on to, so he steadied himself by taking short, careful steps.

“He doesn’t speak English,” the copilot said. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“No,” Largo said. “I just want to walk through here to say I did. Doesn’t look good if I go back to the boat so soon.”

“Cover your ass,” the copilot laughed.

Even foreign pilots knew everything they needed to know about Washington, Largo thought. But there was one thing he did not know. Largo Kealey wasn’t Washington.

Largo looked closely at the man. He had a dour and serious expression, despite a strained effort to smile. Largo had paid careful attention to the photograph in the passport. The face before him was exactly the same. It wasn’t just the same man, it was the same in virtually every detail. The length of his beard. The touch of gray along the temple. The dark, tired circles under the eyes. He was sure if he looked under a magnifying glass he’d find the same cut on the man’s forehead that he saw there now.

The passport had been made within the last twenty-four hours.

Largo looked at the man and nodded, smiling. The man was a few inches taller than he. He was of fairly slender build, but he had the chest of a moderately devoted weightlifter. There was something in his pockets. A gun, perhaps, in one. A cell phone, possibly, in the other.

Largo’s eyes went to the trunk. If he asked the man to open it, that was probably the same as telling the man to shoot him at point-blank range.

“I’m sure everything is all right,” Largo said without turning from the passenger. “You picked him up off an oil platform or drill ship, didn’t you?”

“A drill ship,” the copilot said.

“Yeah, that fuel smell gets on you.” Largo smiled. “You need to take a shower!” he laughed, poking the man in what he thought was the gun.

The man jumped back as if he’d been slapped, his eyes wide. Largo did not take the time to process his reaction or to regroup. He put his fists knuckle-to-knuckle and charged like a linebacker. He expected what happened next: the man went back a step before bracing himself, then grabbed him with both hands. That left Largo’s hands free. In the moment it took for the man to wrestle him back, before the copilot could reach them, Largo’s hand was inside the man’s jacket. His fingers fumbled on something plastic—not a gun. A cell phone.

The passenger screamed angrily and swung Largo around. Largo held onto the pocket, brought his right hand up to steady himself on the lapel, and got his fingers around the top of the phone. He let himself be thrown against the side of the cabin.

The phone was exceptionally heavy and had a distinctive odor, like the cow patties he used to encounter in the French countryside. It was an IED. The other phone must be the trigger. Without this—and judging from the ferocity of the man who was trying to pull it from his hands—the bomb was useless as a bomb. But it was still useful as a source of radiation.

Largo curled into a tight ball on the floor of the cabin. He looked at the trunk as the man screamed and the copilot arrived and both men tried to wrestle him to his back.

It was there. It was back. He felt it.

Largo exploded from their grip and palmed the cell phone and slammed it hard into the floor of the cabin. He did not feel the pain of the beating, of the lonely years, of the fear he had always felt. His old mind and his young mind were one, a confident and contented whole with his beloved May lovingly between them, providing his best happiness. He saw her face, vivid and alive, as the IED exploded.

Clarke was sitting in one of the speedboats with two other men—the radiation specialist with a Geiger counter and a sharpshooter. He was watching the seaplane through binoculars, saw the orange-white flash before he heard the boom. He watched as the side of the aircraft blew out near the waterline on the port side. Pieces of the aircraft somersaulted through the air like boomerangs while other pieces were blown across the river like monstrous water bugs. The man who had gone out with Largo was in the water, knocked over by the force of the blast.

“Move out!” Clarke shouted without looking away. “Geiger?”

“Normal,” said a voice behind him.

“Let me know if that changes,” he said as the boats pulled from the harbor.

In the seconds after the blast Clarke went from believing that something had gone wrong to feeling that perhaps something had gone right. He continued to peer ahead, against a strong headwind, and saw two men in uniform leap from the open hatch of the plane. They joined Brown in the water. The office manager had just grabbed onto his boat, which was still upright, and was attempting to pull himself in.

“Reading?” Clarke yelled back.

“Normal,” said the steady voice.

The aircraft was listing, the port wingtip dropping slowly but steadily toward the river; the hole was low enough so that the natural flow of the water was spilling over the ragged edge. Clarke was in the center boat, and he signaled for the crew on the vessel to his left to enter as soon as they arrived. They knew what they were looking for, and in what order: a container of unknown size, shape, and volatility; a terrorist; and an older operative. He signaled the other boat to recover the pilots. They were treading water; Brown had pulled a little distance away to give the assault team room. While the other two speedboats waited in the reserve, Clarke got on the radio and ordered the sharpshooters on both banks to be alert: they were not to shoot unless they heard a cry to God or saw a cell phone in the hands of a Middle Eastern individual.

“Reading?” Clarke shouted back.

“Not elevated,” the man with the Geiger counter replied.

Clarke didn’t know what he hoped. He was glad there did not appear to be any danger but he would have welcomed a slight uptick to show it was onboard.

Boaters were watching, motorists on both banks were slowing, pedestrians were gawking and pointing and probably making innumerable cell phone videos. This clearly was not a drill, and it alarmed him that people were just standing there. What happened to civilian preparedness? It was a $45 million dollar line item for Washington, D.C., and environs in the Homeland Security budget.

The boarding party reached the boat moments ahead of Clarke. The boat sidled up to the aircraft, the team using suction cups to hold them to the hull against the rush of the water. Four men went inside, two entering and two covering. Clarke ordered his own boat to pull up beside the first boat.

The lights were still on in the seaplane, though they were flickering. Clarke leaned toward the boat so he could see inside. There was a trunk lashed to a wall in the back. The cabin had been cleared of everything else, save a single seat that was burned and bobbing in the water . . . along with what was left of two torsos. Limbless, ripped open, bobbing. The airmen’s helmet-cameras would record the scene to verify the result of the explosion. The foam was pink with blood; the starboard wall was red with it. The white interior around the hole was smoky gray and there were black holes everywhere around the epicenter—some pockmarks, others like little craters. Flesh and pieces of fabric were burned onto the wall, spread irregularly across the entire area.

“Recover the trunk!” Clarke yelled.

He did not think it was volatile. The IED had blown up outside. As long as the radiation specialist didn’t sound the alarm, they were okay.

The plane was listing more, the wingtip underwater. There were groans and scraping sounds that echoed loud through the empty interior. As the boarding party fixed a portable flotation device to the trunk—an inflatable float tube with rubber straps—Clarke motioned for the men on the perimeter to join them. With a total of eight pairs of hands inside they were able to work the trunk out against the current. By the time they reached the hole they were practically walking on the port side wall. It was a relatively simple matter to push the trunk through the hole and secure it between Clarke’s speedboat and the one suctioned to the exterior.

Clarke looked back at the man with the Geiger counter. The man gave him the OK sign. It wasn’t exactly regulation, but it was the right gesture for the moment.

They were okay.

The pilots were already on their way to shore, bound with plastic restraints, as the rest of the group started back. Clarke watched the trunk to make sure the flotation device could handle it. The tube rode very low in the water, the skin strained with air pressure, but the straps were secure around the trunk and also attached to eye hooks on the speedboats. The radiation specialist held the Geiger counter close by, making sure the bobbing and surging didn’t cause anything to open inside.

It would be justice, of course, to let the thing sink . . . back from where it came. But they needed to open the trunk, confirm the device was there, then figure out what to do with it. Ignore it lest they terrify the populace at how close they came to disaster? Or use it as propaganda to show what Iran had done with their find?

He couldn’t worry about that now. All he wanted to think about was the veteran who had neutralized the threat. He turned and looked at the seaplane as it sat angled in the river, one wing angled at eleven o’clock skyward.

Clarke threw it a sharp salute. “Thank you,” he added softly as the speedboats reached the base.

RABAT, MOROCCO

Ryan Kealey was not paying attention as they entered the embassy on 2 Avenue de Mohamed El Fassi. He had said nothing during the flight, nothing when the black embassy sedan raced them from the airport, nothing as they were checked through past the Marine guard. He no longer had his cell phone, and his heart did not slow as he listened from second to second for a radio report or cell call to one of the field agents, notification that Washington, D.C., had been struck by a suitcase bomb.

The feeling of dread, of helplessness, of futility and failure was nearly suffocating. When he was in action it was different. It was muscle, instinct, motion, and reason. It wasn’t reflection, second-guessing, self-reproach.

“There’s a call for you,” a functionary said, hurrying forward to meet the team. His words sounded deep and funereal in the tomb-quiet hallway. He gestured toward the small waiting room on their right.

Kealey ran in, saw the flashing light on a tiny end table. He didn’t know if the man meant the call was for him or for the agents. He didn’t care. He picked it up and punched the button.

“This is Kealey.”

“Ryan, it’s Fletcher.”

Shit. He wasn’t “the general.” This wasn’t official. This was bad.

“We believe we have the device,” Clarke said. “It was in a trunk on the plane—at least, your lead box was. We haven’t opened it but it seems to be the bomb. We’ve got it in a hangar. They’re getting ready to hit it with an electromagnetic pulse to kill any surviving circuits.”

“Uncle Largo—”

“We lost him, Ryan. It looks like he fought for the IED and it went off. The plane went down in the river—we’re sending a recovery team.”

“But you’re sure—”

“I’m sure,” Clarke told him.

“We knew it was there,” Kealey said. “We never saw it, but we knew.”

“You did,” Clarke said. “You and Largo.”

“Yeah,” Kealey said. The word snagged in his throat. He was looking down at the phone, at the glass tabletop, but all he could see was Largo Kealey in his living room, the moment when his eyes suddenly shed seventy years of wandering and searching. In that moment they had rediscovered a fierce purpose. “I’ll see you soon,” Kealey said.

“Sure,” the general replied. “Thank you.”

Kealey barely heard the general as he laid the receiver in its cradle. Rayhan was in the doorway with the other two men behind her. Someone, probably the ambassador, was behind them.

Kealey looked at Rayhan. Her fearful expression jolted him from his own thoughts.

“They found it,” he said. “But Largo—”

He lost it then. He put his face in his open palm and Rayhan came forward. She didn’t touch him, didn’t embrace him, but she was there if he needed her. Kealey wept not for an uncle he knew in passing but for someone who represented the best in a man and illuminated the worst in men.

There was only one word he could think of, only one thought his mind could form.

He hoped, at last, Largo and May were happy.

CHAPTER 25

TEHRAN, IRAN

Mahdavi Yazdi entered the headquarters of Vezarat-e Ettela’at Jomhuri-ye Eslami-ye Iran but he did not get past the security desk. Two armed guards, men he saw every morning, were waiting for him when he came back to work.

A security officer, seated behind a desk, silently handed him an order that was open on the desk. Yazdi looked at the man, cowing him with his critical gaze. The man looked down at the empty wooden expanse in front of him. The intelligence chief read the document.

It was from the office of the President but Yazdi knew that was not where it had originated. As he read it, he heard the voice of the Supreme Leader and his enemies in the Assembly of Experts.

The message was short. He was under arrest for crimes against the regime, including treason by releasing an American spy and the loss of state property including, but not limited to, the frigate Jamaran, and his failure to recover the unspecified belongings of an unspecified but patriotic underling.

He was being blamed, perhaps rightly, for some things; he was also being scapegoated for everything. His life, he knew, was now measured in weeks.

He grinned. The men didn’t ask why as they stepped to either side of him to escort him to a car that had pulled up behind Yazdi—one that had no doubt been following him since he arrived in Tehran by air the night before.

He was grinning because they had not listed the most grievous crime: he had seen in the newspapers the destruction of a seaplane in a river outside Washington, D.C. It was his direct intervention that had saved the American capital.

He’d had a feeling that if this information became known—and he suspected it would, or at least be inferred—he would be charged with treason and hanged. He hadn’t quite expected the rest. As he got in the car under the now-watchful eyes of the desk officer, Yazdi had only one regret. That he would not be able to call on the Americans to testify.

He wanted to see that, hear that. He knew how the Judiciary would rule but he wasn’t sure how God would see this. He wanted to hear from at least two human beings that he had done the right thing.

Yazdi did not look back at the building as the white car sped away. He did not want to feel longing. He did not want to second-guess himself. He had to hold firm to the belief that he had done the right thing.

He knew that nothing else would give him any consolation in his final moments. He would not be hanged from a crane like a common criminal. This would be private, at the prison. Repentant traitors were permitted to have an imam present. When the black cloth was placed around his neck to help prevent scarring, when the black hood was slipped over his head and he endured the dark before the great light or awful fires that followed, he needed to know that he would not trade his survival to make a different decision.

That would truly be hell.

VALLEY STREAM, NEW YORK

The funeral of Largo Kealey was very small and extremely private. The press had been briefed about the incident on the river, and the name of the hero had not been provided for security reasons. Ryan Kealey was his only surviving relative. He would turn up in searches, contacted for reaction. The DNI could not allow that.

The heads of the intelligence departments were all at the funeral home on Central Avenue, including the secretary of Homeland Security. The press was not informed of the arrest of Lt. JG Heyder Namjoo. The virus had been traced to his department and his strongly, consistently expressed opinions that were contrary to evidence earned him a red flag by internal security. He was put under surveillance and arrested as he attempted to leave the country on a personal day off.

The press was informed about the U-boat and its cargo, and there was extensive coverage of Germany’s debate about what to do with the crew. The consensus was to leave them, but fear of souvenir hunters influenced their decision to remove the remains of the crew members and to bury them at sea. The remains were identified, including those of Karl Rasp. There was no one to notify and no one to mourn. The nation itself was quiet since, however patriotic, the crew was serving a heinous cause.

To Kealey, who had read about Rasp in his uncle’s transcript, this denouement was worse than the long-ago death of the seamen. It reminded how morality, like history, was determined by the winners.

After the graveside service at a cemetery in nearby Hewlett—where Largo was interred in a plot beside his wife—Kealey, Allison, and Rayhan sat on a lonely bench on the grounds. Rayhan had not cried during the service; she had not known Largo well enough. But she was very subdued.

“I was glad to see everyone there,” she said.

“Especially without the press,” Kealey replied. Realizing he’d overdone it, he added, “It was nice. But Largo saved us—our lives and our reputations. He finished our job.”

“His own, too,” Allison said. “You passed the baton to a man who needed to rediscover what was important in him, to him.”

Kealey looked at Rayhan. “You may want to join the caravan before it leaves. I’m going to stay here for a while.”

The young woman looked back at the black limousines lining the walk and the men milling outside them. “They want me back to help study the device. I should go.”

Kealey smiled at her and nodded. She smiled back and hugged Allison, who was between them.

“I’ll see you in Washington,” she said to them both, then turned quickly and left.

“She did a helluva job, too,” Kealey said. “Rose like the flag at sunup.”

“You did your job, too,” Allison said.

“I did okay,” Kealey said. “We got the result, so I can give myself that. Khalid will worm his way out—he’ll be outraged, promise an investigation, say it was a rogue operation, the guilty will be punished. I’m sure my friend in Iran isn’t faring as well. Maybe, if he’s lucky, they’ll just retire him.”

“Speaking of flagpoles,” Allison said knowingly.

“What?”

“Retirement.”

“Yeah. I don’t think I’ll be running that one up again. I can’t say I’m leaving, because clearly my uncle never did. But I need something else.”

“Can I make a suggestion? Don’t think about it here, now.”

“No, you’re right about that,” Kealey admitted.

“Do you want me to go back with the others?”

“I’m going to go over to Uncle Largo’s house,” he told her. “See what he saw—maybe think some of the things he thought. Look through some mementoes. I don’t think he’d mind.”

Allison smiled warmly and took his hand. “I think I’ll go back with the others then.”

He nodded.

“Sorry, I have to ask—you sure you’re going to be all right?”

He nodded again. “I have my phone; I’ll call a cab. I have Largo’s key. It was in the room you got him. I’ll be fine.”

Allison touched his shoulder and turned away. He watched her go, watched them all go, then sat there until a caretaker told him it was time to close the gates.

Then Ryan Kealey left, thinking that Uncle Largo’s own words were perhaps all that needed to be said:

“He died with his boots on . . .”

If you enjoyed The Courier, be sure not to miss Andrew Britton’s riveting thriller

THE OPERATIVE

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PROLOGUE

ISLAMABAD, PAKISTAN 2010

Asif Kardar crushed the brake when he heard the hiss of the tire through the open window of the bread truck. The pads were old, and they squealed as the squat white vehicle lurched to a halt. The hard stop caused the peppermint air freshener to swing in long arcs from the rearview mirror and a marble in the ashtray to smack violently front to back.

The young man sighed as he looked out the mud-splashed windshield, stared at the wide dirt street awash with the red of the rising sun. He had only a half dozen or so blocks to go before he reached the market. Why now?

Because Allah willed it, thought the devout Sunni. Why else does anything happen?

A boy on a badly dented bicycle passed him. Then another. And a third. They waved as they passed. Asif knew them. They shared breakfast at the coffeehouse some mornings—though they didn’t today.

Why?

He couldn’t remember. It didn’t matter.

The young men were workers who lived near Asif, in cinder-block shacks in the katchi abadi, the slum off Service Road West 110. They were commuting along Seventh Avenue, past the doctors’ offices, banks, and parcel companies, and then on to Kashmir Highway, near the universities, post offices, and the always popular Sunday market, on their way to the richer sections of the capital, where they were employed as street cleaners. All of them saw the irony in that, yet all of them were happy to have jobs. It was either this or the military.

Asif found himself grinning. In the year he had been driving this route, he had never suffered a blowout. He supposed he was due. And it was no one’s fault, he knew. Metal shards were everywhere in the streets of the slum: pieces of discarded appliances, rusted tools, even belt buckles and pocket watches.

And the remnants of car bombs. There had been three in the last year, all of them accidents. They were meant to blow up after leaving here and arriving at their destinations—some government building or military installation. Except for the loud bangs, the children liked it when vehicles blew up. They quickly came and collected the fenders and fan blades to dig in the rubble for treasure. To a child, anything free was a treasure.

Asif’s smile drooped as he considered his situation. He looked at his watch.

Drive on, he thought. He could probably make it, even with a rim that was clanking and sparking.

The morning sun was rising higher, clearing the clay tile roofs of the structures that lay ahead. This was the “better” section of the slum. Where he lived, the roofs were all corrugated metal. The daily sun-scorched metal created such intense heat within the homes that being outside in direct sunlight was preferable to being slow cooked alive inside. And while the temperature on the roof of the buildings was occasionally more comfortable for sleeping, the distorted, grooved surface was no place to remain grilling for too long. He peered at the buildings. There was something he was supposed to do....

He shifted gears, started the truck ahead slowly. What was it?

Clanking and growling, the truck rounded a sharp curve. Two hundred or so meters to the east he noticed soldiers standing watch outside a Humvee. It was the end of the slum. They were parked in front of a one-story building that was used by South Korean Christians to feed hungry children. At one time it was a police recruiting station. It was firebombed, but the missionaries had plastered it over. That was what outsiders did. They covered things with paint and activity and believed that they had begun to heal what was wrong underneath. The soldiers were looking at him.

Asif stared back. He had a spare tire. He should stop and replace the blown-out one. If he continued driving, the men would wonder why he was willing to do permanent damage to his truck. Spare parts were not plentiful, unless one were willing to hammer out the bent and broken pieces found in scrap yards, and what he was doing was not just odd. It was suspicious.

So why are you doing it?

He had no good answer to that.

He slowed, but he did not stop. Something told him to drive on.

The early morning air was already warm, and the driver was perspiring. He was wearing a white silk kurta, a hand-me-down from his elder brother who was in the army. He dragged a sleeve across his forehead and looked anxiously ahead. There was a Shiite mosque across the street. Men were beginning to arrive for prayer. Something about it seemed familiar—not just because he had seen it before as he drove by. It was something else.

The street was suddenly paved beneath him. The truck chugged over the lip, the naked rim cutting the asphalt, the glove compartment snapping open, the marble rolling, the air freshener smacking the windshield. Three of the eight soldiers started in his direction. The one in front had his arms raised, motioning for him to stop.

You mustn’t, Asif told himself.

If he stopped, they would examine his truck. That was what the soldiers did at checkpoints. The sweat was no longer only on Asif’s brow; it was everywhere. They would surely see that; the sun had just cleared the low rooftops and, shining redly, was striking him directly. He felt as though he were naked, exposed, and starting to melt. One of the soldiers talked into a radio. Asif couldn’t make out what he was saying, but he knew that tone, flat and low. They were assuming that his intentions were hostile.

They weren’t, were they?

He was confused.

Asif reached for the bottle of water that lay on the seat beside him. He saw a few young families coming down the street, toward the Christian building. The doors would not open for another hour, but for many of these impoverished souls—many Afghan orphans who had been taken in by relatives, families who had come to Islamabad to escape the Taliban or the war—this would be the only meal of the day, the only food they had enjoyed since the previous morning’s charity.

Asif looked ahead, past the soldiers and toward the mosque. The Shiites were gathering in larger numbers.

The murderous fools, he thought. They believed that only the heirs of ‘Al, the fourth caliph, were the true successors of Muhammad the Prophet. Their idiocy had bred a thousand years of bloodshed. You hate them, don’t you?

Do you? he wondered.

“Rokna!” the soldier in front shouted in Urdu. “Stop!” He had already unshouldered the G3A3 assault rifle and was aiming it at the truck.

Yes, Asif decided. He hated the Shias. And the military.

The young Pakistani put the water bottle down and pressed hard on the gas. He reached toward the sun-faded brown dashboard as gunfire shattered the window. Bullets punched through Asif’s shoulders and chest, and he was knocked back hard against the seat as he pressed the cigarette lighter. Bloody and no longer in control of his dying body, he was unable to reach the marble....

Thirty pounds of plasticized pentaerythritol tetranitrate explosives wired to the underside of the dashboard exploded. The truck literally expanded as the concussive force of the PETN hit the inside walls, splitting them. The vehicle vomited engine parts to the front and sacks full of nails, bolts, and glass to the rear. It pushed a wall of sound in all directions. The soldiers were simultaneously knocked back and torn open, rusted chrome, burning canvas, and grotesque body parts flung in all directions, as the blast rolled toward an empty lot to the south and the mosque to the north. The twisted chassis of the old truck tumbled toward the ancient structure, stamped forcefully across the door and lower façade before falling back onto the street. Several men, just arriving, were crushed by the initial strike, while several inside were injured by falling lanterns and flying pieces of broken stone. But the structure itself held.

The remaining soldiers and the missionary building were peppered with shrapnel, none very seriously, save for a young Christian volunteer who had just come to the window to pull open the shade. Shattered glass razored her face and chest, and she stumbled backward, slipping on a quick-made slick of her own blood. Rats ran quickly from behind the shattered foundation, waves of them pouring through the rubble like water. From above, a flaming kestrel dropped to the ground, its wings slapping furiously and then not at all.

The sound of the explosion faded quickly, the rain of debris stopped, and soon all that remained were sirens from a few late-model vehicles, the moans of the wounded, and the smoke that obscured the sun with an ugly charcoal film. Shopkeepers and pedestrians who ran toward the scene were silent, their ears filled with their own racing blood.

Dr. Ayesha Gillani was sitting at an open-air café near the market when she heard—and felt—the powerful explosion. It echoed through the crooked streets like faraway thunder. In the square, people on bicycles stopped, turned, and looked down the street as smoke followed the sounds, curling lazily from between the low buildings. Vendors ran in fright from their stands and sought cover in alleys, in shops, behind trees, anything that was far from parked vehicles. These things often happened in twos and threes.

Not this time, Dr. Gillani thought.

Though she knew that, there were things that had surprised her. The location of the blast, for one. She looked at her watch. The timing of the blast was off, as well.

It was early, too, she thought. Six thirteen. It wasn’t supposed to happen for another two minutes.

The changes were unexpected but not unwelcome. There were always variables in even the best-planned scenario. A rotating checkpoint. A mechanical malfunction. An accident. A distraction.

The important thing is he pulled the trigger, she told herself. That was the most difficult and time-consuming part of the process.

She took out her cell phone, sent a one-letter text message—S, for success—and resumed eating her nsht, a traditional Pakistani breakfast of paratha, a flatbread, as well as mangoes and Earl Grey. The tea felt much cooler than it had moments before. Or maybe it was her. The anticipation had passed. The event was history. And her confidence—of which she was the harshest critic—had been validated.

She watched as people slowly, cautiously returned to their stands. The poor, poor mice, she thought. Sunni, Shiite, Kurd, Christian, Jew—the religion or sect of the victims did not matter to her. The tribe or nationality was of absolutely no importance. All that mattered to the forty-two-year-old was that the trials were completed and the real mission could begin. The task for which she had been training herself for over twenty years. The only possible response to what she had endured.

She was about to bring lasting, eternal peace to the world.

CHAPTER 1

QUEBEC, CANADA PRESENT DAY

The silver-white Gulfstream IV charter jet was idling outside its hangar at Jean Lesage International Airport. It was nearly 11:00 a.m., and the sounds of commercial jetliners coming and going rumbled toward the cavernous building every two minutes or so.

Reed Bishop took comfort in the sound. Being in a strange airport was like going to church or McDonald’s in a foreign land: you always knew just what you were going to find. For an FBI agent, predictability of any kind was a godsend. Sights, ambient sounds, traffic patterns, personal habits. It was all part of the baseline. It helped you realize when something was off, either because it stood out or it caused a ripple effect.

So far, everything was normal. But then, there were a lot of moving parts in this operation. There was still enough time for something to go wrong.

Bishop spotted the black Mercedes as it pulled around a slow-moving catering truck and sped along the service road. He squinted his forty-three-year-old eyes to check the tag irregularity that he’d been told about before he took off. The macron, the accent over the E, ran the entire length of the letter, instead of partway. That meant the car was bona fide Canadian Security Intelligence Service. If there’d been a hijack, a substitution along the way, there was a sure way to tell. It was one less thing to worry about. The car flashed its brights. That was the second way to tell. A hijacker wouldn’t have known to do that.

The sun was hidden behind thickening gray clouds, making the sedan’s dark windows seem even more opaque, more forbidding. A chill crept along Bishop’s arms. The FBI agent spit his chewing gum to the tarmac and reached into his Windbreaker for his cigarettes, feeling a pinch of guilt. He’d promised his ten-year-old daughter he would quit by her eleventh birthday. That left him two weeks to make good on his pledge. But he’d barely managed to cut down from his usual two packs a day, and the nicotine gum only made him want it more. He’d have to SARR the habit—follow the Self-Administered Recovery Regimen, as they called outpatient work in Allison Dearborn’s deprogramming division.

He remembered when they called it “cold turkey.” It was difficult then, and it would be just as difficult however it was dressed.

Cold turkey or aversion training or hypnotherapy or whatever the hell, he would deal with it after this business was done, he promised himself. When the prisoner was airborne, he could relax a little. It had been two weeks since her capture. He’d practically lived in his small office on Pennsylvania Avenue since then. There had been arrangements to make; egos to deal with; rules to bend, rewrite, or ignore. And he still had his regular work to do, tracking the internal flow of information on top secret operations and counterespionage activities so that none of the intel went from the inside out.

He lit up, aware of others on the tarmac looking at him. Smokers had become like FBI agents, acutely aware of their surroundings and who was glaring at them. He ignored them. The SOBs were breathing jet fumes, for God’s sake. And they were Pakistani. Surely they were around smokers enough to not give a damn.

Bishop did not know the three men standing beside the jet, nor had he seen the faces hidden by their balaclavas. The Pakistanis had worn the masks since he arrived at the airfield an hour ago. Dressed in black suits, like corporate ninjas, they had gathered silently outside the hangar to await their prisoner’s arrival. Bishop was here as a representative of FBI internal affairs. He was present in case human rights watchdogs heard about what was going on. He was supposed to give the transfer a veneer of international legality.

It was all a public show, of course. He was partnered with Jessica Muloni of the CIA’s Rendition Group One—“the waterboarding people,” as they laughingly called themselves. She wasn’t here to make sure the prisoner’s rights were protected. And he wasn’t here to make sure she was held accountable. Though he was technically in charge of this operation—another of Homeland Security’s increasingly less uncommon joint, cross-jurisdictional operations—professionally and ethically he felt their captive deserved whatever Muloni and the Pakistanis had planned.

He took a deep pull of smoke, held it in his lungs for a glorious moment, then let it swirl from his nose into the morning breeze. He should have worn his leather flight jacket. It was chilly even for Canada, the sky low and overcast. The damp gusts carried the smell of pines and imminent rain from the Gulf of Saint Lawrence.

They could have told me the weather before I left, he thought. He and Muloni had left Washington on a 7:00 a.m. flight. Before he headed to Dulles, the Canadians had given him details about the Mercedes, photos of the agents, satellite images of the terminal. Everything but the goddamn weather report.

Maybe it was a sign from God. The weather was ugly to suit the job he and Muloni had arrived to manage.

He drew hard on the cigarette as he watched the progress of the charcoal Mercedes. He was glad, at least, that the CSIS was the one who had made the nab. So far, the Canadians were proving more cooperative than some of Washington’s other “allies,” who insisted on follow-through and quid pro quo and complicated every mission threefold. It was tough to be clandestine when you had a half dozen agents trying to be inconspicuous, instead of one who actually was.

A woman came up behind him.

“How’s the room?” he asked without turning.

“Fine. Clean.” There was something in the clipped tone of her voice he didn’t like. Perhaps he’d thanked God too soon. “What’s wrong, Agent Muloni?”

“Your question.”

“You lost me.”

“The question should be, ‘What’s right?’ The answer—nothing. I just got word that our plans have been modified.”

Bishop slowly turned to face the African American woman, saw the cell phone in her hand. “Got word from whom?”

“Someone we can’t just ignore, like we’d usually do,” she said. She wobbled the phone. “Our consul general here called me directly. Seems that two high-level CSIS officials paid him a visit in the middle of the night.”

“Official, or did they creep through a window?”

“All on the up-and-up,” she said. “They insisted that the Mounties accompany Veil to her destination.”

“You’re not serious.”

“I am so serious.”

The Royal Canadian Mounted Police and the CSIS were one unit until 1984. Since then, there had been very few jurisdictional battles because the responsibilities were clearly defined: the CSIS collected intelligence, while the RCMP acted on it. This job was what Bishop’s people called a fence straddler.

Bishop snapped his cigarette butt to the ground. Why give up smoking at all? He’d only have to start again when crap like this came down the chute. “He told them it would compromise security, having extra targets?”

“Yes,” the woman replied. “He said that the Canadians were intransigent. They told him that if we wanted their prisoner, we’d have to trust their guys.”

“It’s not about trust, for Christ’s sake. It’s about numbers.”

“Don’t tell me,” she said.

Bishop shook his head. “Not a good precedent.”

“I’m not happy, and word is the prime minister isn’t thrilled, either,” she said. “If something goes wrong, he doesn’t want to catch any blowback.”

“But the Mounties want to share the glory if everything goes right—”

“When,” she said firmly.

It took a moment for him to understand. “When everything goes right,” he corrected himself.

Jessica Muloni smiled. He regarded the woman’s big brown eyes. There was nothing about them to suggest that her calm had been ruffled by the unexpected turn of events. She did not in any way fit the stereotypical mold of a cold CIA field operative. She was warm and easygoing. There was something about her that made you trust her, not just personally but professionally, a combination of her relaxed confidence and poise. Plain, thin, her natural brown hair cut functionally short, she wore almost no makeup and shapeless clothes, giving her a subdued, relaxed appearance. In her case, looks were somewhat deceptive, however. According to her file, she was easygoing until someone displayed the kind of dangerous incompetence that frontline personnel could not afford. Whether Jessica’s takedown was a physical assault, a psychological strike, or any combination thereof, witnesses reported it was a frightening thing to behold.

“Listen,” she said. “Let’s give them some leeway here. The CSIS found her, the Mounties snatched her from the school, and the Canadians are letting us circumvent their deportation laws without squawking.”

“Without squawking too much,” Bishop corrected her.

“Fine,” she agreed. “Look, there are legitimate concerns, and the brain trust here feels they need to have hands-on, so it’s not technically a turnover. Seems they read File four-oh-four-one-one in the ASD.”

The ASD—the Archive Sharing Database—employed by the FBI, the CSIS, Britain’s MI5, Interpol, and twenty-four other agencies, had a different name in Washington: Ass So Demolished, from the number of times the United States got screwed in that exchange program. Not that he didn’t see the Canadians’ point. Bishop had been part of that operation in 2001, at Bromma Airport in Stockholm, when Egyptian asylum seekers Ahmed Agiza and Muhammad al-Zery were turned back by Sweden at the request of the FBI, which had Middle Eastern resources to protect. The file contained a detailed explanation of the diplomatic maneuvering that took place to make it seem like a Swedish decision in response to concerns voiced by Cairo, and not a decision cooked up in Washington. Even so, Sweden took a lot of heat for having failed to let the United Nations Human Rights Council study the case before taking unilateral action. It wasn’t just Swedish neutrality that took a hit, but the country’s reputation for independent action. Canadian authorities would accept the first, not the second.

“Are we expected to fly all three to Pakistan?” Bishop asked.

“No. Just two of them,” she said.

“Well, there’s a blessing,” Bishop said cynically. Two sets of regionally trained eyes on the worldly Pakistani operatives, a gaggle of suspicious Pakistani eyes on the territorial Canadians, fewer eyes on the package. “You cleared them?”

She wriggled the phone again. “They’re clean. Uninspiring but stainless.”

He produced a weary, resigned sigh and shifted his attention back to the vehicle. There was no point arguing over the stipulation if the diplomats had consented to it. No point, and no time. It was times like this that made him want to become a green badger—the nickname for former Bureau personnel who joined private industry to handle security in global hot spots. The stress was high, but the bureaucracies were thinner and the pay was better. And frankly, it was easier to protect a region or a city or just a business with international outlets, instead of the whole damn world.

Bishop watched as the Mercedes eased to a halt and the stocky driver exited. A moment later a second man in civilian clothes slid from the backseat, followed by a blond woman in a leather jacket and jeans who emerged from the opposite side and then turned to lean back in, reaching to unclip the prisoner’s seat belt.

Muloni took pictures of each individual with her cell phone. She tapped a six-digit code on the keypad. Facial recognition software from the Company’s sophisticated XApps database compared the images with the JPEGs she’d been sent. The password she’d used was phone specific; without it, the app would not function.

She showed the results to Bishop. The images all matched. They had no reason to prevent the Canadians from sticking around.

Bishop and Muloni had already been ID’d at the outside gate. Still, he thought, the first Mountie to emerge from the car should have done a backup check. All it would have taken for ringers to get through and cut them down was one bribed guard.

Bishop’s eyes narrowed as a fourth party, the notorious killer Veil, emerged from the vehicle. She had been named in at least a dozen attacks, from pinpoint assassinations to RPG attacks. Her hands were cuffed behind her back; her ankles shackled; the second plainclothesman helped to steady her on her feet. She wore a short black skirt over a wine-colored blouse that drew Bishop’s attention to her figure for longer than he hoped anyone had noticed. Her beige slip-on sneakers didn’t match the rest of her clothes: the Mounties had removed whatever shoes or boots she was wearing when she was bagged to make it easier for her to walk in restraints.

“Dressed to kill,” Muloni remarked.

“Cute.”

“No, really,” the woman replied. “You wouldn’t have been watching her hands, would you?”

“Damn it.” She was right. And he was busted.

“My great-grandmother was a painter in Uganda,” the woman said. “Made her own pigments, stretched animal skins for canvas. She painted village life. There were a lot of bare-chested women, and do you know why?”

“It was a hundred and ten in the shade?”

“That, plus it inured men to the sight of barely clad women so they wouldn’t be distracted in tribal wars or in trading,” she told him.

“I wonder what those women thought when they encountered European women,” Bishop said.

“The Zulus thought they were comical,” Muloni told him. “Not the kind of high ground the British missionaries wanted.”

Bishop didn’t want to tell her that overexposure wouldn’t have worked with most of the men he knew. Then again, some of them—like himself—might actually have been studying the woman’s face instead. Veil’s expression was nondescript. No anger, no frustration, no fear. Just neutral. It wasn’t even a kind of practiced blankness that made you think something might be working inside her skull, like a plan of escape. She was simply a woman who was going along with whatever came from moment to moment. Undistracted, if an opportunity presented itself, she’d be ready. That was how assassins worked. But all that aside, there was something riveting about a woman who seemed to have no opinion in her expression.

Bishop reached for a cigarette, thought of his promise, then let it go. He chewed his cheek and watched as the woman shuffled ahead amid her captors, her shoulders squared, her head high and defiant.

The woman the Bureau had code-named Veil—she called herself Yasmin Rassin, though that was believed to be an alias—was responsible for the deaths of at least fourteen individuals around the world. She was wanted in the United States for trying to kill the deputy director of the CIA, Jon Harper, outside his home in Washington, a hit paid for by Tehran, according to a mole in the Majles-e Khobregan, Iran’s ruling council of clerics. The trail that led to her capture had been long and convoluted. Photographed by a street-corner security camera, she had vanished for almost a year after the attempted hit. Eight months ago, a pair of MI5 antiterror agents on another assignment had made a chance ID at Heathrow and taken her into custody. On the way to Thames House in London, their car disappeared. It was later found burning in a field northwest of the city. A month later, the body of one of the agents was recovered from the water under the Westminster Bridge. His throat had been cut with a razor. Pink cotton fibers found in the wound suggested the razor had been tucked into the sweater she was wearing, probably the sleeve. Though her hands had been zip-tied behind her, shavings suggested that the restraints had been slashed, apparently by another razor blade. Rassin had undoubtedly made a lengthwise slit in the back of her leather belt and tucked the razor inside so its edge was even with the top of the belt.

The other driver remained missing.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

ANDREW BRITTON was born in England and moved with his family to the United States when he was seven, settling in Michigan, then North Carolina. After serving in the Army as a combat engineer, Andrew entered the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, where he pursued a double major in economics and psychology. Visit his website, andrewbrittonbooks.com.

After more than a decade on the deadly front lines of

the war on terror, Ryan Kealey believes he’s finally

put danger behind him—and some of his demons to

rest. But his calm is shattered when he’s swept into a

merciless terror attack during a charity gala in

downtown Baltimore. Among the dozens of casualties

is the wife of CIA Deputy Director John Harper. With

normal channels of investigation obstructed, Harper

turns to Kealey, the one man with the resources,

expertise—and freedom from government

interference—to pursue the awful truth.

Following a string of secrets and violence, Kealey

blazes a trail from the confines of the innermost

chambers of government and big business to the

dimmest reaches of the human psyche, forced to

match wits with a new nemesis aided by new allies,

each with a unique agenda. Slowly, Kealey unspools

an unimaginable conspiracy that suggests America

may in fact be its own worst enemy.

With intricate plotting and spine-tingling action, The

Exile propels us deep into the heart of a terrifying

conspiracy rooted in one of the world’s most unstable

regions—a place where the political has become

brutally personal....

For the President of the United States, the daily

horror of life in West Darfur, Sudan’s anarchic killing

fields, just hit heartbreakingly close to home. His

beloved niece Lily, a nurse caring for refugees in the

most war-torn region, has been targeted and savagely

murdered by a corps of Janjaweed, fearsome

government-backed militiamen.

The rash and vicious killing is a clear provocation,

but any response will seriously destabilize the

already-teetering region and threaten the security of

the entire world. With the situation too explosive for

diplomatic or military solutions, yet with the

President and the public thirsting for revenge,

America is out of options. Except one: Ryan Kealey.

Kealey, ex-Special Forces, former CIA, unrivaled

counterterrorism expert, has been central to the war

on terror for over a decade. But he’s finished trying to

save the world. After the Agency hung him out to

dry—and let his lover die—it was easy for him to turn

his back. They had nothing he wanted. Until now. For

the government has revealed its trump card, the one

thing Kealey will risk everything for.

Once back in the fold, Kealey’s pursuit of Lily’s

killers unearths secrets and betrayals that shock even

his war-tempered sensibilities and leave him with

no one to trust. On the lawless streets of Sudan, and

at the highest levels of the American government,

shadowy forces ignite a conflagration with

unknowable global consequences.

Brimming with intrigue and danger, The Exile pulses

with high-stakes gamble after gamble, as one man

navigates a tenuous web of international relations that

could collapse at any moment....

With searing narrative twists, The Invisible plunges

us headlong into today’s shadowy, fever-pitched

battle between terrorism and intelligence, as a covert

counterterrorism operative risks everything, including

the woman he loves, to save the life of one person....

For more than a decade, Ryan Kealey has been a key

player in the war on terror. First, as a captain in the

U.S. Army’s third Special Forces Group, then as a

contract operative with the CIA. His actions have

saved thousands of lives, including that of the U.S.

President. Now once again, Kealey receives the call

of duty—only this time, the odds for success are slim

to none....

Tensions between Pakistan and India are at an all-time

high. To complicate matters, twelve American

climbers have disappeared in the snowcapped

peaks of Pakistan’s Hindu Kush range. The President

is demanding answers, but neither government is

supplying them.

As the conflict escalates, Brynn Fitzgerald departs

Washington D.C. on her first official trip as acting

secretary of state. Her goal is to serve as an

intermediary between the leaders of both nations as

well as to ensure all efforts are being made in the

search for the missing American climbers. But when

Fitzgerald’s motorcade is ambushed on the outskirts

of Islamabad, her backup team arrives to discover a

disastrous scene: dozens are dead, including seven

diplomatic security agents, and the secretary of state

has vanished without a trace.

In the wake of the unprecedented attack, Kealey’s

operation goes into high gear. Once again, he is joined

by Naomi Kharmai, the British-born analyst who has

taken on a daring new role with the Agency. But

Kharmai is becoming as unpredictable as the man

they’re going after, and as they work their way toward

the target, it becomes clear to Kealey that anyone is

fair game—and no one can be trusted.

Andrew Britton delivers a taut, electrifying read in his

new novel The Assassin. Maverick CIA agent Ryan

Kealey must fight against his own agency while the

clock is ticking on a devastating terrorist attack on

U.S. soil....

More than a year has passed since Ryan Kealey

prevented the assassination of multiple world leaders

in the nation’s capital. While his work is brilliant,

he’s considered damaged goods. Now he’s about

to become a key player in a plot of unimaginable

scale. For something big is about to go down in

New York City.

When a top Iranian source reveals that Iran is

planning to bomb the United Nations, U.S.

Intelligence begins countermeasures. Only Kealey

sees it as a smokescreen for another, far more

involved plot. But getting anyone to believe him

isn’t going to be easy. With only his ally, London’s

newest assistant chief, Naomi Kharmai, by his side,

Ryan will have to operate outside the lines in order to

prevent a terrible attack in a city on lockdown.

A weapon of catastrophic power has been stolen from

war-torn Iraq and has made its way to the U.S. The

man who has it is Kealey’s nemesis, William

Vanderveen, an international criminal mastermind

who has no objective other than pure terror and who

will stop at nothing to achieve it. Making matters

worse, Vanderveen’s being helped by someone on the

inside with high-ranking security clearance. Even the

halls of the CIA are no longer safe from possible

espionage and treason. Now, as Kealey and Kharmai

race to put the pieces together, they will confront a

ghost from the past and be forced to question the

people they trust most in a desperate investigation

where only this is for certain—time is running out.

The Senate Majority leader brazenly assassinated in

the nation’s capital. A high-rise apartment complex

brought down by a suicide bomber. The most feared

terrorist network aided by the most surprising—and

deadly—of enemies.

A dangerous new world needs a whole new set of

players. Welcome to The American. In this powerful

debut thriller from one of the freshest new voices in

international suspense, Andrew Britton has crafted a

bold novel that crackles with a high-stakes, post-9/11

urgency and introduces maverick CIA agent Ryan

Kealey.

At thirty-three, Ryan has achieved more in his

military and CIA career than most men can dream of

in a lifetime. He’s also seen the worst life has to offer

and is lucky to have survived it. But being left alone

with his demons is no longer an option. The CIA

needs him badly, because the enemy they’re facing is

former U.S. soldier Jason March. Ryan knows all

about March—he trained him. He knows they’re

dealing with one of the most ruthless assassins in

the world, a master of many languages, an explosives

expert, a superb sharpshooter who can disappear like

a shadow and who is capable of crimes they cannot

begin to imagine. And now, March has resurfaced on

the global stage, aligning himself with a powerful

Middle East terror network whose goal is nothing less

than the total destruction of the United States.

Teaming up with beautiful and tenacious British-born

agent Naomi Kharmai, Ryan intends to break every

rule in order to hunt down his former pupil, whatever

the cost to himself. As Ryan puts together the pieces

of a terrifying puzzle, and as the elusive March taunts

him, always staying one step ahead, he discovers the

madman’s crusade is personal as well as political—

and Ryan himself is an unwitting pawn. With the

clock ticking down and the fate of the country resting

uneasily on his shoulders, Ryan is caught in a

desperate game of cat and mouse with the most

cunning opponent he’s ever faced, one who will

never stop until he’s committed the ultimate act of

evil—a man who is all the more deadly for being

one of our own.

PINNACLE BOOKS are published by

Kensington Publishing Corp.

119 West 40th Street

New York, NY 10018

Copyright © 2014 Andrew Britton

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

PINNACLE BOOKS and the Pinnacle logo are Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

ISBN: 978-0-7860-3217-4

First electronic edition: January 2014

ISBN-13: 978-0-7860-3218-1

ISBN-10: 0-7860-3218-9