Raven Strike

Chapter 1

Breanna arrived at Room 4 just in time for the tail end of Danny’s update. He was speaking from inside a truck as he drove to the Osprey; his face, projected by a camera embedded in his helmet, looked worn. His voice was hoarse. The fighting in the city had died down, even the victors decimated and exhausted.

“I never asked MY-PID to analyze whether Li Han was dead or not,” Danny said. “The computer just responded to my questions. I should have.”

“Would it have changed anything, Danny?” asked Breanna. “If you knew he was dead earlier?”

“I don’t know,” he said.

They hadn’t seen him killed, and the slow loss of temperature over time was hard to detect through the thick thatch of the roof. But Breanna knew that Danny would in fact blame himself for missing what he considered a key piece of information.

“That may be one area to improve MY-PID’s programming,” she said. “Having some sort of prompt if a subject is dead or wounded.”

“Yeah.”

“How bad is the damage to the aircraft?” Breanna asked. “Can you evacuate?”

“The backup Osprey just refueled in Ethiopia and is en route,” said Danny. “The crew says they can get Whiplash One airborne if necessary. They’ve been talking to Chief Parsons.”

“Good,” said Breanna. Parsons, a former maintainer and chief master sergeant at Dreamland, was her personal assistant, a troubleshooter for all things mechanical.

Danny believed that they had enough weapons and ammunition to hold off anything the locals could throw at them over the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours, which would give them more than ample time to figure out what to do about the damaged MV-22.

The real problem was finding Raven’s guidance system. While they had to recheck all the places they had raided and get the Russian, Danny believed that the most promising theory was that one of Li Han’s guards had taken it. That would explain why he had been shot.

“If it is in the Brothers camp, can you get in there and search?”

“I need to study the place,” said Danny. “We won’t be able to just go up and knock on the door.”

They spent a few minutes discussing logistical matters, Breanna making sure they were well supplied. If they did hit the camp, Danny wanted some equipment from the States as well as more personnel.

“All right. Get some sleep,” she told him when they were ready to sign off.

“When I get a chance,” said Danny. He tried to smile, but it only made him look more tired.

“I felt I had to inform the President,” Reid told Breanna. “There was no other choice.”

“I know.”

“The rumors may have come from her staff, but more likely they came from the Agency.”

“Why would Edmund leak it?”

“I doubt it was him. Not everyone in the organization appreciates his leadership.” Reid paused. Anyone in a position of authority anywhere in government had many enemies. “He hasn’t been particularly forthcoming with me.”

Reid reiterated what Rubeo had told him, and what he had heard about the software. But the lack of information from Edmund was frustrating; he simply didn’t know how dangerous Raven was.

“In theory,” he told Breanna, “Rubeo believes it could take over any sort of computing device, adapting and changing itself to fit the medium. But how far along they are in actual fact and practice, I simply don’t know.”

Breanna pushed the hair at the side of her head back, running her fingers across her ear. The gesture reminded Reid of his wife when she was younger.

“Did you tell Danny this?” she asked.

“I haven’t shared Dr. Rubeo’s assessment, no. There’s no need, operationally. Clearly, he knows it’s not just a board of transistors, based on our concern. I don’t know how much the CIA officer on the ground has told him. Or what she even knows, for that matter.”

“Could she be in the dark as well?” Breanna asked.

“Hard to say.”

“Why in God’s name—”

“They probably felt that, because it was Africa, there was no risk. That would be a common perception.”

“Misperception,” said Breanna.

“Yes.”

The Agency was famous for such misperceptions, thought Reid — always underestimating the enemy. That was the cause of most intelligence failures, wasn’t it? Lack of imagination, lack of crediting the enemy with as much if not more foresight than you had? That was the story of Pearl Harbor, of the Russian H-bomb, of 9/11—of failure after failure, and not just by the U.S.

“The political controversy adds another dimension,” continued Reid. “They have even more incentive to clam up. I wouldn’t be surprised if they thought we leaked it.”

Breanna frowned.

“It’s going to cause trouble with your husband,” added Reid. “I’m sorry for that.”

“We’ll deal with it.” Breanna straightened and rose from the table. “Which one of us will tell the President that we have the UAV but not the computer?”

“I think we should both make the call.”

Chapter 2

In the end, it was momentum rather than logic or threats that got the women moving — Nuri and Boston pulled each to their feet and nudged them in the right direction, simply refusing to take no or inaction as an answer. They shuffled rather than walked, but it was progress nonetheless. Nuri took the infant from Bloom, hunching his body over it to keep it warm. It was sleeping, its thumb in its mouth.

Boston led the way around the outskirts of the woods, hiking toward the north-south highway that ran through the city to the south. There was still a glow from the center of town; the air smelled of burnt wood and grass. Sudan First appeared to have wiped out Meurtre Musique, but the rebels had lost so many people that in all likelihood the city would eventually be abandoned.

They were just in sight of the picket Danny had set up around the fallen plane when the backup Osprey arrived. It came in from the north, having taken a wide circle around the city to avoid any possible enemies. The aircraft swung down to the ground ahead, barely a shadow in the night.

“Why’d you bring the women?” asked Danny as the small group staggered into the makeshift camp.

“I didn’t know what else to do with them,” said Nuri.

“They can’t stay with us.”

“I know, but we can get them to a refugee camp or something.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know.” Nuri turned to find Bloom. She was walking with the woman who’d given birth, moving mechanically.

“We’re going to take you to a camp,” he said. “Where would be the best place?”

Instead of answering, Bloom reached her hands out to take the baby.

“A camp,” said Nuri, reluctantly turning him over. “Where would the best one be?”

“Maybe you should ask which is the least worst,” said Melissa. “I’ll talk to her.”

“It’s all right. I have it under control,” said Nuri.

“She’s not talking to you.”

“She’s not going to talk to you either.”

But Bloom did, haltingly and in a faraway voice. She suggested a place called Camp Feroq, which was run by her relief organization a hundred miles southwest.

“I never heard of it,” said Nuri.

“I’m sure we can find it.”

Nuri found himself arguing against it, though he wasn’t exactly sure why. He told Melissa that they should be relocated somewhere nearby, which would make it possible for them to eventually return. Yet he knew that wasn’t logical at all.

“You just suggested they go to a camp themselves,” said Danny.

“Most of them are hellholes,” answered Nuri. But he knew Danny was right, and he let the matter drop.

As far as Danny was concerned, his mission was to retrieve every bit of the UAV, and so he wasn’t surprised that Reid and Breanna told him that the control unit had to be recovered. But the fact that Breanna was suggesting an attack into the Sudan Brotherhood camp put the matter into an entirely different category.

Before he dealt with that, he needed to finish the search and pick up the Russian.

Given the fact that Nuri could speak Russian, it made sense that he come on the mission, which would be launched from the backup Osprey. Melissa wanted to go as well. Danny told her flatly he didn’t want her help.

“I know what the flight computer looks like,” she argued. “You need somebody along who can identify it.”

“It’s a frickin’ computer,” snapped Nuri. “How hard is that to figure out?”

“The Osprey’s going to be pretty packed with the combat team,” said Danny diplomatically. “We have to make a couple of drops and then move in. It’s a coordination thing. Why don’t you watch after the women and help Boston make a plan to research the first building we hit and the area near it. This is just a pickup job. We’ve all practiced this a million times.”

She finally agreed. Aboard the aircraft, Nuri asked Danny why he was being so nice to her.

“I’m not being nice to her.”

“She’s been lying to us the whole time,” said Nuri, standing over him as the aircraft spun toward the hills.

“When has she lied?”

“She hasn’t told us the whole story,” said Nuri. “She’s trying to save her ass and take the credit for getting all the pieces back.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“Don’t let these Agency types bulldoze you. They’re sweeter than crap to your face, then you find out they’ve been knifing you in the back.”

“Sometimes you act like you got a stick up your ass,” Danny told him. “Other times it’s a two by four.”

The pilot announced they were five minutes from the first insertion.

Exhausted, Kimko lay on the ground, halfway between sleep and consciousness. His mind threw thoughts out in odd patterns, numbers mixing with ideas, old memories filtering into what he saw around himself in the jungle.

Most of all he wanted vodka.

Kimko thought about letting go and falling asleep. But it would be the same as accepting failure, and that he could not do. So after a long time on the ground he took a deep, slow breath and struggled to his feet.

There were noises around him — wind rushing by. He turned quickly, sure he was being followed by some animal, but nothing appeared.

No, he was alone, very alone, lost in the middle of Africa and sure to die here, thirsty and tired, a spy, unknown and unloved.

His mind wandered even as he tried to focus on the jungle before him. He saw his ex-wife and spit at her.

He looked down at the ground, looking for the path.

When he looked up, a man in a black battle dress was standing before him.

Kimko turned. There were two more. He was surrounded.

Not by soldiers, by aliens.

A short, youthful man with wide shoulders appeared behind them. He spoke Russian. He was a human.

“Where is the control unit for the UAV?” asked the man. “The flight computer. What did you do with it?”

“What are you talking about?” asked Kimko.

The man raised his pistol and held it in his face.

“Tell me,” said the man.

Kimko jerked away, but one of the aliens grabbed him by the shoulder. The grip was intense. It drained all of his strength away.

“Where is the control unit?” demanded the short man, pointing the gun directly at his forehead.

“I have no idea—”

The gun went off. The bullet flew by his head.

Am I dead?

I’m dead.

No, no, it’s an old trick. Intimidation. I’ve done this myself. I’ve done this.

It’s a trick.

“You are coming with us,” said the man.

Was he dead? Had Girma the idiot shot him after all?

Kimko started to struggle. This was real, though it didn’t make any sense — he pushed and threw his fists.

“You’re not taking me alive!” he yelled.

But as the words escaped his mouth, he smelled something sweet in his nose. Something was poking his back, poking him in a million places.

Sleep, said a voice inside his brain. Sleep.

Milos Kimko collapsed to the ground, already starting to snore.

“Sounds like he’s got a breathing problem,” Danny said.

“He’s OK,” said Sugar, checking him over. “That Demerol will keep him out for a while.”

“Nolan, you and Shorty see if you can backtrack the trail he came up through. See if he threw anything away,” said Danny. MY-PID had already looked at the video feeds, but Danny wanted it checked anyway. “Work your way back to the city. We’ll hook up with you.”

The two men set out. The rest of the team fanned out nearby, checking to see if Kimko had hidden or dropped anything nearby.

“Searching’s a waste of time,” said Nuri. “He never got it. I’m beginning to think they never had a control unit in the first place.”

“They needed something to fly the plane,” said Danny.

“Maybe Melissa took it and she’s been lying all this time.”

“What do you have against her?”

“I told you, Danny, she’s a bad seed.”

Danny shook his head.

“I want to take him to Ethiopia and question him,” said Nuri.

“That’s fine.”

“We’ll know what he knows in a few hours. But best bet now is probably the Brother who killed Li Han. That’s who we need to find.”

Chapter 3

Amara took his shoes off and placed them in the plastic tub. He put his backpack into a second tub, then pushed them together toward the X-ray machine. He felt as if everyone in the airport was looking at him, though he knew that couldn’t be the case. He’d already gotten through two different security checks; this was the last before the gate.

With the tubs moving on the conveyor belt, Amara stepped over to the metal detector frame. A portly woman in a military-style uniform held out a blue-gloved hand to stop him from proceeding.

Heart racing, he saw the light on the nearby X-ray machine blinking red.

Don’t panic! Don’t run!

He looked back the officer. She was motioning him forward.

He stepped through, half expecting the alarm to sound, though he had no metal in his pockets, no explosives, no knives, no weapons. His clothes had been carefully laundered before he was driven to the airport.

Clear. He was clear. On his way to America.

He started to look for his shoes. But the woman with the blue gloves took hold of his arm.

“Sir, step this way,” said the woman in English.

Startled, Amara wasn’t sure what to say.

“Please,” she said, pointing to the side. “Step over there.”

Two other officers, both men, came over behind her. Amara stepped to the side, as she had asked. His throat started to constrict. He wasn’t afraid — he’d never been a coward — but it seemed unfair to be stopped so early in his mission.

“Please open your bag,” said an officer on the other side of the conveyor belt. He spoke English in an accent so thick and foreign that Amara had to puzzle out what he said, and only understood because he was pointing.

He tried to apologize for his hesitation. He’d been told repeatedly to be nice to the guards; it would make them much more cooperative. “I didn’t, uh—”

“Open the bag, sir.”

Amara reached to the zipper and pushed it down. He had only a shirt and a book here, as instructed.

“You have a laptop?” said the man.

God, the laptop. He’d forgotten to take it out of the compartment so they could look at it specially.

What a fool! The simplest thing! And now trapped!

“I do, oh I do, I forgot—” he said.

“Could you turn it on, please?” said the officer.

Amara pulled the laptop out and fumbled with it as he reached for the power button. In the meantime, another officer came up behind the first and whispered something in his ear, pointing behind them. They turned around to watch someone else in line.

The computer took forever to boot up. The screen blinked — the hard drive failed the self-test. He had to press F1 to proceed. He did so quickly; the computer proceeded with its start-up.

The security officer who’d had him take out the laptop called over to the woman with the gloves. Then he turned and went with the other man to check on the person he’d pointed out. Momentarily confused, Amara focused on the laptop, waiting patiently for its desktop to appear.

“What else do you have in the bag?” asked the woman officer.

“My shirt, my uh — some paper,” he said.

“In this compartment.” She reached in and pulled out the power cord and mouse.

“To make it work without the battery,” he said.

“Yes, yes, of course. Very good. You must remove laptops separately from now on.”

“I’m sorry. I–I forgot.”

“Go. You may go.”

Amara hastily put everything back in the bag, then went to find his shoes.

He was through. Next stop, America.

Chapter 4

President Todd stared at the worn surface on her desk, her eyes absorbing the varied scars and lines. The desk was her own personal piece of furniture, one of the few pieces she brought to the White House. She’d always found a certain mental comfort in familiar physical objects; the small, solid desk reminded her of her many past struggles, not only hers but those of her father and grandfather, both of whom had been small town doctors in what seemed a different America now. Many a patient’s life was saved at this desk, she believed; if wood could be said to have a soul, this one’s must surely be a powerful force for good.

She needed some of its strength now. The day’s developments had not been good.

There was a knock on the door to her small office.

“Come,” she said.

David Greenwich, her chief of staff, poked his head in.

“Mr. Reid and Ms. Stockard have arrived, ma’am,” he said. “Everyone else is in the cabinet room, waiting for you.”

“Very good, David.”

“You have that dinner with Kurgan and some of the New York crew this evening.”

“I won’t forget.”

“We could cancel.”

“Oh, stop, David,” she said, rising. “You’re mothering me.”

“Just looking out for you. I know how much you’re going to enjoy that one,” he added sarcastically.

“I assure you I’m fine. And tell my husband that as well.”

“He didn’t say anything.”

“I’ll bet.”

Todd smiled to herself as she left the office. All of these men, fussing over her — it could easily go to her head if she let it.

Then again, reality was always waiting to give her a good kick in the gut if she got too full of herself.

It was giving her a double job today.

Breanna took a seat at the long table, making sure she was between Edmund and Reid. Edmund had brought Reginald Harker with him, along with another man, Gar Pilpon. Pilpon, about forty, had extremely white hair and a set of thick, trifocal glasses that made his eyes look almost psychedelic. His pupils were red, or at least appeared to be red in the light of the cabinet room where they were meeting.

President Todd’s National Security Advisor, Dr. Michael Blitz, sat at the other end of the table opposite Edmund. Next to him was the President’s political advisor, William Bozzone. If the request to brief her in person hadn’t been unusual enough, Bozzone’s presence signaled that what seemed a routine matter a few days before had blossomed into a full-blown crisis.

“Very good of you all to come on short notice,” said the President as she entered. “Don’t get up gentlemen. Breanna, I’m glad you could make it. How’s your daughter?”

“Very good, Ms. President.”

Todd’s smile disappeared as she sat down. That was her style: right to business.

“So, as I understand it, we have everything but the computer that runs the aircraft,” she said, looking around the table. “Am I correct?”

“That is right,” said Breanna.

“And we know where it is?” Todd turned to Edmund.

“My person on the scene is continuing to search.”

“I was under the impression that Whiplash had been called in to supervise the recovery,” said Todd sharply. Clearly, she was not happy with him or his Agency. She turned back to Breanna. “Am I right?”

“Yes. We recovered the aircraft in a building that was being used by the target of the assassination program. We subsequently found his body on the other side of the city. He apparently was killed by a member of the Muslim separatist group he was helping. We think the killer took the control unit. That’s one of our theories, at least.”

“How many theories do you have?” asked Blitz. “Jonathon?”

“We are pursuing several,” said Reid dryly. They had agreed he would speak sparingly.

“How long before we recover the rest of the aircraft?”

“I can’t give an estimate,” said Breanna.

“Do they know what they have?” Blitz asked.

Edmund answered before Breanna could.

“The Raven control unit looks exactly like other UAV control units,” he said. “It would be impossible for them to know.”

“It actually looks quite different,” said Reid sharply. “And of course, the programming inside it is very different.”

Breanna gave him a slight tap with her foot under the table. He was doing exactly what he had sworn he wouldn’t do.

“These Africans are primitive,” said Harker. “That’s one of the reasons the region was chosen in the first place. They have no idea.”

“If they have no idea,” said Todd, “then why did they take the control unit?”

“American technology can always be sold. They’d sell a toaster if we dropped one there.”

“We have to assume that they can figure it out,” said Blitz. “Eventually. We need to get the unit back.”

“I agree with that,” said Edmund.

The President turned toward Breanna and Reid. “You’re confident that you can get it?”

“We’re reasonably sure,” said Breanna. “But it would be foolish to make guarantees. We don’t even have all the technical data on the flight computer. We’ve made our own assessments based on what its capacity is supposed to be, but quite honestly, the amount of information—”

“I’m sorry, I’m not following this,” said Bozzone, speaking for the first time. “Are you saying you don’t know what you’re looking for?”

“We haven’t been given a picture of it, let alone the technical details,” said Breanna.

“We didn’t see that as operationally necessary,” said Edmund. The tone of his voice made it clear he would have thrown a brick at Breanna if he had one.

“This doesn’t sound like a lot of cooperation,” said Bozzone. “At a time when everyone in the administration should be working together. How do you expect them to do their job if you’re not helping them?”

“There’s a certain amount of need to know—”

“Let’s cut to the quick here,” said the President. “Herman, you will cooperate. You will give Ms. Stockard and Mr. Reid whatever information they require. Is that understood?”

“Yes.”

“Now — this computer. How dangerous exactly is it?” asked the President.

“It has — unique capacities,” said Edmund.

“It’s essentially a virus that, once programmed to kill someone, will not stop trying to do just that,” said Reid. Breanna didn’t bother kicking him — she would have said the same thing. Edmund was being almost criminally evasive. “It’s very dangerous. If it’s released into the wild, so to speak—”

“Well, um, characterizing it as an, um, virus, that is not highly accurate,” said Pilpon. “It is, um, simply a set of instructions, carefully controlled. It has been hobbled—”

“But isn’t it true that the basic program is designed to adapt to its environment?” asked Reid.

“Yes.”

“Which means the program can go into any computer it’s hooked into — and by computer, I mean processing chip.”

“Well, not um, exactly. It couldn’t go into the chip in your car, for example. There are a large number—”

“If I had access to it, I could certainly figure out how to get it into another computer, couldn’t I?” asked Reid.

“I don’t know about that. The circumstances would be difficult.”

“Do the Africans who took the computer know this or not?” asked the President.

“We don’t believe so,” said Edmund.

“If they have it, it’s just a bunch of circuits to them,” insisted Harker. “It’s a toaster.”

The President frowned. “Mr. Edmund, I understand Congress wants to talk to you about Raven.”

“The Intelligence Committee has requested a briefing,” said Edmund.

Breanna expected a long discussion to follow. Instead, the President rose.

“You will not speak to them until we have recovered this unit,” she told him sternly. “Is that clear?”

“Very.”

“William, work out the details. Executive privilege, whatever road we have to take. Stall, then bring out the heavy guns. Breanna, Jonathon, please bring this to a successful conclusion quickly. Get it back. I’m sorry, I have to leave, I have other commitments. Thank you all for your time.”

Chapter 5

They were in the slog part of the mission — past the high excitement of combat, with a lot of work to be done, yet without the adrenaline.

A potentially dangerous time, when fatigue and boredom conspired to make even the most dedicated soldier cut corners.

Danny switched around the assignments to make sure the people searching the buildings had not been involved in the first searches. He personally checked on the different teams, riding back and forth in one of the captured pickups with Melissa. The city had fallen into a stupor, dead and wounded lying near sleeping, exhausted fighters.

“We should do something about that,” said Melissa after they passed a pair of rebels lying by the road. MY-PID, analyzing their body heat, reported that they were dead.

“Like what?” said Danny.

“Bury them, at least. I don’t know.” She shifted uncomfortably in the pickup. The seat belts had been cut away; neither could belt themselves in against the pothole-induced bumps and lurches. “I feel like we should do more.”

She was quiet for a while, then, without prompting, volunteered that she had been scared.

“It wasn’t the shooting,” she said. “It was the baby. I–I didn’t know what to do.”

“Bloom was there.”

“She was. She was panicking about everything except the baby. For me it was the other way around.”

“Everybody has a breaking point,” said Danny.

“I didn’t break. I might have. I could see it.”

“True,” said Danny.

“I didn’t think about them as people when I got here. But now, I see them and I think, oh my God…”

Melissa trailed off, silent. Danny wanted to say something but wasn’t exactly sure what.

“Maybe you realized why we fight,” he said finally, still unsure that he had the right words.

They continued in silence toward the warehouse they had hit the first night. Hera and one of the new Whiplash troopers, Shorty, were standing outside, waiting. They’d just finished searching it, with no sign of any of the missing UAV components. Hera and Shorty had also checked on two small buildings nearby, both deserted. Neither appeared to have been even entered by anyone for months if not years.

“Sorry,” Hera told him. She and Shorty got in the back.

“I shouldn’t have let the Osprey get hit,” Danny told Melissa as they drove back toward their camp.

“How is that your fault?”

“I could have kept it back.”

“Would it have been as effective?”

It was a good and obvious question, and one he wasn’t entirely sure how to answer. There was always a balance between taking action and being safe.

“I don’t know,” he said finally. “But I guess I feel I should have told them to be more careful.”

“If someone told you that, would it have made any difference?”

“Probably not,” conceded Danny.

“I don’t see how you’re supposed to be perfect — doesn’t every plan get changed once the battle starts, or something like that?”

“Something like that.” Danny smiled. It was odd how suddenly he felt so comfortable talking to her.

Chapter 6

Jonathon Reid was about to open his car door in the Langley parking lot when a black government limo pulled up behind him. Reid knew exactly who it was, and could have guessed more or less accurately what was going to be said. He wanted to be anywhere but here, but there was no way to escape. He sighed to himself, then turned to face Herman Edmund as the rear window rolled down.

“Jonathon, come in here a moment, would you?” said Edmund.

“I’m actually late for an appointment,” said Reid.

“It’ll keep.”

Reluctantly, Reid walked over to the far side of the car and got in the back, next to the CIA director. There was a partition between the driver and the backseat; it was closed.

“Why are you doing this?” demanded Edmund. “I thought we were friends.”

“This isn’t personal,” said Reid. “There’s nothing personal involved.”

“You were trying to make me look bad with the President.”

“Herm, that’s not true. I barely spoke.”

“Your tone was atrocious. Raven is an important project,” continued Edmund. “It was started two directors ago. It wasn’t my idea.”

“I’m sure it’s important.”

“So why are you sabotaging it? What if I were I to do the same with Whiplash?”

“I don’t see that as a parallel situation in any way,” said Reid.

“No, of course you wouldn’t.”

“You do oversee Whiplash, the Agency component at least.”

“Oh come on, Jon. Everyone knows it’s your baby. You got it assembled, you got the funding, you convinced Magnus and the others in DoD to go along. It’s your baby. If anyone were to look at it cross-eyed, you’d scream.”

“The way Raven was deployed was not characteristic of your best decisions,” said Reid. He consciously picked his words, making the stiffest choices. Distance would be useful. This wasn’t a personal matter, and Edmund shouldn’t see it that way.

“Deploying the weapon without extensive testing and safeguards was ill-advised,” Reid continued. “You were almost guaranteed that something would go wrong.”

“You have no idea of the safeguards we employed,” said Edmund. “Or how much testing it’s undergone. Sooner or later it has to be used. That’s the real test. This — This was just a bizarre set of circumstances. The Predator caused the accident. It was part of the safeguards and it bit us in the butt — if we hadn’t had it with the flight, we wouldn’t be here talking.”

“It’s a powerful weapon,” said Reid.

“So powerful it should be under your control. Is that it?”

“Not necessarily, no.”

“But if it were a Whiplash project, that would be all right. If your private army had it, then nothing could ever go wrong.”

“Whiplash is just our — is just the action arm of the Joint Technology Task Force, of Room 4,” said Reid. “Nothing more.”

“No, ‘our’ is the key word there.” Edmund had a smug expression on his face, strangely triumphant, as if Reid had proven his point. “I want you to think of what you’re doing to the Agency here, Jonathon. I know you’re jealous of me. But think of the Agency. The institution. Our oaths. Our history. You’re going to drag the Agency through the mud. Again. You. Both of us swore we would never let that happen. I’m just surprised that you went back on that. I expected a lot more from you.”

“I’m not involved in the politics at all.”

“Oh come on. You didn’t tell Ernst?”

“Absolutely not.”

“I know you’re the one who went to the President, Jonathon. What did you do? Use Breanna Stockard? Did she tell her husband? Was he the one who tipped off Ernst? I know he has his own agendas. I don’t buy all that hero crap.”

“Breanna did not tell either her husband, or Ernst. I have no idea who tipped off the senator. Most likely it was someone on your staff.”

“Now you’re getting ridiculous.” Edmund’s face reddened. “Get out, Jonathon. We’re done.”

“Herm—”

“Out of my car. I can’t fire you, obviously, but I can tell you that our friendship is done. I’ve been too trusting of people. Ironic for a spy, isn’t it?”

Chapter 7

Amara walked into the dimly lit hall trying to get his bearings after the long airplane flight. He’d been to America before, but that experience didn’t help him now. He knew he had nothing to fear — and yet he had everything to fear. The customs agent sat in a small booth similar to a toll collector’s. The man frowned as Amara handed over his passport.

“Why are you here?” the agent demanded.

“Vay-Vacation.”

“What’s a vay-vacation?”

The agent’s hostility made it easier somehow.

“I am here to visit my aunt and uncle,” said Amara. “I have their address.”

The official frowned and began examining his passport. “You’ve been in America before.”

“Yes, sir. I have been to school here.”

“You are thinking of getting a job.”

“It’s very difficult to get a job,” said Amara. This was his first answer that hadn’t been rehearsed. But it didn’t need to be. “I am helping my country build itself. There is much to be done.”

“That makes sense.” No longer interested in him, the agent flipped the passport pages back and forth, then stamped his book. “Be careful,” he said as he handed it back.

Be careful of what? Amara thought, shouldering his backpack out to the luggage claim area.

A half-dozen men in dark suits were standing near the doors, holding cards with handwritten names. He glanced at them. The terminal building felt a little unbalanced, as if the floor were tilted. He went to the carousel, watching the luggage move around. Three-fourths of the bags were black, and at least half of those looked like his. Amara eyed them nervously, twice examining a suitcase before realizing it wasn’t his.

Finally, with the crowd around him thinning, he found his bag. He pulled it off the belt and turned to leave.

“Amara, my cousin,” said a man on his right. “We are glad you are here.”

His voice was extremely soft — so low, in fact, that Amara nearly didn’t hear him. The tone belied the words: rather than being a warm greeting, it sounded cold and impersonal.

Which, of course, it was.

“My uncle,” said Amara, trying not to let the words sound like a question.

“This way. We’ll take a cab,” said the man, who had tan skin, but lighter than his. If he’d had to guess, he would have said he was Egyptian or Palestinian. He took Amara’s bag and led him to the large doors at the front of the terminal. “Is your backpack heavy?”

“I have it.”

Amara remained on his guard as he was led to a cab parked at the curb.

He knew little of the project, beyond the fact that the Brothers were cooperating with others, presumably in exchange for money.

Amara wasn’t sure if the taxi driver, who looked Palestinian, was part of the network. He knew better than to say anything that would give himself away. And as his guide was silent, he thought it best for him to remain so as well.

The city sprawled on both sides of them as they drove toward Manhattan. The rows of houses seemed endless. Tall buildings rose in the distance. It had been nearly three years since he’d been in New York. The city had seemed like a vast temptation, a fascinating place filled with many sweets, a decadent paradise. Or hell, depending on one’s point of view.

“First time in New York?” asked his “uncle.”

It was a dumb question, thought Amara — his “uncle” should know the answer.

“I have been here before,” he said.

“A grand city for a young man like yourself.”

Amara turned to the window, staring at the old bridge they were crossing. When he first came to New York, he was surprised to find so many old things: he’d assumed the name was literal. And there was a great deal of dirt and grime, so much so that it reminded him of Cairo. But a few days in Manhattan and he stopped noticing such things.

They drove through the heart of the city, weaving through thick morning traffic. Finally, they pulled up to a curb.

“Come now,” said his uncle.

Amara got out of the car and waited as the other man retrieved his bag. The driver closed the trunk, nodded, then left.

They descended a long flight of stairs to Penn Station. Two National Guardsmen in battle dress were standing against the wall, M4s ready.

Amara wondered if they had ever used them in battle. Neither man had the hard glance that he associated with tested warriors.

His uncle led him down the long hall of shops, past stores and stalls. Amara’s nose was assaulted from every direction; his stomach began to call for food.

They stopped in a crowd of people. His uncle turned toward a large board with the names and numbers of trains.

“We’re just in time,” he told Amara, reaching into his pocket. “Here is your ticket. Your track is at the end of the hall. Take the elevator on the right. Number twelve. Go.”

Amara made his way to the train, an Amtrak Acela bound for Washington, D.C. He settled into a seat and tried to relax as the train pulled out of the station, running through the long tunnel to New Jersey. Within a half hour he had dozed off, exhausted by the travel.

He saw Li Han’s face in his dreams. It was exactly as he had seen him in Sudan: a mixture of sneering and respect, kindness mixed with disdain.

In the dream, Li Han began lecturing him about how to fly the UAV. Amara tried to pay attention, but there was one major distraction — the hole in the middle of Li Han’s skull where he’d shot him.

Somewhere in Delaware a conductor shook Amara awake.

“Did you have to get off at this next stop?” asked the man.

Amara jerked upright in his seat. He looked around — he wasn’t sure where he was.

“Do you have your ticket?” asked the conductor.

Amara pulled it from his pocket.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said the conductor, examining it. “You’re Union Station. All the way in D.C. I apologize. I must have gotten you confused with someone else.”

He handed the ticket back. As he took it, Amara realized that he’d been given two tickets.

A message.

He glanced up at the man. He was almost white: Iranian, Amara would guess, or perhaps Iraqi.

There was a phone number on the second ticket. Amara understood he was to call that number when he arrived at Union Station. He tucked it into his pocket, then leaned against the side of the train, hoping to fall back asleep.

Chapter 8

Melissa pulled out her satellite phone as soon as the repaired Osprey reached the new operating base Danny had set up southwest of Duka. She was well overdue to check in.

It was still early. Harker might be sleeping.

It would serve him right.

“What?” her boss said gruffly, answering the phone.

“This is Ilse. The flight computer is not in Duka.”

“No kidding.”

“Our best bet is that it’s south in the mountains, with the Sudan Brotherhood. One of their members left the city, probably after killing Mao Man.”

“You told me that yesterday, Melissa. This is old information.”

“We need permission to search the camp. Can we?”

“That’s not up to me. You’re sure it’s not in Duka?”

“We’ve looked everywhere, believe me.”

“And it wasn’t at the crash site?”

“God, what do you think? I’m a fool? You do.”

“You have to watch these Whiplash people,” said Harker. “They’re trying to screw us.”

“How so?”

“There’s all sorts of political bullshit back here. You’re sure it’s not in Duka?”

“I’m sure.”

“Did you personally check every one of the hiding places? Or did Whiplash?”

“Personally?”

“You heard me. Did you?”

Screw you, thought Melissa, hanging up.

Danny patted the repaired engine cover of the Osprey. Dented and crumpled, the skin looked like a piece of paper that had been wadded up and then pressed flat. But it was tougher than it looked — the whole aircraft was. Despite its shaky early history, the Osprey had proved its worth in countless high-risk situations, and not just for Whiplash.

“She’s good for another ten thousand miles,” said one of the pilots, admiring the aircraft from the other side of the wing. “I was thinking maybe I’d dent up the other engine housing so they look like a matched set.”

“Probably not a good idea,” laughed Danny. He pointed to the crew chief and the two maintainers who’d been flown in to help put the aircraft back together. “Those guys might give you grief.”

Pretending to notice them for the first time, the pilot spread out his arms and bowed to them. It was a joke, of course, but it reminded Danny of a truism he’d learned back at Dreamland — you did not want to mess with the men and women who maintained the aircraft.

Nor underestimate them. These aircraft sergeants — both were men, and both tech sergeants — had been personally selected by Chief Master Sergeant Al “Greasy Hands” Parsons, who, though retired, arguably knew more about every operational aircraft in the Air Force inventory than any man or computer. Parsons was always going on about how good a job his people and the Air Force technical grunts in general were; it would have been bragging if it weren’t true.

“Colonel, this aircraft will take you to hell and back,” said one of the sergeants. “But I have to say, sir, your choice in pilots leaves quite a bit to be desired.”

Even the pilot laughed.

Danny walked over to the combination mess/command tent, thinking this might be a good moment to catch a brief nap.

Melissa met him just inside. Her eyelids drooped; she had what looked like thick welts under both eyes.

“When are you going to the Brotherhood camp?” she asked.

“I don’t know for certain that we are,” said Danny. “But it’ll be tonight at the earliest.”

“I’m going with you.”

“All right.”

“You’re agreeing?”

“Yeah. I need all the help I can get.”

“Oh.” Her body seemed to deflate. Danny sensed that she had been prepared to argue with him. But he saw no reason to keep her away; she’d proven herself. And it was at least still partly her mission. “Good.”

“The Sudanese army is escorting a bunch of ambulances and relief workers to Duka,” he told her. “They should be there inside an hour.”

“Oh?”

“Your friend Bloom arranged it. She’s going with them. She is a spy, huh?”

“Used to be.”

Danny nodded.

“You oughta get some rest,” he told her.

“Yeah,” she said. “I should.”

Chapter 9

Milos Kimko woke on the cot, his head pounding as if he had a hangover. He had no idea where he was, but he could tell from just the smell that he wasn’t in Sudan anymore. The aroma in his nose was less meaty, drier.

He forced his eyes to focus. He was in a canvas tent. He started to get up, only to find that his hands and legs were shackled together.

“You’re awake,” said a voice in Russian behind him.

Kimko leaned over on the cot. A man dressed in a pair of nondescript green fatigues stood near the flap door. There was another man with a rifle behind him.

“What?” said Kimko.

“Do you prefer English or Russian?” asked the man, still in Russian. He was short, though he had a muscular build.

“Your Russian is atrocious,” snapped Kimko. It was an exaggeration — the words were certainly right if a little formal, though his pronunciation could use a little work. But Kimko did not want to give the man the satisfaction.

“English is fine for me,” said the man. “What did you do with the UAV?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Of course you do.”

“Who are you?”

“It’s not important who I am. Where is the UAV? Did Li Han give it to you?”

“Li Han. Who is Li Han? I don’t know him. Who are you? Why have you taken me here? You’re an American — I can tell from your accent. Are you CIA? Who are you?”

“It’s who you are that’s important. You’re a Russian gun dealer, violating UN sanctions. You’re a criminal.”

“I’m not a criminal.”

“Do you really think the SVG is going to get you off, Milos? The reality is, they washed their hands of you years ago. When you first turned up with a drinking problem. And when your boss wanted to screw your wife.”

Kimko couldn’t help but be surprised by the amount of information the man knew. He tried to make his face neutral but it was too late.

“Of course I know,” said the other man. “I know everything about you. You were on the scrap heap before they brought you out for this assignment. You thought you hit rock bottom, but it’s amazing how much further you had to fall.” The man reached into his pocket and took out a small, airplane-size bottle of vodka. “This will make you feel a lot better.”

Kimko started to reach for the bottle, forgetting the chains. The man laughed at him and shook his head.

“Where is the UAV?”

Kimko lowered his head, trying to regroup. He had to do better — if he was going to survive, he had to do better.

But he wanted that vodka. The American was taunting him. He knew every weakness.

He had to do better.

He slapped the bottle away. But the man, lightning fast, grabbed it before it fell.

“Good reflexes,” said Kimko.

“Thank you.”

“Tell me your name,” Kimko said. “Tell me your name, so I know who I’m talking with.”

“John. You can call me John. Where is the UAV?”

“In the city somewhere.” Kimko raised his head. “He said he had it and would show me a picture.”

“You’ll have to do better than that,” said Nuri. He pocketed the vodka bottle. “I’ll be back.”

Outside the hut, Nuri had MY-PID replay the conversation. Analyzing the voice patterns, it judged that the Russian had been telling the truth.

He was weak, though. He truly wanted a drink. With a little effort and patience, Nuri knew he could undoubtedly elicit a great deal of information, everything the Russians were trying to do in Africa.

But he didn’t care about any of that. He needed to know where the Raven flight computer was — and that seemed to be the one thing Kimko couldn’t tell him.

Surely he knew something. The only question was, how much vodka would it take to find out?

The little bottle Nuri had shown Kimko was his entire stock. It had been in his luggage, a souvenir from his flight from Europe to Egypt that he’d pocketed and then forgotten. It was barely a shot’s worth.

Damn good thing he’d caught it in midair. Try it a hundred times and he’d never do it again.

“Get him some food,” Nuri told one of the guards. “Don’t talk to him at all. I’m going to go for a walk and clear my head. I’ll be back.”

Chapter 10

It was not easy to find a pay phone. And when Amara finally did find one and dialed the number, he went straight to voice mail.

Flustered, he hung up. He had no idea what to do or where to go. He’d never even been in Washington, D.C., before.

He had a cell phone but was sternly warned to use it only once, and that was to call and say he had arrived at his final destination. Using it for any other purpose was beyond question. He was sure to be punished for doing so; he guessed the punishment would be death.

Amara walked around the train station, trying to decide what to do. He would have to find a place to stay. That part was relatively easy, even though he had limited funds. The question would be what to do next.

The bookstore had a stand with small magazines listing inexpensive hotels. He studied it, then found the taxi stand. But as he queued up for the line, he saw from the magazine ad that he could get there from the Metro. That would be cheaper.

Back inside, he passed the phone booth and decided to try calling his contact one last time.

A male voice answered on the second ring.

“Yes?”

“This is Amara from the old country,” he said. “I’ve come looking for my cousin.”

There was no answer. Fearing a trap or perhaps a simple mistake with the number, Amara was just about to slap the phone down when the man said, “Go to the Air and Space Museum. Wait outside.”

“What train do I take?” asked Amara. But the man had already hung up.

Amara found his way to the Metro and bought a fare card. He could feel the others staring at him as he wheeled his suitcase down to the tracks. But there were other travelers with cases as well.

Someone bumped into him from behind. Amara jerked back.

“I’m sorry,” said a white girl, about nineteen or twenty. She had a stud below her lip. She put her hand up to reassure him. “I didn’t see you there.”

“I, uh…” Amara’s throat was suddenly very dry. He searched his brain for something to say in English. “I… wonder which way.”

“What way?” She gave him a bemused smile.

“I have to meet someone in front of the Air and Space Museum. Is hard to get to? From here?”

The girl led him back over to a map of the subway system, explaining how he would have to go. She smelled like flowers, Amara thought. American girls always did.

Some forty minutes later, Amara paced in front of the museum, trying to look inconspicuous.

He froze as he saw a police car pass by.

It’s all been a trap, he thought. An elaborate hoax to get me to America. They’ll throw me in Guantánamo and torture me there for life.

“Cousin,” said a deep voice as a hand clapped him on the shoulder from behind.

Amara, startled, spun around. A short, light-skinned man with an extremely scraggly beard stood behind him. It was difficult to correlate the voice with the man — he was diminutive, barely the size of a thirteen-year-old boy.

“How is my uncle and aunt?” asked the man. His English had a Pakistani accent.

“I’m good — they’re good,” said Amara, trying to pull himself back together.

The little man rolled his eyes.

“Come on,” he said under his breath. “Crap.”

He took Amara’s rolling suitcase and began leading him down the block.

“Call me Ken,” said the man after they had gone several blocks. “I will call you Al.”

“Al,” said Amara.

“Nothing else. You have a cell phone.”

“No,” said Amara.

“Good. Anyone give you anything in New York?”

“No.”

“Good.”

Ken continued walking. They had left the Mall area and were now on a residential street.

“This is my car,” said Ken, pointing with a key fob to a battered Impala and opening the trunk. “Get in.”

Amara did as he was told. Ken didn’t speak again for nearly a half hour. By then they were pulling down the back alley of a row of dilapidated town houses.

“Wait while I undo the fence,” said Ken, throwing the car into park. He got out, undid three locks with different keys, then unwrapped the chain that held the fence together. Amara glanced up. There was barbed wire at the top of the fence line.

Car parked and gate relocked, Ken led Amara down a short flight of concrete steps to a steel door. Two more keys. They entered a tiny hallway. Once again Ken had to unlock a door guarded by several locks, one of them a combination. They stepped into a dark basement.

“This way,” said Ken after relocking and bolting the door behind them.

“You have cat eyes,” said Amara, trying to follow in the pitch-black.

“Don’t trip,” said Ken.

Amara managed to follow him across the darkened room to a set of stairs leading up. If there was a light, Ken didn’t bother using it, leading him up to the first floor of the house, where once more they went through the ritual of locks.

“The bathroom’s in the back,” said Ken, leading him into the apartment. “Go through the kitchen, take a right. You can put your things in the bedroom on the left. Don’t touch anything.”

Amara took his things into the room, then went to the bathroom, keeping the laptop bag with him. The room was small and narrow, and smelled of ammonia. The overhead light was extremely bright, and the porcelain, though old, glistened. The taps worked separately; it took a bit of juggling to get his hands washed at a comfortable temperature.

Ken was waiting for him in the kitchen. He had a metal pot on the stove for coffee.

“So you’re the help they sent,” said Ken skeptically. “What’s your specialty?”

“I don’t have a specialty.”

Ken frowned. “What did they tell you?”

“Nothing. I brought a program that will help you.”

“In the bag? Let’s see it?”

Amara removed the computer from the backpack and turned it on. Ken turned his attention to the old-fashioned coffee percolator he’d put on the stove. Brown water blipped up into a tiny glass dome at the top. He adjusted the flame, bending down so close to it that Amara thought he would burn his nose if not his entire face. The pot vibrated on the stove, the liquid percolating inside.

“The people who sent you are ignorant,” said Ken. He practically spat. “They’re all idiots. They’re not much better than the ones we’re fighting against. In some ways, they’re worse. Do you even pray?”

The question caught Amara by surprise.

“I pray,” he said.

Ken pulled the percolator off the stove and poured a bit of coffee into a white mug sitting on the sink counter. Satisfied after examining it, he filled the cup, got another from the washboard, and filled that. He returned the pot to the stove. Only then did he turn off the gas. The flame descended back into the burner with a loud pouff.

The entire kitchen smelled like coffee. Amara felt his senses sharpening.

“Here,” said Ken roughly, setting down the cup. “You’ll probably want sugar.” He pointed to a small covered bowl in the middle of the table. “The spoons are in the drawer behind you.”

Amara tried two spoonfuls of sugar, then added a third and finally a fourth. Ken drank his plain.

“Let me see the computer,” said Ken.

Amara pushed it over. The control program had started on its own, columns of figures filling the screen.

“This is supposed to help me?” said Ken. “How?”

“It’s a control unit,” snapped Amara, no longer able to hide his resentment at being treated like a fool. “It controlled an American UAV. Target data is entered on the screen, and then the aircraft knew what to do.”

“Useless,” said Ken. He pushed the keys, paging the screen up and down. “I asked them for a Predator control unit. I was ready to adapt that. I was assured that it could be obtained from the Sudan. And yet this is what they give me? I can’t use this to fly a plane. Where are the controls? Why are we even working with Africans? They are imbeciles.”

“The man who examined this was Chinese,” said Amara. “He was a genius. He said it controlled an aircraft more powerful than a Predator. He knew what he was talking about.”

“Where is he?”

“He’s dead,” said Amara. Then he added, with a touch of cruelty that he hoped would set Ken back a notch, “I killed him.”

“Then he couldn’t have been much of a genius,” answered Ken, not intimidated.

Chapter 11

Breanna felt a pang of anxiety as she pulled into her driveway and saw Zen’s van. She hadn’t seen her husband since their meeting at the airport the day before. She’d managed to get home after him the night before, and leave before he got up — not that she’d been avoiding him exactly, but the timing was extremely convenient. They hadn’t even texted during the day.

Breanna took her keys from the ignition, opened her pocketbook, then decided that her lipstick needed to be fixed.

That done, she got out of the car, walking slowly to the door. Her daughter Teri met her there, practically tackling her.

“We’re glad your home,” said the third-grader after accepting two kisses, one for each cheek. “Dad and I cooked!”

“He did?”

Zen’s culinary prowess consisted of speed dialing the local pizza joint and hitting the button to talk at the McDonald’s drive-in.

“Lasagna,” said Zen from inside. “And it’s just ready.”

“Eating early?” said Breanna.

“Baseball game.”

“Oh.”

“Problem?” asked Zen.

“I have a meeting tonight.”

“I thought you might. Caroline is in the den, doing her homework.”

“She gave us some hints on cooking,” whispered Teri.

“You weren’t going to tell,” said Zen, mock scolding his daughter. He pretended to chase after her as she ran off laughing.

“She’s in a good mood,” said Breanna.

“Glad to see you home. As am I.”

Zen spun around and went back to the kitchen. Their stove was regular height, which limited his access to the front burners only. He had a small pot of sauce there; to check it, he removed it from the burner and held it over his lap to stir. It wasn’t the safest arrangement, but Breanna had learned long ago not to say anything.

He put it back and opened the oven.

“Mmmm-mmmm. I think it’s ready,” he said, wheeling around to the refrigerator.

“Jeff, about yesterday…”

“Apologizing for not playing hooky?”

“I shouldn’t have run out like that. I know.”

“That’s OK. It at least got me prepared for your stonewalling the committee.”

“Excuse me?”

“Word is, my favorite President told the CIA director to inspect military bases in Alaska for the next three weeks. His schedule is full.”

“I doubt anything like that happened.”

“It’s all right. At least I know where to deliver your subpoena.”

“Jeff, you’re not going to subpoena me.”

“Why not?”

“Because I have no involvement—”

She stopped short. She meant that she had no involvement in the original Raven program, not in recovering it. But she realized now that she looked foolish — and like a liar.

“I was joking,” he said, though his voice was suddenly very serious.

“I know.”

“Don’t forget who you are,” he added.

“I do know who I am.”

“Yeah. So do I.”

“What’s that mean?” She pressed her lips together, angry — not at him, but at herself for lying.

“Dinner’s ready,” said Zen loudly. He took a thick towel from the center island and put it on his lap, then pulled the lasagna from the oven. “Come and get it!” he yelled, wheeling himself toward the table.

Zen ate quickly. He was running a little late; ordinarily he would have caught something at the park, but he’d wanted to make sure he stayed and talked to Breanna.

It hadn’t gone quite as well as he planned, but at least the ice had been broken. Somewhat.

Hopefully this was just bs and would blow over quickly.

In the meantime, he was looking forward to the game. He drove over to his district office and picked up a friend, Simeon Bautista, a former SEAL who occasionally did some bodyguard work for him. Then he went over to the hospital, where Stoner and Dr. Esrang were waiting inside the lobby.

“Mark, Doc, hey guys,” said Zen, wheeling over to them with a flourish. “This is my buddy Simeon — he watches over me sometimes to make sure I don’t get into a fight with Dodger fans.” Zen winked at Stoner, who simply stared back. Esrang nodded. Zen saw the two hospital security people eyeing them nervously. “We ready?”

“I think we’re good,” said Esrang, leading the way to the van.

Truth be told, Zen would have preferred that the psychiatrist stayed home. It wasn’t that he was in the way, or even a particularly bad companion. But it added a therapeutic flavor to the outing that made things less comfortable than he wanted. It was bad enough that the doctor had insisted on a bodyguard. Simeon at least was low key and affable, though not overly talkative — a perfect combination, Zen thought. The problem was, if Stoner really went on a rampage, it would take a dozen Simeons and an M1A1 tank to subdue him.

The traffic was light and they made it to the game with nearly a half hour to spare. It was a sparse crowd, even though they were playing the Dodgers. In fact, a good portion of the crowd seemed to be L.A. transplants, with more than a spattering of Dodger blue around them.

“Want something to eat, Mark?” Zen asked. “Hot dog?”

“Hot dog?”

Zen took the question as a yes. “One or two?”

Stoner held up his hand, showing two fingers.

This was really a good idea, thought Zen, calling the vendor over.

There were thousands of faces, each one potentially a threat.

Stoner looked at each one, studying them. The habit was ingrained, part of him, who he was.

There was another part, too. Deeper maybe.

He continued looking, memorizing each face. He hadn’t seen any of them before.

“Here.” Zen handed him the hot dogs.

A hot dog. Frankfurter. Red Hot.

Had he had these? They seemed familiar.

He had. He liked them. It was a long time ago. Before.

“You want mustard or ketchup?” said Zen.

“Ketchup?” asked Stoner.

“Ketchup!” yelled Zen to the man pulling the food from the box.

This was all familiar. The man with the box, with the hot dogs — did he have a gun?

Stoner braced, his body ready to react. His muscles tightened, his breathing became almost shallow.

The man took something from his pocket.

Tiny packets of ketchup, which Stoner knew he would do. Somehow, he knew. The pattern was familiar, yet new.

He began to eat.

“Good?” asked Zen.

“Different,” said Stoner.

“Better than hospital food, huh?”

“I don’t know.”

Zen laughed.

“The food isn’t bad,” said Stoner.

“Honest?”

He turned to Zen, pondering why he would ask that question. As he did, his eye caught something moving above. He cringed, right arm flying up.

“What?” asked Zen.

A small aircraft circled above. Stoner focused on it. It had a camera in the nose, two small engines, no pilot. A UAV drone.

“It’s a police department UAV,” said Zen.

“It’s watching us.”

“Not us, the stadium. Checking out the crowd for security,” explained Zen. “All right?”

Stoner looked at it, watching the pattern it made. He focused his eyes on the camera. It scanned the crowd, moving back and forth, back and forth.

“What do you see?” Zen asked.

“There’s a camera in the nose, inside the dome.”

“You can see that in the dark?”

“Of course.”

“Like Superman — X-ray eyes.”

The first doctors had called him Superman. He knew that wasn’t true — he was more like a freak, a robot created from human flesh, created to do some bastard’s dirty work.

A robot like the plane?

He glanced back toward the sky, watching it circle.

“All right,” he said finally. He turned to Zen. “When does this ball game begin?”

“Five minutes,” said Zen, rising. “Right after the National Anthem.”

Chapter 12

Amara sat in the kitchen while Ken worked over the laptop, studying the program for hours, punching keys and mumbling to himself. He put his face right next to the screen as he worked, his nose nearly touching it. Amara wondered if he would be sucked inside if he hit the wrong key.

“I see,” said Ken finally.

He rose and picked up the laptop. Unplugging it but keeping it on and open, he walked back toward the stairs. Amara followed him down into the darkness.

Ken flipped a light switch at the bottom of the stairs. The basement flooded with light so strong Amara’s eyes stung. He shaded them as he trailed Ken over toward an ancient, round oil burner. There was a door just beyond it, secured with a padlock and a chain. Ken undid the locks, then pulled open the door and stepped into a primitive wine cellar. Shelves lined the left wall; two large wooden barrels sat on pedestals just beyond them. Dust and spiderwebs were everywhere.

A sheet of heavy, clear plastic hung from the ceiling just past the second barrel. Ken pulled at the sheet, revealing a seam. Amara followed him through, passing into a twenty-by-thirty-foot work space lined with gleaming new toolboxes, a large workbench, and commercial steel shelving. There were a number of high- and low-tech tools — a pair of computers, an oscilloscope, a metal drill press. In the middle of the floor sat a small UAV, engines fore and aft on the fuselage, wings detached from its body and standing upright against the bare cinder-block wall.

Ken knelt down and opened the laptop, staring at the screen before pushing it to one side. He rose and went to the workbench.

“I need solder,” he said, rummaging through a set of trays.

These were the first words Ken had spoken to him in hours, and they filled Amara with an almost giddy enthusiasm.

“So the program will help you,” said Amara.

“Can I trust you to buy solder? Do you know what it is?”

“Of course,” said Amara.

“It’s too late to get it now,” said Ken, his voice scolding, as if it were Amara’s idea in the first place. “Get us something to eat. Buy a pizza and bring it here. There’s a store on the corner.”

“Pizza?”

“You know what pizza is, don’t you?”

“I know what pizza is.”

“Go. Lock the front door behind you. Ring the bell twice, wait, then once and twice more. If you don’t follow that pattern, I won’t let you in.”

Despite his jet lag and the way he had been treated, Amara felt a burst of energy after he locked the front door and trotted down the steps. He walked with a brisk, almost jogging pace for about half the block, pushed along by a sense of mission — not the pizza, but of doing something useful.

Amara did not, in his heart, hate America or Americans. On the contrary, he liked much about the country where he had studied. And he had found that most Americans he came in contact with were helpful and even on occasion kind.

The fact that he’d been sent on a mission that would hurt Americans did not, somehow, connect with that feeling. It existed in an entirely different realm. He didn’t have to rationalize that Americans were fighting against what the Brotherhood stood for; he simply saw his mission separate from his experiences with and feelings for real Americans. He was like a professional sports player who could play ferociously against another team, and yet at the end of it think nothing of shaking and even hugging his opponents.

The heat in the pizza parlor was overwhelming. It was moist and pungent, an oregano-scented sauna.

“Hey,” said the man behind the counter. He was a white man with a child’s face and a belly two sizes too large for the rest of his body. “Help ya?”

“Pizza. To go.”

“Cheese?”

It had been quite a while since Amara had eaten pizza. But the safest answer was yes.

“Yes,” he told the man.

“Large or small?”

“Large,” said Amara, guessing.

“What da ya want wid that?” said the man, punching a cash register. “Soda?”

“Uh, yes.”

The man pointed to a trio of coolers at the side. There were a variety of sodas and other drinks; the last was filled with beers.

He took a water for Ken — he couldn’t imagine he would drink anything else — then, giving in to temptation, pulled open the beer cooler and took a Coors.

“Gotta drink the beer here,” said the man behind the counter.

Amara didn’t understand.

“I can only sell it to serve,” said the man. “OK? So if you want it…”

He shrugged, as if his meaning was obvious.

“OK,” said Amara. “I’ll drink here.”

Just as well — Ken might take the ban on alcohol far more seriously than he did.

“Thirteen fifty,” said the man, ringing up the bill. “Pizza’ll be done twelve minutes.”

Amara fished into his pocket and pulled out two twenties. He handed one to the man, took his change, then sat down with his beer.

It tasted like water with algae in it. But he drank it anyway. He didn’t realize he was gulping until he was more than halfway through.

Two teenage girls came in, texting on their cell phones as they walked to the counter. Amara remembered that he hadn’t called to say he had arrived.

He got up, leaving the drink, and went outside.

His finger paused over the quick-dial combination.

Two rings, then he went directly to voice mail.

“I am here. It is very hopeful,” he said in Arabic.

After he hung up, he turned quickly to make sure he hadn’t been overheard. Using Arabic had been a mistake — he should have made the call in English.

It was nothing to worry about now. Amara went back inside to wait for his pizza and finish his beer.

Chapter 13

Nuri watched the sky, waiting as the shadow descended. By the time he could make out the parachute, the SEAL harnessed into it was only a few feet from the ground. The sailor walked into his landing, then began gathering his chute. He had it squared away by the time Nuri arrived.

“Hey, Navy,” said Nuri.

“You’re Jupiter?” answered the SEAL.

“Yeah.” Nuri thought the code word was funny, and gave a little self-deprecating laugh.

The man retrieved a small ballistics case from his kit. “Here you go.”

“Thanks. The command post is that large building up there on the left,” said Nuri. “Someone’ll find you food and arrange for a pickup.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Nuri started away.

“Tell me, if you don’t mind — what exactly is it that I just brought you? They rushed me special here from Italy and flew me on my jetliner. I never seen such a fuss.”

“Bottle of vodka,” said Nuri.

The Russian was just finishing his dinner when Nuri entered the tent. A small card table had been placed in the middle. The guards had removed his hand restraints, but were watching him carefully from the side.

“You can wait outside,” Nuri told them. He put down the case and pulled out the empty chair.

“How was dinner?” he asked Kimko in English.

“All right.”

“You prefer English or Russian?”

“Your Russian is horrible.”

“Ready to talk?”

“I have said everything necessary to say.”

“I think you have a lot to say.”

Kimko smiled and shook his head. “Nuri, you are young yet. You do not know how this game is played.”

“No?”

Kimko laughed. “You waste your time. You are Mr. Nice Guy. Before, when you threaten me with the gun — that was more effective. Then you feed me. Mistake. You should make me wait. Hunger pains do much.”

Nuri reached down and opened the case. He removed the two glasses from the cushioned interior and set them down. Then he took the bottle of vodka and opened it.

Kimko said nothing.

“I know all about you, Milos. You have no secrets.”

Nuri put a finger’s worth of the liquid into the one closest to him. MY-PID was recording the session through a video bug planted in the far corner of the walls near the ceiling; it analyzed the Russian’s facial features and what physiological data it could deduce about how he was reacting to Nuri’s interrogation tactics. It gave Nuri a running update on the data as it watched.

But he didn’t need MY-PID to tell him that Kimko really wanted the vodka.

Nuri picked up the glass and swirled it: it was all very dramatic and over the top, but he had a captive audience, and hamming it up only helped.

“I know you work for SVG,” he told Kimko. “I know who your supervisors are. I know every stop in your career. I know how you got shafted. Because your boss wanted to sleep with your wife. It was an injustice. They screwed you. You should be a supervisor by now. Or a rich man. A very rich man.”

Nuri took a small sip from the glass. He hated vodka.

“I can help you,” he continued. “With my help, you can get out of Africa. I can help get you promoted. I can make you rich. And most of all, I can help you get revenge.”

Kimko’s pupils dilated ever so slightly; Nuri didn’t need MY-PID’s nudge to tell him he had just scored big. He paused, hoping Kimko would talk, but he didn’t.

“You can talk to me, and I can help you a lot,” said Nuri. “You don’t like being assigned to Africa. That’s clear. I can give you information that will get you out. And no one will know where it came from. Except you and me.”

“You are more clever than I thought.”

“No. I just have all the cards. But I can share.” Nuri gestured at the bottle. “Why not use them to get yourself out of this shit hole.”

“It is a shit hole,” agreed Kimko.

“Talk to me about the UAV. Who else knows about it? Who wants it?”

“You claim to know everything and you don’t know that?”

As an intelligence agent, Kimko presumably knew the basic interrogation technique called for starting with questions one knew the answer to, so the subject’s truthfulness could be tested. He was parrying, trying on his side of the table to determine what Nuri really knew.

Nuri changed direction.

“Tell me about Li Han. Why would SVG want to deal with him? The man is a criminal. Despicable. A sociopath.”

“We all have our faults,” said Kimko dryly.

“What’s yours?” Nuri took another sip from the glass.

“I have many, many faults,” said Kimko, casting his eyes downward.

“I can help you get out of here,” said Nuri. “You don’t want to be here. It’s a rat hole.”

“You’re here.”

“Oh, I get to leave.” Nuri laughed. “They just sent me back for you. Who are you selling to? Sudan First? They’re psychotic.”

Kimko shook his head.

Nuri tried a different tack. “Who do you think was your competition to buy the UAV?” he asked. “Was it the Iranian?”

The suggestion of the third party — who of course didn’t exist — took Kimko by surprise, and it took him a moment to recover his stony face.

“You were my competition, I would suppose,” he told Nuri, leaning back. The shift in posture told MY-PID — and Nuri — that he was unsure of himself.

“You didn’t know about the Iranian?” Nuri asked. “So you don’t know why he was here?”

Kimko waved his hand.

“You’re not telling me an Iranian smoked you, are you?” asked Nuri. “You didn’t know he was with Girma? Are you kidding? Was your boss right — are you washed up?”

Kimko’s eyes flashed with anger. For a moment Nuri thought he would grab and fling the vodka bottle. He’d already decided that he would let him do that, let the bottle break — the smell would only make Kimko more desperate once he calmed down.

But Kimko didn’t. He hunched his shoulders together, physically pulling himself back under control.

“You’re a salesman,” said Nuri. “Why would you want to buy the UAV?”

“Who says that I am buying this thing?”

“Come on. You were prepared to deal. But how did you know what you were buying?”

“I was not going to deal. No buying.”

“Li Han isn’t a buyer. He’s a seller. And a worker bee for whatever slimeball will stick a few million dollars into his account. Right? I’m surprised you would deal with him,” added Nuri. “Considering that he helped the Chechens.”

Kimko raised his head.

“You didn’t know? You guys don’t know that?” said Nuri. This part was easy — he wasn’t lying.

“You’re a liar. You don’t know nothing. You’re a child.”

“In 2012—the bomb in the Moscow Star Theater. Used an explosive initiated from a cell phone. That’s common. There was wire in the bomb with lettering. You traced it to Hong Kong. Our friend was there a few weeks before the bomb was built. There’s other evidence,” added Nuri, who had gotten all the background from MY-PID and its search of the files and data on Li Han. “Maybe I’ll give it to you, if it will help. Of course, if your boss knew that you were dealing with someone who helped the Chechens — that probably wouldn’t be a good thing. I guess it would depend on how the information came out. Who shaped it. We call that a slant in America.”

“I had no deal,” said Kimko harshly. “I despise the man.”

“Feelings and business are two different things,” said Nuri. He rose, leaving the bottle and glasses on the table. “I’ll be right back.”

Kimko stared at the vodka.

He was beyond starved for a drink.

But if he reached for that bottle — where would it take him?

He knew nothing of value. His contacts among the Africans were probably well known by this Nuri. As for the UAV, he had already told him everything he knew.

Yet the American wanted more. Logically, that must mean they had not recovered it.

He couldn’t help them on that score either.

So really, as far as his duty was concerned, there was nothing preventing him from taking the bottle. There was nothing he could say that Moscow could object to.

But that was the rub — Moscow wouldn’t believe he’d said nothing now. And clearly this Nuri had some sort of evidence to ruin him. True or concocted, it wouldn’t matter.

He lowered his head to his hands.

One drink. One drink.

The smell of the vodka Nuri had poured in the glass permeated the tent. There was no way to resist.

He pulled the glass over. Before he knew that he had lifted it, he’d drained it. His lips burned, his throat.

He put the glass back on the table, defeated.

“You can have more,” Nuri told Kimko, standing behind the chair. He felt bad for the Russian; he looked as if he had collapsed.

“I can’t help you,” said Kimko, his voice subdued. “I had few arrangements. The Brothers have established supply lines with the Middle East, al Qaeda. We can’t compete. They’re friendly, of course, but they don’t buy. They get everything they need from bin Laden’s successors. I knew nothing about the Iranians. I assume it’s their Revolutionary Guard, but I know nothing.”

“Tell me who you saw in Duka.”

“First — I was supposed to call someone yesterday. I lost my phone. I need to call him. If I don’t, Moscow will know I’m missing.”

“Who?”

“He’s insignificant.”

Nuri reached down and picked up the bottle. He filled the glass.

“Come on,” said Nuri. “We have to help each other here.”

“He’s an expert in UAVs. He needed to inspect the aircraft. They were sending him to find me. I need to talk to him. Or they’ll think I defected.”

“We don’t want that,” said Nuri.

The entire conversation lasted no more than sixty seconds.

“There was fighting in the city,” Kimko said as soon as the other line was opened. “I’ve had to take shelter in Malan. The UAV must have been destroyed. I’m sorry that I didn’t meet you.”

“I heard of your troubles and made other arrangements,” said the voice on the other end, before hanging up.

A few seconds later MY-PID supplied the location of the other phone. It was in southeastern Sudan — the site of the Brothers of Sudan main camp, to be exact.

Chapter 14

Christine Mary Todd took a last spoonful of soup and got up from the table.

“Working tonight?” said her husband. “I thought you had the evening off?”

She made a face at him.

“Tomorrow?” he asked.

Todd sighed.

“I was thinking we could sneak over to the stadium tomorrow night,” said her husband. “We haven’t used the box all year.”

“Daniel, we were at a game two weeks ago.”

“Oh. But that doesn’t count — you brought the House Speaker with you. And you know what I think of him.”

“Your opinion is undoubtedly higher than mine,” said the President.

Her husband smiled. It was true.

“I don’t know,” she told him. “This thing with Ernst.”

“Oh, don’t let it bother you.” He reached out and touched her hand. “Take a little time off. We’ll have fun.”

“The Nats always lose when I’m there.”

“Because you don’t cheer enough.”

“Well, I don’t know. We’ll see.”

“No, you’ll try.”

“That’s the same thing.”

“No, it’s not.”

“All right.” She patted his shoulder. “I will try.”

“Video in bed?” he told her. “Saving Private Ryan?”

“I don’t know if you should wait up.”

“If I don’t fall asleep.”

“We’ve watched that video three times in the last two months.”

“Good movie.”

“Yes, but—”

“Oh, all right,” he said, overstating his concession. “We’ll watch The Golden Heiress.”

She had been wanting to see that one for weeks. Obviously, he’d gotten the video already; he was just teasing her. She gave him a kiss.

“Thank you, Daniel. You know I love you.”

“And I love you,” he said, reaching up to kiss her back.

Her husband’s gentle teasing put her in a good mood, but it didn’t last as far as the West Wing, where she was holding an emergency meeting on the Raven situation. The CIA director’s refusal to hop immediately over to the Hill and sing for his supper had predictable results — there were all sorts of rumors now about what he might be hiding.

All of them wrong, fortunately.

The one thing everyone got right was the supposition that Edmund’s stonewalling was coming at the President’s behest. Which naturally directed all of the vitriol in her direction.

Todd spotted her chief of staff David Greenwich rocking back and forth on his feet as she approached the cabinet room. On good days he hummed a little song to himself while he waited. On bad days he hummed louder.

The walls were practically vibrating with his off-key rendition of “Dancing in the Streets.” She assumed the selection was purposely ironic.

“All present and accounted for,” said Greenwich, spotting her. Besides everyone who had been at the meeting the day before, Todd had added Secretary of State Alistair Newhaven. He had brought along the Undersecretary of State for Counter-Terrorism, Kevin McCloud, and a staff member who was an expert on the Sudan.

“Edmund looks like he’s wearing a bulletproof vest,” added Greenwich.

“I hope you’re joking.”

“I am. But he does look quite a bit worse for wear. The others, so-so.”

Todd let him open the door for her. She glanced at her Secret Service shadow, so unobtrusive she almost forgot he was there, then went in.

“Very good, I’m sorry I’m late,” she said. “No gentlemen, don’t stand. Thank you for the thought.”

She pulled out her own seat and sat.

“All right. Where are we?”

Breanna Stockard gave a summary of the search so far. There was nothing new on the Raven, but there was one ominous development.

“A Russian operative arrived at the Sudan Brotherhood camp in southeastern Sudan a few hours ago,” said Breanna. “We believe he may be there to obtain the flight control portion of the aircraft. In fact, we have pretty good evidence that that is the case. Circumstantial.”

“Are you sure?” said Edmund. He apparently hadn’t been briefed.

“I literally heard about this in the car as I pulled up,” said Breanna. “We’re still checking everything out. The operative was headed for Duka, made some sort of contact the NSA picked up, and then drove to the Brotherhood instead. He’s an expert in UAVs. But we don’t know for certain that the aircraft is actually at the camp.”

“We have to act on this,” said Edmund.

“Assuming it’s real,” said Harker. His tone was odd — somewhere between genuine concern and sarcasm. Todd couldn’t tell which he intended.

“What do you propose?” she asked.

“That we go into the camp,” said Breanna. “We send Whiplash in. We get the computer. If it’s there.”

“Do we have a plan?”

“It’s being developed. They’ll be ready to move at nightfall.”

“You’re proposing an attack on the Sudan Brotherhood?” asked Secretary of State Newhaven.

“Yes,” said Breanna.

“It’s a completely domestic organization,” said Newhaven. “They don’t even have connections with al Qaeda.”

“That’s not entirely correct,” said Edmund. “They have gotten support from them. Arms and money. Even with bin Laden dead, the group is strong in Africa.”

Newhaven turned to his expert, who, while admitting that the two groups were sympathetic to each other, said there was no hard evidence of anything more than that. The CIA and State Department experts then proceeded to bat around definitions and nuances.

Todd glanced over at Jonathon Reid. Her old friend was silent, his eyes nearly closed. She knew the whole Raven affair disturbed him greatly; it was certainly costing him friends inside the Agency.

“Jonathon, what are you thinking?” she asked finally.

“I think whether there’s a connection there or not, there’s simply no choice,” Reid said. “This weapon is too dangerous to chance it falling into other hands. We need it back.”

“I agree.” She turned back to the others. “I think the evidence is clear. They have contact and support from al Qaeda. If they’ve gotten support from al Qaeda, then they’re allies of al Qaeda. If they are allies with our enemies, they are our enemies. The fact that our action will inadvertently assist the Sudanese government is unfortunate, but in the end, coincidental. And acceptable. We will strike them and retrieve whatever we find at the camp.”

Nuri’s call from Ethiopia with the new information had caught Breanna off-guard; she hadn’t had enough time to properly process it, barely discussing it even with Reid before the meeting. Striking the camp seemed like a no-brainer, an obvious decision. But as she sat across from the President and listened to the objections from the State Department experts, she realized the implications were enormous. The U.S. would in effect be taking sides with the Sudanese government against its rebels — but the U.S. did not support the Sudanese government in the least. On the contrary, there was more than ample proof that the government itself had ties with al Qaeda. If anyone should be attacked, it was them.

Even assuming Raven was there and the attack went well, there were sure to be unforeseen diplomatic consequences, especially since the Russian agent would presumably have to be killed.

“Why kill him?” asked Harker.

Edmund frowned but said nothing. It was Reid who explained.

“Risking a witness, even one who never actually got Raven in his hands, would be foolish.”

Was the weapon worth risking war over, asked the Undersecretary of State. Especially with Russia?

It was a philosophical question, since no one felt it would get that far. But Breanna had her own answer: it might very well be. Based on the information the CIA had reluctantly turned over, Ray Rubeo thought the program was every bit as dangerous as Reid had feared.

Though Rubeo being Rubeo, he had added a host of caveats to his assessment, starting with the obvious fact that he hadn’t inspected the actual software, just some of the technical descriptions.

The real villain was Harker, who’d decided to test the weapon without getting approval from anyone, except Edmund — or she assumed it was Edmund’s doing. You couldn’t actually tell in Washington. Edmund was generally defending his underling, or at least deflecting most of the flack. But that didn’t make him guilty — the President was going to be taking the flack for the tiff with the Intelligence Committee, and she certainly hadn’t approved the program.

Or had she?

Washington could be a maze of mirrors, each corridor a twisted path leading to a dead end.

Were Edmund and Harker so wrong to test the weapon there? Whiplash, and Dreamland before it, had tested a legion of cutting-edge weaponry in dangerous situations. They’d lost their share of them as well.

Breanna heard her father’s voice in her head:

We didn’t spend all this money making these damn things to keep them on the shelf. We have to use them. We lose them, that’s the breaks. That’s the price of playing the game.

“Swift action is what we need,” said Bozzone, the President’s personal counsel. “With the weapon secured, Director Edmund could go before the committee and tell them what happened.”

“More or less,” said Blitz. “More less than more.”

Under other circumstances, the line would have generated a laugh or two, or at least a nervous chuckle. Today it didn’t.

“We say Raven was a secret UAV project being tested in the Sudan,” said Bozzone. “It crashed. We have it back.”

“This is where we were yesterday,” said Blitz, referring to a private debate. “Once we start talking about it, they’ll ask why it’s special, they’ll ask about the assassination program, they’ll ask a dozen questions that he can’t answer truthfully, or at least not fully.”

“And as I said yesterday, the best approach is simply to tell the whole story,” said Bozzone. “As long as the unit is back, there’s no problem. Even Ernst will keep that a secret. And if he doesn’t — well so what? As long as we have the UAV, then we’re the only ones who can deploy it.”

“Acknowledging the existence of a weapon can have bad consequences,” said Reid.

“Gentlemen, thank you,” said Todd, cutting them off. “We’ll make the decision on what will be disclosed when it needs to be made.” She looked around the table, then fixed her eyes on Breanna. “In the meantime, Ms. Stockard, Mr. Reid — have Whiplash recover the missing components. At all costs.”

Chapter 15

Danny drifted between consciousness and sleep. He’d learned long ago to take advantage of the lulls to grab some rest — ten minutes here, a half hour there. They weren’t exactly power naps, but they were better than fighting the fatigue full-on. Tiny sips of energy.

Random thoughts shot through his semiconscious mind. Who cared about the damn flight computer anyway? Couldn’t they just get the hell back home?

He saw his ex-wife in their bedroom. It seemed so warm.

She morphed into Melissa. That was better — much, much better.

His ear set blared with an incoming call on the Whiplash circuit. He jerked back in the seat where he’d dozed off, pulling his mind back to full consciousness. The tent was empty.

“This is Freah.”

“Danny, this is Bree. Can you talk?”

“Yes, go ahead.”

“You’re authorized to strike the Brotherhood. You are to secure the control unit to the UAV.”

“All right. Can I use the Marines?”

A small contingent of Marines had been detailed to provide security at the Ethiopia base at the start of the deployment, but Danny had left them on their assault ship in the Gulf of Aden, deciding he didn’t need them.

“Yes. Draw whatever you need. But — you need to attack as quickly as possible.”

“It won’t be until dark. There are a lot of people in that camp, Bree. In the area of two hundred fighters.”

“Tonight, then. The Russian UAV expert is in the camp. He can’t get out.”

She didn’t say “killed,” but that’s what she meant. That actually made things a lot easier.

“All right,” said Danny. “We’ll be ready. One thing, Bree…”

“Yes?”

“You might think about bombing the camp if it’s that critical.”

“We did think about it,” she told him. “There are too many caves to guarantee success. I know you’ll do your best.”

Chapter 16

The Nationals put on a hitting display in the bottom of the sixth, batting around for seven runs and sending the L.A. fans scurrying for the exits. Even the outs were loud — the last drove the Dodger right fielder against the fence, where he managed to hold on despite taking a wicked shot to the back.

“That had to hurt, huh?” said Zen.

“Not much,” said Stoner.

“Not for you, maybe.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just — you have a high pain threshold.” Zen wasn’t sure that Stoner fully appreciated how much stronger he had been made by the operations and drugs.

“Oh.”

The Nats brought in a rookie to mop up in the eighth inning. Zen noticed that Stoner tracked each ball as carefully as if he were a scientist trying to prove some new theory of motion.

“The ball drops six to eight inches as it reaches the plate,” said Stoner after the second strikeout.

“He’s got a hell of a curve, huh?”

“It spins differently than the others.”

“Can you pick that out?” asked the psychiatrist.

“Thirty-two revolutions per second,” said Stoner.

“Thirty-two?” asked Zen.

“On average.”

“You counted?”

“Yes.”

Zen leaned down to look past Stoner at Dr. Esrang. The psychiatrist nodded.

“That’s pretty good eyesight, Mark.”

The rookie struck out the side. Zen took out his phone and did a Google search — it turned out the average curveball rotated in the area of twenty-five to thirty times per second.

The kid would be someone to watch.

When the game ended, Stoner was silent all the way out.

“This was good,” he told Zen as they got into the van. “Can we do it again?”

“Sure,” said Zen. “Any time you like.”

“Tomorrow. I would like tomorrow.”

“Well — maybe. I have to check my calendar.” He glanced back toward the doctor, who was nodding vigorously. “I may be able to.”

“Good,” answered Stoner. “Very good.”

Chapter 17

After he’d managed to steal the police UAV from the company that manufactured it, Ken’s initial plan was to develop an automated control unit that would fly the aircraft into a hard target — the White House, preferably.

His al Qaeda contacts had obtained the explosives and then promised additional assistance. Amara apparently was that help.

While it was clear to Ken that Amara could offer no real assistance, the program he had brought with him seemed to be exactly what he was trying to write on his own — except it was considerably more sophisticated.

And yet, in some ways, simpler. It was certainly a control system, though it didn’t work like any conventional control system he was familiar with.

The program was divided into a number of modules. The largest and most complicated seemed to involve learning routines. This section had a series of overrides, and was related to an interface that allowed for the control of an aircraft, though it was much more rudimentary than what Ken had seen in either the Israeli or the German UAV systems he was familiar with.

More interesting was the section whose internal comments made it clear that it was meant for targeting. The section had inputs for GPS data, which Ken expected. But it also wanted physical data on the target itself. There were several pictures of an Asian man that filled the variables.

Those seemed easy to replace; there was a screen that controlled this, which Ken had been able to access upstairs.

Connected to the UAV’s own control section, Amara’s program seemed to have a life of its own. It had certainly taken over all of the laptop’s resources — the machine’s hard drive whirled and buzzed, presumably as different parts of the program ran their operations.

But what were they, exactly? The laptop had a set of diagnostic tools that were clearly top notch, but they couldn’t keep up with the program.

Did it matter? Could he just give it a target and launch it?

He’d been working on this for months now, and part of him didn’t want to stop. That was the scientist, not the warrior in him, as his teachers would have said.

The warrior knew he must strike soon. His al Qaeda contact had warned that the police were searching for the UAV and might close in. And perhaps they’d done so already — he had not heard from his contact in over a week.

Ken left the laptop as its program ran and went upstairs for a break. Amara had gone up to bed a few hours before; he could hear him snoring from the kitchen.

Searching the African’s things took no time at all. Of course he didn’t have a weapon. He had little money. He didn’t even have a phone.

Worthless. But at least he wasn’t an assassin.

Back in the kitchen, Ken made a fresh pot of coffee. The percolator had been a revelation: he loved the slightly burnt, metal-tinged taste the old-fashioned pot gave the liquid.

Just as the liquid began to darken in the top globe, he realized it was nearly midnight — time to check the bulletin board where his contact left messages. He signed on through an anonymous server and went to the assigned chat board. It changed every twenty-four hours; tonight it was a site that gave help to homeowners looking for information about air conditioners.

He started scrolling through the messages. They were inane, asking about BTUs and cooling capacity, and how well sealed a duct should be.

Then suddenly he noticed one had been left by CTW119.

Or as it should be read: 9/11 WTC.

He called the message up:

To a casual browser it was nothing more than a hackneyed advertising slogan left by a salesman.

To Ken, it was a command that he must strike as soon as possible.

He took his coffee and went back down to work.

Chapter 18

Zen was mildly surprised that Breanna’s car wasn’t in the garage when he came home. Inside, he found Caroline dozing in front of the television. She woke when he flipped the set off.

“Your aunt call?” he asked.

“No, Uncle Jeff. She didn’t.”

“I thought she’d be back by now.”

“It’s OK. Teri was a doll. I’m going to tuck into bed.”

“All right. See you in the A.M.”

Zen went into the kitchen and got himself a beer. The question of whether to wait up for Breanna was moot — he heard the garage door open between his second and third swigs.

“Hey there, lonesome traveler,” he said as she came through the door.

“Jeff, you’re still up?”

“Just got in from the game,” he told her. “Mark did great.”

“Oh — oh, yeah. How is he?”

“He’s doing better. I think a lot better.” Zen watched her put down her pocketbook and rub her eyes. “Long day?”

“Tomorrow’s going to be worse.”

“Want to tell me what’s up?”

The pained expression on her face told him the answer long before her words did.

“I can’t.”

“This have anything to do with Raven?” he asked.

“Jeff, don’t go there,” she said harshly. “That’s out of bounds.”

“Hey, don’t yell at me,” he said, a little louder than he intended.

“You’re the one yelling.”

“Listen, Bree—”

“Our deal was, we don’t bring work home.” She grabbed her pocketbook and began stalking down the hall. “That was our deal.”

“Wait a second.” He reached for her, but she was just far enough from him, and just quick enough, to elude his grasp. “Breanna. Breanna Stockard.”

She slammed the door to their bedroom.

Zen put down his beer and rolled his wheelchair down the hall after her. The door was locked.

“Hey, come on,” he said calmly. “Open the door.”

There was no answer.

“Breanna.” He struggled to keep his voice down. Caroline was on the other side of the house, but Teri’s room was right next door. And in any event, the house wasn’t that big. “Listen — I argued against the subpoena.”

The door flew open.

“What subpoena?” demanded Breanna.

“The one the committee chairman is going to issue tomorrow.”

“That’s bullshit. You can’t subpoena the executive branch. You’re just doing it for publicity.”

“I’m not doing anything for publicity. I voted against it.”

Breanna started to close the door, but this time Zen was too quick — he rolled forward just enough to block it. She pushed for a moment, then let go.

“Hey, why are you mad at me?” he asked.

“I’m not.”

“Well you’re doing a pretty damn good imitation. Look at this — you made me spill my beer.”

Breanna scowled, then went into the bathroom. She closed the door; it wasn’t quite a slam, but it wasn’t gentle either.

Zen wheeled himself over.

“You know, we really shouldn’t fight about this,” he said. “Unless there’s a really good reason. A really good reason.”

He heard the shower go on. Zen took a sip of his beer. He tried not to reach the obvious conclusion from Breanna’s anger: Ernst was right and something seriously illegal was going on.

The next few days were not going to be pleasant. His responsibility as a senator meant he could not sit by blindly and twiddle his thumbs while the administration did whatever the hell it was they were doing.

Todd must have really screwed up this time.

“I’m gonna check the sports scores and finish my beer in the den,” he told the closed door. “When I come back, truce. No work discussion, no nothing. Promise?”

There was no answer.

“Good enough for me,” he said, wheeling back toward the living room.

Chapter 19

Amara woke in the middle of the night, his internal clock stuck somewhere between Africa and America.

He could smell Ken’s coffee. The burnt liquid permeated the air, its caffeine tickling his nose and throat.

Something about the man scared him. Physically, he was nothing, a weakling. But there was something in his gaze that made him very scary, as scary as any of the blank-eyed teenagers stoned out on khat and the other drugs the warlords sometimes used to encourage their men. Even spookier was the fact that he was smart, smarter even than the Asian, Li Han.

Lying in bed, Amara thought of his earlier time in America. The country was not the great enemy that the followers of al Qaeda claimed. It was a strange and bizarre place, a country of heathens and devils, certainly, but also one where a man might be free of his past.

Lying in bed, he recalled his days as a student. Most of the teachers he had were arrogant jerks, prejudiced against him because he was African and a Muslim. Yet a few had tried to encourage him. He thought about one, a black man who taught history, who invited him into his home around Christmas.

Christmas. The ultimate Christian holiday. It should have been abhorrent, and in fact Amara had only accepted out of loneliness. But the man and his wife — they had no children — were so low key about it, so matter of fact, and above all so kind, that he had begun asking questions. He was impressed by their answers.

“A day not to be selfish,” said the professor. “That’s the best way to sum it up for someone who’s not Christian.”

“And by not being selfish, to save yourself for eternity,” added his wife.

The idea was foreign to Amara. Not the element of religion — he certainly believed in an afterlife. But it seemed strange that one could guarantee a place there simply by helping others.

The other person who had been nice was a Jew. He didn’t know this at first. The man was his math professor. He’d found Amara sitting alone in the college café one lunchtime and asked to sit down. This became a habit through the semester. Only after a few weeks did it dawn on Amara that the man was Jewish. The man never talked about religion or asked about Amara’s, but comments he had made about one of the holidays made it clear enough.

At the end of the semester, grades faltering, Amara was in danger of flunking out. The professor helped him find free tutoring, aiding him with his English, his main barrier. He also loaned him money, and would have helped him find a job if Amara had stayed for the summer.

What if those men were killed by the weapon Ken was constructing? How would he feel?

Were they soldiers, too, as the Brothers’ allies claimed?

What of their relatives, their wives?

It was OK to kill an enemy tribe in revenge. But where was the revenge here? His people had not been harmed.

It was not murder when it was jihad. But was it jihad to kill a man who believed his greatest achievement was to help someone?

The apartment was cold. Amara shifted around under the thin blanket, trying to keep warm. He drifted in and out of sleep. He tried to push his memories away. At one point he saw Li Han in the house, laughing at him. He turned over, realized he’d been dreaming.

There was a shadow in the room, standing over him.

Ken.

He bent down and moved his arm swiftly.

“You have served your purpose,” said Ken.

Something flew across Amara’s throat. He started to protest, to speak, but his mouth wouldn’t respond. It was full of liquid, salty liquid — blood.

He gasped, then began to cough. The shadow disappeared, then the room, then thought.

All was warm; finally, all was warm.