The Lost Codex

1

The waitress set the glass of Board Meeting brown ale on the table in front of FBI profiler Karen Vail. Vail took a long sip and said, “Notes of dark chocolate and coffee. I’ve definitely developed a taste for this. It’s very … stimulating.” She winked at her fiancé, DEA special agent Roberto Hernandez.

“You mean like an aphrodisiac?” Robby asked. “Beer?”

Vail leaned close to him, her lips tickling his ear. “When we get home, after I pull your pants off, I’m going to take your—”

Two gunshots echoed off the facades of the neighboring buildings. Vail and Robby pulled their pistols in unison and ran toward the exit of the storefront bar.

“That was nearby,” Vail said as she hit the glass door. So much for a romantic night out.

“Anything?” Robby asked, swiveling in an arc, eyes scanning the nighttime cityscape.

The vapor from their now-rapid breathing trailed off like apparitions, carried on the breeze that found its way down the collar of Vail’s sweater. She had left without pulling on her coat, and the chill made her shiver involuntarily.

A shrill scream off to the right in the vicinity of 14th Street NW sent them sprinting down the block. They turned the corner — and saw a body laid out on the sidewalk, the blood pooled next to it dripping over the edge of the curb.

“Call it in,” Vail said as she continued on toward the injured man. She pressed two fingers against his carotid and shook her head. “Let’s secure the perimeter, hold the scene for Metro PD.”

Robby brought the phone to his ear and craned his neck to find the street signs so he could report their location.

Vail hovered over the body but could not resist the urge to check the identity of the deceased.

C’mon, Karen, let Metro do their jobs. This isn’t your case. This isn’t your jurisdiction.

She gently patted the man’s jacket with the back of her hand, then moved on to his jeans. In his front pocket Vail felt a wallet. She forced two fingers against the denim and extracted the smooth black leather bi-fold. Her heart skipped a beat as she splayed it open and saw an FBI shield. Agent Harlon Filloon.

Whoa. Was he killed because he’s a federal agent? Was he working a case? Or is it just a coincidence?

“Robby.” Vail held up the credentials so he could see what she had found, then folded them and slid them into her pocket.

He nodded as he finished the call and then reholstered his phone.

“Something’s not right.” She rose from her crouch and glanced around, her Glock now tight in her grip, following the direction of her gaze.

She moved toward the street corner a few yards away and heard feet slapping against asphalt. Fleeing suspect?

Vail pressed her back against the building’s masonry wall as Robby headed toward her.

“What’s up?”

“Footsteps. Running. Could be nothing.”

Glock out in front, chest high, elbows locked against her ribcage, she swung left, around the corner of the edifice—

And saw a man sprinting across Irving Street, approaching a row of brick townhouses. “Hey!”

He turned, their eyes met, and that’s when she saw the handgun glint in the amber glow of the streetlight.

“FBI, don’t move!”

He twisted his torso and something flew from his hands as he brought up the pistol. But Vail and Robby fired first.

One or both of them scored a direct hit — and a concussive blast blew them both back onto their buttocks, glass and shrapnel flying past, and against, them. Vail shook her head, opened her eyes, and looked up into a fog of detritus floating down toward her. She rolled onto all fours, her hearing diminished. Robby—

She swung her gaze around and saw him on a knee, slowly pushing himself upright. “You okay?”

“I think so.” He staggered toward her, slipping on shards of glass littering the asphalt.

Car alarms blared as people scurried out of the nearby buildings, running this way and that, trying to escape a formless threat.

As Vail made her way toward the area where the perp was standing when they shot him, she became aware of her phone ringing — and vibrating violently in her pocket.

Vail stopped and brought the handset to her face.

“Agent Vail, this is Director Knox.”

A call from the FBI director? On a Saturday night?

“Yes sir,” she said as she caught a glimpse of Robby starting to sift through the rubble. “Can you speak louder?” I just escaped being blown to bits and my hearing’s a bit muffled.

There was a pause, then, “We’ve got a situation I need you to handle.”

“Does it have anything to do with the gunshots? Or the bomb that just went off?”

“Yes. I know you’re on site.”

Vail looked around, her eyes trying to locate a camera — but she did not see one. “You do?”

Then she remembered the ShotSpotter system installed around the district: hundreds of acoustic sensors designed to capture and instantaneously pinpoint certain sound frequencies, in particular those of gunfire.

“I need you to secure the scene.”

Vail jerked her head around as sirens blared in the distance. It was muted, but she definitely knew the unmistakable cry of a law enforcement vehicle. “Metro PD’s gonna be here in seconds. Why do you need me to—”

“You are to take control of that scene. Not Metro PD.”

“But s—”

“No buts. Listen to me, Agent Vail. You are to take control of that scene on my authority.”

“Okay, but—”

“This is the time to follow orders and not ask questions. Can you do that?”

“Of course.” Who am I kidding? Hopefully the director.

“Harlon Filloon, the downed man, is an agent. You’re to protect his identity and keep others — meaning police, medical examiners, forensic personnel — away from his body.”

“Yes sir.”

“Send Agent Hernandez home. And tell him not to talk with anyone about what he just saw.”

“Send him home?”

“I don’t have time to repeat my orders. Do as you’re told. I’ll be in touch.”

“Yes sir.”

“We’ve dispatched a team that’s four minutes out. Let them in. No one else is to enter that scene. No one. Understood?”

“Understood.”

“Who was that?” Robby asked as Vail shoved the phone back in her pocket.

“You need to leave,” she said, still trying to process what Knox told her — attempting to read between the lines, attempting to understand, attempting to clear her head of the fog induced by the blast. “Go home.”

Robby tilted his head. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I can’t say anymore. And you can’t either. Not to anyone.” She started toward the end of the block, where she had been standing when she pulled the trigger. “Just listen to me. I’ll call you as soon as I can.”

“What the hell’s going on? Why do I need to go home?”

“I don’t know. But I’ve got my orders. And—”

“Your orders are to send me home?”

“Yes. And it’d be best for you to listen.”

“Karen—”

“Robby, please. Let me deal with this and we’ll sort it out later, okay?”

Jonathan. What are the chances he was on this block at this exact moment when the bomb exploded? C’mon, Karen. Don’t be ridiculous. Ridiculous or not, she wanted to be certain her son was safe. “And check in on Jonathan. Make sure he’s okay.”

“I’m sure he’s fine. He’s probably at a bar with some friends.”

“A bar? What the hell are you—”

“He’s in college. That’s what college students do.”

“Just call him. No — text him, make sure he’s okay. Humor me.”

“Fine.” Robby backed away, then slowly disappeared into the mass of people staring at the destruction — but keeping their distance, afraid to approach.

Vail did not like being rude to Robby, but what else could she do? When the boss of all your bosses ordered you to do something, you did it, right? Actually, I’d better not answer that.

As she was taking a quick survey of the area, getting a feel for what she was dealing with and making sure no one approached the scene, a police car pulled up behind her. “Police! Don’t move.”

You’ve gotta be kidding me. Vail turned slowly, hands up, and identified herself. “I’m a federal agent. I’m gonna remove my creds,” she said, carefully extracting her Bureau ID and then holding it up. “I’ve taken control of the scene and I need you to clear the area. I’m under orders from FBI Director Douglas Knox. This is a federal investigation, a matter of national security.”

The cop clicked on his tactical flashlight and pointed it at her face.

“Turn that goddamn thing off,” Vail yelled. “Notify all responding units to establish a larger perimeter and evacuate any restaurants or residences in a two-block radius.”

“I don’t take orders from you. This is our jurisdiction—”

“Look, I’m just doing as told. You need to do the same. Tell your lieutenant to contact Director Knox’s office. Let the brass fight it out.”

The officer seemed to think that was a good idea because he pulled his radio and began speaking into it — hopefully conveying what she had said and not requesting reinforcements for dealing with a deranged redhead with stolen FBI creds standing in the middle of a potential crime scene.

While the cop jabbered into his two-way, a couple of large black unmarked cabover vans pulled up, two or three dozen personnel hopping out the back doors dressed in dark tactical coveralls with white luminescent block letters spelling POLICE.

“You Vail?” a man with a square jaw asked as he approached.

“Who are you?”

“The director told me to touch base with you. We’ll secure the perimeter. He wants you to start your investigation.”

My investigation? “Right.”

He seemed satisfied with that response because he turned and headed toward the knot of similarly attired officers who were moving gawkers away from the scene.

A moment later, Vail felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned and saw one of the men holding up a jacket. “You’ve gotta be freezing.”

Must’ve heard my teeth chattering. “Thanks so much. You’re my hero.”

The man nodded curtly. As Vail snuggled into the coat, her cell vibrated with a text from Robby:

She dashed off a quick thanks as a red Corvette pulled up. She knew that car, which now bore a personalized plate: BLACK 1.

The vehicle came to an abrupt stop and Hector DeSantos got out of the driver’s seat, dressed in a leather jacket and wearing small metal rimmed glasses.

“Hector, what the hell’s going on?”

“Nice to see you too. Knox is on his way with some intel. Other than that, you probably know more than I do.”

Vail gave him a dubious look. But before she could reply, a DC Fire Chief vehicle — and two engine companies — arrived, their diesel engines and airbrakes making it difficult to speak at normal volume.

They watched as three members of the tactical team approached the commander. A healthy helping of testosterone flew in both directions, Vail catching snippets of the argument. Finally the chief backed away, promising to escalate the matter to higher ranks — after playing his trump card that they were endangering lives by not permitting his men to check gas mains and other flammable infrastructure.

As the commander turned to make his case to his superiors over the radio, a Ford Explorer pulled in behind DeSantos’s Corvette. Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Uziel, head of the FBI’s Joint Terrorism Task Force for the Washington Metro field office, got out and headed toward them.

“Santa,” Uzi said with a fist bump against DeSantos’s closed hand. He glanced at Vail, eyes moving head to toe. “Karen. You look very nice. Did we interrupt something?”

“I was out with Robby.”

Uzi swiveled. “Where is the big guy?”

“I sent him home.” She noticed Uzi’s confused expression. “Knox’s orders.” Vail looked past his shoulder and saw the dozens of men in black outfits now establishing a physical boundary with unmarked sawhorses. I think I’m starting to see what’s going on here. “A few months ago, I’d be at a loss to explain what’s happening.”

“And now?” Uzi said.

“Let’s start with the fact that Hector’s here.” She looked at DeSantos, her head tilted ever so slightly, inviting him to jump in.

“And he doesn’t get involved in a case unless it’s a sensitive matter,” Uzi said, glancing at the damaged storefronts and streetscape.

“I’m standing right here,” DeSantos said. “You got a question?”

“You have the answers?” Vail asked. “Because, yeah, I’ve got questions. Like, What’s going on? What the hell happened? Who was the guy who got blown to bits?”

“Can’t tell you.”

Vail narrowed her eyes. “Don’t start with me.”

“Santa—”

“How about we go get some answers.” DeSantos handed booties to Vail and Uzi, then led them down the street and into the epicenter of the blast. Some of the men Vail saw arrive in the black trucks were poring over the wreckage, taking photos and measurements along the periphery and working their way closer to the body. Or what was left of it, which wasn’t much.

“Who are these guys?”

“A forensic crew,” DeSantos said.

Doesn’t look like any forensic crew I’ve ever seen.

“First impression?” Uzi said. “This was deliberate. And if that’s the case, Santa, it needs to be investigated as a terror attack until proven otherwise. As head of the JTTF—”

“That’s why you’re here, Boychick,” DeSantos said, using his nickname for Uzi — Yiddish for buddy.

Uzi glanced at Vail.

“Now you know how I feel,” she said.

“Look.” DeSantos gathered them together and said, “All I know is that officially this is being investigated as a gas main explosion. Unofficially, yeah, it’s a terrorist event. And that’s why you’re here.”

“If I’d been properly notified, I could’ve had my task force—”

“It’s sensitive. These guys dressed in black?” He turned to Vail. “They’re OPSIG operators.”

Vail knew OPSIG stood for Operations Support Intelligence Group — DeSantos’s unofficial employer — a black ops unit housed in the basement of the Pentagon that carried out covert, deniable missions around the world.

“Why is this an OPSIG mission?” she asked. “And why am I here?”

“My guess is that you owe Knox for getting your ass out of hot water in London. He needs your expertise and sensibilities on this. You also happened to be first on-scene and he needed someone here he could trust.”

I was hoping he wasn’t gonna say that. “I’m not a Special Forces operator. I haven’t had the training.”

“That,” DeSantos said, “will come.”

Can’t wait.

Two bright xenon headlights illuminated them, throwing their shadows across the buildings behind them.

“I think you’re about to get some answers,” DeSantos said.

The armored black Chevrolet Suburban SUV stopped alongside them and out stepped Douglas Knox, accompanied by two members of the director’s protection detail.

“Status?” Knox said, looking at Vail.

“Area secured. Expect calls from DC Metro and Fire.”

“Already taken care of.”

“May I ask—”

“Sir,” said one of the OPSIG agents. “We found something.”

They followed the man into the nearest residential apartment building, where the destruction was more pronounced. The odor of cordite was thick and the air was smoky. Using a tactical flashlight, he led them down into a basement room that was stocked with bomb-making materials — and vests in various stages of construction.

“Holy shit,” Vail said. “What are we looking at here?”

Knox turned to his protection detail. “Leave us.”

“But sir—”

Knox faced the OPSIG operator. “Has this room been cleared? The building?”

“Yes sir.”

“We’re fine here,” Knox said to the agents, who reluctantly left. When the door closed, he continued: “We received intel this morning that there was a high probability of the first-ever suicide bombing on US soil.”

Vail felt her stomach tighten. This was not just bad news. It was horrible news of the worst kind. Planes hitting skyscrapers resulting in mass murder was traumatic enough. But conventional suicide bombings in a major US city was a whole other kind of terror — one affecting tens of millions of people all day, every day, until the bomber or bombers were caught. The majority of the country’s population would be living on edge, waiting for the next explosion to rip through their restaurant, park, or playground.

“We’ve been working our sources trying to verify that information.”

“Why wasn’t I told?” Uzi asked.

Vail thought that was a very good question, but was surprised to see Uzi challenge the director so brazenly, particularly in front of others.

“I made a judgment call, Agent Uziel. Which I often do as FBI director.” Knox gave him an icy look. “Our source in Turkey, Cüneyt Ekrem, was—”

“Ekrem’s unreliable.”

“Exactly. And he’s failed us multiple times in the past. We only took it seriously because of the implications. The Agency has been unable to verify the intel with even one other source. We intercepted no communication suggesting such an attack was even being planned. Until half an hour ago. My next call was going to be to ASAC Shepard,” Knox said, referring to the assistant special agent in charge of the FBI task force, Marshall Shepard. Uzi’s boss.

Vail and Uzi exchanged a look — which she was unable to interpret.

“I never made that call because we got a report of an explosion.”

“The explosion was the result of my — and Agent Hernandez’s — gunfire.”

Knox turned to the OPSIG agent. “Was he wearing a suicide vest?”

“Yes sir. That’s what exploded.”

Knox swung his gaze back to Vail. “Was he planning to detonate?”

She played it back in her head. “I don’t think so. I’m guessing that he was trying it out, seeing how well he was able to conceal it under his coat. Hard to say. But Agent Filloon must’ve seen something that looked suspicious and confronted him. He shot Filloon and tried to get back to his hideout. But Robb — Agent Hernandez — and I engaged him and … well, the rest you know.”

Knox began pacing, the fingers of his right hand massaging his scalp.

“Was Filloon on duty?” Uzi asked.

“He was,” Knox said. “I’ve had a number of agents mobilized all over the district searching areas, talking with CIs, trying to get verification.”

“I should’ve been notified,” Uzi said. “I should’ve been part of that. With all due respect, sir.”

“Noted.” Knox stopped and glanced at the workshop table, detonators, circuits, and timers laid out before him. “At least we found him — and his factory.”

Vail followed Knox’s gaze. “And we’re keeping this quiet because …?”

“Because we don’t know what we’re dealing with yet,” Knox said. “And if Metro PD gets involved before we have our ducks lined up, things could get out of hand very quickly. Right now we need to manage the intel, manage the investigation, control who knows what, and when.”

Sounds to me like our FBI director is a control freak. Still, he does have a point. His logic is flawed for other reasons, but I’m not the one calling the shots.

“The public needs to know we’re under attack,” Uzi said. “They could become our eyes, which is particularly important when dealing with suicide bombers. Unfortunately, I know.”

Vail understood he was alluding to his time in Israel dealing with the Palestinian intifadas, where suicide attacks in Israeli towns killed scores of civilians in cafés, on school buses, in discos, at wedding ceremonies.

“The president wants to avoid a panic. We can stand here wasting time debating whether or not he’s right, but for now those are his orders. Which means those are your orders.”

Uzi pointed at the laptop at the far end of the room. “Maybe there’s something on that comp—”

A phone started ringing. Uzi and DeSantos glanced at each other, then began searching the room.

“Got it,” Vail said, holding up the device. “Caller ID, but it’s in Arabic. Uzi, don’t you speak—”

“Let me see.” Uzi took it, looked at Knox, and then reached over to a machine mounted on the table. He examined its steel casing, found a switch — and turned it on. It emitted a low groan and then he answered the call in the bomber’s native tongue. He kept his responses short, with a hint of anger and urgency — as best as Vail could tell from his demeanor and tone. She figured the noise from the machine gave him some cover for his voice not matching that of the dead man.

Seconds later, he hung up and pocketed the phone.

“What was that about?” Vail asked.

“We need to go.”

“Who was it?” DeSantos asked.

“Our bomber’s accomplice. He said he heard about an explosion around here but couldn’t get any verification, and wanted to know if everything was okay.”

“And you told him?”

“I told him I had a close call, it was nearby, that I wasn’t sure it was a good idea to stay here. He said I should go to a safe house they had. They’d regroup and figure out what to do. He gave me the address. Let’s move.”

“How do you know it’s not a trap?” Knox asked.

“We don’t. But if it’s legit, we may have a lead into one or more of his accomplices.”

“Take Team Seven.” Knox rapped his knuckles on the door and the OPSIG agent pulled it open. “Tell Team Seven to get ready to roll. Two minutes.”

“Yes sir.”

“You coming?” Uzi asked Vail as they headed back out to the street.

“Safer here,” DeSantos said. “Help them document the scene.”

“I don’t need you to protect me,” Vail said as she matched him stride for stride up the steps. “I’m a federal agent. And I was nearly blown up by a suicide bomber. I’m kinda pissed.”

“Revenge?”

“Justice. Besides, have you ever known me to shy away from a fight?”

“I’ve known you to start a few.”

“That’s not fair,” Vail said. “It’s accurate, but not fair.”

They emerged into the cold night air, which prickled her skin, awakening her senses as she looked out at the bomber’s carnage. “I take it you’re coming then?”

“I’m coming.”

One of the black cabover trucks pulled up to the curb down the block.

“That’s our ride,” Uzi said. “Grab a vest and a helmet.”

2

The driver of the tactical vehicle negotiated the streets of southeast DC swiftly but discreetly. “We’ll drop you two blocks from the target so they don’t see a big black truck pull up.”

“Roger that,” the team commander said over their headsets. He provided some operational details, then said, “We were only able to secure a crude blueprint of the building’s interior. A filing by the contractor when it was built. So be careful.”

Vail knew that SWAT teams spent days studying floorplans, architectural renderings, and surveillance photos of a facility before infiltrating it. Once you breached the door and stepped inside, you were at a tactical disadvantage to those bad actors inside who either modified the interior or hardened it against attack.

They had no time for reconnaissance, so it came down to getting some idea of the interior’s layout and then winging it based on their instincts, training, and best guesses. Your job was to do your best with what you had.

“All I know,” the commander said over the comms, “is that the property is a townhouse and part of a public development operated by the DC Housing Authority. There are over two hundred units, one to six bedrooms apiece.”

Great. Our tax dollars are paying for the terrorists to live in our country. Gotta love America. We don’t discriminate: give us your tired, your poor, your huddled masses, your radicalized terrorists—

“ETA one minute,” the driver said.

The men readied themselves, checking weapons and positioning their utility belts.

“Team members will lead,” the commander said to DeSantos, “and the three of you will bring up the rear.”

Neither DeSantos nor Uzi objected. Vail figured they knew their place because it made sense for a team accustomed to operating together to do their thing and secure the location. She, Uzi, and DeSantos were there for backup, investigative continuity, and support.

They came up 1st Street SW, hung a left on N Street and then a right on Half Street. The truck pulled to an abrupt stop and the rear doors opened. The operators spilled out and deployed swiftly and with relative stealth. Normally law enforcement would’ve been brought in to evacuate the surrounding buildings, block off neighboring streets, and clear the immediate area of innocents. But there was a substantial risk of tipping off the offenders, and with the onsite mix of suicide bombers and potential explosives, the danger was too great.

Time was of the essence: the element of surprise was all they had.

Had they been deploying in a business district, there would be little likelihood that on a weekend evening many people would be inside the adjacent buildings. But this was a residential neighborhood, densely populated with blocks of three-story brick tenements. “We still have our objectives,” the team leader said.

Vail knew those objectives were to apprehend the tangos alive so they could be questioned, in their apartment if possible — and given the location of the target — without discharging their weapons.

She also knew that bombers resided in this building, terrorists who were part of an organization which valued their ends more than the means they employed to achieve them. If a few people had to blow themselves up to make a statement and induce terror, so be it. The man who strapped the bomb to his chest had no regard for the loss of his own life. He was going to a higher place in the afterlife, with a host of virgins who would serve his every need for eternity.

Absurd as that sounded to an unindoctrinated person, these radicals believed it.

Problem is, none of the bombers come back from the dead to tell their buddies it’s all a load of bullshit.

The men arrayed themselves in three groups. Using hand signals, DeSantos assigned Vail and Uzi to the two teams he was not shadowing — Alpha and Charlie.

Vail adjusted her vest, which was heavy and uncomfortably tight against her breasts, but she stayed with the group as they snaked through the streets. The building, a block-long two-story masonry structure with an arched entryway, had barred first-floor windows and a PEPCO electrical access panel out front. The commanding officer nodded at the man to his left, who pulled a pair of bolt cutters from his utility belt and removed the lock securing the junction box, then slowly opened the gray metal doors and studied the circuits. A moment later, he signaled a thumbs-up to his CO, who keyed his mic. “Teams, check in.”

They each indicated they were in position.

The commander gave a thumbs-up to his breach officer, who in this case was going to use a lock pick rather than a battering ram. The farther they could get inside without the inhabitants realizing anything, the better.

The man removed his kit from the deadbolt mechanism and gave the CO another hand signal.

“Power going out in three, two, one.”

The officer brought his hand down and cut the electricity to the building. The illuminated windows went dark and the team moved in, Vail bringing up the rear.

They entered quickly and efficiently, the powerful LED lights mounted to their MP5 submachine guns scouring the darkness. They whispered into their helmet mics, keeping the team informed of the rooms that were cleared.

As they continued toward the back of the apartment, Vail heard a clunk above her. She almost blurted something over the radio but then remembered her microphone was not live; this prevented an accidental transmission that could disrupt the team’s rhythm and procedure. Instead, she used a hand signal to notify the closest operator that she sensed movement above her. He did not seem to notice, however, as he moved on, focused on what lay ahead and not on Vail, who was behind him in an area they had cleared, and thus considered safe.

Vail broke ranks and stepped back toward the area where the noise came from. Nothing. Regardless, the team would be heading up to the second story any minute.

As she turned back toward the men ahead of her — who were stacked in line, ascending the stairwell — her light caught the edge of a wall that looked artificial. She stepped closer, keeping the clean Glock .40-caliber handgun she had been issued focused squarely ahead. She turned on the green tactical laser mounted below the barrel and held it at an angle, getting a good look at a wall seam that should not have been there.

There was no external doorknob or other type of pull tag. If this was in fact a faux wall, something was likely concealed behind it.

Vail again looked down the hall at the team — but they had already moved on to the next level. She activated her mic and quietly said, “This is Vail. I’ve got what looks like a fake door to a hidden space opposite the living room.”

“Roger that,” the voice whispered back. “Hold tight. We’ll double back once we’ve cleared the second story.”

Vail backed up a step, waiting, the pistol still trained on the wall. A creak — and then a clunk.

She ground her jaw. That noise she heard earlier was not from above, but from behind the wall.

Using two fingers from her left hand, she felt along her utility belt and pulled out a long black handcuff key, which she inserted into the crack. She pried it forward, trying to work quietly but getting frustrated that she didn’t have a crow bar — which would’ve popped the damn thing open after one or two pushes.

This is ridiculous. Whoever’s in there knows what I’m doing.

Vail finally got enough leverage to grab the edge of what was clearly a door. She pulled it toward her as she simultaneously raised the handgun.

Hector DeSantos remained in formation, behind and at the end of the Bravo Team stack, understanding the reason for chain of command but disliking it nonetheless. As a person accustomed to leading, he did not enjoy following. But he had been down this road before as a member of Delta Force. He knew how to take orders. The difference was that in the intervening years he had learned how to take the initiative and evaluate those orders for himself, and then change — or massage — them when the need arose.

If he was confident in his convictions and analysis, and everything turned out well, he could explain it later. It was difficult to argue with success. But not impossible. There were times when he was right — but was reprimanded because he had not carried out his mission as commanded.

The thing was, the people he worked for in OPSIG knew who he was and what they were getting. And he was exceptionally good at his job. Sometimes that was enough to keep him out of trouble. On rare occasions it was not.

DeSantos focused on the men ahead of him. They were stationed at the rear door to the apartment building in case one or more of the tangos decided to leave while Alpha Team was infiltrating from the front.

They monitored the situation on a small LCD screen, taking the feed from Alpha commander’s helmet cam. As the operators burst into a room, DeSantos saw movement out of the corner of his eye, fifty feet to his left. “Hey,” he shouted. “Hold it right there!”

The man glanced at DeSantos and wisely decided it was smarter to run.

“Tango at nine o’clock.”

Two operators joined DeSantos and they headed off in pursuit, running down the six steps and along the concrete retaining wall that fronted small grass lawns. The perp had a decent lead on them, but as they closed the gap — not easy lugging thirty pounds of equipment — an SUV approached. The driver sped up and DeSantos cursed under his breath.

“That better not be what I think it is. Either of you got a clear shot?”

“Got it,” said Wickford, the team member to his left, as he ran into the middle of the street and took up a position with his MP5 aimed squarely at the vehicle.

The SUV screeched to a stop and the fleeing tango got in. The truck reversed rapidly, swinging side to side, slamming into the parked cars to its left and right, moving toward the main drag, where it had come from.

“Goddamn,” DeSantos said, huffing it down the sidewalk, in senseless foot pursuit of the moving vehicle.

Wickford got off several short bursts, striking the grill and headlights but apparently missing the target.

The SUV swung left at the end of the road, made an abrupt pivot, and headed west on M Street SW. Because OPSIG was black, there was no one to call it into, no dispatcher who could get a cruiser or two to take up pursuit.

DeSantos joined the two operators and immediately engaged Wickford. “What the hell happened? How’d you miss?”

“Mission objective’s to take the men alive. I was trying to hit the tires but the asshole was swerving all over the place. As it was, I took a risk.”

DeSantos knew Wickford was right, but he still bristled at letting two terrorists slip their net. It was embarrassing. He kicked a rock and watched it bounce along the asphalt.

Vail saw the man too late. He slammed the door into her face, knocking her to the floor, then ran past her and out the front.

Vail was on her feet an instant later, headed in the same direction — but moving cautiously in case he was waiting outside to shoot, or stab, her.

She scanned the street, painting the area with her light. The mature trees with their dense trunks and branches and cars lining the curb made it tough to get a clear view of the landscape. As precious seconds passed, she saw nothing.

Then — movement above: in the darkness to her left, against the cloud-patched moonlit sky, she saw a man running along the roof, negotiating its aggressive slope. The apartment compound appeared to be blocks long, consisting of attached rows of homes that ran parallel to one another.

He had a different build from the tango who flattened her on the way out of the house, but nobody would be sprinting across the tops of homes late at night unless he happened to be a criminal trying to evade law enforcement.

“FBI, don’t move!”

She had to laugh at that one herself: like this terrorist, who might be a suicide bomber, would suddenly stop, raise his hands above his head and say, “Aw, shucks. Ya got me.”

She keyed her mic. “Got a runner, headed north on the rooftops. I’m in pursuit.”

“Charlie Team acknowledging. On our way.”

That was Uzi’s voice, she was sure of it. That was the good news. The bad news was that these townhouses formed the largest blocks of contiguous buildings she had ever seen. But it was easier running on flat ground than a canted roof, so the perp would have to tire before she did — and then she would be waiting for him.

Vail maintained her stride, an accomplishment considering that she was keeping her eye on the perp while simultaneously watching out for broken sidewalk and tree roots — neither was in short supply.

Fifty yards ahead she saw a man running toward her — Uzi, followed by a contingent of operators. The assailant saw them too, and apparently calculating that he would rather grapple with a single woman than a company of armed men, slid down toward the edge of the roof.

Uh, where you think you’re going, buddy?

He grabbed the white rain gutter, swung his legs over the side, and hung there, his length stretching down until he dropped and landed with a thud on his feet.

Okay, you made it. Not bad. But now you’ve gotta deal with me.

“That’s far enough,” Vail said, leveling her Glock at the man’s heart. But she forgot she was dealing with a suicide bomber — or someone affiliated with that mind-set.

He charged her.

Three things flashed through her mind:

1) Shoot the asshole.

2) Don’t shoot the asshole because we need to question him.

3) If you draw your gun, you’re shooting to kill — a lesson she learned her first year on the job as a patrol cop.

But he hit her full on before she could reason it out.

Vail fisted his shirt and clamped onto it like a Rottweiler, refusing to let go. She twisted hard right as he bulled past her, but kept her hold and bent her knees, bringing her center of gravity to the ground and pulling him down with her.

Before he could squirm away, Vail slammed her pistol against his temple and said, “It’s a little different having a gun pressed against your skull. Isn’t it, dickhead?”

Uzi came running up and the six other OPSIG men surrounded the prisoner and took control, five submachine guns — with their green lasers — trained on center mass while Uzi applied the handcuffs.

As they led the perp away, Uzi nudged Vail. “Nice job.”

“Thanks,” Vail said, seating the Glock in its holster.

“Bullshit, that was horrible. What the hell were you thinking, Karen? You drew down on him. You had the guy dead to rights. He was five feet away. And you let him run you over?”

Vail ground her jaw. “We needed to question him, not kill him.”

“You don’t really want me to respond to that, do you? With all the experience you’ve had?” He looked her over. “Did you freeze?”

“I told you. We needed him alive so we could sit him down, sweat him. Can’t do that if he’s got a chest full of .40s.”

“Yeah, well, we need you alive too. So do Jonathan and Robby.”

I hate it when he’s right.

“Don’t do that again. You were lucky.”

“I was not—” Vail stopped herself. “You’re right. I was lucky.”

Uzi gave her a long look, then nodded.

3

Douglas Knox walked into the briefing room at the Hoover Building, a.k.a. FBI headquarters, or in Fed-speak, FBIHQ. Agents dubbed it the Puzzle Palace because its hallways and doors all looked the same. Getting lost or turned around was a regular occurrence.

An oblong walnut table dominated the space. Water bottles — and nothing else — were set out at each seat. No pads and pens. No laptops or tablets.

Vail instantly knew why. This was a classified meeting and no record of its proceedings would be created. Notes were forbidden. In essence, the gathering never happened — officially or unofficially.

Given what she had just witnessed, with OPSIG operators cloaked in nondescript black tactical uniforms and explicit instructions to keep Metro PD and Fire away, this did not surprise her.

As Knox took a seat at the head of the table, he combed back a lock of gray hair that had fallen across his forehead. To his right sat defense secretary Richard McNamara, and to McNamara’s right was CIA director Earl Tasset. At Tasset’s elbow was the secretary of Homeland Security, Laurence Bolten.

Across from the men were Vail, DeSantos, and Uzi.

“Hector, give us a sit-rep,” Knox said, using operator-speak for situation report.

“We’ve got one dead tango at the location of the explosion on Irving Street. Bomb-making equipment was found in the nearby building, enough to make several suicide vests, along with materials for constructing corresponding explosives. We don’t have an ID on the body yet — or what’s left of it — which isn’t much.”

“Anything of use to us?” Bolten asked. “Papers, manuals—”

“We’ve got a team standing by, ready to comb the apartment for intel, but our EOD unit is making sure it’s clear of booby traps and defusing existing bombs that were in various states of construction.”

Glad they’re doing that after we were in there.

“We have two in custody?” McNamara asked.

“Right.” DeSantos leaned forward in his seat and turned to his colleague. “Uzi?”

Using his tongue, Uzi shoved a wood toothpick to the side of his mouth. “While we were doing a once-over of the bomb factory, the deceased perp’s cell phone rang. The caller ID was in Arabic. I’m fluent in Arabic, so I answered it.” He recounted how they found their way to the apartment in southwest DC and what happened when Alpha Team entered.

“This hidden room,” Earl Tasset said. “How many were in there?”

“At the time,” Vail said, “I only saw one — but I never had a clear view. When I pulled open the door, the ass — the perp charged me and ran out of the house. I pursued, but he managed to escape.”

Knox frowned. “So we’ve got one tango in the wind. Did you get a good look at him?”

Vail struggled to maintain eye contact. “No sir. Average height, five foot nine or five-ten, about a hundred seventy-five, dark hair, darker complexion. In his twenties. No distinguishing marks that I could see. But in all honestly, I engaged him for only a split second before — before he got away.”

Knox tilted his head back and sighed.

Hey, no one’s more disappointed than I am.

“Another escaped through the adjacent townhouse,” DeSantos said, “and it looks like he had a driver waiting. We shot up their car pretty good, but they both escaped. So that’d be three in the wind. As far as we know.”

“Get a plate on the SUV?”

“Just make and model.”

“That’s just dandy,” Tasset said. “Good work.”

Uzi, not a fan of Tasset for personal reasons, tightened a fist on his lap. Vail glanced over, then placed a hand atop his.

“And then?” McNamara asked. “Agent Uziel apprehended the first suspect?”

“Actually, Agent Vail did,” Uzi said, pulling his hand away. “Which wasn’t easy because he definitely did not want to be captured alive. She put herself at risk to make sure we had an intact suspect to question.”

“I’ll withhold my applause for now,” Tasset said, eyeing Vail. “You did your job. That’s why you’re on this team.”

Actually, I’m on this team because I’ve got no choice, thank you very much.

“The suspect is being questioned,” DeSantos said. “I expect it’ll take a while to learn anything useful from him. He’s been processed but his prints aren’t in any database. I have a request out to Interpol.”

“What about the other suspect we captured?” Bolten asked.

“Older, mid-fifties. He hasn’t said much. He’s missing two fingers on his left hand and the side of his face is scarred over from a bad burn, so I suspect he’s the bomb maker and that he’s been at it awhile.”

Uzi set his water bottle down after taking a gulp. “Based on the clothing and dishes in the apartment, we believe there were four men living and working there.”

“So,” McNamara said. “What are we doing to find the ones who escaped?”

“Sir,” Uzi said. “As head of the JTTF in DC, I’m compelled to recommend that in order to effectively pursue these men, and to investigate this case, I need to assign agents and bring Metro—”

“There is no case,” Knox said.

“No case?” Uzi glanced around at the people seated at the table. “All due respect, a suicide bomber exploded in the middle of Washington. We found a bomb-making factory with multiple devices in various stages of assembly — this isn’t going to be a one-and-done. We need to raise the threat level. The public needs to be notified that we’re under attack.”

“No,” Knox said. “They don’t. Not yet.”

“Sir. I—”

“Agent Uziel, who is behind the attack?”

“We don’t know yet.”

“What was the target?”

“We’re still inves—”

“Are other attacks planned for the district? For anywhere else in the country?”

“I don’t know—”

“That is the point, isn’t it? There isn’t much we do know. We have very few facts. And dozens of questions. The media will have even more. We don’t want a panic on our hands, do we?”

Uzi leaned forward in his seat. “Of course not. But we can’t keep this a secret.”

“The president has asked us to keep it quiet, for now, until we have a better understanding of what’s going on.”

“We know what’s going on. A terrorist cell of suicide bombers has set up shop in DC and we thwarted one attack before they could act. Isn’t that the intel you got from our Turk informant, Cüneyt Ekrem?”

“As you said yourself, Ekrem is unreliable. That’s why we have to be careful and methodical and keep our eyes and ears open. We need to verify what he told us and not jump to conclusions. At the moment, we have no confirmed intel.”

“But—”

“Remember the panic the DC Sniper caused?” Bolten asked.

Uzi sat back. “Of course.”

“That’s what the president wants to avoid.”

“Agent Vail,” Knox said, “tell us what you know of suicide bombers.”

Vail folded her hands in front of her as she gathered her thoughts. “The study data is all over the place and often conflicting, but the lack of correlation reflects where that research was done, which political and religious ideologies were involved, and which populations were studied. The acts of a bomber in Iraq, for example, are going to be quite different from one operating in Sri Lanka.

“Generally speaking, operationally, the first goal of the bomber is to inflict death and destruction on a specific target. The second goal — which is his overriding motivation and purpose — is to inflict emotional pain and injury on innocents who witness the carnage — and who wait, on edge, for another bomb to go off. Basically, the idea is intimidation, fear and, well, terror.

“That’s an important point because the data is more cut and dried regarding the victim population’s point of view. The victims are frightened. They’re scared. They alter their ways of life. That’s why the terrorists are doing it, right? It’s not the people they’re killing that are affected — they’re dead — it’s those who live in the community, not knowing when another strike is going to happen — or where.”

“Like the DC Sniper,” Bolten said.

“Yes. In a sense, suicide bombings are similar to the terror that snipers inflict on their victim populations: you never know where they’re going to strike next. And it involves an attack on everyday citizens, who are the victims of a political agenda or revenge against people who have nothing to do with the initial ‘offense’ or perceived slight supposedly inflicted on the attacker.”

“Suicide bombings can be an effective tactic in scoring wins during wartime,” Bolten said. “At West Point, we studied the Japanese kamikazes extensively. They had nothing to lose — their objective was to die — so they could be more daring, and penetrate enemy territory more deeply and more effectively, by taking greater risks.”

“Right,” Vail said. “Along those lines, suicide bombings are also used as an asymmetric tactic to counter a stronger fighting force. An example would be the Palestinian bombers hitting civilian targets in Israel. A vast majority of those attacks came at the hands of Hamas, although some were carried out by its rival, al Humat.”

Vail glanced at Uzi and saw his jaw muscles contract — and for good reason: an al Humat operative murdered his wife and daughter.

“There are multiple MOs to their approach,” she continued. “The most common is an explosive belt or vest, though two exceptions would be Richard Reid, the shoe bomber on Flight 63, and the attack on the Saudi prince where the bomber placed the explosives inside his body. Car bombs can also be effective — like the Beirut barracks bombing in ’83 when a driver plowed his truck into the building. Or boats loaded with explosives, like the USS Cole in Aden. I don’t have to elaborate on how jets can be flown into buildings. But that’s just another form of suicide attack. Less popular tactics involve forcing a driver to crash his bus, like the Palestinians did in Tel Aviv, or driving a car into a crowd of people.

“Given what evidence we’ve discovered tonight, it looks like they’re going the more conventional route — a vest — but since we don’t know specifically who we’re dealing with, or why they’re doing what they’re doing, we can’t rule out any of these other methods. Because of that, I do support Agent Uziel’s recommendation to alert—”

“Noted,” Knox said.

Keep your mouth shut, Karen. Just move on.

“Did Ekrem say what group was behind the planned attacks?” Uzi asked.

Knox rose from his chair and began pacing in front of a white board at the head of the room. “I’m reluctant to repeat what he said until we have verification.”

“Sir,” DeSantos said, “time is obviously critical. If we’re going to figure out who’s behind this — and stop them before they implement their plan — we need to know what you know. We can cut through the bullshit and figure out if his intel is on target.”

Knox stopped and leaned on the back of the leather chair. “Al Humat. Maybe in coordination with Hamas. He wasn’t sure. He also suggested Hezbollah played a role, but he wasn’t clear on that.”

“So,” Vail said, “let’s assume, until proven otherwise, that Ekrem gave us good info and there’s an Islamist angle to the planned bombings. These terrorists were speaking Arabic, so we’re in the right ballpark at least. Let’s look at this from a behavioral perspective. We know there’s a religious element to it, a political element to it, and some good old peer pressure — to help the cause, to do what your friends are doing, to sacrifice oneself for the good of the group.”

“Groupthink,” Uzi said, moving the toothpick around with his tongue.

“Right. These people are intent on destruction — but they’re also motivated by strong religious and political beliefs, as well as their own moral reasoning.”

“Warped moral reasoning,” Earl Tasset said.

“We know that Arab bombers are featured on posters and in videos as martyrs,” Uzi said. “There’s a financial angle — the bombers’ families are well compensated. Hamas has gone on record that depending on who takes responsibility for the attack, Hamas, Islamic Jihad, al Humat, or the Palestinian Authority pays out a lifetime stipend of $400 a month to families of male bombers and $200 per month to families of female bombers.”

“Apparently,” DeSantos said, “the corporate world isn’t the only place women are paid less than men.”

The attempt at humor fell flat.

“In the Koran,” Uzi continued, “Allah promises martyrs heavenly rewards. We’ve all heard about the dozens of virgins a male bomber is told he’ll get. According to a Palestinian bomber who did not go through with the attack, female bombers are told they’ll become the purest and most beautiful form of angel, at the highest level possible in heaven.”

“We’ve been approaching this as if our tangos are all male,” McNamara said. “But I do remember some cases involving female suicide bombers. Chechnya, I think.”

“Correct,” Uzi said. “But they’ve also been used against civilian populations in Iraq, Pakistan, Afghanistan, Israel, France, Sri Lanka. The best known case out of Iraq was the one where Samira Ahmed Jassim recruited about eighty women for suicide attacks — and sent twenty-eight of them to their deaths.”

“Must be one persuasive lady,” DeSantos said.

“Not persuasive. Evil. She would arrange for women to be raped, and then convince them to commit suicide attacks as a means to atone for the shame of being raped.”

McNamara shook his head. “I remember that.”

“If I’m not mistaken,” Vail said, “the women who choose to become bombers on their own, their motivation is not political — opposite of their male counterparts. Most common reason is that the women are grieving the loss of family members and they’re looking to punish the person they consider responsible.”

“Revenge killing,” Bolten said.

“Yes. But there are also other female bombers who wanted to martyr themselves for reasons we could never figure out.”

“What are the odds women are involved here?” Knox pushed back from the chair and began pacing again. “We may need to adjust our approach. And obviously that expands our dataset quite a bit.”

Vail nodded. “It’s been a while since I looked at the statistics, but I think women make up about 15 percent of all suicide bombers — at least within groups that use females. Now if we’re talking about assassinations by suicide attack, women were responsible for about 65 percent of those. A fifth of them had the objective of assassinating a specific person — compared to only 5 percent for male attackers.”

“Meaning?”

Vail lifted her brow. “Well, I think because a woman is more disarming than a man, she’s able to get closer to a male target, no matter how well guarded he is. His defenses are down. So when you’ve got a specific target you want to kill, using a woman for the job is more successful. Bottom line, I don’t think we can rule out the use of women as part of this operation. But since we don’t know what or who their targets are, and we don’t know their motivation, for now we can’t say women are or aren’t involved. If there’s a revenge component or if they’re trying to kill a specific person, we have to look at women. Otherwise it’ll likely be males.”

“Do we have a more specific profile?” Knox asked. “Somewhere to start?”

“I’m not sure we have enough to formulate anything definitive.” Who am I kidding? We definitely don’t have enough.

“Your ass is covered,” McNamara said. “We realize you’re winging it. We’re just looking for some direction based on what we know.”

A bead of perspiration broke out across her brow. So I should make you feel like I’m giving you something useful without sending us off in the wrong direction. Yeah, sure. And for my next trick …

Vail took a sip of water, then set the bottle down. “Broadly speaking, given what we have, we’re looking for young adult male bombers, but as I said, we should not be blind to women. Males will be twenty to thirty-five, women will be younger, twenty to thirty. Regardless of gender, they’ll be educated, middle-class individuals who may have a connection to a family member who’s been killed in either an American action abroad or an Israeli action. The recent war in Gaza is a possibility, but we shouldn’t limit ourselves to that. Hamas has been an active terror group for over twenty years and they began suicide attacks in the early 1990s. Al Humat started a few years later, if I remember correctly.

“Some studies suggest the bombers may be depressed or mentally ill individuals. I don’t think that’s what we’re looking at here. This is a sensitive, very daring operation and the planners wouldn’t entrust such a difficult operation to an unstable personality.

“I do think we’re dealing with a group — that much seems obvious from the crime scenes we visited tonight — and that fits with the intel we got from Ekrem. As Uzi mentioned before, we need to be aware of groupthink mentality. Are you all familiar with that?”

She got a couple of blank stares. “Briefly, it’s a situation where members of a group blindly follow the opinions and directions of their leader because they place greater value on gaining consensus and harmony than on the critical analysis of an issue. So if a lot of people are fervently onboard with an approach laid out by their leaders, the others will set aside their personal opinions in favor of acceptance within the group, to keep from being rejected, ostracized, or kicked out. It can be an efficient way of getting things done — but if the group leaders are bad actors, as in this case, you get the situation we’ve got. Good for them, not so good for us.

“One other thing,” Vail said. “This is a group that looks at themselves as the underdogs going up against the big, bad USA: they use these asymmetric terror tactics as a mask to project strength and invincibility.”

Knox stopped pacing. “So if I can sum this up, it sounds like you believe Ekrem’s info is accurate: al Humat and/or Hamas.”

Vail bit the inside of her lip. “Let’s say I think Ekrem’s info is accurate insofar as it’s a group like al Humat and/or Hamas. I can’t tell you it’s specifically those groups or another one like the Islamic State or Islamic Jihad. Then again, a behavioral profile is only designed to tell you the type of person or group who committed the crimes. We need conventional forensics and investigative procedures to put an identity to our attackers.”

Knox frowned, then took his seat. “Understood.”

“Getting back to what Agent Uziel said earlier, sir, we really need to open an official investigation. I can then get full cooperation from my unit. ASAC Gifford—”

“Cannot be apprised of the situation,” Bolten said. “Absolutely not.”

Tasset leaned forward in his chair. “You’re on this team for a reason.”

I wish he’d stop saying that.

“And it’s got nothing to do with London.”

Bullshit. Vail tried to keep a poker face, but her gaze strayed over to Knox. His expression was as impassive as the sandstone columns of the White House.

“Your expertise in behavioral analysis,” McNamara added. “It gives OPSIG a dimension we’ve lacked. You may prefer to confer with the profilers in your unit, but the cases we handle are black. Your group does not exist. The things you do, the missions you carry out, have not happened. Just like in London. That’s the way this works. This meeting, in fact, is not happening.” He turned to Knox. “I thought you explained all this to her.”

Knox did not reply, but Vail wanted to — something like, “I haven’t been told a damn thing.”

“Do we have a problem, Agent Vail?” McNamara asked.

“No, Mr. Secretary. I don’t have a problem.” I’ve got so many I don’t know where to start.

“Agent Uziel,” McNamara said. “You sit on this team for a reason as well. Given your background with Mossad and counterterrorism, is there anything you can add?”

Uzi shoved the toothpick to the left corner of his mouth. “Director Knox mentioned that Ekrem thought Hezbollah might have some involvement in this plot. Around the time the whole thing came to a head with Iran achieving nuclear capability, we intercepted communications indicating that Hezbollah had sleeper cells across the country in dozens of US cities. It sounded like it was a well established network that had been going on for years.”

“That’s never been verified,” Bolten said.

Uzi bobbed his head. “True. But … NSA captured a conversation between someone in southern California and a mobile in Mexico. It belonged to one of the Mexican drug cartels: Cortez. We began piecing it together with HUMINT,” he said, referring to human intelligence — confidential informants, interrogations, and the like. “We’re still working on it but all we’ve been able to verify is that the cartels and Hezbollah have been working together in some financial capacity.”

“That’s a long way from sleeper cells in dozens of US cities,” McNamara said.

“Call it a working theory. Could be that Hezbollah teaches them how to build tunnels and Cortez pays them for the engineering know-how. Or maybe it’s something else. But my instincts as a law enforcement officer tell me that this type of connection makes sense and can’t be ignored. It may just be a matter of finding proof. I’ll double down and check with my DEA guys on the task force.”

“Hector?” Knox said. “Any thoughts on this?”

DeSantos straightened up in his seat. “If we look at a potential threat matrix, if the US went beyond sanctions against Iran and bombed its reactors, and if there were sleeper cells here, their operatives would likely set off bombs here. We’d be under attack within our own borders. The invading army would have been living among us for years.”

The room got quiet.

Finally Bolten said, “We need to know if this sleeper theory is rooted in fact — and if it’s got anything to do with what happened tonight.”

“I can have our CIA and DEA reps on the task force check in with their CIs. But they’re gonna ask why. To get it right, they have to have all the facts.”

“No,” Bolten said. “You can’t say anything about tonight. The president made it quite clear.”

“Some are going to put it together anyway. But the JTTF is a terrorism task force made up mostly of law enforcement officers. This is what we do. That’s our job.”

“Your job, your orders, are to work this from inside OPSIG. This is bigger than law enforcement. It’s a matter of national security and we need to be able to operate without every goddamn blogger commenting on it, crying about privacy intrusions and racial profiling, without journalists bombarding us with questions and hampering our ability to do our work — which is finding these fuckers. You need more help, Secretary McNamara and Director Knox will get you personnel with security clearance.”

“I’m not sure that’s enough,” Uzi said.

“For now, it’ll have to be.”

4

When Vail walked into her house at 3:30 AM, her chocolate brown Standard Poodle puppy, Hershey, greeted her at the door. He stood up on his back legs and bathed her face with kisses. She gave him a piece of duck jerky and found Robby asleep on the couch, a bag of Trader Joe’s spicy flax seed chips on the coffee table perched beside an empty hummus container.

She inched her left buttock onto the edge of the seat cushion beside his thigh and stroked his face. His eyes fluttered open.

“What time is it?” he asked.

“Very late at night or very early in the morning. Depends on your perspective.”

He sat up and hung his head. “I was dreaming.”

“About me?”

“Of course.”

“Right answer. C’mon, let’s get you to bed.”

Hershey followed them into the bedroom and hopped onto the mattress as Robby stepped up to the adjacent vanity and pulled open his drawer.

“So why did I have to leave? And what the hell is going on?”

Vail had been dreading such a question, which she knew would be among the first he asked. “Look, when you’re undercover, you can’t talk about the case, right?”

He popped open the cap on the toothpaste. “What’s that got to do with this? You don’t work undercover.”

“I can’t say any more.”

He stood there, the tube in his right hand and the brush in his left. His brain was not fully awake yet so it was taking him longer to put it together. He set the toothpaste down. “You’re telling me you’re undercover?”

Vail started removing the makeup she had put on before she and Robby had left for the evening. She glanced at him in the mirror and he seemed to get it: she could not talk about it.

He went back to his teeth, then spit and rinsed his brush. “Is it dangerous?”

Vail thought about that, about her run-in with the terrorist tonight, about what Uzi had said about how she had handled it. “Yes.”

Robby set the brush down and looked at her image in the mirror. He apparently decided against commenting.

What can he say? His undercover ops with DEA are dangerous too.

“I don’t like it when the shoe’s on the other foot.”

Vail tossed the cotton cleansing pad in the garbage. “I know.”

Vail arrived at the Behavioral Analysis Unit at 8:30 AM — and found a note on her desk from Lenka, the administrative staff for her boss, Assistant Special Agent in Charge Thomas Gifford.

Rather than lifting the phone, she walked over to Lenka’s desk.

“Morning.”

“Agent Vail. I left a note—”

Vail held it up. “Found it. Boss wants to see me?”

Lenka nodded.

“He pissed about something?”

Lenka nodded again, then buzzed Gifford and told him Vail was there. “Go on in.”

Vail pushed through the door and Gifford motioned her to sit.

“I got a strange call this morning,” Gifford said, “from Liz Evanston. Do you know who Liz Evanston is?”

Not even a hello. Yeah, he’s pissed all right.

“Your ex-wife?”

“No.”

He didn’t say any more, so Vail asked, “If this is twenty questions, sir, can I have a pad and pen?”

“She’s Director Knox’s executive assistant.”

She raised both hands, palms up. “You just ruined the game. I had at least another nineteen guesses left.”

“She had a message for me. From the director. And it was about you.”

“Right. Now I understand why I’m sitting in your office.”

“Well, that makes one of us. I was told that you’re on special assignment. But when I asked for clarification and details — like how long this assignment would last — she said she didn’t know. When I asked if I should reassign your active cases, she said, ‘Probably’.” He leaned forward and rested both forearms on his desk. “Now your unit chief and I have the BAU to run, with a lot of cases and very few agents. As hard as it is for me to admit it, you’re one of my best analysts. So when you’re removed from the equation, I kind of have to know why, and for how long.”

“Well, you don’t really have to know why.”

Gifford looked at her.

“I’m just saying. ‘Why’ isn’t releva—”

“Karen,” he said through clenched teeth. “What the hell is going on?”

“I can’t go into it. But I do need to be excused from my duties for the foreseeable future. I’ll be working offsite.”

“I’m your ASAC. And that’s not an acceptable answer. Where are you getting your orders?”

“I don’t think I can say.”

Gifford frowned, hiked his brow, then grabbed a file off his desk. “Then no, you can’t be excused from your duties.”

“But—”

Before she could finish her sentence, Gifford’s line buzzed. He hit the intercom. “Lenka, hold my calls.”

“It’s Director Knox, sir.”

Gifford glanced at Vail, as if he was starting to put it together. “Put him through,” he said in the direction of the speaker, then lifted the handset. Vail started to rise but Gifford motioned her down. “Mr. Director.” He listened for a bit, his face flushing, then looked at Vail again. It was not a pleasant expression. Finally, he said, “Sir, how can I run my unit without—” The jaw muscles in his face tightened. “The good of the country. Yes sir, I understand … Yes sir, I will do that … No, we’ll manage … Yes. Thank you, sir.”

As Gifford set the handset back in the cradle, Vail slapped her thighs. “Okay, then. We’re good?”

Gifford steepled his fingers, his eyes locked with Vail’s.

“If it helps, sir, I’m not enjoying this.”

“I don’t believe you. And it most certainly does not help. What am I supposed to do with all your cases?”

“If I were the ASAC, I’d reass—”

“That was a rhetorical question.”

“Right.” Vail rose from her seat. She started to leave, then stopped with a hand on the knob. “You have your orders, sir. And I have mine. Neither of us are happy about it. How about we leave it at that?”

Gifford did not reply, so she pulled the door open and left.

5

Lucas Dempsey sat in the back of the black town car, its gray leather soft and pliant against his hand. The thick soundproof glass separating the rear and front seats had a slight green tint, but was otherwise unobtrusive. He glanced down and checked his watch and awaited the arrival of Frederic Prideux.

Like Dempsey, the name Prideux was chosen at random off an online directory of a company’s board of directors. It was a nice irony, but in truth he selected Dempsey because it gave the impression of a fighter. And he liked to think of himself in that light.

While his contact knew his true identity, it was safer to use aliases in conversation so the prying ears of the NSA or FBI could not make an easy identification.

But if they were smart, and careful, they would not arouse suspicion.

Prideux approached the vehicle — and was frisked a dozen feet away by Dempsey’s personnel before being cleared to approach.

The back door opened and Prideux sat down heavily.

Dempsey, staring straight ahead, said, “What the hell are you people doing?”

Prideux, a slight man whose English was well practiced and near-flawless, tilted his head. “We’re doing what’s necessary.”

“You’re working against me. That’s not the arrangement. And it’s counterproductive, to say the least.”

“You move too slowly. And you’re restricted in what you can do and when you can do it.”

Dempsey laughed — not out of humor but because of his “partner’s” audacity.

“Did you or did you not tell me there are limits to what you can do?”

“At times, yes. But we have a plan and we’re executing according to that plan. Setting up sleeper cells in DC? Are you out of your mind?”

Prideux snorted. “We’re quite sane, I assure you. There is a method to what you perceive as madness.”

“Perceive? Perceive? Federal agents raided your cell, found bomb-making components and goddamn it, your man blew himself up in the middle of the city!”

“Yes, well, that was unfortunate. But …” He shrugged. “So what? We have others that will gladly take his place.”

“I’m not worried about losing a man. Or two, or three. I’m worried about the FBI getting close. If they figure out—”

“No, no, no,” Prideux said slowly, shaking his head. Calm, cool. “There is no risk here. Remember, we have a man on the inside.” He smiled broadly. “Don’t we, now?”

Dempsey turned away. He did not feel like the fighter he pretended to be. He felt controlled — when the opposite should have been the case.

“You’re moving too slowly,” Prideux said. “It’s been two years.”

“I’m laying the groundwork. It takes time. We discussed this. There are a lot of considerations.” He faced Prideux. “You just have to trust me.”

“Trust is not the issue. We do trust you. But we want results.”

“And I said I’d deliver. I didn’t say when because I couldn’t. Things are fluid.”

“Yes, things are fluid. And that’s why we decided to take a more active role.”

“A lot of good that did. Your bomb-making factory and safe house are gone.”

Prideux turned his entire torso and leaned against the door, facing Dempsey. “Lucas, my friend, do you really think we would go into a war with only one weapon?” He smiled — deviously.

Dempsey was certain the man was studying him, reading his expression. “What do you mean?”

“I mean we’re well prepared. I mean we know what we’re doing. I mean that you should not worry about us, about our end of things. We have it all under control. Let the FBI think they’ve scored a major victory.”

“You’re just making it more difficult. Give me time to sort this out. Let things settle down. Let the media find something else to cover.”

Prideux frowned and turned to look out the rear window.

“I thought you people take the long view, the long war. Decades, centuries.”

“I don’t subscribe to that model. I’m an impatient man. I’m selfish. I want to see this to fruition. I want to taste the olives of my labor.”

“You will. But don’t fight me.”

Prideux laughed. “And why not? We fight everyone else. And we win too. Look at Europe, Lucas. Look at what we’re doing. We are taking over. Some may think it’s a slow process, but it’s happening very quickly. In twenty-five, thirty years Belgium will be ours. Brussels, the headquarters of the European Union and NATO, will be under Sharia law.

“Allah will be the judge and jury of what’s permitted and what isn’t. There and in the major European cities — Antwerp, Amsterdam, Rotterdam. And my home country, France. It’s all going to be under Sharia law very soon.”

“Twenty-five years is not soon. Things can happen that derail your plans.” Dempsey knew it was a weak shot, a punch without any muscle behind it. Because he knew Prideux was right.

“This is different. We control the process so I can wait. Twenty-five years? Just a matter of time now. Nothing anyone can do to stop it.” Prideux chuckled. “Unless non-Muslims start having six kids per couple — which is not going to happen. We will out-reproduce them. We will outnumber them. We will then out-vote them — and vote them out.”

“And what is that going to get you?”

“It’ll get us Europe. And then we’ll move on from there. North America? South America? Maybe both at the same time? Eventually it’ll be everything. That is our goal, Lucas. Not just an Islamic state. An Islamic world.”

Dempsey wondered what he had gotten himself into. Then again, was there really a choice?

“It’s all so very simple, Lucas, but they are fools. They don’t see what’s going on right in front of them, all around them. We even tell them what we’re going to do. It’s not a secret. And still they don’t see it! We say it on TV, in interviews, in our mosques, they debate it in their government offices. Their own Members of Parliament warn of it. And still they let it happen. Religious tolerance, the political correctness of this generation only makes it easier, faster.” His left eye narrowed. “They have let it happen. Willingly. None of those countries deserve to survive as a nation, as a culture. And they won’t.”

Dempsey cleared his throat. He felt a sense of anxiety, as if he were Dr. Frankenstein … and the monster had just awoken and was about to leave the nest.

Prideux clapped a bony hand on Dempsey’s thigh. “Thank you for your time, Lucas. We’ll be in touch.” He winked, then popped open the door and got out.

6

Uzi set his leather satchel on his desk at the FBI’s Washington field office, then headed over to check in with a member of the Joint Terrorism Task Force, Special Agent Hoshi Koh.

Hoshi’s desk was a hodge-podge of files, notes, and a variety of tech gadgets: her smartphone, a tablet, a Bluetooth headset, and an external battery pack.

“I’m impressed,” Uzi said, taking inventory of the devices.

Hoshi tilted her head and examined his face. “You look tired.”

“Late night.”

“Another hot date?”

“Not exactly.” He stifled a yawn. “Who says hot date anymore?”

“Obviously I do.”

“Hey, where do we stand with that wild and crazy theory of Hezbollah collaborating with the Cortez cartel?”

“Soon as I got your email this morning I checked in with DEA. They’re running a new informant in San Diego that’s shown promise.”

“When are we expecting to hear?”

“They’re going to get back to us. Any day.” Hoshi slipped her glasses on. “Oh — Shepard wants to see you.”

Uzi walked into his ASAC’s office a minute later. Marshall Shepard leaned his large frame backward in his chair, making the springs creak loudly. “’Bout time you brought your ugly ass into my office. Left that message with Koh an hour ago.” He yanked off his glasses. “Take a seat, man. You look tired.”

“Jeez, between you and Hoshi, a guy can’t have a bad night.”

“You hear about that explosion on Irving Street, near 14th? They’re calling it a gas main, but I’m not buying it. I called Metro and they said they had no complaint on file. I ran it up the line and the brass wouldn’t even take my call, like they were dodging me. You know what I’m sayin’?”

Uzi tried to maintain a neutral expression. “Yeah.”

“I want you to look into it. Quietly.”

“Quietly, Shep?”

“Yeah, just you and — well, maybe Koh. That’s it. Let’s find out if there’s something fishy going on. I don’t know, maybe I’ve seen too much. Or maybe I’m just paranoid. But I see the CIA’s hands in this.”

“Really.” Uzi grabbed a toothpick from the cup on the desk. “Can’t it just be a gas main explosion? They do happen.”

Shepard scrunched his dark skin into an animated frown. “I am talking with Aaron Uziel, right? After all that shit that went down with the Armed Revolution Militia, you really think some suspicious shit can’t be going down that they’re keeping from us?”

Shepard was referring to a case a couple of years ago involving domestic terror attacks aimed at bringing down the US government.

Shepard’s desk phone rang. He listened a moment, then said, “Yeah, put him through.” He glanced at Uzi and said, “I need to take this, can you—” Before he could finish, the line connected. “Yes sir. This is Shepard.”

Uzi rose from his chair to give his ASAC some privacy. But Shepard suddenly rapped his knuckles on the wood desk. Uzi stopped and turned.

“Can you give me details on—” Shepard sat up in his chair. “No, no, of course. I’ll make him available. Whatever you need.” He hung up the phone and glowered at Uzi.

“What?” Uzi asked. “Who was that?”

“You know damn well who that was. I thought you were my friend.”

Uzi took his seat again. “I am, but I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.”

Shepard grumbled something unintelligible under his breath. “You’re going to be working a project for the director. And you didn’t see fit to inform me?”

“Oh, that.” Uzi unwrapped the toothpick and placed it in his mouth. “I’m not supposed to talk about it. It puts me in an awkward position, given our relationship.”

“Which relationship are you referring to?” Shepard asked, his eyebrows raised. “That I’m your boss or that I’m your friend?”

“Both.” Uzi started rolling the cellophane wrapper between his fingers. “C’mon, Shep, we’ve been through this before.”

Shepard shook his head. “Care to tell me what you’re going to be working on?”

“Can’t.”

Shepard leaned forward, his gaze boring into Uzi’s. “This have anything to do with that explosion last night?”

Uzi did not reply — but he did not need to. Shepard was a sharp guy and he knew Uzi very well. A slight twitch in his eye, a dilated pupil — it didn’t take much — and Shepard would know the answer.

Shepard slapped the table with a large, thick hand. His brass FBI paperweight jumped. “Knew it.”

“Yeah, well, keep it to yourself. I have a feeling you’re going to be brought into this sooner rather than later. I tried to convince — actually, I’d better shut my mouth.”

Shepard twisted his full lips, then nodded slowly. “Fine. Go play spy. Or whatever the hell it is you’re doing. Keep me posted.”

“I can’t—”

“Yeah,” Shepard said with a dismissive wave of his right hand. “Whatever. Get your ass outta here.”

7

Vail was led through the Pentagon’s river entrance and down a nondescript corridor to a single elevator door. She was instructed to place her hand over a glass plate and a yellow light ran beneath it. The car arrived seconds later. Her escort dipped his security card, pressed the B button, and said, “Someone will meet you downstairs. You can take it from here.”

Gee, you think? “Thanks.”

The elevator doors slid apart and revealed a uniformed officer who was tall and broad, with calloused hands and a wind-weathered face. “This way.”

He brought her down a tiled corridor to a room at the end of the hall. She saw another panel beside the door and did not need to be told what to do. She placed her palm on it and waited for the sensor to scan her print. The electronic lock buzzed and the man turned and left her, headed back the way they had come.

Inside, she felt like she had walked into a gamer’s paradise: wall to wall flat screens, all displaying satellite or real time surveillance images from around the world. A constant flow of cool air swirled around her ankles, keeping the tech equipment well ventilated.

People milled about the large, high-ceilinged room, which was dimly lit and had personnel seated at workstations along the periphery, headsets on and monitors perched at eye level on articulating metal arms.

Uzi and DeSantos were across the way, in a separate glass-walled room that featured an oval conference table. When she walked in, they were talking with Troy Rodman, who was larger than the guy who had led her down the corridor and a shade darker than the rosewood surface peeking through the sheaf of papers scattered across it.

“Agent Rodman,” Vail said. “Good to see you again.” The last time their paths crossed they were in the back of a van in the outskirts of London, in deep trouble with the British authorities.

“Troy. Or Hot Rod. We’re a team. Takes too damn long to communicate when we’re on a mission if we’re saying Agent this, Agent that.”

“Got it.” She gestured to the papers. “What are you working on?”

“Compiled a list,” Uzi said, “of most likely groups to have the will, wherewithal, and balls to put together an operation like this.”

“The balls?”

“Not many have the guts to attack the United States — because we are gonna find out who did the deed, sooner or later. And then they’re gonna pay for it. A select few are willing to take it on the chin in exchange for the points they score in the initial strikes. It buys them a higher profile, makes recruitment easier.”

“It also requires patience,” DeSantos added, “and coordination — to gather and purchase the materials, bring in the people with the skill set to build these explosives. Not all of them have the resources and network to make this happen.”

“What about Ekrem’s intel?” Vail asked.

Uzi grabbed a handful of almonds from a bowl to his right and popped one in his mouth. “We didn’t want to get myopic by focusing on what he gave us — especially because we’ve got no idea if all, or some, or none of his info’s legit.”

DeSantos pulled a sheet from among the papers containing a scribble of handwritten names and handed it to Vail. She read: al Humat, al Shabaab, al Qaeda, al Qaeda Organization in the Islamic Maghreb, East Turkestan Islamic Movement, Hamas, Hezbollah, Islamic Jihad, ISIL/Islamic State, Islamic Jihad of Yemen— “Lists like this are okay, but we can make ourselves nuts looking at every Tom, Dick, and Harry.”

DeSantos snorted. “More like Abdul, Mohammed, and Akbar.”

Vail gave him a look that said, “I’m not in the mood.” “Point is, we have to focus on the most likely groups.”

“Like I said, that is the list of most likely groups.”

Oh. Lovely. “Look, I know you have doubts about this Ekrem guy, but maybe it makes sense to start there and see if we can eliminate Hamas and al Humat. Then we can move on to the rest on this list.”

Uzi nodded. “Makes sense to me.”

A trim and curvy woman in khakis with long brunette hair approached with a Bluetooth headset protruding from her ear. “Hector, I’ve got something you should hear.”

DeSantos introduced her as Alexandra “Alex” Rusakov. “On this case?”

“Yeah, NSA sent it over, priority one. They normally don’t get to intercepted communications this fast, but because of the potential for impending attacks it was elevated and they—”

“Audio or video?” Uzi asked.

“Audio,” Rusakov said.

Vail set down the list. “Let’s hear it.”

“It’s in Arabic. But I’ve got a translation.” She handed over a printed page.

“I’d like to hear the original recording,” Uzi said.

“Channel five,” Rusakov said as she reached over to the nearest panel and pressed a few keys.

Uzi slipped on a set of headphones and listened as the others consulted the translation.

“What are we reading here?” Vail asked.

“NSA intercepted a cell call from an area in southwest DC to Gaza. They couldn’t triangulate because it didn’t last long enough. The rest is pretty self-explanatory.”

Vail set the paper on the conference table. “No question the guy in DC is one of our offenders.” She turned toward Rusakov, two workstations to her left, and said, “Can the NSA give us anything else?”

“They’re doubling back to see if they’ve got other captured conversations that haven’t been transcribed yet. There’s a backlog of Arabic language recordings.”

Vail noticed Uzi was still huddled over the desk, concentrating. She tapped him on a shoulder and he pushed up the headphones. “You’re spending an awfully long time listening to a short conversation. Something’s bothering you.”

He sat down heavily.

“What is it, Boychick?” DeSantos asked.

He ran his tongue from left to right over his bottom lip. “The guy on the phone in Gaza. I think I know that voice.”

8

Vail waited for Uzi to elaborate. When he did not, she nudged DeSantos, who shrugged. “Uzi, who is it?”

“If I’m right, he was a senior al Humat operative when I was”—he hesitated, then turned to Rusakov. “Alex, can you give us a minute?”

“Boychick, she’s part of OPSIG. She’s got full clearance.”

Vail examined Uzi’s face — she knew he was uncomfortable with more people knowing his secret. It was one thing for Knox to know, and for her, DeSantos, and Rodman to know — he hadn’t had the choice when it was disclosed. Adding to that list did not seem like a good idea, and Vail had to agree.

“Alex,” Vail said, “I think it’d be best.”

Rusakov squinted dissatisfaction, then nodded and backed out of the room.

“Where’d you find her?” Vail said as the glass door clicked shut. “The latest Miss World pageant?”

“She’s tougher than you think. Lethal, in fact. Her beauty gets her close to HVTs,” DeSantos said, using the military acronym for high value targets. “Go on, Boychick. Who does the voice belong to?”

“When I was in Mossad, this guy was working with Hamas, smuggling rockets and mortars through the Sinai. He designed the network of tunnels they spent years building — sophisticated tunnels with reinforced cement walls, ventilation, electricity. They eventually built hundreds of them crisscrossing Gaza, stretching from the Egyptian border all the way into Israel.”

“Like the drug cartels,” Vail said, referring to their method of smuggling drugs from Mexico into San Diego.

DeSantos sat up straight. “Like the drug cartels. Ekrem’s intel — and NSA’s intercept — suggested Hezbollah might be working with the Cortez cartel. What if you’re right, Boychick? What if they showed Cortez how to build their tunnels?”

“Then we might have problems.” Rodman rose from his chair and walked over to the near wall, where a map of the United States was illuminated on one of the screens. Rodman said, “What if they’ve built a network of tunnels under the US?”

“It’s expensive and time-consuming,” Uzi said. He thought a bit, then added, “It’s possible to do because they build shafts inside other structures — warehouses, garages, houses — that eventually resurface inside another building on the other side of the border. If they do it well, the presence of equipment and the removal of dirt — and lots of water, because tunnels flood while they’re being built — isn’t really noticed. Still … it’s a tremendous amount of work. They’d need a really good reason to do that.”

DeSantos joined Rodman at the map. “Like moving one or more dirty bombs around the country without our sensors — which are now in a lot of US cities — picking them up?”

They were quiet while they pondered that. “Before we get too far down this road,” Vail said, “let’s back up. Uzi, you said you know this guy, the Gaza voice. How about a name, description, some background?”

“Kadir Abu Sahmoud.” Uzi rubbed at the stubble on his cheeks. “He’s probably about fifty now, bearded, dark complected, about five-nine. He’s a violent psychopath. As if that’s not bad enough, he’s a religious zealot who, like all extremists, interprets the Koran as a violent call to arms. We all know the type.”

“Got some stuff here,” Rodman said as he scrolled down a page on his laptop. “Comes from a well-to-do Palestinian family. Father a doctor, mother a lawyer. Discovered jihad when he killed a Jewish family in the Golan Heights as they farmed their watermelon patch. He was sixteen years old. With that multiple murder on his resume, he was asked to join Force 17 in Lebanon, as one of Yasser Arafat’s personal bodyguards. That was 1981.”

Rodman’s eyes moved across the screen. “A year later, Arafat’s PLO was forced to leave Lebanon — but Sahmoud stayed behind and joined Hezbollah. At nineteen he did some training in Iran under the Revolutionary Guard, where he was recruited by Hamas. He rose through the ranks quickly in the early to mid-1990s when he helped plan drive-by shootings and firebombings in Israel. Then the suicide bombings began, and he was one of the lead planners for the Afula attack, along with the bomb maker, Yahya Ayyash, when a teenager rammed a car packed with explosives into a commuter bus.

“Sahmoud disagreed with Hamas leadership a few years later and formed al Humat with Abu Hassanein, an equally violent former Hamas militant. Their first act was sending a youth into a school with a suicide vest. Fourteen kids were killed, sixty-nine were wounded. Seventeen lost limbs.”

“I’m already liking this guy as our prime suspect,” DeSantos said.

“I’ve seen all the general FBI briefings,” Vail said, “but I’m far from a Mideast expert. I know what I read in the papers about Hamas and al—”

“Bottom line,” Uzi said, “is that the extremists believe their purpose in life is to fight a holy war to kill the Jews and take over Israel. They don’t want a two-state solution. They want a one-state Islamist country.”

“And that’s the problem with Hamas and al Humat,” DeSantos said. “They shoot rockets into Israel knowing Israel has to retaliate. But Hamas uses women and children as human shields to show a large casualty count. Their operations manual explains the strategy and why it’s such an important tactic. The Gazans, meanwhile, are caught in the middle, used, abused, intimidated, and harassed. Hamas tells them that this jihad is Allah’s will. Instead of focusing on building a future for their people with infrastructure and jobs and commerce, they carry out terrorist attacks using militant violence.”

“You said their main purpose is to wage a holy war,” Vail said.

“Two groups, similar philosophies. Hamas has three branches: one provides funding for schools and health care, one deals with political and religious mandates. Then there’s a terrorism-based military unit that gathers information about Palestinians who’ve violated Islamic law and others who are informing for Israel. Their Izzedine al Qassam squads carry out the attacks. They’re organized into small, covert terror cells that operate independently of each other.

“Al Humat was born from Hamas and shares its religious and political views — violence aimed at destroying Israel and replacing it with an Islamic state. Its virulent hatred of Jews and Judaism is deeply rooted in the anti-Semitic writings of the Muslim Brotherhood — which is where Hamas got its start back in 1987. Hamas is a more militant Palestinian offshoot of the Muslim Brotherhood, and al Humat is a more militant offshoot of Hamas. Al Humat doesn’t dabble in politics. Its sole focus is the death and destruction of those who stand in the way of Sharia law.”

“Like the US,” Vail said.

“Like all civilized, democratic, western countries,” Uzi said. “Some of its leaders have gone on record saying that democracy is the exact opposite of Sharia law. When they talk about taking over Europe, they talk about converting everything and everyone to Islam. Because no other religion or belief structure can coexist with it.”

“That’s an important point right there,” DeSantos said. “This isn’t a regional issue. It’s not about what’s happening in Israel with Hamas and al Humat and Islamic Jihad and Hezbollah. This battle’s being fought in dozens of European cities. The scope is global — because their plans are global. And unless something’s done, Europe has about thirty years before it starts turning into a group of third world countries. It’ll fundamentally change the world. It’s the single biggest threat to democracy in modern times. Sharia law will set back civilized society centuries.”

“So that brings us back to Ekrem’s intel,” Uzi said. “Sounds like he was giving us good information about al Humat’s involvement.”

Rodman took his seat. “And that brings us back to Kadir Abu Sahmoud.”

“Yeah.” Uzi swallowed hard. “Sahmoud was the bastard who trained Batula Hakim.”

Vail knew — as did DeSantos and Rodman — that al Humat’s Batula Hakim was the terrorist who murdered Uzi’s wife and daughter eight years ago.

She also knew, without it needing to be stated, that if Sahmoud was in any way involved with the current plot, capturing Sahmoud would be a priority — and it had nothing to do with exacting justice. Knowing DeSantos, such a “capture” order may involve lethal force, as it did with Osama bin Laden.

Rodman glanced at the printed translation. “How sure are you that it was Sahmoud’s voice?”

Uzi pondered that for a few seconds, then said, “Not enough to hold up in a court of law. I think it is. But I’m not completely sure.”

“Let’s get a voiceprint analysis,” DeSantos said. “Do you think Mossad has a clip of Sahmoud on file?”

“Very likely. I’ll look into it.”

“The director general is in Washington,” DeSantos said, “meeting with Tasset this week.”

Uzi’s jaw muscles tensed. “I know.”

“You could just request a voiceprint through the usual channels within the CIA—”

“Better to go to the horse’s mouth. Faster, less bureaucracy. No filters.”

“But I’m sensing you don’t really want to deal with Aksel,” Vail said.

Uzi pulled his gaze away from DeSantos and took a seat. He leaned back and closed his eyes. “It’s complicated. Let’s just say that Gideon and I didn’t always agree on things. Oil and water personalities.”

DeSantos tilted his head. When Uzi did not elaborate, DeSantos added, “Among other things.”

“Then why don’t we just send the request over to Tasset and—”

“No.” Uzi was on his feet. “I’ll meet with Gideon.” He gathered his black leather jacket off the seat back and slung it over his shoulder. “I’ll let you know what I find out.”

9

Uzi met Mossad director general Gideon Aksel by the Delta security bollards at the west end of Pennsylvania Avenue, across from the Blair House. Because the street fronted the White House, it was under constant surveillance by the Secret Service and Metropolitan police. In fact, two white, blue, and red cruisers were parked in the middle of the roadway at forty-five degree angles to each other, a hundred yards ahead, opposite the White House lawn.

As Uzi approached, the four agents in the foreign dignitary Secret Service detail perked up. He held up his FBI creds and they relaxed — slightly.

“Gideon.”

Aksel tilted his head back and peered at Uzi through his glasses. But he did not return the greeting.

“Wearing glasses now, Gideon?”

“I’m getting old. Shit happens.”

A grin broke Uzi’s face. He surprised himself. Because of all the previous bad blood that existed between these two men, he had been dreading this meet. But it seemed to have gotten off to a nonthreatening start. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that Uzi had saved Aksel’s life a couple of years ago.

“How’s your hip?”

Aksel was a stocky man, about five foot eight, but exuded the body type and constitution of a tank — a battle hardened outer shell and something of a mystery inside.

“Just a flesh wound. I was fine.”

Uzi didn’t know if Aksel was playing off the famed Monty Python line — when the Black Knight had both arms chopped off and claimed it was “just a flesh wound”—or if he merely meant to play down the severity of the injury. Knowing Aksel’s toughness and pigheaded steadfastness, Uzi surmised it was likely the latter. At the same time, he knew the injury — a bullet wound to the hip — required surgery and substantial rehabilitation. But the Mossad chief was walking along the White House wrought iron fence and showing no signs of a limp.

“You said you need a favor.”

Uzi squinted. “I said I needed some help on a case.”

“Same thing.”

Uzi did not agree, but he did not want to get into another argument with Aksel. He stopped and faced the man. Behind them stood the front entrance to the White House, the small flower-rimmed fountain in the center of the expansive tree-dotted lawn.

“We captured a recording of two individuals, one here in DC and one in Gaza.”

“And you’re trying to ID the Gaza caller. You need a voiceprint match.”

“Actually, I need a biometric automatic voice analysis. And acoustic and phonetic analyses while you’re at it. I have to be sure about this.” Uzi handed Aksel a USB thumb drive. “If you know who the other voice is, the DC suspect, that’d be helpful too.”

“You could’ve handled this through the normal CIA-Mossad channels.”

“This is very important, Gideon. I didn’t want to trust it to lower-level analysts.”

Aksel studied Uzi’s face a moment, focusing on his eyes. “The explosion near 14th Street. That’s what this is about.”

Uzi’s face sagged — and he immediately realized he had already answered Aksel’s question. Then again, he didn’t know why he was surprised. Aksel had an uncanny ability to know things very few others knew, to put unrelated events together and to find significant commonalities that led to key intel — or an arrest. Uzi shifted the leather jacket on his shoulders. “I didn’t say that.”

“Oh, but you did, Uzi. You’ve always had that weakness.”

“Don’t start with me, Gideon.” He clenched his jaw, let the anger subside, and refocused. “Will you help us ID the voice?”

“Of course.”

Uzi glanced at the four men standing nearby. “Can you guys give us a little more space?”

They all seemed to glance at Aksel, who nodded. They backed up a few steps but maintained their formation.

“Have you heard any chatter about a collaboration between Hezbollah and the Mexican drug cartels?”

Aksel’s eyes narrowed. “That’s one of the reasons why I’m here in Washington. One of our men inside Hezbollah warned us a month ago that he heard a major cartel was making large sum payments into Hezbollah accounts. We’ve been trying to verify it.”

“All that money. In exchange for what?”

“We can speculate, but speculation isn’t actionable intelligence. One thing he said is that it sounded like this arrangement had been going on for some time. Years.”

Years? Uzi stepped closer and dropped his chin. “Have you heard anything about suicide bombers setting up shop in the US?”

Aksel’s face remained impassive, but he looked off into Lafayette Park, beyond Uzi’s left shoulder. “That’s the second reason for my trip to Washington. Be careful, Uzi, you’re coming close to impressing me.”

Uzi forced a grin. He was not going to let Aksel goad him into an argument. “When do you think you can get back to me on that recording?”

“I’ll have the lab get right on it.”

“Oh — whatever you find, the only people authorized are Knox, Tassett, and me. Don’t put it through normal channels. Is Roni still there? Can you give it to him?”

Aksel unfurled a handkerchief from his wool overcoat, removed his glasses and huffed on them, then wiped away the smudges. A long moment passed before he set them back on his nose and peered at Uzi with a tilted head. “I thought you gave up covert ops when you left Mossad.”

Uzi had no answer to that other than the truth. “So did I, Gideon.”

10

Uzi was standing in the Washington field office elevator with Vail and DeSantos when his phone rang.

“Whoa, hang on a sec, Hoshi. I’m in the building on my way up. Can it wait?” He glanced at the floor number. “Thirty seconds.”

“What’s the deal?” Vail asked as he dropped the phone back in his pocket.

“One of my task force agents. Something urgent.”

“How is Hoshi?” DeSantos asked with a wink.

“Why are you looking at me like that? She’s fine.”

“Yes, she is. Very fine.” He held his hands up. “Hey, you know she likes you, Boychick.”

The doors slid apart and they followed Uzi through the glass security doors and into the large open room where Hoshi’s cubicle was located.

“I remember you,” Hoshi said. “DeSantos. Hector.”

“Well, I prefer Hector DeSantos. No pauses between the names. But yeah, that’s me.”

“And I’m Karen Vail, BAU. I don’t think we’ve met.”

“Hoshi Koh. I’m Uzi’s right-hand man.” She glanced at Uzi, then added, “So to speak.” Hoshi grabbed a set of headphones and handed them to Uzi. “This call just came through. I took it and started recording as soon as I realized what the guy was talking about. I missed the first ten seconds.” She struck a few keys on her computer and Uzi listened, then said, “Okay, stop. Send this to my desktop.” He motioned Vail and DeSantos to follow him into his office.

They stepped inside and Vail closed the door. Uzi sat down at his desk and turned on the two speakers. He pressed play and the recording started: “… long you think you can pull off this charade about calling it a gas main explosion.”

“Sir, I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.”

Hoshi’s voice.

“You the fucking FBI? The Joint Terrorism Task Force?”

“Yes sir. You said you had information for us on—”

“I want to talk to someone who’s in charge.”

“You can talk with me. I’m in a position of authority. I’m a supervisory special agent.”

“Not good enough. I’m going to call back in twenty minutes. If you don’t put me through to someone in charge, you and your FBI are going to be sorry.”

The recording stopped.

A knock at the door, and Hoshi appeared. “Assuming he’s punctual, he’ll be calling in about seven minutes.”

“What tipped you off?” Vail asked. “Why’d you start recording?”

“The first thing he said to me was, ‘I have information about the bombing last night.’”

“Let’s be ready to record when he calls again.”

“That sounds like the same voice,” Vail said.

“Same voice?” Hoshi asked.

Uzi glanced at DeSantos. “Uh, can you give us a moment, Hoshi?”

She stepped back. “Uh, yeah. Sure.”

DeSantos turned to Vail. “No one is—”

“Yeah, yeah. Got it. Sorry.”

“Yes,” Uzi said. “Same voice. So how do you want to play this?”

“See if we can find out why he’s doing this, what his plans are, and who he is.”

DeSantos stifled a laugh. “We should just ask him? And you think he’s going to tell us?”

“He’ll tell us,” Vail said. “Maybe not everything, but he’ll want us to know who’s behind it and why they’re doing it. They know we’re going to find out sooner or later, so why play games? Remember, they’re not afraid of us.”

Uzi checked his watch. “They’re not afraid of dying, that’s for sure.”

“Except for the guys in charge,” Vail said. “They don’t want to die. They claim it’s because they need to stay alive to play quarterback and continue the cause. But everyone below them is expendable.”

The light on Uzi’s phone console lit up. He stabbed at the line button.

“He’s on,” Hoshi said. “I’m recording and running a trace.”

“Got it.” Uzi pressed the line button. “This is Agent … Shepard, special agent in charge of the FBI Joint Terrorism Task Force. Who am I talking with?”

“You’re talking with the people responsible for the explosion last night.” The voice was accented, confident — almost cocky.

“Do you have a name?”

“Tell me something, Agent Shepard. Does the FBI really think it was a gas main that blew up?”

“You know the answer to that question,” Uzi said.

“How many of these are you going to be able to explain away?”

“How many attacks are you planning?”

“Tell you what. Why don’t we help you out and go public on al Jazeera and then everyone will know you were hiding the fact you’re under attack.”

“I’m still waiting for your name. You know we’re going to find out sooner or later.”

“Then it will be later.”

Uzi glanced at Vail. It was a telling look letting her know she got it wrong. “What do you want?”

“You call us terrorists. So it’s obvious, isn’t it? We want terror. But that’s so simplistic. Here’s the truth: some of us want to kill the infidels. Some want revenge for how you treat and defile Islam. We don’t all agree on what we want — except for one thing: all of us want the Jews out of Palestine. We don’t want a two-state solution. We want it all, all the land. Jews will not be allowed to own even one square meter.”

Uzi shook his head, threw a quick glance at Vail and DeSantos. “And you think that suicide attacks in the US will help you, how?

“Some of us enjoy killing. And like I said, some want revenge. Me? I like seeing fear, I like seeing the mighty America crumbling, cowering in fear. Like on 9/11. When the towers fell, hundreds of thousands of my people danced in the streets.”

Scumbag. I look forward to meeting you someday. In a dark alley.

“I remember,” Uzi said. “I watched your celebration on TV.”

“And I want to see your talking heads shouting at one another on your stupid news channels. I want to create division in your country. But it’s not a fair fight. You’re all so brainwashed by your freedoms and democracy that you’ve got 300 million opinions, all convinced you’re right. Your political system is corrupt, bought by lobbyists.”

“Sounds like you’ve got a long list of things you don’t like about us.”

“What do I want, Agent Shepard of the FBI Joint Terrorism Task Force? I want to expose your country for what it is. I want to destroy your economy. I want to bring you to your knees.”

“How about we get together over a beer, talk this out?”

DeSantos and Vail looked at Uzi.

The man laughed. “That would make your job too easy.”

“No, seriously. We can meet at your safe house in southwest DC.”

There was silence.

“Listen to me, Kadir. Mind if I call you that? We both know how this is going to play out. You’re gonna set off some bombs, innocent people are gonna die, and you’ll celebrate for killing the nonbelievers. But then we’re gonna track you down and send a Hellfire missile crashing into your car. Or your house. So why don’t you and I meet and we can settle this, man to man?”

“‘Innocent people’? There are no innocent people in America. You are all infidels! And you’re going to die for your sins against Allah. You get fat earning your money, stuffing your faces, and flaunting your cars and houses. You’re comfortable moving about the streets without a worry. That’s going to end. You will be afraid. Afraid to go outside, afraid to be inside, not knowing when someone in your market will blow up, when someone in a movie theater will blow up. When a student in school is going to blow himself up, when someone in the subway is going to blow herself up. You call us terrorists. You’re right. Because if there’s one thing we know well, it’s how to terrorize. Remember that.”

The line went dead.

Uzi sat down heavily.

“That went exceedingly well,” Vail said.

Uzi’s head snapped up. “You think so?”

“No.”

DeSantos shrugged. “At least we know where we stand with him. He hates us.”

Vail rolled her eyes.

“I think it’s safe to say we’re dealing with Kadir Abu Sahmoud. He was shaken when I called him Kadir.”

“I’m going to inform Knox,” DeSantos said, pulling out his phone.

Uzi’s Lumia rang. He answered it, listened a moment, and said, “Thank you. I appreciate it … No, I’m not surprised.” Uzi laid it on the desk and sat down heavily. “That was Gideon Aksel. Positive confirmation on the voiceprint. It’s Sahmoud. Don’t know yet about the other person on the call.” Uzi sighed, then said, “Do you think I shouldn’t have revealed that we know who he is?”

Vail took a seat opposite Uzi. “I can make a case for handling it both ways. Obviously there are more risks in telling him we know his identity. But there are so many variables in this thing that I don’t think there’s a right or wrong answer. If he’s a psychopath, it won’t freak him out. It may’ve surprised him, but he recovered quickly. A guy like that, you might try to build him up next time, tell him how great he is, how impressed with him you are, how he’s been able to set up these cells without our knowledge. Make it real or he’ll see through it. He might bite. It’ll feed his ego and he’ll eventually make a mistake. Can’t guarantee it’d work, but you never know.”

DeSantos’s phone vibrated and he consulted the display. “Knox is on his way over.”

“Bottom line,” Vail continued, “is that the more we engage him, the more conversations we have with him, the better. We might be able to pull some forensics from something he says, a background noise. It’s better than not having any contact with him at all. You’ve started a relationship with him. That’s a positive.”

Hoshi knocked, then pushed the door open.

“You get anything?” Uzi asked.

“He used cloud bouncing.”

“You’re kidding me.”

Vail looked at Uzi, then DeSantos, who shrugged. “Cloud bouncing?”

“There are services that route calls and internet to other clouds, removing identity and routing randomly. It’s the latest in obfuscation. Good for baddies, bad for goodies.”

“So, in English,” Vail said, “the trace didn’t work.”

“Come in, Hoshi.” Uzi gestured at the door. “And close it.”

It clicked shut. Hoshi scanned their faces, shoulders tense. “What’s going on?”

“There are some things I can’t tell you. You’re just going to have to trust me. Are you okay with that?”

“Did you seriously just ask me if I trust you?”

“Fair enough.” Uzi reached into his drawer and pulled out a toothpick, studied it a second and then popped it between his lips. “You heard the phone call so you have an idea of who I was talking to and what’s going on. This involves the explosion last night — which I know you already figured out.”

“Thanks for giving me some credit.”

“Kadir Abu Sahmoud is mixed up in this. As you heard, he’s planning attacks on the country.”

“So you want me to—”

“I want you to keep it quiet. This is not to be discussed with anyone. Including Shepard and the rest of the task force. Can you do that?”

Hoshi’s face scrunched in confusion. “We’re the JTTF and Sahmoud is a major terrorist on our Ten Most Wanted who’s about to launch suicide bombings on the United States. And you don’t want anyone on the task force to know about it? Or our boss?”

“That’s right.”

Vail had to laugh. “I’m sorry. It sounds just as bad when you say it.”

“You’re not helping,” Uzi said to Vail.

“We’ll eventually lift the veil on what’s going on,” DeSantos said. “We just need some time.”

Hoshi thought a moment, then nodded. “Just don’t get me fired, okay?”

Uzi gave her what looked to be a strained, almost pained smile. “Of course.”

After she left, Vail turned to DeSantos. “Lift the veil? You trying to be funny?”

He shrugged. “Best I had at the moment. It was awkward.”

“Whole thing’s awkward. She’s right — that’s why we have a JTTF. We should be using every member on that task force — and dozens more.”

“Leave it be,” DeSantos said. “If that’s what the president wants, that’s what we do. We’re just soldiers in a bigger war. There’s stuff we don’t know. There always is.”

“Nice digs you got here.” Vail glanced around the room. “You said you wanted us to come to your office so you could give us something.”

“Right.” Uzi rose from his chair and went over to a bookcase against the wall. It was filled with a number of objects including a couple of framed photos of a woman and a young girl.

His slain wife and daughter. A pang of pain struck Vail deep in her stomach.

To the left of the pictures sat a Lucite block encasing what looked like a computer chip and an Intel logo above an inscription recognizing Uzi for his work on the Pentium 4 processor. A bullet-holed canteen lay on its side, a worn olive military canvas pouch covering its bottom half.

Uzi moved a couple of other items aside and revealed a very dangerous-looking knife.

“I know what that is,” DeSantos said. “You kept it.”

“You told me to put it on my bookshelf.”

DeSantos winked. “That I did.”

“I don’t know what it is.” Vail looked from DeSantos to Uzi.

“The Tanto I used to kill the piece of shit who murdered Dena and Maya.” He handed it to Vail, who hesitated. “Go ahead. I had Tim Meadows get the blood off for me. He used some kind of industrial crime scene cleaner.”

“That’s okay. I’m good just looking at it.”

“Take it,” he said, holding it closer in front of her. “It’s yours.”

“Mine?” Vail reached out and wrapped her fingers around the handle. She had to admit, it was beautifully balanced. It felt powerful.

Uzi took the leather case and slipped it over her head.

“Boychick. You can’t give Karen a knife like that without teaching her how to use it.”

“Way ahead of you. After London, Cooper and I gave her some private lessons.”

“Cooper’s the best,” DeSantos said. “Do you remember what they taught you?”

Vail turned the knife, examining its edge, the walnut handle and inlaid chrome design. “More or less. I sparred a few times with an instructor at the academy.”

DeSantos snorted. “Yeah, well, it’s like training drills in the shooting house. You need to become so comfortable with the knife it’s like an extension of your arm.”

“Very Zen of you, Hector. Who would’ve thought.”

“I’m not joking. Knife fighting is close quarters combat. There’s very little room for error. One cut and you’re dead. But forget the knife. If you’re in close quarters combat, unless you know who you’re up against, you don’t know his skill level. And the really skilled fighters are so good, they’re so lethal, don’t even need a knife. Their hands are their weapons.”

“Most important thing?” Uzi asked, playing the role of teacher.

“Not getting killed?” Vail said.

DeSantos reached over and took the Tanto from her. “I don’t think you should give this to her, Uzi.”

“Hey.” Vail slapped DeSantos’s forearm with the back of her hand. “Don’t get all bent out of shape. I know the most important thing: not having it taken from you.”

DeSantos bowed his head. “Yes, just like your Glock. Same principle.”

Uzi took the Tanto from DeSantos and placed it back in Vail’s hand.

Robby is not going to like this. She slipped it into the leather sheath — but because of her anatomy it did not fit as well as it did on Uzi. She would have to wear it elsewhere.

The door opened and a tan-suited Marshall Shepard stepped in. He paused in the entry, eyed Vail, Uzi — and then DeSantos. His gaze lingered on DeSantos.

“Shep. You remember Karen Vail of the BAU and Hector DeSan—”

“Oh, yeah, I remember Mr. DeSantos.” His expression twisted into a frown as the two made eye contact. But when his gaze settled on the Tanto around Vail’s neck, he tilted his head and said, “Mind explaining what’s going on here?”

Vail gestured to the bookshelf. “Uzi was showing us his collection of—”

“Tchotchkes,” DeSantos said. He glanced at Uzi and lifted his brow.

Shepard stood there working it through, then folded both arms across his chest. “You people take me for a fool? Uzi, I expected more of you.”

DeSantos’s phone rumbled again.

“Shep, please. Don’t jump to conclusions.”

“Let’s step back for a second. There’s an explosion downtown that no one at DC Metro seems to know anything about. And District Gas has no reports of a gas main explosion. That doesn’t add up. You don’t seem to be particularly concerned — and we both know with your background, you should be all over this like peanut butter on bread. But you’re pretty laid back about it. That doesn’t add up, either.”

“I can see why you’re—”

“Shut up. I’m not done.” He cleared his throat. “Sorry to be boring you, Mr. DeSantos. Put the phone away while I’m talking.”

DeSantos squinted as he slipped the handset back in his pocket.

“Koh looks like she’s on pins and needles,” Shepard said, “and when I ask her to check on something for me, she says she’s in the middle of something for you, Uzi, and she’ll get to it ASAP. Excuse me? I say. You’re talking to your ASAC. She apologizes, then says to give her a few minutes. So I do that — and when I come back, she says she can’t talk about it, that I need to talk to you. Then I walk in here and I see Hector DeSantos, a man who works God knows where, whose cover with the Department of Defense is as shady as a Mulberry tree in the middle of the White House lawn. Oh — and let’s not forget the call from the director’s office.”

“That call,” DeSantos said, “should be enough for you to back off.”

Shepard took a couple of steps toward DeSantos. “You will address me appropriately, Mr. DeSantos, or you can get the hell out of my building.”

DeSantos’s right eye twitched.

Defuse this, Karen. Now. Even if playing mediator is not your strength.

“Look,” Vail said, raising both hands. “We shouldn’t be fighting each other. We all have jobs to do and we’re just trying to do them.”

“Really?” Shepard said, stepping closer to the circle. “Uzi has a job — working for me. You have a job too — but I bet if I call your ASAC, Agent Gifford will tell me you’re not working for him right now, that the director told him you were on special assignment.”

Uzi’s phone buzzed. He pulled it from his pocket, glanced at the screen, and said, “Shep, I need to take this.” Without waiting for permission, he answered the call. “Yes. Yes sir, Mr. Director.” He held out the Lumia toward Shepard, who hesitated, then snatched it up.

“Marshall Shepard.” His large lips thinned, his face tightening in anger. “Yes. I understand. I’ll be here.” He hung up and handed the cell back to Uzi. “He’s on his way up to meet with us.”

They stood there staring at the floor, the walls, the ceiling, their fingers … no one speaking — until the door opened and Douglas Knox entered.

11

Knox stood in the modest-size office, the lines in his face deeper, his complexion grayer than last they saw him.

“Agent Shepard and I will talk privately in a moment,” he said, his dark tone mirroring the long look he gave Shepard. “But we need to address the current situation. Brief me on the conversation with Kadir Abu Sahmoud.”

I know better than to ask how Knox knew about a conversation that just happened.

Uzi summarized the exchange as Knox began to pace. He absorbed the information in stride, his face expressionless.

“I’d like to recommend we go public with this before they do,” Vail said. “We should control the message.”

Knox did not reply, but he nodded at DeSantos.

“We bought some time to get a handle on things,” DeSantos said, “which I assume was the idea behind being black. We now know what, and who, we’re dealing with. Now when we release a statement, we’ll sound like we know what’s going on. Less chance of a panic.”

Knox stopped, considered his comments, and said, “Agent Uziel?”

“Raise the threat level and mobilize the task force. I can have them up to speed in thirty minutes. There was no evidence of nuclear material in the safe house or the bomb-making factory we raided. But given their work in Gaza building tunnels, and Hamas being a proxy for Iran, and Iran having nuclear material, and al Humat residing in the same neighborhood as Hamas … I think we should pay close attention to our radiation sensors deployed in major cities. And maybe even get some more of the mobile units on the streets of DC, New York, Chicago, San Francisco, Los Angeles.”

Knox resumed pacing. “A lot of connect-the-dots there, Agent Uziel. But I agree. I’ll make the case to the president.” He stopped, turned, and faced them, then set his gaze on Uzi. “Are we overlooking al Qaeda?”

Uzi thought a moment. “I don’t see their fingerprints on this, sir. A few years ago AQ was funding a number of al Humat’s activities, but I think they’ve outgrown that dependence. No, I think for once AQ doesn’t have its hands dirty here.”

“I agree. But if your assessment changes, I want to know ASAP.” He turned to Shepard. “Anything to add?”

Shepard looked like he had plenty to say but kept his mouth shut. “No sir.”

Knox rocked back on his heels. “Sounds like we have a plan of action. I’m having a dossier assembled on Sahmoud. You’ll have it in half an hour. Assuming the president agrees, you can disseminate it to your task force.”

“Anything on the three who escaped when we raided the safe house?” Uzi asked.

“On my way over here I was given the names of two men identified by Interpol based on fingerprints lifted from the townhouse: forty-three-year-old Tahir Aziz, co-conspirator in the Madrid bombing who’s been active in recruiting Dutch youths for the war in Syria, and thirty-nine-year-old Esmail Ghazal, who helped plan the Paris Métro bombings in ’95.”

“So these are seriously bad dudes,” DeSantos said. “And we had them.”

“I emailed each of you photos Interpol had on file.”

They reached for their phones simultaneously. Vail pulled up the pictures and committed them to memory. “Surveillance photos? From when?”

“Ghazal from two years ago and Aziz from six years ago,” Knox said. “An important question for DHS to answer is how they got into the US without setting off alarms. Director Bolten is handling that. And I—”

The door swung open and Hoshi stuck her head in. “Sir — sirs, there’s been an explosion at Metro Center.”

“Casualties?” Vail asked.

“Don’t know yet. Comms are down, not all the cameras are operating. Metro PD and first responders are en route and I just dispatched a team.”

Uzi, Vail, and DeSantos started for the door.

“Have a car ready for us downstairs,” Uzi said. “We’re on our way.”

12

Vail jumped from Uzi’s Tahoe SUV, which he parked on F Street near 12th Street NW. The three of them ran across the wide avenue toward the vertical brown landmark Metro Center Station sign and underneath the open skeletal structure of the office building that rose above the district’s second busiest subway station.

People were streaming out, running up the stairs and escalators, fighting amongst one another, pushing forward and climbing over others who had fallen in the surge to evacuate.

Jesus, they’re freaking out. Just like Sahmoud said. Just like I said … people afraid of when — and where — the next explosion would come. He’ll be looking for news reports and uploaded smartphone videos on YouTube and Facebook.

“He’s probably got one or more guys onsite,” Vail said, “filming, gauging our response. You see anyone who’s too calm or seems more interested in watching or recording it than getting their butts out of danger, check ’em out.”

They struggled to move against the tide, trying to get down into the belly of the station.

It did not take long for them to see the devastation. The previously majestic arching eggshell colored ceilings were charred black. Emergency lights were on but were glary and too few in number. Plenty of them had been damaged and were out of commission.

Large chunks of the brick concourse were lifted up, carved away by the force of the impact. Most tellingly, five cars were derailed, forming a jagged line one in front of another. Dozens of metal ball bearings lay scattered about the wreckage.

A smoky pall hovered in the air above the damaged trains. First responders were setting up Jaws of Life to pry open twisted doors, taking axes to the windows, and helping passengers to safety. The flow of people toward the exits was constant, bottlenecks occurring at the lower platform areas where the masses funneled into the narrow escalators.

Vail stopped along the elevated bridge between tracks and looked out among the commuters, tourists, businesspeople, children … searching for the two middle-aged men featured in the photos they had been given.

Wait — is that Ghazal? She leaned forward, saw what appeared to be one of her suspects, and headed toward his location.

She pushed her way down the escalator until she hit the platform. But all she saw was the back of his head, bobbing up and down as he went.

Is that the same guy? Black jacket, dark hair, about five foot ten.

Vail wished she had a radio to alert Uzi and DeSantos — because as she moved in the man’s direction, he was headed away from her. And given that he was not near one of the exits, there were fewer people there, allowing him to move faster without running.

Vail fought forward, reached a clearing, and sprinted around broken chunks of concrete, metal, glass, and brick. She lost sight of him for a second — stopped, glanced left, then right — and found him. She tackled him from behind and took him down hard. His shoulder slammed into a canted section of cement and she landed atop him.

But it was not Ghazal.

“What’s wrong with you,” the man said, pushing at her face with his free hand. “Get the hell off me!”

Vail gathered herself and stood up, glanced around — and saw Ghazal, looking back at her, apparently thinking he had given her the slip.

Not so fast, asshole.

She took off in his direction, pulled her Glock — and then immediately cursed. There was no way she could use her handgun in a crowded Metro station.

“FBI. Stop!” In that fleeting second, she realized she had been reduced to the impotence her unarmed British comrades experienced when chasing a suspect. Stop! Or I’ll yell ‘stop’ again.

The only question she had was if Ghazal was carrying. He would not hesitate to fire a weapon in a densely populated area. That would fit well with his goal of death and destruction.

That was a moot point because his only escape route was into the crowd of people still trying to exit the station. If he was going to turn and start shooting, he would have done it already.

But is he wired with explosives?

She remembered the bio Knox had given them — albeit extremely lacking in detail: Aziz and Ghazal were planners, not suicide bombers. They let the young, foolish, disenfranchised followers blow themselves up. These assholes were the “brains”; they did not want to die. They pulled the strings on the tactics, not the explosives.

Vail closed the gap and was only about ten feet behind him. She sliced between two men in suits, nearing the end of the escalator.

Gotta get him before he reaches to the top. If he makes it out of the station, we’ll lose him.

As he hit the last step, Vail extended her left arm over a woman’s shoulder and grabbed Ghazal’s collar. He tried to wrestle free but it was difficult in a crowd because he was fighting the bodies all around him in addition to the one behind him, which happened to be yanking him backwards with tremendous determination.

Vail maneuvered her Glock against Ghazal’s temple. “FBI,” she said loud enough for everyone in the area to hear. “Esmail Ghazal, you’re under arrest.”

But like a running back in the grasp of two defenders, he kept pushing forward, twisting, squirming. “What are you gonna do? Shoot me?”

“Give me a reason.” She dug the pistol’s barrel into his skin.

He stopped struggling and she pulled cuffs from her belt. “Down on the ground.” Vail followed him to the floor as people streamed around them. She stuck her knee in his back and ratcheted the restraints around his wrists as her Samsung vibrated.

She shifted her weight and, keeping pressure on Ghazal’s spine, she reached for her new Bureau-issued Samsung Galaxy. She was still getting used to the larger device and fumbled it, sending it clanking to the floor. Great, Karen. Smash the screen on the shiny new smart phone. Good way to endear myself with my unit chief. She picked it up and was relieved to see it was still in one piece.

Text from Robby.

She wrote back:

She was about to reholster the phone when Robby’s response buzzed:

What? Vail’s chest tightened, her ribcage constricting as if a cobra was snaking around her torso.

For a split second, her mind went blank. Then: how the hell am I gonna find him? Is he okay? He was a student at George Washington University, so naturally he traveled around DC on the Metro. It was one of the advantages of going to college in a city with an extensive mass transit system. And aside from Union Station, Metro Center was the system hub.

She typed back:

While she awaited the answer — hoping Robby had the answer — she visually searched the station’s interior, trying to locate her son.

She swung her gaze back over her shoulder. Was he in a derailed car or one that was on another track? Metro shut down all traffic in and out of the station as soon as they got word of the explosion, meaning all nearby trains were immobile.

Vail stood up and pulled on Ghazal’s forearm. “C’mon, asshole, get up.”

She held up her creds and repeatedly shouted, “FBI, out of my way!” and like Moses, parted the sea of people and made it back down to the platform. Realizing she would have to drag Ghazal through the area of devastation, she thought instead of cuffing him to a fixed metal post or railing — when her phone rang.

Jonathan.

“Mom, I’m okay. I tried calling you before, but the call wouldn’t go through. I sent a text—”

“I know, Robby told me. You sure you’re okay? Where are you?”

“I’m fine, I’m outside the police blockade they just put up. Near F and 12th.”

“Stay right there, I’m coming out of the station.”

Vail emerged from the metro where she, Uzi, and DeSantos had entered before they split up. She saw Uzi standing near his Tahoe, phone pressed against his ear.

She brought her prisoner to him and said, “Ghazal. Hang onto him. I gotta go look into something. Give me a few minutes.”

Uzi’s brow rose and he shifted his phone to take custody of the handcuffed man. “Hoshi, we’ve got Ghazal. Call you back.”

Vail headed for the police barrier Jonathan had mentioned — and then saw him beside a Metro officer, chatting him up. To his credit, the cop was doing his best to maintain crowd control while keeping Jonathan engaged.

“Sweetie,” she said as she hugged him. “When I got Robby’s text …” She pushed away and held him at arm’s length. “I was so worried.”

“We were just coming into the station when I felt the car shake. It was like an earthquake or something. It kind of jumped off the tracks but we weren’t going very fast. They finally got the doors open and we evacuated.”

She hugged him again.

“What happened? What caused the explosion?”

“Can’t say. But since I’m here with Uzi and Hector DeSantos …” She winked. “Figure it out.”

His jaw went slack. Before he could ask any more questions, she said, “You going back to class?”

“I–I guess so. Unless they cancel it.” Which they’d definitely do once they figure out what’s going on.

An ambulance screamed down F Street and stopped a few feet ahead of a fire engine.

Jonathan turned to her. “Is there — is there anything I should do? Anywhere I should go? Anywhere I should avoid?”

She wished she had something to tell him. But that was the point with these types of terror attacks: there were no safe places. All she could come up with was, “Avoid crowded, popular areas.”

He scrunched his face. “You serious? In DC? How am I supp—”

“I don’t know. I–I’m working on it.”

Vail gave him a peck on the cheek, then headed back toward Uzi while jotting off a quick text to Robby letting him know she saw Jonathan and that he was safe. As safe as one can be with suicide bombers setting off explosives around town.

“Nice work,” Uzi said as she got into the SUV. Ghazal was in the backseat, flexcuffs securing his ankles together and his wrists to the door.

“Where we going?”

Uzi turned over the engine. “To get some answers.”

They pulled into the undisclosed location that, according to Uzi, was known only to a handful of operatives — and until sixty minutes ago, that exclusive list did not even include himself.

They had injected Ghazal with a mild sedative supplied by Rodman on the side of the road, just outside the district. They blindfolded their prisoner, then with Rodman seated beside him, they drove an hour into a sparsely populated area of Spotsylvania County. During the ride, Vail had an opportunity to read through a dossier Knox and Tasset had assembled on Ghazal and Aziz. It was incomplete, but she hoped it would be helpful.

From the exterior, the building was a nondescript, cheaply constructed tilt-up warehouse with a loading dock in the rear and a faded black-and-white aluminum sign that read, Newman Industries. Uzi pulled the SUV into the parking lot, which was well shielded by hedges, shrubs, and trees.

Inside, however, after passing through a solid steel door, the structure was a highly secured lockdown facility.

Uzi, Vail, and Rodman led their prisoner along a cinderblock lined corridor. DeSantos was waiting at the end, arms folded across his chest.

“I don’t like the road we’re headed down,” Vail said. “Been there. Done that. Didn’t enjoy it.”

They handed off Ghazal to two stocky men in jeans and sweatshirts, who took him inside an adjacent room.

“What happened in London was extraordinary because of the circumstances,” DeSantos said. “We’re on US soil here. This is going to be an interrogation, but it’s going to be clean.”

Vail knew that “clean” was a relative term; she took it to mean that they would only use standard interrogation methods, nothing that would cross the line. That said, with the known threat of imminent attacks hanging over the country, just how aggressive they got depended on how close DeSantos felt they were to the information — and if he felt Ghazal was holding back. She and Uzi were bound by procedure and law. DeSantos was not.

Vail and Uzi walked into the room, where DeSantos had already gotten started. Rodman remained outside to observe.

Their prisoner was seated at a stainless steel table that was bolted to the cement floor, Ghazal’s wrists secured to a thick ring in the center of the sparse, metal surface. Two rather conspicuous cameras were mounted on the walls.

“There’s no point in denying involvement here,” DeSantos was saying as they entered. “We saw you at the safe house. We’ve got your fingerprints there.”

“You know nothing,” he said in heavily accented English.

DeSantos laughed. “That’s why we’re sitting here in this room. Because there are things we don’t know. Things we want to know.”

“There’s also a lot we do know,” Vail said. “We know about Sahmoud. We’ve talked to him.”

Ghazal’s eyes narrowed. That was apparently news to him. Good; keep him guessing. Throwing him off balance increased his unease, made him less sure of himself.

Uzi stepped in front of the table. “Look, asshole. We’re not interested in wasting time. Tell us where and when the next attack is gonna be.”

Ghazal seemed to consider that for a moment. “I don’t know. That’s the truth. Sahmoud and — we’re given orders two hours in advance. We do what we’re told.”

“We know you’re one of the planners,” DeSantos said. “So cut the bullshit of being out of the loop.”

“I plan, yes. But they decide when it’s gonna be. I always plan for a lot of targets but they choose which ones.”

“Who else is working with Sahmoud?” Uzi asked.

“No one.”

“Bullshit. Who is it?”

“If Sahmoud wants you to know, you’ll know. You’re not going to get that from me. I don’t care what you do to me; this is not something I will tell.”

Vail glanced at DeSantos. She could tell by his smirk that he was willing to bet money against Ghazal’s last proclamation.

“We’ve been analyzing the explosives and paraphernalia in your bomb-making factory.” Uzi paused, then said, “We also found sniper rifles. That makes us think this isn’t a one-dimensional attack.”

When did he find out about the sniper rifles? When he was on the phone with Hoshi? Why didn’t he tell me?

Ghazal smiled.

Uzi studied his face a moment. “What do you think you’re going to get from launching these attacks?”

“We’re fighting the enemy. Infidels, nonbelievers. Anyone who is not Muslim. Anyone who does not follow the laws of Allah. Anyone who does not follow Sharia law.”

Vail came up alongside Uzi, gently nudged him aside, and took a seat opposite Ghazal. She had an idea. She twisted in the seat and looked at Uzi and DeSantos. “Would you two mind giving me some time?”

They hesitated, but clearly not wanting to break their unified front — and trusting Vail’s sensibilities — left the room.

When the door thumped shut, she turned back to Ghazal. “Sharia law is all that matters.”

Ghazal nodded.

“Okay,” Vail said, “I get that. See, I’ve studied Islam. There are some wonderful things in the Koran.”

Ghazal looked at Vail, a look that said he was unsure of what to make of her, of where she was going. Trying to determine why she was being nice to him.

Truth is, Vail wanted to ram her fist into his nose, then gut his stomach with the Tanto Uzi had given her. This bastard had killed innocent men, women, and children whose only “crime” was being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Well, that and the fact that they did not have the same religious beliefs as him and his ilk.

Vail pushed the animosity from her thoughts. There was no place for it right now. Later, maybe. But not now.

“Was Tahir with you at Metro Center?”

“No. He’s busy with other things.”

“You were only there to observe, right? To make sure the plan you set out went the way it was supposed to go. And if your martyr did not have the courage to set off his vest, you had the failsafe, the switch, to detonate remotely. Right?”

Ghazal nodded.

“Sahmoud told us about the dirty bomb.”

Ghazal’s mouth dropped open.

She made a huge guess — and based on Ghazal’s raw reaction, she hit pay dirt. “I’m concerned about that,” Vail said. “Because we’re not talking about a hundred people dead in a Metro station. We’re talking about thousands of deaths, if not more. And a significant portion of a city left uninhabitable.”

“That is not my concern.”

Vail pursed her lips. “Depends on how you look at it. If you’re nearby when it goes off, you’ll be poisoned too. And your job is to plan the attacks, not be martyred. There are others for that.”

Ghazal did not object.

“Were you involved in planning the release of the dirty bomb?”

Ghazal dropped his gaze to the table.

“Esmail, I’m pragmatic. We can’t stop the attack. You know that. I know that. But I have a son who’s innocent in your jihad—”

“There are no innocents in America.”

Vail shook her head disapprovingly. “I know that’s the line. I know that’s what you’re brainwashed into believing. But my son is a believer. He’s been asking about converting to Islam. That’s why I know about the Koran and the beauty it contains. He and I discuss it almost every night. He’s not an infidel.”

Sell it, Karen, keep steady eye contact.

Ghazal leaned back and nodded approvingly. “Then he can be a martyr. If he dies for our cause, that is a great honor.”

Dammit, you asshole, I need to find a way to reach you. Connect with you.

“You have a daughter,” she said, subtly changing tactics. “I know that as a father you’re just looking for her to have the good things in life.” Truth was, Vail knew that these extremists did not value the lives of their children the same way Americans did. But she was trying to reach Ghazal on a level he was unaccustomed to being talked to. It was bad enough he was being questioned by a woman in power. If she could appeal to him as a mother would appeal to her child, she might, perhaps, be able to access some humane part of him he had buried long ago.

He again looked down at the table. “This has nothing to do with my daughter.”

“I’m asking you to spare the life of my son. I would do the same for your daughter. Just tell me where the dirty bomb is being deployed, what city. I understand you don’t know when it’s going to be set off. But if I know it’s going to be in DC, I’ll send my son to friends of his in New York City.”

Ghazal’s eyes rose from the table and met Vail’s stare. “That would not be a good idea.” He held her gaze.

Vail could not help but swallow deeply.

Holy shit, he just confirmed my suspicions about the dirty bomb and where it’s going to be launched.

She refocused. “Thank you. As a parent. I—” She allowed some tears to flow into her eyes. “I thank you for your decency. Is there anything else you can tell me about the dirty bomb? How powerful is it?”

“I told you enough. That question has nothing to do with the safety of your son.”

Vail licked her bottom lip. “Fair enough. Are you planning any more attacks here in DC?”

“The odds are in your son’s favor. We should leave it at that.”

“So no more suicide bombings are planned for DC.”

Ghazal shrugged.

What the hell did that mean? Asked and answered? Or, “You said that, not me.”

“Because we’ve captured your cache of explosives?”

He snorted, a contemptuous outburst. “That will not stop us. I think you are smart enough to figure out why.”

Yeah, I guess I am. They’ve got other stashes. Or ways of getting more without us knowing.

“Where are your smuggling tunnels located?”

He kinked his head to the side, a look that said, “Did you really think I’d answer that?”

A knock at the door nearly made her jump.

Vail got up from her seat and walked into the corridor. Uzi was there alongside one of the large men she had seen when they first arrived. Uzi led her into a room across the hall.

As the door clicked closed, DeSantos turned away from the wall of monitors, which showed high resolution color images of Ghazal’s face and body from multiple angles. She had only seen two cameras, but apparently there were more embedded in the walls and table. Another screen, where Rodman sat, showed the man’s blood pressure and heart rate. Impressive.

“Nice work in there,” DeSantos said.

“Have you notified the JTTF in Manhattan?”

“I called my contact at the National Counterterrorism Center,” Uzi said. “But there’s not much to go on.”

DeSantos glanced back at the monitors. “We’re not really sure what we’ve got. They weren’t direct admissions.”

Vail felt blood rushing to her face. “What are you talking about? He has no motivation to feed us bullshit. He’s not giving us locations. He’s not telling us when. He was responding to indirect questions, on a level jihadists aren’t used to — his defenses are lower. He’s talking to a woman in a position of power — which he probably isn’t used to, either. I took him out of his element, which, again, is going to lower his defenses. I think on the scale of reliable intel, what he told us is pretty damn good.”

Uzi scratched at his temple. “I can’t disagree.”

“In terms of his body language,” DeSantos said, “I think you’re right.”

Rodman touched the monitor in front of him. “Same here with BP and heart rate.”

“But,” Uzi said, “is that enough? How actionable is the intel?”

Vail rubbed her forehead. “I need some air.” She walked outside, finding her way through the maze, and out the front door. The cold air prickled her cheeks and she took a deep breath, filling her lungs.

They’re planning to set off a dirty bomb in New York City. Jesus Christ.

Vail pulled out her Samsung and stared at it. Don’t do this, Karen. Let JTTF do its thing. But without actual proof or verification, will the task force act on it? What if Ghazal was bullshitting me?

No. It felt legit. Go with your instincts.

She dialed and waited for it to connect.

Carmine Russo answered on the second ring. “You know, when I told you not to be a stranger, I didn’t mean you should call me so soon.”

“This isn’t a social call.” Her tone was serious — but then again, this was a serious matter. Russo had been Vail’s mentor going back to her early days in law enforcement. Now a captain with the NYPD, she thought he needed to be plugged in.

“Uh oh. What’s up? And if you tell me we’ve got another serial killer in New Yor—”

“We’ve got a situation. This isn’t really in your wheelhouse, but I want to make sure the information makes it to the department ASAP, without delay.”

“What information?”

“Did you hear about the gas main explosion in DC last night?”

“No. Why would I hear about that? Any casualties?”

“None you would’ve heard about.”

“Huh?”

“The explosion you didn’t hear about was a terrorist cell of al Humat that had set up a bomb-making factory in downtown DC. We stumbled on one of the bomb makers, I shot him and inadvertently set off his vest. An undercover FBI agent was killed before I got there. We ascertained the location of their safe house, arrested one and at least two got away. Today they set off a suicide bomb in Metro Center.”

“I got a text about that,” Russo said. “Maybe half an hour ago. No known cause yet.”

“Bullshit. It was a terrorist attack. We grabbed up one of the planners, who’s got a history of other bombings overseas.”

“Fuck.”

“Haven’t gotten to the good part yet.”

“There’s a good part?”

“We have reason to believe they’re going to set off a dirty bomb in Manhattan.”

There was silence, then Russo said, “Still waiting for the good part.”

“The good part is that we’ve got some advance notice. And also that I’m giving you a heads-up instead of waiting for the FBI to run it through their National Joint Terrorism Task Force at the National Counterterrorism Center, who’ll send it on to their New York JTTF, who’ll then run it up the ladder to 1PP,” she said, referring to the brass at One Police Plaza — NYPD headquarters.

“Where’s the attack going to be?”

“No idea.”

“When?”

“No idea.”

“And this is the good news?”

“No, Russo, it’s awful news. Whisper in your buddy’s ear at the Counterterrorism Unit. Tell him to turn up those sensors you’ve got, that domain awareness system.” A comprehensive security apparatus, the domain awareness system consisted of security cameras deployed around the city in coordination with radiological sensors, nuclear detectors, license plate readers — all processing information in real time and reporting to a central location in Lower Manhattan.

“I’ll talk with the commissioner, make sure he’s up to speed.”

Vail glanced around the countryside — at least, what she could see over the tops of the tall hedges. “Probably best to leave my name out of it.”

Russo snorted. “No shit, Karen.”

“Gotta go. We’re questioning the asshole we caught at the Metro.”

“Hey, thanks for the heads-up.”

“Good luck — and tell Protch I said hi.”

“Tell him yourself.” With that, he hung up.

Vail lowered the handset from her ear, wondering if she had done the right thing. Yes. As a person, it was the right thing. As a law enforcement officer, I broke protocol.

But lives were at stake. Whatever heat she took — if any — she would sort out later.

She walked back into the building just as Uzi was on his way out.

“Get anything else?”

Uzi pulled his keys out of a pocket. “Let’s go. Hector’s staying behind.”

“You didn’t answer me.”

He paused with his hand on the doorknob. “No. We didn’t get shit.”

13

Vail sat across from Robby at dinner. Their home was quiet without Jonathan around — although he was a frequent participant for a home cooked meal when they could coordinate their work and school schedules. Jonathan had pledged the Beta fraternity, which took up a number of his evenings when he was not studying.

Vail’s aunt, who lived in a separate part of the house, ate early dinners and went to bed hours before they did. Her presence in the home was hardly detectable.

Robby sliced at his steak, then stabbed a chunk with his fork. “I think you did the right thing. It wasn’t according to the book, but this is bigger than the book. It’s about saving lives. And since no one knows when this dirty bomb will go off, and exactly where, bureaucracy has no viable place in the equation.”

“There’s another part to this.” Vail took a sip of her Hall Cabernet. “We got some intel that one or more of the Islamic extremist groups might be collaborating in some way with Cortez.”

“Cortez.” Robby studied her face as he chewed, trying to process the reference. “The drug cartel? The one that—”

“Yes.” Vail knew that mere mention brought a personal note to her comment because of Robby’s past brush with Carlos Cortez, his men, and their affiliates. “We don’t know the details. Some unconfirmed intel from a well placed CI. He’s not always been reliable, which is a problem. But so far some of what he’s told us has been right on the money.” She set down her glass. “Uzi and Hector think it could involve tunnels. And if Hezbollah is involved and they’re proxies of—”

“Iran.” He chewed on that a moment. “I sat in on a briefing awhile back about Hezbollah, Hamas, al Humat, Islamic State. All the bad actors. Money laundering schemes, stuff like that. Sounds like it might be even worse than I thought.” He played with the broccolini on his plate. “Islamic extremists and drug cartels. Murder and mayhem. Never gonna be peace on this planet.”

“We need confirmation of the connection.” Vail set her glass down.

Robby must have realized the conversation had paused because he suddenly looked up from his plate. “What?”

“We need to know if that intel is reliable. I imagine DEA can find out.”

“DEA has agents sitting on Uzi’s task force. Why doesn’t he ask them?”

“He has. They’re working on it. But I don’t know how good they are. I know how good you are. And if I ask you to look into this, you’ll do it and you’ll do it well. And fast.”

“Did I miss something? Did you just ask me to look into it?”

“I am now.”

Robby chewed his steak slowly, appearing to mull the compliment — and the request.

“Problem?”

“No,” he said without looking up.

“While you’re at it, see if your DEA sources have heard anything about nuclear material being smuggled in from Iran through South America using the drug tunnels that cross into the US.”

“Hezbollah is well connected with the leadership in Venezuela.”

“That’s a start. I need more. I need actionable intelligence.”

“I’ll check with my ASAC, see if we’ve got anything.”

“Do that and they’ll give it to someone else to look into. Or he’ll just tell you it’s covered by the guys on the JTTF.”

Robby swallowed his food, set his fork down, and leaned back in his chair. “Look, I’ve only been on the job a couple of years. I’m doing well, working my way up. But DEA is pretty strict about its regs, maybe more so than the FBI. And they’re really respectful of chain of command. Pushing the envelope may not be such a good idea.”

Vail played with her wine glass. “Obviously I don’t want you to get in trouble. Forget it.”

“You won’t be angry?”

Vail thought about Robby’s own words, uttered moments ago: this is bigger, more important, than following procedure. It was about saving lives. Still, she did not want to pressure him.

Vail reached over and took his hand. “I don’t want you to do anything that’ll jeopardize your job. I know how important it is to you, how hard you’ve worked to get where you are. Uzi’s people will come through. If not, I’ll get the info some other way.”

Robby continued eating, but he appeared to be mulling over what Vail had told him because he was uncharacteristically quiet.

Perhaps he was thinking about his ordeal at the hands of Cortez. Maybe he was using his knowledge of the drug trade to consider the long-term implications of the cartels working with terrorists: criminals and religious extremists in cahoots.

It was hard to know the full impact of such alliances, but one thing was certain: whatever it was, it was not good.

14

Vail parked her car in front of the large National Counterterrorism Center complex, which was dominated by a modern butterfly shaped six story glass-and-concrete edifice. Before she opened her door, Robby called.

“Only got a minute,” he said. “I found a guy at DEA, in SOD, our Special Operations Division, who’ll meet with you, give you a briefing on that thing you asked me to look into.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“I’d enjoy yanking your chain — just to return the favor — but no, I’m serious. Name’s Richard Prati. He was scheduled for a DHS CT briefing at the NCTC, so it worked out well. He’ll go early to your meeting, then stick around for his.”

He briefs the Department of Homeland Security on counterterrorism. Robby scored. And tonight, he may score again.

“Just got off the phone with Uzi. He cleared it with Knox. Sorry you weren’t the first to know, but things are moving fast.”

“Thanks, honey. I really appreciate it.”

“I’m emailing you a quick bio on Prati. And yes, you can make it up to me later.”

Vail got out and joined Uzi and DeSantos as they strode along a wide gray, tan, and sand colored cobblestone walkway that led to a plaza formed by the V of the building’s two forward-facing wings.

They passed between the vertical cement-and-steel security barriers and beneath the American flag, which hung limp on its pole in the still air.

The NCTC, as it was known in government acronym parlance, was originally established in 2003 as the Terrorist Threat Integration Center, part of a constellation of solutions outlined in a scathing 9/11 Commission report that excoriated the intelligence community. They were tasked with creating and maintaining a database of known and suspected terrorists, and collecting and coordinating terrorism-related material from all sources. Most importantly, they were in charge of sharing the information with the affiliated agencies domestically and overseas and working with the FBI’s JTTFs and the Defense Department’s combatant commands to ensure a coordinated flow of alerts, data, and trends.

Given the importance of its mission, it was remarkable nothing like the NCTC existed prior to 9/11—and in retrospect it was no wonder that an orchestrated attack could be noted by so many disparate agencies yet stopped by none — solely because each knew nothing of what the other had discovered.

They assembled in the operations center, a massive open space with computer workstations arranged in rows facing an enormous high-definition flat panel screen rivaling those in sports stadiums. Ringing the periphery, on a second story, were meeting rooms and an observation deck that looked down over the floor.

Douglas Knox stood with the CIA’s Tasset, Homeland Security’s Bolten, the Defense Department’s McNamara, and two other men Vail did not recognize.

Knox turned as the trio approached. “Agent Vail, this is the director of National Intelligence, Brandon Lynch.”

Vail and Lynch exchanged pleasantries. “Beautiful facility you have here, Mr. Director.”

Lynch, a black man dressed in a crisp dark suit, pink shirt, and a three-point folded handkerchief, harrumphed. “In the grand scheme, it’s a shame we need to have a place like this. But this is the world we live in.” He turned to Uzi. “Agent, good to see you again. And … Hector.” He gave a stiff nod.

Uh oh, there’s a history here. And it’s apparently not a good one.

“I don’t think we’ve met,” Vail said to the as yet unidentified olive-complected man with a narrow, thinly trimmed beard.

“None of you have met him,” Knox said. “This is Mahmoud El-Fahad, CIA.”

Vail and DeSantos took turns shaking his hand. Uzi was slower, more reluctant — or more careful. Vail couldn’t determine which. Both, perhaps.

“You are …” Uzi said.

“Palestinian,” Fahad said, apparently understanding what Uzi was asking.

Although Uzi did his best not to react, Vail saw it. His body language was fairly restrained in times of stress — no doubt a learned trait from his days with Mossad. But she knew Uzi well. She saw the tension in his shoulder muscles.

“Great,” Lynch said. “Let’s go to the briefing room. The president should be there by now.”

The president? Had I known I would’ve worn my pumps. And my black sweater. And my — Jesus, Karen, stop it.

“Go on,” Knox said. “We’ll be there in a moment.” He waited until the men cleared the room, then addressed Uzi. “I am not immune to how this affects you, Agent Uziel. But Fahad understands the terrorist mind-set; he’s got contacts here and abroad in the Palestinian community and might be able to get us intel as to who’s involved. He’s lived in the West Bank and he knows Gaza.”

“I understand, sir.”

“How much access will Fahad have?” DeSantos asked.

“As much as any of you.”

“He’s an operative?” Vail asked.

“Fully vetted. Exemplary record. For now, he’s a member of the team. One of us.”

Uzi scratched at his temple. “Right, but—”

“Enough said, Agent Uziel.” Knox’s jaw was set. This was clearly not open for debate. “Let’s go. We don’t want to keep President Nunn waiting.”

As they walked, Vail glanced quickly at Richard Prati’s bio that Robby had emailed — and came away impressed.

A moment later, they entered the conference room. Like the rest of the facility, it had a modern bent. The walls were a multi-toned blue with a large NCTC seal behind the long ovoid desk, a fixed workstation that featured a maple laminate top, a power strip with computer ports in front of each seat and perforated stainless steel panels on the inside of the oval which featured dramatic floor lighting that looked more appropriate on a Star Trek set than in a government counterterrorism center.

Red LED clocks were mounted on the wall displaying the current times for Kabul, Beijing, Baghdad, Taiwan, Tehran, DC, LA, and Chicago, as well as “Zulu.”

Vance Nunn was seated at the head of the table, a small LCD display in front of him. Water bottles were set out for each of the attendees and tented name placards faced the president.

Also present were Marshall Shepard and Ward Connerly, the president’s chief of staff, as well as the chairman of the Joint Chiefs and a handful of others from the NCTC whom Vail did not know.

Nunn watched as Vail, Uzi, DeSantos, and Knox entered and found their seats. The fifty-three-year-old, heavily jowled chief executive folded his hands in front of himself and made eye contact with the participants. “All the high-tech gadgets money can buy, all the brightest minds in intelligence, two hundred thousand employees, three dozen satellites, drones all over the goddamn Middle East, military bases all over the world, a $40 billion budget. And no one was able to tell me we have sleeper cells on our soil? That we had bomb makers holing up in Washington building explosive vests? How the hell is that possible? Anyone?” He glanced around, but no one answered.

“How many attacks on our homeland are acceptable before we get our acts together?” Connerly asked. His gaze settled on Uzi.

Uzi folded his hands and paused a moment to gather his thoughts. “Mr. President, Mr. Connerly … intelligence is an inexact science. We collect information from a variety of sources — HUMINT, satellites, intercepted phone calls and emails, captured hard drives — and so on. We analyze it all and make a best guess as to what’s going to happen, where it’s going to happen, and when. Sometimes we’re right and sometimes we’re not. Sometimes we just have blind spots. Despite all our technology, we’re still just people left to draw conclusions. And people make mistakes.”

Vail watched Nunn’s reaction; Uzi was dangerously close to talking down to the president, who should have been aware of that information, given the normal course of his regular briefings. Still, she thought Uzi was justified in pointing out the challenges they faced. If nothing else, it served as a reminder — as well as an answer to the president’s question.

“That sounds more like an excuse,” Nunn said. “And excuses don’t save lives, now, do they?”

“Sir,” DeSantos said, “we’re dealing with an enemy that adapts. They’re increasingly sophisticated and extremely well funded. These groups have people raising money all over the world — including inside the United States. And they’ve carried out kidnappings to extract ransom in the tens of millions of dollars. Al Qaeda and its member organizations have taken in over $150 million from kidnapping Europeans. Islamic State has billions from captured banks and oil fields.”

Nunn frowned, then turned to Tasset. “Earl?”

Tasset adjusted his glasses. “I have to agree. We used to be able to check visas, profile by screening for Muslims who’ve traveled to terrorist hot spots and training camps or who had suspicious family connections. But our enemy nowadays could be our own citizens, naturalized Americans who have passports that go to fight in Syria with Islamic State or al Qaeda or al Humat, then return home and walk among us. Our neighbors, teachers, doctors. They look like us because they are us.”

“Just like we have undercover operators infiltrating their mosques,” Uzi said, “they’ve infiltrated us. England has the same problem we do, maybe more so because their Muslim population is greater. After cutting their teeth with Islamic State and al Qaeda in Syria or Iraq, British nationals are returning home with perfectly valid passports and setting up terrorist cells. That makes it extremely difficult, if not impossible, to stop.”

Nunn shifted forward in his seat and leaned both forearms on the maple desk. “The American people don’t want long-winded explanations and political spy babble. They get that from the talking heads on TV. I have to give them answers. I have to give them hope and security. I have to deliver the goods. Which means you have to deliver the goods.”

Very helpful, sir. Bury your head in the sand. Ignore the facts. There must be a way to fix something if you insist there is.

“Why don’t we move on,” Lynch said. “We’ve got some relevant pieces of information to report on.” He glanced at McNamara. “Richard, the prisoner. Your people get anything of use?”

McNamara cocked his head. “That’d be Esmail Ghazal. He’s given us a few things, most notably a planned dirty bomb attack on New York City, as we discussed last night in our—”

“Yes, yes,” Nunn said. “Do you believe him?”

McNamara turned to DeSantos, who answered.

“Mr. President, I was in charge of the interrogation. I believe what we got was reliable. But it was too short on details to be worth much.”

Nunn hesitated, made quick eye contact with Tasset, then Knox.

“What about that informant in Turkey?” Nunn asked.

Tasset nodded. “A lot of the info he gave us seems to have panned out. But we’ve gotten everything from him that we could.”

“We’re analyzing data every day,” Lynch said. “Every hour. Something’s bound to break.”

Oh, great. We’ve been reduced to hoping and praying?

Nunn leaned to his left, seemed to be straining to read one of the name placards, then sat back in his chair. “Mr. Shepard, can you add anything?”

Shepard pulled open a manila folder with his thick hands. “Yes. Yes sir. Forensics are in for the four crime scenes: the site of the original explosion on Irving Street; the bomb-making factory and storage site; their safe house that we raided; and the Metro Center station.

“At crime scene two — the bomb factory — we found vests laden with explosives in various stages of completion. One of the engineers, or bomb makers, was shot by Agent Vail and DEA Agent Roberto Hernandez. Their rounds struck the explosives and set them off. Obviously killed the engineer. But based on what our forensics team found there, it appears that four men were living in that safe house.”

“Overall, three tangos escaped,” Uzi said, in case the president did not do the math.

“Jesus Christ.”

“Did the explosives tell us anything?” Bolten asked.

“They did,” Knox said. “I suggest we let Mahmoud El-Fahad report on that.”

Nunn sat forward, squinted to read Fahad’s nameplate. “You work for?”

“CIA, sir. I’m an operations officer, born in the West Bank. I’ve been stationed there on and off for nine years.”

Nunn shot a glance at Tasset and said, “Continue.”

“Generally speaking, in terms of delivery method, Hamas uses belts for suicide attacks while al Humat uses vests. As to the explosives themselves, Palestinian engineers use primarily two kinds. They’re both effective in accomplishing their goal — death. They’re also inexpensive, impossible to track, and relatively easy to obtain. I’m talking about triacetone triperoxide, known as TATP, and TNT. TNT is repurposed from old land mines or smuggled in through the tunnels Hamas has built. These tunnels crisscross most of Gaza and are very sophisticated. Last year Israel destroyed the ones that led into its territory but left a lot of the remaining ones intact when the cease-fire took effect. Hamas and al Humat have since reopened some of the tunnels that were closed off and they remain effective conduits for obtaining bomb supplies, rockets, and other armaments.

“Acetone peroxide is another explosive they use. The chemical may sound familiar because it is — women use it for removing nail polish and bleaching their hair. But using it as an explosive is dangerous. One way of identifying a Palestinian engineer is by injuries from peroxide — burns and missing fingers and hands are common.

“To partially answer your question from before — how can they have assembled all this stuff right under our noses — not only do they use the peroxide because it’s cheap and easy to get, but because it can’t be detected by bomb-sniffing dogs.”

“What about ammonal?” Uzi asked.

Fahad nodded. “It’s easier to work with and safer — and it minimizes the amount of peroxide that has to be used.”

“We didn’t find any ammonal at their factory,” Shepard said.

Uzi removed a toothpick from his pocket but did not open it. “They use lightbulbs as detonators, right?”

Fahad’s brow rose. “Right.”

Lightbulbs? “Uh, can you explain that?”

“The wire is coated with a flammable chemical,” Uzi said. “When the bulb is lit, the wire heats and the bomb detonates. Cheap, low-tech, reliable, and undetectable. Is that what they used at Metro Center?”

“No,” Fahad said. “That entire attack was different. It packed a much stronger explosive punch, which means it was likely carried onto the train in a large backpack and/or duffel bag, maybe a suitcase. We’re still sorting through the wreckage looking for it. To cause that kind of damage, ATF told me it had to be C4, maybe even a combination of different types of explosives and methods — suitcase, vest, and backpack.”

“Palestinian bombers typically use shrapnel in their bombs,” Uzi said. “Any sign of that?”

“Yes.”

Uzi faced the president. “Most of the deaths from suicide attacks come from the shrapnel thrown off during the blast. A favorite method these bomb makers use is to fill the explosives with ball bearings up to seven millimeters in diameter. When these steel balls are used as projectiles, they travel at roughly the same speed as bullets fired from a gun. So it’s like being hit by automatic rounds of a submachine gun — several hundred rounds in a split second.”

“To sum all this up,” Fahad said, “the materials we found in the bomb-making factory that Agents Vail and Hernandez stumbled on had all of these ingredients, confirming our belief that this cell is very likely of Hamas and/or al Humat origin — or they’ve been trained by these groups.”

Uzi waited for the president to ask a question. When he did not, Uzi said, “Since we intercepted communication between the planner in Gaza and the engineer here in DC and the guy in Gaza was the voice of Kadir Abu Sahmoud, and Sahmoud is the co-founder of al Humat, I think it’s safe for us to operate under the assumption that al Humat is behind this operation.”

“But we don’t have positive confirmation that voice was Sahmoud,” Lynch said. “Making an assum—”

“We do have positive confirmation.”

Knox sat forward. “We do?”

“We do, sir. I gave the recording to Mossad and they did a biometric automatic voice analysis and ran phonetic and acoustic analyses with samples they had of Sahmoud on file. It was a match.”

“How come this is the first I’m hearing of this?” Tasset said.

“We also had a conversation with Sahmoud,” Vail said. “He and Agent Uziel — posing as ASAC Shepard — spoke yesterday.”

“Posing as me?” Shepard asked.

“I couldn’t take a chance he’d know my name,” Uzi said. “I meant to give you a heads-up in case he called again, but the Metro bombing hit. Things have been moving very quickly.”

“Why would he know your name?” Fahad asked.

Uzi squirmed in his seat. “Not important. But I felt it wasn’t worth the risk.”

Fahad hesitated but apparently decided not to press the point. Instead, he asked, “Did Sahmoud take responsibility for the bombings?”

“We spoke before Metro Center. It was a pretty frank discussion. He launched into the typical Islamic extremist rant.” Uzi turned to Vail. “Based on what he said, did you have any doubt that Sahmoud was involved?”

“None.”

A red light on the phone in front of the president lit up and blinked. He lifted the receiver and listened a second. “Fine. Send him in.” As he hung up, he said, “Richard Prati, Special Agent in Charge of the DEA’s Special Operations Division, is going to brief us. This is on your request, Agent Vail?”

“And mine,” Uzi said.

Following a knock, the door swung open and a stocky, dark-suited man entered. Vail envisioned a bulldozer — and his demeanor seemed to fit her mental image.

“Agent Prati,” Connerly said. “A little advance notice would’ve been appreciated.”

Prati froze in place and looked at the president. “I–I thought—”

“We pulled strings to get him here,” Uzi said, “and only got it arranged about an hour ago. We need to hear what he has to say.”

Nunn waved Prati to a seat near the other end of the briefing room. “You have five minutes, Agent.”

Prati set down his leather briefcase and removed a USB drive. “May I?” he asked, holding it up. “PowerPoint.”

“Go on,” Lynch said.

While he plugged the device into a port along the top of the briefing table, Vail said, “Agent Prati ran the Special Operations Division in Virginia for nine years, overseeing thirty agencies.”

“Brits, Australians, Mexicans, Canadians — we had ’em all.” Prati picked up a remote and aimed it at the screen. The word “narcoterrorism” appeared in bold red letters.

“I was asked to address two main issues.” Prati directed his remarks to the president. “First off, it’s important to give a frame of reference as to what we’re dealing with. Narcoterrorism is a problem that keeps escalating — yet the public has no clue. I used to think that was okay because the more the public knows the more the media would be in my face. But now I realize that was wrong. We need people to know because it’s ballooning out of control. And it impacts every family in every corner of this country.”

Nunn twisted the left corner of his mouth, something between a frown and a chuckle. “A bit over the top, no?”

“No,” Prati said flatly, holding the president’s gaze.

I like this guy. He’s got balls.

“The DEA chief of operations calls these narcoterrorists hybrids — one part terrorist organization and one part global drug trafficking cartel. He specifically called out groups like the Colombian FARC, the Taliban, Hamas and Hezbollah. Obviously, al Humat is now a member of that team too.” Prati glanced around the table. “These terror groups are turning to — and in some cases into—criminal enterprises to fund their operations.”

Prati pressed the remote and a new red and yellow slide appeared: two circles overlapped one another to form an orange center: a Venn diagram showing the intersection of terrorists and criminals. “I don’t have to tell you why this is a very, very bad thing. Annual drug trafficking income, worldwide, is over $400 billion. Think about that for a minute. That’s billion, not million.

“Used to be, terror groups were interested in one thing: furthering their political cause. They committed violent acts and murdered innocent people who didn’t believe as they did. No more.” He flipped to another slide showing a complex series of squares and arrows.

“But global terrorist organizations are large, sprawling enterprises nowadays and they need funding to operate. We’ve done a good job shutting down or limiting many of their traditional funding streams, so the terrorists are turning to criminal activity for money. Drug trafficking generates more cash than any other commodity, so it’s an ideal source of revenue for them.

“The drug trafficking money is brought in through Beirut and put into overseas bank accounts, then wired to the US — hundreds of millions of dollars a month — and that’s just the money we know about. God only knows what else is going on. But here’s the thing: no matter how much it is, that money’s dirty.”

“Obviously,” Vail said, “they launder it somehow.”

“Used cars.” Prati pressed a button and a red laser dot appeared over one of the boxes in his flow chart. “These groups have set up a vast network of hundreds of US car dealerships that buy millions of used cars and then ship them to west Africa, where they’re sold legitimately on the open market. But along the way, a cut of the profit goes to the major terror groups. It’s a multibillion-dollar business.”

“Makes sense,” DeSantos said. “Several thousand dollars per car, if not more. An easy way to move, and launder, a lot of money very quickly. And no one suspects a thing.”

“I was briefed on synthetic drugs last month,” Tasset said. “Manufactured in China.”

Prati leaned back in his seat. “Yes. They’re sold here in grocery stores and minimarts. The proceeds, hundreds of millions of dollars, are then sent to Yemen, where they’re distributed to the terror groups. But it doesn’t have to be drugs. Money is sent through the legit banking system to China to pay for cigarettes, clothing, shoes, sneakers, toys, computers — all sorts of stuff. The Chinese manufacture these things and ship ’em to South or Central America to get laundered: they’re sold through legal businesses to generate clean cash. The money then gets sent to the drug traffickers overseas. Like I said, nothing generates cash as well as illicit drugs.”

“You called the terrorist organizations sprawling enterprises,” Vail said. “Why do they need so much money? I mean, how much does it cost to build some homemade bombs?”

“It’s not just the attack, which, you’re right. Doesn’t cost a hell of a lot. Take 9/11, their most ambitious operation. It cost a little over half a million. But these terror groups are no longer loose associations of people running around the deserts of the Middle East wreaking havoc and setting off car bombs. They’re organizations that fly their operatives from country to country. They run training camps, pay salaries, purchase weapons and ammo, buy buildings, build infrastructure, make fake passports, rent safe houses, pay bribes to key people in government. After 9/11, the CIA estimated that al Qaeda spent $30 million a year just to run their organization. That was a long time ago, so the cost has gone up.” He looked at Tasset and got a nod of acknowledgment.

“Terrorism is an expensive business,” Knox said, “generating the kind of profits US corporations would envy.”

I wonder if the Service Employees Union has cracked al Qaeda.

“So let me get to those two questions you had,” Prati said with a glance at Uzi. “Does Hezbollah have sleeper cells in the US?” He folded his hands on the table in front of him. “This has been talked about for years. Back in 2008 when their military leader, Imad Mughniyah, was assassinated in Syria, Hezbollah threatened the west. The FBI—”

“Went nuts trying to track down and keep tabs on sleepers here in the US in case they decided to retaliate,” Knox said.

“Thing is, we didn’t find a whole lot and they never attacked us.”

“They never attacked us,” Uzi said, “because they raise too much money from supporters in the US.”

Prati shrugged. “Maybe. Bottom line is that we never found actual cells here. But here’s where it gets muddy. Remember we talked about the car dealerships? Hundreds of other related businesses and groups have been set up across the US to assist in, and establish, this trade-based money laundering scheme to sell used cars and ship them over to west Africa. But it’s all being funded by this criminal money coming in from Lebanon. Anything goes bad — we bomb Iran to take out their reactors, whatever — then they’ve got these ‘operatives’ living in the US. American citizens who can take action on their behalf. Are they sleeper cells?”

“It’s a matter of semantics,” Fahad said. “Whatever you call it, it is what it is.”

“That’s my point. Has it happened? Not yet. Do we have evidence of an organized sleeper network? Not to my knowledge. But is there one? I’ll let you answer that.”

Actually, I think al Humat’s already done that for us.

“Second question.” Prati advanced to the next slide, which showed the international radiation warning symbol. “Are they smuggling nuclear material from Iran through South America into the US through the drug tunnels? Again, we’ve got no proof. Does that mean it’s not happening? Of course not. We just haven’t caught anyone doing it. Another thing you gotta consider is that, theoretically, the drug cartels should not want any part of these terror groups.”

“Why’s that?” DeSantos asked.

“Simple. They got a good thing going. They bring in their product, they monetize it, and there’s not a whole lot we can do to stop it. We can narrow the hose and reduce what gets in, but the water still flows. And they make a shitload of money. Why risk it by working with a terrorist group, the most hated entity on earth?”

“Hang on a second,” Vail said, raising a hand. “So you’re saying they don’t work together?”

Prati chuckled. “Listen carefully, Agent Vail. I said ‘theoretically,’ didn’t I? Here’s how it works. They’re not officially working together. But it doesn’t happen at the leadership level where they formalize a partnership. A jihadist comes up to the guys running a particular tunnel and works a deal with them. They let him bring his stuff through and no one’s the wiser. Money changes hands, and bang. The material’s moved through the tunnel. Most of the drug activity takes place during the day so they can hide their semis in broad daylight among all the other legitimate trucks on the road. They don’t run their operation at night because they’d stick out like a red giraffe.”

“Instead of being idle at night,” Uzi said, “the tunnel makes them money and the jihadis’ product gets across the border. Everyone’s happy.”

Except us.

“So are they moving nuclear material through the tunnel?” Prati asked. “Why the hell not? These guys that run the tunnels, they don’t open the shipping pallets and look inside, I can tell you that. But it doesn’t have to come through South America. Everyone’s so fixated on Mexico, the southern border. What the hell’s wrong with Canada? We’re virtually telling these characters to come in from the north — we’ve got a huge border that’s even more porous than the southern border. And yes, before you ask, we have found some huge, very sophisticated drug tunnels coming across from Canada.”

The briefing room door opened and a man in casual dress clothing entered. “Excuse me. I have something for you, Director Lynch.”

Lynch waved his fingers, motioning him in.

“I’m actually done,” Prati said with a glance at his watch. “Unless you have any more questions, I have to brief DHS in ten minutes.”

“Thanks for your time,” Nunn said. “Any follow-up can be handled through Agent Uziel.”

Prati passed Uzi a business card, gathered up his briefcase, and then left the room.

Meanwhile, Lynch accepted, and signed for, a manila folder. As he read the document inside, his brow crested. “We found a fingerprint on a bomb fragment from the first blast. It came back as Qadir Yaseen.”

“Yaseen?” Uzi nearly rose out of his seat. “You sure?”

“What is it, Agent?” Knox asked.

“Yaseen is a very skilled bomb maker. He’s al Humat’s rock star, so to speak. Innovative, creative. Dangerous. Mossad tried taking him out twice and missed both times. If he’s involved in this …” Uzi’s voice trailed off.

“If he’s involved in this,” DeSantos said, “it’s a big operation.”

“Right. He doesn’t get involved unless it’s ‘worthy’ of his time and effort.”

Nunn slapped the table. “Enough of the doom and gloom. Our backs are against the wall. I get it. Everyone in this room gets it. But I want to hear how we’re going to get them.” He turned to Vail. “You’re with the BAU. Give us something to go on.”

“I have, sir. We understand the mind-set and we’re beginning to understand their motivation behind these attacks. I can tell you that like Islamic State, al Humat is not limited to Gaza and strikes against Israel. Hamas, al Humat, Islamic State, al Qaeda, they all have the same kind of charter — basically, they want to create a caliphate that will rule the world. An Islamic world, under their rule. While Hamas’s charter talks about world domination, it hasn’t moved beyond Israel yet. But al Humat, which cut its teeth in Gaza under Hamas’s tutelage, has.

“My sense is that they’re spreading their wings, trying to recapture legitimacy in their circles. Having been overshadowed by the younger and more ambitious ISIL, they are, in a sense, taking them on, challenging them for the spotlight. That’s why they’ve done something that ISIL has threatened, but hasn’t yet tried: carried out successful attacks on US soil.”

“You’re saying we’re in the middle of a parent/child spat, where one is jealous and acting out, crying out for attention?” Nunn asked.

Vail nodded. “The analogy is odd, perhaps, but the psychology is sound.”

“Why do you think this is an issue of attention?” Knox asked.

“The higher profile the attack, the greater the recognition. When ISIL beheaded James Foley, the media played along and gave them what they craved: attention, a world stage. Everyone suddenly knew who Islamic State was, even if they didn’t follow the news. That’s what al Humat is now after: a way to quickly grow its profile.”

“Al Humat is not nearly as well funded as ISIL,” Uzi said, “because it’s not trying to establish a nation-state and it hasn’t assembled a traditional army that can capture strategic resources, like banks and oil fields. But al Humat has no shortage of allies among fellow Islamic groups and Middle Eastern countries. And it’s got more than enough money to accomplish its goals.”

“Richard,” Nunn said. “The Pentagon’s plan?”

McNamara tugged on his tie knot. “We’re ready to mobilize when and if you give the word, Mr. President. This threat has the potential to move beyond anything we’ve seen. We need to prepare for everything. And the only way you do that is to take a cold, steely, hard look at it. Make an objective assessment. And get ready.”

“I agree,” Uzi said.

Shepard nodded.

Nunn pursed his lips. He considered the defense secretary’s remarks a moment, then said, “I don’t want to overreact here. We need to be measured in our response. Creating a panic in cities across the country will serve no one.”

Vail felt her lips moving before she could take a split second to filter her thoughts. “No offense, Mr. President. But I think blowing up a Metro station already did that. In essence, by striking our nation’s capital and killing innocent civilians, al Humat has declared war on the United States.”

There was silence. No one made eye contact with Vail — or acknowledged her statement — until Knox cleared his throat and said, “Agent Vail.” He gave her a look that she could best interpret as, keep your mouth shut.

Nunn, apparently recognizing that her comment demanded a response, leaned forward, his brow hard. “I do not believe, Agent Vail, that anyone has taken responsibility for the attack. Am I wrong?”

Vail shot a quick glance at Knox. Does he expect me to ignore a direct question? “No sir. At least, not directly. But Kadir Abu Sahmoud said—”

“Exactly. For now, we monitor and plan.” Nunn turned to Knox. “Douglas, the FBI will remain vigilant in its investigation and counterterrorism activities. Richard, the Pentagon will prepare a response plan if and when a response becomes necessary. Key targets, buildings, infrastructure. You know the drill.”

“Yes sir,” McNamara said. “But if it is al Humat, we’re talking about hitting Gaza. And we know the quagmire Israel waded into when it—”

“If it is al Humat,” Nunn said, before pausing, “if that’s where they’re located, if that’s where this Sahmoud character is located, that’s what we’ll go after. You have a problem with that?”

“No sir.”

“Good. We’ll cross that bridge when the time comes. If it comes. For now, we operate defensively.” Nunn glanced around, a cursory acknowledgment of the attendees, then said, “Thank you all for your diligence. Keep my office apprised of any developments.”

Vail rose from her chair, confused over the president’s passive posture regarding al Humat. After the next attack — wherever and whenever that was — he would have to alter his approach. Unfortunately, she had a feeling that time would come sooner rather than later.

15

As they filed out of the conference room, Knox pulled Uzi, Vail, and DeSantos aside.

“I know we’ve opened this thing up,” he said as he led them down an empty corridor. There were numerous doors with biometric locks, but all were closed and no one was within earshot. “You’ll be working this case on two levels: first, as terrorism task force members. Second, as off-book OPSIG operators.”

“How can we do that?” Vail asked.

Knox nodded, as if acknowledging the issue. “I didn’t say it was going to be easy. I just said this is how you’re going to operate. You’ll know when you have to change hats.”

Change hats?

“Hector will guide you. He’s adept at navigating the world of covert ops.”

They turned to DeSantos, whose face was impassive.

“Hot Rod will be providing support and join you when necessary. But I want this to be a four-man team and Fahad will be your fourth team member.”

Uzi’s Adam’s apple rose and fell conspicuously.

Hold it together, Uzi.

Knox stuck his chin out and studied Uzi’s face. “Can you do that?”

Uzi swallowed again. A fine line of perspiration had broken out across his forehead. Knox had spent his career reading — and manipulating — people. Surely he was aware of how this would affect Uzi. Was he purposely spiting Uzi for some reason? Or did he truly feel Fahad would be an important contributor to the team?

In her dealings with Knox, he never struck her as the type of individual who would jeopardize an operator’s mission with petty maneuvers. He was calculating and shadowy and powerful and his motives were not always clear, but he was very bright and he understood human nature. The trust he built was based on mutual trust.

Or fear and leverage.

Uzi took a breath and shrugged. “Yes sir. No worries.”

Knox studied his face with a squinty eye. “Well, there will be worries. But if you tell me you can manage this, I’ll take you at your word.”

With that, he turned and left them standing in the corridor.

Vail walked with Uzi and DeSantos out to Uzi’s car. As soon as the doors closed, Uzi’s gaze settled on Mahmoud El-Fahad as he exited the NCTC.

“Boychick, you really have to learn to play well with others.”

“Do I have to remind you that my wife and daughter were murdered by a Palestinian?”

“A Palestinian terrorist, Uzi,” Vail said. “You have to make the distinction.”

“I know.” He grasped the back of his neck. “I know. But …”

“When you lived in Israel, did you have any Palestinian friends?”

The question seemed to jolt Uzi. He sat up straight. “Of course. Good, hardworking people who just wanted to live their lives. Pawns in a political chess match.”

Vail lifted her brow. “Then what’s the problem?”

Uzi looked out the window and watched as Fahad shook hands with Douglas Knox. “Palestinians are indoctrinated at a young age. Some of it’s subtle, some of it’s blatant — like their school textbooks. Filled with anti-Semitic and anti-Israel rhetoric, denying Israel’s right to exist, presenting the Israeli/Palestinian conflict as a religious battle for Islam — a jihad for Allah, a struggle between Muslims and their enemies. Not to mention the oldie but goodie: the Holocaust never happened.”

“Not a recipe for a peaceful coexistence,” DeSantos said. “I’ll give you that.”

“That’s not the point. I mean, it is — but this stuff, it’s very powerful when you’re fed this bullshit at a young age. Look at ISIL — they’ve done it on a mass scale and turned normal youths into violent, brainwashed jihadists that chop off innocent people’s heads. It’s a very powerful tactic, imprinted in the brain, incorporated into your belief system, your moral base.”

“Of course,” Vail said. She could tell Uzi was struggling with this. There was something he wanted to say, but he could not bring himself to come out with it. “But that’s got nothing to do with this mission.”

Uzi craned his neck back and stared at the car’s ceiling. “Fahad is the right age to have been brainwashed by that crap. He grew up under Arafat’s rule. The textbooks are a little better now — which is to say they were that much worse back then. How — how can I trust Fahad? On a mission like this, it’s all about trust. You have to be able to rely on your colleagues implicitly. You can’t be charging ahead on a frontal assault while also watching your back. That’s what your team members do.” He turned to DeSantos. “Santa, tell her.”

“She knows. We went through this in London.”

Vail leaned away and appraised Uzi. “You should’ve told Knox you’ve got a problem.”

“Knox? He knows all this. And yet he put Fahad on our team.”

“So then he’s convinced Fahad won’t be a problem.”

“Or his skill set and knowledge are so important that he’s willing to take the risk. Positives outweigh the negatives.”

“Let Hector bring it up. Knox trusts him.”

“Happy to do it,” DeSantos said.

Uzi chuckled. “Not sure Knox trusts anyone. You know?”

Vail placed a hand on Uzi’s shoulder. “No. Just the opposite. I think he trusts us implicitly. He may not give you that impression, but deep down, I really think he does.”

“He’s got our backs,” DeSantos said. “But you haven’t known him as long as I have. Even if you’re not sold on the trust question, you know he cares deeply about his baby. He created OPSIG.”

“Hector’s his best operative,” Vail said. “He wouldn’t be reckless in risking his life if he had doubts about Fahad.”

“You think he considers me his best operative?”

Vail elbowed him in the side.

Uzi took a deep, uneven breath. “Okay. But just remember that even the great Douglas Knox isn’t perfect. He makes mistakes like the rest of us.”

“And if he’s wrong about Fahad …” DeSantos shrugged. “Well, we’ll just have to fix it.”

16

Uzi walked into his office and found Hoshi at her desk, an Excel document crammed with tips, thoughts, and suppositions plastered across her spacious LCD screen.

“How’s it going?”

Hoshi leaned back and appraised her spreadsheet. “We’ve got a lot of busy work going on. Not sure any of it will lead anywhere.”

“So a typical day at the office.”

“A typical day following a terrorist suicide attack. Yeah.”

He glanced around, determined no one was nearby, and said, “I want you to check something out for me. Discreetly. Shep can’t know.”

Hoshi frowned. “Another one of these, ‘you can get into major trouble but I’m asking you to do it anyway’ type things?”

“No. But Shep won’t be happy. Knox won’t be happy, either.”

“So a typical day at the office.”

Uzi had to laugh. “Are you implying that I’ve asked you to do things like this before?”

“You know I can’t say no to you. What do you need?”

“There’s an operative with the Agency. Mahmoud El-Fahad. I need whatever you’ve got on the guy. Classified stuff, shit that’s buried behind walls.”

Hoshi lowered her voice. “You’re asking me to hack classified databases and you don’t think that’d bring major trouble if anyone found out?”

“It sounded a bit better when I said it, didn’t it?”

“Just a bit. And what do you suspect? You think the guy’s a mole?”

“No.” Uzi rubbed his forehead. “I don’t know. I guess I just want to make sure he’s legit, that he can be trusted. He’s Palestinian and Batula Hakim was—”

“It’s time you let go of that.”

Uzi stared at her. Was she right? What was the right amount of time to let something like the brutal murder of your wife and daughter fester? Was there a right amount of time? Of course not. But there was a normal amount of time. There had to be. If his favorite shrink was still around, he could ask him. But he was not — and Uzi was never one for psychoanalysis, anyway. What he had with Leonard Rudnick was special, a onetime thing. So for now, he would go with his intuition. And at the moment, he felt like he needed to dot all his i’s, to make sure everything was as it was supposed to be. Then he could relax.

“Okay.”

“What?” He realized he’d been staring at the far wall.

“I said okay, I’ll dig around. You need anything else? You were kind of spacing out.”

“That’s it. I’ll be in my office if you find anything.”

Uzi settled into his chair and pulled out his Lumia. He put it in encrypted mode and dialed. Gideon Aksel answered.

“I need you to look into something for me.”

Aksel laughed. “I don’t work for you. In fact, you used to work for me, remember?”

Uzi buried his face in his right hand. “How could I forget?”

“What is this favor? Which, by the way, will be the second one you’ve asked for in, what, twenty-four hours?”

Uzi ignored the dig, massaged his eyes. “I need whatever you’ve got on Mahmoud El-Fahad.”

“Name is familiar. Should I know him?”

“As director general of Mossad, I really hope not, Gideon.”

Aksel was quiet a long second, then said, “I’ll see if there’s anything to find.”

17

Eastern Market was dominated by a block-long nineteenth-century Neo-Renaissance brick building that sat a quarter mile from the seat of US government. A hundred years ago, it was considered the unofficial town center of Capitol Hill.

Ten feet from the edifice and running its entire length sat a permanent green corrugated metal roofed pavilion where vendors sold their wares, sheltered from the sun and rain. People milled about: men, women, and children, couples young and old purchasing fresh fish and meat, baked goods and various kinds of cheese.

But in the mall’s administrative office in a corner of the far-flung facility, things were not as lively: an array of black-and-white security cameras displaying various angles of the retailers’ stalls and cafés stared back at Omar Jafar. Jafar reclined in his creaky chair and watched the activity on his monitors.

The job was generally tedious, the most excitement coming from an occasional shoplifter or the equally random elderly individual suffering a heart attack. The majority of the time, he passed his shift watching hordes of people pass the prying eyes of his lenses buying merchandise, eating food, and drinking coffee, beer, or wine.

Jafar leaned forward, the back of his chair springing up and snapping against his torso. He tilted his head and spied a male dressed in a black hoodie carrying a backpack and moving through the crowd, which, in and of itself was not unusual. But the man’s demeanor, the wandering nature of his gait, told Jafar that something might not be right. After the mysterious explosion at the Metro station, he had been warned by his boss to keep an extra vigilant eye on customers exhibiting suspicious behavior.

Jafar studied the screen: the “person of interest” was about five foot nine with a dark complexion. Thin, no distinguishable marks that he could see. Watching the man move from one monitor to another as he made his way through the market, Jafar thought back to his security guard training. What information did the police want? Physical description and his reason for suspecting the individual of foul play.

Jafar grabbed his two-way radio and headed out of his office, walking briskly toward the location of his target. He did not want to call the police yet, not until he had a better indication that something was really wrong.

As he approached the two large doors that formed the main entrance to the building, he saw his suspect thirty feet ahead. The man stopped to talk to one of the vendors, then pulled a large brown paper bag from his backpack just as Jafar heard a loud crashing noise off to his right.

Smashing glass — crumpling metal — revving truck engine—

Patrons yelling, diving to the side as an armored vehicle blasted through the doors he had just passed, coming to rest inside the market’s entrance.

“What the f—”

Jafar reached for his radio and fumbled for the dial when automatic gunfire burst out. People screamed as bodies fell—

A man’s guttural proclamation of “Allahu akbar!” snagged his attention. Jafar swung his head left and saw a masked male wearing military-style gear running toward him, spraying the area with high-powered rounds from some kind of machine gun.

Jafar pushed between a woman and a child and dove to the floor. He clapped both hands over his head and hid — until a massive explosion turned everything black.

18

Vail and Robby walked into Foggy Bottom’s Burger Tap & Shake at Pennsylvania Avenue and 23rd Street.

They stood in the back, away from the line, looking over the menu that featured a description of the restaurant’s meat: “Throughout the day, we grind on premises a custom blend of three-day aged, naturally raised local harvest beef chuck and brisket.”

“My taste buds are moaning,” she said, then noticed Robby was looking at her. “No comment please. I’m just plain hungry, okay?” She glanced at her watch. “Where the hell is Jonathan?”

“Late.”

She took Robby’s hand and squeezed it. “Thanks again for getting us Prati. Still a lot we don’t know. But the stuff we do know … it’s just kind of depressing.”

The door opened and Jonathan walked in with rumpled clothing and mussed hair.

“This is how you show up for lunch with me and Robby?”

“I was still sleeping when you called,” Jonathan said, bumping a fist with Robby. “Late night.”

“Oh yeah?” Robby asked.

“It’s Saturday, I knew I could sleep in.”

Vail frowned. “One advantage of you going to school so close to home is that we can get together once in a while.”

“Some might call that a disadvantage,” Jonathan said, his slight chuckle suggesting he was only half joking.

Robby gave him a disapproving shake of the head.

“Just kidding. It’s definitely nice to be able to see you guys.”

“As long as it doesn’t interfere with your college experience.”

Jonathan tilted his head. “Well, yeah.”

They ordered at the counter and found a booth, then waited for their food to come.

“So are you closer to catching the terrorists?” Jonathan asked.

Vail shushed him as she glanced around. “You know I can’t talk about it.” Jonathan’s face scrunched a bit, tense from concern. “We’re making headway. We’ll get ’em. Just stay away from public gatherings.”

“Police are all over the place. Barricades up on half the streets around campus. Freakin’ pain in the ass.”

“One of the exciting things about GW is that it puts you at the intersection of politics, law, and power. You can’t walk a block or two without hitting a building of significance to the country — or the world. The International Monetary Fund, the White House, Supreme Court, Con—”

“I get it, Mom.”

“That makes us a target,” Robby said. “More bang for the buck than hitting Kansas or Wyoming, you know?”

As he said that, Vail felt a gust of wind rattle the large glass storefront window to her left. “Did you feel that?”

Robby nodded slowly as he swiveled in his seat and looked out at the people on the sidewalk and across the street in Washington Square Park. Most had stopped and were craning their necks in all directions. A few started to run and—

Vail’s Samsung began buzzing. It was a text from Uzi:

Shit, that wasn’t a gust of wind, it was blowback from an explosion.

“Gotta go.” She rose from the booth.

“Everything okay?” Jonathan asked.

Vail looked at her son. Even if she had thoughts of lying to him, she knew he would know. “Another bomb,” she whispered.

Robby started to rise but Vail waved him back down.

“I’ll see you later.”

Vail arrived at the intersection of 7th Avenue SE and North Carolina Avenue and pulled her car against the curb in front of Port City Java. Several Metro Police cruisers were lined up along 7th, blocking access to the wide cobblestone road that fronted the market.

But what caught Vail’s eye was the carnage before her. The covered pavilion that ran the length of the brick building had been toppled, the steel columns supporting it knocked out from beneath the roof and folded in half as if struck with a baseball bat.

Bodies lay sprawled on the pavement, paramedics and first responders triaging the injured and yelling orders to others in the vicinity. Vail jogged along 7th, headed toward a concentration of police cars, fire engines — and a SWAT van.

She pulled on crime scene booties and moved closer. The double wood doors at the entrance to the market — doors she had passed through many times over the years — were missing, the opening enlarged by what appeared to be an armored truck, the rear of which was partially protruding from the building’s interior.

DeSantos, wearing a wool overcoat, was inside talking to a CSU technician. He caught Vail’s gaze and waved her in.

She made her way over the chunks of cement and fragmented brick, getting some assistance from another officer who helped her across the debris-laden threshold.

Inside, devastation. The normally bustling marketplace, which featured vendors and restaurants on both sides of a central aisle, was in pieces. Bloody bodies, and parts of others, were strewn across the wreckage — as far as she could see.

“What the hell happened here?” she asked under her breath.

DeSantos apparently heard her because he said, “Just setting off a bomb must be getting boring for them.” He handed a piece of the rubble to a nearby technician. “Best we could tell — I only got here about ten minutes ago — they drove up 7th in that armored truck and crashed through the pavilion, mowing down as many people as they could. They swung right into the building, plowed through the entrance. Then they got out.”

“How many?”

“Two, best we can tell.”

“What happened after they got out of the truck?”

“They started moving through the crowd, firing AK-47s. Two cops saw the truck hit the pavilion, so they were on scene immediately. They came in through the east entrance, drew down, and that’s when the jerkoffs detonated their vests.”

Vail climbed atop the front bumper of the truck and looked out over the interior. Headed in her direction was Uzi, stopping to render assistance to medics who were administering to some of the fallen victims. The scene looked like a war zone.

“So, what do you make of this?”

Vail turned. “What?”

“Instead of loading explosives into a backpack or suitcase, they used a truck, assault rifles, and suicide vests. I’m not a detective, but I do understand the concept of MO. And they just changed their MO completely.”

“Objective was to kill as many as they could. Invoke fear. What better way to do that than by changing the method of attack? You don’t know what’s coming next. You can’t draw a pattern. More terror that way.”

“Why hit the market?” asked Uzi, who was approaching.

“We’ve increased police presence and restricted access to important buildings, made it more difficult for them to go after hard targets. So they chose a soft one.”

“Smart.”

“Scary smart. They’re well organized, prepared, flexible, and as we know, well funded.”

Uzi’s phone rang. He glanced at the display and said, “I gotta take this.”

Gideon Aksel’s voice was tight, concern permeating his tone. “I’ve got something for you, Uzi, but you’re not going to like it.”

“I’ll be the judge. Tell me what you’ve got.”

“Just so you know, I’ve verified this. There is no question of its accuracy. None.”

“Got it. What’d you find?”

“You wanted info on Mahmoud El-Fahad.”

“Anything and everything.”

“January ’03. The suicide bombing in Haifa.”

“The commuter bus?”

“The bomber, he was Fahad’s nephew.”

Uzi glanced over at Vail and DeSantos, still chatting by the armored truck. “His nephew was a suicide bomber?” Uzi closed his eyes. “Fahad’s nephew was a radicalized terrorist?”

“It sounded like this man meant something to you, so I knew you weren’t going to like it. But facts are facts.”

Uzi found a clearing and sat down on a damaged metal stool that had belonged to a now-destroyed deli. The prone body of a dead security guard was laid out before him. He averted his gaze. “Was Fahad involved?”

“Answer me. This man is important to you, no?”

“In some ways, yeah.” He wanted to give Aksel more, but he was already dangerously close to stepping over the line.

“I don’t know if he was part of the plot, Uzi. I dug around, talked with the men involved in the investigation. Mossad’s got nothing. Shin Bet had nothing on Fahad. Now that could be a good thing—”

“Or it could mean nothing.”

“Or it could mean nothing. I can tell you he was there. He saw his nephew blow himself up.”

Uzi could not help but cringe. “Anything else in Mossad’s file? Did we have any contacts with Fahad?”

“Only one. Nothing of any significance. He was questioned. The interrogators noted that he seemed distraught but he denied any knowledge that it was going down. There was no proof either way, so he was not held. We had no further contact with him. He left the West Bank five months later for the US.”

Uzi remembered being told that Fahad had lived in the West Bank and knew Gaza well. “Has he been back?”

“Multiple times. Nothing unusual about his visits.”

And he’s a CIA operative whose territory included those areas. Uzi rubbed the back of his neck. He turned and saw Vail walking toward him.

“Thanks, Gideon. I’ll look into this.”

“Why are you asking about him? Any reason for us to be concerned?”

Uzi thought about that a second. “I honestly don’t know. He’s — and you didn’t hear this from me — he’s working for us. So he should be fine. But …”

“But if his nephew was a suicide bomber, someone he was close to, you just don’t know.”

“Thanks, Gideon. Gotta go.” He disconnected the call as Vail stepped in front of him.

“Everything okay?”

Uzi rose from the stool and took a long look at Vail. He did not know if he should say anything about what he had just learned so he went with how he genuinely felt: “We’re under attack and our enemy has been able to do anything they want, whenever they want. No, everything’s not okay.” In the distance, Uzi caught sight of Fahad approaching.

“There’s something else. That call.”

“Yeah, that call.” He watched as Fahad closed to within twenty feet then stopped and looked at one of the victims sprawled facedown across a vegetable counter: a man wearing a backpack, a brown bag still clutched in his right hand. “Let’s go see what our new task force member thinks of what happened here.”

Vail and Uzi came up behind Fahad, who was examining a deceased sweat-shirted male slumped over a vending stand.

“Mahmoud,” Vail said.

He turned, a frown etched into his face. “Call me Mo.” He gestured at the body, which showed evidence of multiple bullet entry wounds across its back. “These bastards aren’t going to stop unless we stop them.”

Kind of like a serial killer.

“This is not like any attack I’ve seen carried out by Hamas or al Humat,” he said. “Completely different methodology.”

“Hey. Boychick!”

They turned to see DeSantos walking toward them, negotiating the ruins littering the market’s floor.

“We got something.” Two Metro police officers brushed past, an injured man wedged between them, his arms draped around their shoulders. “A finger.”

“A finger?” Vail asked.

“A severed finger, probably from one of the bombers.” DeSantos handed her an evidence bag containing the bloodied digit.

“You’re giving me the finger?”

“I think they’ve already done that,” Uzi said.

“No kidding,” DeSantos said as he took the bag back. “CSU found it several dozen feet from the remnants of the bomber’s vest. When a suicide bomber blows himself up, the direction and location of the explosives sever the head and send it flying clear of the blast.”

“Thanks for that image,” Vail said.

“In this case,” DeSantos continued, “because of the double blast, both their heads were obliterated. This finger may be our only lead in terms of giving us an ID.”

“Well if it isn’t Aaron Uziel.”

They turned to see Tim Meadows, an FBI forensic scientist, approaching from the opposite direction. “Should’ve known you’d be working this case.”

“The worst criminals bring out the best and the brightest the Bureau has to offer,” Uzi said. “Except that doesn’t explain why you’re here.”

“I see our agent with the name of a submachine gun is locked and loaded with humor.” He turned to DeSantos and eyed him a moment. “No offense, but if you’re on the case, that’s not a good sign.”

DeSantos shrugged. “Guess that depends on how you look at it. I think it’s a good thing. Actual work is going to get done.”

“And my favorite female shrink,” Meadows said, giving Vail a hug. “Or maybe just my favorite female.” As he leaned back he seemed to notice Fahad for the first time. “Hmm. I don’t think we’ve met.”

“Mahmoud El-Fahad. CIA.”

“Guess we’re pulling all the cans of alphabet soup off the shelves for this one, eh?” Meadows chuckled.

Alphabet soup was a common slang term to describe the government’s acronym and abbreviation nomenclature for its agencies: CIA, FBI, NSA, DoD, among dozens of others.

“We’ve got a finger,” Uzi said gesturing at the evidence bag in DeSantos’s hand. “Can you make sure it’s processed—”

“ASAP, yeah, I got that. Don’t you know that I’ve come to realize that if you’re on a case, it’s automatically important?”

Uzi leaned back. “What’s gotten into you?”

“I’ve learned that certain things are not worth fighting. Death. Taxes. Bureaucracy. Aaron Uziel.”

“That’s some great company, Uzi,” Vail said.

Uzi frowned. “Yeah, whatever. When can we get an ID?”

Meadows rocked his head side to side. “How about ten minutes?”

“Don’t play with me, Tim.”

Meadows took the bag from DeSantos and held it up to the light. “I’ve got a mobile lab outside. Let me see what I can do.”

Meadows was wrong: he didn’t have an answer for them in ten minutes. He had something for them in eight.

“The digit was intact, so I didn’t have to play with it to raise the print. I scanned it, uploaded it, and the computer got a match.”

“Can you email it to me?” Uzi asked.

Meadows pulled out his phone, tapped and scrolled and the image of whorls and ridges was on its way.

Uzi forwarded it to Gideon Aksel the second it hit his inbox, with a request for information.

Vail, who had taken a look around the remains of the market, its deceased shoppers and retailers, returned to the group.

“Anything?” Fahad asked.

“Death and destruction,” Vail said. “But you knew that already. You?”

“We got a hit on the print.”

“An ID? This fast? Tim, you’re setting a dangerous precedent.”

“I got a hit, not an ID. Sorry to get your hopes up.”

“Then I take it back. No precedent. Just disappointment.”

“Ouch,” Meadows said. “But before you judge me, since our bomber’s print was in AFIS, I did some more digging to see if our muskrat’s got a record.”

DeSantos turned away from an ATF agent he had been conferring with. “Hold on. This muskrat got a name?”

“I’m sure he does,” Meadows said. “I just don’t know what it is. Yet. But he was apparently storing up nuts for a long, cold winter.”

Vail looked at Meadows. “Kill the friggin’ muskrat. Just tell us what you found.”

“Latents from a New York City crime scene matched our bomber’s print.”

“Homicide?” Vail asked.

“Bank robbery, eighteen months ago.”

“From bank robber to suicide bomber?” DeSantos pulled his chin back. “You trying to be funny?”

Meadows held up one of his hands. “I’m only telling you what I know. I didn’t say it made sense.”

“So what’s the connection between the bombing and the bank heist?” Vail asked. “What was stolen?”

Uzi pulled out his phone. “I’ll see if Hoshi can set up a conference call with the detective on the case.”

“My old stomping grounds,” Vail said. “I think we should go there, meet with the guy, talk with the bank administrators, look at who’s got accounts there.”

“Set it up,” Uzi said. “We’ve all got go bags. Let’s meet at the field office in an hour.

19

They arrived in New York City at 6:00 PM, avoiding the typical weekday rush hour traffic.

En route, Knox informed them that Secretary Bolten had convinced the president to raise the threat level and go public with the terrorism connection — something Vail and Uzi felt was long overdue.

Vail also called her buddy Carmine Russo and asked him to track down the detective who handled the bank robbery case. Since it was a shared jurisdiction with the FBI, she also attempted to reach the special agent who spearheaded the investigation, but he had not returned her call.

The detective, Steven Johnson, agreed to meet them over a beer at Reade Street Pub & Kitchen, a favorite watering hole of Feds — and some cops.

As Uzi navigated the streets and drove along the West Side Highway, Vail tensed — a visceral reaction.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

Vail looked away. “I lost a partner near here a long time ago.” She coiled in the front seat, bringing her knees up and grabbing them with her hands.

“Care to talk about it?”

“Car accident. Ironically, we were chasing a van filled with explosives. Sedan came out of nowhere.”

Uzi nodded, checking his mirrors before glancing back over at Vail. “All worked out, though, right?”

“My partner died.”

“Right. Except for that.”

Except for that.

“Then there was 9/11. I was in a high-rise not far from here. A few blocks.”

“On 9/11? You never told me that. You were there?”

Vail drew her legs onto the seat, close to her chest. “Not something I want to talk about.”

“No shit. Your body language says all I need to know.”

Vail mentally appraised herself — and released her grip on her shins, let her feet fall to the floor.

“We’re close,” DeSantos said.

“And who is this guy we’re meeting?” Fahad asked, rubbing his eyes and sitting up in his seat.

“Have a nice beauty nap?” DeSantos asked.

He yawned widely and groaned loudly. “Oh, man. Sorry. Haven’t gotten a lot of sleep lately. You take it when you can get it.”

“We’re meeting with Detective Steven Johnson,” Vail said, “out of the 6–6 precinct. He and Special Agent Patrick Tarkenton handled the bank robbery. Haven’t been able to reach Tarkenton. We’ll see what Johnson can give us.”

Fahad ruffled his black hair and rubbed his cheeks with both hands, trying to wake himself up. “I need a coffee.”

They found curb space half a block from the Reade Street Pub & Kitchen, then passed under the green awning and entered the restaurant. The place was comfortable and homey, with a model train running on an oval track suspended from the ceiling.

They saw a man meeting the description of Detective Johnson — chocolate brown head shaved bald — and still dressed in a dark suit from his workday. He had taken a table near the bar with his back to the brick wall, which featured a large green and yellow neon sign that read “Reade Street Pub.” The place had an unfinished ceiling with exposed ventilation pipes — built decades before such a style was in vogue.

Johnson had taken it upon himself to get a pitcher of Reade Street dark ale for his visitors, which Vail noted almost before she reached the table. Fahad ordered a black coffee.

They all shook hands, Vail and Uzi leading the introductions — with DeSantos and Fahad foregoing mention of their employers. The idea was to give the impression that all of them were with the Bureau. Say CIA or Department of Defense, and some detectives clammed up. As it was, they were not keen on cooperating with Feds. But if an FBI task force had been set up for the robbery, the agreement governing it would have prevented Steve Johnson from even talking to them. One detective famously refused to give his own chief details of a case — and the chief was so pissed off that he tried to have the man transferred to a different precinct for refusing his request.

“You know,” Vail said, “I gotta ask, because I see the resemblance. You wouldn’t be one of Leslie Johnson’s relatives — brother, maybe?”

“Older brother, yeah. You know Lee?”

“We partnered together. I’m ex-NYPD. Haven’t talked to her in a year, year and a half. How’s she doing?”

“Just passed the sergeant’s exam.”

“Good for her. Give her a hug for me. And my congrats.”

“Thanks for meeting with us,” Uzi said. “We’re up against the clock.”

“You know we’re talking about a bank robbery here, right? Nothing too sexy. Or really that important. No one was killed. They came in at night.”

“We’re looking at the perp for something else.” And that’s really all we can say.

Johnson lifted his brow and harumphed. “You know there was a Fed who worked it too. Guy by the name of Tarkenton, or something like that.”

“Patrick Tarkenton. Yeah, I left a message. Anything you can tell us about the robbery?”

“I brought you a copy of our file. You obviously got some juice up top with the brass.”

Vail had to keep herself from laughing. If it’s juice, it’d be poisoned. “I still have a friend or two.” Gotta remember to thank Russo. That’s probably why this guy’s here, helping out a bunch of Feds after a long shift. She took the file, splayed it open, and shared it with DeSantos.

“How sophisticated was it?” Uzi asked.

Johnson swallowed a mouthful of beer. “They got a lot of stuff, so I’d say it was successful. In my book, that’s what matters, not how sophisticated it was.”

Fahad dumped a packet of sugar into his coffee. “I’d normally agree with you. But that’s not the case here.”

“They used bombs.” Vail looked up from the file. “They blew the vault mechanism with C4.”

“Yeah, that’s right,” Johnson said. “We looked at that pretty hard because not everyone can get C4. But your lab didn’t find anything that could help us trace it. Oh, and they used something else I’d never heard of.”

DeSantos pointed to a paragraph of the report. “Triacetone triperoxide. TATP.”

Johnson snapped his fingers. “Give that man a cigar.”

Vail wiped at her glass with a finger, making a line in the condensation. That confirms it for me. There’s a connection here. But it’s not adding up.

“Our EOD guys said something about TATP being easy to get, but really dangerous to work with. Funny, because I remember thinking, if they can get C4, why use that other stuff?”

“Did you ever figure it out?”

Johnson drained his glass, then set it down and poured another. “They thought they needed the C4 to blow the locking mechanism and the TATP to give it extra power behind the blast. C4’s hard to get. Maybe they could only get a small amount.”

“What’d they take?”

“Some jewelry, some bonds, some cash. Usual stuff. I mean, the kind of shit people usually put in safe deposit boxes. Nothing stood out, to be honest with you.”

“And you never caught ’em?” Uzi asked as his phone vibrated. He stole a look at the display and then pushed his chair back to take the call.

“No. And we got nothing off the security cameras.”

“How many were there?” Fahad asked.

“Three inside, one spotter outside. Wore ski masks. Never did any other jobs, least not that we could tell.”

Johnson leaned back from the table. “Ah … gotta go use the head.” He glanced at his watch, then stood up. “Give me a minute, will ya?”

DeSantos watched Johnson move off toward the front of the bar, then turned to Vail. “You look like you’re onto something.”

Uzi finished his call and swiveled back toward the table.

Vail cocked her head, considering DeSantos’s comment. “Maybe. Just trying to reason it out. Think this through with me: they went after the vault, not the safe. There’s a lot more cash in the safe. I don’t know what the local thrift keeps on hand these days, but it’s gotta be a sizable figure. Tens of thousands?”

“Depends on a lot of factors,” Uzi said. “That sounds about right. So what?”

“So he’s got no idea what’s in the safe deposit boxes — it’s a wild card. Could be some diamond rings, but maybe not.”

“Unless they knew what was in there,” Uzi said. “They knew someone who banked there and had a box.”

Fahad twirled his glass. “First thing to follow up on tomorrow, when the bank’s open.”

“Would you like to put a print with a name?” Uzi said with a grin. “Our upstanding citizen is — or was—Haddad Sadeq.”

Vail gestured at Fahad. “Mean anything to you?”

He thought a moment, then sighed in resignation. “No.”

Uzi glanced at Fahad, then said, “Sadeq was an operative for al Humat.”

“Where’d you get that?” Fahad asked.

Uzi hesitated, then said, “Not important.”

Fahad pushed his chair back and faced Uzi full-on. “Bullshit. It is important.”

“A reliable source.”

“We’re a team, right? Why won’t you tell me?”

“Do you reveal all your confidential sources?”

“Of course not. But with this group, we’ve got to trust one another completely, or it won’t work.”

Uzi stared hard at Fahad. Vail sensed there was something he wanted to say, but couldn’t. Why?

“Boychick, Mo’s right.”

Uzi clenched his jaw, then said, “Mossad. A guy I know. That’s all I can say.”

Fahad absorbed this information without any outward reaction.

Vail examined her glass, took a sip. “We’re missing an important point. We’ve got a group of bank robbers that hit a local thrift, the target being its safe deposit boxes. They get jewelry, cash, other shit. But does that make sense?”

“No,” Uzi said.

“No. It doesn’t. Sadeq was a known operative of al Humat, and al Humat is a terror organization. They’re not into robbing banks. It’s not their MO. Islamic State, yeah. But not Hamas. Not al Humat. They get their funding other ways.”

“Your point?” Fahad asked.

Vail spread her hands. “So there had to be something in that vault that they were really going after. They knew it was there — and I’m willing to bet they got what they came for.”

Johnson returned to the table tugging on his belt, readjusting his trousers.

“I’ll get the next round,” DeSantos said, then went to the bar to get another pitcher.

“You have a list of the victims?” Vail asked, thumbing through the file. “The ones who lost stuff in the theft?”

“I got some. FBI took the lead on all follow-up. There should be something in there,” he said, wiggling an index finger at the file. “But safe deposit boxes aren’t insurable, and the bank doesn’t cover those losses. Most people don’t know that. They think it’s the safest place they can keep shit, but it’s not. I mean, if someone breaks in, there’s nothing protecting them.”

“So there might not be incentive for someone to report their losses,” Vail said.

Johnson thought about that. “Yeah, I guess. But if we’re asking them what was stolen, why wouldn’t they tell the truth?” Almost as if he realized the answer before he finished asking the question, he said, “Oh.”

Yeah, if they’ve got something illegal in the box, they’re certainly not going to tell the police when it’s stolen.

DeSantos returned to the table with the pitcher, then filled everyone’s glass.

“This case you’re working,” Johnson said. “Sounds big. Like it’s got nothing to do with bank robbery.”

Vail raised her glass and clinked it against Johnson’s. “Detective, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

20

The following morning, they met Agent Patrick Tarkenton at the FBI field office at Federal Plaza. Vail had considered Russo’s offer to stay at his place in midtown, but the thought of spending any time with Sofia, his wife, made her graciously decline. Instead, she bunked with the rest of the group at a cheap motel in Flushing, near Citi Field and just outside Manhattan.

When they met in the lobby, they had a message from Fahad stating that he would not be joining them but would touch base later.

“That’s weird,” DeSantos said.

“Maybe he’s following up on something. Or maybe he had something to deal with on a case.”

Uzi frowned. “Or maybe it’s something else.”

“Give it a rest,” DeSantos said. “You gotta let it go.”

They rode the subway into the city and spent half an hour walking through the case with Agent Tarkenton. He retrieved the file and handed it to Vail, who began reading through it.

Tarkenton explained that he did not have much information to offer — nothing more than Johnson had given them — and said that because the reported losses totaled only about $11,500, with no repeat or prior heists matching the robbers’ MO, investigation of the theft dropped on their list of priorities.

“Since there are three of you asking questions about a cold case robbery, I assume there’s more to it than that. Have they hit another bank?”

“Something a hell of a lot more serious,” Uzi said. “The bombing at Eastern Market in DC? We found one of the bombers’ fingers there. Print matches the latent you pulled from the bank’s vault. Our suspect isn’t a bank employee and we doubt he was one of the safe deposit box holders.”

Tarkenton absorbed this, then his eyes widened slightly. “You’re saying our bank robber is your suicide bomber?”

“Right.”

Tarkenton sat back from the conference room table and appraised his colleagues. “Hey, I worked up the case, gave it the attention it deserved at the time. I did my due diligence and I filed my paperwork with headquarters. My squad supervisor signed off.”

“And yet,” DeSantos said, “here we sit.”

Vail closed the file Tarkenton had given her. “Name’s Haddad Sadeq, an operative with al Humat.”

“You’re shitting me.” He studied their faces a moment. “I had — I mean, how was I supposed to know?”

Vail pushed the folder across the table toward Tarkenton. “We’ll need a full list of the victims, the people whose boxes were broken into.”

“Isn’t there one in here?” He grabbed the file and started rifling through it. “Must be on the server. I’ll get you a printout before you leave.”

Twenty minutes later, they were sitting in the Pershing Square Central Café, across from Grand Central Station. The increased police presence, a result of the elevated terror alert, was evident with Hercules teams — specially trained Emergency Service Unit cops outfitted in helmets, Kevlar vests, and submachine guns — and critical response vehicles traversing the city’s streets.

Vail had eaten in the restaurant a few times, but it had been many years. Nevertheless, the area was filled with memories of the time she spent patrolling New York City streets as a cop, then as a detective … and then as a green FBI agent.

A few blocks away sat Bryant Park, where the Hades serial killer had left a victim four years ago. The image of the body — of that case as a whole, which consumed nearly twenty years of her career as a law enforcement officer — still bothered her.

Although the café was wedged beneath the Park Avenue viaduct, it was bright and cheery inside because it had a wall of windows looking out onto Park. At 7:30 AM, the place was buzzing with diners and waiters rushing from table to table, bumping into customers, spilling a bit of milk off a tray, or almost toppling a nearby platter. This morning the restaurant lived up to its motto: “The busiest and best breakfast in New York.”

Despite the commotion, Vail, DeSantos, and Uzi were absorbed in their conversation, cups of high octane java by their elbows and a plate of bagels with smoked salmon, capers, and cream cheese in the center of the table.

They each had a list of people whose safe deposit boxes were emptied. Notes were written across Vail’s copy. She was scanning the document a fifth time when DeSantos interrupted her thoughts.

“You got that name from Aksel.”

Uzi did not look up from the paper. “Yeah. I’ve been keeping him in the loop. He’s given me some valuable intel.”

DeSantos bit into his piled-high bagel and spoke while he chewed. “So you two have patched things up?”

Uzi lifted his brow. “I guess. I don’t know. We haven’t talked about it. Right now it’s a relationship of necessity. We’ve got a situation and we’re professionals trying to figure it out.”

“Good. I know he means something to you. I know it hurt when you thought he betrayed you.”

Uzi turned his attention back to the paper. “Depends on how you look at it. It’s complicated.”

“I know.”

Vail set her pen down. “So I’ve done an analysis—” She stopped and glanced at them. “Am I interrupting?”

“Go on,” DeSantos said.

“I’ve gone through the names and sorted them by ethnicity. By my estimation, and based on the info Tarkenton had in the database, twenty were Italian, fourteen were Irish, nine were Jewish, five were Greek, four were Hispanic.”

“So it’s a typical cross-section of New York.”

Vail shrugged. “I guess so. But that’s not what’s important.”

“Just means we’ve got a lot of people to interview.”

“It’s easier than that,” Uzi said. “It’s al Humat, right? They’re not interested in Italians, or Irish, or Greeks, or Hispanics—”

“Jews,” Vail said. She thumbed through the document again, going back to the first page. “Here. We’ve got one who’s a rabbi from Aleppo.”

“Syria?” DeSantos asked, scanning the page and finding the name on his list.

“Moved to Brooklyn twenty-five years ago. Another works at a camera store in midtown, and another is a registered nurse at Bellevue—” She stopped and paged backward. “But this has to be it. A former Syrian Jew? And an al Humat operative? I smell a connection. There’s something there. This is the guy we’ve gotta go see first.”

Uzi shrugged. “Seems right to—”

Vail’s phone rang. She pulled it and found Carmine Russo’s caller ID prominently displayed, along with his photo.

“Russo—”

“You still in New York?”

“Yeah. Just getting started.”

“Meet me in Times Square.”

“Times Square? Are you kidd—”

“Trust me, Karen. It’ll be worth your while.”

21

They arrived ten minutes later but had to stop two blocks short of the address Russo texted her because of a barricade of NYPD police vans and cruisers. A light rain had begun to fall and the sky had darkened, threatening a storm. It was not cold enough for snow, but the smell of it was in the air.

“You text Mo?” DeSantos asked as they exited their sedan.

“I did,” Vail said. “Told him we were on our way, gave him the address. He didn’t reply.”

Uzi gave DeSantos a concerned look.

“I’m sure he’s just following up on some things.” DeSantos hesitated, then said, “But it is very weird, I’ll give you that. Maybe his phone died.”

Vail displayed her credentials and pulled up her collar as they headed toward the north area of Times Square. They made their way through the crowd of officers at Broadway and 47th Street, where the humongous billboards flickered, changed colors, blinked, and rolled. The brightly lit Coca-Cola advertisement made Vail feel thirsty.

Ahead of them was an imposing fifteen-foot-tall statue of Father Francis Duffy and the aptly named Duffy Square, which consisted of rising stadium-style seating that canted over the roof of the TKTS discount Broadway box office. On a normal day, a video camera projected live footage of the people seated on the stands onto a large overhead LED screen.

It was not difficult to see where the focus of the crime scene was, as the camera was still transmitting.

“Shut that thing off. C’mon, dumbshit. Can’t be that hard to flip a friggin’ switch.”

It was Captain Carmine Russo, standing inside the crime scene barricade, a dozen feet forward of the imposing statue.

“Russo.”

He turned and saw Vail, then pushed past the men in his way. He gave her a hug. She made introductions and Russo shook their hands. “So you’re Uzi,” he said. “Thanks again for your help with Hades.”

“All in a day’s work.” Uzi gestured toward Duffy Plaza. “What do we got here?”

“We got us a friggin’ mess, is what we got. I’m talkin’ about the turf battle. FBI wants the scene. JTTF’s here, along with agents from the Field Intelligence Group and something called the foreign counterintelligence squad. Never knew you guys had a foreign counterintelligence squad.”

“I’ll see what I can do about the turf bullshit, but I have a feeling that’s gonna be something the commissioner and director are going to need to address.”

“I don’t see any signs of an explosion,” Vail said.

“No explosion.” Russo chuckled, then handed out booties. “Follow me. Got somethin’ for ya, Uzi.”

They walked single file past the statue toward the stairs that rose at a forty-five degree angle. Russo nodded at a couple of cops guarding the crime scene and tinned an FBI agent who seemed bothered by their presence.

Vail saw the problem immediately. About ten steps up, halfway to the top, a woman was reclining face up on the red Plexiglas and rubber surface, a wood-handled knife protruding from her chest.

DeSantos stopped a dozen feet shy of the body. “A woman’s been murdered. Why’s this relevant to our case?”

Russo glanced over his shoulder but kept moving. “Come see for yourself.”

As they gathered around the middle-aged Hispanic female, Vail gestured at a piece of paper pinned to the woman’s torso by the knife. “There’s a note.” She knelt down and kinked her neck to get a clear view. “Oh. Shit.”

“First ward?” Uzi asked.

“Guy’s a friggin’ riddler,” Russo said. “No idea what he’s talking about. You?”

Uzi shook his head. “I’ll get one of my agents on it, see if there’s any place in the country that uses wards — Chicago?”

“I think there are parishes, but—”

“That’s a good start,” Uzi said as he tapped out a message to Hoshi.

“They killed a woman just to leave you a note?” Russo asked.

“They want to put people on edge,” Vail said. “And they’re trying to keep us guessing, off balance. That’s the reason for the riddle. Inject uncertainty, leave us chasing our tails. And give us a sense that we don’t know what’s coming next.”

DeSantos pivoted and looked at the distant streets, where throngs of people still moved about behind the police barricades. “How can something like this can happen in the middle of such a busy place?”

“Hey, it’s Times Square,” Russo said. “Tourist sees something weird, he figures it’s some kinda performance art and moves along. I mean, there are women parading around wearing nothing but two circles of paint the size of a baseball—”

An FBI agent adjacent to Uzi’s right shoulder slumped forward as the crackle of a sniper rifle rang out.

“Shooter!” DeSantos said, then grabbed Vail and started moving down the stairs as he craned his neck in all directions to get a read on where the shots were coming from. “See anything?”

“Came from the east,” Uzi said as they headed toward the massive Duffy statue. “Agent was right in front of me, facing west. Entry wound was through his back.”

“Hope you’re right, Boychick.” They moved around to the side of the replica Duffy, using its breadth as a shield.

Russo squeezed in beside them on the edge, keyed his mike, and reported the sniper’s suspected location.

“All these Hercules teams and no snipers?”

“The teams make people feel safe,” Russo said. “A show of force. But no, we don’t deploy snipers unless we get a specific threat. Even if we could put a hundred sharpshooters on buildings in high profile areas of the city, no one wants to live in a police state. And the mayor—”

Another two shots, and a couple of cops, who were trying to get a better angle to locate the gunman, fell to the pavement.

“Body shots,” Uzi said, peeking around the edge. “Whoever’s up there knows what he’s doing.”

On Russo’s radio command, a number of emergency service unit officers and uniformed cops from the NYPD’s substation at the south end of Times Square headed into the surrounding buildings to lock them down and begin a search.

Vail moved to the far end of the statue and craned her neck, stealing a look around its edge, searching the buildings. Raindrops plunked into her eyes and she blinked them away.

“Gotta be a roof,” she said. “Windows don’t open.”

Uzi moved slowly around the edge and then pulled back. “There’s only one possible twenty, given the angle of the shots. Above the Sbarro, maybe nine or ten stories up. Otherwise, it’s just billboards, lights, and electronic signs — or the angle’s all wrong or the building’s too high.”

Vail and DeSantos inched around the front of the statue and looked at the area Uzi had described.

“I see him,” DeSantos said, then ducked back. “You’re right.”

“Do we have a clear shot?”

“Tough angle, but it’s possible.”

Where’s Russo? Vail texted him the sniper’s location. But another rifle blast rang out and a cop who was attempting to cross to the other side of the street went down. Goddamn. I’m not waiting for Russo’s guys to get this asshole. “Let’s take a shot.”

“That’s not funny,” DeSantos said.

Russo’s text came back:

esu and hercules en route sit tight

“Hercules is coming to save the day.”

“Again, not funny.”

“No, the Hercules team. They’ve only got submachine guns so I’m guessing they’re getting rifles and double timing it over here. ESU’s coming too,” she said, referring to the NYPD’s SWAT equivalent. “We don’t have time to wait. I say we put this bastard down.”

“With handguns?” Uzi asked. “From this range? Against a sniper rifle? Soon as we clear the cover of the statue, he’ll pick us off. Just like the others.”

“I did something like this with Delta Force,” DeSantos said. “He’s sighting through his scope. If he’s not looking at us when we expose ourselves — which would be a hell of a coincidence — he won’t see us till it’s too late.”

“And if he does happen to be looking our way?”

DeSantos shrugged. “He won’t be able to hit all of us. And he may not even hit any of us.”

“Sounds like an awesome plan,” Uzi said, the sarcasm thick as he drew out the word “awesome.”

“This can work,” Vail said.

Another shot, this time striking a young female pedestrian a block away who had not taken adequate cover. Her torso absorbed the hit, then she fell to the ground in a heap.

Uzi turned away from the downed woman and faced Vail. “Okay. I’m in.”

“Who’s the best shot?” Vail asked.

Uzi and DeSantos simultaneously said, “Me.”

“Men.” She shook her head. “Hector, still using that canon?”

“Yep,” he said as he attached a sight to his .50-caliber Desert Eagle. “Now outfitted with a Leupold scope.”

“Sorry, Uzi. His is bigger.”

“Hey, a .50-cal with a scope? All yours, Santa.”

“Do me a favor,” Vail said, “and get him before he gets us.”

DeSantos checked the Leupold, then held his Desert Eagle in both hands between his thighs, pointed at the ground.

“On my mark.” Vail peered around the edge. A few seconds later the shooter revealed himself, sighting through his scope for another victim.

“Got him,” she said. “Mark!”

DeSantos swung out into the open and squared himself as Vail and Uzi came out firing. Before the cacophony of gunshots ended, the sniper tipped forward over the edge of the building and tumbled face first to the pavement, passing the Broadway billboard ads for Phantom and Wicked.

It did not take long for him to touch down.

22

They stood over the suspect’s prone body, a stream of blood leaking into the street and joining rainwater running off into a nearby sewer. The drizzle persisted and had dampened Vail’s hair, making it frizzy. Her hands were starting to freeze.

But she hardly noticed. Rather, the image of the man free falling from the building had dominated her thoughts, bringing back memories of another high profile terror attack she was once involved in.

“Pretty clear what he was after,” Uzi said.

The comment drew Vail from her reverie. “What?”

Russo joined them, three Hercules teams alongside him. They fanned out and brought their rifles up, searching the surrounding rooftops through their scopes.

Russo craned his neck to the spot where the sniper had been perched. “Nice shot.”

“Lucky shot,” DeSantos said.

“Shoulda waited.”

“Couldn’t,” Vail said. “Seconds counted. He wasn’t stopping till we stopped him.”

“You think this was all about me?” Uzi asked.

DeSantos knelt down and carefully moved the shooter’s jacket with the back of his hand, searching his pockets. Russo pulled out a glove and handed it to him.

“Maybe,” Vail said, “given what’s written on that note. But I think there’s more to it than that. Like why they didn’t set off a bomb. And why they used the murder of that woman to send you a message. And why they chose to do it here.”

“Which is?”

“Times Square isn’t just a public place, it’s high profile.”

“High profile doesn’t quite cut it,” Russo said. “We had a discussion about this in our counterterrorism briefing last month. Based solely on tourists, Times Square is the number two attraction in the world behind the Las Vegas Strip. It gets over 130 million visitors a year, a bit more than Disneyland and Disney World. It don’t get more high profile than this.”

“We got security footage?” DeSantos asked.

“Oh, yeah, plenty a cameras. I’m sure we’ll have this goon on film on at least one a them. I’ll see what we got.” Russo pulled his phone and walked off to make his call.

“You okay?” Vail asked.

“Hmm?” Uzi was staring at the body, then pulled his gaze away. “Yeah, I’m fine. I’m — whenever someone takes a shot at you and kills someone else instead, you feel kind of guilty. Responsible.”

“I don’t have to tell you that’s ridiculous.”

“We can’t know for sure the sniper was there just for you,” DeSantos said. “They had no way of knowing you were even in New York.”

Uzi seemed distracted. “Yeah.”

“And the message on that note would’ve been delivered to you whether you were here or not.”

“I agree,” Vail said. “The sniper was there to pick people off. I don’t think they necessarily cared who. Cops, FBI, women, children. You, if you were here. But whether you were here or not, the shooter was going to take his shots. It fits the purpose behind all these attacks: induce terror and fear in the general population, leave them wondering what’s coming next. Each one of their attacks has been different in some way or other.”

Uzi was silent a moment, then walked up the steps and knelt at the murdered woman’s side. “Amsterdam.”

Vail and DeSantos, who had followed, looked at each other.

“There a reason why you just said ‘Amsterdam,’ Boychick?”

“Amsterdam, 2004. Guy by the name of van Gogh was shot in the middle of a crowded square, then a knife was driven through a note into his chest.” He gestured at DeSantos. “You’ve got gloves — check to see if she was shot before she was stabbed.”

Russo walked over while DeSantos examined the body.

“Any witnesses?” Vail asked.

“I’m sure there were plenty, but we only managed to get a couple. Conflicting descriptions of the perp, which—”

“Not surprising in stressful times. People don’t see what they think they see.”

“Exactly. The cameras will give us a better look.”

“Either of them say anything about the woman being shot before she was stabbed?”

“No.”

“Yes.” DeSantos looked up at Russo, shielding his eyes from the rain. “GSW to the chest, just above the stab wound.”

Uzi nodded. “So it fits. But what does it mean?”

“It means the sniper may’ve had an accomplice. He took the shot, woman goes down, his buddy stabs the note to her chest.”

“Who was the doer in the Amsterdam case?” Russo asked.

“An Amsterdam native of Moroccan descent, Mohammed Bouyeri. MO was very similar: high profile location, in the middle of a lot of people, dramatically staged with the knife and the note.”

“So what’s the connection?” Russo asked.

DeSantos rose from his crouch as the medical examiner’s vehicle pulled up to the edge of the plaza, in front of the George M. Cohan statue at the southern end of the square.

“Wanna give me that canon for evidence?” Russo asked, gesturing toward the Desert Eagle.

“Nope,” DeSantos said as he went about detaching the scope.

“I think we should just let it go,” Vail said, looking hard at Russo.

“Tell you what,” DeSantos said. “Take it up with Director Knox. He tells me you should get the gun, I'll hand deliver it.”

“Knox.”

DeSantos shrugged. “All I can say.”

“We’ve gotta follow up on something,” Vail said. “Keep us posted on what you find here?”

Russo’s brow bunched as he studied her face. “Anything you’d like to tell me? You know, share resources?”

“I’m sure the NYPD will be plugged into everything that’s going on,” DeSantos said.

Russo gave him a dubious look. “Yeah, right.”

23

Vail found the address for Menachem Halevi, the Aleppo rabbi and safe deposit box holder, on the way back to their SUV. He lived in the Borough Park neighborhood of Brooklyn, an Orthodox Jewish enclave bordering its Italian counterpart not far from the Verrazano Bridge.

“That’s a little surprising,” Uzi said on the ride over. “An Aleppo rabbi would live in Flatbush, on or around Ocean Parkway, not in Borough Park.”

“Is that some kind of rule?” Vail asked.

Uzi chuckled. “Borough Park is mostly Hasidim of European background. It’s unusual to find Syrian Jews here, but not impossible, I guess.”

They parked on 50th Street and walked to the corner at 14th Avenue where they found the seven-story brick apartment building that, by the look of it, dated back at least several decades. Signs above schools and storefront shops bore Hebrew and English lettering.

As they walked through the small courtyard formed by the two wings of the complex, a man in a black overcoat and matching felt hat was coming through the glass doors.

“Hold that,” Vail said, showing her FBI credentials.

The religious man averted his eyes, as the Orthodox are inclined to do around women, but stopped and kept the door from closing.

Vail, DeSantos, and Uzi entered the building and proceeded straight ahead to the elevator. Uzi pulled open the steel door and they stepped into the car.

“This is pretty friggin’ old,” Vail said. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen an elevator like this.” A tarnished penny was stuck inside the cross-hatching of the small glass window of the door that swung closed. She thought about taking the stairs instead, but DeSantos shouldered her aside.

“Deal with it. It’s a short ride.”

A moment later they arrived at the fifth floor. They found the apartment at the end of the hall and pushed the chime. There was a ruckus inside, the sounds of young children playing and roughhousing.

“Good thing today’s Sunday,” Uzi said. “Saturday, the elevator wouldn’t have been working and no one would’ve answered the door.” He apparently noticed DeSantos’s inquisitive head tilt, because he said, “The Sabbath.”

Vail knocked firmly — the weak “ding-dong” was no match for the yelling kids — and seconds later a man in his forties appeared.

“Yes?”

As Vail studied his face, formal dress, and demeanor, she had a feeling he looked older than he probably was.

“I’m Aaron Uziel, FBI. We’re looking for Rabbi Halevi.” He held up his credentials for the man to peruse — which he did, with a backward tilt of his head so he could view them through the reading portion of his glasses.

“What does the FBI want with him?”

“We’re following up on the bank robbery eighteen months ago. We’ve got some questions.”

The man lifted his brow. “You found him. Come in.” Leaving the heavy gauge metal door open, he turned and proceeded into the apartment. Well worn olive carpeting led to a dining table wedged along the left wall. Directly across was a living room of modest size, about a dozen feet wide and fifteen long. Five children, ranging in age from what Vail estimated as three to nine, were running around, slashing at each other with fake swords and jumping off plastic play structures.

“Sorry to bother you on a Sunday,” Vail said, “but these questions couldn’t wait.”

Car horns — loud and long — blared outside on the street.

Halevi sat on a chair near the knot of children. Vail, Uzi, and DeSantos sank into the couch against the long wall. The youngsters seemed unfazed by their visitors and kept playing as if they were not there.

One of the boys stopped suddenly and looked at Vail. In fact, he was staring at her. He pointed and said, “Is that a real gun?”

Vail looked down — and quickly brought her jacket around, covering the protruding handle. “It is. I’m a police officer.”

“Police officers protect people,” he said. “Can I see your gun?”

“Isaac,” Halevi said, “don’t bother the nice lady. Go back to playing.”

A woman a few years younger than Halevi walked in, wearing what appeared to be a wig, but as with her husband, her style and demeanor gave the impression of someone senior to her true age. “We have guests, Menny?”

“This is my wife, Miriam.” He handed her a box of crayons from the coffee table. “They have questions about the robbery. At the bank.”

Her forehead rose in surprise. “Can I get you anything to eat or drink?”

The three of them declined and Miriam took a young girl with her into the kitchen. Isaac hopped into his father’s lap, his eyes riveted on Vail.

“A year and a half goes by and we don’t hear anything, and then suddenly three FBI agents show up with questions. On a Sunday, no less. Something doesn’t quite seem right.”

“Can’t argue with that,” DeSantos said, conceding the point. “We think the robbery could be important to another case.”

“How can I help?” Halevi asked.

Another boy climbed onto his father’s unoccupied leg and started bouncing.

“Shmu, sit still, please.”

“We think the robbers were after something very specific,” Uzi said. “We’re taking an inventory of what was stolen.”

“I told the detective and that FBI agent back when it happened. They wrote it all down.”

“So some cash, jewelry, a few bonds. That’s it?”

“Sounds right. There wasn’t much. More sentimental than valuable.”

“How much jewelry?”

Halevi shifted his legs and moved the children a bit. “Just a few family heirlooms. A gold ring with some diamonds, an opal broach, and two pendants from my parents. Worst of all, my grandparents’ Shabbat candlesticks. It’s all I had left from them.”

“That it?” DeSantos asked.

“Like I said. It had more meaning to us than value to others. If it was someone looking for something specific that had a lot of value on the open market, I don’t think we were the target.”

“But you had a large box,” Uzi said, “two feet by two and a half feet by six inches. Why would you need such a large box for only a few pieces of jewelry and a couple of candlesticks?”

Halevi swallowed noticeably. “It was the only one they had available at the time. Sometimes these boxes, there are waiting lists.”

Uzi nodded, accepting the explanation. But Vail sensed that something was not right. She glanced at DeSantos, who seemed to have similar concerns.

“You sure?” DeSantos asked. “The case we’re handling is very important. It’s not just a bank robbery. As you noted — quite astutely — there are three federal agents sitting in your living room on a Sunday.” He let that hang in the air as the three of them observed the rabbi.

The younger boys went flying into Halevi and he fought to keep himself upright and the other kids balanced on his lap.

“Hey,” Isaac said. “Cut it out.”

“Please. Raffi, calm down.” Halevi swiveled his gaze to Uzi. “If we’re done here—”

“No,” Vail said. “We’re not.” She had one card to play, and she decided now was the time — even if it meant revealing sensitive information. “We have reason to believe that al Humat was behind the bank robbery.”

“Karen.” Uzi’s complexion shaded red.

She ignored him and focused on Halevi, whose face now sprouted perspiration that glistened in the light streaming in from the nearby windows.

Car horns blared again outside.

“So, rabbi, let me ask you once more. Why would al Humat target you?”

He leaned back and yelled into the kitchen. “Miriam! Can you take the kids?”

She walked in and clapped her hands. “Come with me, we’ll make Play-Doh. Who wants to help?”

They yelled and ran out, leaving Vail and Halevi staring at each other.

“I think we’ll go for a walk,” Uzi said, elbowing DeSantos — who reluctantly complied.

As they left the apartment, Vail sat back in the couch.

“You need to talk with my father,” Halevi said.

“Your father? The owner of the box was Rabbi Halevi. You said you’re Rabbi Halevi.”

“My father is also Rabbi Halevi.” He shrugged. “We’re orthodox. This is not unusual. And you didn’t say which Rabbi Halevi you wanted to talk with.” He rose from the seat and walked into the hallway and turned right. Two minutes later, he returned with an aged man, white bearded and slow of gait, with a dark complexion.

Halevi helped his father to the chair and explained who Vail was and why she was there.

“Rabbi, the case my colleagues and I are working is extremely important. I’m sure you’ve heard about what’s been going on in Washington and what happened today at Times Square. And now three federal agents show up at your door asking about a bank robbery from a year and a half ago. I can’t say anymore, but I’m sure you can connect the dots.”

“Tell her, Father.”

“No,” he said with a raspy voice. “This is not something we speak of.”

“Father—”

“Rabbi,” Vail said firmly. “Let me make something clear. Withholding information in a federal investigation is called obstruction of justice and it’s a crime we take very seriously — especially when lives are on the line.”

The elderly man craned his stiff neck up to his son, who nodded. “Lives are on the line?”

“They think al Humat was behind the bank robbery,” Halevi said.

The man squinted. “I don’t understand. Terrorists don’t rob banks. Why would they do that? For money? If they wanted money, they’d rob the bank, not safe deposit boxes. No?”

“Al Humat gets all the money it needs from its … collaboration with other criminal organizations. Robbing a bank in Brooklyn is a high risk act. There had to be something inside that would give them more than money.”

“There was.” Halevi nudged his father.

The elderly man shook his head. “She would not understand.”

“Maybe. But her partner would. Aharon Uziel,” he said, using a Hebrew pronunciation of Uzi’s first name. He turned to Vail.

She pulled her cell and texted Uzi to come up immediately. He returned less than two minutes later, sans DeSantos.

When he walked in, he seemed surprised to see the elder man. Vail explained who he was and that there was, indeed, something of importance in the pilfered box.

“You said, rabbi, that I would not understand. Because I’m a woman?”

He looked at her a long moment, as if he was determining if he could discuss this with her present. “If I’m going to share this secret with you, please call me Yakov. Good? Yes?”

Vail grinned. “Yes.”

“And we need a drink.”

Halevi rolled his eyes. “I’ll go get something.”

24

Do you know much about the Jews of Aleppo? Agent Uziel?”

Uzi pursed his lips. “I know some. There was once a thriving community in Aleppo. Until 1947 or 1948, and then the Syrians turned on them and destroyed the synagogues, their homes. They harassed and killed them.”

“Good enough,” Yakov said. “The Aleppo Jews had lived in Syria for three thousand years. They were part of the culture, a part of the land. But these men and women had something even more significant: custodianship of one of the most important books in the history of Judaism, perhaps Christianity — and all other religions that arose from Judaism. Do you know what book this is?”

Vail shrugged. “The Bible?”

Yakov’s head bobbed up and down. “Emphasis on the. The authoritative book, the oldest, most accurate text of the Hebrew Bible.”

“So you’re talking about an actual book. A rare manuscript.” Vail’s mind flitted back to her time in London when she dealt with another rare manuscript, one that touched off a rough time in England that nearly got her killed.

“Calling it rare is doing it an injustice,” Yakov said. “It’s been known as the Crown, the Crown of Aleppo, and the Aleppo Codex. What it is is the most important book in history.”

“What’s so special about it?” Vail turned to Uzi. “Have you heard of it?”

Uzi laughed. “Yes. I even got to see a few pages once at the Israel Museum in Jerusalem, where they keep the Dead Sea Scrolls. I asked to see more, but it’s locked away in a vault that requires three keys, a magnetic card, and a six-digit code. It’s an ancient manuscript steeped in mystery.”

“We’ll get to that,” Yakov said. “First, you wanted to know what’s so special about it. It’s one of a kind. But even that’s not what makes it so special. There are plenty of ancient manuscripts that are one-offs. To understand its significance you must understand the time, what was going on.”

Yakov cleared his raspy throat and leaned forward slightly. He lifted a wrinkled hand and gestured as if delivering a soliloquy. “Around the year 930 CE, Judaism was splintered. Its traditions and teachings had been handed down by oral tradition for millennia, covering everything from how they should relate to one another, how they should treat the land, and most importantly, how they should speak to God.”

Halevi walked back in with a tray containing eight glasses, half of which were filled with ice cubes and water and the other four a milky-white liquid. In the center was a clear bottle featuring a green and gold label that contained Hebrew lettering.

“By the time of the First Temple,” Yakov said, “they were beginning to write down these oral traditions and laws — which really were their bible, their manual for how to live and act. But the Temple was their spiritual, religious, and community center. When it was destroyed by the Babylonians, the Jews scattered. They eventually rebuilt the Temple, but then the Romans destroyed it and the Jews lost their unifying center of life.

“They needed something that could survive the leveling of a building, something that could be taken with them to whatever region or land they found themselves in. Something that couldn’t be wiped out by an invading army.”

“A book,” Uzi said. “Or a Torah.”

Halevi handed out the glasses.

Vail took a sip and drew her chin back. Whoa. “What is this?”

Uzi laughed. “Arak. A Middle Eastern distilled drink made from grapes and anise seed.”

“Interesting,” Vail said as she held up her glass. “Continue, rabbi.”

Yakov sat back and thought a moment. “In the seventh century, Masoretic linguistic scholars in Israel who stressed the rabbinic teachings began standardizing the variations in the Hebrew language that had developed after the Temple was destroyed. Early in the tenth century, Rabbi Aaron Ben Asher was tasked with taking all this work and writing a reference text that set out Hebrew’s vowels and grammatical rules as well as how the prayers were chanted — its cantillation.”

“Cantillation?” Vail asked.

“Melodies,” Halevi said. “Forgive my father. He’s been a teacher all his life. What he’s saying is that the scholars were trying to preserve Judaism’s tradition, culture, and religion for future generations by standardizing the language and cultural nuances that had developed. They created a system of vowels and melodies, chapter and verse to organize the teachings and make it so anyone could learn the language. Three hundred years later, Ben Asher and the scribes brought it all together in an authoritative reference text — the codex. It was to be something that could culturally and religiously connect the thousands of communities that had fled to different countries.”

Yakov set his drink down, stroked his long white beard, then reengaged eye contact with Vail. “Discrepancies in the Torah, ambiguities, differences in interpretation, had to be avoided to keep the religion together, to keep it from splintering. Ben Asher’s goal was to create the perfect, official text.”

Uzi held his glass up to the light that streamed in through the windows. “Not to rush you, rabbi, because I’m enjoying this history lesson. But this case, we’re up against the—”

“I’m getting to the point,” Yakov said, waving a wrinkled and arthritic hand. “Be patient, my son.”

Uzi squirmed on the couch cushion. Vail placed a hand on his knee, telling him that she sensed there was, indeed, a point to Yakov’s discourse.

“Animal skins were prepared and special permanent ink was mixed from crushed tree galls, iron sulfate, and black soot. It took Ben Asher and his scholars decades to research the codex and it took the scribes five hundred or so pages to write it. Almost two hundred years later, in July 1099, the Crusaders sacked Jerusalem, murdering thousands and destroying the Jewish quarter, their places of worship, Torahs, and books. One book in particular survived, however. Do I need to tell you which?” He tilted his head at Vail, then Uzi.

Uzi said, “The Aleppo Codex.”

“Yes. Except that it wasn’t called The Aleppo Codex. Not yet. Even then, the codex’s importance was known. The Crusaders captured it, and other holy works, and demanded money. The Jewish community took out a loan from Egypt to pay the ransom — this is all documented in letters archaeologists have found — and that’s where the codex remained, in Egypt, until about 150 years later.

“During that time it was used by one of the world’s greatest philosophers and physicians, Moses ben Maimon — Maimonides. Maimonides used the codex as one of his main tools for creating the Mishneh Torah, books that provided a simplified description of Jewish law and rituals — a guide used even today.”

“Around 1375,” Halevi said, “Maimonides’ great-great-great-grandson left Egypt and brought Maimonides’ library with him — which included the codex. He settled in Aleppo and for safe keeping, placed the codex in a synagogue, locked away in a stone and iron chamber. It was removed only for certain scholars and dignitaries.”

“And that’s where it stayed until 1947,” Uzi said.

Yakov nodded slowly. “Yes. The Aleppo community considered it their divine purpose to safeguard it. They believed the codex was not supposed to leave Aleppo. There’s an inscription on the first page that reads, ‘Blessed be he who preserves it and cursed be he who steals it, and cursed be he who sells it, and cursed be he who pawns it. It may not be sold and it may not be defiled forever.’

“They took this very seriously. Even when Syrians were turning against the Jews and killing them, burning their synagogues and books, the Aleppo elders refused to move the codex to Jerusalem, where the new country’s president wanted to place it in the national museum. In the end, with Aleppo’s Jews being smuggled to safety in Israel — the codex was moved, rather circuitously, to Jerusalem.”

“But something happened,” Halevi said. “Sometime around its arrival in 1958, part of it went missing.”

“The first two hundred pages,” Yakov said, the glass in his hand. He took a drink, his hand trembling. “The search for those pages went on for twenty-seven years. Problem was, no one knew when they disappeared. Some claimed they were destroyed by the fire that Syrians set in the Aleppo synagogue during the riots. And there were burn marks on the corners of the surviving pages, so it looked like those two hundred pages were lost forever. But scientists later realized that the damage to the pages wasn’t carbon from a fire but some kind of mold. Eyewitnesses came forward and said the codex survived the fire and that the pages were lost while being snuck out of Syria.”

“We started hearing stories,” Halevi said, “of parts of the codex showing up in other countries. Pages, fragments of pages.”

Uzi sat up. “A black market. Dealing in antiquities and rare manuscripts.”

Those words caused a contraction in Vail’s stomach.

Halevi pulled over another chair and sat. “Mossad got involved, the IDF, the court system, even psychics. And then in 1985, they heard that the missing pages were buried in Ein Ata, a village in southern Lebanon. Israel controlled that area at the time, but because it was so unstable, a search party went in under IDF escort. They came up empty. But an Aleppo Jew, Joshua Ashear, the one who tipped them off that the codex might be there, stayed behind with a friend of his. Two days later, they found the pages hidden in a dealer’s attic. Not wanting to entrust the pages to anyone but people the man knew, Ashear passed them to an Aleppo rabbi, who transported them to the Aleppo Jewish community in São Paulo, and then on to Panama City. Two years later, they were brought here, to Brooklyn.”

Oh shit. That’s what was in the safe deposit box.

“I see where this is leading,” Uzi said. “You had the pages. That’s what the bank robbery was all about.”

“How did al Humat know?” Vail said.

“There were rumors for years they were in Brooklyn,” Yakov said. “A fragment was found in a rabbi’s wallet when he died. His daughter didn’t know what it was but when she met with a reporter she talked about seeing me bring a sheaf of pages to their home when she was a child. That innocent comment spread through the community like a contagious disease. It wasn’t a secret any longer that I had most of the missing pages.” He shrugged. “I thought it was a secret within the Aleppo community. I was wrong.

“We moved to Borough Park, away from the other Aleppo Jews. But it didn’t matter. A few weeks later I was approached by a man who said he was an Israeli antiquities dealer. Sometimes you can’t tell if they’re Jews or Arabs. If they speak Hebrew, know Israel, it’s hard to trip them up. I asked some questions, he seemed legitimate … but now thinking about it … who knows.”

“What did he want?”

“He wanted to buy the missing pages for $100 million. I didn’t deny having them — I told him I wasn’t in a position to sell them. And I might’ve told him they have no business being bought and sold on a black market. If they went anywhere, they’d go to the Israel Museum, where the other half is kept.”

Uzi snorted. “You basically told him you had them.”

“I suddenly had visitors from the government, scholars, the Israel Antiquities Authority, journalists from the New York Times. Even a man who was writing a book about the codex.”

“Forgive me for asking,” Vail said, “but why didn’t you turn them over to the Israeli government?”

“The pages weren’t yours,” Uzi said. “They belonged to the Jewish people. It’s one of the most important artifacts of our religion — of all religions that grew out of the Torah — what some call the Old Testament.”

Halevi sank back in his chair. He finished the Arak in his glass and stared into its empty bottom. “The Aleppo community was given the codex for safekeeping. We protected it for six hundred years. We were never supposed to let it out of our sight. And as soon as it left our hands, the most important part of it — the first two hundred pages — were stolen. We’re talking about almost the entire Torah, the foundational narrative of the Jewish people. The Five Books of Moses. Genesis all the way to Deuteronomy.”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” Uzi said.

Yakov looked at his son, who nodded vigorously, silently urging him to come clean. But the old man sat there a long moment, staring at the carpet.

The sounds of the children playing in the other room wormed their way into Vail’s thoughts. Cars honked outside. And in the back of her mind, an internal clock was going off like an alarm, telling her she needed to figure out how this fit with the terror attacks.

Yakov said, in a voice barely above a whisper, “I was protecting us from ourselves. What’s in those pages would make it impossible for Israel to ever have peace with the Palestinians.”

25

Uzi sat forward on the couch. “Say what? How could a tenth-century book affect a peace process in the twenty-first century?”

Yakov licked his lips, then took another glass and poured more Arak. He offered the bottle to Uzi and Vail. Both declined.

“The codex consists of beautifully handwritten, perfect Hebrew. Almost 3 million characters, all impeccably drawn on parchment that measures 10 inches by 13 ½ inches, 28 lines to a column, three columns to a page. But …” He stopped, took a drink. “There are also tiny notes in the margins. Most of them describe how the Torah should be read. Some point out when a certain word appears for the first time or when a word’s not to be spoken aloud, that sort of thing. But a few of the notes are different. They give the location of an ancient structure in Bethlehem. And that could make a peace agreement next to impossible.”

“Just a guess here,” Vail said, “But this is the part you mentioned earlier that I would not understand.”

“I’m not sure Agent Uziel fully understands it. But he has an idea, no?”

Uzi nodded. “The geopolitics of the West Bank land are complex.”

“There comes a time,” Vail said, “when you have to seek peace and accept a two-state solution, even if you have a valid claim to all of the land.”

Uzi chuckled. “And therein lies the problem. The two-state solution is a western construct, a foreign concept to Middle Eastern culture. It arose because the west wanted to do something to break the impasse, to solve the problem. The Middle East is such a screwed up region, it’s easy to point to Israel, a democratic and moral society, and think, ‘Now, there’s something we can fix. We just need to carve out two countries and make peace.’ But if you understand the mind-set of the region, you know that it’s largely a problem without a solution.”

“And what is this mind-set?” Vail asked.

Uzi held up a hand. “Let’s first approach the issue from a western point of view. Two states make sense because Arabs lived on some of that land too, at times, so that’d be a fair compromise. Except that Hamas, Palestinian Islamic Jihad, al Humat, al Qaeda, and ISIL are on Israel’s doorstep. To the north and east there’s ISIL in Syria, Hezbollah in Lebanon, ISIL and an al Qaeda affiliate near the Golan Heights — and in Iraq. To the south, the Sinai’s a terrorist breeding ground. Not to mention a nuclear Iran nine hundred miles away — kind of like the distance from Manhattan to Chicago. All these things need to be dealt with in a negotiated deal.

“Question is, with Iran supplying missiles to its proxies and allies in Hamas, al Humat, and Hezbollah, is a true peace possible? Even if most Palestinians are in favor of the Israel Defense Force pulling out of the West Bank, they know the Palestinian Authority can’t control the extremists. Within a year, black-masked Hamas or ISIL fighters will overrun the West Bank, which is smack dab in the middle of Israel. You think Syria’s a mess? Just wait. Like I said, it’s complicated — but despite all the obstacles, it’s worth pursuing. If you have a valid partner to negotiate with.”

“The codex adds another complication,” Yakov said. “Those notes in the margins, they were written eleven centuries ago. Ben Asher and Ben Buya and their scholars weren’t concerned about the land claims of the present day — because the dispute didn’t exist back then. So you basically have an unadulterated truth about rights to the land. Indisputable fact.”

Halevi had gotten fidgety, shifting his weight and pulling on his black beard: visibly uncomfortable. “Father, we have been through this.”

Yakov shook his head. “And I disagree with you.”

“There is no such thing as truth,” Halevi said. “There is no such thing as fact.”

Whoa, hold on a second. Vail cocked her head. “As an officer of the law, I can tell you that there absolutely is truth. Facts are just that — truths, events that happened.”

“I’m speaking as a rabbi. Philosophically, Agent Vail. Each person believes his view is objective, when in fact it’s subjective because he approaches a topic or an issue with his own worldview. And his worldview influences his read of documents, of evidence, of history. He considers facts through the lens of his preconceived belief system, and he accepts as true all of those things that reinforce his worldview. He rejects all of those that don’t.”

“But truth is based on a set of facts that actually happened,” Uzi said.

“Ah, but my truth may be different from your truth because I’m telling you what I saw. And what I saw is different from what you saw because I see through my eyes, which means those facts have already been interpreted through my lens — my past experiences, my observations, my beliefs. My filters. So there is no such thing as a singular truth — not even in mathematics. There are too many variables. It’s truth according to me. Follow?”

“I understand the concept,” Vail said. “But it’s hard for me to accept given everything I’ve devoted my life to. Law and order, evidence, testimony.”

“Then I’ve given you something to ponder. The rabbi in me is happy. But here’s my point. Take it a step farther and apply these concepts to conflict resolution — in this case, a peace process. Everyone sees the world through his own narrative and doesn’t accept the veracity of the other person’s narrative. That’s what we’re dealing with regarding the Palestinians. The Palestinians reject the evidence that the First and Second Temples existed because it doesn’t fit their worldview. They believe that Jews have no claim to the land of Israel. And because of that belief, the Palestinians refuse to accept Israel’s right to exist. This goes, of course, to the heart of the Hamas and al Humat charters. It’s all stated there in black and white for anyone to read. It’s why Palestinian textbooks teach the children that one day they will kick the Jews out and inhabit all of the land.”

“And that brings us back to what I was talking about before,” Yakov said. “The notes in the margins of the codex. Some of them make specific mention of King David’s palaces. They even note where the kingdom was located.”

“And why is this a problem?” Vail asked. “Sounds like a good thing.”

Yakov smiled for the first time — wanly. “Because a couple of years ago ruins were discovered that archaeologists believe are from one of David’s palaces. There were earthenware storage vessels inside with Hebrew impressions that read, ‘To the king.’ It’s a problem because I know these ruins are what’s described in those notes in the codex.”

“I’m still not getting it,” Vail said.

Halevi said, “These ruins are on Palestinian land in Bethlehem.”

“Ah. That explains it.” Uzi nodded slowly. “Because Bethlehem is in the West Bank, there’s no way the Orthodox ministers in the Israeli government would agree to a peace deal that gives away their ancestors’ sacred land, land where one of King David’s palaces sits.”

“This is why the settlers live in Area C in the West Bank,” Halevi said. “There is historical record of Jews having lived in the West Bank. Other archaeological finds — buildings, documents, tablets, burial grounds, coins, parchments, Torahs. It’s very compelling evidence, if not conclusive. And when you put it together with a document written in the tenth century, at a time when there was no land dispute, no reason to lie or manipulate information, you have something that not only directly contradicts the Palestinian worldview but it makes it virtually impossible for Orthodox Jews to give up land that needs to be part of a two-state solution.”

“That problem with facts and truths my son mentioned,” Yakov said, “which he fixates on … When you start to line up multiple instances of disparate, unrelated instances that corroborate and support a set of proposed facts, these facts became less suspect and move toward being a real, verifiable fact. A truth.”

“I understand that,” Uzi said. “But land swaps would be part of any peace deal to meet security needs. The Israelis and Palestinians could simply swap that Biblically significant land for other land.”

“You’re not talking about ‘just’ a palace,” Halevi said, “but a kingdom that covered a very large area. The Jews have lived there for thousands of years. That’s the problem with the settler movement. I don’t disagree with them. But what you said earlier, Agent Vail, that at some point you have to compromise, I agree. There needs to be peace, and if the radical factions can be neutralized and if we can have a legitimate government on the other side that can enforce an agreement, like Egypt and Jordan have, it’s best for everyone.”

Uzi turned to Vail. “And that brings us to the other obstacle.”

“The mind-set of the region that you mentioned.”

“Right. The notion of compromise doesn’t compute in the Middle East. The unspoken MO is that giving something to your opponent doesn’t promote reconciliation with them, it just tells them they can demand more. You give them something, they’ll be at your throat for more. Compromise is seen as a weakness. So you don’t dare give anything — not an inch. It’s the way the Arab world thinks. And since half the Jews in Israel were kicked out of their homes in Muslim countries in the twentieth century, they’re intimately familiar with the concept.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Vail said. “It’s crazy.”

“To you and me, yeah. But in the context of the Middle East, it makes perfect sense. It’s the way things are done, the way they have been done. But even if you can fight that backward mind-set, you’ve got another insurmountable obstacle: groups like Hamas, Palestinian Islamic Jihad, and al Humat don’t want a peace deal, they want the land. All the land — all of Israel. No matter what proof is unearthed, they’ll never accept that Jews have lived there for thousands of years.”

“The irony,” Halevi said, “is that in Islam there are ancient documents that refer to the Temple and talk about King David being in Jerusalem, about Jews living there. These are their own ancient texts. Yet the extremists reject them because they can’t accept it. They refuse to accept it.”

Vail thought about that a second. “Do they know what they’ve got? With the codex.”

The elder rabbi leaned back in his seat. “Do they know the importance of the codex and its value to the world’s religions and, obviously, to Israel? I have no doubt.”

“Right,” Vail said. “That’s why they broke into the vault. That’s not what I mean. I’m talking about the notes in the margin.”

Yakov pulled on his beard. “I don’t think so. They’d have to be able to read and interpret the Hebrew and I just don’t think Islamic extremists are interested in reading a holy Jewish text. They’d also have to put it together with the Bethlehem archaeological find, which the government has tried to keep under wraps because of the potential fallout with the Palestinians. The bigger the deal you make about it, the more of an issue it becomes. Negotiations become more difficult, start to look like blackmail.”

And they’re apparently difficult enough without ancient texts adding complications.

Vail rose from the couch, followed by Uzi. “Thank you.” She pulled out her card and handed it to Halevi. “You think of anything else, please let us know.”

26

Uzi checked his phone while they descended in the slow-moving elevator.

Vail took a deep breath and kept her gaze on the floor.

“You okay? Oh — your claustrophobia.”

“I’m fine. We’ll be out of here in a minute.” Or an hour at the rate this thing moves. “Talk to me, take my mind off it.”

“Mo hasn’t replied to my texts or phone calls. I tried reaching him before I went back upstairs.”

“That’s annoying.”

“Annoying? How about unprofessional, irresponsible, sus—” The elevator hit the ground floor with a thud and Vail pushed the steel door open.

They walked outside, where DeSantos was waiting in the front courtyard.

“Anything from Mo?” Uzi asked.

“Nothing. Goes straight to voicemail. Anything worthwhile up there?”

“Karen’ll fill you in. I’ve gotta make a call.” Uzi headed toward the sidewalk as he pulled up the number. It was answered by Isamu.

“A year, year and a half ago we worked together on the Hades case,” Uzi said. “We used the domain awareness system to—”

“I remember,” Isamu said. “Your name kind of makes you unforgettable.”

Uzi had to laugh. “Listen, I’m in town on a counterterrorism case and I need some help. If I send you a photo of someone, can you run it through the facial rec system and let me know if he’s been anywhere in the city? I gotta find him.”

“Suspect?”

“A person of interest. Let’s just leave it at that.”

“Send it over, I’ll see what I can do. Facial rec still isn’t up and running everywhere, but maybe we’ll get a hit.”

Uzi thanked him, then stood there thinking before rejoining Vail and DeSantos. Spying on a fellow federal agent was an extreme measure … but was it crossing the line? Perhaps. But for Fahad to go dark, without explanation, was potentially problematic considering who he was — and his family history. It could be innocent — but short of injury or emergency, there was no good excuse for his lack of contact in the middle of a major investigation.

“Let’s go,” DeSantos said with a shove to his shoulder.

The jostling woke Uzi from his fugue. He pulled out his keys as they started toward their car. “Did Karen fill you in?”

“She did.”

“Where is she?”

“She went down the block to get us something to eat. Something the rabbi recommended as you were leaving. Rooga — rooga-something. You know, that thing you do with your throat. The ‘ch’ sound, like you’re bringing up sputum.

“Rugalach.”

DeSantos pointed at Uzi. “Yeah, that.”

“It’s a twisted pastry, kind of like a cross between a strudel and a croissant.”

“Whatever.”

“So what do you think?” Uzi asked. “About what Karen told you.”

DeSantos shrugged. “Obviously we need to find these missing pages.”

Uzi stopped walking. “It’s not obvious to me. The codex is incredibly important in world history, no question. It burns me that a terrorist organization has those pages — but tracking down stolen artifacts is not our job. We’ve got enough on our plate.”

“You’re missing the point,” DeSantos said, turning and walking backward along the sidewalk, facing Uzi. “Find those codex pages and we’ll find Kadir Abu Sahmoud.”

“Don’t you mean the opposite?” Uzi asked. “Our job is to investigate and find Sahmoud — and when we do, we’ll find the codex pages.”

“Boychick, you’re thinking like an FBI agent.”

Uzi stopped walking. “I am an FBI agent. I’m in charge of the DC Joint Terrorism Task Force, remember?”

DeSantos closed the gap between them. “Look,” he said, keeping his voice low, “right now you’re working a case that sits on the border between domestic investigation and black ops. That’s why OPSIG is involved.”

“I didn’t ask for this assignment. I should be doing what I’m supposed to be doing.”

“You are doing what you’re supposed to be doing: helping prevent another attack and catching the bad guy. Does it matter how you do it?”

“I think it does. I gave up the covert ops life.”

“And Knox pulled you back in. To pay off a debt.”

Uzi clenched his jaw. Years ago he had omitted key information from his original FBI application — but Knox knew the truth all along and he waited patiently until the time was right to call in his chit. It’s the way Knox worked — quietly, patiently in the background, picking his spots to swoop in and pounce: leverage his intel, win concessions to make people do what they did not want to do, reveal what they did not want to reveal.

Vail saw Uzi and DeSantos down the block. She whistled but they did not respond. She continued toward them carrying a clear plastic container filled with pastries.

“These are dangerously delicious. I got chocolate, chocolate, and chocolate. Hope that’s okay.”

Uzi and DeSantos were staring at each other: silent anger.

I leave for five minutes and the men forget how to play nicely together. “I sense some tension.” She studied their faces a moment, then said, “Let me guess. You guys disagree on what we should do next.”

“Yeah,” DeSantos said, his jaw fixed. “Uzi thinks we should go after Sahmoud and forget about the codex. That’s the ‘FBI thing’ to do.”

Vail nodded slowly. “Well, I’m FBI. And I’m gonna give you my opinion. Right now, there is only one thing we can do — and that’s investigate and follow the leads. And our only lead is this lone fingerprint and the stolen codex pages. We’ve got a lot of little puzzle pieces with nothing tangible connecting them. But these codex pages, we know who has them and—”

“Do we?” Uzi asked.

“Yeah. It’s reasonable to assume that something this important is being held by the top dog. That’s Sahmoud. Follow the trail and it’ll lead us to him.”

Uzi shook his head. “I’ve got nothing better, so I’m on board. For now. But if we get a more substantial lead — like something dealing with the actual terror attacks — then that’s where we put our energies.”

“Fine,” DeSantos said.

“Fine,” Uzi echoed as he resumed walking toward their car.

27

Vail’s phone buzzed as she turned onto the Brooklyn Queens Expressway, headed back to Manhattan. She handed it to Uzi, who was riding shotgun.

“Text from Russo. He wants to know if we’re still in town.”

Vail merged to the right lane. “Does he have something for us?”

“I’ll ask.” As soon as Uzi sent off the message, DeSantos’s phone rang — and seconds later, Vail’s vibrated.

Uzi consulted the display. “Russo said to meet him at Centre Street in front of city hall — if we can get through. They’ve closed down all the streets in a three-block radius. The bridge traffic is being diverted.”

“We’ll get as close as we can and walk if we have to. Did he say what it’s about?”

“Apparently,” DeSantos said, hanging up, “our case. That was Knox. He doesn’t have any details but the FBI’s now on-scene. He’s waiting for an update. And he’s on his way.”

“That can’t be good.” Vail accelerated and moved into the far left lane. “Text Mo, give him the address and tell him to meet us there.”

“If it’ll do any good,” Uzi said. “He’s ignored us all day.”

“I got it,” DeSantos said as he started tapping on his phone.

Uzi started to hand her back the Samsung when it vibrated yet again. He glanced at the display and said, “It’s Tim Meadows.”

“Answer it.”

He put the phone on speaker.

“Hey, Karen. I found something that’s gonna make you very happy.”

“Hi Tim,” Uzi said. “What do you got?”

“Uh — I thought I called Karen.”

“You did. She’s driving.”

“Oh, you law abiding citizens you. So I lifted fingerprints from the Eastern Market crime scene. You know the perps crashed into the building with the armored car and then got out and started firing their AK-47s, right? Well, they sprayed the place pretty well before blowing themselves up. I had our techs collect every single shell casing. We just got through testing all of them. The heat of the firing destroys DNA, so that was a dead end. And the heat burned off the body oils we usually need to lift a print so we used gun bluing and found 159 prints. Of the ones where we were able to get a significant number of points, we got matches on all of them.”

“Meaning?” DeSantos asked.

“Meaning the same two guys loaded all the magazines. The prints weren’t from bystanders who picked up the casings and tossed ’em down.”

Vail moved into the middle lane, then leaned closer to the phone. “Did we get a hit?”

“How about, ‘Nice work, Tim. Not many techs could’ve lifted those prints.’ You really have to know what you’re doing with gun bluing or you screw it up — the whole cartridge would’ve turned black. And we did it 159 times.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Uzi said. “If I wasn’t holding the phone and if Karen wasn’t driving we’d give you a round of applause.” Vail and Uzi shared a grin. They enjoyed yanking Meadows’s chain. “So that hit — yes or no?”

“No. I can work miracles but I can’t create data where it’s not. The perps are not in AFIS.”

“Email the prints to me. I’ll have Hoshi send them to Interpol. I’ll get them over to Mossad too.”

“And Tim,” Vail said, “You’re the best. You know we love you.”

“And we love giving you a hard time,” Uzi added.

“Yeah, well, the feeling’s mutual.” Meadows waited a beat, then added, “The part about giving you a hard time.”

Their next call was to Knox. They were not on a secure line so they refrained from discussing names.

“The lab lifted two sets of latents off the spent shell casings at our most recent crime scene in your neighborhood,” DeSantos said from the backseat.

“Do we have IDs?”

“Nothing in AFIS,” Uzi said. “We’re checking elsewhere.”

Vail signaled to exit the expressway and merged into the adjacent lane. “There’s something else we need you to look into.” She summarized the salient points of what the rabbis had told her regarding the Aleppo Codex. “We’ve got some disagreement as to whether or not we should pursue this and how it might or might not be related to the offender who’s calling the shots.”

“Understood,” Knox said. “I’ll look into this and see what I can find out. There are some things going on behind the scenes and I have a feeling this could be related. I’ll keep you posted.”

Uzi hung up and turned around in his seat to face DeSantos. “Not sure I like that—‘things going on behind the scenes’?”

DeSantos snorted. “There are always things going on behind the scenes. We just don’t always find out about them.”

28

Vail exited onto the Brooklyn Bridge, a 130-year-old neo-Gothic span that was the first steel-wire suspension bridge ever built. The brown bolt-and-steel structure that connected the borough to Manhattan was majestic and internationally recognizable.

“I’ve always liked the Brooklyn Bridge,” Vail said. “You know that a woman played a major role in its construction.”

DeSantos glanced out the side window at the Manhattan Bridge. “Yeah, right.”

“Seriously. The engineer got injured while they were building it and couldn’t leave his apartment. So he taught his wife the complex mathematics involved in bridge building and she supervised construction for ten—”

“I see something.” DeSantos pointed. “Up ahead.”

Yeah. I see something too. Red taillights. Traffic.

Vail thought of exiting at Park Row South but changed her mind and continued on to Centre Street. “I’ll get as close to the police barricade as possible.”

But before they could approach, the flow of cars along the two lane road slowed — and then stopped.

Uzi sat forward in his seat and bobbed his head side to side. “There it is.”

Vail saw it too. A knot of first responder vehicles was visible up ahead, their flashing lights flickering through the barren trees. “Whatever it is, it looks pretty major. They’ve got that huge emergency response vehicle there.”

They made it to the forty-story Manhattan Municipal Building, one of the largest and most picturesque government buildings in the world. Above its tall, columned facade, engravings in the stone trumpeted the city’s three names and the years that it began using those monikers: New Amsterdam, 1625; New York, 1664; and Manhattan.

Vail nosed the car up to the barricade near the secured entrance to the arched cobblestone driveway, where a deserted guard booth stood.

They got out and started toward the NYPD vehicles when a cop emerged from behind a cruiser and yelled at them to stop.

“FBI,” Uzi called back and held his creds high above his head as they wove between the cars and walked toward the wall of police vehicles ahead of them.

They made their way past the various officers and federal agents who lined the street.

“Russo here?” Vail asked, her credentials now folded inside out and protruding from the pocket of her jacket.

“Don’t know a Russo,” the tall black man said.

“Captain, NYPD.”

“Yeah. Still don’t know him. Lotta brass onsite.”

Vail lifted her Samsung and started to text him when she heard her name called. Russo was weaving his way through the crowd of personnel.

“Good thing your red hair is easy to spot in a crowd.”

“Yeah, it’s like a beacon. Lucky me. Good thing I don’t do undercover work.” Oh, wait, I do.

“So what do we got?” Uzi asked.

“One of our mobile radiological sensors tripped going over the bridge. We traced it using the domain awareness system to an overnight delivery truck. Had a team pull it over and ESU got the driver out with a bit of a fight. Wish I could show you but Hazmat’s got control of the scene. They think it’s contained but they’re taking readings as—”

Russo’s phone buzzed. He answered, listened a second, then said, “Be right there.” He reholstered his phone and waved them forward. “We’re clear. No leakage of the material. It’s safe to approach.”

Russo led the way along Centre Street, past the massive columns of the municipal building, to the secured area.

“What’d he have in the truck?” DeSantos asked.

“Strontium, forty kilocuries.”

“Whoa. So they really were gonna set off a radiological bomb.”

Vail elbowed his side. “Did you question my interrogation skills?”

DeSantos shrugged. “We had doubts. No offense.”

“We?”

“Me and others.”

Uzi sheepishly looked away.

“Offense taken.”

“Because of that phone call,” Russo said, “what you told me, I had them turn on all the sensors in the city, double the number of sweeps.”

Uzi turned to Vail. “You told him what we got from Ghazal?”

“The president hadn’t yet raised the alert. And even if he had, I doubt they’d be thinking dirty bomb. Calling Russo was the right thing to do.”

“The right thing to do was to have my office tell the JTTF in New York and have them deploy what they felt was necessary.”

“My way was faster,” Vail said. “And it worked, so don’t give me shit.”

Russo snorted. “Still haven’t heard nothin’ from the JTTF about a potential dirty bomb. Just sayin.’”

Uzi’s face shaded red. Vail was certain he was angry with the head of the city’s JTTF, not Russo.

“I’ll look into it,” Uzi said.

“Yeah, you do that. Meantime, like I said. Thanks, Karen. All those serial killers you chase? Ain’t nothing compared to the number of lives you saved on this case.”

Uzi sighed in concession, then looked out into the sea of uniformed personnel. “What was his target, do we know?”

“No idea. We haven’t had access to the truck. Now that we’re clear, CSU can start digging in,” Russo said, referring to the department’s Crime Scene Unit.

“Check out the GPS. And the driver’s phone. And any emails on his smart—”

“Karen. We got it.”

“Right. Sorry.”

Russo turned to a nearby detective. “Get a search warrant for the GPS and cell phone.”

“How’s the driver?” DeSantos asked.

“He’s had better days.” Russo must’ve seen DeSantos’s furrowed brow because he added, “Asshole’s dead.”

They arrived at the vehicle, which was swarming with uniformed and Hazmat-suited personnel.

Twenty minutes later, Vail made out the commissioner and mayor, several captains, chiefs — there was no shortage of brass. Russo was part of the gathering. The group conferred for a couple of minutes, then Russo joined Vail, Uzi, and DeSantos.

“So?” Vail asked.

“So they were going to release a dirty bomb inside the Freedom tower. Beyond the symbolism, twenty thousand people would’ve been killed — in the tower alone. If the bomb detonated on any of the middle or upper floors, the cloud would’ve hovered over the city, probably even into Jersey.”

“Holy shit,” Uzi said.

“Nothing holy about it,” Russo said. “Pat yourself on the back, Karen. Because that’s what I feel like doing right now. If you hadn’t told me they were planning this, I doubt we would’ve stopped it.”

DeSantos’s phone buzzed and he consulted the display.

“I’m gonna finish up here.” Russo checked his watch, then started backing away. “I learn any more, like an ID on the driver, I’ll let you know.”

Vail nodded at DeSantos’s phone. “Anything?”

“Knox will be here in about forty minutes.”

Uzi’s Lumia rang. He recognized the number and excused himself, walking down the street a bit.

“Isamu, what have you got for me?”

“Your person of interest. He met with a Middle Eastern — looking guy on Canal Street. I was able to ID the guy as Amer Madari. He doesn’t have a record, but he has been to some hot spots the past two years. Pakistan, Syria, and Gaza.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning he’s been to Pakistan, Syria, and Gaza the past two years. I’m not trying to be funny. That’s about all we can say. We know those areas are rife with terror groups and terror activity, but we don’t know enough of who this guy is to know what it means.”

Uzi sighed. “You’re right. Thanks for the call. You find out anything else, let me know.”

“You want me to keep following this guy?”

That was a good question. Uzi closed his eyes. If Madari turned out to be a terrorist, he would kick himself for not taking action. Then again, Fahad was a CIA operative. Maybe his meets with people who have made trips to hotbeds of terror could be explained. But maybe not. “Tell you what, switch to Madari and let me know if he meets with anyone we should know about.”

“Sure thing.”

Uzi thanked him and texted Rodman, asking him to look into Amer Madari. He did not explain, merely labeling him as a person of interest. He then took a few minutes to think before rejoining Vail and DeSantos.

One thing was certain: his interest was piqued. The question was, at what point did he have something worth discussing with Vail and DeSantos? Or even Knox?

29

When Vail rejoined Uzi and DeSantos, Knox had arrived and was getting a briefing from police commissioner Brendan Carrig. It did not take long before the discussion got animated, at which point Knox stalked off to meet with the director and an assistant director of the FBI’s New York field office.

When he finished and gathered with Vail, Uzi, and DeSantos, his jaw was set, his eyes narrowed. “Where are we on this thing? Anywhere?”

Uzi shifted his feet. “Slow progress. It’s hard to know exactly what we know and what we don’t know, but we’ve got a lot of pieces.”

“We got a few more pieces this morning,” Vail said, “from the rabbis.”

Knox glanced around, then led them down the street to an area with fewer officers around. “I looked into that. There’s something you three need to understand. And this is not to go anywhere — Where’s Fahad?”

“Good question,” DeSantos said. “He’s been AWOL all day. Hasn’t answered any of our texts or calls.”

Knox absorbed that, then moved on. “This is extremely sensitive. What the rabbis told you about the codex is true. The fact that Sahmoud has those pages has tremendous relevance to what’s going on.”

“What is going on?” Uzi asked.

Knox gave another look around. It was starting to make Vail paranoid.

“As we speak, there are covert peace negotiations going on in Cairo between the Israelis and Palestinians. Very sensitive. We’ve been through this before, so you know the deal. The president wants it done. He’s putting everything he has behind it.”

“That’s nothing new in peace negotiations,” DeSantos said. “Sometimes they’re done outside the public eye so things don’t get sabotaged by the media, or by politics. Whatever.”

“There’s a difference this time,” Knox said. He shot a glance around them and inched closer. “According to highly placed sources — so even I can’t confirm it — the Palestinians are holding two items over Israel’s head. One is the codex. The other …” He looked at their faces then settled on Uzi’s. “The other is something best explained by your father.”

Uzi swallowed hard. “My father?”

An agent came up to Knox from behind. “Sir, excuse me for interrupting. Commissioner Carrig wants another word with you. He seemed a little put off.”

“He did, did he? Why don’t you tell him—” Knox forced a chuckle. “No, I’ll do it myself. Thanks.” He backed away and pointed at Uzi. “Your father, Agent Uziel.”

Vail appraised Uzi, then shoved her hands into her back pockets. “So you going to tell us what the problem is?”

“What problem?”

“You looked like you wanted to crawl under a rock when Knox mentioned your dad.”

Uzi turned away. “You know how it is. Family. We’ve all got our shit.”

DeSantos shook his head. “That may be, but that’s not what’s going on here. You respected your dad. You had a good relationship with him. You looked up to him.”

Uzi took a deep breath. “Orders are orders. Let’s go.”

As they turned toward their car, a glass window beside Uzi’s shoulder shattered and the unmistakable crack of a rifle echoed off the tall buildings.

“Down!” DeSantos yelled, dragging both Uzi and Vail lower with fistfuls of their jackets. He pulled them behind an NYPD cruiser parked at an angle by the curb.

They had their handguns out — as did the nearby officers and federal agents in the area.

“Anything?” Uzi called out.

Various replies — all indicating that no one had eyes on the shooter.

Vail snuck a peek over the top of the sedan. “Any idea which direction it came from?”

Uzi came around the edge of the car to get a look at the shattered windshield then craned his neck toward the buildings. “Gotta be in front of us, two o’clock.”

DeSantos was taking his time, scanning the rooftops. In the background, Vail heard men yelling, calling out orders.

“Not likely the municipal building or city hall — security’s too tight and I’m sure they’ve been checking rooftops. Not saying a sniper can’t get in, but if we’re looking at most likely scenarios …”

“I don’t see anyone,” Uzi said. “One shot. He had his shot, took it, and missed. He’s gone.”

DeSantos straightened up tentatively, eyeing the vicinity. “I agree.”

The calls of “all clear” were heard as the law enforcement officers of multiple agencies moved back into the streets, some heading for the neighboring buildings to close off the exits and execute a thorough search.

Good luck with that. The municipal building alone is a block long and forty stories tall.

The three of them continued to scan the rooftops as they talked.

“Is it a stretch to think I was the target again?” Uzi said.

DeSantos holstered his handgun. “I was thinking the same thing. If we’re right, it’s safe to say they were serious about the threat they pinned to that woman’s chest.”

Vail leaned back against the nearby car. “Can’t say for sure the bullet had your name on it, but it’s the most obvious. Especially after what happened in Times Square.”

Uzi pulled a toothpick from his jacket pocket and ripped it from its cellophane wrap. “Let’s get out of here, go visit my father. See if we can get some answers.”

As they headed back to Uzi’s Tahoe, he could not shake the thought that, once again, only one person knew for sure that he was en route to the crime scene. Well, two: Knox and Mahmoud El-Fahad. Could Fahad have tipped both snipers that Uzi was going to be onsite?

As he mulled this disturbing thought, he pulled out his key fob and hit the unlock button.

The SUV exploded skyward, blowing glass and metal and rubber in all directions.

The three of them hit the pavement nearly simultaneously, instinctively covering their heads with their hands in an almost useless gesture.

Car alarms blared in all directions as men and women came running toward them.

“They’re seriously pissed at you, Boychick.”

“Ya think?” Uzi pushed himself up and yawned twice, trying to restore his hearing.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Vail said, pulling on her ears, “but maybe you should go back to DC, lock yourself in your house and not come out till we catch these bastards.”

Uzi dusted off his leather coat. “Not gonna happen.” He looked around. “But we are going to need a new ride.”

30

They arrived at the home of Roey Uziel just after 4:00 PM. They had borrowed a Chevy Suburban from the New York field office motor pool then headed toward Roey’s residence.

Despite their repeated questions about what had caused Uzi’s relationship with his father to deteriorate, Uzi refused to discuss it — nor did he want to call ahead to see if his dad was at home. Vail knew the two things were related — but she did not need her detective skills to reach that conclusion.

As they pulled in front of Roey’s apartment house in Greenwich Village, Uzi shoved the gear lever into park and sat back in the seat. “After Dena and Maya were killed, I withdrew from everyone and everything. It was a really tough time. You know that. But I didn’t even talk to my father. I should have, but I didn’t. I couldn’t talk to anyone.”

He turned away and stared out the driver’s window. “Anyway, I never returned any of his phone calls. He came to my house once and I was home but didn’t let him in. I’m pretty sure he knew I was there. Time passed and I never contacted him. He tried once or twice a year later, but by the time I was able to talk about it, I was embarrassed that I hadn’t wanted anything to do with him. I can’t explain it.” He glanced at Vail. “I’m sure you can. If I’d had the chance, I probably would’ve eventually discussed it with Dr. Rudnick.” Uzi popped open the door.

“We all make mistakes,” Vail said. “But he’s your father. He’ll forgive you. You two just need to talk it out.”

Uzi seemed to think about that as they walked toward the apartment building entrance.

They climbed five slate steps to a weathered wood door that had been repainted dozens of times during the past several decades.

Uzi led them to a narrow hallway with two doors at the end, where a small window stood above a radiator that piped out warm air. Vail held her fingers over the heat and felt the blood return. I need to put gloves in my go bag.

Uzi faced the door to the left and balled his hand into a fist, as if ready to strike its surface. But he just stood there.

“This the place?” DeSantos finally asked.

“Yeah.”

DeSantos glanced at Vail, then reached out and knocked firmly.

“I was gonna get around to it.”

“We don’t have all day, Boychick.” There was a sharp, loud bark, but otherwise no suggestion of movement inside the apartment.

“Your dad have a dog?” Vail asked.

Uzi shrugged. “Don’t know.”

A few seconds later, Uzi rapped his knuckles against the wood. “Dad,” he said, dipping his chin, as if out of embarrassment, “open up. It’s Aaron.”

The door opposite swung open, revealing a woman in her late sixties, some sagging of the face but an otherwise bright complexion and a friendly smile. She was wearing a spandex running suit.

“Roey’s not home.”

Uzi turned. “You know my dad?”

She stepped into the hall. “You must be Aaron.”

“My dad’s mentioned me?”

“No. I heard you yell your name.” She must have noticed Uzi’s shoulders slump slightly — Vail did — because she said, “Just kidding. Of course he’s talked about you. He’s very proud of you.”

Uzi just stood there, staring at her.

“Nice to hear,” Vail said, filling the void.

“But you really should come around more. Or call. He hasn’t heard from you in years.”

Clearly this woman is a good friend of Roey’s. “Do you know when he’ll be back?” Realizing that it might be odd that she was asking the question rather than Uzi, Vail extended her hand. “Karen Vail. Uzi — Aaron’s friend.”

“Helen Goldschmidt.” She pulled her door closed and sorted out the wires of her iPod. “Roey works lunchtimes at the food bank a few blocks away then goes over to Washington Square Park to play chess with Sal.” She turned to Uzi and frowned. “If you were in touch with him instead of ignoring him, you’d know that, Aaron. He needs you.”

With that, Helen stuck the headphones in her ears and strode off down the hall.

“Well,” Vail said, “that was pleasant.”

DeSantos gently slapped Uzi in the chest. “I assume we’re going to Washington Square Park.”

Uzi was looking down the now-vacant hallway. “Huh? Yeah. Okay.”

“We can handle this,” Vail said, “if you’d rather not see him.”

“No, no. I’m good.”

Yeah, I can tell.

They walked two blocks to the park, which was best known for the imposing marble arch that served as a gateway to the nearly ten acre parcel.

“Looks like the Arc de Triomphe,” DeSantos said.

Vail laughed. “That’s because it was designed to look like it.”

They walked beneath the structure, a sculpture of George Washington adorning both piers.

“Ever been there?”

“Nope. But Robby and I have talked about Paris for our honeymoon.”

“Too clichéd, if you ask me.”

Vail touched his forearm. “Actually, I wasn’t.”

“Ow.”

Vail noted that Uzi was quiet, scanning the park, presumably looking for his father. He stopped and studied the fountain ahead of him, which was spewing water a few dozen feet into the air. Tourists were gathered around the periphery taking photos. In the warm weather kids would be in the surrounding pond, playing and finding refuge from the oppressive humidity.

Uzi turned left and led them down a paved path alongside the barren trees and a row of benches. He headed toward a brass statue on a stone pedestal and stopped twenty feet short of two men seated at a folding table, a chess board between them. Only a queen and two bishops remained.

They stood there a moment, Vail and DeSantos slightly behind Uzi’s right shoulder, until Roey Uziel leaned forward, moved his queen, and said, “Checkmate.”

Roey, wearing a full facial grin, sat back and caught sight of Uzi. His smile faded instantly, his lips parting in surprise.

The other man — presumably Sal — turned and saw the three of them standing there. It was clear to Vail that Sal did not know who they were, but identified them as law enforcement. “Everything okay?” he said to Roey.

“Yeah. This is my — it’s nothing, it’s all good. But would you mind if I left you to pack everything up?”

Roey walked toward his son, who just stood there, voiceless and stiff.

“Mr. Uziel, I’m Karen Vail and this is Hector DeSantos. We’re friends of Aaron’s.”

He sidestepped Uzi and shook their hands. “Has my son lost his tongue? You know, I haven’t heard from him in seven years. A lot can happen to a person. And I’d never know.”

Vail wanted to nudge Uzi, shove him, stick him with a stun gun — something to get him talking.

Roey turned to face Uzi. “Have you lost your ability to speak?”

“We’re here on business.”

“I can see that,” Roey said. “I’m a pretty perceptive guy.”

“We’ve got some questions.”

Jesus, Uzi. You’re making this painful for all of us.

“So do I,” Roey said, his gaze steady, fixed on Uzi’s.

“Yeah, well, I don’t have to answer yours. But federal law says you have to answer mine.”

“All right,” Vail said. “Enough. Father and son, I realize you’ve had a disagreement over something. That’s your business. But for now, we need to put aside whatever problem you have with each other and get to why we’re here.”

“We need your help,” DeSantos said.

Roey’s eyes narrowed. “You FBI?”

“Department of Defense. Karen’s FBI.”

Roey nodded slowly. “Why don’t we head back to my place. I assume this is something that requires some discretion.”

Perceptive guy indeed. “That’d be a good idea.”

“Aaron, that sit well with you?”

Uzi licked his lips. “Yeah.”

As they walked out of the park and toward the arch, Roey said, “You been okay? Healthy?”

Uzi nodded.

“How’s your head? Mental stuff, I mean.”

“Better.” Uzi glanced at Vail. “I’m doing okay.”

“I heard you were with the FBI.”

“He runs the Bureau’s DC Joint Terrorism Task Force,” Vail said.

“Where’d you hear I was with the FBI?” Uzi asked.

Roey continued walking a few steps before answering. “I googled you. There was an article two or three years ago about you working the case of the vice president’s helicopter — Marine Two. The crash. That was your case, no?”

“Me and about three hundred others.”

“Yes, it was his case,” Vail said.

Uzi gave her a look.

They reached the apartment building and climbed the stairs.

“So, how well do you know Helen?” Uzi asked.

Roey paused before he passed through the door. Without turning around, he said, “We’re dating.”

“Serious?”

“Yeah. Kind of.”

“Hey, Boychick. She could end up being your stepmother. Not bad.”

Vail elbowed DeSantos.

Roey entered his apartment and tossed his keys on the bureau to his right. The place was well kept. Ahead on a large wall in the living room there were two dozen frames: photos that showed a younger Uzi, a woman that was undoubtedly his mother and one who looked to be a sister — slightly junior to Uzi — and a dark haired, handsome Roey, from years past. Vail saw the resemblance: square jaw, olive complexion, penetrating eyes.

Vail’s gaze settled on an 11x14 photo of Uzi and his wife and daughter. They were laughing, seated at a picnic table. She pulled her eyes away from it and noticed that Uzi was fixated on the same picture.

DeSantos saw it too, because he nudged Uzi and said, “We’ve got some things to square away.”

Uzi faced them, his eyes glazed with tears, and nodded. “Dad, we’re working a sensitive case that we’re told relates to something you know about.”

“Coffee?” He asked as he stepped into the adjacent kitchen.

They all accepted.

Roey reached into the cabinet and pulled out a coffee maker. “Who told you I know something?”

Uzi scratched his head. “Well, this may sound strange, but the FBI director.” He exchanged a look with Vail and DeSantos then faced his father and chuckled slightly. “Like I said.”

Roey stopped, a coffee scoop in his right hand, and considered this a moment. “Okay.”

Uzi cricked his neck. “What do you mean, ‘okay’? I just told you the FBI director doesn’t just have knowledge about you, but he knows that you know something.”

“Yes,” Roey said with a nod. “I understand the conversation, Uzi.”

“Well I don’t understand. Why would the FBI director know anything at all about you?”

Roey dug into the Starbucks Arabica bag. The rich aroma of freshly ground coffee filled the room. “That’s a story with a longer explanation. And I believe one of you said your case was time sensitive.”

“Actually,” Vail said, “we didn’t.”

“But it’s true, isn’t it. Hmm?”

“Yes.”

Roey dumped the heaping scoops into the machine. “I make it strong. Is that okay?”

“Dad,” Uzi said a bit too firmly, “we don’t care about the coffee. Get to the point.”

“They used to say coffee was bad for you. But turns out, it’s actually good for you.”

“Dad—”

“My point, Aaron, is that things aren’t always what they seem.”

DeSantos stepped closer to the kitchen. “Care to explain that, Mr. Uziel?”

“Call me Roey. And I think it speaks for itself. Doing what you do, Hector, I don’t need to explain that to you, now, do I?”

Something tells me we’re going to find out, anyway.

Uzi’s eyes were narrowed, studying his father. “Dad, what’s going on here?”

Roey lifted his chin and whistled. A compact, powerfully built seal-and-white Boston Terrier ran into the room. “Good boy, Benny. Sit.” The dog sat.

“When did you get a dog?”

“Tell me something, Uzi. Did I ever do anything wrong to you? To hurt you?”

Uzi looked at Roey out of the corner of his eyes. “No. Why?”

Roey stopped, his finger paused over the coffeemaker’s start button. “I want to know why you stopped talking to me. Why you wouldn’t take my calls, why you made believe you weren’t home when I stopped by to see you.”

“That’s not why I’m here.”

“You want your answers, I want mine. I don’t see you for seven years, then suddenly you show up. I want to know if I’m responsible.”

Uzi looked away, looked for the nearest dining room chair, and sat down. The others followed suit.

Benny grabbed a tennis ball and leaped into Uzi’s lap. He began absentmindedly stroking the dog’s smooth hair. “It was all me. After Dena and Maya … were killed, I felt responsible. It … it was complicated. I stopped, well, pretty much everything. I stopped living. My heart was beating but my world ended. I didn’t want to talk to anyone.”

“That was a mistake. And I would’ve told you that if you’d let me. But you didn’t let me.”

“I was embarrassed. I — when I was finally able to deal with their deaths, when I began putting my life back together and started my job at the FBI, I dove in and gave it everything I had. It became my entire life, prevented me from thinking about it. Because when I did …” He waved a hand. “I felt bad that I’d cut you off. I didn’t stop to think that you were in pain too. I’m sorry. In retrospect I handled it very badly, I know that. But at the time, it was all I could do to get through the days.”

Roey leaned back against the countertop. “I accept your apology. And you’re right, I was in pain too. I loved that little girl. And Dena, she was like my own daughter. The hole it created, I know it’s nothing like what you went through, but …” He frowned. “That’s when I got Benny. To fill the void.”

The coffeemaker gurgled and java started to flow into the glass pot.

“Anyway, I realize the reason you’re here wasn’t for us to get right, but I’m glad you’re here, whatever it is that brought us back together.” He removed four mugs from the cupboard. “Actually I think I know why the director sent you. It involves a rare archaeological find?”

DeSantos and Uzi looked at each other.

Knox wouldn’t have sent us here to discuss the codex. Is there another rare archaeological find involved in this?

Roey removed a sugar bowl from a cabinet. “I’ve only got xylitol, if that’s okay. It’s all natural — made from tree bark. No artificial chemicals. Tastes as good as cane sugar. Good for the teeth. Will that work for you?”

“Dad,” Uzi said, impatience permeating his tone.

Benny jumped off Uzi’s lap and went over to DeSantos, who grabbed the tennis ball and played tug of war with him.

Roey set about pouring the coffee. “I haven’t discussed the scroll with anyone in many years. Honestly, I hoped it would just go away.”

“Scroll?” Vail asked. “What scroll?”

“Director Knox only told us we need to talk to you about something. You seem to know what it is.”

Roey hesitated, then handed out the mugs. He pulled over a chair and joined them at the table. “Agent Vail, do you know who Uzi’s grandfather was?”

Vail turned to Uzi, who shrugged. “He never mentioned him. He just told me he lived in Israel.”

“My father,” Roey said, “was Eylad. A Mossad agent. He worked—”

“Wait, what?” Uzi leaned forward. “What the hell are you talking about? Zayde wasn’t Mossad,” Uzi said, using the Yiddish term for grandfather. “He was a scholar, a professor—” He stopped himself and sat back in his seat.

Clearly Uzi had not known about his grandfather’s activities as a spy — but he surely understood why he had been kept in the dark: spies did not share such information with their families. Many never spoke of it even after getting out of the business.

“Sounds like it runs in the family,” DeSantos said. He lifted the tennis ball to shoulder height — and Benny maintained his grip. The dog was now a foot off the floor, but he was not relinquishing his toy.

Uzi did not notice. His mouth was open and his gaze had not moved from his father. “Was he a kidon?” he asked, using the term for assassin.

“No. Well, to be fair, I don’t know the things he did. I asked him a few times, but he never wanted to talk about it. Too dangerous. I only know about one case. But it’s a big one.”

“And that’s the one the director sent us here for,” DeSantos said, letting Benny drop a short distance to the floor.

“That’s the one. My father worked as a Hebrew and Aramaic translator on the archaeological team that excavated the Dead Sea Scrolls.”

The Dead Sea Scrolls?

“At the time, back in the early 1950s, the Qumran caves and nearby Essene ruins sat on land controlled by Jordan. The scrolls are thought to have been written by the Essenes, an ancient Jewish sect that settled outside Jerusalem to escape the Roman persecution. There are a number of interpretations as to why the Essenes were there and why they wrote the scrolls, so I’m telling you the one that my father felt made the most sense based on what he learned. The Essene scribes produced hundreds of scrolls, many of which were copies of one another. They contain the Hebrew Bible, so it’s likely the multiple copies allowed the people who lived in Qumran the ability to pray together. Basically, it was like having prayer books for your congregation.”

“But some weren’t prayer books,” Uzi said.

“Right. There were also biblical texts, biblical commentaries, and religious books that were later excluded from the Hebrew Bible when the scholars wrote the Aleppo Codex.” He stopped and his eyes flicked from one to the other. “Do any of you know about the codex?”

DeSantos laughed. “We all do.”

Roey eyed them again, then continued. “Some of the scrolls are manuals of the beliefs and practices of the Essenes, who were freethinkers. Ultimately, nine hundred documents were found. Archaeologists found a large room amongst the ruins that they believe was devoted solely to scroll writing.”

“Nine hundred documents,” Vail said with a shake of her head. “They were very prolific.”

“Some experts think they wrote down all their customs and beliefs because they feared Rome would one day sack Judea — which, of course, happened — and they didn’t want their culture to die alongside them. That’s why they hid them in clay jars inside caves. Others think the Essenes planned to return when it was safe and retrieve their holy scrolls.”

Roey reached into a cabinet and removed a strip of duck jerky, then tossed it to Benny, who dropped his ball and scooped up the treat.

“My father was sent there to observe the excavation process, to make sure rare pieces of ancient history didn’t disappear. I mean, there wasn’t anything like this ever discovered in the history of mankind. And there still hasn’t been, seventy years later. Those scrolls, written two thousand years ago, are our earliest written record of the basis of the Abrahamic religions, including Judaism, Christianity, and Islam — they can all be traced back to those core beliefs. The scrolls told how things were done. The same things you and I do today, Aaron, are written in these documents.

“Unfortunately, a number of important scrolls were found before my father joined the archaeological team. But he was there on August 6, 1953, when a very special find was made. Inside a clay pot, like they were all stored, they found an intact scroll. It was exceptionally well preserved. When they unwrapped the linen covering, no one had touched that document in over two thousand years.

“Your zayde and a French archaeologist named Alberi Michel unrolled the scroll a few feet at a time while he read it from start to finish. He knew then that he’d found something very important. At the same time, he knew it was very dangerous. But he didn’t know what to do about it. If it’d only been him there, he would’ve smuggled it to the National Museum and let them decide how to handle it. But Michel worked for Roland de Vaux, who was in charge of the excavation. The scroll could not just disappear. Michel might’ve suspected my father, and they might’ve discovered who he really was — a Mossad operative.”

“His cover would’ve been blown.”

“Exactly right, Hector. Since it was my father’s job to write a formal translation of the entire scroll, that’s what he did. He gave it to Michel that night. The next morning, the scroll — and Michel — were gone.”

Vail picked up the tennis ball and tossed it to Benny. “Gone. As in he left? He stole the scroll?”

“Yes, Karen, he stole the scroll, and the translation. But,” Roey said, lifting a hand and waving an index finger, “my father had made a handwritten copy of the translation. This he turned over to his boss at Mossad a few days later when he was certain Michel was not returning.”

“Did they ever find him?” Uzi asked. “Or the scroll?”

“Six weeks later, Michel turned up in Egypt. He claimed he had been ambushed and beaten.”

“The scroll?” DeSantos asked. “Wait, let me guess: whoever attacked him took it. Right?”

“Right.”

“What was his reason for stealing it? To sell it on the black market?”

Roey chuckled. “That certainly would’ve been believable. And he would’ve gotten a good sum of money for it, even back then before scholars knew what they had in the scrolls. Only a small fraction of them were made public. I think about 80 percent were kept hidden away by the Vatican for thirty to forty years. Christian and Jewish scholars kept asking to study them, but the answer was always no.”

Vail splayed her hands. “So where was Michel taking it?”

Roey shrugged. “He said he was hand delivering it to the Vatican because of what was contained inside. He didn’t want anyone to see what was written there.”

“Which was?” DeSantos asked.

Roey took a drink. He looked down and swirled his mug. “It’s still dangerous, all these decades later. Is it that important? Will what’s written in that ancient scroll really affect your case?”

“Knox seemed to think it would,” Uzi said.

Vail cradled her cup to warm her hands. “How can we answer that question if we don’t know what it says?”

“Why do you think it’s so dangerous?” DeSantos asked.

Roey took another drink. “Because, Hector, it has the power to change religion as we know it.”

31

I know what you’re thinking,” Roey said. “How could a document thousands of years old impact what people believe today?”

Actually, we already know the answer to that.

“It’s because it was written so long ago that it has the power to influence the present day. Remember, this was before Christianity, before Islam.” Roey sighed. “I’m not a religious scholar, so I only know what I learned in talking with other experts a long time ago. To grasp its significance, you have to understand that many academics believe that Qumran, and the Essenes, gave birth to Christianity.

“The Essenes were freethinkers. Some think they were rebels who were looking for new ways to practice their faith. Because of what’s written in the religious commentary of certain scrolls, some scholars believe that Jesus was one of the Essenes, or that he had visited them and shared his beliefs. Remember, Jesus was Jewish — a student of the Pharisees, a precursor to what we now call rabbis.”

Vail finished her coffee and set the mug down. “So you’re saying that the Qumran community was where the divergence occurred between Judaism and Christianity. Since they recorded Jesus’s teachings, it was the birth of Christianity.”

Benny put his front paws on Vail’s knees and growled softly, daring her to snatch the ball from his mouth.

“You find this very exciting,” DeSantos said.

“I’m not very religious,” she said, “but yeah.”

“There are those who believe that Qumran is where the core Christian beliefs were born,” Roey said, “its early beginnings, the formation of those newer principles that became the foundation for Christianity years later. And there’s considerable support for that.”

“Then what’s the problem?” Vail asked.

“There was a very large scroll that Israel obtained in 1948 during the War of Independence. It was the most intact scroll discovered to date and they named it the Temple Scroll because it talked about daily life in the First Temple, the one that was destroyed by the Babylonians — how the sacrifices were made, what the structure looked like, its dimensions and layout, how it was used, and so on. Well, the scroll that was stolen by Alberi Michel? My father called it the Jesus Scroll. Know why?”

“Because it’s all about Jesus.”

“Right, Karen. But not in the way you think. Here’s an example.” He craned his head toward the ceiling as he tried to recall the text. “Ah, hell. Hang on a minute.” He walked out of the room and returned with a leather notebook bound on the side by leather strings. Roey carefully opened it and turned a couple of pages.

“Here: ‘We will establish a manner of living for the whole, so that all may benefit from those around us. We will visit the ill of health, care for the ones whose bellies are not full. We are sent by the Anointed One to heal the sick, by our King to serve the poor, by the Prophet to proclaim hope.’ And then there’s this: ‘Miriam, the Anointed One, assembled the spices and oils for anointing the sick. Joel, the prophet among us, encouraged us to remember Elohim’s promises. Saul, whom the citizens of Jerusalem called the King of the Jews because of his knowledge of the Law, leads us with authority and discipline.’

“And maybe the most important passage: ‘For the benefit of all, these three will be known as one to whom believers from all walks can follow, and we shall call this person Yesu the Messiah, who represents the anointed one, the king, and the prophet.”

Vail, Uzi, and DeSantos were quiet.

Roey added, “There was no distinct J in the alphabet until the Middle Ages. The J was a Y and Yesu, which means savior, was later interpreted as ‘Jesus.’ Just like Jerusalem was, or is, Yerushalayim.”

Vail struggled to process what Roey had just read. I think I’ve got it. And I see the problem. “You’re saying that the Jesus Scroll talks about Jesus being a composite character, not an actual person.”

“Right. The scholars, priests, and rabbis I spoke with — and it was a very carefully selected group for obvious reasons — felt we were witnessing the creation of a new way of thought, with the intention that it can be used to garner support amongst the Essenes as an offshoot to traditional Judaism. They weren’t aiming to create a new religion per se, but were trying to formulate their concepts into something with a slightly different way of life, and then making it simple so others could grasp its directives, ideas, and conventions.

“One thing that a couple of the experts brought up was that scripture contains no true reference to the formal discussion of planned communities or even the concepts of communities. They lived in communities and they functioned as communities at that time and later on because it was commanded that they do so by God, Moses, judges, kings, prophets, Jesus, the Holy Spirit. But the descriptions of communal living came from outsiders. So in that sense this is a departure from all the other writings we found in the Qumran caves.”

“I see the problem,” Vail said. “If this scroll is legit and dates to the same—”

“My father was there when it was discovered, when it was removed from the cave. He took it from the clay jar with his own hands, he unwrapped it from the linen.”

“Only way to know for sure,” Uzi said, “is to let science do the talking. Carbon—”

“If they ever find it, I’m sure every single test known to modern science will be run.”

“So,” DeSantos said, “the takeaway here is that there was no Jesus.”

“It’s not a new concept,” Roey said. “It’s been theorized, according to what I was told. But this is proof. As close to proof as you can get. Back before the religion was founded, before anyone could judge it. Pure witness to the thoughts and plannings of a person or a group of people who wanted to put down in writing something that they hoped would resonate with others.”

Benny got tired of waiting for Vail to play so he brought his ball back to DeSantos, who again grabbed it and lifted the dog off the ground.

“Why keep this secret?” Uzi said. “Why haven’t you gone public with Zayde’s translation — with his story? It’s of great historical, archaeological, and religious importance.”

Roey examined the inside of his empty mug. He rose and poured himself another cup, then did the same for the others. “Ask yourself this, Aaron: will it change anything?”

“Absolutely.”

“I mean in positive ways. There are those who’ll have their beliefs shaken. It could destroy their lives, shake them to their core.”

“Oh, come on.”

“Wait a minute,” DeSantos said as he lowered Benny to the ground and played tug of war with the ball. “I’m no expert, but my sister likes to dig into scriptures and I’ve gotten stuck in a few debates with her. One thing she’s pointed out is that the authors of the gospels of Matthew, Mark, and Luke wrote to different audiences and painted different pictures of the person of Jesus — depending on what they wanted their audiences to understand. Seems to me that suggests Jesus wasn’t just one person, but a combination of people with diverse personalities who could appeal to many types of people by being different to each of them.”

“I don’t know much of the New Testament,” Uzi said, “but we don’t have to look at this as just a religious concept. Isn’t each of us really a composite — husband, father, law enforcement officer, brother, son, friend?”

“That’s true,” Roey said. “But the problem is you can’t strip out the religious aspect. This goes to the heart of Christianity. Jesus is the central figure. If you ‘prove’ that he never existed, it could shake people’s belief structure.”

“I agree with your dad,” Vail said. “Faith is a deeply personal thing. It gives some the will to survive, a purpose, a focus in life. To others, organized religion is a community. What good would come of harming the very thing these people believe in?”

“Not to mention the political damage to the Vatican,” Roey said. “It’s taken centuries to repair the relations between the Church and Judaism. The Church has apologized for declaring that the Jews killed Jesus. That was huge. And that’s just one example.” He shook his head. “No, the scroll’s best left hidden away.”

Uzi considered that a moment. “You’re being judge and jury, Dad. I think you need to make it available and let the scholars and religious sages draw the proper conclusions. For the people, the followers, if their faith is strong, a document can’t shake their beliefs.”

“But it can, Aaron. Religion is a very powerful thing, my boy. Trust me: the scroll’s best left ‘undiscovered.’”

“Well,” DeSantos said, “that’s the problem.”

“Why?” Roey looked at each of them. “You found it? You found the scroll?”

“It’s been found, yes. But we don’t have it. Someone else does.”

Roey waited, but no one volunteered additional information. “Well? Who’s got it?”

Uzi turned to DeSantos, who shook his head, warning him off.

Vail jumped in. “We can’t say. For now, let’s just say we don’t control them and what they do with the scroll.”

Roey’s face flushed.

“What’s wrong?” Vail asked.

“Someone came by last week asking about the scroll — the translation, actually.”

Vail, Uzi, and DeSantos glanced at each other.

“Who was it?” Uzi asked.

“Someone I knew many years ago. When you were a young boy.”

“And why would this person ask about something he doesn’t even know exists?”

“Because he does know it exists. He’s known about it for decades.”

“Who is it?”

Roey took another drink, then stared into the mug as he considered the question a moment. “Gideon Aksel.”

32

Gideon?” Uzi asked. “How the hell does a retired family physician know the director general of Mossad?”

Uzi struggled to put it together. Then he thought of what his father had said: things were not what they appeared to be.

“You were a Mossad agent,” Vail said. “Just like your father. Just like your son. Am I right?”

Uzi’s head swung to Vail — and back to his father — so fast that he heard the joints crack in his neck.

“Dad?”

Roey lifted his mug. Uzi grabbed his wrist. “Dad, answer her.”

“He doesn’t have to, Boychick. Knox knows your dad, your dad knows Aksel. Your grandpops and father were Mossad. For you …” He shrugged. “Seems preordained.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Roey said.

Uzi let go of his arm. “It had nothing to do with my father, Santa. I applied, they rejected me. It was Rafi Eitan who—”

“No.” Roey leaned back in his seat. “I was the one who killed your application. I didn’t want my son having the type of life I lived, the type of life my father lived. It wasn’t good for a family. Your mother — well, she was the one who made me see it. She asked me to make it so they wouldn’t take you.”

Uzi had applied but never got a response — which meant they were not interested. It wasn’t until Rafi Eitan, a legendary Mossad operative, pulled strings. That’s when Uzi got the call that started his career in spy work. Or so he thought.

Roey grabbed another slice of jerky and tossed it to Benny. “You were exceptionally bright, Aaron, and loved technology. Your mother and I wanted you to pursue that. But if we’d come out and told you that, you never would’ve listened. This way, you made the decision for yourself.”

“With some ‘help’ from you and Mom. You manipulated me.”

“All parents manipulate their children — to eat healthy, to do their homework, to be kind to others—”

“This is different. I was an adult.”

Roey nodded slowly. “I know. I told your mother it was wrong. You were happy at Intel, but I knew you still had that burning desire, the same burning desire I had so many years before. Unless I removed that hold I’d placed on your name, you wouldn’t get anywhere, and I knew it wasn’t something you could accept. So I called Gideon.”

“You knew Gideon?”

“I worked under him early in his career. We’ve stayed in touch.”

“Are you still working for them?”

“You know I can’t answer that.”

As Uzi sat there, a horrible thought occurred to him: if his father had not paved his way into Mossad, Dena and Maya would still be alive.

He rose from his chair and clasped the back of his neck.

Uzi willed himself to stop thinking like that. He had an important case. People were depending on him. He had to focus, push it aside.

“Boychick, you okay?”

“He’s wondering, Hector, if he should disown me,” Roey said. “If I’d left well enough alone, if I hadn’t removed that barrier, he never would’ve gotten into Mossad and his wife and daughter wouldn’t have been murdered.”

“Uzi,” Vail said.

“He’ll be fine,” Roey said. “He just needs a minute.”

Uzi turned to Roey, a hollow, emotionless look on his face, and said, “We’ve got a case to work.” He stood up and pushed in his chair. “Thanks for your help. And the coffee.”

Vail and DeSantos glanced at one another, then followed Uzi toward the front door.

“Thank you,” Vail said.

“Aaron, wait. When will I see you again?”

Uzi stopped, his hand gripping the knob. He did not turn around — and did not answer. He pulled the door open and walked out.

33

Outside, they walked to their car in silence. DeSantos was on the phone, following a dozen feet behind them.

Walking by Uzi’s side, Vail looked over at him and saw that his brow was hard, his jaw set. He was either angry or concentrating — she could not tell which.

“You can’t blame your father.”

“I know,” he said, keeping his gaze straight ahead.

“Hey, hang on a second.” She took hold of his leather jacket and gave a tug. He stopped and reluctantly turned to face her.

“Life is full of these ‘what if’ alternate realities, Uzi. If only I’d taken the earlier train. If only I’d caught that killer a day sooner, if only I’d seen the car run the red light, if only I’d fired my Glock a millisecond sooner. There’s no end to these scenarios. You can go nuts — literally — trying to live life like that. What happened, happened. Your father did what he thought was right for you at the time, trying to make you happy. He had no way of knowing the consequences.”

“I know. It’s just — I thought I was over it, you know? I thought I’d come to terms with it. Then something like this happens—” He held up a hand. “I’ll get past it. It’ll scab over again. Meantime, we’ve got a job to do.”

DeSantos came up from behind them. “That was Knox. He knew Gideon paid Roey a visit. And obviously he knew the scroll existed — but he didn’t know who had it until he found out the codex was being held hostage.” DeSantos glanced at each of them, then said, “Everything okay?”

“He’s working through what Roey told him about Dena and Maya.”

“I’m good,” Uzi said. “Reopened an old wound is all. Did Knox give us anything useful?”

“Just an order: find the documents.”

Uzi’s phone rang. He glanced at the display and backed away. “Gotta take this.” He tossed DeSantos the car keys. “Be right there.”

Uzi answered the call when he was comfortably out of range of Vail and DeSantos. He felt bad not including them in his fishing expedition on Mahmoud El-Fahad. But until he had more concrete information one way or the other, he felt it best not to accuse their missing team member of anything improper.

“Hot Rod, talk to me.”

“So you’re right, Amer Madari has a suspicious history of travel to terror hotbeds. But I couldn’t find anything indicating he’s been radicalized. No bank transfers, no questionable business dealings, no known associates who have terror backgrounds, no trips to terror camps, no Facebook posts showing a tendency toward extremist thinking.”

“So you’ve got zip.”

“Basically, he looks clean as far as I can see. That doesn’t mean he is, it just means I can’t see anything that would raise a red flag.”

“Is he too clean?”

Rodman paused a moment. “Interesting question. I’ll keep that in mind as I poke around.”

“Anything turns up, let me know.”

“What’s up with this guy? What are you looking for?”

Uzi nearly shared his concerns with Rodman but held back. “He’s working with someone I’m keeping an eye on. If he’s bad, the guy I’m watching could be a problem too.”

He thanked Rodman and rejoined Vail and DeSantos in the car.

“All good?” DeSantos asked.

All good — maybe that was the problem. “Yeah, let’s get going.”

Vail turned over the engine. “Got some good news and some bad news. Which you want first?”

“Give me the good.”

“Heard from Mo.”

“Really,” Uzi said. “Where’s he been?”

“Didn’t say. But he’s on his way to meet us.”

“And that happens to be the bad news,” DeSantos said. “We’re meeting him at Maguire Air Force Base.”

“Why is that bad news?”

“Because we’re going to London.”

Uzi turned to Vail. “But we’re banned from England. We can’t go to London.”

Vail yanked the gear shift into drive. “That, Uzi, is why it’s the bad news.”

34

They arrived at New Jersey’s McGuire Air Force Base, also known as “Joint Base McGuire-Dix-Lakehurst” an hour and twenty minutes later, using lights and siren and riding the shoulder of the turnpike when possible.

Vail and Uzi stood outside the PX, a Walmart-size store that sold everything a soldier and his family would need. They went on a quick shopping spree, buying three days’ worth of toiletry essentials, underwear and socks, 5.11 tactical pants and belts, locking plastic ties, and canvas duffels to carry it all in. DeSantos used his Department of Defense credentials to make the purchase.

He joined them outside and tossed them their khaki-colored bags. An extra one sat on the ground at their feet in preparation for Fahad’s arrival.

They turned in unison at the chopping noise of helicopter rotors off to their left. An FBI Black Hawk hovered, then dropped in place to a gentle landing in a field a couple hundred yards in the distance.

Moments later, Douglas Knox joined them at the periphery of the parking lot.

“You obviously can’t fly a commercial jet into Heathrow,” Knox said as he used his right hand to brush his hair back into place. “A C-17 Globemaster III is fueled and ready to go.”

“Going back to London,” Uzi said with a shake of his head. “That a good idea?”

“Since it came from me, Agent Uziel, yes, I do think it’s a good idea.”

“With all due respect,” Vail said, “Given our history, I didn’t think any of us would be setting foot in the UK any time in the near future.” More like never.

“We were operating under the same assumption. But circumstances demanded that we reexamine that.” Knox glanced around. “Where’s Fahad?”

“Supposedly en route,” Vail said. “Should’ve been here already.”

DeSantos checked his watch. “You were saying that circumstances demanded our involvement.”

“Qadir Yaseen, al Humat’s master engineer, the one likely responsible for all the bombings so far, is in London. Tahir Aziz, one of the men who escaped from the safe house, is with him.”

“Why not alert MI5?” Vail asked.

Knox frowned. “Aden Buck and I are not exactly on good terms. He took a great deal of heat when I had to clean up the mess you three created. He resisted calls for his resignation, so he came out whole — but not without a considerable loss of political capital, which left him vulnerable and open to criticism by those in the government who smell blood. They know he’s down so they think they can push him around. Bottom line, I did tell Buck we had intel indicating that Yaseen and Aziz had entered the UK.”

“Then what’s the problem?” DeSantos asked.

“He said they could not verify that our intel is accurate. In fact, he virtually denied either man is on UK soil. And we know he’s wrong. We’ve got strong confirmation. CIA is backing us up, as is the NSA.”

“But MI5 isn’t acting on the intel.”

“No. And here’s the problem: Yaseen is too important an asset for us to lose. If he were somewhere in Afghanistan, Pakistan, Yemen, we’d locate him and take him out with a drone and a Hellfire. Can’t do that in the UK.”

“Which might be why he’s there,” Vail said.

Knox tilted his chin back. “We think he’s there to oversee another attack.”

“I guess that shouldn’t be a surprise.”

“Isn’t that England’s problem?” DeSantos asked. “If they’re not going to act on confirmed intel, that’s their choice.”

Knox swung both arms behind his back. “Theoretically, yes. But England’s our closest ally and a strike against the UK is a strike against us. So we’re going to help them — even if they don’t want it. And in spite of the animosity their MI5 director general harbors against us.”

“Why us?” Vail asked. “The risk of us being seen — and ID’d — is very high.”

“Because we have contacts there,” DeSantos said.

Knox nodded. “I assume that’s still the situation?” He made eye contact with each of them. “Or is that a poor assumption?”

“To my knowledge,” Vail said, “nothing’s changed. But if Buck doesn’t want his agents cooperating with us, our sources may not want to risk their careers.” Like we’d be doing.

“Then let’s make sure Aden Buck doesn’t know you’re in country. That’s a good idea, anyway.”

“So no contact with Buck whatsoever,” Uzi said.

“None. You have a problem, you’re on your own. You can’t call me. You can’t call Buck. You can’t call the embassy. This is a deniable op. Your presence on UK soil can’t come back at the US.”

Uh, wait a minute. When exactly did I sign up for this?

“Agent Vail?” Knox was looking directly at her. “You have a problem?”

Vail glanced at DeSantos, whose expression said, “Keep your mouth shut.” “Honestly, sir, if I’ve got a choice, I’d rather not—”

“You don’t have a choice. Simply put, Agent Vail, when you got your asses in hot water and I risked everything to clear your names — or at least to the extent possible — you signed an unofficial contract with me. This is an assignment you cannot refuse.”

Before Vail could object — and she was thinking about it — DeSantos intervened. He lifted Vail’s hand and gestured toward the engagement ring.

“You can’t take that with you.”

Knox extended a hand.

She looked at Knox and hesitated. Well, shit, if I can’t trust the director of the FBI … She stood there a moment, her right hand grasping the ring. C’mon, Karen, you think about it any longer, it’s gonna look weird. She finally pulled it off and handed it to Knox. She suddenly felt naked.

“What’s our objective?” Uzi asked. “Assuming we locate Yaseen, how are we going to get him out of the UK?”

“In a body bag. Your orders are to eliminate him. We’ve had enough of his handiwork. After you make a positive ID, leave his rotting corpse in the UK — or even better, drop it on Buck’s doorstep.” He shook his head. “Asshole.”

“Why not go above his head?” Vail asked, massaging her bare finger.

“That’d have to be handled diplomatically. Secretary McNamara did not feel that going directly to the interior minister was the right move. He’d be more inclined to trust Buck’s assessment than ours. And if we want to have any hope of cooperating with MI5 in the future, going over the director general’s head is a sure way to put a deep frost on our relationship for years to come. Even if Yaseen never set off a bomb in the UK, if he succeeded in screwing up relations between the FBI and MI5, he’d have hit the jackpot.”

An alarm beeped on Knox’s phone. He silenced it then said, “Are we clear? Any questions?”

Yeah. How do I unenlist?

It was DeSantos who replied that they were good.

Speak for yourself, Hector.

“When you’ve completed your mission, proceed to the Royal Air Base, where the C-17 will be fueled and ready to go.”

“No Osprey this time, eh?” Uzi asked.

Knox’s face broadened slightly. “That’s funny.”

No, it’s not.

Knox handed DeSantos a small satchel, then turned and headed back toward the Black Hawk.

“A word of advice,” DeSantos said as he watched Knox walk off. “The C-17’s an impressive plane, an engineering marvel and a jewel on the battlefield in terms of moving heavy machinery and troops around. But not so much for creature comforts when nature calls.”

Vail cricked her neck. “Come again?”

“You urinate out a little chute along the fuselage. No privacy. Go now or forever hold your pee.” He winked, then bent down and gathered up his duffel as a Humvee pulled up in front of the PX.

Vail decided to take DeSantos’s advice and started back toward the PX to use the facilities when the Humvee’s door opened. Out stepped Mahmoud El-Fahad.

At the sight of Fahad heading in their direction, Uzi was conflicted. He desperately wanted more information before confronting the man on his whereabouts and his meet with Amer Madari. But they were about to embark on a dangerous mission, one that required complete trust in your team members. It was now or never.

They met halfway and Uzi handed Fahad his duffel. As they walked back to the Humvee, DeSantos gave him a rundown of their mission based on the information Knox had provided.

By the time he finished, they arrived at the flight line, where the Boeing C-17 Globemaster III was waiting, engines hot. The exterior was painted a matte gray, with the tail call sign emblazoned with “McGuire” in yellow letters on a blue background. The cargo plane was massive, with four jet engines and several sets of wheels beneath the fuselage.

They climbed up the rear ramp and took a look around. The cargo hold was a no-frills shell with wires snaking along the ceiling, levers and coiled cargo straps in open cubbies along the cabin wall, and a nonskid metal floor. While it had a utilitarian look, this plane was relatively new and well maintained.

They pulled down the nylon sidewall seats that lined the periphery of the cabin. Uzi and Vail sat next to each other, while DeSantos and Fahad took positions opposite them on the other side of the fuselage. A tank sat strapped down in the middle, forward of their location, with pallets of crates secured in the center of the hold.

“I booked business class,” Vail said. “Where the hell’s my cheese plate?”

“Ring the call button,” DeSantos said.

“Mo,” Uzi shouted across the hold, “you owe us an explanation.”

“An explanation. For what?”

Uzi snorted. “For going off the grid. We tried reaching you throughout the day. You didn’t reply.”

“I didn’t think it was important.”

DeSantos twisted in his seat to face Fahad. “How would you know?”

Uzi tilted his head. “Where were you?”

“In the city, following up on some things.”

They waited, but Fahad busied himself with tightening his harness and did not elaborate.

“Secure yourselves,” the loadmaster yelled in from the open tail. “Closing up shop. Oh — the parachutes are in those kit bags up against the bulkhead. We’ll be dropping you thirty miles due east of London.”

“Wait,” Vail said. “What?”

The man laughed. “Relax, just givin’ you shit. The disposable earplugs are in that box by your feet. See you across the pond.”

DeSantos waved acknowledgment and the large ramp started rising, the exterior light disappearing as the metal door closed with a low groan that sounded like a garbage truck picking up a trash bin.

“How do you know Amer Madari?” Uzi asked above the din.

Vail turned to Uzi. “Who’s Amer Madari?”

“Yeah,” Fahad said. “Who’s Amer — Madari, you said?”

“Don’t bullshit me,” Uzi said firmly. “I know you met with him this morning.” He was talking to be heard over the ambient noise, but his demeanor, and perhaps his tone, made it sound as if he was angry and shouting.

“And how would you know that?”

“Amer Madari,” Uzi said, turning to Vail but speaking so that DeSantos could hear him, “has been to Pakistan, Syria, and Gaza the past couple of years.”

DeSantos was staring at Uzi, but Uzi could not make out his expression: He could tell he was not pleased. But was he angry that Uzi had been spying on his team member or was he angry that Uzi had not mentioned it earlier? Or both?

“Why were you meeting with him?”

“I’m CIA, Uzi. Sometimes we go dark to follow up on leads. I’m on this team because I’m Palestinian, because I’m trusted in the Arab community, because I have contacts in the community. Some of those are going to be suspect, some are going to have records, some may even have a history in terrorism. It’s no different than you meeting with a confidential informant who uses drugs or who’s committed a felony or who’s—”

“Blown stuff up?”

“Yeah. Even someone who’s blown stuff up.”

“And what about your nephew?”

Fahad’s face blanched. The rattle and the rocking motion of the fuselage, as the plane gained speed and rolled along the runway, made his head bob left and right.

“Your nephew,” Uzi said, “the suicide bomber who blew up a school bus full of innocent children in Haifa in 2003.”

DeSantos leaned forward, his chest straining against the seat restraint. “What the hell are you talking about?” He pulled his gaze away from Uzi and faced Fahad. “What’s he talking about?”

Fahad bit his bottom lip. He closed his eyes but did not answer DeSantos’s question.

“Answer me, or so help me God, I will have this plane turned around—”

“It’s true,” Fahad said. “I don’t know how you found out about it, but it’s true.”

DeSantos, Uzi, and Vail shared a concerned look.

“You didn’t think this was important for us to know?” Vail asked.

“Yeah,” Fahad said, “I could imagine how well that would go over. The Palestinian, the guy you don’t trust to begin with, had a nephew who was a suicide bomber, a radical. You really don’t understand why I didn’t say anything?”

“How the hell did you get into the CIA?” DeSantos asked.

Uzi chuckled. “I know the answer to that. Tasset gave you the chance to prove yourself. And he had something on you, so when the shit hits the fan, you owe him. Big. You’ll support him, do whatever he needs you to do, because you have no choice. He’s got a secret on you. Am I right?”

Fahad nodded.

“After we texted you to meet us at the crime scene, did you tip the sniper that I’d be at city hall this afternoon?”

“No — why would I do that?”

“Did you or anyone else you know, or anyone you’re affiliated with, plant the bomb in my car?”

“What bomb?”

“Answer the question.”

“Are you out of your mind?”

“No,” Uzi said. “I’m lucky to be alive. So forgive me for asking tough questions you don’t want to hear.”

“I had nothing to do with that. Nothing.” He shook his head. “Look, I understand this doesn’t look good. But when I saw my nephew get on that bus and blow himself up, something snapped inside me. I knew he had these crazy ideas but I never thought he’d do something so stupid. But for me, it had the opposite effect. I didn’t channel his anger. I realized it was a stupid, ill-advised idea. That’s when I came to the US and started a new life, got into the CIA.”

“Tasset knew who you were.”

“I told him. And I told him I wanted no part of it. Not only did I not want any part of it, I wanted to help find others like my nephew before they had the chance to kill other innocent people.” He made eye contact with each of them. “You have to believe me.”

“It wouldn’t be an issue,” DeSantos said, “if you’d told us up front. Or — if you’d just been in touch with us, told us what you were doing — or at very least, that you had a meet or two. But going dark for a good chunk of the day … that doesn’t work when you’re on this team. We rely on each other to be there for each other. No secrets.” He glanced at Uzi, then turned back to Fahad. “For now, we’ll accept your story — and your explanation. We’re headed into enemy territory, for lack of a better term. We all need to be on the same page. And that means we tell each other where we’ll be, and when, who we’re meeting with, and if we learn new info.”

Fahad leaned back and took a deep breath. “Fine. I get it. I’m not used to this. I work alone or with a handler. I’m not a team player.”

“Wrong,” Vail said. “You are a team player. Starting right now.”

He sucked on his front teeth a moment, then nodded. “Okay.”

The whine of the engines increased and the front of the large plane rose. A second later they felt the lift and they were airborne.

Uzi leaned close to Vail’s ear. “How did the assholes know I’d be there?”

“Be where?”

“City hall. The crime scene, the sniper. The guy who planted the bomb in my car.”

“You’re thinking Mo tipped them after getting our text to meet us there?”

Uzi shrugged. “I don’t know what to think. But maybe I’m too close. What’s your impartial, rational opinion?”

“I’m your friend, so I’m not sure I’m impartial. I’ve got a roomful of people back at the BAU who wouldn’t use the word ‘rational’ to describe me. That said, here’s what I think. It could be as simple as the perps planted the radiological bomb. They knew we were in the city investigating, so when the truck was discovered, they knew we — you — would be there at the scene. No hidden agendas, no moles.”

Uzi sat back and considered her analysis.

“Yes? No?”

“I have to admit,” he shouted, “that was a pretty impartial explanation. And definitely rational.”

“Would you mind engraving that on a plaque and hanging it on my office door?”

“Only if your boss is okay with it. He tends to yell at me whenever he sees me.”

“Same here.”

They both laughed.

“You know he’s going to be my father-in-law.”

They both laughed again. “Makes for fun Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners, I guess.”

As the fuselage jostled against the turbulence, Uzi could not help but wonder if Vail was right. Or if something more sinister was at work.

“These seats suck,” Vail said over the din.

Uzi let his head roll left, closer to her ear. “You should’ve asked the guy about your cheese plate while you had the chance.”

35

They slept on the plane, adhering to the special forces mantra of taking sleep where you could get it, when you could get it. Vail thought it would be impossible to nod off given the environment, but the drone of the engines had a hypnotic effect, and without flight attendants or passengers squeezing by and bumping her shoulder or ill-timed pilot announcements, she caught a few hours before she felt the deceleration and descent toward the British countryside.

When the ramp lowered, the chill, damp air blew in. They powered up their throwaway phones that Knox had provided. They had a message waiting for them: Twitter was abuzz with exchanges between al Humat members and Americans.

“Can’t say I’ve seen this before,” Vail said. “Listen to this one: ‘We’re in your neighborhoods, your cities, your schools. You’re not safe anywhere. #alahuakbar.’”

“And the two-part reply,” Uzi said. “Don’t mistake our @president’s weakness as a weakness of #Americans. US is as strong as its people and we are bound and determined to find you, make you pay. #Americathebeautiful.’”

“Here’s another,” DeSantos added: “‘We’re going to track you down and take you out, you POS. #askBinLaden.’” As he shoved the phone into his pocket, he nodded at Fahad. “You got a problem with this?”

“Should I?”

“It’s your own people who are launching these attacks. Our job is to take them down.”

“My people are not terrorists. Al Humat, Hamas, Islamic Jihad … they’re killers disguised as religious crusaders. Truth is, they’re a cancer that’s made it impossible for my people to get their fair shake. So no, I’ve got no problem. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here, would I?”

Vail nodded. “Can’t say I blame the Americans who tweeted those threats. They’re angry. I feel the same way.”

“Difference is,” Fahad said, “the four of us are in a position to do something about it.”

Uzi pushed himself up off the makeshift seat. “So let’s go do something about it.”

They were driven to the base perimeter and given the keys to an unmarked sedan that could not be traced back to anyone — including the United States government.

With Vail driving, Fahad opened his jacket and pulled out four small oblong cases. “I brought us each a gift. Courtesy of the CIA.”

DeSantos opened his and held up a pair of eyeglasses. “You trying to tell me something?”

“For defeating the ubiquitous CCTV cameras in and around London.”

“Nice thought,” Uzi said. “But glasses don’t work. The facial recognition software basically ignores them.”

“These aren’t regular eyeglasses. Granted, they’re experimental — but the concept is that the lenses contain built-in one-way prisms that fool the cameras’ biometric algorithms. They make the distance between the eyes appear larger, or smaller, than they really are. The technology is pretty simple, really, and is based on existing lens refraction optical tech that’s been around for decades. Only instead of correcting eye muscle coordination from the inside out, it works on the cameras in the reverse, from the outside in.”

“But it’s experimental,” Vail said. “Meaning we’re guinea pigs.”

“Pretty much.”

“Great. Glad we’ve got that out of the way.” She took her glasses and slid them onto her face. “How do I look?”

“Very sexy,” DeSantos said. “Good frames on you. I think you should keep them. Robby’ll like ’em. Speaking of which, did you tell him where you were going?”

Vail looked at DeSantos in the rearview mirror. “You know the answer to that question.”

DeSantos grinned. “Indeed I do.”

She had told him she was going away for a few days but could not say where she was headed — just that she would be going dark and would be in touch if possible. He knew the deal and accepted it, though he was clearly not happy about it.

“So what’s the plan?” Vail asked. “I assume our orders were in that satchel Knox handed you.”

“NSA captured the cell numbers of both Aziz and Yaseen. Wasn’t easy, but we’re talking about the NSA. They’re very good. We’ll get to see just how good they are because when either of them gets a call, NSA will triangulate and get us a location. If the yahoos don’t get a call, NSA will send out signals to ping the phones and get us a twenty. We’ll then go there and try to find the assholes before they leave.”

It was 1:00 AM when they reached the outskirts of London.

Vail pushed the glasses up her nose, suddenly conscious of the potential for security cameras — both police and private — everywhere and anywhere.

Uzi sat up and stretched, then looked out the side window to get a bearing on where they were. “Let’s find a dark residential street. Without CCTV feeds.”

“First,” DeSantos said, “we’ve got another car to pick up. Divide up our assets. In case a couple of us get caught, we won’t jeopardize the entire mission.”

“Kind of like putting all your eggs in the same sedan?” Vail asked.

“I don’t think that’s the saying. But that’s the concept.”

Vail drove to the location of the waiting vehicle, left by a CIA asset, and dropped off DeSantos and Fahad before continuing on, looking for a location that met Uzi’s requirements.

Twenty minutes later, three blocks from DeSantos’s car, they pulled to the curb in a poorly lit neighborhood that did not seem to have any visible cameras. They removed their seat belts and stretched out … until a minute later, when Uzi’s phone vibrated.

“Start the car,” he said as he manipulated the phone to get the address. He read it off to Vail as he plugged it into his phone’s GPS. She pulled away from the curb, taking care not to burn the tires.

“Where we headed and how far?”

“It’s a bar,” he said. “One of the oldest in London. I’ve eaten there a couple times over the years. The Lamb & Flag in Covent Garden. About ten minutes. Turn right up ahead.”

They arrived nine minutes later and parked a block away; DeSantos and Fahad followed suit, approaching from a different direction.

Vail and Uzi headed toward the pub together, holding hands. Behaving like a couple going for a drink after a show was a reasonable cover and looked natural.

Fahad had no history in the country so he was at less risk than the others. Regardless, being seen in public — and potentially on camera — was a gamble for all of them.

Vail and Uzi headed down the narrow, cobblestone Rose Street that led to the front entrance to the pub. The area was relatively quiet, with only the low rumble of chatter from a number of patrons standing outside the bar, drinking at the ledges designed for overflow customers — a popular feature of many London drinking establishments.

As they neared the building, Vail saw a sandblasted circular Lamb & Flag logo in the top glass panel of the door as well as a couple of signs that caught her eye: a laminated no smoking placard and the more disturbing red posting: “These premises are protected by CCTV.”

CCTV? In a bar? No wonder we were screwed last time we were in London.

Shortly after lifting off in the C-17, DeSantos had distributed photos of their two wanted men to review — and then commit to memory — before he destroyed the pictures. They had a fairly good sense of what Yaseen and Aziz looked like. The question was, were they still there? Or did one of them merely make a call outside on the corner before getting in a cab?

Vail reseated the glasses on her face. She felt naked — like walking through an airport full body scanner — with no true way of covering up. There was nothing she could do but hope that MI5 and the Met did not retain their biometric data. She did not know how extensive Knox’s effort was in getting Aden Buck to purge their system, but she hoped it was substantial — and successful. If not, she, Uzi, and DeSantos were in for a rough time.

They sat down at the bar. The interior was charming, with wide plank wood floors and handcrafted chairs that were worn and nicked from decades of use. A shelf above the counter suspended by polished brass columns was filled with clean beer mugs, something Vail had not seen before. It was a cool effect.

Vail ordered a Butcombe Bitter and Uzi a Fuller’s Wild River. They took their glasses to a side booth to get a better angle of the area. An order of fish and chips for Vail and a sausage in French bread sandwich for Uzi arrived ten minutes later, and they quickly dug in, not knowing when they were going to see their targets — or be called away to another location.

As Vail chewed her second bite, her phone buzzed. She rooted it out and grabbed a peek. It was DeSantos telling her that they had a good view of the upstairs bar; they had cleared the restroom and neither man was present. She set the handset aside and took another nibble of her fish. “Nothing on the second floor.”

“So they were here and didn’t stay long,” Uzi said. He snatched up a fry and glanced at his watch. The patrons were thinning out. “At some point we’re gonna have to get out of here. Fewer people, more we stand out.”

Vail agreed and sent a text back to DeSantos suggesting they get going soon.

But they didn’t have to wait long, because moments later her phone buzzed again: They had another hit, and because of the time — closing in on 2:00 AM — this one had more potential as being a place where the men would be remaining for a while, possibly even where they would be settling in for the night.

They returned to their car and Uzi plugged the address into his phone’s GPS. The flat was in Greenwich, a decent drive away. “Looks like a half hour,” Uzi said. “I’m gonna recon the area while we’re en route.” He pulled a laptop from his satchel and inserted a device into a side port.

“Where’d you get that?” Vail asked, glancing over at the computer.

“In the PX. I configured it on the flight over.”

I was configuring something else. The inside of my eyelids.

“What’s that thing you plugged into it?”

“A satellite internet transceiver.”

“What do you need that for?”

“Uh, the internet? Ever hear of it?”

Vail gave him a look.

“I figured we’d be on the move, so we can’t steal a nearby wireless signal. We needed something that can transmit and receive. The key is connecting to a server that takes satellite downlink and connects to the internet. It goes from my laptop to the satellite, from the satellite downlink to a server, a server to the internet. Got it?”

“I … yeah, of course.” Not a word. Well, that’s not true. I understood “internet.” “How is that going to help us?” she asked as she negotiated a curve.

“I’ll get a view of the area, what’s around, what things we have to be careful of, that type of thing. Less suspicious than two cars driving around looking like we’re looking for someone.”

“And what about that laptop?” She gestured at the screen. “What if — god forbid — we’re caught?”

Uzi was striking the keys, logging into the server. “I’ve got a strong password on the BIOS and the drive’s encrypted with Bit Locker. And I’ve added some other goodies. They won’t be able to crack it.”

“I’ve heard of that Foot Locker thing.”

He glanced at her. “Uh huh.”

Vail watched as Uzi played with the trackpad, zooming and virtually walking down various streets.

“So Greenwich is an interesting place. You’ve heard of the term Greenwich mean time? Or Zulu time?” He got a nod from Vail, so he continued. “It originated here. I seem to remember a street where the meridians meet and the corner store is named ‘The first shop in the world,’ or something like that, because it’s at longitude of zero-zero-zero.”

“I’ll pass. Sounds gimmicky.”

“I wouldn’t take you there anyway. It’s only for intelligent people. Its meridian significance is lost on common folk.”

“Good thing I’m driving or I’d kick you in the balls. Oh, wait, we’re in England. I’d kick you in the bollocks.”

By the time they reached Greenwich, a light rain had begun falling, shifting the overall mood from bleak to bleaker.

“Weather’s interfering with my signal. But I got what I needed — I took a look around the area where the cell call came from. There are several buildings we need to check out.”

Unfortunately, he explained, it was a densely populated neighborhood and the location data provided by the NSA was not as specific as they needed.

“One of the blocks consists of professional and white collar workers in the service, IT, and financial sectors. It’s possible the tangos are blending in, using them as a cover, but I doubt it. The other area is a little lower rent district, so to speak, so that’d be my best guess. I told Santa and Mo to take the upscale townhomes. We’ll take the middle-class apartment building, take a look around, get a lay of the land, make an educated analysis and pick our spots, then stake out the most promising flats.”

“Not quite a needle in a haystack, but …”

“The idea will be to narrow the possibilities down by a process of elimination. But if we can’t, we’ll be stuck looking for that needle.”

They arrived at the apartment building on a court just off Dartmouth Hill, a four-story series of three conjoined brick buildings. DeSantos and Fahad were parked a couple of blocks away.

“Multiple exits,” Uzi said as Vail pulled into the small parking lot. “Those green doors at ten o’clock, eleven, twelve, and one. See?”

“Not really. We need to turn on the wipers. But if we do that—”

“It’ll draw attention to the car. And it’ll look odd that all the cars in the lot have rain-covered windshields except for ours.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she said, leaning forward and struggling to see out the window.

He pulled out his phone, put it on speaker, and waited the two rings until it was answered. “Santa. Status?”

“It’s raining.”

“No shit.”

“Parked at the end of the block. These are like townhouses. Gotta be twenty units along this street alone. Hard to keep an eye on all of them. Lots of cars in driveways, but there are garages for just about every unit. To do this right we really need two cars, one at each end of the long block.”

“I know,” Uzi said. “But this is what we’ve got, so we’ll make it work. We’ll watch in shifts. Karen’s got the first one here.”

“I do?” she asked, tearing her gaze away from the apartment building.

“Mo’s taking ours,” DeSantos said. “Have a good nap. Out.”

Uzi moved his seat back to a fifty degree angle and shifted his body to get comfortable. He folded his arms and closed his eyes. “Wake me if you see anything.”

Assuming I don’t fall asleep.

36

“Yo, Karen! Wake up. Karen.”

Vail felt a hard shove, then a poke. “Huh? What?” She sat up and opened her eyes. Still dark. What the hell time is it? She found the dashboard clock: 4:30 AM. I’ve only been sleeping twenty-five minutes?

“They’re on the move. Start the car.”

Uzi’s phone buzzed. He answered it as Vail cranked the engine.

“Hold on,” Uzi said, grabbing her right forearm. He listened a moment, then said, “Shut it. We’re going in.”

Her eyes burned and she felt like her head weighed fifty pounds. More like a hundred. Just want to go back to sleep.

“Going in?”

“Santa and Mo are coming around to follow them. We’re gonna check out their flat.”

“Can you do that? I need some sleep.”

Uzi peered out the rain-streaked window, watched two men on foot as they walked about thirty feet from their car and headed toward Dartmouth Hill. Back into the phone: “Okay, I see you coming up the street, headlights off, right? … You got them? They’re leaving the parking lot right now—” He peered out the corner of his right eye, attempting not to turn his head in their direction. “Cool. They’re all yours. Going in. Let you know what we find.”

Vail pulled her exhausted body out of the seat and gently closed her car door. The prickle of cold raindrops made her shiver. She tightened the muffler around her neck. “Why the hell are they on the move at 4:30 in the morning?”

“You’re not really expecting an answer, right?” He pulled out his lock pick kit and had the exterior door opened in four seconds. They stepped inside and climbed the steps.

“How do we know which is their flat?”

“I saw a light come on in the room fronting the parking lot on the fourth floor. We should be able to figure it out based on that.”

They reached the last landing, Vail’s legs feeling more like lead than flesh and bones. She stifled a yawn but a low groan escaped her throat.

“Wake up and get ready,” Uzi whispered as they headed down the dimly lit hall. “That’s the flat right there.” He nodded toward door a dozen feet away.

They walked up to it and Vail pressed her ear against the metal. She shook her head no.

Still, they exercised caution. They had their weapons in hand now, untraceable handguns provided by Knox — the Glock L131A1, a British version similar to the models they used in the Bureau — and, most importantly, not found in the United States.

None of them carried American identification; they were traveling on Canadian passports — a favorite trick of Mossad.

Uzi did his thing with the lock and Vail quietly opened the door, moving slowly with the barrel of her pistol leading the way.

The place was dark. Her eyes were adjusted to the low light so she was able to get a decent idea of the flat’s layout. Had there been someone sitting still in the corner, however, she never would have seen him.

They silently closed the door behind them. Splitting up, they cleared the rooms and reconvened a moment later in the kitchen. The flat was sparse, a fully furnished rental by the looks of it, with two or three men occupying the residence.

“What are we looking for?” Vail asked in hushed voice. There was no one there, but it was the middle of the night and they did not know how well sound traveled between the units.

“Anything and everything. But if you see a computer, let me know.”

“Desktop in the bedroom at the end of the hall.”

“Show me.”

Vail led him to it, and he reholstered his weapon. “You’re on point. Someone comes in that door—”

“I’ll be sure to tell him how atrocious the furniture is, that the place needs a woman’s touch.”

“Stay alert and don’t nod off. We have no idea if anyone else lives here and is on his way home from the local pub this very minute.”

Shit. Good point.

Uzi woke the computer and the logon screen asked for the password. “Crap. This is gonna take a little longer than I’d hoped.”

37

DeSantos was riding shotgun, leaning forward, peering into the dreary darkness. It had stopped raining but the streets were shiny and their tires made unwanted whooshing noise as they drove.

“Oh Jesus,” DeSantos said. “A traffic circle?”

“Bloody useless if you ask me. It’s a tiny intersection. What’s the point? More work than just a simple four-way stop sign.”

The vehicle turned, avoiding the roundabout. “Stay with him,” DeSantos said. “It’s your lucky day. Left turns in the UK don’t go through the stupid circle.” He glanced at Fahad. “Did you say ‘bloody’?”

“Trying to get into the vernacular,” Fahad said. “If you think like the locals, better chance your cover stays intact.”

“You’re schooling me in undercover work?”

Fahad picked up speed a bit and turned as directed, following the car onto Wat Tyler Road. “I don’t like this, Hector. It’s not well lit, but it’s the middle of the night and there are no cars out. Except theirs. And ours.”

“Just stay with them. If they make us, we’ll deal with it.”

DeSantos fired up his phone’s GPS and started following along on the screen, using his left hand as a shield to keep the light from illuminating their interior. “Coming up on Shooters Hill Road.” He looked up just in time to see the vehicle ahead of them accelerate and hang a sharp right.

“Time to deal with it. They made us.”

“I can see that, Mo. Stay with them. And put our goddamn lights on. No point in trying to do a high speed pursuit without being able to see where we’re going.”

Fahad did as suggested and said, “They’re in a Fiat. We should be able to make up some ground.”

As predicted, they closed the gap. The perps swung left onto Hyde Vale, a curving residential street with tall brick apartment buildings on the left and a wooded, hilly landscape to their right.

The Fiat hit a speed bump well in excess of the safe rate of travel for the road and they lost control, skidding on the slick asphalt and slamming into a blue panel van on the right before bouncing off it and careening into a station wagon.

“Whoa! Slow down, slow down,” DeSantos yelled. A man jumped out of the back door of the Fiat and took off on foot up the hill into the blind of trees. The sedan then sped off, down Hyde Vale.

“Shit,” Fahad said as he brought the sedan to a stop. “I’ll take the guy, you follow the car.”

Fahad got out and DeSantos slid behind the wheel, shoved the shift into first and went in pursuit of the Fiat. In the rearview mirror, he saw Fahad sprint after his man before disappearing into the pitch darkness of the trees.

As they sped down the curving road, the area turned more residential, the buildings mostly single brick-and-stone homes set back off Hyde Vale with lawns and landscaping out front.

DeSantos drove hard and caught up to the Fiat — which had a flat left rear tire.

He rolled down the window, then reached into his jacket and pulled out his Glock. One advantage of driving in the UK was that with the steering wheel on the opposite side of the car, his right hand was free to shoot.

He leaned out, lined up the tritium sights, and squeezed the trigger. One shot at a time to minimize noise and attention. After firing three rounds, he realized he was succeeding in nothing but generating calls to the Met — something they definitely did not want.

The driver of the Fiat was a persistent little twat because he kept going, turning right onto Royal Hill and swerving through the business district — book shops, pubs, apartments, and more pubs — as a light or two snapped on in response to the ruckus the sedan was making as its backside scraped along the pavement.

DeSantos was trying to make out the layout of the road ahead, hoping to find a stretch that would be wide enough for him to come up alongside the Fiat and force it against the curb.

As he passed Burney Street to his right, Royal Hill opened up into a two lane road. But before DeSantos could accelerate, the Fiat hung a right onto a main drag, in what looked like a commercial district. A strip mall — or London’s equivalent — was ahead and he passed a storefront with bold orange and blue signage that read, “ISIS Greenwich Education.”

DeSantos laughed — this was probably not a good time to be in business with a company named “ISIS” anything.

The moment of levity vanished as DeSantos passed an HSBC bank branch and decided it was now or never. He had no idea where this joker was headed, and he did not want to be led into an ambush.

He accelerated and veered left to come around, but the Fiat countered by swerving into the center of the road.

DeSantos reached into his jacket again and pulled out the Glock. “Enough.” There were few, if any, homes in this area so the risk of a witness or collateral damage was minimal.

With the third round he hit his target — the Fiat’s right rear tire — and the car slapped down fully against the pavement, sparks emanating from the metal bumper like firecrackers exploding against a dark night sky.

The front doors opened and out spilled two men. They turned and fired on DeSantos, who ducked beneath the dash as he slammed on the brakes. The windshield shattered and rained fine granules of safety glass across his hair and lap.

He got out and initiated foot pursuit. They turned left in front of the Mitre Hotel, then passed O’Sullivan’s Bar — and in the reflection of the dark windows, DeSantos caught the image of one of them running with a cell phone pressed against his face.

Warning bells sounded in DeSantos’s head. He had no backup and he had no idea where they were leading him. But there was nothing he could do.

They jumped a low wrought iron fence and seemed to be heading back the way they had come, through a lawn in front of what looked like a church, then back onto the main drag, Greenwich High Road, and through town. These two guys were unfortunately fast and they kept DeSantos — a runner himself — at a safe distance.

They passed the Greenwich Market, a narrow cobblestone alley, where DeSantos saw signs for the Cutty Sark schooner.

He knew there was a rail line somewhere nearby, which could create complications. There were no trains running at this time of the morning but a station, with its myriad tunnels and passageways, could serve as its own means of escape.

They turned right onto Thames Street — and again his internal alarm tripped.

The men had led him into a construction site, which looked to be extensive. They disappeared into the darkness headed along a makeshift sidewalk that was off to the far right of the project.

DeSantos slowed, removed his Glock, and continued after them. He had not traveled all the way to the UK, chasing a well-known bomb maker, only to break off pursuit when he was close to apprehending him and his accomplice — even if the safer play was to pull back. And if one of the men ahead of him was in fact Qadir Yaseen, then the man with him was likely Tahir Aziz or someone of equal significance.

Still, he could not shake the bad feeling that this was not a random chase, that they had an escape route planned. And either DeSantos was being led to a convenient place for them to execute him out of view of a surveillance camera, or they had someone waiting to whisk them off to safety.

He pushed on, his feet crunching the dirt-strewn concrete of the sidewalk, when he felt a stiff breeze ruffle his hair. The smell of water hit his nostrils … and that’s when he realized where he was: the Thames was dead ahead. Was that their objective?

As he pondered that, he saw signs for the Greenwich Pier — and the sky-blue pipework and aquamarine of the manmade jetty that projected three dozen feet into the river.

The two men were now sprinting for the pier — and off to the left, DeSantos heard an outboard engine moving quickly. And with it, he presumed, a small boat of some sort.

If that were the case, this would be his only opportunity. The men hit the gangway and ran down the incline, which dipped twenty degrees toward the water’s surface. Pulling up to the perpendicular dock — and barely visible in the darkness — was a Zodiac or some other kind of RIB, or rigid inflatable boat.

It slowed as it approached the pier and the men timed it well, as they reached the mooring platform a moment before their getaway vehicle pulled up. There was no way DeSantos would reach them in time.

They jogged along the wharf’s edge and hopped into the back of the Zodiac, its engines cut back to an idle.

With no other boats anchored nearby that DeSantos could use for pursuit, there was only one thing he could do: he pulled up and leveled his Glock.