Natalie turned and scurried down the slope of the dune to the spot where she had left her shoes. You’re the only one who can identify him . . . But he would remember her, too. And why ever not? After all, she thought, I was the one who saved his miserable life.

54

Langley, Virginia

The drones spotted the vehicle long before Natalie did, at five minutes past nine Morocco time, as it emerged from the southeastern corner of the sand sea at Erg Chebbi. Toyota Land Cruiser, white, seven occupants. It stopped at the camp’s edge and six men climbed out, leaving the driver behind. Viewed from above with thermal-imaging technology, it appeared that none of the men walked with a limp. Five, visibly armed, remained at the perimeter of the camp while the sixth strode into the central court between the tents. There he greeted Jean-Luc Martel, then, a few seconds later, Mikhail. As expected, there was no audio coverage; the cellular void of the desert had struck the phones mute. Kyle Taylor, from the back of the room, provided one possible soundtrack of the exchange.

“Mohammad Bakkar, I’d like you to meet a friend of mine, Dmitri Antonov. Dmitri, this is Mohammad Bakkar.”

“Maybe,” said Adrian Carter. “Or maybe Saladin had a little work done to that leg, along with his face.”

“He couldn’t hide the limp in Washington,” said Uzi Navot. “And he couldn’t hide it from Jean-Luc Martel earlier this year. Besides, does Mikhail look as though he’s talking to the worst terrorist since Bin Laden?”

“He’s always struck me as a rather cool customer,” said Carter.

“Not that cool.”

They were watching the scene through the camera of the Sentinel. Mikhail, greenish and aglow with body heat, stood a few feet from the fire with his arms akimbo, addressing with evident calm the man who had just arrived. Keller and Olivia had already withdrawn from the central court and entered one of the tents. Natalie, after returning from her sojourn in the dunes, had joined them. The Predator was searching the surrounding desert. There were no other heat signatures.

Navot turned and looked at Kyle Taylor. “Has the NSA identified any new phones in the camp?”

“They’re working on it.”

“Odd, don’t you think?”

“How so?”

“They’re not that hard to find. We’re quite good at it, but you’re even better.”

“Unless the phone is powered off and the SIM card is removed.”

“What about satellite phones?”

“Easy.”

“So why isn’t Mohammad Bakkar carrying one? Rather dangerous to be riding around in the desert without a satphone, don’t you think?”

“Saladin knows that phones are death sentences.”

“True,” agreed Navot. “But how is Bakkar planning to tell him to come to the camp? Carrier pigeon? Smoke signal?”

“What’s your point, Uzi?”

“My point,” said Navot, “is that Mohammad Bakkar isn’t carrying a satphone because he doesn’t need one to signal Saladin.”

“Why not?”

“Because Saladin is already there.” Navot pointed toward the screen. “He’s the one behind the wheel of the Toyota.”

55

The Sahara, Morocco

Jean-Luc Martel’s physical description of Mohammad Bakkar proved accurate on at least one point; the Moroccan from the Rif Mountains was short, perhaps five foot four inches in height, and stout of build. His religious zealotry was not outwardly evident. He wore no kufi or unkempt beard, and smoked a cigarette in violation of the Islamic State’s ban on tobacco. His clothing was European and expensive. A zippered cashmere sweater, neatly pressed twill pants, a pair of suede moccasins wholly unsuited to the desert. His wristwatch was large, gold, and Swiss; its crystal shone with reflected firelight. His French was excellent, as was his English, which he used to address Mikhail.

“Monsieur Antonov. It is so nice to finally meet. I’ve heard so much about you.”

“From Jean-Luc?”

“Jean-Luc is not my only friend in France,” he said confidingly. “You caused quite a sensation in Provence this summer.”

“It wasn’t my intention.”

“Wasn’t it?” He smiled genially. “Those parties of yours were all the rage. The stories reached Marrakesh. Quite scandalous.”

“One has to live one’s life.”

“Yes, of course. But there are limits, are there not?”

“I’ve never thought so.”

At this, Mohammad Bakkar smiled. “I trust you enjoyed the food?”

“Magnificent.”

“You like Moroccan cuisine?”

“Very much.”

“You’ve been here before? To Morocco?”

“No, never.”

“How is that? My country is very popular with sophisticated Europeans.”

“Not with Russians.”

“This is true. The Russians prefer Turkey for some reason. But you’re not really a Russian, are you, Monsieur Antonov? Not anymore.”

Mikhail’s heart banged once against his rib cage. “I still carry a Russian passport,” he said.