“I understand.”

“Do you require technical assistance, too?”

Saladin shook his head. “Only the material itself.”

“And if I acquire it? How do I contact you?”

“You don’t,” said Saladin. “You contact your friend, Monsieur Martel. And Monsieur Martel will contact Mohammad.” He stood abruptly and held out his hand. “I look forward to hearing from you.”

“You will.” Mikhail once again accepted the hand and held it tightly.

Saladin released his grip and turned his face once more to the sky. “Do you hear that?”

“The bees are back?”

Saladin made no reply.

“You must have excellent hearing,” said Mikhail, “because I can’t hear a bloody thing.”

Saladin was still searching the stars. At length, he looked at Mikhail. The dark eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

“Your face is familiar to me, Monsieur Antonov. Is it possible we’ve met before?”

“No,” said Mikhail, “it is not possible.”

“In Moscow perhaps? In another life?”

The eyes moved slowly from Mikhail to Jean-Luc Martel and then to Mohammad Bakkar. At last, he looked at Mikhail again.

“Your wife is not Russian,” he said.

“No. She’s French.”

“But her skin is very dark. Almost like an Arab.” Saladin smiled and then explained how he knew this. “Two of my men saw her sunbathing on the beach in Casablanca. They saw her again in the medina of Fez yesterday. She covered her hair. My men were impressed.”

“She’s very respectful of Islamic culture.”

“But she’s not a Muslim.”

“No.”

“Is she a Jew?”

“My wife,” said Mikhail coldly, “is none of your concern.”

“Perhaps she should be. Would it be possible to meet her, please?”

“I never mix business and family.”

“Wise policy,” said Saladin. “But I would still like to see her.”

“She has no facial veil.”

“Morocco is not the caliphate, Monsieur Antonov. Inshallah, it will be soon, but for now I see uncovered faces everywhere I look.”

“And how would you respond if I insisted on seeing your wife without a veil?”

“I would very likely kill you.”

He brushed past Mikhail without another word and walked over to the tent.

58

The Sahara, Morocco

He swept aside the flap and entered. Candles burned on the desk where Keller sat reading a worn paperback novel and next to the bed where Natalie and Olivia lay stretched on opposite sides of a backgammon board. They conversed quietly, and in the manner of people who have all the time in the world for everything.

At length, Keller looked up. “Just the man I’ve been waiting for,” he said jovially in French. “Would you mind bringing us some tea? And some sweets. The ones soaked in honey. There’s a good man.”

Keller turned the page of his book. The candles trembled as Saladin crossed the room in three swift strides and stood at the foot of the bed. Natalie tossed the dice onto the board and, pleased by the results, contemplated her next move. Olivia glared at Saladin in disapproval.

“What are you doing in here?”

Saladin, silent, studied Natalie carefully. Her gaze was downward toward the board; her face was in profile and partially obscured by a lock of blond hair. When Saladin moved the hair aside, she drew away sharply.

“How dare you touch me!” she snapped in French. “Get out of here, or I’ll call my husband.”

Saladin held his ground. Natalie stared at him, unblinking.

Maimonides . . . So good to see you again . . .

Calmly, she said, “Is there something you wish to ask me?”

Saladin’s gaze moved briefly to Keller before settling once more on Natalie.

“Forgive me,” he said after a moment. “I was mistaken.”

He turned away and went into the night.

Natalie looked at Keller. “You should have killed him when you had the chance.”

In the Black Hole at Langley there was an audible gasp of relief when Saladin finally emerged from the tent. The drones watched as he spoke a few words directly into the ear of Mohammad Bakkar. Then the two men moved to the camp’s edge and, surrounded by bodyguards, conferred at length. Several times Saladin pointed to the sky. Once, he seemed to stare directly into the lens of the Predator’s camera.

“Game over,” said Kyle Taylor. “Thanks for playing.”

“There’s a reason why he’s still alive after all these years,” said Uzi Navot. “He’s very good at the game.”

Navot watched as Mikhail slipped into the tent and accepted an object from Christopher Keller. It was not visible via infrared. Even so, Navot assumed that the two men, both veterans of elite special forces units, were now armed. And heavily outnumbered.

“What’s the distance between Saladin and that tent?”

“Forty feet,” answered Taylor. “Maybe a bit less.”

“What’s the blast radius of a Hellfire?”