“Don’t even think about it.”

Mohammad Bakkar had returned to the center court of the camp and was speaking to Martel. Even from twenty thousand feet, it was obvious the exchange was heated. All around them the camp was in motion. Guards were climbing into Land Cruisers, engines were turning over, lights were flaring.

“What the fuck is going on?” asked Taylor.

“Looks to me,” said Navot, “as though he’s shuffling the deck.”

“Bakkar?”

“No,” said Navot. “Saladin.”

He was staring at the sky again, staring into the unblinking eye of the drone. And smiling, observed Navot. He was definitely smiling. Suddenly, he raised an arm, and four identical SUVs were swirling around him in a counterclockwise direction, in a cloud of sand and dust.

“Four vehicles, two Hellfires,” said Navot. “What are the chances of picking the right one?”

“Statistically,” said Taylor, “it’s fifty-fifty.”

“Then maybe you should take the shot now.”

“Your team won’t survive it.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’ve done this a time or two, Uzi.”

“Yes,” said Navot, watching the screen. “But so has Saladin.”

Gabriel and Yaakov Rossman were watching the same image in the Casablanca command post—four SUVs circling a man whose heat signature was gradually dying beneath a veil of sand and dust. Finally, the SUVs slowed briefly to a stop, long enough for the man to enter one—which one, it was impossible to tell. Then all four set off across the desert, separated by enough space so that a single fifty-pound warhead could not take out two for the price of one.

The Predator pursued the SUVs northward across the desert while the Sentinel remained behind to keep watch over the camp. The four perimeter guards had withdrawn to the center court, where Mohammad Bakkar was once again in an animated conversation with Jean-Luc Martel. An object passed between them, from Bakkar’s hand to the hand of Gabriel’s unlikely asset. An object that was invisible to the thermal imaging sensors of the drone. An object that Jean-Luc slipped into the right-hand pocket of his jacket.

“Shit,” said Yaakov.

“I couldn’t agree more.”

“Think he’s gone over to the other side?”

“We’ll know in a minute.”

“Why wait?”

“You have a better idea?”

“Send a message to Mikhail and Keller. Tell them to come out of that tent, guns blazing.”

“And what if Bakkar’s men return fire with those Kalashnikovs?”

“They’ll never get them off their shoulders.”

“And Martel?” asked Gabriel. “What if he’s standing in the wrong place at the wrong time?”

“He’s a drug dealer.”

“We wouldn’t be here without him, Yaakov.”

“You think he wouldn’t betray us to save his own neck? What do you think he’s doing right now? Send the message,” said Yaakov. “Put them all down and let’s get our people out of there before the Americans light up the desert with those Hellfire missiles.”

Gabriel quickly sent not one message but two—one to Dina Sarid and the other to the satellite phone in Keller’s possession. Dina replied instantly. Keller didn’t bother.

“I respectfully disagree,” said Yaakov.

“Duly noted.”

Gabriel looked at the shot from the Predator. Four identical Toyota SUVs racing northward across the desert.

“Which one do you suppose he’s in?”

“The second,” said Yaakov. “Definitely the second.”

“I respectfully disagree.”

“Which one then?”

Gabriel stared at the screen. “I haven’t a clue.”

The Hotel Kasbah stood at the western edge of the great sand sea at Erg Chebbi. Dina and Eli Lavon were drinking tea in the terrace bar when the message came through from Gabriel; Yossi and Rimona were poolside. Five minutes later, having sanitized their rooms, they were all four in the hotel’s cramped lobby, asking the night manager for the name of a nearby club where they might find a bit of music and dancing. He gave them the name of an establishment in Erfoud, which was to the north. They headed south instead, Yossi and Rimona in a rented Jeep Cherokee, Dina and Eli Lavon in a Nissan Pathfinder. At Khamlia they turned off the main road, into the desert, and waited for the sky to burn.

59

Langley, Virginia

But in which Toyota Land Cruiser was the prize riding? After months of plotting and scheming and recruiting and deal making, it all came down to that. Four vehicles, two missiles. The odds of success were one in two. The price of failure would be a broken relationship with an important Arab ally—and perhaps far worse. Saladin’s dead body would atone for all manner of secret sins. But Saladin on the loose in Morocco after a botched drone strike would be a diplomatic and security catastrophe. Many careers hung in the balance. Many lives, too.

There was no shortage of opinions. Graham Seymour swore it was the third Toyota, Paul Rousseau the fourth. Adrian Carter leaned toward the first vehicle but was willing to entertain the notion it was the second. Inside the White House Situation Room, the president and his senior aides were equally divided. CIA Director Morris Payne was all but certain he had seen Saladin enter the third SUV. But the president, like Paul Rousseau, was adamant it was the fourth. At the Black Hole in Langley, that was reason enough to eliminate number four from further consideration.