One of the phones in front of Carter flashed with an incoming call. He brought the receiver to this ear, listened, and then swore softly.

“What is it?” asked Navot.

“NSA is picking up a lot of traffic from Morocco.”

“What kind of traffic?”

“Sounds like the shit is hitting the fan.”

Another phone flashed. This time it was Morris Payne calling from the Situation Room.

“Understood,” said Carter after a moment, and hung up. Then he looked at Navot. “The Moroccan ambassador just called the White House to ask if the United States had attacked his country.”

“What are you going to do?”

“The loiter time on those drones just got a whole lot shorter.”

“The stealth drone, too?”

“What stealth drone?”

Carter gave the order to the drone teams. Instantly, the Predator banked sharply to the east toward the Algerian border. Its thermal imaging camera stayed with the surviving SUV for another two minutes, until finally the heat signature evaporated from the screens of the Black Hole. The Sentinel was next. The last image Navot saw was of two men slipping out of a tent in the desert, weapons in their outstretched hands.

It was true that all five men in the camp’s center court had been shot, but two were still alive. One was Mohammad Bakkar. The other was one of the guards. Mikhail ended the guard’s life with a single gunshot to the head while Keller examined Bakkar by starlight. The Moroccan hashish producer had been hit twice in the chest. His pullover was drenched in blood, and there was blood in his mouth. It was obvious he did not have long to live.

Keller crouched next to him. “Where is he going, Mohammad?”

“Who?” asked Bakkar, choking on the blood.

“Saladin.”

“I don’t know anyone by that name.”

“Perhaps this will refresh your memory.”

Keller placed the barrel of the Beretta against Mohammad Bakkar’s ankle and pulled the trigger. The Moroccan’s screams filled the night.

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know!”

“Of course you do, Mohammad. You gave him sanctuary here in Morocco after the attack on Washington. You gave him the money he needed to attack my country.”

“And what country is that? Are you French? Or are you a fucking Jew like him?”

Bakkar was looking at Mikhail, who was standing over Keller’s shoulder. Keller placed the barrel of the Beretta against the Moroccan’s lower leg and pulled the trigger.

“I’m British, actually.”

“In that case,” said Bakkar, moaning in agony, “fuck your country.”

Keller fired a shot into the side of Bakkar’s knee.

“Allahu Akbar!”

“Be that as it may,” said Keller calmly, “where is he?”

“I told you—”

Another shot into what was left of the knee. Bakkar was starting to lose consciousness. Keller slapped him hard across the face.

“Did he order you to kill us?”

Bakkar nodded.

“And what were you supposed to do after that?”

The Moroccan’s eyes were closing. Keller was losing him.

“Where, Mohammad? Where is he going?”

“One of my . . . houses.”

“Where? The Rif? The Atlas?”

Bakkar was choking on the blood.

“Where, Mohammad?” asked Keller, shaking the Moroccan violently. “Tell me where he’s going so I can help you.”

“Fez,” gasped Bakkar. “He’s going to Fez.”

The light was going out of the Moroccan’s eyes. Despite the blood and the pain, he looked like a deeply contented man.

“You’re lying to me, aren’t you, Mohammad?”

“Yes.”

“Where’s he going?”

“Who?”

“Saladin.”

“Paradise,” said Bakkar. “I’m going to paradise.”

“I rather doubt that, actually,” said Keller.

Then he placed the gun to Bakkar’s forehead and pulled the trigger one last time.

Of the five dead men in the center court of the camp, only Mohammad Bakkar was in possession of a mobile phone. A Samsung Galaxy, it was in the front pocket of his trousers, with the SIM card and battery removed. Keller reassembled the device and powered it on while Mikhail and Natalie tended to Olivia. There were no vehicles left in the camp—Saladin, in his desperate attempt to escape, had taken all four—which meant they had no choice but to walk out of the desert. They took only what they could carry easily. Warm clothing, phones, passports, wallets, and two Kalashnikovs with fully loaded magazines. They didn’t bother trying to find a torch among the camp’s supplies. There was moon enough to light their path.

They left the camp at five minutes past eleven o’clock local time and headed due west into a sea of sand. Keller walked at the front of the line, followed by the two women and lastly by Mikhail. In Keller’s right hand was Mohammad Bakkar’s mobile phone. He checked the status of the battery. Twelve percent.

“Shit,” he said. “Anyone have a charger?”

Even Olivia managed to laugh.