In Casablanca, Gabriel and Yaakov Rossman took quiet stock of what remained of the operation. Its wreckage lay scattered across the desert of southern Morocco, from the Algerian border to the dunes of Erg Chebbi. Two Toyota Land Cruisers were smoldering ruins, a third lay damaged on its side. And a fourth—the one presumably carrying a wounded Saladin, a Saladin who looked as though he might require emergency medical treatment—had last been seen speeding northwest toward the Middle Atlas Mountains. Jean-Luc Martel, a prominent if deeply corrupt French businessman, lay dead at a remote camp, along with Mohammad Bakkar, Morocco’s largest hashish producer, and four of his men. Bakkar’s mobile phone was now in the possession of a British intelligence officer. The battery meter read ten percent and falling fast.

“Other than that,” said Gabriel, “it all went exactly according to plan.”

“Saladin would be dead if the Americans had picked the right car.”

Gabriel said nothing.

“You’re not thinking about—”

“Of course I am.”

Gabriel looked down at the computer screen. On it was a map of southern Morocco. Two blue lights were moving eastward across the desert from Khamlia; a single red light was moving slowly westward. They were approximately two miles apart.

“In a few minutes,” said Yaakov, “the southeastern corner of Morocco is going to be crawling with soldiers and gendarmes. It won’t take them long to find a couple of burning Toyotas and a camp full of dead bodies. And then all hell is going to break loose.”

“It already has.”

“Which is why you need to order the team to dump those weapons and make for the bolt-hole at Agadir. With a bit of luck, they’ll arrive before dawn and we’ll pull them out right away. If not, they’ll lie low in a beach hotel and leave after dark tomorrow night.”

“That’s the safe play.”

“Actually, there’s nothing safe about it.”

“And us?” asked Gabriel.

“The gendarmes will be blocking roads all over the country soon. Better to stay here tonight and leave by plane in the morning. We’ll fly to Paris or London and then catch a flight back to Ben Gurion.”

“What about Saladin?”

“He can see to his own travel arrangements.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

On the computer screen the blue lights had reached the red light, and after a moment all three were moving westward across the desert toward the village of Khamlia.

“What are you going to tell them?” asked Yaakov.

Gabriel rapidly typed out the message and clicked send. It was four words in length.

plug in the phone . . .

61

The Sahara, Morocco

They had no means for a secure upload—not in the cellular dead zone of the southern desert—so they searched the Samsung the old-fashioned way, call by call, text by text, Internet history. Natalie, the team’s most fluent speaker and reader of Arabic, handled the device itself while Keller relayed the data to the Casablanca command post over the satellite phone. They were sitting in the backseat of the Nissan Pathfinder, with Dina behind the wheel and Eli Lavon serving as her navigator and spotter. Mikhail was in the Jeep Cherokee with Olivia.

“How is she?” asked Gabriel.

“About as well as you would expect. We need to get her out of here. Tonight, if possible.”

“I’m working on it. Now give me the next number.”

It appeared Mohammad Bakkar had not had the Samsung long. The first incoming call listed in the directory was the previous evening at 7:19 p.m. The time corresponded to the call that Jean-Luc Martel had received while sitting with Keller in the bar of the Palais Faraj in Fez. So, too, did the number. It seemed that the man who had called Martel to arrange the meeting at the camp in the desert had immediately called Mohammad Bakkar to say the meeting was on. Bakkar had then placed a call of his own, at 7:21.

“Give me that number,” said Gabriel.

Keller recited it.

“Read it again.”

Keller did.

“That’s Nazir Bensa?d.”

Bensa?d was the Moroccan jihadist and ISIS member who had followed Martel and the team from Casablanca to Fez, and from Fez into the Middle Atlas Mountains.

“Bakkar called someone else a few minutes after that,” said Keller.

“What’s the number?”

Keller relayed it to him.

“Does it appear anywhere else?”

Keller put the question to Natalie, who quickly searched the directories. Bakkar had placed another call to the number at 5:17 that afternoon. He had received one at 5:23.

Keller relayed the information to Gabriel.

“Who do you suppose that is?”

“The guest of honor?”

Gabriel severed the connection and raised Adrian Carter at Langley over the secure link.

“Where’s Nazir Bensa?d?” he asked.

“His phone is back in Fez. Whether Nazir is still attached to it is unclear.”

Gabriel then gave Carter the number Mohammad Bakkar had called three times—once the previous day at 7:21 p.m., and twice that afternoon, before the meeting in the desert.

“Any idea who it belongs to?” asked Carter.