“Are you suggesting we gather up as much as we can carry?”

“Might not be a bad idea.”

“Is there anything else you can tell me?”

“Looks like he’s got a couple of dogs inside the walls. Big ones,” added Carter.

Gabriel swore softly. His fear of the canine was well known within the international brotherhood of spies.

“Sorry to be the bearer of bad news,” said Carter sympathetically.

“What kind of self-respecting Muslim extremist would keep dogs in his home?”

“The kind who doesn’t trust cats to warn him of an intrusion. And one more thing,” said Carter. “The NSA has been listening in on the Moroccan police and military.”

“And?”

“They know damn well that we carried out a drone strike on their soil last night. And they know that Mohammad Bakkar and Jean-Luc Martel are dead.”

“How long before they go public?”

“If I had to guess, the Moroccan people will be hearing about this over their Froot Loops.”

“Then maybe we should change the subject.”

“We?”

“Let me know if there is any movement at the compound.”

Gabriel hung up.

“Any problems?” asked Keller.

“Two dogs and a locked gate.”

“Can’t do much about the dogs, but the gate shouldn’t be a problem.”

Keller handed Mohammad Bakkar’s phone to Natalie, who composed the message and sent it to Nazir Bensa?d inside the compound. The reply was a few seconds in coming.

“Done,” she said.

Gabriel and Yaakov had carried more than just computers and secure communications equipment from the House of Spies in Casablanca. They had also taken two .45-caliber Jericho pistols and two Uzi Pro compact submachine guns. Gabriel gave Yaakov one of each, and Natalie an Uzi Pro. He kept only a Jericho for himself.

“The perfect self-defense weapon,” said Keller.

“Also perfect for eliminating those who offer unwanted advice.”

“I don’t want to get in the middle of family business, but—”

“Then don’t,” said Gabriel.

Keller made a show of thought. “How many dogs are in that compound? Was it one or two?”

Gabriel said nothing.

“Let Mikhail and me handle it. Or better yet,” said Keller, “let’s send Yaakov in there alone. He looks like he’s done this sort of thing a time or two.”

Yaakov expertly rammed a magazine into the Uzi Pro and looked at Gabriel. “He has a point, boss.”

“Not you, too.”

“That satellite can tell us only so much. What it can’t tell us is whether there are spider holes in the compound, or whether those boys are wearing explosive vests.”

“Then we should assume they are.”

Yaakov placed a hand on Gabriel’s shoulder. “You’re not some kid anymore. You’re the chief now. Let the three of us take care of it. You stay here with—”

“With the women?”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” said Yaakov. “But someone needs to look after them.”

“Dina was in the IDF, just like the rest of us. She can look after herself.”

“But—”

“Duly noted, Yaakov. Are you going to drive, or should I handle it?”

Yaakov hesitated, then slid behind the wheel. Mikhail dropped into the front passenger seat, Gabriel and Keller into the back. Natalie watched as the car set off toward Zaida. Then she walked over to the Jeep Cherokee and climbed into the passenger seat. She placed the Uzi Pro on the floor between her feet and checked the time on Mohammad Bakkar’s phone. It was 4:11.

“Maybe we should listen to the news.”

Dina switched on the radio and searched the airwaves for something that sounded like a morning newscast. At the sound of a male voice, she stopped and looked at Natalie.

“He’s reading verses from the Koran.”

Dina rotated the tuner again. “Better?”

“Yes.”

“What’s she talking about?”

“The weather.”

“What’s the forecast?”

“Hot.”

“I’ll say.”

Natalie laughed quietly. “Do you remember that day at Nahalal?” she asked after a moment. “The day I tried to say no to all this?”

Dina smiled at the memory. “And now look at you. You’re one of us.”

A truck passed on the highway. Then another. The stars in the eastern half of the sky were beginning to dim.

“What was he like?” asked Dina.

“Who?”

“Saladin.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Natalie checked the time again. “In a few minutes, he’ll be dead.”

65

Zaida, Morocco

Like small villages the world over, Zaida was not by nature a late sleeper. One of the cafés on the main square was open for business, and a smoking Fez-bound coach was taking on passengers at the shelter opposite. The stench of diesel exhaust poured into the car as Yaakov, swerving to avoid a stray goat, drove past. His speed was ideal. Not too fast. More important, observed Gabriel, not too slow. One hand rested lightly on the wheel, the other lay motionless on the shift. By contrast, Mikhail was drumming his fingers on the center console. Keller, however, seemed entirely oblivious to what was about to occur. Indeed, were it not for the Kalashnikov lying across his thighs, he might have been a tourist on a sightseeing excursion in an exotic land.