Inshallah, it will be done . . .

It was possible the answer—along with other critical intelligence—resided somewhere in the mobile phones, computers, and flash drives they had taken from Saladin’s room. Therefore, it was essential that the devices not end up in the hands of the Moroccans, who would be more interested in solving the riddle of a long and violent night than in preventing the next attack. Still, Gabriel decreed that theirs would not be a fighting retreat. There had been enough bloodshed already. And now that Saladin was dead, the Moroccans were less likely to throw a diplomatic temper tantrum or do something stupid, like prosecuting the chief of the Israeli secret intelligence service for murder.

It was approaching seven when they reached Fez. They headed north through the Rif Mountains, toward the Mediterranean coast. The bolt-hole was at El Jebha, but it could not be utilized until after dark, when it would be safe to bring the Zodiacs ashore. That meant an entire day, perhaps longer, would be lost before the technicians could begin scrubbing the phones and computers for intelligence. Gabriel decided they would leave Morocco by ferry instead. The port of Tangier was the most obvious choice. There were regular ferries to Spain, France, and even Italy. But to the east was a smaller port with service directly to the British overseas territory of Gibraltar. They boarded the twelve-fifteen with minutes to spare. Gabriel and Keller stood at the railing in sunlight, Keller smoking a cigarette, Gabriel holding a mobile phone, as the white limestone cliffs of Gibraltar’s famous rock appeared before them.

“Home at last,” said Keller.

But Gabriel wasn’t listening; he was staring at the photo he had snapped of Saladin’s lifeless face.

“Best picture he’s ever taken,” said Keller.

Gabriel permitted himself a brief smile. Then he fired the photo securely to Adrian Carter at Langley. Carter’s reply was instant.

“What does it say?” asked Keller.

“Alhamdulillah.”

Keller dropped his cigarette into the sea. “We’ll see about that.”

From Gibraltar’s ferry terminal, it was only a short walk along Winston Churchill Avenue to the airport, where a chartered Falcon 2000 executive jet was waiting, courtesy of Her Majesty’s Secret Intelligence Service. Graham Seymour had stocked the plane with several bottles of excellent French champagne, but no one on board was in any mood for a celebration. Once the plane was airborne, they started switching on the captured phones and computers. All were locked, as were the flash drives.

It was late afternoon when they set down at London City Airport in the Docklands. Two vehicles were waiting, a panel van and a black Jaguar limousine. The van took Mikhail, Yaakov, Dina, and Natalie to Heathrow, where they would catch a late-departing flight for Ben Gurion. Gabriel and Keller rode in the Jaguar to Vauxhall Cross, along with the duffel bag.

They entered the building through the underground parking garage and carried the bag into Graham Seymour’s office. Seymour had arrived from Washington a few hours earlier. He looked only slightly better than Gabriel and Keller.

“Amanda Wallace and I have agreed to a division of labor regarding the phones and computers. SIS will take half, and Five will get the rest. Our respective labs are fully staffed and ready to go.”

“I’m surprised you were able to keep the Americans at bay,” replied Gabriel.

“We weren’t. The Agency and the FBI are sending liaison officers to look over our shoulders. In case you were wondering,” added Seymour, “it was really him. The Agency confirmed it with an eight-point facial analysis.” He offered a hand to Gabriel. “Honor is due. Congratulations, and thank you.”

Gabriel reluctantly accepted Seymour’s hand. “Don’t thank me, Graham, thank him.” He nodded toward Keller. “And Olivia, of course. We would have never been able to get close to Saladin without her.”

“The Royal Navy plucked her off that ersatz cargo ship of yours about an hour ago,” said Seymour. “Needless to say, it is essential we keep her role a closely guarded secret.”

“That might be difficult.”

“Quite,” said Seymour. “The Internet is already burning up with rumors that Saladin is dead. The White House is eager to make a formal announcement before the Moroccans beat them to the punch.”

“When?”

“In time for the evening news. They were wondering whether the Office wanted any of the credit.”

“God, no.”

“They were hoping you would say that. The Moroccans will eventually get over an invasion of their sovereignty by the Americans, but the Israelis are another matter entirely.”

“What about the British?”

“We’re legally forbidden to take part in targeted killing operations. Therefore, we will say nothing.” Seymour looked at Keller. “Even so, the debriefers are keen to have a word with you. The lawyers, too.”

“That,” said Keller, “would be a very bad idea.”

“Were you the one who—”

“No,” said Keller. “No such luck.”

It was six that evening when the experts commenced work on the captured devices. MI5 was the first to break into a phone; MI6, a computer. As expected, all the documents were heavily encrypted. But by seven o’clock, technicians from both services were unbuttoning the documents at will and handing them off to the analytical teams to sift for vital clues. The first batch was low-grade stuff. But Gabriel and Keller, who were monitoring the search from Graham Seymour’s office, warned against complacency. They had seen the look in Saladin’s eyes as he was dispatching his final text.