The minister reacted about as well as could be expected, which was not well at all. A tirade ensued, much of it profane. Rousseau offered his resignation—he had written out a letter in longhand during the trip north from Provence—and for a long moment it seemed the minister was prepared to accept it. At length, he dropped the letter into his shredder. Ultimate responsibility for protecting the French homeland from terrorist attack, Islamic or otherwise, rested on the minister’s narrow shoulders. He was not about to lose a man like Paul Rousseau.

“Where is Nouredine Zakaria now?”

“Missing,” said Rousseau.

“Has he gone to the caliphate?”

Rousseau hesitated before answering. He was prepared to obfuscate, but in no way would he tell an outright lie. Nouredine Zakaria, he said quietly, was dead.

“Dead how?” asked the minister.

“I believe it occurred during a business transaction.”

The minister looked at Gabriel. “I suppose you had something to do with this.”

“Zakaria’s demise predated our involvement in this affair,” responded Gabriel with lawyerly precision.

The minister was not mollified. “And the leader of the network? Your new asset?”

“His name,” said Rousseau, “is Jean-Luc Martel.”

The minister looked down and rearranged the papers on his desk. “That would explain your interest in Martel’s file on the day your headquarters was bombed.”

“It would,” said Rousseau, holding his ground.

“Jean-Luc has been the target of numerous inquiries. All have reached the same conclusion, that he is not involved in drugs.”

“That conclusion,” said Rousseau carefully, “is incorrect.”

“You know better?”

“I have it on the highest authority.”

“Who?”

“Jean-Luc Martel.”

The minister scoffed. “Why would he tell you such a thing?”

“He didn’t have much of a choice.”

“Why?”

“René Devereaux.”

“The name rings a bell.”

“It should,” said Rousseau.

“Where is Devereaux now?”

“The same place as Nouredine Zakaria.”

“Merde,” said the minister softly.

There was a silence. Dust floated in the sunlight streaming through the window like fish in an aquarium. Rousseau cleared his throat gently, a signal he was about to venture onto treacherous ground.

“I know that you and Martel are friends,” he said at last.

“We are acquainted,” countered the minister quickly, “but we are not friends.”

“Martel would be surprised to hear that. In fact, he invoked your name several times before finally agreeing to cooperate.”

The minister could not hide his anger at Rousseau for airing dirty French laundry in front of an outsider, and an Israeli at that. “What is your point?” he asked.

“My point,” said Rousseau, “is that I’m going to need Martel’s continued cooperation, which will require a grant of immunity. Such a grant might be sensitive given your relationship, but it’s necessary for the operation to move forward.”

“What is your goal?”

“Eliminating Saladin, of course.”

“And you intend to use Martel in some sort of operational capacity?”

“It is our only option.”

The minister made a show of thought. “You’re right, a grant of immunity would be difficult. But if you were to request it—”

“You’ll have the paperwork by the end of the day,” interjected Rousseau. “Frankly, it’s probably for the best. You’re not the only one in the current government who’s acquainted with Martel.”

The minister was shuffling papers again. “We gave you wide latitude when we created the Alpha Group, but needless to say you’ve overstepped your authority.”

Rousseau accepted the rebuke in penitential silence.

“I won’t be kept in the dark any longer. Is that clear?”

“It is, Minister.”

“How do you intend to proceed?”

“In the next ten days, Martel’s Moroccan supplier, a man named Mohammad Bakkar, is going to send several large shipments of hashish from ports in Libya. It is vital that we intercept them.”

“You know the names of the vessels?”

Rousseau nodded.

“Bakkar and Saladin will suspect there’s an informant.”

“That is correct.”

“They’ll be angry.”

Rousseau smiled. “That is our hope, minister.”

The first ship, a Maltese-registered floating coffin called the Mediterranean Dream, was not due to leave Libya for another four days. Her point of departure was Khoms, a small commercial seaport east of Tripoli; and after a brief stop in Tunis, where she was scheduled to take on a load of produce, she would make directly for Genoa. The other two vessels, one flying a Bahamian flag, the other Panamanian, were both scheduled to depart Sirte in one week’s time, thus presenting Gabriel and Rousseau with a minor quandary. They agreed that seizing the Mediterranean Dream while the other two vessels were still in port in Libya would be a miscalculation, as it would provide Mohammad Bakkar and Saladin an opportunity to reroute the merchandise. Instead, they would wait until all three vessels were in international waters before making their first move.