“Your wife is not Russian,” he said.
“No. She’s French.”
“But her skin is very dark. Almost like an Arab.” Saladin smiled and then explained how he knew this. “Two of my men saw her sunbathing on the beach in Casablanca. They saw her again in the medina of Fez yesterday. She covered her hair. My men were impressed.”
“She’s very respectful of Islamic culture.”
“But she’s not a Muslim.”
“No.”
“Is she a Jew?”
“My wife,” said Mikhail coldly, “is none of your concern.”
“Perhaps she should be. Would it be possible to meet her, please?”
“I never mix business and family.”
“Wise policy,” said Saladin. “But I would still like to see her.”
“She has no facial veil.”
“Morocco is not the caliphate, Monsieur Antonov. Inshallah, it will be soon, but for now I see uncovered faces everywhere I look.”
“And how would you respond if I insisted on seeing your wife without a veil?”
“I would very likely kill you.”
He brushed past Mikhail without another word and walked over to the tent.
58
The Sahara, Morocco
He swept aside the flap and entered. Candles burned on the desk where Keller sat reading a worn paperback novel and next to the bed where Natalie and Olivia lay stretched on opposite sides of a backgammon board. They conversed quietly, and in the manner of people who have all the time in the world for everything.
At length, Keller looked up. “Just the man I’ve been waiting for,” he said jovially in French. “Would you mind bringing us some tea? And some sweets. The ones soaked in honey. There’s a good man.”
Keller turned the page of his book. The candles trembled as Saladin crossed the room in three swift strides and stood at the foot of the bed. Natalie tossed the dice onto the board and, pleased by the results, contemplated her next move. Olivia glared at Saladin in disapproval.
“What are you doing in here?”
Saladin, silent, studied Natalie carefully. Her gaze was downward toward the board; her face was in profile and partially obscured by a lock of blond hair. When Saladin moved the hair aside, she drew away sharply.
“How dare you touch me!” she snapped in French. “Get out of here, or I’ll call my husband.”
Saladin held his ground. Natalie stared at him, unblinking.
Maimonides . . . So good to see you again . . .
Calmly, she said, “Is there something you wish to ask me?”
Saladin’s gaze moved briefly to Keller before settling once more on Natalie.
“Forgive me,” he said after a moment. “I was mistaken.”
He turned away and went into the night.
Natalie looked at Keller. “You should have killed him when you had the chance.”
In the Black Hole at Langley there was an audible gasp of relief when Saladin finally emerged from the tent. The drones watched as he spoke a few words directly into the ear of Mohammad Bakkar. Then the two men moved to the camp’s edge and, surrounded by bodyguards, conferred at length. Several times Saladin pointed to the sky. Once, he seemed to stare directly into the lens of the Predator’s camera.
“Game over,” said Kyle Taylor. “Thanks for playing.”
“There’s a reason why he’s still alive after all these years,” said Uzi Navot. “He’s very good at the game.”
Navot watched as Mikhail slipped into the tent and accepted an object from Christopher Keller. It was not visible via infrared. Even so, Navot assumed that the two men, both veterans of elite special forces units, were now armed. And heavily outnumbered.
“What’s the distance between Saladin and that tent?”
“Forty feet,” answered Taylor. “Maybe a bit less.”
“What’s the blast radius of a Hellfire?”
“Don’t even think about it.”
Mohammad Bakkar had returned to the center court of the camp and was speaking to Martel. Even from twenty thousand feet, it was obvious the exchange was heated. All around them the camp was in motion. Guards were climbing into Land Cruisers, engines were turning over, lights were flaring.
“What the fuck is going on?” asked Taylor.
“Looks to me,” said Navot, “as though he’s shuffling the deck.”
“Bakkar?”
“No,” said Navot. “Saladin.”
He was staring at the sky again, staring into the unblinking eye of the drone. And smiling, observed Navot. He was definitely smiling. Suddenly, he raised an arm, and four identical SUVs were swirling around him in a counterclockwise direction, in a cloud of sand and dust.
“Four vehicles, two Hellfires,” said Navot. “What are the chances of picking the right one?”
“Statistically,” said Taylor, “it’s fifty-fifty.”
“Then maybe you should take the shot now.”
“Your team won’t survive it.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’ve done this a time or two, Uzi.”
“Yes,” said Navot, watching the screen. “But so has Saladin.”
Gabriel and Yaakov Rossman were watching the same image in the Casablanca command post—four SUVs circling a man whose heat signature was gradually dying beneath a veil of sand and dust. Finally, the SUVs slowed briefly to a stop, long enough for the man to enter one—which one, it was impossible to tell. Then all four set off across the desert, separated by enough space so that a single fifty-pound warhead could not take out two for the price of one.
The Predator pursued the SUVs northward across the desert while the Sentinel remained behind to keep watch over the camp. The four perimeter guards had withdrawn to the center court, where Mohammad Bakkar was once again in an animated conversation with Jean-Luc Martel. An object passed between them, from Bakkar’s hand to the hand of Gabriel’s unlikely asset. An object that was invisible to the thermal imaging sensors of the drone. An object that Jean-Luc slipped into the right-hand pocket of his jacket.
“Shit,” said Yaakov.
“I couldn’t agree more.”
“Think he’s gone over to the other side?”
“We’ll know in a minute.”
“Why wait?”
“You have a better idea?”
“Send a message to Mikhail and Keller. Tell them to come out of that tent, guns blazing.”
“And what if Bakkar’s men return fire with those Kalashnikovs?”
“They’ll never get them off their shoulders.”
“And Martel?” asked Gabriel. “What if he’s standing in the wrong place at the wrong time?”
“He’s a drug dealer.”
“We wouldn’t be here without him, Yaakov.”
“You think he wouldn’t betray us to save his own neck? What do you think he’s doing right now? Send the message,” said Yaakov. “Put them all down and let’s get our people out of there before the Americans light up the desert with those Hellfire missiles.”
Gabriel quickly sent not one message but two—one to Dina Sarid and the other to the satellite phone in Keller’s possession. Dina replied instantly. Keller didn’t bother.
“I respectfully disagree,” said Yaakov.
“Duly noted.”
Gabriel looked at the shot from the Predator. Four identical Toyota SUVs racing northward across the desert.
“Which one do you suppose he’s in?”
“The second,” said Yaakov. “Definitely the second.”