It was half past one in the morning when the phone reached the Berber town of Imouzzer. Its pace of travel slowed as it moved along the town’s main street. Gabriel, who was receiving updates from Adrian Carter, wondered whether the brass ring was already within his reach. There was much about a place like Imouzzer, he thought, for a fugitive to find appealing. It was small enough so that Westerners were easily visible, but sufficiently busy to allow a robed man to move about unnoticed. The uninhabited peaks of the Middle Atlas were close, should the fugitive feel the need to flee, and the delights of Fez were but an hour’s car ride away. An image formed in Gabriel’s mind—a tall, powerfully built man in a hooded djellaba, limping through the narrow alleys of the medina.
But at 1:35 a.m. the phone left Imouzzer and, increasing its pace, made for Ifrane, an artificial holiday town that looked as though it had been plucked from the Alps and dropped in North Africa. Once again, Gabriel allowed himself to wonder whether they were close. This time he dressed the prize in different clothing—trousers and a woolen sweater instead of a djellaba—and imagined him passing the winter after the attack on Washington in the comfort of a Swiss-style hotel. But when the phone departed Ifrane, Gabriel covered the image in a layer of obliterating paint and waited for the next update from Adrian Carter at the Black Hole.
“Faster,” he said. “You have to drive faster.”
“I’m driving as fast as I can,” answered Yaakov.
“Not you,” said Gabriel. “Him.”
The next town on the phone’s path was Azrou. There it turned onto the N13, the main highway linking the Middle Atlas Mountains with the Sahara, the same road on which Keller, Mikhail, Natalie, and Dina were now headed north. It passed through a chain of tiny Berber villages—Timahdite, A?t Oufella, Boulaajoul—before finally coming to rest a few hundred yards from the town of Zaida, under what circumstances they could only imagine. A house, a fortress, a camel-hair tent in an open field strewn with boulders. Ten interminable minutes elapsed before a text message appeared on Mohammad Bakkar’s phone. Keller read it aloud to Gabriel.
“Nazir says the brother is very badly injured.”
“What a shame.”
“He says he needs a doctor soon. Otherwise, he might not live.”
“The best possible outcome.”
“You’re not thinking about letting nature take its course?”
“Not for a minute,” said Gabriel. “Tell him that the doctor is on his way. Tell him he’s coming from Fez.”
There was a moment of silence while Natalie composed the message in Arabic and sent it. A few seconds later Gabriel heard the ping of the reply.
“Alhamdulillah,” said Keller.
“I couldn’t agree more.”
Gabriel heard another ping. “What does it say?”
“He wants to know where I am.”
“I didn’t realize you two were friends.”
“He thinks I’m—”
“Yes, I know,” said Gabriel. “Tell him it took you longer than expected to arrange transport. Tell him you’ll be there in two hours, maybe less.”
There was another silence while Natalie sent the message.
“Any reply?”
“No.”
“Is he working on one?”
“Doesn’t seem to be.”
“Tell him you’re concerned about the brother’s safety.”
A few seconds passed. Then Keller said, “Sent.”
“Now ask him how many brothers are with him at the riad.”
After another exchange of messages, Keller said, “Four.”
“Ask him whether they have guns to protect themselves from the infidels.”
A moment later they had their answer.
“Sounds to me as though they’re well armed,” said Keller. “Anything else you’d like to ask?”
“No more questions. The bird will be able to tell us everything else we need to know.”
“Where are you now?”
Gabriel looked out the window at the darkened landscape. “Mars,” he said gloomily. “You?”
“A little village called Kerrandou. It’s about sixty or seventy miles from Zaida. If there are no more roadblocks, we’ll be there in ninety minutes.”
“We’ll be right behind you.”
Gabriel severed the connection and rang the Black Hole at Langley.
“We’ve got him,” he told Adrian Carter.
“The bird will be overhead at four o’clock your time.”
“You’re sure?”
“Don’t worry. It’s a spy satellite,” said Carter. “There’s not a lot of unexpected traffic up there.”
64
Zaida, Morocco
It was a drab and dusty town of low brown buildings. The shops and cafés along the wide main street were tightly shuttered, and at that hour there was no sign of life except for three men waiting at a crumbling bus shelter. A Jeep Cherokee filled with Western faces was worthy of their undivided attention. Their dour expressions made it clear that outsiders were not welcome, especially at half past three in the morning.
“Looks like Saladin’s kind of place,” said Keller.
“Think they know about the tall Iraqi who’s been living on the east side of town?” asked Mikhail.
“I doubt it.”
“I wouldn’t mind having a look at the property while we’re passing through.”
“Too risky. Better to wait for the bird.”
Dina drove through the rest of the town without slowing and emerged into the bleak, treeless countryside. About a mile and a half north was a dirt road that led to a small lake, the kind of spot where a Moroccan family might spread a blanket on a cool autumn day and forget their troubles for a few hours. Dina switched off the engine while Keller rang Gabriel and told him where they could be found. A few minutes later they heard from Nazir Bensa?d via text. It seemed the brother’s condition was worsening. When would the doctor arrive? Soon, Natalie assured him. Inshallah.
“Here they come,” said Dina.
She flashed the headlights, and the approaching car turned off the highway and stopped. Keller and Natalie walked over and slid into the backseat. Keller checked the time on Mohammad Bakkar’s phone. It was 3:45.
“Fancy meeting you here. How was the drive?”
Neither Gabriel nor Yaakov responded.
Keller stared out the window. “I wonder what’s keeping Mohammad and that doctor.”
“Maybe he had car trouble,” suggested Gabriel.
“Or left leg trouble,” quipped Keller. “Or maybe he’s having trouble thinking straight.”
He checked the phone again: 3:46 . . .
“Think the Moroccans have found the camp yet?”
“I’d say so.”
“Think they’ve identified any of the victims?”
“One or two.”
“Pretty big story, don’t you imagine? A major hashish producer and a French hotelier found dead together.”
“Almost as big as a failed American drone strike on Moroccan soil.”
“I wonder how long it will take to become public. Because if it does . . .”
Keller left the thought unfinished.
3:47 . . .
Gabriel rang Carter at the stroke of four. Another ten minutes elapsed while the cameras and sensory devices of the satellite assessed the target.
“It’s a walled compound. One substantial structure, two smaller outbuildings.”
“How walled?”
“It’s hard to tell how high it is, especially in darkness. You’ll have to take a drive past the place or use your imagination.”
“Is the gate open or closed?”
“Closed,” said Carter. “And Nazir Bensa?d’s Renault is definitely there.”
“How many men?”
“Two outside, three inside. All in the primary structure. They’re tightly grouped.”
“Keeping watch over an injured man.”
“Looks like it.”
“Where are they in the house?”
“Second level, southeast corner.”
“Facing Mecca.”
“There’s a lot of other heat in that room,” said Carter. “Kyle thinks it’s computer equipment.”