His cell phone rang.

  “Damn.” He looked down at the number.

  Maggie reacted to the cell phone with the look of a child who thought her parent was angry with her.

  Tranthan walked out into the hallway, looking for a place where no one could hear the conversation. There was a door marked EXIT that led to a stairway. He glanced up a flight of stairs and down a flight, seeing no one.

  “Yes?” Tranthan was as impatient on his cell phone as he was elsewhere.

  It was his secretary, Laura. She only called him when absolutely necessary.

  “They sent a box over.”

  Robert Tranthan stared at the pictures on the far wall of his office. In effect, they chronologically charted his career path. A younger man progressed up to the present one. He started with senators and occasionally cabinet members. At the end, an older Tranthan posed with the president in the White House, as he grew closer to the source of power. But now, Tranthan’s world was closing in on him.

  The computer tech George had laid out in front of him the remains of the CIA office in Doha. Burned-out shards of a computer, several cell phones, a broken pistol.

  Tranthan put her in Doha for a reason. Purely personal. The affair was getting too much attention. And he knew she would not go away quietly. She wanted an important post. He wanted a safe place to store his secret. He sighed, spun, and looked at the small bar behind his desk. Laura restocked it weekly with a new fifth of Grays Peak. He kept the credenza equipped with the vodka, olives, extra-dry vermouth, and an ice maker. Today, he didn’t fool around with the vermouth. Just two cubes of ice and vodka.

  He took a large sip and hit his intercom.

  “What do you have, Laura?”

  She came in quickly, carrying a box. “The investigating team said they could release this to you.” She put it on the center of his desk directly in front of him. It had been sealed with a red plastic tape marked “Secret.”

  “Thanks.”

  Laura left equally swiftly, knowing he wanted to be alone.

  As soon as he opened the box, the room filled with the odor of burned plastic and rubber from the explosion in Doha.

  Amazing.

  The one type of injury that Maggie hadn’t suffered was burns. Apparently, the fire occurred sometime after she was evacuated from the rubble. Nevertheless, the items in the box had been singed. They included several loose reports, a small recorder broken open and empty, the keys to a Ford, and a blackened ladies’ wallet atop them all. He opened the wallet and pulled out a driver’s license from D.C. It showed the face that he had fallen for.

  A small Glock pistol, missing its clip, lay in a pile of ash and cinders at the bottom of the box. He tilted the box and then set it back down on the desk.

  As the ash and cinders shifted and settled, Tranthan caught a glimpse of a metallic, gold object at the bottom. He pulled it out from under the debris, finding a small tarnished gold photo frame no bigger than a man’s wallet. It held no photograph. He weighed it in his hand. It had been bent and blackened by the heat.

  He knew the missing picture well, a photograph that could have never been developed. The empty frame stood for their entire relationship, a symbol of pure impossibility.

  “Fuck!” He threw it across the room. The frame struck the wall and fell to the carpeted floor. The room echoed the crash, then went silent.

  This is stupid.

  Sighing, he got on his knees and looked for the frame. It had fallen behind a table next to the wall. In the small space he could smell the alcohol. It reminded him of a father he was born to hate.

  There it was. Tranthan grabbed the frame and backed out into the light of the room. Its glass was shattered. But the back of the frame seemed to be missing, maybe somewhere still under his desk? He looked underneath and then he saw it.

  Tranthan backed out again into the light, now holding in his hand a small flash drive, black, no bigger than his thumb. It was scorched, blackened by the heat and slightly deformed, bent like the frame it had been in. He reached over to the telephone and placed a call to the IT section.

  “This is the deputy director. I need something checked out, and I need it checked out now. Call Mr. George.” A pause. “Yes, tonight.”

  CHAPTER 33

  London

  The double-decker bus blew past William Parker as he started to cross over King Street to the newspaper. He stepped back, between a parked Mercedes and a small Fiat, as the gust of wind blew past him. Another van followed right behind the bus. As he waited for a third van, Parker noticed a London Times newspaper box in front of the Hammersmith city hall.

  MURDER IN WALTHAMSTOW

  Gangs Out of Control

  He shook his head. He’d known it was a mistake leaving Knez’s body so close to his flat as soon as he saw the blue lights earlier that morning. The police cars had lined up on his street when he left for the newspaper. He was stopped twice, but the investigators had already made several assumptions, all of them wrong.

  Apparently, this was the third death in the neighborhood in the last several weeks. A gang war had been raging for some time. It didn’t matter, as Parker only needed a few days.

  “Hello. It’s Sadik.” He held down the button on the intercom for several seconds.

  The buzzer to the door was slow.

  He bounced up the stairs.

  “As sala’amu alaikum, sister.”

  “Walaikum as sala’am.” The woman behind the desk always smiled when Parker came in. “Did you see the Times this morning?”

  “Just the front page in the box.”

  “A man was murdered where you live.”

  “Yes, the police cars were at my front door.” The word traveled very fast in London. It would be pointless for him to try to avoid the topic.

  “Your poor wife must be horrified.”

  “Yes.”

  He had learned that the best way out of a conversation was not to have one. She meant well, but in the short time he had gotten to know her, Parker recognized why she had remained as a receptionist. She had the job because she was the editor’s wife’s cousin.

  “There was a picture of the man.”

  “Oh?” The British newspapers were not known to hold back the gory details.

  “He looked like the man who was here the other day. The one who was looking for you.”

  “Do you have it?”

  “Sure.” She pulled out the newspaper. It was folded around the photograph. Knez’s half-open eyes stared out into space. “Isn’t that him?”

  “I don’t know. I never saw him. Did you say he looks similar?”

  “Yes, and the man who came to see you, he was from Bosnia, wasn’t he?”

  “That’s what the message said. But I have no idea who he is.”

  Events were compressing the time available to him. Parker needed to get out of London soon.

  “Oh.” She seemed satisfied. “By the way, Mr. Atwan asked to see you once you came in.”

  “Is he in with anyone?”

  “No. I know he wanted to see you. Something must be up.”

  Parker didn’t like it. Atwan generally left him alone.

  The editor’s office was in the very rear of the building. One of the coworkers had accused him of wanting to be as far away from the street as possible. Parker knocked on the door frame.

  “Hello, Sadik! Come in.”

  “Did you hear of the murder?” Parker thought he would preempt the conversation.

  “Yes, and the girls said the man may have been here just yesterday. Did you know him?”

  “No.”

  “They are probably wrong. If you haven’t noticed yet, they have a vivid imagination.” Atwan had this habit of pulling up his sleeves when he talked. He would do it repeatedly. “But, more importantly, I liked your draft on the BBC.”

  “Yeah?”

  “It will have the boys in White City boiling.” Atwan had several grudges against the BBC. He knew that they would ignore it, but with a few calls Al Jazeera would run the story as well. It would keep his little paper in the minds of the Muslim world for another day. It would help sales.

  “How did you get those quotes and details?”

  “I had a very good source.”

  Atwan smiled. “You wouldn’t consider sharing that source?”

  Parker smiled but said nothing.

  “I have something for you.”

  Atwan handed a manila envelope across the desk. He didn’t have a chair on the other side of his desk so that no one could stay long in conversations. The paper was too small and the budget too little.

  “What is this?”

  Atwan nodded his head as if to say go ahead and open it.

  The envelope was not sealed. He looked inside, seeing a Lufthansa ticket jacket.

  “You are expected in Peshawar in two days.”

  “This is from Yousef?”

  Atwan, beaming, nodded. “The interview of a lifetime.”

  Parker stared at the ticket in his hand for a moment, trying to look properly overwhelmed in the moment.

  “I have something else for you.” Atwan reached down to the bottom drawer of his desk.

  “Here is a shawl that my father gave me as a young man.” He handed Parker a black-and-white checkered shawl. “May it protect you in your travels.”

  CHAPTER 34

  Bannu Road, Sarai Naurang, Pakistan

  “The map.”

  Samullah handed Yousef a roll of paper longer than his arm.

  “This is possible.” Yousef spoke to the third man in the room on the second floor of the mud-brick house in the small western Pakistani village of Sarai Naurang.

  Yousef was even more exhausted than before, if that was possible. The trip from Danish Abad had taken hours, but it was necessary if he were to stay alive. The most basic rule was always to keep on the move. Now the Pakistan Army was pushing across much of western Pakistan looking for the man he had come to meet.

  Samullah Ullah had traveled with Yousef in the small Toyota pickup truck. It had an extended cab, but Yousef was lanky and long-legged. Samullah was, like Yousef, a tall man. So both were cramped up in the back of the truck for hours with the driver, the guard, and several AK-47s in both the front and back. But Yousef needed Samullah with him for this meeting for a very important reason.

  “You are suggesting what?” The other man had also come a long way. Zulfiqar Mehsud had walked for most of a day, hiking down from the mountains above Sarai Naurang and then riding on the back of a dirt bike for well over a hundred miles.

  “Something that will be remembered.” Yousef knew his reputation with the Pakistani Tehrik-i-Taliban would carry much weight; however, Zulfiqar Mehsud didn’t commit his men to missions lightly. The jihad soldier was not an unlimited resource. And failure directly affected recruiting.

  Zulfiqar Mehsud had survived several wars only by his cunning and skill. He was like a wolf. When possible, he would attack in a pack. If necessary, though, he would strike as the lone animal. A retreat was not dishonorable; rather, it was a strategy. Prisoners had their throats slit only because logistics required it. A retreating patrol could not spend time dragging a prisoner along.

  The man had a well-wrinkled face, with skin that had been weathered by a life in the Hindu Kush. A twist of gray cut through the center of his black, curly beard. He had a large mole between his eye and the ridge of his nose. His hands were tough and leathery, small and stubby, with years of dirt under the nails. Like a pit bull, his tolerance for pain was high, his interest in comfort nonexistent.

  Repeatedly, the United States reported Mehsud had been killed in an air strike. And repeatedly, a few weeks later, a video would surface with him laughing at the world. No one had collected the multimillion-dollar bounty on his head.

  Yousef stood an even chance of not being recognized by the Pakistanis. He had bluffed his way through more than one checkpoint, but Mehsud had orchestrated too many bombings of important Pakistani officers. One recent bombing tore through a central mosque. It was well within the security ring of a military’s base. The suicide bomber wore a vest full of explosives, climbed through a drainage ditch, under a fence, and walked into the mosque when it was full of officers, their wives, and little children. His pants, dripping wet, were noticed only at the last second.

  Every officer knew who sent the bomber. The leader of Tehrik-i-Taliban, or TTP as it was called, was wanted, badly wanted, by the Pakistan Army.

  Zulfiqar risked being recognized whenever he came down out of the mountains of western Pakistan. It had to be important for him to make the trip.

  “There!” Yousef pointed to a paved road in the center of the satellite map. The detail was amazing. The road didn’t look like a typical road, however, as it was much wider than any highway. It had several markings down the center and sides. Large dashes ran down the middle of the cement pavement.

  While they were talking, an old woman brought a basin of water into the room.

  Yousef dipped both hands into the cold water and rubbed his face. As in most of western Pakistan, a thin, powderlike dust seemed to hang in the air here. Traveling in the back of the truck with the windows open for hours had covered Yousef from head to toe.

  Yousef passed the basin to Zulfiqar, who then passed it on to Samullah.

  “What do you think of this plan?” Zulfiqar asked Samullah.

  Samullah paused before he spoke. Despite his fame, these men had spent most of their lives killing others who wanted to kill them. Tribal wars were vicious. The Russians were known for gut shots aiming to kill with pain.

  The Americans killed in another way entirely. They used Hellfire missiles from well above the clouds.

  “It is a good plan,” Samullah said at last. He was not known for overstating his thoughts. “Allah Akbar.”

  “We need a squad of warriors.” As Yousef spoke, he pointed to the center of the satellite photograph. It had markings on it of a military base with a central runway.

  Zulfiqar, never one to shy away from even the most impossible missions, took one look at the photograph and comprehended the full extent of the mission.

  “You are a brave one.”

  “The reward is great,” Yousef said softly. “Allah would be pleased.”

  The airstrip had the numbers on it of 12 and 30, signifying both the ends of the runways and the compass heading of the runway, 120 degrees to 300 degrees. But this runway was different. At the far end beyond the 30 were taxiways that led through gates, down a long pathway, to several bunkers.

  “Indeed,” said Zulfiqar.

  For the Air Weapon Complex at Kamra was where the Pakistani military kept their nuclear weapons.

  “It will be difficult. Very difficult.” Zulfiqar would know. “It will require money.”

  Yousef nodded. “That is all true, but we have the money we need. What we lack is your warriors, men true to the jihad who can help us. We will make two attacks. A diversion will come directly through the lead gate. But the heart of the attack will come from across here, the Ghazi Brotha.” Yousef pointed to what appeared to be a river on the south end of the base. “I will pay each warrior a hundred thousand U.S. dollars.”

  Zulfiqar’s face showed astonishment.

  Yousef held his gaze steadily. The truth was, the price of Zulfiqar’s men was a small part of the overall expense.

  “But even if you get the warheads, they say the components are separated.”

  “I do not need all of the components. All I want is the HEU.”

  Zulfiqar’s face showed confusion.

  “The enriched uranium. The core. They call it the pit. They will look like small shiny metallic balls no bigger than your fist.”

  Actually, Yousef wanted two cores. One would be used abroad, the other kept close.

  Zulfiqar shrugged, apparently satisfied. “If that’s what you need, brother, then you shall have it.”

  Yousef smiled. “Thank you, brother. Soon, you will have all of the information you need.”

  Though Zulfiqar didn’t let it show, Yousef knew that the old man was already deeply committed to this mission. An attack on one of the main air bases of the Pakistani Air Force was enough of an achievement to last Zulfiqar for years. A successful direct attack alone against the Pakistani Air Force’s Air Weapons Complex would shake the very government to its foundation. But the capturing of two cores . . . that would shift the dynamics of the world—Zulfiqar’s and everyone else’s.

  CHAPTER 35

  Walter Reed National Military Medical Center

  The fluorescent lights flashed on in the pitch-black room, darkened, then flashed again before bathing the space in blue bright light.

  “Maggie, look at this.” Robert held the small black flash drive directly in front of her.

  Maggie’s face showed a brief flash of recognition upon seeing the small object. But she covered her eyes with her pillow, acting—as she had been more and more prone to do—like a small child.

  “Do you remember this?”

  “God, what time is it?”

  “Maggie, do you remember this flash drive?”

  “Where is Billie?” She sounded like a child. “Tell Billie I need her.”

  “What? The pain?” Tranthan spoke the words more like a technician than a lover or a person who held some semblance of passion for the woman laying here in the bed. “Give her something.”

  Another nurse stood in the shadows. It was the figure of a man, tall and dark, but dressed in white operation-room scrubs.

  “Maggie, this is important.”

  Tranthan hovered over her, tired and angry and drunk. Some men would become happy or relaxed or joyful after several drinks. Tranthan became impetuous and gruff.

  “What is that?” Maggie asked.

  “It’s the flash drive that came from your office in Doha. Do you recognize it?”

  “Where was it?”