“You have my cell?”

  “Yep.” She recited it from memory.

  “Exactly. How about some protection?”

  Mack was asking whether she had her own firearm.

  “I have the pistol he gave me.” She had never felt comfortable with the small Glock. She didn’t even know the caliber, but it fit easily in her hand. The pop, pop of the bullets made her hand sore between the thumb and forefinger. But Will had insisted on her learning to not only shoot the pistol but also reload the clip and chamber the rounds. William was insistent that once a month they go out to the stump behind and below the lodge for target practice. Afterward, he would clean it with the same rag and a solvent that would stink up her kitchen. And then he would put it in the drawer near their bed, with the two clips full of the tiny rounds. One clip was kept in the pistol and the other next to it.

  “Good. Going out for a run?”

  “Yeah. Want to go?”

  She knew that Mack thought she was crazy. And given Mack’s waistline, she knew he’d take it as a joke.

  “No, ma’am. But thanks.”

  “Unit twenty-six, status?” The patrol car radio chirped up with a call.

  “No rest for the weary.” Mack grabbed the mike.

  “Twenty-six, I’m out at the Parker farm.”

  “Twenty-six, ten-four.”

  “Let me go check on some of my bad boys. You would think this cold weather would slow some people down.”

  “Yeah.” As a veteran court reporter, she knew exactly who the bad boys were. And she knew that cold weather didn’t matter a whit to any of them. “Well, thanks again.” She waved as he turned the patrol car around.

  Clark would never see Mack alive again.

  CHAPTER 41

  North Terminal, Gatwick International

  Airport, London

  This is one of those turning points.

  William Parker looked at the ticket in his hand for Flight QR076. Qatar Air’s Flight 76 departed Gatwick’s north terminal gate 26 at 9:30 A.M. He sat on a bench seat just across from the gate, watching the different passengers standing in line to board the Airbus A340 wide-body aircraft. A man and his wife were the first to board.

  The woman walked behind the man, dressed in her black embroidered abaya with a black shawl that together covered her from head to toe. The man with her, however, wore Western clothes, a perfectly tailored charcoal pinstriped suit with black shoes that shined like freshly minted silver coins.

  Parker continued to study the two first-class passengers. He wore a white shirt with a black-and-white striped tie. His beard was well trimmed and the eyebrows were as thick and black as the beard. The edge of a large gold Rolex watch showed just beyond the white cuff of the shirt, and a gold ring with a large emerald was on the small finger of the same hand as the watch. The gold complemented the brown tone of the man’s skin. Parker noticed a pen in the left front pocket and from that realized the man was right-handed. The man was a distant cousin of a royal family, not directly in the tree of hierarchy, as he was leaving Gatwick on Qatar Air and not a Gulfstream.

  Their final destination will be Doha.

  The man, Parker guessed, was in London as a representative of the royal family negotiating cable television rights or franchisees for a new Pizza Hut or something similar. The wife, now back in her sari, would go shopping at Harrods, spending thousands of pounds sterling on colorful dresses, in sharp contrast to the simple, silk black robe she was now wearing. She wouldn’t be able to wear them in Qatar, but they would wait in her closet for the next trip to New York or Aspen or Paris. At night she would stay in the room, receiving room service while he and his driver would go to the lounges. The ones that were forbidden in Qatar.

  Once back in Qatar, a Bentley would pick them both up at the airport, taking them directly to their home, probably somewhere near Suhaim Bin Hamad on the C-ring outside the capital, where he would immediately change into his white silk dishdasha thobe and shimagh scarf.

  God, and me?

  Parker ran a hand over the scraggly beard on his face and the itch of the fast-healing cut on his forehead. Parker was still sore from being thrown back by two separate concussion waves. He felt as if he had just gotten out of the ring after a ten-round bout. Being so worn and sore probably helped him play the part of Zabara at the airport. Certainly, he was dressed perfectly for the role—that is to say, poorly. He would not be sitting in first class or business. He noticed the eyes watching him as he passed through security, following him like radar. With just a small, worn Nike bag over his shoulder, Parker passed through the security gate, where British security took everything out of the bag. He was searched twice, in detail. As he walked down the long concourse, Parker noticed a security tail that followed him to the gate. It shouldn’t have been any surprise. He perfectly matched the profile. Sadik Zabara’s passport noted the religion was Muslim, he was from another country, Bosnia and Herzegovina, and he was traveling alone. He looked the part—like a man who had little to lose.

  It’s a miracle they let me on this plane. William leaned forward with his elbows on his legs. That is, if I get on.

  Parker rubbed his face again and thought of the several deaths. Zdravo and the child, Amirah, were dead. And probably Hernandez.

  “This is the final boarding announcement: All passengers for Qatar Air’s Flight 76 to Doha, please board at this time.” The attendant making the call stood behind her desk dressed in the fancy crimson uniform. Qatar Air was a five-star airline that served Dom Pérignon in the front with chilled caviar in first class. In the back, the travelers with worn Nike bags sat shoulder to shoulder.

  How can this possibly help Hernandez? Parker asked himself as watched the last of the passengers show their boarding passes and leave the lounge. With Moncrief, he could stay in London, follow the trail, and have a chance to locate Enrico.

  He slid his hand into his pocket until he touched the PDA.

  One message to Scott would shut it down.

  Even if Scott didn’t want to help in the search for Hernandez, both Parker and Moncrief had plenty of contacts from which to rebuild the trail.

  “Thinking about it, aren’t you?”

  Parker turned to see Scott sitting down next to him. For a moment, he was disappointed in himself that he hadn’t seen this coming.

  “Yousef probably has somebody watching us,” Parker said quietly, unhappy at the risk Scott had chosen to take.

  “Yes, I thought of that. I didn’t want to say anything until the last one got on. We know everyone else here. Did you see the Times?”

  “Yes. They aren’t looking for Sadik Zabara very hard, are they?”

  The lead headline was the two bombings and deaths of six. Sadik Zabara, a radical journalist, was missing.

  “No, you will slip through their fingers,” Scott said.

  “And the rest here are all friendly.”

  “Yes.”

  William looked around the gate. There were only a few remaining. In a quick glance, he knew Scott was right. The few remaining were dressed like businessmen, tourists, and airline staff, but they were all shaped like linebackers.

  “It doesn’t help that they’re all dead.”

  “I didn’t plan that.” Scott’s voice had a trace of regret. “But I’ve got it covered.”

  “How?”

  “It has been leaked that Mossad did it trying to get Sadik Zabara. They freaked out because of a feared plot to take down an El Al.”

  Parker had to hand it to Scott. Once the word Mossad filtered through to Yousef, he wouldn’t hear anything beyond that.

  “Who was really behind it?”

  “I’m not sure you would believe me.”

  “Since it is my life, go ahead.”

  “We think it’s someone from the home team.”

  This is what Scott had suggested immediately post-explosions. Parker had been groggy at the time, though, and afterward had hoped it wasn’t true. Now he looked straight ahead as Scott talked, waiting for him to elaborate.

  “NSA picked up a garbled conversation. It mentioned what sounded like a cell in Canada.”

  “Wait. What about the home team? What are we dealing with here?”

  “Honestly, I don’t know. All we can do is forge ahead. I’ll let you know if I find anything to back my hunch. But meanwhile, remember the Canada item.”

  “Why is that?” Parker asked, irritated.

  “I’m just saying, if you get the chance, if the subject comes up with Yousef, look for any reaction he might have about Canada. Okay?”

  Parker nodded. “What about Hernandez?” Parker’s hand stayed in the pocket of his jacket. He could feel both the PDA and the pack of chewing gum.

  “Listen, I know you don’t trust me. I doubt that you even like me.”

  Parker’s face didn’t disagree.

  “But I do know this. The guy you are going to see . . .” Scott paused, “can be traced all the way back to Pan Am. And if Hernandez were sitting here, he would tell you to go. Someday Hernandez’s little girl will be getting on an airplane, or walking through a train station, or visiting New York.”

  “I hear you. But I’m still asking: What are you going to do about Hernandez?”

  “Mr. Parker, if he is alive, I will find him.”

  William Parker looked deep into Scott’s eyes and, for the first time, believed him.

  CHAPTER 42

  The village of Durba Khel,

  north of Peshawar, Pakistan

  “Wait here.” Yousef pointed to a side road behind the mud hut on the single-lane road that passed through the small village of Durba Khel. The road cut north, around a small jut of rocks, to another village called Nahakki. At a fork in the road on the north side of Durba Khel, the right road went toward Nahakki and the left road crossed into a small valley, short of the mountain range, and beyond the mountain range, the Afghan border.

  To the south, the road headed to Warsak, and farther south, Peshawar.

  They had stopped using cell phones. They were well into the Predator killing zone now, and one misspoken word would result in a strike. Short, quick meetings at times and places picked at random were the only safe routes. Despite the CIA’s repeated efforts, no one had ever broken into the network. No one had ever become admitted to the inner sanctuary of the leadership that hadn’t been back-checked and back-checked and known thoroughly. Many had tried, but at any hint of betrayal, the problem was easily solved.

  “Here?” Umarov pointed to the side road that cut through the two mud-brick shacks.

  “Yes.” Yousef liked the fact that Umarov said very little. They could travel for hours in the Toyota truck without a word being said.

  “Soecu!” Umarov screamed as the little truck swerved to avoid the collision with the Nissan Diesel that cut across their path on the main road, using a curse word he often said in Serbia. A cloud of dust swirled around the two trucks.

  Yousef cursed at the freight truck that passed by, nearly missing the smaller one by inches. The Nissan’s horn blared as the driver stuck out his arm and hand from the cab. Called a “jingle truck,” it was covered with brightly painted pictures of horns and yaks and the shapes of naked women, and it had racks of bells and ornate rings welded above the cab’s windows. Rows of chains were welded to the front bumper. The truck was one of thousands upon thousands that had been customized by its owners to serve as a proclamation of the driver’s identity. They were even considered the driver’s bride, many said.

  “They always own the road,” Umarov muttered.

  “They think they do.” Both Yousef and Umarov’s AK-47s were knocked down to the floorboard up against Umarov’s leg and the gearshift. Yousef picked them up one at a time, rubbing the dust off the assault rifles. Everything was covered with a layer of dust, but the Kalashnikov always functioned. It could be buried in a mud hole for months and still fire. The rifle was made in a knockoff shop in Quetta for less than thirty bucks, but it always fired without fail. He pulled the slide to his rifle to make sure that the weapon had a shell in its chamber.

  Another jingle truck passed, this one green and yellow with fringe along the windows. It was much larger than the last, a Mercedes tractor trailer, with more chains. It was covered with bright murals of lakes and mountains and green fields. And the chains, rattling with the movement of the truck, made a sound like hundreds of small bells. The constant ringing was intended to keep evil away.

  “Ha!” Yousef let out a loud roar of a laugh. The first truck had missed them by inches. The second truck, with its much larger proportions, would have crushed their small pickup truck. It had been overloaded with cinder blocks stacked well above the cab. Yousef watched it recede down the road, swaying with the weight of the cement whenever the driver steered even slightly from the center of the road.

  An absurd but chilling thought struck him.

  The new Muslim state could have been stopped by a mere jingle-truck collision. Allah must be protecting us for a reason....

  The thought caused Yousef to reach into his pocket to check on the cell phones. He had two, one in each pocket of his coat. The one on the left didn’t concern him. It was a disposable one that he used, only now if needed, to talk to others in Pakistan and Afghanistan. It would be destroyed and replaced every two weeks. The other, in his right pocket, had never been used. A piece of electrical tape was wrapped around the flip phone so that neither he nor anyone else would casually open it. He made sure it was charged every night. There was only one number in the phone’s memory, a long-distance call to Frankfurt. More than enough money was kept in the telephone’s account for the one simple call. No other calls would be made from it so as to ensure that it would never be traced. From Frankfurt, one cell would be activated, which would call two. Two would call four. One ring was all that was necessary. And then the phones would be destroyed.

  “There he is.” Another truck, this one a Mazda, beaten up and with no chains for evil spirits, pulled off the road. It had come up from the south. It stopped just short of their Toyota.

  “As sala’amu alaikum!” Yousef stood taller than the little man and reached over to give him a bear hug.

  “Walaikum as sala’am.” Zulfiqar never smiled, a fact Yousef had quickly gotten used to.

  “I have what you have asked for.” Yousef took a plastic bag from Umarov, who had reached behind the driver’s seat. It was full to its limit.

  Zulfiqar opened the bag. Wads of hundred-dollar bills were stuffed inside. The United States currency remained the unofficial currency of terror.

  “You will find over a hundred thousand.”

  Zulfiqar looked around as if worried that another clan or gang would appear. People died for far less than this plastic bag.

  “Don’t worry, brother.” Yousef put his hand on Zulfiqar’s shoulder. As he did so, another strange thought came to Yousef ’s mind. His older brother was so similar to Zulfiqar in both looks and mannerisms. Both held their right hand back, using it in true Muslim mannerisms rarely, only to eat their meals in the barehanded fashion. Both men were seemingly taller, but now seemed almost childlike in that they were so much shorter. And both had a broken tooth in their smiles. Yousef ’s brother’s tooth had been repaired years ago with the money that his brother had inherited from their father. Zulfiqar’s tooth, however, remained broken, but it reminded Yousef as to how his older brother’s tooth was cracked. A rock thrown, out of frustration and hate, after a ferocious beating, which only led to another beating. Both the brother and Zulfiqar had one other characteristic in common. Both were hateful men, fully capable of tormenting the weaker or smaller or less resistant. Yousef would use Zulfiqar as needed, but he reminded himself always to remain aware.

  “I will have the men ready in two days.” Zulfiqar took a small step back from Yousef as he spoke. He would never remain too close to another for long. The Predators always put a thought in the backs of the minds of those in western tribal provinces.

  “Excellent.”

  “And you do have the man?”

  Yousef knew exactly what Zulfiqar was talking about.

  “Yes.”

  “And the plans, you have the plans to Kamra?”

  “I do.” He turned to Umarov again. “Give them to me.”

  Umarov gave him a look. Yousef knew what he meant. The release of plans too early always risked the deadliest threat to an operation: a leak.

  “Get them.”

  Umarov reached into the truck again. He pulled out a manila envelope and handed it directly to Zulfiqar.

  “Midnight in two days. The man in Kamra will be ready when I call. Not sooner, not later.”

  “Brother, we will be ready.”

  “I will be in the plar.” The cave was a protected site.

  “Yes.” Zulfiqar put his hand up to his mouth. He had the habit of rubbing his lips when he was hesitating to say something.

  “What is it, brother?”

  “This man, is it wise?”

  Yousef didn’t think anything was a secret in the mountains of the northwest frontier province, but he had made the point of only a very few knowing about the planned visit of the journalist from London.

  “It is important, brother, that we earn more bags like this one.” Yousef poked the bag of money with his finger. “The journalist will help us do that. A movement must have a face. It must have an identity.”

  “I understand.”

  Yousef knew that Zulfiqar was lying. A man like Zulfiqar could not see beyond the limits of his tribe. He could never have envisioned a plan like Yousef’s, never could have raised the funds or created the cells that were needed to implement such a plan.

  “I do need your help with security. I may need the TTP to be available in the next few days.”

  “We will have a company of men within easy reach.”

  “Brother, the next two days. We will be like clouds dropping much rain.” Yousef ’s quote of Muhammad from the Koran was more than just a metaphor.

  “Yes.” Still no smile, but Zulfiqar had a spark in his eyes that Yousef recognized. The old man had become a believer in him.