The Americans think they know the British, but they have no idea.

  “Mr. Scott?”

  James Fordon Scott turned around to see a hulk of a man approaching.

  That actor in The Green Mile. What was his name? Duncan? While Scott was tall and lanky, this man looked like a wall. He would easily have towered over any linebacker on an American football team.

  “It’s Stidham. Sergeant Shane Stidham. You got a checked bag, sir?”

  Mentally, Scott filed through the bios of Parker’s original ANGLICO team. Shane Stidham had been awarded two Bronze Stars and a Purple Heart for his service in Iraq. If Parker meant to send a message, he’d picked a fine messenger.

  “No checked bag.” Scott had given up on checking bags after September 11. The hassle became too great in public transportation. He slung the overnight bag over his shoulder. “Just this,” he said. “Where’s your colonel?”

  “He’s waiting for you on the other side of the airport. Follow me.”

  It had taken Scott several days to find a lead on William Parker. First, though, he had flown to Qatar to meet the FBI team. The hole in the ground in Doha was much deeper than he had even imagined from the photographs. The body count had gone up since the original report. Six more didn’t survive their head injuries, bringing the total death toll to twelve. He remembered the smell.

  “Semtex?” Scott had asked the bomb team.

  “Yes, sir, but not with the usual tracers.” The FBI’s bomb expert was holding a test tube with a brownish material inside. “This is probably Czech Semtex. A Chechen from Grozny was connected to a purchase recently of a ton of this stuff.”

  Scott knew the Chechen well: Abu Umarov. He also had a good guess as to who Umarov was working for.

  As for Parker, after Korea, he seemed to have disappeared. Fortunately, Scott had remembered the woman who was with him at the end. A court reporter. He’d left several messages with the clerk of the court, only to learn quickly that the courthouse staff was a close family. Finally, he caught an assistant clerk who apparently didn’t know better. She gave Scott the cell phone number for Clark Ashby. And then, all he could do was plead with Parker’s lover to have Parker call him, if she knew where he was. He’d heard the reluctance in her voice, but somehow it had worked.

  “Can’t I take that bag?” boomed Stidham’s bass voice. He seemed frustrated by Scott’s slow pace.

  “Thanks, but no. I’m fine. What do you mean he’s on the other side?”

  Instead of answering, Stidham ignored the question and continued walking. Scott could tell that Stidham rationed his words carefully. He had a slight stutter and he was no doubt conscious of his voice’s uniquely low-octave tone.

  Finally they stepped outside, across an empty street and into a parking lot. This part of the airport also seemed as quiet as a cemetery at one in the morning.

  The bitter cold air surprised Scott a little. This must be an exceptionally cold night in Atlanta. A layer of frost covered the windshields of cars that had been there for some time. As he walked, Scott mentally picked out the few cars that had clear windshields. He knew that those, only three cars out of fifty or more, had just recently been parked there. It was an absentminded habit of observing and deducing that kept him alive in the spy business all these years.

  Stidham headed toward a black Jeep Cherokee with a clear windshield. He clicked his remote, and the lights of the Jeep flashed with that obnoxious beep.

  “Hop in.”

  Scott threw his bag into the backseat. The Jeep was meticulously clean. It had a unique smell he couldn’t quite place in his mind. The leather seat had a slippery feel to it.

  Armor All. That’s the scent.

  The Jeep had a customized interior with an in-dash panel that glowed in the dark when Stidham turned on the ignition. Scott could tell why Parker chose this man to pick him up. He was absolutely dependable. No one would care for a machine the way that this one did and not be.

  “What are you listening to?” Scott knew that all conversations eventually led to insight, intelligence, and information. He pointed to the iPod hooked into the dash panel. Scott knew that as long as you took more than you gave, you gained something.

  “Davis, Coleman, some Ellington, a little Basie, and Puente.”

  “Puente? El Rey.”

  “El what?”

  “The king. El Rey del Timbal. You need to get Night Beat.”

  “Yeah, that’s on there. He had energy.”

  Now Scott had a point of commonality. From a discussion of Ornette Coleman, they would move to family, or friends, or food, or, eventually, Parker. Scott had played the game a long time.

  They headed out of the parking lot. The Jeep headed north, as if going downtown, flying through the turns and curves. But instead of taking the exit, Stidham turned onto the cargo road that circled the airport.

  “Hard trip, sir?” Shane Stidham gave his guest a little more respect.

  “Your friend was hard to find.”

  “Maybe with good reason.”

  Scott thought this was a good opportunity. Despite working with Parker on the Korean mission, he still didn’t have a feel for the man.

  “How long have you known him?”

  “We go back to Desert Storm. The gunny and I were on his ANGLICO team.”

  Scott knew the history well. Parker’s air and naval gunfire team was trained to call in fighters dropping thousand-pound bombs or artillery-lobbing shells on Iraqi National Guard troops. In complete overcast, with the bombers high above the solid ceiling of clouds, the ANGLICO team would mark the unexpected target with a laser beam or call in its location. In the Battle of al-Kafji, Parker’s team destroyed over ninety Iraqi tanks, trucks, and APCs. They unleashed hot steel that tore through hundreds of the elite of Saddam Hussein. The Iraqi soldiers, panicked, would huddle together in a group. They knew the main Marine force remained miles away, yet somehow the bombs were dropping with complete accuracy. As those elite units concentrated together, the forward observers on the team called in the strike.

  “Is your man tough enough?” Scott asked.

  “For what, sir?”

  “For another Korea.”

  “Yes, sir, he can handle it.” Shane paused a moment. “How well do you know Colonel Parker?”

  Scott chuckled. “Not as well as you.”

  “ ‘He is terrible in his onset and prompt in his decision, ’ ” intoned Stidham.

  “Sun Tzu?”

  “Yes, sir, sure is.”

  Scott turned his gaze out to the line of jumbo jets, parked in a row, waiting for their turn in the maintenance hangar. Up ahead, he saw an illuminated sign that said ATLANTIC AVIATION.

  Stidham turned into the gate at the FBO. Scott knew a fixed base operation, or FBO, was the private airplane’s parking lot and gas station. A twin-engine turboprop sat at the end of a line of private jets, its engines running. The door was open in the back with a stairway down. Stidham wove through the line of aircraft and pulled up next to the airplane’s stairway.

  “There you go, sir.” He pointed to the twin.

  Scott opened the Jeep’s door, and as he did, the high-pitched engines and the blowing wind filled the Jeep with dust and a deafening noise. The blast of frigid wind drove down his neck. Scott took his bag, ran over to the aircraft, and climbed aboard.

  “Pull the door closed, Mr. Scott. Make sure you lock it.”

  The voice came from the plane’s only other occupant. The pilot turned as he spoke.

  “Come on up here and have a seat.” Parker pointed to the copilot’s seat next to his. “Strap yourself in, Mr. Scott.”

  The Cessna twin moved forward as Scott, somewhat confused, climbed into the copilot’s seat. It was a tight squeeze. With little midnight traffic, the airplane was on the active runway in less than a minute. As it became airborne, Parker tilted it upward in a sharp, turning climb, passing over the terminal and parking lot where Scott had just been. The two engines’ loud hum drowned out any chance for much talk. With the aircraft climbing into a bank of clouds, obscuring all visibility, Parker pointed to a headset. The airplane rocked back and forth and would occasionally drop for a brief second as an invisible air pocket dropped it like a descending elevator.

  Scott could hear other pilots as they talked to each other and some “control center.” Even this late, the radio conversation sounded like an auctioneer controlling a fast-paced bidding war. He wasn’t a pilot, but he could read a compass and saw that they were heading south. The lights of the small airplane gave a glow to the clouds, and with the hum of the engines, Scott could barely keep his eyes open. He wanted to talk, but the exhaustion of the long week weighed heavily on his eyes. The cabin was warm, and the engines continued to hum at a near-deafening pitch. The twin turboprop was not like a jet engine–powered aircraft, where the thrust and sound were well behind the cabin.

  It seemed like an instant had passed before he felt a nudge. He looked down at the low glow of his Rolex and saw it was nearly 3:00 A.M. He could feel pressure in his ears as the airplane descended. Through the clouds, Scott could barely make out the tip of the wing, which gave him this odd sensation they were actually flying upside down. He looked over to Will, who adjusted the throttle of the engines like an accountant on his adding machine and settled back into the seat.

  “Don’t go to sleep on me again, Mr. Scott. We’re getting ready to land.”

  Scott leaned forward and glanced out his window just as the airplane broke through the bottom of the clouds. As far as he could see, the land below was a dark, lightless forest for miles. It was hard to get a sense of depth, but as the airplane got closer to the ground, he could make out several hills to his left.

  Suddenly, the lights of a runway directly ahead of him appeared through the total darkness. He heard a mechanical thump—the landing gear lowering—and saw three bright green lights, in a triangle, flash on the panel in front of him. The airplane gently swung back and forth as Parker continued to correct its path toward the landing.

  As they neared the ground, the engines spun down, and just as Scott felt the nose tilt upward, he heard the rear wheels strike the runway.

  They taxied up to a small hangar, its fluorescent lights nearly blinding him. As he stepped out onto the pavement, Scott could tell that this was the only hangar on the one-strip runway. Parker had his own airport somewhere well south of Atlanta.

  “Come with me. We’ll go up to the cabin.” Parker unlocked the aircraft door and let down the steps as he led Scott out of the aircraft. A black pickup truck with oversized mud tires waited next to the hangar.

  “Jump in,” said Parker.

  Wearily, Scott climbed up into the raised cab.

  The road circled around the airfield and climbed up a wooded ridgeline. After a short time, Scott could see the airfield in the valley below, which suddenly became dark as some kind of timer shut down the lights. They traveled on in silence, perhaps because of the late hour, up the paved road into the dark.

  On top of the rise, they came to an opening in the woods and a brightly lit, stacked-stone and timber house, like one would see on the slopes of Aspen or Vail. Scott got the sense that it was positioned on top of the small mountain.

  “I say, you have damned fine tastes in hideouts.”

  Parker smiled and led Scott through the door and into a room framed by exposed chestnut and oak beams and with a stone fireplace that climbed up to the ceiling. This was far from a cabin, with its antiques, Persian rugs, and well-aged landscape paintings. A fire lit the room and had apparently been well tended, despite the late hour.

  “Anything to drink?”

  “Scotch, straight up. No ice.”

  “Your British is showing. How about Dalmore Thirty?” Parker lifted a clear glass bottle.

  “Yes, please.”

  Parker handed him the Scotch-filled glass and pointed to two leather chairs near the fireplace. As Scott sat down, he could feel the heat of the fire on the left side of his leg. The smell of wood seemed to add to the taste of the Scotch. He swirled the amber liquid in the crystal glass, treating it as if it were a rare, delicate wine.

  Parker, still as steeled and muscular as when they’d first met, looked comfortable in his element. Although it neared dawn, he showed no sense of fatigue, his blue eyes gazing at Scott with intensity.

  “Now, why are you here?”

  “Would it matter to say I need your help?” Scott asked. It would not have been an understatement to say it was a plea. They had let him back in because of the Korean operation and only because of that. Scott had been a minor actor in that play, but he didn’t understate his role to them.

  James Scott had spent his life on the adrenaline edge of this spy business, not because he was particularly smart or sly or skillful. Years ago he’d seen more opportunity, after Oxford and several tours in MI6 at Vauxhall Cross, with the Central Intelligence Agency than his own country’s spy service. He knew that most of the intelligence world involved the seduction of people’s weaknesses—the adulterer caught with another woman, the closet gay, or the embezzler. But he liked the action of the occasional operation, which seemed to be fewer and farther between. Americans seem to have more of an inclination for fieldwork. The Korean operation had been too loose, surprised too many in the Agency, and had almost buried him. Until it succeeded. The Agency had to pay millions to Parker in reward money and the budget wonks had screamed bloody murder. But few operations ever had been the success that Korea was. Parker had stopped a very bad situation in its tracks in North Korea. For much less than the cost of the several Tomahawk cruise missiles it would have taken, Parker had put the Korean missile program back a decade. And unlike the cruise missiles, Parker left no trail indicating where he’d come from. The mission left no fingerprints.

  “Who?”

  A simple question. William Parker’s single word asked who the target was, who was involved, who was so important that they would resurrect a retired operative and send him to find a Marine who’d been officially discharged from the service.

  “Maybe the better question is, why?” Scott said. “A very close friend of a very important person was seriously hurt.” Again he paused. “Very badly hurt in an explosion at an embassy in the Persian Gulf.” Scott thought a moment, as he took another sip. Hell, the Scotch, the fatigue . . . I may be saying too much.

  “People get hurt all the time in this new world. Why should it really matter, to me or you?”

  Scott wasn’t surprised by Parker’s bluntness. Parker really had no reason after Korea to trust him. But Parker wasn’t going to do this mission for Scott no matter what he said. William Parker accepted a mission for his own reasons.

  This mission would not be an easy sell, but as he looked around the room, he felt certain that Parker would buy it. The great room was perfectly furnished with the finest art, rich leather chairs, and sterling silver lamps with white silk shades. There was even a single freshly cut red rose in a crystal vase. However, there was not one photograph—not a single photo of family and friends, no pictures of children on swings, or aged, kindly parents. For Scott, this confirmed his initial hunch: He had William Parker.

  “Have you ever heard of an Iranian operation called Operation Intekam?” Scott took another sip of the Dalmore.

  “No.” Not a complete truth. Something about the word struck a chord in Parker. Intekam? He let the word play in his mind as he turned the glass in his hand.

  “There is a Saudi named Yousef al-Qadi. He didn’t seem very important. He had plenty of money and got out of Harvard with a MBA back in the mid-eighties. But he kept a low profile. Until recently.”

  “Why now?” William Parker watched his guest lean back in the thick leather chair. He could see the fatigue in Scott’s eyes.

  “His name keeps coming up. We think he is making his move.”

  “Move?”

  “Yes.”

  “To what?”

  “We don’t know, exactly. In a word, jihad. At some time, fanatics like him always make their move. A desire to be remembered, to be revered—who in the hell knows? We do know that he is charismatic, egotistical, absolutely ruthless, and fully capable of anything. He’s the next generation.”

  “Sounds right for the part.”

  “But this guy’s got ambitions that make others look like pikers.”

  Parker shook his head in acknowledgment as he swallowed the Scotch. It had a smoky flavor with a sharp, stinging feel as it went down his throat. Parker was more a bottled-water man than a Scotch drinker. He preferred the high from the physical exhaustion of running ten miles to a drink.

  “And he has a particularly hard Muslim from Grozny who’s known to do his dirty work.”

  “That probably describes several.”

  “Yes.”

  Scott moved his glass in front of his body. His eyes wandered to the ceiling.

  “Intekam and Yousef are connected. We didn’t discover the Intekam operation until some time after the bombing.” Scott moved his hand to his cheek, stroking it several times, his eyes moving up and to the right. “And we didn’t know of Yousef ’s involvement until much later.”

  Parker waited for Scott to continue.

  “Intekam was Lockerbie.”

  “The CIA didn’t know of Intekam until later?” Parker asked the question with a specific purpose.

  “Did we know of Intekam until later?” Scott repeated the question. “No, absolutely not.”

  A lie. Parker knew the liar checklist from his days as a prosecutor. There were other signs. Scott’s hands were turned down. Parker looked directly at his eyes. Scott looked away, again up and to the right. His body language was stiff. He repeated the question and got the same response. Scott hit every box on the liar’s checklist. His body language was absolutely clear.

  “So what’s the point?”