Felix could tell from the angle and the depth of focus that Ilse was shooting this new guy without his knowledge. The image area shook as she tried to hold the camera steady. She lowered her lens whenever it looked as though the man with the scary eyes was going to turn her way. That was of interest, right? A man caught on video who wished to remain anonymous.

  He captured that section of her stream and created a file which he then, with a stroke of the mouse, sent upstairs for review. Felix spent the next couple of hours reviewing more streams, looking for anything to fill his quota of images.

  It was late in the evening and Felix was looking forward to bicycling home; maybe picking up some Indian takeaway on the way. As he stood he felt eyes on him. He turned to see two men in suits standing and watching him from the cubicle opening.

  "Um...yes?" he asked.

  The men produced badges from inside their jackets. Bundespolizei. The federal police force.

  "Your name is Felix Karl Schultheiss?" the taller of the pair asked.

  "It is."

  "You have some video files we need to see," the shorter one this time.

  "You have clearance?" Felix asked. "The producers have given you permission?"

  "You are going to waste our time, aren't you?" the taller one again.

  Do the police practice taking turns like this, Felix thought. He sighed and gestured toward the PC on his cubicle desk.

  "Be my guest."

  "You sent a file to the production floor earlier," the taller one.

  "We need to see all the video from that stream," the shorter one.

  "Which file?" Felix sat down and pulled himself up to the keyboard.

  "It was marked ilsestssrlby818."The taller one spelled it out character by character, reading from a page in a notebook.

  Ilse Strasser's file. Felix brought up the raw feed and Ilse's images of men loading some kind of cannon came up on the screen.

  "Move ahead." The shorter one leaned close behind Felix. He smelled minty with a hint of cigarettes.

  Felix moved the arrow on the indicator and images flashed past on the screen. When the beginning of the conversation that included the bearded man began, the shorter cop clamped his hand atop Felix's.

  "That's the one," the taller one. But he wasn't talking to Felix.

  "We need all the video of this man," the shorter one.

  "There's audio of him too. What format do you..." Felix began but stopped when the taller one turned the CPU tower around and jerked the cables from the back.

  "Hey, that's not yours," Felix said.

  "It's not yours either," the shorter one said. The taller one hefted the tower into his arms and they both left the cubicle without another word.

  The next day Felix returned to his cubicle to find a brand new CPU in place and ready to go. He shrugged and began reviewing new streams.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  LANGLEY, VIRGINIA CIA HEADQUARTERS

  "His name is Dhi'bun Rhas Mohammed," Dana Morton said, addressing the room of agents, technicians and deputy directors in a secure presentation room at agency headquarters. "And he's been on our lists since before 9-11. He's been under the watchful eye of the agency since the uprising in Tehran in 1979. That is, when we could find him. An elusive guy is DRM. He only pops up when there are people dying."

  The projection wall behind Dana's podium presented a slideshow of images of Dhi'bun. Many of them were fresh ones captured from the WPA video forwarded to them by GSG9; Germany's elite counter terror unit. The German outfit had identified the highly desired terror subject from a notification they received when his face popped up in the news agency's system. They intercepted it before the newsies could make it public and give DRM a heads up. A facial recognition program had been installed in every media outlet in the Republic for picks just like this. Any face recognized by one of the program's four hundred plus profiled international terrorists immediately prompted an alert.

  "He's an Iranian national and dedicated to the mullahs who rule there," she said. "He is not, repeat not, one of those moderate Iranians we hear so much about."

  That got some chuckles from the room. The agency dealt in the ugly realities of the world. They knew that the difference between a moderate and a fanatical Iranian was that a moderate Iranian would say spread plastic on the carpet before slicing your head off.

  "And now we know he's in Libya and I think we all have a pretty good idea what he might be up to." The image behind Dana shifted to a map of Sirte. She continued, "He's working in the interests of Iran and world jihad and it just so happens those interests are the same. The goal is a world caliphate run from Tehran and this fluid situation from Yemen to Libya is tailor made for bringing that dream closer to reality.

  "Dhi'bun, known to his friends and soon-to-be enemies as ‘The Wolf,' works with whatever local insurgency is on the ground and re-directs their efforts toward whatever endgame Iran desires," Dana said. "He was in Afghanistan against the Soviets, making trouble in Bosnia, the Philippines, Lebanon, Somalia, Jordan, the Gaza and most recently Iraq where he's made sure the insurgents had plenty of Iran-built IEDs.

  "He is forty-five years old, best guess. He is unmarried. World jihad is his mistress and he will await the pleasure of the flesh in Paradise," Dana said with a wince. "His words, not mine. He doesn't seek the limelight. He's the real deal and only in the struggle for the grand dream of a world united under The Faith.

  "We want this guy bad, and I'm asking that we spend some time and some money keeping track of him. I want the use of the Sat Res solutions room downstairs and access to any hunter/killer teams we have in the area."

  In the audience, Deputy Director Clark DeStefano cleared his throat.

  "Yes, sir?" Dana asked and raised her eyebrows his way.

  "We may have just the unit, and they are currently en route to Sirte," DeStefano said. "If we could talk after your presentation, I can provide more details."

  Dana smiled. DeStefano dropped an octave lower than his normal speaking voice. He was a man coddling a secret and wanted everyone to know that he was just that damned important. She only knew of one unit that could make a director-level agency man act like a coy schoolgirl this way.

  "That would be outstanding," Dana said and beamed a smile his way. To the room she said:

  "This is a rare opportunity. We usually only learn of DRM's involvement after a terror action has already gone down. I'm asking all departments to please keep him in the background of any intel gathering in the region. I've codenamed him Appaloosa, so use that designate in any communications. Happy hunting."

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The deputy director's office had one of the rare window views for CIA HQ. A nice view of trees gently swaying in the late summer wind could be seen. The windows were six-inch thick Lexan and tinted so as not to allow anyone outside to see in. Still, they were windows and it was reassuring to see that nature continued to abide outside their world of duplicity, double-speak and chess play.

  "SEALs, right?" Dana asked, standing before his desk. "Am I right? Manny and Heath? Those guys?"

  "You've worked with them before," DeStefano said. "It would be men from that group."

  "I did some of the target verification leading up to Abbottabad. And they were the team on Operation Bullrush. I ran updates and directives for them on that run."

  "Well, then I suppose it's best you're the one on the team for Operation Moondance," DeStefano said.

  Dana concealed her pleasure under a cool professional demeanor at hearing this but the deputy director was a poker player. He looked for tells in other players, political opponents and particularly women. He noted the corners of her lips turning white to fight the urge to smile. From Agent Morton this amounted to schoolgirl giddiness. That inspired a flight of fancy. She was less than a decade from high school age, certainly. She probably looked much the same then. Petite girls kept their looks longer. DeStefano could easily picture her in a cheerleader's miniskirt rather than the tailored gray business dress she was wearing today.

  "We have a real chance of kakking this Wolf with them in the field, sir," she said and took a seat in one of his guest chairs.

  "Well, that particular unit is on another mission in the region currently. It's top priority; a target hotter than Appaloosa. And we can't re-direct them to a new objective at this point. But we can absolutely alert them to this Dhi'bun Mohammed's presence in the area. They might get lucky."

  This deflated Dana. What was this jerk talking about? They might walk into the same bar as the Wolf? Hey, isn't that the hairbag the agency is looking everywhere for? What a cowinkydink. Jesus.

  "Who's the agency overseer on that op? We should stay in contact if those guys are going to be in the neighborhood," Dana said.

  "It's Blair Freeman's operation and the intel comes to us from informants working with the NSA." DeStefano sat back in his chair and eyed a framed photo on his desk of his wife Lucinda and their three children; two boys, ten and thirteen, and a girl of seven. He regretted his cheerleader fantasy.

  Freeman. That asshole, thought Dana. But she said:

  "We'll need to insert a second team then. We have a unique advantage in that we have a pretty firm location for this Wolf character moment by moment. It needs some degree of subtlety because officially we have no boots on the ground in country. The policy hasn't changed, right? "

  "No, it has not." DeStefano returned his attention to her. God, she was hot. He loved how her blood got up while talking about sending men into the killing fields. Probably got wet for anything in a uniform.

  "There's a freelance journalist who's embedded herself with Dhi'bun's bunch," Dana said. "She's been streaming video constantly and we have a lock on her smart phone. She's never far from him. It's a good chance that you could follow that signal right to him."

  "Shame we can't just toss a cruise missile in his Farina," DeStefano mused.

  "He's attached himself to some Libyan rebels and then there's the matter of the girl. She's a German national and a very publicly known figure with the WPA. She winds up collateral and they will have our asses for it in the foreign press. We need to go in with as soft a tread as we can. The hopeful crowd at the White House is hoping we'll come out of this mess with some friendships intact."

  "Of course. Of course."

  "Is there another brick of SEALs we could drop on him, sir? The Navy might like keeping this all in their family."

  "Write me up a mission overview. Nothing fancy. No spook speak. Just the overall picture. Why the target is priority. Why it's urgent. Lives saved. Blah blah blah. I'll run it by the director, and he can take it up to the White House."

  "Will do, sir," Dana said and stood to go. "Is that all?"

  "I want it within two hours. We don't want another ‘one that got away.' Let's keep up the streak, yes?"

  The phone on his desk buzzed but he ignored it to take in the vision of Dana walking out of his office. He turned back to his desk, winced at the family portrait and picked up the receiver.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  SIRTE

  The night was cold. There was a chill wind off the Mediterranean stirring the cooling air from the desert. But the fire built from broken furniture and scrap wood found in the ruins was warm. The Lions of the Wadi had taken shelter on the ground floor of an apartment block. It was the late night hours before dawn and the exchanges of gunfire between the rebels and the entrenched loyalists had died down to an occasional pop.

  Most of the men were asleep; motionless humps in the shadows along the walls. A group sat speaking quietly on the floor around the fire. The Wolf was holding court and Taahid was growing tired of his voice. Some of the others were nodding, hanging on every word. Taahid was dismayed that some of these were Lions and friends he'd made in recent weeks. But he held his tongue. The German girl sat cross-legged by the Wolf, and Taahid suspected that she was asleep behind her sunglasses.

  "If you think removing Gaddafi is the end of the struggle, then you are wrong," Dhi'bun was warming to his subject. "You will need to fight the fools of your own nation. They will ask you to turn in your rifles and return home while they collude with foreign infidels to turn Libya into a colony. This National Transitional Council will aid the ferangi to enslave you."

  It was jihadist rhetoric. Taahid had heard this sort of ranting all his life, called from bullhorns on street corners or on tapes that his more gullible friends listened to. It was a call to switch one master for another. Taahid wished that none of his fellows would listen, but they were rapt. He hoped it was out of boredom or a desire to be distracted from the chaos all around them. But then wasn't that what the words of Wahabi offered? A road out of chaos?

  "To do this, you will need more than rifles. You will need weapons to make the West fearful," the Wolf looked from man to man, meeting each gaze with his predatory gaze. "Gaddafi has spent the wealth of Libya on two things; decadent luxuries for himself and weaponry to keep his corrupt rule in power. These weapons are hidden everywhere. Under palaces. In tunnels. And in enormous caches buried far out in the desert."

  This was a new tact and Taahid paid closer attention.

  "With these weapons you can topple the NTC and thwart their plans for the indenture of the Libyan people to the French and English and Americans. With these weapons you can strike out at the world and make Libya a power once again. Gaddafi crawled to the West after Saddam Hussein fell. He sold Libya's strength in exchange for his own life. But you can be strong again. Feared again."

  "Where are these weapons?" Taahid asked.

  The Wolf turned to him with a thin smile.

  "There are men here in Libya who have the answer to that," the Wolf said, the smile fading. "Right here in Sirte, the loyalist brigades hold a man who could lead us to weapons of such power that they will shake the world. They protect this man because the secrets he holds mean that the people of Libya could throw off the slavemasters and tyrants forever and live free."

  "How do you know about this man?" Taahid asked. "A man with so many secrets would be a secret himself."

  "There are those among the Colonel's army who look to the future. They wish to survive the storm that is coming. They share what they know, barter their knowledge. They seek riches enough to allow them to escape Libya with their lives. They will die too, our God will see to them. They make known that they hold a man, a Chinese man, who has helped them purchase the materials to produce weapons. These are weapons that Gaddafi swore to the great Satan that he would abandon. But Gaddafi lied. He held back a stockpile of these materials."

  "Are you talking about nuclear weapons?" Taahid asked.

  "Perhaps," the Wolf said with the smug confidence of one who wishes to allow it to be known that he holds secrets. In truth, Sunny Wei was well known in Tehran and a player in Iran's procurement of nuclear materials.

  "What do we need with anything like that?" asked Taahid.

  "To make them fear us," the Wolf said, he raised his voice and made a fist. The men around the fire murmured in agreement. The Wolf was reaching them. The German girl shivered and raised her head. She had fallen asleep and was now coming awake.

  "To make them punish us, you mean," Taahid said and looked to his fellow Lions. Rab was asleep in a corner, otherwise he'd be mocking the Wolf and scolding the Lions who were falling for this madman's droning words.

  "You are cowed," the Wolf sneered. "For you, the fight is over and you have lost. You will go back to your business and bend to the will of Tripoli as they bend to the will of Paris and London and the Satan. You will be happy to toil under a new regime so long as they leave you to your work and do not tax you unduly. "

  "My men will not follow you to find this Chinese," Taahid said and stood. "The Lions are here to free Libya not paint a target on it for the world."

  "The words of a weakling," the Wolf said and stood as well. The rest of the men around the fire looked to one another. Taahid's skepticism had given a few of them pause. But he could see a few were looking to the Wolf with expressions of new respect. They were no longer Lions. They had joined the Wolf and his pack.

  Taahid glanced over the man facing him. The Wolf was taller and his loose cotton clothing hid a lean, powerful frame of wiry muscle. But he was armed only with a combat dagger in a sheath worn at his waist. Taahid had a pistol in the waistband of his khakis and his hand itched to touch the plastic grips. He held back. He didn't want it to come to this.

  The Wolf stepped closer, one hand on the hilt of his dagger. Taahid reached for the gun at his waist, and the Wolf's hand flashed out and gripped his wrist in steely fingers. They stood nose to nose now, and the Wolf glared into his eyes.

  "Helicopters," the German girl said.

  The men hushed one another and Taahid and Dhi'bun took a step apart.

  The sounds of helicopter engines rumbling and blades chopping through the air reached them through the walls of the building. Foreign helicopters were not an unusual sight. They carried aid for the wounded and even provided close air support to the larger rebel units. Those were mostly British cargo craft or French gunships. These sounds were different; throatier. And they were coming closer.

  "Blackhawks," the Wolf said and his eyes looked to the others.

  They scattered as the sounds of gunfire grew closer and more constant.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Three choppers hovered over the only open area in the midst of the rubble of a ruined apartment complex. Helo Three dropped to rappelling height and its complement of armed men fast roped to the deck while the others stacked and hovered; guns trained on the area surrounding the landing zone.