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  Shit. She’d almost slammed into a herd of bearded goats. She blinked as the herder stepped into view. She went a little rubbery in her limbs. Adrenaline aftermath. She raised her hand. Hello, sorry—“Signommi.” He stared at her for a moment before hoisting his staff in return. As he shambled across the road, his whistled call rose shrilly over the pallid sea of animals, one indecipherable from the other. Her father’s voice echoed sharply inside her from childhood: Stay present, stay alive.

  • • •

  Ninety minutes after he left the woman from the video, Pauk sat in the idling Fiat outside airport parking in Larnaca. Undecided. She couldn’t have missed the fact that the car chasing her was a light-colored Fiat 500. But there were hundreds of cars similar to his on Cyprus. He’d thought about ditching the Fiat and stealing a car from the long-term parking area. But that created new problems—in case the car was reported stolen before he left the island tomorrow. He could rent a car under his current identity, because his cover was solid. But rental cars could not be driven from the Greek side of the island to the Turkish side. So in the end, he decided to keep his Fiat. He was taking a risk, but it was small—and he was attached to his vehicle and its customizations, which he’d personally overseen.

  As he began the drive back to Limassol and the “borrowed” condo that provided an unobscured view of the Russian’s penthouse, he replayed the chase toward Nicosia.

  He’d already notified his mentor of the woman’s reappearance and sent a text of the Renault’s license plate. Not that he believed that would lead back to her. He now assumed the plate was registered to a front company. She’d handled the Renault like a professional. And when she’d faced him off in her car, for once, he’d been uncertain how to proceed, what moves to make, whether to eliminate her or let her go. He hated the sense of no ground beneath his feet, as if he stood on a precipice, one foot out over thin air.

  After last night’s strange chase across the middle of Cyprus, Vanessa had arrived at her apartment in Nicosia safe but troubled. She’d shrugged off the fear, but she still felt spooked by the oddness of it all. She’d planned to watch the early news on the local station, alert for any reports of carjackings or highway robberies, but her plans were preempted thirty minutes ago.

  At 0530, she’d been surprised by a sec-vid, or secure-video request, from Hawkins’s secretary, Hildy. “Sorry about the crazy hour, but we’ve set up a conference for thirty minutes from now—the DDO’s weekly update with Alexandra Hall, and she’s got a plane to catch. Chris will be joining in today.” Vanessa was about to ask what any of this had to do with her when Hildy added, “Oh, by the way, Director Hall asked specifically that you be on the call as well.”

  Vanessa’s immediate internal reaction: dread. Who the hell had she pissed off now?

  But she’d pushed away the paranoia—because that’s what it was.

  Now she ran a brush quickly through her thick, still slightly tangled blond hair. It had grown several inches past her shoulders, and she was overdue for a trim. She set the brush down and pushed her hair behind her ears. She pulled one side free again—and then the other. The light layer of sunscreen and a dusting of bronze powder had helped liven up her skin tone, and she dug through her makeup bag to find her favorite lip gloss. She didn’t let her gaze linger on the mirror, just another quick check to make sure her smile worked and her blue eyes looked clear (thanks to Visine) beneath the strong brown eyebrows she’d inherited from her father. She would do.

  She was settling in front of her laptop screen just as the sec-vid conference call came through.

  Vanessa found herself staring at a dimple in the DDO’s chin before he took a step back and said, “Good morning, Vanessa. Glad you could make it today.”

  “Good morning, sir.”

  She saw Chris running his fingers through his hair and tightening his slightly lopsided tie. He turned toward her, and she anticipated his cursory greeting. But his eyes narrowed behind his silver-framed glasses. “You look like—are you okay?”

  “Of course,” she said, hearing the edge in her voice.

  “Good,” he said.

  His tone was now so cool that she inhaled painfully through the tight knot behind her third rib, near her heart. “Early for me, a late night for you,” she said, keeping her tone neutral.

  And then she heard Hildy’s voice acknowledging a new incoming connection, followed by Alexandra Hall’s throaty and disembodied alto, asking, “Good morning, gentlemen. Are we all here?”

  “We are, Alexandra,” DDO Hawkins said, nodding tightly. And Vanessa noted the characteristic way he pulled himself up, opening his chest, his alpha stance.

  Chris said, “Madame Director, it’s always a pleasure.” Vanessa had a clear view of Hall’s face filling a screen inset.

  “Chris,” Hall said, cocking her head slightly. “I’m not sure that’s true, but we have more important points to cover.” Hall’s focus moved to Vanessa, or, more accurately, Vanessa’s image on a monitor. “I’m genuinely pleased that you are working on Operation Ghost Hunt. I haven’t forgotten your useful contribution to Operation Ulysses last year. Those two South Africans took us a step closer to Bhoot, and both gentlemen will be guests of the Queen for several years to come.”

  “Thank you,” Vanessa said, trying to cover her surprise—and the bit of awe she felt at being singled out so favorably. From the corner of her eye, she saw the DDO’s expression and determined his reaction to be something between general pride that one of his had been praised by Hall and specific irritation that it happened to be Vanessa.

  Chris showed no reaction, maintaining his distance.

  Vanessa held her silence for a few minutes while the DDO and Hall covered issues Vanessa could follow only very generally. Several times Chris was asked to contribute his two cents.

  The topic shifted abruptly when Hall said, “Phillip, bring me up to date on Operation Ghost Hunt—we’re picking up some vibrations that our mutual friend may be in Iran next week. And I want to hear from your case officer on this, because she’s spent the most time of anyone in your operation tracking Bhoot. Vanessa?”

  “Ma-Madame Director?”

  “Although your results have varied, you’ve been spot-on several times when predicting Bhoot’s next steps. Do you believe he would risk visiting a facility in Iran?”

  In the pin-drop silence following the question, Vanessa tried to ignore a ribbon of sweat trailing slowly along her ribs. Her mind raced through the possibilities, a lightning search for definitive threads, but she pushed aside the craving for absolute evidence and took the leap. “Yes, he’ll risk it—but only because he’s escalated his involvement. This isn’t just any other facility or any rogue nation that he’s supplied with black-market nuclear components. As far as we know, up to now he’s kept his business dealings impersonal—brutal, yes—but almost antiseptic, in contrast to his narcissistic predecessor, Asad Chaudhry. Chaudhry had a God complex, and a religious justification, openly proclaiming he would ultimately bring justice to the world by arming all Islamic nations with nuclear weapons.” Vanessa took a quick breath. “Bhoot’s mission is different—his reach, his money, his actions, his power—it’s been driven by his need to dominate. Bhoot will risk a tour because he’s changing his MO, he’s evolving—because he is claiming ownership in this new venture.”

  If anything, the silence deepened in the wake of Vanessa’s prediction. But only for a few weighty seconds—until Hall broke the tension by nodding brusquely. “So now the big question remains: Where the hell in Iran is he going to show?” Hall looked pointedly at DDO Hawkins. “What’s happening on the geo-codes? Your case officer flew to Turkey to get them. Do we have the locations? Are they decoded?”

  DDO Hawkins raised one eyebrow in Chris’s direction, and Chris cleared his throat before he said, “NSA is still working on it—and they’re close . . .”

  Vanes
sa knew what he was leaving out—their Farsi expert had major surgery last week, it hadn’t gone well, and he would be on medical leave for at least the remainder of the month. She also knew they would never ask the Brits for help—that would qualify as complete humiliation.

  “This matter is urgent,” Hall snapped. “If yours can’t break it, show it to our people.”

  Chris looked startled. “I’m sure NSA will have news any minute—”

  “Then let’s get someone else,” the DDO sputtered. “I’m getting all kinds of pressure from Jeffreys and his posse over at the White House about moving things into place. Not to mention the Pentagon. And damn it, we’re not even close to finding the damn needle in the haystack. Chris?”

  “I’m on it,” Chris said through gritted teeth.

  “I want to hear from your officer,” Alexandra Hall interjected.

  “Madame Director?” Vanessa said, pulling up sharply.

  “The code came from your asset—you’re the one who knew him, who knew how he thought.”

  Vanessa nodded slowly.

  “Are we waiting for someone who can decipher a complex algorithm?” Hall asked, sharply. “Or is this something else . . .”

  This time Vanessa didn’t hesitate. “My asset was a nuclear engineer, quite brilliant, and capable of a complex algorithm. But my best bet, it’s something else—very much mired in Persian cultural references—something much simpler, if you just know how to look.”

  Church bells rang out suddenly over the imam’s invocation to Asr, Islam’s afternoon prayer, shrill songs echoing over the pyramids of Giza. Taking in the view of city and sand and ancient pyramids from the open terrace of her hotel room, Vanessa stabbed out her Dunhill in an ashtray.

  Following the conference with Alexandra Hall, DDO Hawkins, and Chris, it had taken only minutes before she realized she’d already made a decision to seek Khoury’s help. Two hours later, after an abbreviated text-message exchange to confirm he’d be there, she boarded EgyptAir’s ninety-minute nonstop flight to Cairo. She felt more than a twinge of anxiety that she had not reported her travel to anyone in chain of command—so this rendezvous was completely under the radar. The additional undercurrent of guilt centered on Chris and the fact she still hadn’t managed to tell him the truth about her relationship with Khoury.

  She’d made it to the hotel in time for a hot shower to ease at least some of the tension from her shoulders. She’d dressed simply, in a sleeveless silk tee and a pair of loose silk pajama trousers. Her small travel clock, set to Cairo time, showed 1630 hours.

  How long would Khoury keep her waiting?

  It felt like it had been forever since their last illicit rendezvous—a long weekend on a Tunisian beach two months ago. And before that, late last spring, they’d managed almost a full week of rock climbing in the National Park of Paklenica in Croatia. A relationship built on brief, intense getaways—tough under the best circumstances. And so much had changed. These days, she and Khoury were more like strangers than lovers. She couldn’t name the latest book on his night table. And she knew that when she asked for his help, she would be crossing into new and dangerous territory. Until now, their affair had remained separate from the rest of their lives and work.

  She couldn’t shake the profound sense of unease that remained since their brief meeting in D.C. Something about his behavior dug at her, something unidentified—at the same time she craved him, ached for him.

  It would be so much easier just to make it about sex. Why couldn’t it be that simple? She paced the room, stepping again out onto the terrace, where the endless cacophony of Cairo’s traffic—car horns and radios—clamored up from the hectic boulevard. And just beyond, looming like an extravagant mirage, the pyramids shimmering through Cairo’s desert haze.

  But it had never been simple for them. Khoury saw behind the surface of her; he saw behind her mask. From the first, somehow he knew how to penetrate the fortress of emotional defenses she had built over a lifetime. Every shield she used to keep others at a distance. Khoury understood her in ways she sometimes didn’t understand herself. He was like her father that way—except he didn’t use his insight to command.

  She lit another Dunhill, exhaling smoke into Cairo’s smoggy air, hoping the nicotine would calm her. She worried the single strand of simple wooden beads on her left wrist, a gift from Khoury when they were in Tunisia. A minute later, she stubbed out the cigarette and ordered a bottle of wine from room service. When it was delivered, she left it on ice for Khoury’s arrival. With a stab of frustration, she pictured the single sheet of paper with Arash’s flowing Pahlavi script. The decryption experts should have broken it by now.

  She stood in front of the room’s safe for almost a minute before she unlocked it and removed the sealed envelope containing a copy of the single sheet of code. She slipped the unopened envelope inside the paperback of Madame Bovary that she left on the writing desk.

  The suite closed in around her, the air still and warm, so she took refuge a third time on the terrace, forcing herself to sit, sipping mineral water. A new layer of sound, traditional Egyptian wedding music, floated up from the lower level of the hotel, adding to the general din. For a few minutes she turned questions in her mind. And then she surrendered to the chaos that was Cairo, watching as the sun began to dip low behind the Sphinx and the Great Pyramid.

  Two sharp raps at her door, and her stomach pitched.

  A glance through the security peephole, a click of the lock, and then Khoury was inside the room. He looked exhausted, bruised beneath the eyes. She reached out to touch his face gently, resting her palm against the roughness of his beard. In return, he traced the angles of her cheek. Let his fingers skim to the well of her throat. Slid his hand lightly around the base of her neck. Very carefully, he touched his lips to her forehead.

  She took one step, pressing her body against his so she could feel him respond instantly. She tipped her head back, her mouth meeting his lips, tasting cigarettes and mint. He lifted her off the ground, carrying her toward the bedroom, making it only as far as the plush rug. So much they needed to say—

  She heard him whisper, “Habibti.” My love.

  After that, no thoughts at all.

  Whispers summoned Vanessa back to the world. She opened her eyes. Khoury smiled down at her. He rested on one elbow, his skin two shades darker than hers.

  “Hey, sleepyhead,” he said softly. “Let’s go see the pyramids.”

  “Later,” she moaned. She yawned and stretched, her fists punching feather-filled pillows. “How did we make it to the bed?”

  “You don’t remember?” Khoury teased gently. He reached for something on the bedside table: the bottle of wine. He drank freely from the already open bottle, and then he offered it to her. She shook her head, eyeing him seriously. Was he more than a little drunk? Although a non-devout Muslim, Khoury rarely drank, and she was about to ask if he was okay when she heard the low vibration of a cell phone.

  Khoury reached for his where he’d left it on the table. As he read the incoming message, his frown cut a deep crease across his forehead.

  “Bad news?” she asked softly.

  He met her gaze, and for an instant she saw a dark glint of emotion, but then it was gone.

  “Hey, Khoury . . .” She shifted, turning her body toward his. She could read him well enough to know he had wanted to say something. She also knew she couldn’t push him if he wasn’t ready to confide. She pressed her index finger against his breastbone, his heart. “What’s wrong?”

  He almost answered, but then he pulled back and rolled, and Vanessa ended up on top. “Hey, beautiful, stop worrying,” he whispered, stroking the hollow of her throat.

  She inhaled sharply at his touch. “David—”

  “Nothing’s wrong, I promise,” he said, brushing his fingers lightly across her breasts.

  She leaned over h
im, eyes fierce, voice hoarse. “So, has your mother fixed you up with any nice Lebanese girls lately?”

  “Yes.”

  “Really.”

  “Really. One of them is a belly dancer when she’s not curing heart disease.”

  “I’ll show you a belly dance . . .”

  “Habibti,” he whispered again, tracing his finger along her ribs, an erotic touch that quickly turned ticklish.

  “Hey,” Vanessa said, laughing, “that’s not fair.” She rolled over and off the bed, feeling his eyes on her as she made her way across the suite, following the trail of clothes they’d left behind only an hour ago. She pulled on her T-shirt, then picked up his boxers and tossed them casually back to him over her head.

  “Let’s get out of here,” he said.

  “We need to talk.” She took a quick breath, her voice fading as she turned toward him.

  He shook his head, swinging up to sitting, donning his shorts. “Talk can wait, the pyramids . . .”

  He grabbed the bottle of wine and walked past her onto the terrace. She followed to stand by his side. It was full darkness now, and the illuminated perimeter of the pyramids glowed eerily beyond the bright city lights. Still, the noise never stopped: the endless honk and rumble of traffic and the voices, laughter, and music rising up from the sparkling hotel pools and surrounding gardens.

  She eased the bottle of wine from his hand, setting it down on the table. Then she pressed her palm gently to Khoury’s back. He was still bare above the waist, and his dark olive skin radiated warmth. “David . . .”

  “Talk can wait,” he repeated, still staring out across the desert. He pulled a cigarette from the pack she’d left on the table and lit up. Exhaling smoke, he deepened his voice melodramatically: “Here on the plateau of Giza stands one of the world’s mightiest wonders. No traveler, soldier, emperor, or poet has trod on these sands without gasping in awe—”