The Messenger

dropped onto the coffee table for Gabriel to see. It showed a man with narrow black eyes, his face partially concealed by a kaffiyeh. “That’s bin Shafiq, almost twenty years ago, in Afghanistan. He was our friend then. We were on the same side. We supplied the weapons. Bin Shafiq and his masters in Riyadh supplied the money.”
    “And the Wahhabi ideology that helped give birth to the Taliban,” Gabriel said.
    “No good deed goes unpunished,” said Carter contritely. “But we have something more valuable than a twenty-year-old photograph. We have his voice.”
    Carter picked up a small black remote, aimed it at a Bose Wave radio, and pressed the Play button. A moment later two men began to converse in English: one with the accent of an American, the other of an Arab.
    “I take it the Saudi is bin Shafiq?”
    Carter nodded.
    “When was it recorded?”
    “In 1988,” Carter said. “In a safe house in Peshawar.”
    “Who’s the American?” Gabriel asked, though he knew the answer already. Carter hit the Stop button and looked into the fire. “Me,” he said distantly. “The American at the CIA safe house in Peshawar was me.”
    “Would you recognize bin Shafiq if you saw him again?”
    “I might, but our sources tell us he had several rounds of plastic surgery before going operational. I would recognize the scar on his right forearm, though. He got hit by a piece of shrapnel during a trip to Afghanistan in 1985. The scar runs from just above the wrist to just below the elbow. No plastic surgeon could have done anything about that.”
    “Inside the arm or outside?”
    “Inside,” Carter said. “The injury left him with a bit of a withered hand. He had several operations to try to repair it, but nothing ever worked. He tends to keep it in his pocket. He doesn’t like to shake hands. He’s a proud Bedouin, bin Shafiq. He doesn’t respect physical infirmity.”
    “I don’t suppose your sources in Riyadh can tell us where he’s hiding within Zizi’s empire?”
    “Unfortunately they can’t. But we know he’s there. Put an agent into the House of Zizi, and eventually bin Shafiq will walk through the back door.”
    “Put an agent close to Zizi al-Bakari? How do you propose we do that, Adrian? Zizi has more security than most heads of state.”
    “I wouldn’t dream of interfering in matters operational,” Carter said. “But rest assured that we’re willing to be patient and that we intend to see it through to the end.”
    “Patience and follow-through aren’t typical American virtues. You like to make a mess and move on to the next problem.”
    There was another long silence, broken this time by the clatter of Carter’s pipe against the rim of the ashtray.
    “What do you want, Gabriel?”
    “Guarantees.”
    “There are no guarantees in our business. You know that.”
    “I want everything you have on bin Shafiq and al-Bakari.”
    “Within reason,” Carter said. “I’m not going to give you a truckload of dirt on prominent figures in Washington.”
    “I want protection,” Gabriel said. “When this thing goes down, we’ll be the number-one suspect. We always are, even when we’re not responsible. We’re going to need your help weathering the storm.”
    “I can speak only for the DO,” said Carter. “And I can assure you that we’ll be there for you.”
    “We take out bin Shafiq at the time and place of our choosing, with no interference from Langley.”
    “The president would be grateful if you could avoid doing it on American soil.”
    “There are no guarantees in our business, Adrian.”
    “Touché.”
    “You might find this hard to believe, but I can’t make this decision on my own. I need to speak to Amos and the prime minister.”
    “Amos and the prime minister will do what you tell them.”
    “Within reason.”
    “So what are you going to tell them?”
    “That the American president needs a favor,” Gabriel said. “And I want to help him.”

12.

Tel Megiddo, Israel

    T HE PRIME MINISTER GRANTED Gabriel his operational charter at two-thirty the following afternoon. Gabriel headed straight for Armageddon. He reckoned it was a fine place to start.
    The weather seemed perversely glorious for such an occasion: cool temperatures, a pale blue sky, a soft Judean breeze that plucked at his shirt-sleeves as he sped along the Jaffa Road. He switched on the radio. The mournful music that had saturated the airwaves in the hours after the attempt on Shamron’s life