LONDON
"Are you demented?" Ronan repeated his question. "Do you intend to use a nuclear weapon as bait to get our opponents to reveal themselves?" He gestured at the world map on the library wall. "Would you mind telling me where you are going to acquire this device? Will you just pop over to No. 10 and ask the Prime Minister to loan you one? Or perhaps you'll scoot across the Ocean and show up at the doorstep of the White House?"
"You may laugh at the idea, but I'm quite serious, Ronan," Sir William retrieved the port decanter from the sideboard. "And it's not the alcohol talking. We need something that will make our adversaries throw caution to the wind."
"William, all our assessments have confirmed that our opponents have a single primary objective - to ensure that 'profitable' wars continued! Not the bloody elimination of the planet! Why would they want to acquire a nuclear device?"
Sir William poured generous portions of the 1943 Grahams port into both glasses. "Because it is the ultimate prize! It guarantees a stalemate in the Middle East between Iran, the United States and Israel. It ensures a continuation of very profitable conventional wars. Why in God's name do you think that North Korea and Iran keep diverting critical resources to building nuclear weapons? Look at India and Pakistan! Saddam Hussein, in his own irrational way, subscribed to the same theory."
Ronan plunged his white-maned head into his hands. "Your mind is as confusing as the burl in this wood." He pointed to the desktop. "Do you really subscribe to the theory that the United States or NATO will not attack nuclear armed nations?"
"Ronan, it doesn't matter what I think. What matters is what the Iranian leadership believes. Saddam Hussein certainly believed in that theory – that's why he kept up the façade that he was building a nuclear device despite the threat of invasion in 2003. And no nuclear armed nation has ever been attacked, has it?" He squeezed the slumped right shoulder of his childhood friend.
"For the sake of my sanity, I will go along with your ridiculous theory. Where do you propose we get a device to use as bait?"
The barrister grinned as he resumed his seat at the table. "We need to supply what is being sought. Not a complete bomb, just the trigger. Have you ever heard of the September 22, 1979 Vela 6911 "Double-Flash" Detection?"
"William, that incident has been debunked by a Presidential panel!" Ronan objected.
"Has it now? That satellite detected 42 nuclear test explosions in the sixties and seventies. 41 of the 42 explosions were validated independently as nuclear explosions. But the forty-second? We are asked to believe that the satellites don't work only in this single incident?" The barrister used his index finger to punctuate his argument as he gestured to the world map. "Do you really believe that finding, Ronan? That somehow a meteorite created the unique double bang signature of a nuclear device? No other meteorite strike has ever recorded that type of signature. You can't argue against that logic, can you?"
Ronan pointed to the southern tip of Africa. "That incident occurred somewhere between South Africa and Antarctica..."
Sir William interrupted. "And scientists proved that Australian sheep had a higher incidence of iodine through June 1980. That is the signature for exposure to radiation, Ronan. Besides which, the rumor has always been that it was either South Africa or Israel or both of them who were testing a device."
"Let's assume I accept your premise, just how do we get anyone to believe that we possess a nuclear trigger, William?"
"Simple, my dear Watson. We produce a key component and its plans."
An open mouthed Ronan stared at his friend.
"Close your mouth, Ronan. We don't have to do anything. We just have to get them to the bargaining table and this is the fastest way, unless you have a better method."
"And how do we get them to believe that we have this device? Pray tell, William."
"We use their mole, of course."
"William, we don't even know who their mole is." Ronan shook his head in frustration. "If we did, we would have closed that gaping hole in our security!"
"You would have, dear boy." Sir William patted Ronan's shoulder. "I've always suspected the identity of our mole and now I am going to kill two birds with one nuclear trigger." He grinned as he exited the room.
FORTY KILOMETERS OUTSIDE QUETTA
"What are you doing?" Alexandra shouted as the motorcycle slowed its bone-rattling ride.
Christopher continued the deceleration as he steered the motorcycle down a herder's scrabble path. As he applied the brakes, he tried not to react as Alexandra's body squashed against his back.
Since Alexandra's revelation an hour ago that she was not wearing a brassiere, he had attempted to focus on steering the machine, with the aid of the monocular night vision system, along the unpaved roads.
However, whenever Alexandra had slid forward on the pillion seat, both her breasts had pressed against his back which caused him to immediately apologize and to move forward on his seat.
"If you keep apologizing and moving forward, you'll be riding the gas tank instead of your seat," Alexandra had responded after his fifth or sixth apology. "Don't worry about it. I'm not concerned unless it distracts you from steering safely, Colonel. Are they?"
"Of course not!" had been his immediate response which caused her to promptly grin and move forward on the pillion.
"What are you doing?" Alexandra repeated her question as Christopher steered the bike off the path.
"Sound travels further at night," he answered as he used his legs to move the bike under a sandstone ledge. "We're heading into an open valley where anyone within three kilometers could hear us coming."
"What are we doing?" Alexandra whispered as he dropped the kickstand for the bike and signaled for her to dismount.
"Getting some rest before we become a part of the regular traffic that normally traverses the valley during the day." Christopher retrieved an entrenching tool from the motorcycle's pannier and began to excavate a four inch trench.
"What are you doing?"
"Making sure we don't freeze to death. Didn't they teach you this in survival school?" The paratrooper continued digging.
"Obviously, but it doesn't seem very cold at the moment." Alexandra retrieved a pair of night vision binoculars from her pack. "It's like a moonscape. Why does everything about this damned chadri upset me?" she attempted to use the binoculars through the gauze aperture of her headdress. In frustration, she removed the headdress. The action caused her raven locks to spill out onto her shoulders as she sighed in relief. "It's hot in that damned thing."
"And everything moving in that open space is being studied by satellites and drones in real time." He untied his large shoulder scarf and spread it in the trench. From the pannier, he extracted a large blanket folded it onto the scarf. "That's why we're not going out there until dawn otherwise our side will target us as Taliban."
Thirty minutes later, Alexandra assisted him to police the remnants of their ration kits into a crevice of the sandstone wall.
"How long do we have to wait for dawn?"
"Four hours. Try to get some sleep."
"Doesn't one of us have to stand guard?" She peered at the moonlit landscape.
"Much as I'd like to be manly and say yes, it really isn't necessary. Mustapha and his lads are spread out in front and behind us. We're in a box pattern that'll permit us to respond in case someone comes into the area." He climbed into the pit and pulled half the blanket over his exhausted body. "Anyway, I sleep lightly."
Alexandra stared at the other half of the pit before shrugging and climbing into its inviting warmth. The chadri spilled over the edge of the pit into the gritty dust. "Hell."
Christopher smiled as she struggled with the voluminous garment. "What's the matter?"
"Nothing." Alexandra attempted to adjust the garment's folds.
"If you took it off, you'll be more comfortable and save yourself from getting dust under it." He slumped back under his side of the blanket.
"You would like that, wouldn't you?"
Wordlessly, he stood up and walked to his pack. From it he extracted an olive green T-Shirt. "I'll take a walk so you can change into that. And I don't take advantage of women, Inspector."
**
Five minutes later, Alexandra turned to face his back under the blanket. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to suggest that you were taking advantage of the situation."
"Get some sleep. In the next thirty-six hours, all this won't matter." Christopher mumbled.
"Can I ask you a personal question?"
"I can tell you won't let me sleep unless I say yes. Go ahead." He turned to face her. "What is it?"
"Aren't you in the slightest concerned that something could awry tomorrow?"
"I'm always concerned, but you can overthink a mission. The result is analysis paralysis. And that's worse than failing or not planning. Anything else? We have only a little more than three hours to get some sleep."
"Don't you ever worry about dying? Or getting maimed?" Alexandra propped her head onto her chadri pillow.
"No." Christopher settled back into his original position and closed his eyes.
"That's it!" Alexandra sat up and stared at his slumbering form five minutes later.
"What earth shattering discovery have you made, Inspector?"
"I now understand you. I understand why you act the way you do," she announced triumphantly.
"Good." Christopher burrowed further into his side of the sleeping pit.
"You're not afraid of death. You're afraid of living!" she whispered triumphantly. "You're afraid of dreaming, aren't you?"
"Inspector, can we save this conversation for another time?"
Alexandra slid back under the blanket. "You're just afraid of personal relationships. The only loving relationship you have is with a Newfoundland dog for all the good it does you."
"He doesn't answer back," Christopher whispered into his quasi-pillow.
"What!" She sat up and glared at him.
LONDON
"And how do we convince our opponents that there is a device for sale, William?" Ronan tiredly asked as he slumped onto the leather sofa.
Sir William pointed to South Africa on the world map. "Pelindaba. That's the South African Nuclear Research center. It's where they developed their atomic bomb with Israeli help. Or so the story goes."
"Intrigue me, William. Spin your web of deceit quickly please. I'd like to get some sleep."
"In November 2007, that secure facility was breached by four men ..."
"And the South Africans gave up the atomic bomb voluntarily ..."
"Except there were plans and materials there. Not nuclear material, but ..."
"William, you are full of it!" Ronan exploded.
"Am I?" Sir William innocently asked. "Who were the four men who could get through one of the most complex security systems and vanish into thin air? The South Africans arrested three youths who didn't have a high school education. The entire world knows this was the job of experts."
Ronan sat up on the couch. "Assume I buy your little tale of deceit. Who do we get to sell this device that our conspirators would believe?"
"A little birdie in Switzerland. A former Soviet spy who was a commander in the South African security establishment. He was once in charge of this facility." Sir William clapped his hands in triumph.
"And how do we get him to play along?"
"Sex and money, old boy. Sex and money." Sir William pantomimed a salacious walk along the oriental carpet before tripping over Kitten. "Sorry, boy."
"What? Now see here, William. We don't do that anymore."
"Ronan, did you ever have any fun growing up? No pre marital sex? No wild romps in the hay? I'm going to bed. I deserve a good night's sleep after delivering such a stroke of brilliance on behalf of the free world."
OUTSIDE QUETTA
"Inspector, it's time," Christopher whispered as he carefully lifted Alexandra's arm from his chest.
He gasped as her left thigh moved across his nether regions in an instinctive reflex to preserve their combined body heat.
A sleeping Alexandra grappled his chest as she snuggled her face into his neck.
"When you wake up, you're not going to believe I had nothing to do with this," he mumbled as he tried to extract his pelvis from under her thigh.
The clamor of an approaching helicopter slowly increased as the aircraft began a search pattern to the east.
"Mmmmph." The sleeping beauty nuzzled into his neck as the aircraft approached in its lazy encircling loop.
Christopher twisted his head to peer out the crevice at the western valley floor.
Suddenly, the incessant buzz of a scout helicopter invaded their gully as it swooped from a nearby eastern peak.
"Whaaa!" Alexandra opened her eyes in alarm as the chopper descended further and hovered less than forty meters above their hiding place.
The dust and debris exploded into the crevice.
Instinctively, Christopher tossed her arm and thigh to one side and rolled over on top of her in a spontaneous reaction to protect her from the whirlwind of debris.
"What are you doing?" Alexandra demanded.
The hail of dust and pebbles continued as the helicopter hovered at the gully's mouth as its pilot and observer continued their reconnaissance of the nearby landscape.
In less than a minute, it moved position five kilometers to the north east and repeated the same process.
"Sorry," Christopher apologized as he rolled back to his original position.
"What was that?"
"NATO interdiction patrol, I think. I couldn't see the markings through the dust. We'll have to wait here until they bugger off." He crawled to his pack and extracted the water bottles and two ration packs. "Breakfast in bed for the next hour. If you have to use the bathroom, you'll have to do it over there." He gestured to the dark interior of their crevice. "Sorry."
Fifteen minutes later, Alexandra slumped against the sandstone walls with the blanket wrapped around her lower extremities. She carefully studied his actions as he repacked the panniers and policed their sleeping pit.
"I'm sorry about what I said last night," she whispered.
"Nothing to be sorry about, Inspector. You're entitled to your opinion," he replied without stopping his packing. "You may even be right about me. I never looked at it from that perspective before."
"Stop calling me Inspector. You can even call me Alex, if you'd like."
"Thank you."
"What will you do after this mission?"
"I'll be retiring. I'm thirty-seven – soon to be thirty-eight and have done my twenty years." He retrieved two five liter cans of gasoline from the second pannier.
"And then?"
"Quiet farm, quiet life." He propped the motorcycle up in the limited space and began emptying the contents of the two tanks. "That's it. All the gas we'll have until we get to our destination."
"What..."
He held his hand up before kneeling in front of her. "Why all the questions? I'm not one of your pretty boy toys. We'll get this mission over. I'll get you back safely and then you can play patty cakes in London safely with some charming, suave, debonair man-about-town. I may seem exotic and intriguing to you for now, but I assure you, you'd soon get bored of me and my simple way of life."
For several moments she studied his unshaven face before responding. "No covert reason, Colonel. I was just being curious. You may think I'm just a vacuous woman, who plays at being an anti-terrorist officer, but I'm a good student of people and there's more to you, Christopher Nobriega."
THREE HUNDRED MILES EAST OF OMAN
Primo terminated the radio transmission and removed his headset. "Got it, Laurent! The old boy came through for us."
"You are referring to Sir William, I presume," the sergent-chef muttered as he concentrated on his instruments. The aircraft hurtled through the warm air above the Arabian Sea. "Has he cleared us through Pakistani airspace?"
"The old boy has done even better than that. He got a clearance through the shortest air corridor. Hoshab, Panjgur, Kharan, Quetta, Spin Buldak, and then straight into Takhteh Bol..."
"IFF Codes?" Laurent asked as he adjusted the radar image.
"Full codes. I'll key them in."
"Then I will cross check your settings after you input them," the Frenchman smiled as the Sergeant Major fumbled with the unusual labels on the instruments. "Do you want me to translate?"
"No. I was just thinking of the number of times I watched young officers get upset whenever I double-checked them."
"It is part of standard military protocol – why did your officers object?" The pilot unscrewed his thermos bottle and poured some black coffee into his cup. "Coffee?"
"No thanks." Primo clipped the IFF codes onto the clipboard on Laurent's thigh. "Can you see them?"
"Drug smugglers invest in good equipment, Sergent-major." Laurent focused a lamp from the cabin's roof. "This plane has equipment I wish we had in our aircraft."
The French Marine compared the IFF settings to the index card and nodded. "Oui. Our ETA is just after dawn. 0603 hours. Let's hope that we do not run into a dawn patrol or assault."
12 ST. CHARLES STREET
LONDON
The two friends maintained a companionable silence as they savored the brief respite and their port in the library. Both men stared at the fireplace and the Newfoundland dog snoring before them.
"What's really bothering you, William? In the last three days since your visit to Lord Bryce, you've been a different man." Ronan stared as one of the fire's logs slipped through the grate and disintegrated into incandescent embers on the stone floor. "It's Fiona, isn't it?"
"I've never been good at hiding secrets from you, have I?" Sir William slid further down into the sofa and placed both feet on the coffee table. "The mention of Lebanon always brings me back to thinking what I could have done differently. Perhaps, I should have just prohibited Fiona from working in that cursed country. If I had only spoken to her and not been the stupid ass that I am, she might still be alive."
"You don't really believe that, do you? Your daughter was the most independent, stubborn creature that ever walked this earth – other than you, of course. She also chose that path. It's the boy, isn't it?"
Sir William abruptly sat up and reached for the decanter. "I have or had a grandson. My daughter dies in a refugee camp in search of some damned clue and I can't find the child or my daughter's body." He poured himself a generous glass of port. "She was my child and I couldn't protect her," he whispered. "I didn't save her. I didn't even speak to her in the last five years of her life, Ronan!"
"I don't honestly know what you could have done, William. You had your duties here and Fiona had her responsibilities." He paused. "At least look to the future. Have you had any news on the DNA search you initiated?"
"That was the other call I returned earlier today." He held the glass up and peered at its swirling amber contents. "They have found a match, but can't tell me anything because of privacy laws."
"What!" Ronan sat up and peered at his friend. "What the hell do you mean they can't tell you? We can get around that. You just leave it to me" He stood up and strode to his side of the partner's desk.
"Ronan, wait. Hear me out." He gestured for his friend to return to his seat. "The boy was nine in 1984. Fiona and I weren't speaking because of that horrible row we had in '77. I know. I was being stupid." He held a hand up to halt any response from Ronan. "The child never knew he had an English grandfather. I don't even know if he was with her in Lebanon. I hope to God he wasn't."
"The DNA hit proves he's alive, William. Why don't you want to speak to or see him?"
Sir William sat up and let out a long sigh. "What do I say to him, Ronan? Sorry, I had a fight with your mother, my only child, and that's why you don't know I'm your grandfather. He's obviously made his way through life without me. How do I interject myself at this stage?" He shook his head. "Is it just me trying to assuage my guilt? What if he just rejects me out of hand? I don't know how I would deal with that."
"Can an old friend make a suggestion?"
"Please. God knows you've earned that right with all the crap you've had to put up with me." Sir William smiled. "Especially recently."
"Why not leave it up to your grandson to decide whether or not he wants to contact you?" Ronan refilled Sir William's glass.
"And how will he even know that I exist?"
"Leave that to me, William. Leave that to me, old friend. Now's it's time we old farts toddled off to bed."
THE CREVICE OUTSIDE OF QUETTA
"What are we waiting for? It's going to be full daylight in less than an hour," Alexandra unfolded her chadri and shook it carefully. "Are there any spiders here?"
"Spiders? I don't know. I'm waiting for a signal. I need to know if Primo and Mustapha linked up before you and I can start the final leg of our journey. Use this." He tossed a can of body powder. "Ignore the smell. It has an insecticide in it." He returned to the opening of the crevice and focused on the distant horizon.
"How do you expect to get a signal from anyone when we have no radio or satellite phone? Smoke signals?"
"No. By heliograph," Christopher replied as he retrieved his binoculars.
"What is that?" She peered over his shoulder. "A heliograph, I mean."
"Fancy word for a mirror flashing a signal, Inspector. Do you read Morse code?"
"How is Primo going to flash a message from a plane in the sky? And yes, I do read Morse code, but not very well."
"Primo will signal in his own inimitable fashion to Mustapha and then we will get ours. Trust me." He continued to examine the horizon.
"And then what? Are you going to explain to me the plan or will you just feed me in little bits so that my feeble female mind won't be overloaded?"
"We ride into the Valley of Death as Tennyson would say, Inspector." He continued to examine the distant clusters of trees in the valley below.
"I never thought a big brawny paratrooper like you would be quoting poetry – even if it was something as militaristic as 'The Charge of the Light Brigade'." Impulsively, she made a face at the back of his head.
**
"0545 hours," he muttered after consulting his watch. "Next contact time is 0605 hours. I just kill, rape and pillage, Inspector." He grinned as he sat up and moved to the back of the crevice. "So be warned."
"Why do you do that? Why do you always make fun? Is that how you deal with stress? I was only teasing you just now. If I insulted you, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to." She stood up and moved to the opposite end of their cramped hideout.
Five minutes later, Christopher broke the heavy silence. "I read for my Masters in Philosophy for Archeology from Oxford. My mother was an archeologist. I usually read when I am in barracks. Almost everything – from the Old Masters to Erotica. That's why I just made an ass of myself by quoting Tennyson."
"A paratrooper and an archeologist? How did you end up with that combination? I thought you were a man about town..." She waved a hand airily.
"Ravaging young nubile virgins?" His soft chuckle echoed in the chamber. "You'd better move closer if you want to say warm. You're cold." He opened his large shawl that had served as their blanket during the night. "You'll be safe."
"Why? Because I'm not a young nubile virgin?" She pulled the shawl over her shoulder as she moved closer to him. "I'm sorry. I was only teasing," she whispered as she broke the long silence that followed her last remark. "Your file doesn't include any assessments on your personal life. I always thought that was standard procedure for all Special Forces personnel. Why doesn't yours?"
He grinned. "I'm outside that area. I'm not SAS, SBU or anything like that. I'm just a little old Pathfinder for those brave lads."
"But you go in before the SAS or the other Special Forces, don't you?" she whispered as she felt his arm encircle her shoulders. "Thank you."
"That's my job. We go in to reconnoiter and report back. Our primary mission isn't combat, but sometimes it's unavoidable. Getting warmer?" He glanced down at the top of her head as she leaned against his shoulder.
"Yes, thank you. Can I ask you something personal?"
"Go ahead. We have ten minutes before I have to look for the signal."
"Isn't your grandfather in Peru or Ecuador? Isn't that where you sent Primo and the twins?" She continued to lean against his shoulder in the cramped space.
"Yes. My father was born in Ecuador and my grandfather still has his farm there. When my mother went on her expeditions, she left me with my grandfather for safety. We only got the news she had disappeared when I was seven," he answered in a low monotone.
"I don't understand. How did you get from a childhood in South America to this?" She gestured at their weapons and surroundings. "The British Army, I mean."
"I have dual citizenship. My grandfather wanted to ensure I maintained both heritages. So I was educated in Britain and vacationed in Ecuador. When the army needed people who could speak different languages, I enlisted. My mother had taught me a bit of Arabic and it was easy for me to pick it up. So I joined up before the first Gulf War when I was sixteen – only the British Army permits sixteen year olds to enlist."
She leaned forward and turned to study his face. "And your English relatives? Have you never met them? You never say anything about them."
"No. My mother's parents had died several years before and she never stayed in contact with any of her family. What about you? Why did you join an anti-terrorist unit? You could be partying in London or Paris or Beirut instead of this war zone." He checked his watch.
"I actually started working in the Compliance Department of a major bank. I was swept off my feet by an older, dashing Investment Banker when I was twenty-two. According to my friends at that time, it was the perfect marriage, two cars, lovely house and lots of parties. Then I found out he was cheating." She paused.
"You don't have to continue if it's painful, Alex." He squeezed her shoulder.
"Fair's fair. I started this." She swept a stray strand of hair from her face. "I left the bank and started my own anti-money-laundering business. Then, the counter-terrorism unit approached me to assist tracking the sources for terrorist funding. From there, it was an easy transition to this job. And if you're wondering, I'm now twenty-nine – an old woman."
"And you never wanted to go back to your old lifestyle?"
She lifted her head from his shoulder and pressed the edge of her chin into his shoulder until he flinched. "Is that a human reaction I am getting from the big, bad Pathfinder? Is he trying to find out something personal about me?" She pressed her chin harder against him. "Is he trying to delve into my personal life? Boyfriends? Lovers?"
Christopher leaned away causing her to fall onto his chest. "No. I assume that an attractive young lady like you would have to beat many charming suitors away from her doorstep." He glanced at his watch "We've got five minutes to the signal. So I'd better start orienting you. Ready?"
"You do that so elegantly." She chuckled as she sat up. "Changing the subject I mean. Go ahead. What happens when we make the initial contact?"
"Sangar Abdullah will recognize me. Because you are with me, he will assume that you're a part of his extraction team. Six days ago, when I last saw him ..."
"The chief Taliban negotiator is our agent? And you saw him six days ago?" She swiveled to study his outline. "Why didn't you bring that up in our discussions in London?"
"We have an operational security problem. Listen carefully. I only have a few minutes. He has a younger wife – a new wife. When we meet, he will offer to be our host. Go with the wife and do as she does. Pretend to be sick until he and I return to their quarters. Wait one." Without waiting for her response, he slid to the crevice's opening and studied the western horizon.
LONDON
Lady Catherine inspected Sir William and Ronan as the two men prepared their hangover remedies. "We have a potential terrorist attack and you two have been drinking? What part of the word crisis don't you understand, gentlemen?"
Sir William broke an egg into his glass before responding. "Actually, we have made progress. Ronan's contact has confirmed that Boston is the target. However, my dear, we may have a bigger problem. Someone is offering a nuclear trigger on the open market. Or should I call it the shadow market?"
Ignoring the barrister, Lady Catherine studied the Commander. "Is your contact sure of Boston, Ronan?"
"As sure as she can be. The problem is that we do not know what the specific target is. Even her source does not know what the target is. They're allowing their field agents to freelance, Catherine – and that's a wild card unless we can stop the Quetta attack."
"Would you like to explain that in the library after you have finished with your medicinal efforts?" She gestured to the bottle of headache remedies, sauces and other witch's brews that the two men had assembled on the kitchen table. "Edmond, I'll have some Irish Breakfast tea in the library, please." Without waiting for a response, she exited the kitchen and its befuddled male occupants.
THE CREVICE OUTSIDE OF QUETTA
"Anything?"
Christopher shook his head. "Not yet. Primo has to land at the designated site after Mustapha and the lads have scouted and secured it. Should be any minute now." He continued to sweep the horizon. "Once we have the signal, we proceed approximately eighty kilometers to the caves where Sangar will meet us. He will take us back to the village."
"Why doesn't he just extricate with us?" She slid beside him and covered him with the shawl.
"He doesn't know we're coming and he won't leave his wife, Alex. She's his touchstone with sanity, if that makes any sense. He's really a good, decent man that I dropped into this shit," he mumbled.
"You knew him before this, didn't you?"
"Shh! Wait one." He focused to the left quadrant. "Okay, that's it. We move in thirty minutes." He scurried back from the opening. "Yes, I knew Sangar for three years before I recruited him for this mission. He read Ancient Greek and Arabic at Oxford. That's how I met him."
"Then in the next thirty minutes, you'd better explain to me why we're extracting one of our best chances for peace in this region?" She fumbled in the semi darkness to her right. "And while you're doing that, perhaps you could tell me what that signal I sent to Sir William really meant?"
He turned to face her and stared into the barrel of her Sig Sauer pistol. "Why the pistol? All you had to do was ask me, Inspector. Or are you our mole?"