Two Good Deeds

A Titus Ray Thriller

Book 11

by Luana Ehrlich

Copyright © 2025 Luana Ehrlich

All rights reserved.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Scripture quotations are from The Holy Bible, English Standard Version (ESV®), copyright © 2001 by Crossway, a publishing ministry of Good News Publishers. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

You’re invited to visit the author’s website here: LuanaEhrlich.com

All books by Luana Ehrlich are available on Amazon here

When you sign up for the author’s newsletter here, you’ll also receive a FREE download of One Step Back, the prequel to the Titus Ray Thriller Series.

To Ray Allan Pollock,

for giving an eleven-year-old girl

permission to read adult spy novels.

Books by Luana Ehrlich,

USA Today bestselling author

Available on Amazon

Each book can be read as a standalone novel, but to have the series experience, the following order is suggested.

Order of Titus Ray Thriller Series:

One Step Back, the prequel to One Night in Tehran

One Night in Tehran, Book I

Two Days in Caracas, Book II

Three Weeks in Washington, Book III

Four Months in Cuba, Book IV

Five Years in Yemen, Book V

Two Steps Forward, Book VI

Three Steps Away, Book VII

Four Steps Missed, Book VIII

Five Steps Beyond, Book IX

One Good Time, Book X

Two Good Deeds, Book XI

Three Good Lies, Book XII (Coming 2026)

Order of Ben Mitchell/Titus Ray Thriller Series:

(These novels are in the voice of Titus Ray, but Ben Mitchell is also featured.)

Ben in Love, Book I—chronologically, this book follows Two Steps Forward

Ben in Charge, Book II—chronologically, this book follows Three Steps Away

Ben in Trouble, Book III—chronologically, this book follows Four Steps Missed

Order of the Mylas Grey Mystery Series:

A Day Ago, the prequel to One Day Gone

One Day Gone, Book I

Two Days Taken, Book II

Three Days Clueless, Book III

Four Days Famous, Book IV

Five Days Lost, Book V

Six Days Spent, Book VI

Seven Days Off, Book VII

Eight Days Anxious, Book VIII (Coming 2025)

Order of the Silas McKay Suspense Series:

One Wonders, Book I

Two Believe, Book II

Three Confess, Book III

Four Doubt, Book IV

Five Alive, Book V (Coming 2025)

TABLE OF CONTENTS

List of Acronyms

List of Characters

PART ONE

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

PART TWO

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

PART THREE

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

PART FOUR

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

PART FIVE

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

A NOTE TO MY READERS

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

BOOK BONUS—AN EXCERPT

One Day Gone

Books by Luana Ehrlich

List of Acronyms

AGENCY—An unofficial term for the CIA.

APS—Acoustical Protection System or black box.

ASA—The CIA’s Analysis and Strategic Assessment Division.

CIA—Central Intelligence Agency of the United States.

CIS—Consortium for International Studies, a think tank in Maryland.

COS—Chief of Station, the top CIA official in a foreign country.

DBS—Daily Briefing Summary, a compilation of global intel.

DDO—Deputy Director of Operations at the CIA.

DIA—Defense Intelligence Agency, part of the Department of Defense.

DNI—Director of National Intelligence.

FARM—The CIA’s training facility at Camp Peary.

GRID—An interactive map used at the CIA to display GPS signals.

LEGENDS—CIA department responsible for fabricating cover stories.

OFU—Operational Field Update, a report on an active ongoing operation.

OPS CENTER—Operations Center at the CIA, consists of six RTM Centers.

POA—Plan of Action used to carry out an operation’s protocols.

RTM CENTERS—Real Time Management facilities used in CIA operations.

SET—The CIA’s Science, Engineering, and Technology Department.

List of Characters

Al-Hakim, Omar—Leader of the Khalifa al-Jadid terrorist group.

Barrett, Gavin—CIA Chief of Station in Jordan.

Broward, Katherine—Head of the ASA division at the CIA.

Carlton, Douglas—Middle East division head at the CIA.

Chafik, Amir—Director of the Dahshur archaeological dig.

Dinari, Laila—Fashion model and CIA asset.

Diwan, Jaberi—Minister of Antiquities in the Egyptian government.

Easton, Jake—Deputy Director of Operations (DDO) at the CIA.

Farouq, Zayd—Titus Ray’s cover name in Egypt.

Hartford, Sally Jo—Administrative assistant to Douglas Carlton.

Hassan, Mahmoud bin—Ben Mitchell’s cover name in Egypt.

McConnell, Olivia—RTM Director in the CIA’s Ops Center.

Mitchell, Ben—CIA intelligence officer in the Middle East division.

Nabil, Ibrahim—Member of the Khalifa al-Jadid terrorist group.

Ray, Eleanor—Adopted daughter of Titus and Nikki Ray.

Ray, Nikki Saxon—Wife of Titus Ray; police detective in Norman, OK.

Ray, Titus—CIA intelligence officer in the Middle East division.

Sherman, Sierra—Defense Intelligence Agency operative.

Saeed, Abdul—President of Egypt.

Sloan, Drue—CIA Chief of Station in Egypt.

Tadros, Rashid—CIA asset working undercover in Cairo.

Talbot, Elias—Fashion photographer and CIA asset.

PART ONE

Chapter 1

Friday, November 15

Nikki took my arm and gave it a squeeze as we walked out of the Hayworth Funeral Home. I suspected she was worried about me because she could tell how difficult it had been for me to sit through the funeral service, and she wanted to reassure me she understood.

I appreciated her concern for me, and yes, I admit there had been several moments during the service when I was fighting back tears and praying I wasn’t going to lose it.

Whether it was my prayers that kept my emotions in check, or the fact that I was surrounded by my co-workers—who would have been shocked to see me lose my composure—I was thankful I was able to hold it together.

I felt sure most of my co-workers—employees of the Central Intelligence Agency—had an equally difficult time dealing with their emotions, especially when Douglas Carlton, the head of the Middle East desk at the Agency, was delivering the eulogy.

Carlton was my immediate supervisor.

I was a Level 1 covert operative in the Middle East division, and the deceased, Nate Lynch, had been privileged to have the same title.

Lynch had been shot in the head a few weeks ago by an Iranian terrorist during a joint FBI/CIA operation called Phantom Shield, and as the primary officer, I felt partially responsible.

I’d discussed my feelings with Nikki—my wife of six months—who told me she had no difficulty understanding the sorrow I was feeling, because she’d experienced a similar loss when her partner was killed shortly after she became a homicide detective in the Norman Police Department.

Norman was a mid-size city in Oklahoma, twenty minutes from Oklahoma City. It was the city where Nikki and I met almost two years ago, and it was where we made our home today, along with our adopted nine-year-old daughter, Eleanor. To say it blew my mind that I was married and had a child would be an understatement.

Despite the fact I told Nikki I felt sure I’d be able to handle the emotion of attending Lynch’s funeral without her, she had insisted on coming to Washington with me.

Since I always enjoyed having her with me, I didn’t discourage her, but it was a quick turnaround for her because she was flying back to Oklahoma tomorrow, whereas I was staying in Washington in order to attend a briefing at CIA headquarters on Sunday for my upcoming assignment.

Not only did I enjoy Nikki’s company, I knew she was a lot better at handling the social protocols of a funeral than I would ever be, and now, as I gave her a smile to reassure her I was doing fine, she gestured over at Kathy Lynch, Nate’s widow, and said, “It looks like it might be a good time to speak with Kathy before we go out to the cemetery. There’s no one with her right now.”

“Uh . . . yeah, I guess this would be a good time for me to do that.”

Kathy gave me a weak smile as we walked up to her. “Hi, Titus, thank you so much for coming.”

I looked around to make sure there was no one nearby. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Kathy. If it’s any consolation, one of the last things Nate and I talked about was that he was really looking forward to coming home and spending time with his family.”

She nodded. “I’m sure that’s true. He enjoyed being home, but it was never long before he took another assignment. I don’t know how well you knew Nate, but he was an adrenaline junkie. The riskier the assignment, the more he enjoyed it.”

“I didn’t know him that well, but yes, I knew that about him.”

I suddenly realized I hadn’t introduced Nikki to her, and by the time I did, the funeral director had stepped away from the hearse and was giving directions to those of us who would be part of the funeral procession going out to the cemetery.

After telling Kathy we’d see her at the graveside, Nikki and I headed over to our rental car, and just as we got there, I noticed Ben Mitchell was about to get into his SUV, a red BMW, which he’d parked two spaces away from us.

When I waved at him, I suspected he thought I was telling him to come over and ride with us, because he quickly walked over and said, “Thanks, Titus, I was actually hoping I wouldn’t have to drive out to the cemetery by myself. I appreciate it.”

Mitchell was my unofficial partner at the Agency.

He was “unofficial” because the Agency didn’t assign partners to Level 1 covert officers. However, for the past twelve months, Carlton had paired us together on several assignments, while making no secret of the fact he expected me to serve as his mentor.

Mitchell, who was almost fifteen years my junior, had only been with the Agency for six years—as compared to my tenure of over twenty—but during that short amount of time, he’d proven himself to be an excellent operative.

Carlton obviously saw the same potential in Mitchell that I did, and since he didn’t want the guy to develop any bad habits that could cut his career short—like his tendency to lose his temper—he’d placed him under my tutelage.

Because I’d had similar problems controlling my own short fuse, I felt sure this was a calculated move on Carlton’s part—he seldom made any other kind—and I had no doubt it was a decision he thought would benefit both of us.

I nodded at Mitchell. “Sure, Ben, get inside. It’ll give us a chance to talk before our briefing on Sunday.”

I knew very little about what my next assignment would be, although Carlton had given me a hint just before we parted ways as Operation Phantom Shield was wrapping up. He said something to the effect that it was possible my next assignment would take me to Egypt, and that I might want to research Islamic terrorist groups in Cairo.

That was two weeks ago, and when Carlton called me last week and told me that Jake Easton, the Deputy Director of Operations (DDO), had signed off on my next assignment, he also suggested I study up on ancient Egyptian artifacts, particularly jewelry and weaponry from Egypt’s New Kingdom period.

After he told me he’d scheduled the briefing for Sunday following Lynch’s funeral on Friday, he also mentioned Ben would be part of the operational team, although I would be the primary officer.

When I tried to probe him for additional details, he cut me off. “Don’t bother asking me any more questions, Titus,” he said. “You know it’s against Agency rules for me to give a member of the operational team the details of a mission before the official briefing takes place.”

While that was certainly true, more often than not, Carlton managed to come up with exceptions to those rules, especially if it suited his objective for the mission.

The trick was figuring out what his objective for the mission was.

If I could do that, then I could usually get more information out of him. The more information I had, the better my chances for success. The better my chances for success, the better my chances for survival.

Survival was always one of my objectives for a mission.

* * * *

After Mitchell got in the back seat, and I was about to pull out of my parking spot, I looked in my rearview mirror and saw Olivia McConnell walking over to her vehicle.

I noticed she kept glancing over at where my car was parked, and if I was reading her expression correctly, she wasn’t happy with me.

Olivia was one of the directors in the Real Time Management (RTM) Centers at the Agency.

Collectively, the six RTM Centers in the basement of the Old Headquarters Building at Langley were known as the Operations Center—or Ops Center—the place where all active operations were planned, discussed, monitored, and managed on a twenty-four-hour basis.

Although Olivia was excellent at her job, and she had the awards to prove it, she wasn’t a very likable person.

In fact, I suspected none of the people who worked with Olivia in the Ops Center thought of her as a friend.

That wasn’t the case with me.

Olivia and I had a friendship—a rather odd friendship—that began several years ago when we were both junior trainees at The Farm, the Agency’s training facilities near Williamsburg, Virginia.

When I first met her, I had no intention of ever becoming her friend, especially after the way she treated me—she called me a jerk and told me I was full of myself. However, due to a series of circumstances, I happened to find her after she’d swallowed a bunch of sleeping pills, and once I got her to the ER and promised never to tell anyone at the Agency, she declared I was now her friend for life.

For several years, the Agency used Olivia in Administration—her argumentative, acerbic nature was definitely in line with the suits on the seventh floor. This meant that we didn’t see each other but a few times a year. However, after she transferred to the Ops Center, we were thrown together on a regular basis, and the more I was around her, the more I realized I was the only friend Olivia had.

Although I didn’t fully understand why I did it, I accepted that role.

Doing so had benefited me and probably her as well.

It had benefited me because Olivia wasn’t averse to giving me information about an operation before it went live—although I usually had to pull it out of her. On the other hand, I felt sure I’d helped her because I wouldn’t let her keep her feelings bottled up. I made her talk about them whether she liked it or not.

Now, as I saw Olivia glaring at me as she was about to get inside her SUV, I told Nikki and Mitchell I’d be right back, and I got out of my car and walked over to where she was parked.

“Hey, Olivia. Are you doing okay?”

“I’m doing just fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Well, for one thing, it hasn’t been that easy attending Nate’s service and thinking about how he died.”

“It sounds like you’re the one having a hard time.” She gestured over toward my car. “Is that the reason you wanted company?”

A light went off in my head, and I suddenly realized why Olivia was upset with me—she’d seen Mitchell get in the car with Nikki and me, and she was feeling left out.

I wasn’t that eager to invite Olivia to ride out to the cemetery with us since I might not be able to quiz Mitchell about what he knew about our assignment, but I couldn’t see any way out of it.

“Ben actually invited himself to go with us,” I said, “but there’s no need for you to drive out to the cemetery by yourself. Why don’t you ride with us?”

“No, I wasn’t invited.”

“What do you mean you weren’t invited? I just invited you.”

“If it was up to Ben, he wouldn’t invite me.”

I shook my head. “It’s not up to Ben. It’s up to me, and I’m inviting you. Come on. It’ll be a chance for you to get to know Nikki a little better. The two of you haven’t had a chance to talk that much.”

She let out a heavy sigh. “Okay, if you insist.”

* * * *

As we walked over to my car, I suddenly realized Olivia wouldn’t be comfortable riding in the back seat with Mitchell, and he’d feel the same way about her—the two of them were never on the same page—so when Olivia got in the back seat, I suggested Mitchell ride up front with me and let Nikki and Olivia sit together so they could talk.

Nikki looked a little amused by these arrangements, but she quickly got in the back with Olivia and gave her seat to Mitchell.

When I pulled up behind Carlton’s Lincoln Town Car as the rest of the vehicles were lining up for the funeral procession, I heard Olivia ask Nikki if Eleanor had come to Washington with us.

“No, I didn’t want her to miss school, so she stayed in Norman with her best friend. She took our dog, Stormy, with her, but since I’ll be flying back tomorrow, I’m hoping they won’t overstay their welcome.”

When Olivia didn’t ask why I wasn’t returning to Oklahoma with Nikki, I figured that meant she knew I’d been given an assignment, which also meant there was a good possibility she’d be the RTM Center director in charge of our operation.

Whether she’d be willing to discuss the details of the operation with me would depend on a number of factors—how desperate I sounded when I asked her, what the classification status of the operation was, and what her mood was at the moment.

No matter what, I didn’t figure she’d be willing to discuss the mission in front of Nikki and particularly not in front of Mitchell.

After we listened to the two ladies discussing Eleanor for a few minutes, Mitchell gestured at Carlton’s car in front of us and said, “I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything new from Douglas about our assignment, have you?”

“No, not a thing. You know everything I know.” I gave him a sideways glance. “Unless you’ve talked to him.”

“No, I haven’t talked to him. In fact, all he sent me was an email about the time and location of the briefing. That was it.”

“But you’ve been doing your homework, haven’t you?”

When Carlton told me Mitchell would be on my operational team, I immediately called him to let him know where I thought we’d be going based on the hints Carlton had given me. I also suggested he start doing research on the terrorist groups operating out of Egypt.

After I heard from Carlton a few days ago, I let Mitchell know he should also start researching Egyptian artifacts.

“No, I haven’t gotten around to doing that homework yet,” Mitchell said. “I’ve been too busy showing Penny around Washington.”

Penny Hinkle, an FBI research analyst, was Mitchell’s newest romantic obsession. They’d met during our joint FBI/CIA operation a few weeks ago, and by the time it was over, he’d convinced her to come to Washington and apply for a position at the Agency.

“Well, of course you have,” I said. “That’s far more important than the success of our operation.” After he shot me a dirty look, I asked, “What’s the status of Penny’s application to join the Agency?”

“She starts the interview process on Monday. By the time we get back to the States, she could already be on the Agency’s payroll.”

“Are you talking about Penny Hinkle?” Olivia asked.

“Yes,” Mitchell said, “I was talking to Titus about her.” It would be hard for anyone to miss the irritation in Mitchell’s voice, especially when he emphasized my name.

“Well, if you’re interested,” Olivia said, “I put in a good word for her with Gina Wallace. In case you didn’t know, she’s the Recruitment Officer in the HR department for Operations.”

Mitchell looked stunned. “Uh . . . no, I didn’t know that.” He shifted around in his seat so he could look back at her. “Thank you, Olivia. I had no idea you had done that for her.”

“Why should you? When I do nice things for people, I don’t go around publicizing it.”

I decided not to point out that she’d just done that by telling Mitchell about her recommendation.

Instead, I immediately changed the subject and asked Olivia if she knew if Gina Wallace in HR was related to Ken Wallace in the Agency’s Legends division—the department that specialized in creating an operative’s cover story.

“Yes, Gina’s married to Ken,” Olivia said, “but if that’s your way of trying to get me to tell you the details of your assignment, then you can forget it. Even though I know what your cover story will be, I’m not about to violate Agency rules.”

That confirmed it—Olivia had valuable intel about my upcoming operation. Now, I had to look for an opportunity to interrogate her without being too obvious about it.

By the time we arrived at the cemetery, I had a plan.

Chapter 2

I was glad to see there were enough leaves left on the trees surrounding The Woodlands Cemetery outside of Falls Church, Virginia, to provide a colorful backdrop to Lynch’s graveside service.

Gauging by the smiles and chatter I heard once the minister ended his prayer, I suspected the beautiful setting had also lifted the spirits of those in attendance, despite the sad occasion.

Before everyone started making their way back to their vehicles, Carlton raised his voice and said, “Ladies and Gentlemen, as I mentioned when I sent out the notice about the funeral, I’ve invited everyone out to The Meadows so we can spend some time together remembering our colleague and friend. If you need directions, just text me. Otherwise, I’ll see you out there shortly.”

The Meadows was Carlton’s country estate outside of Fairfax, Virginia, where he and his wife, Gladys, lived before she passed away several years ago.

A few months after she was gone, Carlton moved into a townhouse closer to Langley. However, instead of selling the estate, he hired Millie and Arkady Orlov—a couple who worked part time for the CIA—as the estate’s live-in caretakers.

Carlton often invited his operatives—those who didn’t have a permanent residence in the Washington area—to stay at The Meadows when they were required to be in Washington, which was why I’d been a guest there on numerous occasions, and why Nikki and I were staying out at The Meadows before my briefing.

In addition to using the residence as lodging for his operatives, Carlton often held events there for CIA personnel, so this morning, when I showed up in Millie’s kitchen looking for coffee, I wasn’t that surprised to find her preparing food for the funeral reception.

Even though I was pretty sure everyone at the funeral would attend the reception—if for no other reason than to enjoy some of Millie’s delicious cooking—I had a feeling since Olivia tended to avoid social occasions, she would skip it.

However, I didn’t want that to happen.

I figured if she came to the reception, then I’d be able to get her alone and grill her about my assignment. To that end, my plan was to have Nikki convince Olivia to come out to The Meadows.

I put my plan into action as Nikki and I were walking back to the car, and I leaned down and whispered in Nikki’s ear. “Would you mind using your persuasive skills to convince Olivia to come out to The Meadows? I’ll explain why later.”

She smiled. “What persuasive skills?”

“The same ones you’re always using on me.”

“Oh, those.”

She glanced over at Olivia, who had walked over to look at the inscription on an unusual looking headstone. “I have a feeling she won’t be as easy to persuade as you are.”

“Believe me, it’ll be okay if you’re not able to do it.”

“So you’re saying it’s not a life and death situation.”

“No, it’s more of a learning situation.”

“Oh, I get it. You want her to attend the reception so you can get her alone and quiz her about your assignment.”

“Wow, you figured that out pretty quick, Detective.”

She smiled at me as I opened the car door for her. “Why does that surprise you? I figured you out pretty quick, didn’t I?”

* * * *

As we drove back to the funeral home so Mitchell and Olivia could pick up their cars, Mitchell asked me if I thought it’d be okay if he asked Penny to come with him to the reception.

“She’s not an Agency employee yet, and Lynch’s funeral was an Agency-only service,” I said, “so I doubt if Douglas would approve of her coming. I could be wrong, though. Why don’t you send him a text and ask him?”

He shook his head. “No, I don’t think I should bother him.”

I shrugged. “Okay, but you’ll never know unless you ask.”

“Well, now that I think about it, maybe if I remind Douglas that Penny was acquainted with Lynch, it might make a difference.”

He eventually talked himself into sending Carlton a text, and while he was doing that, I listened to the conversation in the back seat between Nikki and Olivia—Nikki was telling her how much Eleanor enjoyed wearing the birthstone ring Olivia had given her for her birthday.

I thought it was unusual for Nikki to bring up the topic of Eleanor again, but a few seconds later, I realized where she was going with the conversation when I heard her say, “Eleanor was really sorry you couldn’t be there so she could thank you personally for her gift.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m just glad she liked it,” Olivia said.

Nikki continued. “I know Eleanor would love to tell you how much she’s enjoying it, so while we’re at the reception this afternoon, why don’t I get her on the phone and let her talk to you?”

“Oh . . . uh . . . I wasn’t . . . Okay, I guess we could do that.”

I caught Nikki’s eye in the rearview mirror, and while I tried to keep from smiling at how she’d succeeded in getting Olivia to come to the reception, I realized I hadn’t managed it when Mitchell said, “I guess you’re smiling because you think you know what Douglas is going to text me back, don’t you?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

Before he could say anything, he got a text from Carlton, and seconds later, he held up his phone as if I could see it while I was driving. “See? You’re wrong. He said he thought it would be fine for me to bring Penny out to The Meadows.”

“Well, there you go. I was wrong.”

“Not the first time,” Olivia muttered.

* * * *

Once we dropped Mitchell and Olivia off at the funeral home, and Nikki and I were alone, I complimented her on getting Olivia to come to the reception.

“I’m glad I could help, but do you really think she has information you won’t eventually be given at your briefing?”

“Oh, I guarantee you she does. From the moment she was designated to be the RTM Center director for the operation, she’s been gathering all kinds of intel about where we’re going, what the political climate is there, our transportation options, security concerns, available safe houses, and dozens of other details which may never come up in the briefing. However, since one of her specialties is risk analysis and assessment, I’m primarily interested in picking her brain to find out if she’s spotted any red flags that are causing her concern. If I can get her to tell me about them, or even one of them, then I’ll file them away in case I need them later.”

“I get it. You’re saying you like to plan for the unexpected. Believe me, whatever you need to do to keep yourself safe, I’m all for it.”

I reached over and squeezed her hand. “You know I’m gonna miss you, don’t you?”

She nodded. “And I’m gonna miss you. I suppose it goes without saying that I’ll be praying for you every day. Even though I can’t be with you, it’s comforting to know God will be there with you.”

Whether it was because I was still feeling the emotional impact of Lynch’s funeral service, or because I hadn’t gotten used to hearing someone say they were praying for me, I suddenly realized I had a catch in my throat.

The first time someone told me they were praying for me was almost two years ago when I was on the run from the secret police after my network got busted in Iran. While Carlton was making arrangements to get me out of the country—which took a while since I’d broken my leg—I was hiding out in a safe house in Tehran run by an Iranian Christian couple. Because it took so long, I lived in the safe house with Javad and Darya for three months.

When I first arrived at their house, Javad told me they’d be praying for me to heal quickly, and when he realized I wasn’t a believer, he also said he’d be praying for me to become one.

His prayers were answered the night before I made my escape from Tehran—courtesy of a Mossad agent who drove me through the mountains of Iran to a border crossing in Turkey—and even though I had no idea how becoming a follower of Jesus Christ would change my life forever, I’d prayed a prayer committing my life to him.

At that moment, all I knew was that I longed for the joy I’d seen in two Iranian Christians who were determined to follow the teachings of Christ, despite living in a country where it was forbidden to practice Christianity. I also believed the words I heard the two of them reading from their Bible each evening, words that assured me that if I put my faith in Christ, I’d be forgiven for all the wrong I’d ever done, and I’d experience his presence with me forever.

My life didn’t change dramatically after making this decision; the change came about gradually. I realized it was happening when I had an urge to pray when I was in a stressful situation, or when I had a desire to start reading the Bible, or when I felt badly about losing my temper, saying hurtful things, or lying when it wasn’t necessary.

When I met Nikki—who had made a similar commitment of faith when she was a teenager—I was grappling with whether I could possibly follow the teachings of Christ and still be able to fulfill my responsibilities as a covert operative, responsibilities which required me to lie, steal, and commit violence, actions which weren’t exactly compatible with the tenets of Christianity.

However, I finally settled that question after discussing it with her, and now, whenever I accepted an assignment, I did it with the confidence I was doing the right thing, and that my beautiful wife would be praying for me the whole time.

As I turned into the long driveway that led up to Carlton’s house at The Meadows, I said, “Don’t worry, Nikki, I’ve never doubted you’re praying for me, whether we’re together or a thousand miles apart.”

After I parked the car next to the garage and shut off the engine, I pointed over toward the circle drive where Olivia was just getting out of her car. “Would you mind suggesting to Olivia that the two of you call Eleanor from Douglas’s study? After you’ve been in there a few minutes, I’ll come in and join you.”

“That’s when I should disappear, right?”

I pretended to look embarrassed. “Yes, if you don’t mind.”

She leaned over and gave me a kiss. “I don’t mind. What I’m a little concerned about is whether we should be using our daughter to carry out your sneaky plans.”

“Seriously? If Eleanor knew what we were doing, she’d love every minute of it.”

She laughed. “I hate to say it, but I believe you’re right.”

* * * *

Carlton’s two-story residence at The Meadows was built for entertaining, which was why Gladys fell in love with the house as soon as the realtor showed it to her.

That was the story Carlton told me the first time he invited me to his house for Thanksgiving dinner, which he gave every year for his operatives. Gladys told me the same story a few months later, but I didn’t tell her I’d heard it from Carlton first.

In addition to the living room—which was almost twice the size of a normal living room—there was a large formal dining room with a gourmet kitchen directly across the hall. The kitchen featured an oversized island with bar stools along two sides so guests could socialize while observing meal preparations. A breakfast area with seating for six looked out on the patio.

When Nikki and I walked in the house, there were already a dozen people seated in the living room—all of them balancing a plate of food on their laps while listening to Carlton relate an amusing story about Nate Lynch.

After nodding at Carlton, we walked in the dining room, where we found several more people filling up their plates from an enormous buffet Millie had prepared.

Nikki left me there and walked across the hall to the kitchen to see if she could help Millie with the serving.

Meanwhile, I grabbed a plate and started piling food on it. Before I could make it around the table, Olivia arrived, and instead of taking a plate, she grabbed my arm and said, “Come with me to Douglas’s study so we can talk in private.”

“Uh . . . sure, I can do that.” I quickly set my plate down on a side table and followed her down the hall to Carlton’s study.

Once inside, she immediately went over and sat down in an armchair next to a white stone fireplace. “Sit down, Titus,” she said, flipping her hand at an identical chair across from her. “I’m sure you’re dying to ask me some questions about your assignment, but we need to do it before anyone misses us.”

“What makes you think I want to ask you some questions?”

“You always want to know stuff before your briefing, so I just thought I’d save you the trouble of coming up with a plan to pump me for information before the briefing.”

“Instead of me asking you questions, why don’t you just tell me what’s making you nervous about the operation?”

“What are you talking about? You’re the one who gets nervous when you don’t know what’s behind every door.”

“I’m not nervous. I just don’t like surprises. You’ve obviously found something that got your attention, so just tell me what it is.”

“You don’t have to get snippy about it.”

“Snippy? Seriously? You think I’m the one being snippy?”

She shrugged. “It sure sounds like it to me.”

“Would you just—”

“Okay, whatever. First, you need to tell me what Douglas has told you about the operation already.”

“You know Douglas, he hasn’t given me anything specific. However, from the hints he’s been dropping, I’m pretty sure this assignment has something to do with an Islamic militant group operating in Egypt who call themselves Khalifa al-Jadid, although they were previously known by a different name.”

“Okay. Anything else?”

“Yes, there’s one more thing, but I haven’t figured out how it’s connected to the militants yet. He also told me to do some reading on ancient Egyptian artifacts from the New Kingdom period.”

She waved her hand at me dismissively. “Don’t spend too much time on that. You’ll find out everything you need to know at the briefing. Your focus needs to be on the fanatical Khalifa militants. Since you want to know what I’m concerned about, that’s it.”

“That makes sense. From the reading I’ve done, it sounds like their objective is to create a terrorist organization in Egypt that’s as powerful as Hezbollah is in Iran.”

She leaned forward. “No, you’re not listening to me. I’m not talking about the Khalifa organization itself. Douglas will have you looking into that anyway. What I’m trying to warn you about are certain Khalifa militants who are so eager to gain notoriety for their cause that they’re willing to take risks to do it. Like, for example, planning an attention-getting operation.”

I thought about what she said for a minute.

“I’ve been assuming the objective of my assignment will be on individual militants, but if I’m hearing you correctly, that’s not what the mission is about.”

She shook her finger at me. “Forget it. That tactic won’t work with me. I’m not about to give you any specific details about your operation, so don’t waste your breath using your tradecraft on me.”

“Okay, but if you’ve come across actionable intel regarding what the militants are planning, why haven’t you told Douglas about it?”

“Did I say I’d come across any actionable intel?”

“No, but—”

“I’ve only seen an increase in chatter among some members of Khalifa, but there’s nothing specific I can point to. You always want to know about any red flags, so that’s why I’m bringing it up with you. It’s the chatter I’m hearing that’s got me worried.”

Chatter was any kind of communication within a terrorist organization which our U. S. intelligence agencies had been able to pick up through a variety of methods. Chatter could be email, phone calls, text messages, or encrypted chat applications.

Since the U.S. had eighteen intelligence agencies throughout various government organizations whose job was to monitor communications between bad actors, this intel about Khalifa could have come from any number of sources.

“And I appreciate your letting me know about the chatter, Olivia, but could you at least give me some names so I’m not operating in the dark here? Which individuals in the Khalifa organization do you want me to pay attention to?”

Even when I begged her, Olivia seldom gave me the exact details of her intel prior to a briefing, so when she stared at me a moment before replying to my question, I had a feeling she was doing a quick assessment of risks versus returns—that is, the risks to her career versus the returns to the operation for divulging the intel.

When she finally answered, she said, “I’ll give you one name; the rest is up to you.”

“That’s a deal I can live with. What’s the name?”

“Ibrahim Nabil.”

I nodded. “I’ll keep an eye on the guy.”

“Be sure you do. It’s possible he’ll be keeping an eye on you.”

Chapter 3

Saturday, November 16

When Nikki and I came downstairs for breakfast Saturday morning, Millie handed us each a cup of coffee, and then she pointed over to the den—located next to the kitchen—where Arkady was watching a weather report on television.

“It’s supposed to start snowing later this morning,” she said, “but I doubt if it will delay your flight.”

I assumed Millie was talking about Nikki’s flight to Oklahoma City, scheduled for one-thirty, and she wasn’t referring to any future travel plans the Agency was making for me to fly to Egypt.

Although I had no doubt Millie and Arkady suspected I was one of the Agency’s covert operatives, they never brought it up with me.

I figured when Carlton put them in charge of The Meadows, they agreed not to inquire about a guest’s relationship with the Agency. Instead, whenever they talked about anyone who stayed at the house, they always referred to them as one of “Douglas’s people.”

Nikki walked over and glanced at the TV screen. “It looks like the weather is okay all the way to Oklahoma, so I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

Arkady walked in the kitchen. “Of course, you’ll be fine. My Millie always worries too much about the weather. I can’t imagine what she’d think if she had to live through a Russian winter.”

Arkady, who was originally from Russia, had defected to the United States a little over thirty years ago after winning a gold medal in weightlifting at the Olympic games in Seoul, South Korea.

One of the CIA officers assigned to debrief him was Millie Durkin.

They were married a few months later, and the following year, Arkady went to work for the Agency as a Russian translator. Neither one of them worked full time now, although Carlton told me they occasionally did some contract work for the Agency.

In the last ten years, I’d spent a lot of time with Millie and Arkady, and I considered them good friends, even though Millie could be a little feisty at times. However, it was easy to overlook that, especially since I figured it was mostly just an act to keep me in line.

Millie gestured at Nikki. “Watch out, Nikki. It sounds like Arkady is about to tell you a story about walking through a blizzard in Vorkuta so he could keep his appointment with his trainer.”

“I remember that story,” I said.

Millie laughed as she placed a plate of scrambled eggs on the table. “What do you mean you remember it? You’ve heard it so many times you could tell it yourself.”

Arkady shook his head. “No, that’s not true. I’ve only told Titus about it once.” He gestured at me. “Right, Titus?”

I grinned at him. “Even if you’ve told me a dozen times, I don’t ever get tired of hearing it.”

When Millie rolled her eyes at me, Nikki said, “Well, I’ve never heard it, so please tell me, Arkady.”

He immediately sat down next to her and began describing his ordeal. Meanwhile, I got up and poured myself another cup of coffee, and as I was walking back to the breakfast table, my phone vibrated.

It was Carlton, so I excused myself and went out in the hallway so I could have some privacy. “Good morning, Douglas.”

“Good morning, Titus. I’m sorry if I caught you at breakfast, but this won’t take but a minute.”

“It’s fine. We haven’t started eating yet.”

“Did Millie fix you some of her delicious buckwheat pancakes with strawberry syrup?”

“No, it looks like scrambled eggs and biscuits are on the menu this morning.”

“Well, maybe she’ll make you some tomorrow morning. That’s when there’ll be two more guests for breakfast.”

“Uh . . . do I know these guests?”

“That’s why I was calling you. I wanted to let you know two members of your operational team will be arriving at the house later this morning. One of our Agency drivers is picking them up at the airport shortly, and I’ve given him instructions to deliver them to The Meadows. I’ve already informed Millie to expect them.”

It wasn’t lost on me that Carlton hadn’t answered my question yet, but just when I was about to repeat it, he said, “You’ve never met either one of these assets. The woman is Laila Dinari. She’s a famous Paris fashion model, and the man is Elias Talbot. He’s a photographer who’s based in Paris. Since they’re flying in from Paris, they’ll probably be experiencing some jet lag, so don’t be surprised if they don’t feel like talking until they’ve had a nap.”

Before I started asking questions, I waited a second to see if Carlton would give me more information about why these two people were on the operational team. Even though Agency assets were often used to carry out an operation in country, they weren’t usually part of the operational team.

Typically, a CIA operational team was made up of intelligence officers with at least a Level 3 ranking. This only made sense since there was a big difference between intelligence officers and Agency assets.

Assets weren’t permanent Agency employees. In most instances, they were local residents of a foreign country who’d been recruited to provide intel or perform specific tasks, and they were motivated to do so by money, ideology, or in some cases, personal ambition.

In addition, assets weren’t given the same kind of training intelligence officers received, nor were they told about the overall scope of an operation, even though an asset might be essential to the mission.

Having two Agency assets on an operational team was highly unusual, and when Carlton didn’t elaborate on why these two individuals would be on my team, I figured he was expecting me to ask him about it.

“Did I hear you correctly?” I asked. “Will I have two Agency assets on my operational team?”

“That’s right. Of course, I know that’s not normal, but the nature of this operation requires it. You’ll learn more about that tomorrow, but in the meantime, I wanted to give you an opportunity to get to know them better. The only thing I’ve told them about you is that you’re with the Agency, and you’ll be in charge of the operation. By all means, take advantage of your time together and feel free to ask them any questions.”

“You mean nothing is off limits?”

“No, you can ask them anything. However, like you, they don’t know anything about their assignment, so you won’t be getting any advanced information about the operation before the briefing tomorrow, no matter how much you interrogate them.”

“Interrogate them? Sure, I may ask them a few questions, but I don’t plan on interrogating them.”

“Yeah, since when?”

He hung up without giving me a chance to respond.

* * * *

After breakfast, Nikki went upstairs to finish packing, and while she was doing that, I decided to use the computer in Carlton’s study to do some research on fashion model Laila Dinari and photographer Elias Talbot.

However, as I was about to enter the study, Arkady came out of the kitchen and insisted I see the latest trick he’d taught his golden retriever, Frisco. “It’s a good trick. You should teach it to Stormy.”

Since Arkady occasionally took care of Stormy for Nikki and me, I didn’t feel I could refuse him, so I followed him into the den.

“Don’t tell Douglas,” he said, “but sometimes, I let Frisco come inside when it gets too cold outside.”

“You don’t need to worry about that, Arkady. I’m pretty good at keeping secrets.”

When we walked in the room, Frisco immediately jumped up from his cushy doggie bed and came over to greet me. After I gave his head a good scratching, Arkady had me sit down on the couch, and he took a seat in the recliner a few feet away.

Once he ordered Frisco to sit, Arkady removed his cell phone from his shirt pocket.

“Okay, watch this,” he said, touching the screen.

Even though Arkady’s English was very good, he had trained Frisco by giving him commands in Russian, so once he turned his phone around so it was facing the dog, he said, “Zdyelai selfi.”

Upon hearing the command, Frisco lifted his front right paw, appeared to grin, and hit the screen, which prompted Arkady to immediately turn and show me his phone.

“Look, Titus. Frisco took his own selfie!”

Once I saw the close-up of the grinning golden retriever, I could hardly argue with him, so I commended him on teaching Frisco how to take his own selfie.

Whether his actions could be classified as a “trick” seemed questionable to me, but since I wasn’t sure what regulatory body made such determinations, I had no recourse but to accept it.

Arkady said, “You should teach Stormy this trick when you get back to Oklahoma.”

“I just might do that. Would it work just as well if I used English?”

He laughed, and Frisco also gave me a big smile.

Or maybe he was just practicing for his next selfie.

* * * *

By the time I left the den, Nikki was ready to head to the airport, but as she was thanking Millie and Arkady for their hospitality, the buzzer on the security gate at the end of the driveway went off.

When I glanced over at the monitor mounted on the wall, I recognized one of the Agency’s unmarked vehicles—a white van—used to transport personnel around Washington, so I figured I was about to meet two members of my operational team.

Unfortunately, this also meant Nikki was about to meet them, which was against Agency rules.

As Arkady walked over and pressed the button on the security console, Millie asked me, “Did Douglas tell you we’ll be having two guests at The Meadows tonight?”

I nodded. “Yes, but I’ll have to meet them later. I need to take Nikki to the airport now.”

I figured Millie understood my urgency to leave before her new guests arrived, because as she was telling Nikki goodbye, she was also walking her to the door. “I’ve really enjoyed having you, Nikki, and I hope you’ll come back soon.”

Arkady grabbed her suitcase while Nikki was giving Millie a hug, and then the three of us headed out the door. As soon as I popped open the trunk, Arkady put the suitcase in my car, and then he quickly went around and held the door open for Nikki as I got in the driver’s seat and started the engine.

While I was backing out of my parking space, the Agency van was pulling up to the circle drive, and seconds later, I saw Nikki turn and look over at the van, where I could see a woman—I assumed it was Laila Dinari—getting out of the vehicle.

The brief glimpse I had of Laila left no doubt she was a professional model. Her movements were as fluid and elegant as if she were on a runway and dozens of cameras were capturing her every move.

“Hmm,” Nikki said, “it looks like you’ll have an attractive woman to keep you company this evening.”

“The only attractive woman I see is the one sitting next to me.”

She smiled. “Good answer.” She glanced back at the van as I headed down the driveway. “She also has a man with her, so I guess I shouldn’t be worried.”

“You shouldn’t be worried whether she has a man with her or not. I’m sure you know that.”

She reached over and gave my arm a squeeze. “Yes, of course, I do.” She chuckled. “Why do I have a feeling you already know who those people are?”

I grinned. “Because I do.”

“Oh, I get it. They’re related to your new assignment, aren’t they? Is that why Millie was rushing me out the door?”

“Probably. Although I’m sure Douglas doesn’t tell Millie and Arkady why he invites certain people to stay at The Meadows, I have no doubt he’s told them to always assume they’re Agency people, and they shouldn’t mingle with any civilians who might be around.”

“Even civilians like me who have a security clearance?”

“To be truthful, Nikki, I don’t think it would have mattered if you had crossed paths with those two guests. Otherwise, I don’t believe Douglas would have instructed the driver to bring them out here while you were still around. At the same time, I know Douglas appreciates it when I make an effort to follow Agency rules.”

“That sounds like you don’t always make an effort.”

“Let’s just say I make as much of an effort as he does.”

* * * *

After an emotional goodbye with Nikki at the airport, it was almost one o’clock, so I stopped and had lunch before driving back out to The Meadows.

When I arrived, Millie and Arkady were about to leave in Arkady’s pickup. “We need to go run some errands,” Millie said. “If you’re hungry, you can help yourself to the leftovers in the refrigerator.”

“Thanks, but I had a hamburger after I dropped Nikki off. What about the new guests? Have they eaten yet?”

“Yes, I fixed them a meal when they got here, and then they went straight to their rooms. They told me they’d just flown in from Paris, and they were both suffering from jet lag.”

“I’m not surprised. Douglas said he expected them to take a nap.”

“I told them I’d be serving dinner at seven o’clock, and they both assured me they’d be awake by then, but if they come downstairs before we get back, I’m sure you can take care of them.”

After they drove off, I went inside the house and made myself a cup of coffee, and then I plopped myself down in front of the computer in Carlton’s study and began doing my research.

Although I figured I could find out a few things about Laila Dinari and Elias Talbot by getting into the Agency’s archives, I decided to save that snooping for last, and instead, I did a simple background search of their public identities.

More often than not, an Agency asset who was part of an operation wasn’t given a cover story—what the Agency referred to as a legend. Instead, the asset used their own identity.

If that were true during this operation, then it was imperative for me to know as much as I could about them. If I wasn’t aware of how the public viewed someone involved in a covert operation—an operation where I was the primary officer—I might be forced to make adjustments to the protocols in the middle of a mission, which wasn’t easy and could be dangerous to everyone on my team.

Several years ago, I’d had to abort a mission when that happened.

Since then, I was determined never to let it happen again.

I typed in “Laila Dinari.”

Chapter 4

Searching for Laila Dinari on the internet yielded plenty of hits. She turned up in all the high-end fashion magazines like Verve, Mode, and Opal, modeling everything from fur coats to outfits that looked nothing like any clothing I’d ever seen.

I had a little more difficulty finding a bio on her, but I finally came across a special edition of Verve in which the magazine spotlighted some of their more popular models, and there she was.

The full-page spread on her didn’t contain more than three paragraphs of content—the rest of the page was filled with photographs—but at least it told me she was born in Marrakesh, Morocco, and lived there until she was offered a modeling job with a Paris fashion house called Maison de Laurent when she was nineteen.

Although I wasn’t familiar with the designers who began vying for her to model their line of clothing, it sounded like she was able to catch the attention of some important people in the fashion industry, which, according to the article, was primarily due to her exotic features—dark brooding eyes, high cheekbones, oval chin, and full lips.

The writer stated that this striking mixture of mystery and elegance set her apart, making her a familiar figure at the most prestigious fashion shows around the globe.

I admit I was shocked at what I was learning about Laila.

I wasn’t shocked because of her career. I was shocked because the Agency had decided to recruit her as a CIA asset.

How did that happen? More importantly, could she be trusted?

I had to believe she could, otherwise Carlton would never have allowed her to be part of an operational team, but I was still skeptical.

Next, I looked up Elias Talbot.

A public search on his name didn’t yield as much material as the search I’d run on Laila, and the photographic images of his work weren’t focused on the fashion world until the last five years. Previous to that, the images attributed to him were in news stories.

I wasn’t able to discover how he’d ended up in the fashion industry, although I did learn he was an American, the son of a military family, and during his growing up years, he’d lived in various locations around the world due to his father’s military background.

After completing this public search on Laila and Talbot, I was ready to see what I could find out about them in the Agency’s archives, so once I logged in using my Level 1 access and authenticated my identity through my passkey, I navigated over to Middle East operations and did a search on both of their names.

The search returned three hits on Laila Dinari’s name. The first time it appeared was in a field report from Amman, Jordan, in which the Agency’s Chief of Station, Gavin Barrett—whose cover story was that he was with the embassy’s trade division—described meeting Laila at an embassy party and having an amicable conversation with her about politics in the Middle East.

Six months after this initial encounter, another field report from Barrett noted that when Laila returned to Jordan for a fashion show in connection with the opening of a high-rise luxury hotel, Barrett met with her again.

The hotel where the fashion show took place was owned by a Jordanian businessman with suspected ties to a terrorist organization, so Barrett asked Laila if she would be willing to introduce him to the businessman. He reported that his request caused Laila to ask him if he was a CIA spy, and although he denied it, she indicated if he were, and if he ever needed her help, she would be open to working with him.

At the end of this report, Barrett suggested the Agency initiate a thorough vetting of Laila, and if she received a clean report, she should be recruited as an asset.

The third instance when Laila’s name appeared in the archives was in a report filed two years ago in connection with an operation called Operation Vibrant Sound, which took place in Dubai in the United Arab Emirates.

The objective of the mission was to plant listening devices on the four members of the Syrian delegation attending the Arab Summit being held in Dubai. The protocols called for the devices to be embedded in commemorative medallions that were identical to those given out during an international fashion show held at Dubai’s Miracle Garden, home to the world’s largest natural flower garden.

Gavin Barrett, who was the field officer for the operation, wrote in his report that he met with Laila—who was one of the models in the fashion show—two days before the event in order to discuss her offer to aid the CIA if they ever needed her help.

Laila agreed to do whatever the Agency needed, and thus, during the fashion show, as she was walking down the runway next to the Syrian delegation, she deliberately stopped in front of them and executed a series of moves that held them mesmerized, while two Agency operatives substituted the gift bags containing the medallions with the gift bags containing the medallions with the listening devices.

The operation’s final report included a photograph of all the members of each delegation wearing their commemorative medallions around their necks during the final day of the summit.

I found myself smiling as I read the last paragraph of this report, which had been written by Carlton. “Operation Vibrant Sound was successful. Not only did we learn where the Syrian delegation was meeting with members of Hezbollah’s executive council, we were privileged to hear personal information about each delegate that we wouldn’t have known otherwise. I’m also pleased that Laila Dinari was successfully recruited for future operations.”

When I searched the archives for anything on Talbot, I had to go back ten years before I found a couple of entries in field reports.

During this time in his career, he was taking photographs for news stories, and in both instances, an operative reported Talbot voluntarily passed along information he discovered about a terrorist when he was with a journalist during an interview.

I couldn’t find anything that indicated Talbot had ever been officially recruited as an Agency asset, and there was nothing in the files about him since he’d become a fashion photographer.

My best guess was that he’d only agreed to work for the Agency recently, and if Carlton had been responsible for recruiting him, then I figured he’d let us know that during our briefing.

On the other hand, I might be able to persuade Talbot to give me those details himself.

With that in mind, I logged off the Agency’s website, grabbed my empty coffee mug, and walked down the hallway to the kitchen to wait for Laila and Talbot to show up.

I didn’t have to wait long.

* * * *

As soon as I heard someone coming down the stairs in the foyer, I immediately stepped outside the kitchen and took a look. When I saw it was Talbot, I gave him a wave.

“If you’re looking for coffee, this is where you’ll find it.”

He smiled. “That sounds good.”

Talbot, who appeared to be in his late forties, was shorter than me by about an inch—I was six foot. But that wasn’t the only difference. While I had short black hair, brown eyes, and a dark complexion—which was why I could operate in the Middle East just as easily as I could in Latin America—Talbot had longish blond hair, light blue eyes, and a wide face.

When he walked in the kitchen, I offered him my hand. “I’m Titus Ray. I believe we’ll be working together soon.”

“Yes, that’s what Mr. Carlton told me. My name is Elias Talbot, but I suspect you know that already.”

“That’s about all I know. Mr. Carlton is never very chatty about an operation before a briefing.” I paused and smiled. “Actually, Mr. Carlton doesn’t mind if we use his first name, so I’m in the habit of calling him Douglas. I’m surprised he didn’t tell you to do the same.”

“Oh, he did,” Talbot said with a grin. “It’s just that Douglas sounded too informal for someone who’s . . . uh . . .”

When Talbot paused, I said, “Were you about to say someone who’s stuffy? Or maybe buttoned-down? You can choose whichever one seems appropriate to you, but personally, I’d have a hard time choosing between the two.”

He laughed. “I’ll go with stuffy. I’ve only recently met him, so when I get to know him better, I might think of something different.”

I pointed over to a tray of coffee pods next to Millie’s coffee machine and said, “If you’ll tell me what kind of coffee you like, I’ll pop one in the machine for you.”

He walked over and selected one of the plastic coffee pods. “Thanks anyway, but I’m familiar with how this machine works, so I think I can manage.”

Millie had a display of stoneware mugs hanging from hooks next to the coffee machine, so Talbot took one down, placed it underneath the spout, and popped the pod in the machine. Once he hit the button, and the dark liquid started flowing, he turned around and faced me.

“Mr. Carlton . . . uh . . . Douglas told me not to be surprised if you quizzed me about my background. He warned me you might be a little aggressive about it, but to be honest, I told him I thought I could handle it since I wasn’t the shy type.”

I smiled as I sat down on one of the bar stools. “Well, then, let’s get started.”

* * * *

Before I asked him anything, I pointed to a ceramic cookie jar on the island and suggested he might enjoy one of Millie’s homemade chocolate chip cookies to go with his coffee.

Once he took one bite, he agreed it was delicious, and that’s when I asked him my first question. “You mentioned you just met Douglas. How did that happen?”

“I suppose you know I’m a professional fashion photographer.” When I nodded, he said, “Before I started taking pictures of beautiful women, I worked for a news magazine. It was a great opportunity for a guy right out of college, because I got to work with some of the industry’s top journalists in hot spots around the world.”

“Getting paid to travel around the world sounds like a pretty good gig for a guy right out of college.”

He nodded. “Yeah, but I grew up as a military brat, so I was familiar with a lot of the places, and in fact, I’d lived in some of them.”

After he took a sip of his coffee, he said, “To make a long story short, I decided I couldn’t continue to work as a news photographer after my father was killed in Afghanistan. The vehicle he was traveling in was targeted by Taliban insurgents, so the thought of continuing to photograph the aftermath of terrorists atrocities was just too much for me, and a few months after he was killed, I did a complete career reset and became a fashion photographer.”

I smiled. “That was quite a turnaround. I’m sorry to hear about your father, though. What was he doing in Afghanistan?”

“He was in military intelligence, so I’m sure you can understand I never really knew what he was doing there, but the fact that he gave his life serving our country is the primary reason I said yes when one of my father’s Army buddies asked me if I’d be willing to meet with someone from the U. S. intelligence community to discuss taking on a photography assignment for them. That person turned out to be Douglas Carlton.”

I decided it couldn’t hurt to ask the question, even though Carlton said I wouldn’t get anything out of Talbot or Laila about the operation.

“What did Douglas tell you about this assignment?”

“As you can probably understand, he was very close-mouthed about the actual operation, and he only told me enough to put my mind at ease that I’d be able to handle what he wanted me to do.”

I motioned toward him. “Yeah, Douglas is very good at being close-mouthed. So what is it he wants you to do?”

“He indicated I’d just be taking pictures of Laila for a photo shoot somewhere in Egypt.”

“A photo shoot?”

“Yeah, that’s it. I’ve worked with Laila before, so when Douglas told me that’s what I needed to do, it was pretty much a no-brainer for me, especially since he assured me it would be an integral part of an operation that would give the U. S. significant intel about a terrorist organization.”

His comment confirmed what I’d been thinking after my last conversation with Olivia. That is, my next assignment would primarily be an intelligence-gathering operation and not a direct-action mission, such as freeing a hostage, preventing an assassination, or neutralizing a terrorist cell.

I was fine with that, especially since my last two assignments had been of the direct-action variety.

However, according to Olivia, all that might change if Ibrahim Nabil showed up.

I said, “Frankly, that’s all I’ve learned about the operation too, but we’ll hear the specific details at our briefing tomorrow. I assume Douglas told you I’ll be leading the operational team.”

He chuckled a little. “What he told me was that Laila and I had nothing to worry about because we’d be in the hands of one of his best operatives. He described you as someone who was obsessive about looking under every rock and around every corner.”

“Well, perhaps obsessive is a bit of an exaggeration, but I do plead guilty to paying attention to details. Speaking of details, you said you’ve worked with Laila before, but how well do you know her on a personal level?”

“Did someone mention my name?”

Talbot and I immediately looked over at the doorway where Laila had suddenly appeared.

I wondered why I hadn’t heard her footsteps, but then I realized she was barefoot. That surprised me, along with the way she was dressed—an oversized white tailored shirt over a pair of black leggings. Her coal black hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and as far as I could tell, she wasn’t wearing any makeup.

Despite her austere look, if someone were to take her picture at that moment, I had no doubt the image would still be considered good enough to appear in a fashion spread.

“Yes, you heard your name,” I said, as I got up from the barstool. “I was just asking Elias to tell me something about you.” I offered her my hand. “I’m Titus Ray, and you’re obviously Laila Dinari.”

Her handshake was firm. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Titus.” She motioned toward our coffee mugs. “Where can I get one of those?”

“I’ll get it for you,” Talbot said, jumping to his feet. “If you’re hungry, you’ll find some cookies in that container on the counter.”

“Thanks, but I just need some coffee. I can’t seem to wake up.”

Laila had a strong French accent, but she enunciated her words very deliberately so it wasn’t difficult to understand her English. I figured if she was speaking Arabic, she wouldn’t sound so stilted.

As she took a seat on the barstool next to me, I said, “When you came in, I was asking Elias about his background, and why he agreed to take this assignment. Would you mind answering those same questions for me?”

She smiled. “You like to get to the point, don’t you?”

“Uh . . . yes, I do. My wife keeps giving me lessons about how to engage in social chit-chat, but I admit, I’m not a quick learner.”

“Oh, so you’re married. I wasn’t expecting that.”

“Why not?”

As Talbot placed a mug of black coffee in front of her, she said, “I just assumed that someone who’s involved in covert operations might have difficulty sustaining a long-term relationship.”

“It isn’t easy, and I’m actually a newlywed, but my wife and I are committed to making it work.”

“I hope it won’t be too difficult for you.”

I suddenly realized Laila had been able to steer the conversation away from herself, so I attempted to get it back on track. “As a fashion model who travels a lot, I’m guessing you probably have the same problem.”

“That’s so true. Whenever I connect with someone, it might be several months before I can see them again. Love will always find a way, though. Don’t you agree?”

“Yes, I do. Were you—”

“But to get back to your question, the reason I agreed to become a CIA asset was because I became friends with someone who worked for the Agency, although I didn’t know it when we first met.”

As she began describing meeting Gavin Barrett at an embassy party in Amman, Jordan, the neurons in my gray matter suddenly sparked across my cerebral cortex, and a question emerged—were Barrett and Laila involved in a relationship?

When I read the reports about Laila in the Agency’s archives, Gavin Barrett’s name appeared in every one of them, and the circumstances of their encounters were always a little vague.

Since I knew Carlton was adept at writing the official reports in a factual way—while leaving out any questionable side issues that weren’t relevant—I figured there was a good chance my instincts were correct about this.

However, as I listened carefully to the narrative Laila gave me about what led her to become a CIA asset, there was no hint she had a romantic relationship with Barrett, although she did make several references to their friendship and how comfortable he made her feel.

Since Barrett was the Chief of Station in Jordan, I couldn’t see how their personal connection to each other—no matter what it was—would affect an operation taking place in Egypt, so I decided not to bring it up with her.

That didn’t mean I wasn’t curious.

Nor did it mean I wouldn’t try to get more information out of Carlton. Whether he would tell me anything would depend on what kind of mood he was in at our briefing tomorrow.

What kind of mood he was in would depend on the personnel who attended the briefing tomorrow.

Tomorrow couldn’t get here soon enough for me.

PART TWO

Chapter 5

Sunday, November 17

When I woke up Sunday morning, I realized how much I was going to miss attending church with Nikki and Eleanor. For the past two Sundays I’d been between assignments, so I’d enjoyed the opportunity to be in church with my family.

This morning, I did the next best thing and followed my usual practice of using the first few minutes of my day to read a couple of chapters from the Bible and talk to God about what I’d read.

Having this quiet time to start my day was a habit I’d started shortly after becoming a believer when I recognized the only way I would ever be able to follow the teachings of Christ was to read his instructions in the written accounts of believers who had walked with him on earth and heard his words firsthand.

A few seconds after I finished reading my Bible, my phone vibrated. I wasn’t expecting a call from Nikki, so it alarmed me as soon as I saw her name on the screen. “Good morning, Nikki. Is everything okay?”

“Yes, everything’s fine. I wanted to call you before we left for church, because I thought you might be getting on a plane right after your briefing. Your briefing’s at ten, right?”

“Yes, and I’ll probably head to the airport after that, but don’t worry, I would have tried to call you, even if it was from the airport.”

“Eleanor just came in the room. Are you able to talk to her?”

“Sure. Put her on.”

“Hi, Daddy. Are you and Mr. Mitchell getting ready to go on a trip together again?”

The story I told my family and friends about my job—that is, everyone but Nikki—was that I was a Senior Fellow at the Consortium for International Studies (CIS). Several operatives, including Mitchell, shared a similar cover story—the Agency called it our Career Legend.

“Yes, Mr. Mitchell and I are meeting with some government officials in the Middle East to discuss some problems they’re having, but I don’t think I’ll be gone too long.”

“You know it’ll be Thanksgiving in two weeks. Will you be home by then?”

“I can’t promise anything, but I’ll try.”

“When Mommy talked to Aunt Carla last night, she invited us to come to Michigan to spend Thanksgiving with her and Uncle Eddie. Do you think we can do that?”

“Uh . . . maybe. I’m not sure. I’ll need to talk it over with Nikki first. Why don’t you give the phone back to her now? I love you, Eleanor. I’ll see you soon.”

“I love you too.”

“Take good care of Stormy while I’m gone, okay?”

“Okay. Bye.”

I heard Nikki tell Eleanor to take Stormy outside, and then a few seconds later, she came back on the line and said, “I was just about to tell you that Carla called last night and asked us to come for Thanksgiving, but Eleanor beat me to it. Is it okay with you if I tell her we can come? Carla said you promised her you’d try to make it again this year.”

“Uh . . . yes, I remember saying that last year. Sure, go ahead. From what I’ve been able to find out about this assignment, I don’t think it’ll take that long. I expect I’ll be back home in a week or so.”

Nikki sounded excited. “Oh, that’s good. I’ll tell my captain I’d like to have that week off, and I’ll let Carla know we’ll be coming so she can start making some plans. I know Eleanor’s gonna love being there with your family.”

I had a feeling Nikki would love it as much as Eleanor.

Nikki didn’t have any family of her own. She’d been raised in the foster care system in Oklahoma from the time she was three and her mother was sent to prison for armed robbery. Thus, as soon as we got married, she adopted my family as her own—with a lot of encouragement from my sister.

Since I joined the CIA right out of college, I hadn’t participated in many family events—I always gave the excuse I had to be out of the country for my job at the Consortium. I suspected Carla thought issuing an invitation to Nikki was the best way to make sure I made good on my promise to show up again this year for Thanksgiving when the rest of my relatives would be there.

Carla was the only remaining member of my immediate family—our mother had passed away last year, and my father several years before that. However, we still had relatives in our hometown of Flint, Michigan, where Carla and her husband, Eddie, lived.

It was always a little difficult—not to mention awkward—to deceive my family about what I did. Psychologically, I had no doubt it was the reason I was reluctant to be around them for very long, but hearing how excited Nikki was at the prospect of being with them for Thanksgiving made me determined to make the effort.

After telling Nikki goodbye, I suddenly realized I had no idea whether I’d be able to make it home for Thanksgiving or not.

Although Carlton seldom gave me an answer when I asked him how long he expected an assignment to last, I decided today would be the day I would insist he give me an answer.

Unless I could figure out another way.

* * * *

During the forty-minute drive from The Meadows in Fairfax, Virginia, to CIA headquarters at Langley, Talbot asked me what he and Laila should expect during our briefing.

After giving them an overview of how things usually proceeded—with the caveat that briefings were always a little unpredictable—I debated whether to tell them about Ben Mitchell being on the operational team.

Even though Carlton would officially introduce Mitchell to them, I was asking myself if they would have more confidence in him if I were to give them some personal details about his background.

Whenever Mitchell was assigned to one of my operations, the other members of the team often seemed skeptical about his abilities to handle the assignment.

I attributed their uncertainty to a number of things.

First, Mitchell looked ten years younger than he actually was, plus he was an extremely handsome guy—thick, dark hair, sculptured facial features, boyish grin—characteristics which could be detrimental in situations where being noticed wasn’t desirable.

I also figured a few of them had misgivings about him because they knew his father was Senator Elijah Mitchell—head of the Senate Intelligence Committee—and they just assumed the Agency had hired him for that reason.

Or perhaps they thought Senator Mitchell had pressured someone on the seventh floor to promote Ben to Level 1 status sooner than most operatives were given that title.

In reality, Senator Mitchell never wanted his son to join the Agency in the first place, but once Ben did, the only pressure he’d put on the CIA Director was to give him a desk job so he’d be out of harm’s way.

At one time, Senator Mitchell had even made demands on me to convince his son to request a transfer to a desk job.

However, I’d politely and respectfully told the senator there was no way I would ever do that because I considered Mitchell an excellent covert operative, and if I had anything to do with it, he would become an even better intelligence officer than he was now.

The senator had not been pleased with my answer, and his response had been anything but polite and respectful.

Now, after giving it some thought, I decided not to go into Mitchell’s personal details with Talbot and Laila, although I told them there would be a fourth member of our operational team.

“His name is Ben Mitchell,” I said, “and the two of us have worked together on several assignments before.”

Laila, who was sitting in the passenger seat next to me, asked, “Does he work for the Agency, or is he a civilian like Elias and me?”

“He’s a full-time employee with the Agency.”

Talbot leaned forward from the back seat and asked, “How common is it to have people who aren’t career employees as part of an operational team?”

“To be truthful, it hardly ever happens.”

“Oh, that’s interesting. I bet that means you’re really anxious to hear the details of this operation.”

“I’m a little curious, all right.”

* * * *

After a security guard at the northwest gate of the CIA compound verified my credentials and allowed us to enter the area, I pulled in a parking spot on the west side of the Old Headquarters Building—where the Operations division was located—and gave Talbot and Laila some final instructions.

“When we enter the lobby, you’ll see three separate security lines. It doesn’t matter which one you choose, but once you give the officer the passcode Douglas sent you, and you’ve been issued a security badge, then you won’t be allowed to go in any area of the building except the color-coded areas shown on your badge.”

“Are those areas clearly marked?” Laila asked.

“Yes, but it’s easy to remember them. It’s only the green and brown areas. Basically, that’s the cafeteria, the restrooms, and the museum. Around nine forty-five, you should head over to the elevators where a Visitor Escort Officer will be waiting to take you down to the Operations Center on the lower level. From there, you’ll be escorted to a conference room for our ten o’clock briefing.”

After they both indicated they understood, we got out of my car and headed over to the lobby. As soon as we walked in, both of them expressed awe at the enormous iconic seal of the CIA embedded in the marble floor. I didn’t say anything, but even after all these years, I still found it pretty impressive.

I had already told them I needed to go see someone before our briefing, so after we passed through the metal detectors, I gave them a wave, and then I walked over and got in one of the security lines.

It took me less than a minute to clear security—thanks to facial recognition software—so after the officer handed me a lanyard with my Level 1 security badge attached to it, I placed the badge—which also served as a key card—around my neck and hurried over to the elevators.

Once I got inside and hit the button for the fourth floor—where Carlton’s office was located—I rehearsed what I was planning to say to Sally Jo Hartford, Carlton’s administrative assistant.

She was one of the few people, besides Carlton, who would know how long my assignment would take, although getting that information out of her would take some creativity on my part, especially if she thought Carlton wouldn’t be pleased if she told me.

On the other hand, there was a good chance Carlton never cautioned her one way or the other about divulging the timeline of the operation, so it was possible she might be uncertain how she should handle my question.

Her uncertainty was what I was counting on.

Plus, her empathy for the story I planned to give her.

* * * *

As I held my badge up to the security reader on the wall outside Carlton’s office suite, I suddenly realized my plan to question Sally Jo wouldn’t work if there was someone in the room with her.

The one thing I knew for certain was that Carlton wouldn’t be in his office. Whenever a briefing was to take place, he headed down to the Ops Center two hours before it was scheduled to begin.

I was never exactly sure what he did during that time, other than continue to gather data and refine the operation’s protocols.

Of course, I was fine with that.

Carlton’s perfectionist tendencies gave me confidence that any operation he managed would have a good chance of success.

Granted, I also found his quirky tendencies irritating at times, and I suspected Sally Jo did as well. However, when I walked in her office, she didn’t look irritated at all. In fact, she looked happy to see me.

Thankfully, she was alone.

“Well, bless my soul, if it isn’t Titus Ray.” She quickly put one hand up to her perfectly arranged silver-colored hair as if to assure herself it wasn’t out of place. “I wondered if I’d see you today.”

“I arrived a little early, so I thought I’d drop in and say hello. How are things with you, Sally Jo?”

Sally Jo had been Carlton’s gatekeeper almost as long as he’d been the head of the Middle East desk, and even though she had to be getting near retirement age, she seemed as sharp as ever.

Not only did she have an uncanny ability to remember the dates and details of Middle East operations going back for several years, she also knew what was going on with any Agency personnel assigned to Carlton.

“Thank you for asking, Titus. I’m doing fine. Well, actually, I’m doing better than fine. I just had another grandchild.” She picked up her phone, swiped through a screen, and turned it around so I could see the picture on it. “This is Clara Jean Hartford. Isn’t she gorgeous?”

I looked down at the chubby-cheeked, smiling baby, who had the bluest eyes I’d ever seen, and said, “Yes, she is, and she’s very fortunate to have you as her grandmother.”

“Oh, that’s so sweet of you.” She placed her phone back down on her desk and gestured toward me. “So tell me how you’re enjoying being a father. Is it what you expected it would be?”

“To be honest, I didn’t give the whole thing much thought before we adopted Eleanor, but now that I have the responsibility for someone who’s calling me ‘Daddy,’ I find it a little scary.”

She shook her head. “No, that can’t be true. I can’t believe someone who spent time in a Beirut prison, lived undercover in Iran for two years, and had a terrorist put a gun to his head in Baghdad is afraid of a little girl who’s as precious as Eleanor.”

Although this wasn’t the direction I had planned for my conversation with Sally Jo to go, I decided to run with it and see if we could arrive at my destination anyway.

I said, “Yeah, that’s weird, isn’t it? I suppose what scares me the most is doing anything that might disappoint her. When she’s expecting me to do something, the thought that I might not be able to meet those expectations terrifies me.”

“I can understand that feeling, but I know you’re a good father, so I’m sure you’ll always find a way to keep your promises.”

“I hope so, but when I talked to Eleanor this morning, she told me she’s counting on me being home for Thanksgiving, and now that I have this assignment, I’m worried that won’t happen.”

I paused a moment, and then I popped the question. “Do you know what kind of schedule Douglas has in mind for this operation? A week? Two weeks?”

“Um . . . let’s see.” She glanced over at her computer. “I don’t believe he included a timeline as part of the mission’s objective.” She studied her screen for a moment. “No, there’s nothing there.”

“I guess it’s open-ended then.”

“Yes, probably so.” She looked thoughtful for a moment. “But you should check with Douglas about that. After he met with Laila Dinari, he told me she needed to be back in Paris for a modeling job as soon as this assignment was over, so he probably has at least some idea of how long the operation will take.”

“Okay, thanks. I’ll do that.”

She looked over at the clock on the wall. “You should probably get going, Titus. I appreciate your dropping by to say hello, but you know how Douglas is about starting a briefing on time. And he’s gonna be even more concerned about it at this briefing.”

“Really? Why is that?”

“He just heard the DDO will be there.”

“Uh . . . okay. You’re right. I better get going.”

As I hurried back down the hallway toward the elevators, I asked myself why Jake Easton, the Deputy Director of Operations, was sitting in on the briefing.

Was he concerned about the operation?

Or was it something else?

Chapter 6

The Ops Center, located in the basement level of the Old Headquarters Building, consisted of six Real Time Management (RTM) Centers, labeled A through E.

Each RTM Center had its own state-of-the-art Command Center where an active operation was managed and monitored under an RTM director and an Agency division head.

In addition, each RTM Center had a conference room, employee breakroom, staff offices, and restrooms.

After I got off the elevator and was heading down the hallway to where my briefing was to take place in RTM Center B, I passed a Visitor Escort Officer coming toward me, so I figured he was returning from taking Laila and Talbot to Conference Room B.

When the guy smiled as we passed each other, his facial expression reminded me of Mitchell, and it was at that moment that I suddenly realized I hadn’t told Mitchell that we’d be working with two Agency assets on this operation.

Since I usually made it a practice to give him a heads-up about any preliminary information Carlton shared with me, I couldn’t believe I hadn’t remembered to do it until I was walking into our briefing.

I didn’t have time to be introspective about it, because as soon as I stepped inside the room, Mitchell immediately motioned me over to the refreshment cart at the far end of the room, where he was pouring himself a cup of coffee.

“Hi, Ben, what’s up?” I asked, grabbing a Styrofoam cup.

He tilted his head in the direction of the conference table, where Carlton was in his usual spot on the left side of the table, with the DDO seated on his right. On the other side of the table, directly opposite the two of them, were Laila and Talbot.

There were about a dozen other people in the room, including Olivia at a computer console behind Carlton. I also saw the head of the Legends department, two people from Legal, and three Agency analysts. All three of them were huddled around Katherine Broward, the head of the Analysis and Strategic Assessment (ASA) division.

“Do you see that man and woman seated across from Douglas?” Mitchell asked. When I nodded, he said, “I think they must be part of our operational team, but they’re wearing visitor badges, so I know they’re not employed by the Agency.”

“You’ve got the facts right,” I said, taking a sip of my coffee, “and your observation skills are on point, but you’ve jumped to the wrong conclusion.”

He frowned. “Does that mean you know who they are?”

“Yes, they stayed at The Meadows last night, so I was able to get acquainted with them.” Mitchell opened his mouth to say something, but I hurried on. “They aren’t full-time employees at the Agency, but they still work for the Agency. The woman has been an Agency asset for two years, and the man was personally recruited by Douglas for this operation.”

“Well then, why didn’t you—”

Before he could finish his sentence, Carlton stood to his feet. “Ladies and Gentlemen, it’s ten o’clock and time to begin the briefing. If everyone will take a seat, we’ll get started.”

As we walked over to the conference table, Mitchell leaned over and whispered, “I can’t wait to hear your excuse for why you didn’t tell me about them.”

I figured I had two hours to think of one.

* * * *

I took the chair on Talbot’s left—Laila was seated on his right side—and Mitchell sat down next to me on my left.

As soon as we were seated, I looked across the table and nodded at Jake Easton, who gave me a brief smile.

His smile didn’t seem genuine. In fact, it looked phony—like he was forcing it—but since I hadn’t had a lot of experience reading Jake Easton’s moods, I wasn’t sure about that.

Until a month ago, when the Director appointed Easton to the DDO position, he’d been the head of the Russian desk, and since I’d only participated in two operations involving the Russians, I hadn’t had that much contact with him.

After his promotion, I’d gotten to know Easton a little better. Even so, I was still undecided whether he’d eventually be a better DDO than Robert Ira was.

Deputy Ira had held the position for over a decade, but he’d recently been forced to resign when the Agency’s Inspector General uncovered evidence he’d been abusing his position for several years.

I wasn’t sorry when Robert Ira left the building—we’d clashed on more than one occasion—but at least he’d had experience in the Middle East, knew all the players, and spoke Arabic and Hebrew.

Easton, on the other hand, was a novice when it came to that part of the world, and as far as I knew, he only spoke English and Russian.

Carlton began the briefing by reciting his usual opening—he told everyone he was an organized person so he conducted his briefings in an organized fashion—and then, after reminding everyone the briefing was being recorded, he picked up an index card and read the official log-on so the recording could be identified in the archives.

“Douglas Carlton with Deputy Easton and Olivia McConnell, at the briefing of covert operatives, Titus Ray and Ben Mitchell, along with assets, Elias Talbot and Laila Dinari. Code 936218.”

After placing the card back on the table and straightening a two-inch stack of papers in front of him, he turned to his right and said, “We’re honored to have our new DDO, Jake Easton, in attendance today. Welcome, Deputy Easton.”

“Thank you, Douglas. I’m happy to be here.”

“Would you like to say a word before we get started?”

Easton shook his head. “No, I’d rather address the operational team at the end of the briefing.”

I wasn’t surprised Carlton looked relieved to hear this.

The truth was, my boss was somewhat of a control freak, especially in the way he conducted his briefings.

No matter who was present—whether there were representatives from the White House or personnel from other intelligence agencies—he was adamant about adhering to his own unique agenda, an agenda he usually announced when he began the briefing.

“Thank you, Deputy Easton,” Carlton said. “We’ll look forward to hearing your remarks at the end. The first item I have on my agenda is to introduce the four members of our operational team.”

After he gestured across the table at us, he glanced behind him at Olivia. “However, there’s one other team member who’ll be joining us remotely from Cairo, so Olivia, would you get him connected now?”

When Carlton said we were about to have another team member join us remotely, I saw Mitchell turn and stare at me. Although it took me a few seconds, I finally realized he was observing my facial expression to see if I knew about this person like I’d known about Laila and Talbot.

I didn’t have a clue, but I did notice Carlton said “team member” and not “operational team member.”

There was a big difference.

If the person wasn’t on my operational team, then during the operation, they wouldn’t be taking instructions from me; instead, they’d be taking them from Carlton.

After Olivia hit a few keystrokes, she motioned toward a widescreen monitor mounted on the wall at the end of the room where a blue screen flashed a couple of times, and then an image appeared.

As soon as it came into focus, I recognized the individual seated in front of the camera in what appeared to be a room in a high-rise building overlooking a large city. I assumed the city was Cairo, although I didn’t recognize any landmarks outside the windows.

The individual’s name was Drue Sloan.

The last time I’d seen Sloan was five years ago when I was assigned to make contact with a member of the Jordanian delegation at the Arab Summit in Cairo.

At the time, Sloan had just been named the CIA’s Chief of Station (COS) in Egypt, but despite his short tenure, I’d been impressed by his knowledge of terrorist groups in the area, and the relationships he was already building with influential government officials.

If he was Carlton’s “other team member,” then I was good with it.

“Good morning, Drue,” Carlton said, “or I guess I should say afternoon.”

Sloan’s deep blue eyes scanned the room for a few seconds, lingering on me for a brief moment, and then he smiled and said, “Yes, it’s afternoon here in Cairo. Seven hours’ difference between us, and I’m betting there’s a big difference in temperature where you are.”

“Yeah, it’s a little chilly here today,” Carlton said, but then he hurried on as if he thought Sloan might want to continue the banter. “Now that you’ve joined us, I’m ready to introduce everyone.”

I understood why Carlton cut Sloan off from engaging in further small talk. I immediately knew from my first encounter with Sloan that he was someone who liked to talk, enjoyed participating in discussions, and was energized by connecting with people—all excellent attributes to have as a station chief.

After Sloan greeted the DDO, Carlton motioned at me. “The primary officer in charge of the operation will be Titus Ray.”

I lifted my hand to acknowledge my role.

“Thank you, Titus,” Carlton said, “Seated next to Titus is—”

“Hi, Titus,” Sloan said, interrupting him. “It’s nice to see you. I’m looking forward to us working together again.”

“Same here, Drue. You’re looking good.”

I wasn’t just being nice.

When Sloan and I met five years ago, I thought he was a nice-looking guy, but now that his dark hair was almost completely gray, and his neatly trimmed beard had a similar salt-and-pepper look, he looked downright distinguished.

Carlton cleared his throat.

Sloan said, “I apologize, Douglas. I shouldn’t have interrupted you.”

“Apology accepted. As I was saying, seated next to Titus is Ben Mitchell, the secondary officer in charge of the mission. Like Titus, he’s a Level 1 intelligence officer.”

Mitchell followed my lead and raised his hand when Carlton said his name. Next, Carlton turned his attention to Laila and Talbot.

If the silence in the room was any indication, everyone was anxiously awaiting an explanation of who the unknown man and woman were at the table.

I suspected they might have been even more curious about Laila than they were about Talbot, simply because of the way Laila was dressed. The outfit she’d chosen to wear to the briefing was a bright emerald-green pantsuit with wide-leg trousers. The suit jacket was unstructured, so it was draped over her slender frame almost like a cloak. Underneath the jacket, she had on a beige silk blouse. Her black, pointy-toe heels were at least three inches tall.

Although Talbot’s look was less dramatic, he still drew attention, not only because of his long blond hair, but also because he had on a tailored off-white jacket over a slightly wrinkled blue linen shirt and a pair of slim black jeans. His skinny jeans emphasized his expensive leather loafers, which he was wearing without socks.

Carlton said, “The last two members of our operational team are Laila Dinari and Elias Talbot, two Agency assets who’ll play an important role in this operation.” He nodded in their direction. “Welcome to Langley. We’re happy to have both of you with us today.”

Laila and Talbot smiled as several people in the room murmured words of welcome.

However, when I glanced in Easton’s direction, he didn’t look nearly as pleased as Carlton did. His displeasure seemed to be focused on Laila, although I wasn’t sure Carlton noticed it.

“Laila’s a fashion model who’s originally from Morocco,” Carlton said. “She lives in Paris now, and she began working with the Agency two years ago during an operation in Dubai.”

Laila nodded her head at this description, and then Carlton turned his attention to Talbot. “Elias is a fashion photographer, but he began his career in the news industry, where he worked with print journalists who were reporting on major stories around the world. I recruited Elias for this specific assignment, although he assured me he might be willing to work with us on future assignments as well.”

Talbot chuckled. “To be determined. We’ll see how this goes.”

“Of course,” Carlton said, and then he turned towards the monitor where Sloan could be seen looking at something over his left shoulder. “Lastly, I’d like to introduce you to Drue Sloan, who’s the Agency’s Chief of Station in Egypt.”

Sloan immediately turned back toward the camera. “Sorry. Elsa distracted me for a moment.” He quickly held up his hand. “Not to worry. There’s no one in my apartment but me. My cat’s name is Elsa.”

Evidently, the cat responded to hearing her name, and moments later, a ball of white fur suddenly appeared on Sloan’s lap.

A few chuckles, along with some “oohs” and “aahs,” could be heard in the conference room, and when I looked to see how Carlton would respond to this disruption, I was surprised to hear him say, “Elsa’s a beautiful cat. What kind is she?”

“She’s a Persian. I’ve had her for a couple of years now.” Sloan turned Elsa’s face toward the camera so we could see her large copper-colored eyes, which seemed to be looking at us disdainfully. “She thinks she’s the queen around here.”

As if to confirm this, Elsa lifted one delicate paw toward the camera and let out a soft purr. Her actions caused Carlton to get back to what he’d been saying when he was introducing Sloan.

“Uh . . . okay, so now that you’ve met Drue . . . along with his cat, the only thing I need to add is that Drue will be acting as the Agency field officer when our operational team is in Egypt. His responsibilities will be to provide logistics, information, and support to the mission.”

While Carlton was speaking, Elsa jumped off Sloan’s lap, so when he finished, Sloan said, “I apologize again for the distraction, Douglas.”

“Not a problem,” Carlton said. “Cats can be very unpredictable.”

Although he sounded like he was speaking from experience, as far as I knew, Carlton didn’t own a cat, and he never had, which made me wonder if he was subconsciously referring to the operation and not the cat.

I figured that was possible because the next thing he said was, “And now, that brings us to the rest of the agenda.”

Chapter 7

Carlton said the next item on the agenda was an explanation of the mission, which would be followed by the mission’s objective, and after that, he would go into the protocols of how the mission would be accomplished.

After glancing down at his stack of papers for a second, he looked up and said, “Although I know you’re anxious to hear the objective of the operation, and how the protocols will play out, none of it will make sense until you hear an explanation of why the DDO and I decided to send a team to Cairo, so I’ve asked the head of our ASA division, Katherine Broward, to bring that presentation.”

Katherine, who was seated near the end of the table, stood to her feet, picked up her remote mouse, and turned toward a second monitor mounted on the wall opposite the one displaying Sloan’s video feed.

Before she started speaking, she pushed aside a strand of her honey-blond hair and smiled at Carlton. “Thank you, Douglas. I appreciate the opportunity to talk about some of the hard work my team and I have been doing.”

“We’re always anxious to hear your reports, Katherine.”

I noticed both Laila and Talbot looked amused at this exchange.

They probably thought Katherine was flirting with Carlton.

They wouldn’t have been wrong.

However, flirting with single men was in Katherine’s DNA and shouldn’t be taken seriously.

I’d learned that a long time ago after dating her for a few months.

Thankfully, our breakup had been amicable, and today, I considered her a good friend.

Katherine pointed her remote mouse at the screen, clicked it once, and the words, “Harakat al-Jadid”, appeared in bold black letters on a light blue background. One more click and “Khalifa al-Jadid” showed up beneath it.

Katherine said, “Harakat al-Jadid, which means New Movement in Arabic, is a Sunni Muslim militant group that began in Egypt around the 1990s. Until recently, it didn’t have more than three hundred members. However, two years ago, they welcomed a new member from Turkey by the name of Omar al-Hakim, and six months later, he became their new leader. Subsequently, he changed the name of the organization to Khalifa al-Jadid, or New Caliphate. Today, Khalifa, as they call themselves, has over twenty thousand followers, and they’re adding to those numbers daily.”

Katherine moved to her next slide, which displayed two images—one was a photograph, and the other was a picture of a cloth emblem, the kind worn on a uniform or an arm band.

The photograph showed an older man seated at an outdoor café. “This is the most recent photo we have of Omar al-Hakim. It was taken by one of Drue’s operatives last week.”

Sloan spoke up. “That’s a good likeness of al-Hakim. I’ve seen him in person when he spoke at an event at Al-Azhar University.”

Katherine nodded and continued. “My analysts have prepared an extensive biography of Omar al-Hakim, but here are some of the highlights. Al-Hakim was born in Cairo to a prominent family of Islamic scholars and received his degree in Islamic jurisprudence at Al-Azhar University in Cairo. He then spent several years in Damascus, Syria, but moved to Istanbul, Turkey, during the Syrian Civil War. It was while he was in Istanbul that he became a dynamic speaker and began advocating for a return to Sunni dominance in Islam.”

“Excuse me, Katherine,” Carlton said. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to interrupt you to give a word of explanation for those in the room who aren’t familiar with the two branches of Islam. I realize this will not be new to most of you.”

Although Carlton didn’t single him out, I suspected he was referring to Elias Talbot. Since Laila grew up in Morocco, a Muslim country, I figured she didn’t need an explanation.

Carlton said, “Even though all Muslims share the same beliefs about Islam and follow the Quran and the teachings of Muhammad, a split occurred after Muhammad’s death some 1400 years ago when a disagreement arose over who would succeed him. The Sunnis, who were in the majority, wanted to elect a leader from among the people, whereas the Shias believed the leader should be a descendant of Muhammad. That division continues today.”

“Thank you, Douglas,” Katherine said. “I probably should have included that note in my presentation. I’ll add to what Douglas said by pointing out that the Shias today are mostly concentrated in Iran, Iraq, Syria, and Yemen, whereas the Sunnis are in Egypt, Saudi Arabia, and the Gulf states. As you might expect, the two factions have been feuding to gain dominance over each other for years, and until recently, Iran and their militant group, Hezbollah, have been winning that fight, whereas Egypt and Saudi Arabia have been losing ground.”

Katherine used a laser pointer on her remote mouse and flashed a red light on the photograph of Omar al-Hakim. “Al-Hakim left Turkey two years ago and moved back to Cairo with the expressed intention of creating a Sunni organization in Egypt which would be as powerful as the Shia militant group, Hezbollah, is in Iran. As of this moment, he appears to be well on his way to doing that.”

After describing what the Agency had learned about how Khalifa was gaining membership, she pointed to the second image on the screen and said, “Khalifa members identify themselves with this symbol of their organization, which, as you can see, uses black, green, and gold, the traditional Islamic colors, along with the crescent and gold sword as its central elements. This Arabic lettering on the bottom of the emblem is their name, Khalifa al-Jadid.”

When Katherine asked if there were any questions from anyone before she went on to her next slide, she looked a little surprised when Talbot asked, “So who’s financing this Khalifa group? Is the Egyptian government behind it or does Omar al-Hakim have the backing of the Saudis? I know they must have some kind of financing.”

Katherine smiled and looked over at Deputy Easton. “Maybe you should hire this guy to be one of our analysts. He obviously has the most important qualification of knowing how to ask good questions.”

The DDO nodded. “I’ll get right on it, Katherine.”

She let out a short laugh, and then she gestured at Talbot. “The reason that’s a good question is that a terrorist organization has to have an enormous amount of money to be successful, so the key to gaining insight into Khalifa is to find out the source of their income.”

She glanced down at her laptop for a moment, and then once she tapped her touchpad, she looked up at the monitor and said, “I’ll skip ahead to this slide so you can see what I mean.”

Katherine’s next slide was a bullet-point listing of the various funding sources that Khalifa was using. They included direct donations from wealthy individuals, funds solicited through various social media accounts, assets stolen from businesses and residences, and resources diverted from accounts handled by corrupt Egyptian government officials.

“However, one of the most lucrative sources of funding for Khalifa was something we weren’t expecting to find. I’m talking about the sale of stolen Egyptian artifacts and treasures, most of which have been taken from archaeological digs, but some of which have been stolen from private collections as well. Once acquired, these are smuggled out of the country by black-market dealers and sold for millions of dollars.”

She displayed a slide with three different images of ancient artifacts on it. Using her laser pointer, she drew an imaginary red circle around each one as she described it.

“This artifact, the Golden Mask of Seshat, the Egyptian goddess of writing and wisdom, was sold at a private auction in Switzerland for five and a half million dollars. And this beautiful piece, the Ivory Scepter of Sobek, the Egyptian god of water and fertility, was purchased in Hong Kong through a dark web marketplace for three million dollars. The last one, the Amethyst Amulet of Neferet, which legend says was worn by Queen Neferet, was auctioned off in London to a private buyer for two and a half million dollars.”

Katherine turned toward Carlton. “Should I stop here?”

“Yes, Katherine, and thank you. Once I get to the protocols, you can continue your presentation. But now, it’s time for us to move on to the next agenda item, which is the mission’s objective.”

Personally, I had yet to figure out how a fashion model, an emerging terrorist organization, and stolen ancient Egyptian artifacts could possibly come together to form a viable covert operation.

I didn’t doubt they could, but it was still a mystery to me.

I figured Carlton was about to solve that mystery.

* * * *

Unlike Katherine, who ran her own presentation, Carlton had Olivia do it for him, and the first slide she put up had Mission Objective on it but nothing else.

However, the moment Carlton picked up a sheet of paper from his stack of papers and began reading the objective out loud, Olivia put each word up on the screen as he read it out loud.

“Your mission objective is to gather intel on the Khalifa al-Jadid organization, their funding sources, personnel, and organizational structure, with the purpose of determining what kind of threat they pose to the world and especially to U. S. interests.”

Carlton turned away from the screen and looked directly at me. “Although this objective looks simple enough, it’s anything but simple, which is why the means to achieve this objective has required some creativity.”

He motioned at Olivia, who put up the next slide.

The slide had “Operation Buried Dagger” in bold black letters.

“The name I’ve chosen for this operation is Operation Buried Dagger. I selected it for a couple of reasons. First, part of your mission will involve your presence at an archaeological dig, hence the word ‘buried.’ Second, a golden dagger will be the means for you to gain the attention of the leadership of the Khalifa organization, and hopefully, if all goes well, it will enable you to gather intel on them.”

As usual, when Carlton was briefing for an operation, he took his time getting to the gist of the actual operation. He finally got there when he announced, “It’s time now to move on to the protocols.”

After he nodded at Olivia, she put up the next slide, which simply had Phase One and Phase Two on it.

This was a little unusual, because ordinarily, Carlton had three protocols, and most of the time, he used alliteration to help everyone remember them.

“Operation Buried Dagger has two phases to it,” Carlton said. “In the first phase, the four of you,” he paused and gestured toward the operational team, “will be concentrating on the target, which will be the leadership of Khalifa. Whether or not you move on to the second phase will depend on the success of the first phase.”

“So I guess this means I’m not involved in Phase One,” Sloan said.

“You won’t be involved directly, but you’ll have a supportive role.”

“Okay, I was just checking to see if anything had changed.”

Carlton ignored his comment and continued. “Phase One has two parts to it. The first part is ‘Enticing the Target’ and the second part is ‘Engaging the Target.’ In essence, these are the most important elements of the mission.”

While Carlton was speaking, Olivia clicked forward to the next slide, which had “Phase One—Enticing the Target” as the heading.

Directly underneath the heading was a photograph of an archaeological dig. The centerpiece of the photo was a cluster of rectangular excavation pits with narrow ladders leading down to the actual dig. Wooden planks stabilized the sides of the pits.

Around the perimeter were makeshift shelters of white canvas on wooden frames, providing shade for the workers who were gathered around long tables. From what I could tell, they were examining a bunch of broken pottery.

Workers could also be seen hauling buckets of sand to a huge mound close to where several vehicles were parked. In the background was a towering pyramid with a large group of people gathered around its base.

Although it was only intended to be an image for intel purposes, the person taking it had managed to create a beautiful photograph of the archaeological site due to the vibrant mixture of colors—from the reddish-brown dirt in the excavation pits, to the sun-bleached sand, to the golden sun against the vibrant blue of the cloudless sky.

“I told you your mission will involve some creativity,” Carlton said, “and this is what I meant by that. The photograph you’re looking at is the El-Qasr Expedition, an archaeological dig at Dahshur, located outside of Cairo. Since the objective of your mission is to make contact with the leadership of Khalifa, and we’ve learned several of the stolen artifacts they’ve been selling on the black market have come from this site, we’ve devised a plan that we believe will entice someone from Khalifa to make contact with you.”

Carlton paused and motioned to his left where Josh Kellerman, the head of the Agency’s Legends division was seated. “I’ll turn the briefing over to Josh now, and after he presents the operational team with their cover stories, I’ll continue with the rest of Phase One.”

Kellerman, along with his large staff—makeup artists, document forgers, computer hackers, scientific whiz kids and more—was well respected in the Agency community. This was especially true among covert operatives like me who depended on his Legends division to provide me with an airtight cover story, one that assured me I’d make it back to Langley in one piece.

When Kellerman stood up, he grabbed two brown manila envelopes out of a briefcase in front of him, and then he walked around to where Mitchell and I were sitting and placed them in front of us. “Go ahead and open those, and then I’ll explain what’s inside.”

As we followed his instructions, he walked back to his seat, where he opened up his laptop, typed something on his keyboard, and picked up a remote mouse.

Meanwhile, I removed a navy-blue passport with the seal of the United Arab Emirates on it, along with a stack of business cards, and a couple of glossy brochures promoting a real estate company.

The brochures and business cards were from Farouq Luxury Developments, a commercial real estate company in Dubai, United Arab Emirates, and the name on the business card was Zayd Farouq. Underneath Zayd’s name was the word, “Owner”. The same name appeared on the passport on the right side of the second page.

However, on the left side was my photograph.

Once Kellerman saw us opening our envelopes, he pointed his remote mouse at the screen and clicked once.

A five-story modern-looking building appeared. Farouq Luxury Developments was prominently displayed on a column at the front entrance. “When Titus arrives in Cairo,” Kellerman said, “he’ll be Zayd Farouq, the owner of Farouq Luxury Developments, a commercial real estate company in Dubai, United Arab Emirates.”

Kellerman gestured toward Mitchell who was studying his passport. “Ben will be Mahmoud bin Hassan, the Vice President of Finance at the same company.”

Mitchell said, “I guess that means Titus is my boss.”

Kellerman nodded. “Uh-huh, that’s what it means.”

I looked over at Mitchell and smiled.

He shrugged. “So what’s new about that?”

Although I saw a few smiles around the table, Kellerman, who didn’t have much of a sense of humor, continued with his presentation. “My staff has prepared an in-depth biography that you’ll each need to memorize, and a printout of it will be in your Kit, along with the appropriate clothing to go along with your identities. As usual, you’ll pick up your Kit in my department after the briefing.”

Anything an operative needed to authenticate his or her cover story was called a Kit. More often than not, it consisted of clothing, toiletries, money, credit cards, photographs, and in some cases, books and documents. Occasionally, other items were included, such as cameras, medical supplies, and computers.

Kellerman turned his attention to Laila and Talbot. “I really hope you like who you are, because when you arrive in Cairo, that’s who you’ll be. That is, you won’t have a false identity. The only thing my department has developed for you is the phony cover story of what you’ll be doing in Cairo.”

Talbot said, “I’m not a very good actor, but I believe I can play myself.”

Kellerman just nodded, but I noticed Katherine gave Talbot a smile. “Laila, the reason you’ll say you’re in Cairo is to participate in a photo shoot for Verve magazine for a special edition they’re doing called ‘A Modern Tribute to Ancient Beauty.’ As you’ve probably already guessed, Elias will be your photographer, and he’ll be taking pictures of you at the archaeological dig which Douglas just showed you.”

“What clothes will I be wearing?” Laila asked.

At first, I found her question amusing—although I tried not to let it show—but then I realized the clothes she modeled were like the tools of her trade, and it only made sense that she’d be interested in what she had to work with.

Kellerman was totally prepared with an answer.

He gave her the names of several designers and told her she’d have two suitcases full of their spring collection in her Kit.

As for Talbot’s camera equipment, Talbot said he’d be happy to look at what the Agency had for him, but he’d probably prefer to use his own equipment, which Kellerman said was completely acceptable.

When he turned the briefing back over to Carlton, the DDO leaned over and whispered something in Carlton’s ear, at which point, he looked down at his watch and said, “We’ll take a brief fifteen-minute break, and when we return, I’ll give you the details of how you’ll use your cover stories to carry out this assignment.”

I was glad to have the break.

I needed to satisfy my curiosity.

That was the reason I followed Olivia out of the conference room.

Chapter 8

I caught up with Olivia as she entered her office across the hall from the conference room. She looked startled to see me.

“Are you following me?” she asked.

“Yes, I am.”

She rolled her eyes, but then she motioned for me to have a seat, while she walked over and sat down behind her desk.

“What do you want to know?”

She wasn’t looking at me as she asked the question. Instead, she had her eyes on her computer screen, and she was using her mouse to scroll through what appeared to be her emails.

“Who said I wanted anything? Maybe I just wanted to say hello.”

She shook her head. “No, you want something. What is it? I’m betting it’s some kind of unimportant detail about your assignment.”

“You know I don’t consider any detail about my assignment unimportant. But no, I don’t want anything from you, except your opinion.”

She stopped what she was doing and gave me her attention. “My opinion about what?”

“Why do you think the DDO showed up at our briefing today?”

“That’s it?” When I nodded, she said, “When Robert Ira was the DDO, he sometimes showed up at a briefing. Why shouldn’t Jake?”

“Deputy Ira only came to briefings when the White House sent a representative to a high-priority operation, or when he decided to drop by for some other self-serving reason.”

“Yeah, that’s true. All I know is that Douglas wasn’t expecting Jake to be there today because I was in the room when they both signed off on the protocols, and Jake didn’t mention it, so my best guess is that he’s bothered by someone on the operational team.”

“Could it be Laila?”

She let out a sigh. “Why are you asking my opinion if you already know the answer?”

“I don’t know the answer. All I know is that the expression on Jake’s face when he looks at her seems hostile, so I thought you might have some insight into what’s going on with him.”

“See? You do want something from me. You think I know something about the DDO that would explain his feelings about Laila Dinari, and you want me to tell you what it is.”

“So you do know something?”

She sat back in her chair, crossed her arms, and glared at me for a few seconds. “The only reason I’m going to answer your question—and I really shouldn’t because you’ve been your usual sneaky self about it—is that I trust you, so I know what I’m about to tell you won’t get me in trouble with anyone on the seventh floor.”

“You know you can always count on me to keep my mouth shut.”

She flipped her hand at me. “Of course I know that. Okay, so when Douglas and I were presenting the protocols to Jake, he seemed concerned about using two Agency assets on the operational team. But when Douglas questioned him about what was bothering him about it, it turned out he was only worried about Laila. He was suspicious of her because she was raised in an Islamic family, and he wasn’t comfortable using her in an operation whose purpose is to gain intel about an Islamic organization.”

“But she’s already been involved in other Agency operations, plus I know Gavin Barrett had her thoroughly vetted before the Agency took her on as an asset.”

“It sounds like someone’s been snooping around in the archives.” After I grinned at her, she said, “Yeah, I knew it. Since you mentioned Gavin Barrett, the DDO also questioned how Laila was recruited. He wondered if Gavin had personal feelings for her, and that’s why he got her involved in the Agency.”

“I actually asked myself that same question.”

“Well, Douglas said he didn’t think that was the case, and I thought Jake was satisfied with that answer. But maybe I was wrong about that.” She gestured towards me. “Okay, that’s it. That’s all I know.”

“Thanks, Olivia. I appreciate it.” I glanced down at my watch. “I guess we better get back to the briefing now.”

As we both stood up, she said, “Your turn. What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking Jake may have wanted to be at the briefing so he could observe Laila in person. He didn’t get to be the DDO without knowing how to read people, and I suspect if he doesn’t get a good vibe from her, he may want to revise the protocols.”

“Do you have a problem with Laila?”

“No. From what I can tell, she seems solid.”

“Then maybe you should convince the DDO of that.”

“Yeah, maybe I should.”

* * * *

When everyone was seated at the conference table again, Carlton instructed Olivia to put up the slide of the first protocol, “Enticing the Target,” on the screen again—the one with the photograph of the archaeological dig at Dahshur on it.

“Just to refresh everyone’s memory—what you’re looking at is the site where members of Khalifa have been able to steal several expensive artifacts to sell on the black market in order to finance their organization. Once Katherine showed me this information, I realized the best way to get the attention of Khalifa’s leadership would be to have someone who has a passion for ancient artifacts suddenly show up at the dig under the guise of making a donation to the project.”

Carlton turned away from the screen for a moment and looked over at me. “That someone will be you, Zayd Farouq.” He gestured at Mitchell. “Along with the person in charge of Farouq’s money, Mahmoud bin Hassan.”

I said, “Just to clarify, Douglas, how would Zayd showing up to make a donation get the attention of Khalifa’s leadership?”

“Katherine’s going to explain that now.”

When Katherine stood up, she waved her hand at Olivia, who frowned at her, but then she realized Katherine wanted her to remove the photograph of the dig from the screen.

Once she did that, Katherine said, “While I was doing research on who was buying stolen Egyptian treasures, I discovered many of them were wealthy billionaires from Arab countries like Saudi Arabia and the UAE. They usually expressed their interest by visiting an archaeological dig and offering to make a donation. However, when they spoke to the director of the site, they often shared with him the artifacts they were hoping to add to their collection one day.”

Katherine clicked her remote mouse, and what showed up on the screen were three photographs of the same man, although he was in a different location in each picture. He appeared to be of Egyptian descent, in his late fifties, with a weather-beaten face.

Katherine said, “This is Dr. Amir Chafik, the director of the dig at Dahshur. While I haven’t been able to find any evidence that he’s involved in the theft, whenever he supervises a dig, several artifacts have a way of disappearing or being misplaced, especially specific artifacts his donors have expressed an interest in owning.”

When Katherine moved on to the next slide, she displayed what appeared to be a list of five items written on the professional stationery of Farouq Luxury Developments.

While I was trying to read them, Katherine looked over at me. “Titus, this is a list of ancient Egyptian treasures Zayd Farouq collects. You’ll find this list in your Kit, and when you visit the site at Dahshur, you’ll discreetly hand the list over to Dr. Chafik, along with a check for ten thousand dollars, which you’ll emphasize is a donation for his archaeological dig.”

“Will I find that check in my Kit?” I asked.

She smiled. “Yes, but it’s a certified check made out to the El-Qasr Expedition, so you can rest easy about that.”

“So if I’m hearing you correctly, I won’t be accused of buying my daughter a pony if that check disappears.”

Katherine, along with a few others in the room, chuckled at my attempt at humor, and I saw Carlton, who had a soft spot for Eleanor, even join in with them.

After Katherine went over the list, she returned to the second item, ceremonial daggers. “At this particular dig, they’re hoping to find the dagger of Thutmose III, a pharaoh from the Eighteenth Dynasty. It’s called the Golden Dagger, and they’re sure it exists because it appears on the wall paintings and reliefs in some of the nearby tombs.”

She moved on to the next slide, which showed depictions of the Golden Dagger on several tombs near the Dahshur dig. After she gave us a moment to study them, she changed the slide, and the next image she displayed caused a collective gasp in the room.

It appeared to be the Golden Dagger itself.

However, it wasn’t at the excavation site.

The man holding the dagger up to the camera was standing in one of the rooms in the CIA’s Science, Engineering, and Technology (SET) Department located in the building next to the Ops Center.

The dagger’s blade appeared to be crafted from gold, and the handle on it was inlaid with a variety of precious stones, some of which appeared to be rubies and emeralds.

The dagger had to be worth a small fortune.

If it was real.

Katherine said, “From your reaction, I’m assuming your first impression of this photograph was that you were looking at the Golden Dagger in all of its beauty. That’s good. However, it’s not true. What you’re looking at is a replica of the dagger created by our SET Department here at the Agency.”

Katherine spent a couple of minutes showing us photographs of how the SET technicians were able to make the fake Golden Dagger by working from pictures taken of the tomb drawings at the Dahshur excavation site, along with descriptions of it in historical writings.

“A week ago, this dagger replica was delivered to one of our Agency operatives in Cairo, and I’m sure Douglas will be telling you more about how it will be used in your operation in a moment.”

“Yes,” Carlton said, “that’s the next thing on the agenda, but first, go ahead and finish your presentation about what you and your analysts uncovered about Khalifa’s smuggling operation.”

Katherine nodded. “I admit this was exciting. We were able to track what happened to one of the artifacts taken from the Dahshur site.”

The next slide Katherine showed us had two images displayed as insets on a map. It was a map that had an arrow leading from Cairo, Egypt, to Riyadh, Saudi Arabia, a distance of two thousand miles.

One of the inset images on the map was a gold cuff bracelet engraved with hieroglyphs, and the other was a photograph of a man with a dark beard.

“This is the artifact,” she said, pointing to the bracelet. “It was uncovered at the dig at Dahshur two weeks ago, and although I won’t go into the details of how one of our people was able to do it, he embedded a tiny GPS microchip—no bigger than a pinhead—into one of the links on the bracelet, so we could track its location.”

Katherine explained the day after they tagged the bracelet, it left the site, and a few hours later, it was in the hands of the person in the photograph, a black marketer named Saddik Barakat.

“We believe one of the lab techs at the excavation site—the person in charge of preserving and cataloging each item—passed the bracelet to a Khalifa member, who then delivered it to Saddik Barakat. From there it was sold to a collector in the Saudi capital of Riyadh. Naturally, the money Khalifa received for the bracelet went into the coffers of the terrorist organization, and I expect a small percentage of it went to the worker who stole the bracelet from the site.”

When Katherine paused for a moment to look down at her computer, I glanced over at Carlton, who was fidgeting with the papers in front of him—a sure sign he was getting anxious to get to his portion of the briefing.

I figured that was the reason he looked relieved when she announced she was turning the briefing back over to him.

Once Carlton thanked her, he looked over at Laila and Talbot. “By now, I’m sure you’re wondering why we’ve asked you to be part of Operation Buried Dagger. The easy answer is that we want the photo shoot you’ll be having at the excavation site to be a distraction to the workers there.”

Laila smiled. “You mean the way I distracted the Syrian delegation at the Arab Summit in Dubai during an international fashion show?”

“Yes, something similar to that, except this time, the distraction will take place over several days.”

Sloan spoke up. “I’m sorry, Douglas, but when you introduced me, I should have let you know that Rashid confirmed that Dr. Chafik told the staff he’d given permission for a fashion magazine to take pictures at the site for a few days.”

“Uh . . . okay, thank you, Drue. Yes, Dr. Chafik believes he’s been communicating with an editor at Verve, but of course, he’s been speaking with someone in our Legends department the whole time.”

Kellerman raised his hand and said, “We’ve also sent Dr. Chafik an official letter on Verve stationery confirming the agreement he made with the magazine for Laila and Elias to be present at the site. The only restriction he gave us was that no photographs are to be taken inside the excavation pits or in the other restricted areas.”

When Carlton pursed his lips briefly—along with running his hand over his bald head—I figured either Sloan or Kellerman had said something that upset him.

Seconds later, I realized what it was.

Sloan had mentioned a person named Rashid.

From what Sloan said, it was obvious he was someone working undercover at the Dahshur dig, but since Carlton hadn’t told us anything about Rashid yet, I figured he thought it was necessary to explain who he was now, even though he was planning to do it later.

Carlton turned to his left and said something to Olivia, and seconds later, a slide appeared on the screen with a man’s picture on it. “Since Drue brought up Rashid’s name, I suppose now is as good a time as any to brief you about him. This is Rashid Tadros, a Level 3 operative assigned to the Egyptian station. Two months ago, after he presented Dr. Chafik with a totally false, but extremely impressive, resume, Rashid was hired as one of the site coordinators at Dahshur. I’ll tell you about the role Rashid will play in Operation Buried Dagger in a moment, but each of you on the operational team should memorize his features now because he’ll be your contact at the excavation site.”

I figured Rashid was in his thirties. His sharp facial features and lighter skin tone made me wonder if either one of his parents had been of Egyptian descent. He had closely cropped dark hair, a high forehead, and a pencil-thin mustache. There was a one-inch scar above his right eyebrow.

I didn’t think I’d have any trouble recognizing him again.

Carlton had Olivia remove the picture of Rashid, and when the screen went blank, he motioned across the table at us and said, “I believe the best way to explain the sequence of events that we’d like to see unfold in Operation Buried Dagger is to show you a timeline of what we expect to happen when you arrive in Cairo tomorrow evening.”

As soon as he said “timeline,” Olivia displayed a slide with that heading, but instead of looking at the first bullet point of when we were expected to arrive in Cairo, I quickly ran my eyes down to the bottom of the slide, hoping to see when Carlton anticipated the operation would be over, and we’d be returning to Washington.

Since Thanksgiving was on November 28, I figured a couple of days before then would be plenty of time for me to make it to a family Thanksgiving.

However, the last bullet point on the page said, “November 23, possible Phase Two begins.”

Evidently, my family’s Thanksgiving depended on one word.

Possible.

Chapter 9

Carlton spent a few minutes explaining about the different departure and arrival times for the operational team.

He said Mitchell and I would be leaving for the airport immediately after our briefing to catch a direct flight to Dubai, UAE—a thirteen-hour flight—arriving at noon the following day. From there, we would fly directly to Cairo, arriving early in the evening.

Laila and Talbot would be on a flight to Paris later this evening, and three hours after their arrival in Paris, they would fly to Cairo, where their plane would touch down at approximately the same time as ours, although we wouldn’t have any contact with each other.

Carlton made sure Laila and Talbot understood that until Mitchell and I introduced ourselves to them as Mahmoud bin Hassan and Zayd Farouq at the Dahshur excavation site on Tuesday, they shouldn’t publicly acknowledge they knew us.

“All four of you will be staying at the Nile Grand Hotel in Cairo. These luxury accommodations will also serve to validate your cover stories. Titus, you and Mitchell will have a two-bedroom suite, and Laila and Elias will have separate rooms on the same floor.”

After Carlton gave us these details, he turned his attention to the timeline. It showed Mitchell and me—or rather Hassan and Farouq—arriving at the archaeological dig on Tuesday, where we had an appointment with Dr. Chafik, the director of the Dahshur site.

Carlton said, “Dr. Chafik has been communicating with you through email, so he’s expecting you.”

“Will I have a printout of those emails in my Kit?” I said.

“Oh, yes. You’ll need to be familiar with them. The main thing you’ll notice is that you’ve hinted your purpose in visiting the site is to make a contribution to keep his work going. However, while you’re there, you’ll also discuss your own personal antiquities collection with him.”

I asked, “Should I expect him to question me about the items on the list?”

“I’m sure he will, but you’ll find all the details about the items in your Kit, and fortunately, your long plane ride to Dubai will give you plenty of time to memorize the information.”

Mitchell smiled. “Since I’m just the money guy, I guess that means I can sleep most of the way.”

I shook my head. “Are you kidding? I expect my VP of finance to know just as much about my collection as I do.”

Carlton smiled briefly when Mitchell gave me a disgusted look, but then he continued. “The reason I’m sure Dr. Chafik will show interest in your list is that it includes ornamental daggers, and the day before you arrive, Rashid will pretend to find the fake Golden Dagger when he’s helping out in one of the excavation pits. Since we expect Dr. Chafik to question whether it’s a forgery or not, there’s a good chance he’ll ask your opinion about it when you show up on Tuesday. We also believe Dr. Chafik won’t announce the find until he’s sure the dagger is authentic.”

“I assume I should give him my expert opinion and tell him I believe it’s authentic.”

“Yes, absolutely, but you should also caution him not to announce it until he gets a second opinion.”

“Okay, I’ll make sure I do that.”

Carlton turned and addressed Laila and Talbot.

“While Titus and Ben are visiting with Dr. Chafik, someone on his staff will be giving you a tour of the site to scout out locations for the photo shoot. It doesn’t matter where you decide to take your pictures, as long as it’s close to where there are a lot of workers hanging around. We just want your presence there to draw as much attention as possible.”

“So I won’t be taking any pictures on Tuesday?” Talbot asked.

“No,” Carlton said, pointing at the timeline on the screen. “You’ll be doing that on Wednesday. That’s when the main event will take place at the dig.”

Talbot looked puzzled. “What do you mean by the main event?”

“By main event, I mean that’s when Rashid will secretly deliver the fake Golden Dagger to Titus, or rather to Zayd. Before I get to that, though, I have one more photograph I want you to see of the dig at Dahshur. It's crucial to your understanding of what’s happening there and will definitely affect your mission.”

The slide that appeared next showed a photograph of the location that looked similar to the previous one we’d seen with the pyramid in the background and the half-dozen or so excavation pits in the center of the picture.

However, this particular photograph was taken a short distance away from the dig, so it showed the perimeter around it, including four mobile trailers, along with two large tents.

I also saw another difference, which I figured Carlton wanted us to see. After he gave us a moment to study it, he motioned at Ben and me. “Would one of you like to comment on what you’re seeing?”

I waited a moment to see what Mitchell would say.

He didn’t disappoint me.

“Could you zoom in on those men in the right-hand corner?”

Olivia did as he requested, and then Mitchell said, “It looks like all the security personnel around the site are wearing armbands that identify them as belonging to Khalifa.”

“That’s right,” Carlton said. “Not only are they providing security at the site, we believe they’re also serving as lookouts and informing the leadership of Khalifa whenever there’s an important find at the dig.”

I said, “It looks like they’re also using the latest technology to keep their eyes on everything. Isn’t that a surveillance drone sitting on the ground there between those two guys by the big trailer?”

“Yes, it is, but we’re glad they have eyes everywhere, because when Rashid slips you the dagger at the site on Wednesday, it’s important to the success of the operation for them to see him do that.”

Sloan spoke up. “Rashid understands the mission’s objective, and I have no doubt he’ll make sure that happens.”

Carlton gave Sloan a nod and then he looked across the table at the four of us, although he only addressed me. “Okay, Titus, so here’s a summary of how we expect things to play out on Wednesday. When you and Ben arrive at the site, Elias and Laila will already be involved in the fashion shoot, which we expect will draw the attention of several workers. After you and Ben wander around the dig for a while, Rashid will approach you—making sure the Khalifa officers can see him—and when you follow him inside a cataloging tent, or whatever location he chooses, that’s when he’ll give you the Golden Dagger.”

“How will I keep it hidden?”

“Ben will have a messenger bag with him, and that’s where you’ll put it.” Carlton directed his attention to Mitchell. “Don’t worry, Ben, it won’t be considered unusual for a member of Zayd Farouq’s staff to carry a messenger bag with him wherever he goes, so be sure and take it with you whenever you leave your hotel room.”

I said, “So after I give Ben the dagger, and he puts it in his messenger bag, should we leave immediately?”

“No, stick around the dig a little longer. If the Khalifa officers observe the exchange between you and Rashid, then I expect you’ll see some indication of that. A couple of them may even follow you when you leave. What we hope will happen is that someone from Khalifa will make contact with you later in the day, or at least within the next twenty-four hours.”

I said, “And that’s because you think the leadership of Khalifa will see Farouq as someone who’s morally compromised enough to purchase stolen artifacts and thus support their movement?”

“Yes,” Carlton said. “And there’s another thing. When you study the biography our Legends department has put together on Zayd Farouq, you’ll see that he contributes regularly to Sunni Muslim schools in Dubai and sponsors scholarships for Sunni students at Dubai University, so it’s possible they’ll approach Zayd as a possible donor to their cause without ever mentioning they saw him take possession of the Golden Dagger. In that case, they may wait until later to bring it up with him.”

“So what happens after Titus gets their attention by stealing the Golden Dagger?” Sloan asked.

Carlton didn’t look pleased. “Uh . . . yes, Drue. I was just about to get to that.”

Sloan put his hand up to his forehead. “Oh, sorry. That question just popped in my head, and I had to get it out there.”

Carlton accepted his explanation with a quick nod, and then he said, “So now that you’ve enticed the target with the theft of the Golden Dagger, it’s time to go on to the second part of Phase One, ‘Engaging the Target.’ I’m sorry to say what happens next is difficult to predict, so I can’t give you many details.”

His statement didn’t surprise me.

Every operation had some unpredictability in it.

Unfortunately, more often than not, that element of unpredictability ended up being the most dangerous part of a mission.

* * * *

Carlton was right. His bullet points on “Engaging the Target” were broad in scope and short on details.

Instead of providing us with an action plan of what we should do to engage the Khalifa leadership once they made contact with Zayd, Carlton emphasized the three objectives he wanted us to accomplish: learn about Khalifa’s organizational structure, identify the members of their leadership council, and gain insight into their future activities—specifically, any terrorist acts they were planning.

“Because we have no way of knowing how or when the Khalifa organization will make contact with you,” Carlton said, “you’ll have to make decisions on the ground as the need arises. That’s the reason the DDO and I have agreed to sign an Operational Field Autonomy authorization for this operation.”

“Just to clarify,” I said, making eye contact with Easton, “you’re saying I’ll have OFA authorization during this entire mission. Do I have that right?”

Easton gave me a brief nod, and then Carlton said, “That’s right. Of course, we expect to be kept informed about what’s happening on the ground whenever possible, and since you’ll be using Agency satellite phones, your location will be on the Grid at all times.”

The Schematic Tracking Grid was a system the Agency used to monitor an operative’s location in the field by means of a sat phone. It functioned much like the location services in a regular cell phone, although the Agency’s technology was more advanced.

During an active operation, the Grid was prominently displayed on one of the high-definition monitors in the RTM Command Center, and each operative involved in the mission was represented on the Grid by a pulsating blue dot with their initials on it.

I said, “I assure you; I’ll make every effort to keep you informed.”

Easton looked slightly amused. “You wouldn’t be operating under an OFA authorization if we didn’t believe that.”

Mitchell cleared his throat, which usually indicated he was about to say something, but then he must have changed his mind, because he leaned back in his chair and stayed quiet.

While Carlton was telling Olivia which slide he wanted next, I used the opportunity to glance over at Mitchell, who looked puzzled and mouthed the word, “What?”

I shrugged and turned my attention back to Carlton.

“At the beginning of our briefing, I mentioned Operation Buried Dagger has two phases to it. The implementation of Phase Two will depend on whether or not you’re able to achieve the objectives of Phase One.”

He motioned at Olivia, and when the Phase Two slide appeared, it contained only three words, “Identify Potential Assets.”

“Depending on how successful you are at engaging with the leadership of Khalifa, and if you’re able to spend time with any individual member, your objective in Phase Two will be to identify a member of Khalifa who might be open to receiving compensation for giving us information about the organization, or who might already be disenchanted with the group’s goals and be willing to work with us to sabotage their efforts.”

When Easton added his own commentary to what Carlton said about identifying potential CIA assets, I suddenly realized it wasn’t Carlton who had decided to break the protocols up into Phase One and Phase Two.

It was Easton.

Carlton must have intended for Phase One to be the protocols for the operation, and then when Easton insisted on adding the objective of trying to recruit assets, he’d labeled it as Phase Two.

I had a feeling this was a case of Easton not understanding how difficult it was to recruit someone who was involved in a radical Islamic movement, someone who was driven not only by ideology, but also by deeply committed religious beliefs.

While I couldn’t explain this to Easton without making him look bad, I decided to push back on the idea by using a different tactic.

I said, “Even though Ben and I will be alert to the possibility of recruiting assets within the Khalifa organization, if doing so will put any member of my operational team in danger, I won’t jeopardize their lives to do it.”

Easton immediately shook his head. “No, and I wouldn’t expect you to do that. When Douglas and I were discussing this operation, I asked him to add this last protocol because when I was head of the Russian desk, I always urged my people to view any Russian who expressed admiration for American ideals as a potential target for recruitment, and that’s a mindset I want to instill across the board in all our operatives.”

“I consider that a worthy goal,” Carlton said, but then he looked across the table and smiled at me, which made me wonder if he was expressing approval at the way I’d pushed back against the idea of trying to recruit a Khalifa member.

“With that being said,” Carlton continued, “since Titus will be operating under an official OFA authorization, I’d like to suggest that we leave it up to him to decide if the environment lends itself to implementing Phase Two of the protocols.”

Sloan spoke up. “I’m all for that myself. Speaking from experience, it sometimes takes months, even years, for me to develop a relationship with a potential recruit to the point where I feel confident enough to bring up the subject of working for a foreign government, especially if he’s someone who’s pledged his loyalty to a radical Islamist group.”

“I hear what you’re saying, Drue,” Easton replied. “And yes, Douglas, I agree with you; we should leave this decision up to Titus.”

I figured that was the end of the discussion, and Carlton was about to wrap things up, but then Easton motioned toward Laila and asked, “Since you grew up in an Islamic family, what are your feelings about radical Muslim extremists?”

If Laila was taken aback by Easton’s question, she didn’t show it. Instead, she calmly replied, “I’m horrified by what they do. Extremists don’t represent the Muslims I know or the family I grew up in. Their values are certainly not my values.”

“So as a Muslim, you’re not—”

“I don’t consider myself a Muslim anymore,” she said, interrupting Easton, which seemed to startle him. “I mean, it’s the faith I was raised in, so naturally, it’s shaped who I am. In that sense, it’s always with me. But I don’t follow the practices, and I don’t think of myself as religious. I’m still a Muslim culturally, but spiritually, I’m not sure what I am.”

“I understand that,” Easton said. “We’re all shaped by the culture we grew up in. No doubt about it.”

When he turned toward Carlton and motioned for him to continue the briefing, he appeared satisfied with Laila’s answer.

This was further confirmed when Carlton ended his part of the briefing and turned it over to Deputy Easton so he could give us his final words.

“I’ll make this short because I know Titus and Ben have a plane to catch, but I just wanted to express my appreciation to all of you for taking on this assignment. While learning about Khalifa’s organization may not seem significant relative to what’s going on in the rest of the Middle East today, I assure you, if this mission is successful, it could have enormous consequences for the entire region.”

I agreed with the DDO’s analysis of the impending operation.

In fact, the more I was learning about Khalifa, the more apprehensive I was becoming about their ultimate intentions.

Whether I’d be able to discern what those intentions were during Operation Buried Dagger was questionable.

However, I knew I had to try.

PART THREE

Chapter 10

Monday, November 18

Once Mitchell and I retrieved our Kits from the Legends department and said goodbye to Elias and Laila, an Agency driver took us to Dulles International Airport, where he dropped us off at the Emirates terminal for our flight to Dubai.

Although I figured Mitchell was anxious to discuss the briefing with me, we were never alone long enough for us to do that before we arrived at the airport. Then, once we got checked in and were waiting in the departure lounge, I told him I had to give Nikki a call before they started boarding us, so I walked over to a secluded spot and got her on the phone.

“I don’t have but a couple of minutes, Nikki, but I wanted to hear your voice one more time before I left.”

“I was hoping I’d get to hear from you. How did your briefing go?”

“It wasn’t bad. On the surface, this assignment doesn’t look like it will be that dangerous or that complicated.”

“I’m not sure I like the ‘on the surface’ part of your answer, but I suppose you can’t give me those details.”

“No, I wish I could, Detective, but you’ll have to wait until I get back before I can tell you about it. I’m sorry.”

“Do you still think you’ll make it back in time for Thanksgiving?”

“Unless something unforeseen happens, I believe I can.”

“But doesn’t something unforeseen always happen?”

“Well, yeah, there’s that, but I’m trying to be optimistic.”

“I’ll be optimistic too, but I’ll also be praying it will happen.”

“I’ll be doing that too. Okay, I gotta go now, Nikki. I love you.”

“I love you too. Take care of yourself.”

“You can count on that. You and Eleanor do the same.”

* * * *

When I walked over to where Mitchell was sitting, a flight attendant had just announced our flight had been delayed for twenty minutes, so I motioned for him to follow me over to a corner of the departure lounge where there was a row of unoccupied seats where we could talk in private for a few minutes.

As soon as we sat down, Mitchell said, “I don’t know about you, but I’ve been puzzled about why we were given this assignment in the first place. What Douglas and Jake are asking us to do seems more like something a Level 2 or even a Level 3 officer could handle.”

“I suppose you mean the first part of the protocols where we’re trying to get the attention of the Khalifa leadership by taking possession of the dagger from Rashid.”

“Exactly.”

“I agree, but I believe the reason Douglas insisted on Level 1 officers for this operation is because he has no way of knowing what will happen after that. Our analysts don’t have enough information about how the Khalifa leadership operates to make a prediction, and that’s why he and the DDO decided I should have Operational Field Autonomy for this mission.”

“An OFA authorization is a little unusual, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it’s mostly for deep-cover operatives, although Douglas has always given his people a lot of leeway about making their own decisions in the field without an OFA authorization.”

“I was so surprised when he announced it that I almost questioned him about it, but then I decided if I did that, he might think I didn’t approve, so I kept my mouth shut. It surprised me that Drue didn’t voice his opinion, though.”

I chuckled. “Yeah, Drue’s someone who likes to comment on everything, but when I worked with him before, he was well-informed about the different Jihadist groups operating in Egypt, so I think he’ll be a good resource for us.”

“You told him you’d contact him from the airport in Cairo. Does that mean you want to meet up with him before we go to our hotel?”

“That’s right. Since he’s supplying us with our weapons, I’d like to have them before we go to our hotel, especially since I’m responsible for Laila and Elias. I also wanna make sure I’m familiar with the location of the safe house in case we need it. That’s why I’m gonna suggest we meet there when I talk to him.”

“How do you feel about working with Laila and Elias?”

“I’m good with it. I didn’t sense any red flags after spending some time with them, plus we both know they were thoroughly vetted by the Agency; otherwise, Douglas wouldn’t have allowed them to be part of the operation.”

“It makes sense why he wants to use Laila to draw a crowd at the excavation site. With her looks, I’m sure she’ll get attention wherever she goes.”

“So why were you quizzing me about how I felt about them? Do you have doubts about using them?”

Mitchell waffled his hand back and forth. “Ehh. My only concern is their lack of training. I’m wondering if they’ll be disciplined enough to ignore us at the Dahshur site. I’m also concerned about what happens when we’re together in public. Like, what happens if they don’t remember to use our cover names?”

“You’re thinking ahead, Ben, and that’s good. What you need to figure out is how you’ll handle the situation if they mess up. While anticipating a problem is excellent tradecraft, preparing for how you’ll deal with it is even more important.”

He looked upset with me. “I guess that means you’ve already decided what you’ll do if that happens.”

I chuckled. “No, not at all. To be truthful, I hadn’t actually anticipated there might be a problem. You’re way ahead of me there.”

He was still smiling as we boarded our flight.

* * * *

Mitchell and I spent most of our time on the flight to Dubai memorizing the information Legends had prepared for us on our cover stories, as well as learning about the artifacts Zayd Farouq had in his personal collection.

We also slept a little, but even so, when we deplaned at Dubai International Airport, both of us agreed we didn’t feel rested.

However, since we had a three-hour layover before flying to Cairo, we took advantage of our VIP access to Emirates Airlines first-class lounge—paid for by the American taxpayer—and visited their spa facilities, where we showered and changed into some fresh clothes.

After that, we had a huge meal at one of their world-class restaurants, and when we finished, it was time to board our flight to Cairo. From that point forward, we switched into the roles of Zayd Farouq and Mahmoud bin Hassan.

Since Mitchell was my subordinate at Farouq Luxury Developments, when we landed in Cairo, he took care of the arrangements for our rental car—a Lexus LX. We’d already decided he’d do the driving for us in Cairo, so while he retrieved our car, I waited for him outside the terminal.

After he picked me up, and we were heading out of the airport, I said, “I just got off the phone with Drue, and he gave me directions to the safe house. It doesn’t sound that complicated. Just head east on Highway 50 and exit on Salah Street. The safe house is a condo on the tenth floor of the Rania Tower. Drue said he’d meet us there.”

Mitchell nodded. “I have to say there’s a lot more traffic around the airport than when I was here with the Senator eleven years ago. Of course, we had a government escort then.”

Before Mitchell joined the Agency, he took several overseas trips with Senator Mitchell as part of congressional junkets. He once told me that getting to travel internationally, plus hearing discussions on governmental affairs, had been influential in his decision to join the CIA, although he was sure if the Senator had known the effect the trips were having on him, he would never have invited him.

“I think you’ll find a lot of things have changed here since then.”

“I’m sure I will, especially since the Senator and I were in Cairo a couple of months before General Saeed staged a coup and installed himself as president.” He motioned out the window where we could see several construction projects going on. “At least, it looks like President Saeed has been able to get the economy back on track.”

“Yeah, but according to the information in our Kit, there’s a lot of unrest about how Saeed is running the country these days, so we may encounter some protests while we’re here.”

Most Cairo residents—except for the extremely wealthy—lived in high-rise apartment buildings, and once we entered the outskirts of the city, such buildings dominated the skyline for as far as the eye could see.

Since Cairo’s streets were extremely narrow, on-street parking was not allowed, and with land being at a premium, there were barely any parking lots. However, most buildings provided their residents with underground parking, and the Rania Tower was one of those.

When we drove up to the gate at the building, I followed Sloan’s instructions and told the attendant we were guests of Drue Sloan, the Public Affairs Officer at the American Embassy.

Like most Agency station chiefs, Sloan was given a false job description that provided him with an excuse to travel throughout the country while having access to the country’s government officials. Sloan’s cover story as the embassy’s Public Affairs Officer was perfect for that, and besides that, the position suited his personality.

One of his responsibilities as a station chief was to choose a secure location for a safe house—a place where Sloan could meet with assets, plan strategy with Agency operatives, and if necessary, provide operatives with a place to hide out. From the moment we walked into the Rania Tower, and I saw there were security cameras scattered throughout the lobby, it was obvious why Sloan had chosen it.

According to the sign posted in the lobby, “Resident-Monitored Camera System in Use,” each resident had some kind of monitoring system in their individual condo that enabled them to view the cameras from inside their condos.

But the cameras weren’t the only reason the Rania Tower was a good choice.

When I hit the elevator button for the tenth floor, and I noticed a sign above the panel that reminded the residents to use the freight elevator at the back of the building to move large items, I was pleased to see another excellent feature of the building. That is, it had more than one means of entering or exiting the building.

Because of the cameras, Mitchell and I didn’t speak to each other during the ride up to the tenth floor, but I was pretty sure he’d also figured out Sloan was observing our arrival in the lobby, because when we got off the elevator and found Sloan waving at us from his open door, Mitchell didn’t seem surprised.

“Down here, guys,” Sloan said.

As soon as we entered the condo, Sloan pointed over to the dining table where we could see an open laptop computer. “Go ahead and have a seat at the table. Just before I heard from you, I got a text from Katherine Broward asking me to set up a video call with her as soon as you arrived. She said she’s learned some new information that she wants you to have before you visit the Dahshur excavation site tomorrow.”

“Will Douglas be on the call?” Mitchell asked.

“She didn’t mention it, but since Titus has an OFA authorization, she probably decided not to bother him.”

“Or Douglas could be tied up with another operation,” I said. “In our briefing, the DDO hinted he had another operation running.”

“Well, Douglas wasn’t too busy to call me this morning and make sure I had a weapons package ready for each of you.”

He pointed over to two brushed aluminum cases, which resembled executive briefcases. “Feel free to take a look at them before you leave and let me know if you need anything else.”

“Are they identical?” Mitchell asked.

“Yes. There’s a Glock 17, three fully loaded magazines, and an inside-the-waistband holster in each of them.”

“As far as I’m concerned, that’s sufficient,” I said.

“Before I initiate the call, could I get you something to drink?”

“I could use some caffeine,” I said, “but let’s make the call first. I’m anxious to hear what Katherine has to say.”

Sloan chuckled a little. “I had a feeling that’s what you’d say.”

After we sat down at the table together, Sloan gestured at Mitchell. “I suppose you know your partner here is always greedy for information. When we worked together before, he could never get enough.”

“Oh, yeah, I know that about him, and I don’t expect him to change. He’s too old for that.”

I gave them an irritated look. “Yeah, I’m greedy for information the same way a dying man is greedy to take his next breath. And like him, once I stop being greedy, I’ll end up dead.”

* * * *

When Katherine’s face finally appeared on the screen, I immediately knew she was in her office at the Agency because I recognized the painting of a Spanish bullfighter above her head.

“Hi, Katherine,” Sloan said. “Our guys have just arrived, and they’re anxious to hear what you have to say.”

When Katherine spoke, her voice sounded slightly distorted, which I attributed to the encryption software Sloan was using to make the call. “Hi, there. I realize you’re probably anxious to get to your hotel, so I’ll try to make this quick. During your briefing yesterday, I mentioned my analysts believe some of Khalifa’s funding is coming from one or more Egyptian government officials who are diverting funds to them. This morning we were able to identify one of those men.”

Katherine’s image disappeared, and in its place was a professional-looking photograph of a man dressed in a traditional white Egyptian thobe—an ankle-length garment with long sleeves similar to a robe.

“This man, Jaberi Diwan, is the Minister of Antiquities in President Saeed’s government, and as you might suspect, this means he’s in a position to be able to help out the Khalifa organization. You’ll want to memorize his features because we’ve identified him at the Dahshur site in the photographs Rashid has been sending us.”

Jaberi Diwan was a thin man with a hawk-like nose and dark piercing eyes. There was a hint of a smile on his face as he stared at the camera.

“What else can you tell us about him?” I asked.

When Katherine switched the image on the screen back to herself, she tilted her head to one side and smiled. “Now, Titus, don’t be so impatient. You know I’m going to give you everything I’ve got on him.”

“Yes, please forgive me for being so impatient, Katherine.”

“That’s okay. You probably recognize this guy could be important to your mission, so I understand your impatience. I’ll start by giving you his educational background. The first thing you need to know is that he has a graduate degree in archaeology from Cairo University.”

After Katherine recited Minister Diwan’s achievements and the previous positions he’d held that led to his ministerial appointment in the Egyptian government, she told us about an article he’d written four years ago that her analysts had only recently discovered.

In the article, Diwan envisioned Egypt regaining its dominance in the region through the creation of a Sunni militant group that would rival Hezbollah, and he’d outlined a series of steps he was convinced could make that happen.

Katherine said, “It’s possible this article served as a blueprint for Omar al-Hakim to join the old Sunni Muslim group, Harakat al-Jadid, and remake it into Khalifa al-Jadid. More importantly, the discovery of the article confirms what we’ve suspected all along—that Minister Jaberi Diwan is a secret supporter of Khalifa, and that he’s using his position in the Egyptian government to funnel them money, as well as facilitate their access to archaeological digs.”

I said, “This is outstanding information, Katherine. If nothing else, it sounds like Jaberi Diwan is someone Zayd Farouq should meet.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Katherine said. “Not only is he acquainted with the leadership of Khalifa, he has to know everything about their organizational structure as well.”

Mitchell said, “If he knows about Zayd’s private collection, he might be just as interested in meeting you as you are to meet him.”

Katherine nodded. “Ben’s right. And for what it’s worth, when we looked into his finances, we discovered he lives in a luxurious residence in an expensive neighborhood. Plus, if his catering invoices are any indication, he enjoys entertaining large gatherings at his home fairly often.”

“Is it possible for you to find out when he’s throwing his next party?” I asked.

She smiled. “Now what do you think?”

“I think you’ll text me as soon as you find out.”

“Of course, I will, but it’s up to you to figure out how to get an invitation. You think you can do that?”

“Now what do you think?”

* * * *

Mitchell and I arrived at the Nile Grand Hotel just as the sun was setting. The five-star hotel was located on the banks of the Nile River, and its sleek glass facade reflected not only the golden hue of the setting sun, but also the shimmering waters of the Nile.

The juxtaposition of these two elements created an amazing sight, and for a few seconds, I found myself wishing Nikki was at my side to enjoy the moment with me.

But seconds later, I was brought back to reality when Mitchell addressed me as my cover name. “Zayd, would you like to have a seat here in the lobby while I get us checked in?”

“Yes, let’s hope the wait isn’t too long.” I walked across the lobby—a lobby adorned with intricate Arabic scrollwork, crystal chandeliers, and plush furnishings—and took a seat in a cushy armchair which gave me an excellent view of most of the lobby.

As soon as I did, a man seated at a table near the lobby’s coffee shop got my attention, primarily because he was wearing a Khalifa armband, but also because it was unusual to see a young Egyptian man who was baldheaded. However, those weren’t the only reasons.

Like several other guests of the hotel who were either sitting in the lobby or strolling through it, Baldheaded Guy was staring at a man and woman who were waiting by the hotel’s elevators.

The man, Elias Talbot, was wearing a loose-fitting linen shirt, blue jeans, and running shoes. His long blond hair was in a ponytail, and an expensive-looking camera was hanging from a cord around his neck. He was carrying an aluminum case, which I knew contained additional camera equipment.

I suspected it wasn’t Talbot who had everyone’s attention, though.

It was Laila.

She had on a form-fitting red jumpsuit with black trim, and the black lace-up leather shoes she was wearing looked like something a paratrooper would wear. The designer tote bag slung over her shoulder was large and flashy, and her long dark hair, cascading down both sides of her shoulders, appeared to be part of her ensemble, as did her ruby-red lipstick.

I stifled a grin as I saw the attention she had drawn.

If nothing else, it affirmed why Carlton decided to have her do a photo shoot at the Dahshur site where all eyes would be on her and not on Mitchell and me.

It also occurred to me that too much attention might be a bad thing.

Especially for Laila.

Chapter 11

Tuesday, November 19

After having a leisurely breakfast at La Zisa, one of the hotel’s restaurants, Mitchell and I left at nine-thirty and drove south on Highway 75 to Dahshur, located twenty-five miles from Cairo.

From there, we followed the signs to the El-Qasr Expedition.

Although I’d studied the detailed images Carlton had shown us at our briefing of the archaeological dig, once we arrived and Mitchell was parking the Lexus, I immediately realized those photographs hadn’t captured the full scope of the project.

The dig covered a lot more acreage than I thought it did, plus there appeared to be a lot more activity going on than I’d been able to see in the still photographs. While there were dozens of workers—all male—hauling heavy baskets of sand, there were just as many men working inside the pits or under the various tents.

As Mitchell and I got out of our vehicle and were walking toward the site, I also realized it was noisier than I expected.

It wasn’t necessarily the volume of the noise, although that was certainly noticeable, it was also the variety of sounds—from the workers inside the excavation areas shouting at each other, to the flaps on the canvas tents snapping in the hot desert wind, to the motors on the portable generators humming away.

I also heard music playing, but it wasn’t until we walked past a white tent adjacent to a mobile food trailer that I realized it was coming from there.

The large tent had several long tables inside, and on top of one of them was a portable radio. There were also about three dozen folding chairs stacked up against the tables. In the U. S., it would probably be called a mess tent, but a sign in Arabic identified it as the meal tent.

Approximately fifty yards away from the mess tent was a long rectangular trailer with white siding—similar to a portable office unit at a construction site. Written on the side of the trailer in black lettering was “El-Qasr Expedition.” Underneath the dig’s name in smaller letters, it said, “Dr. Amir Chafik, Director.”

We were a few minutes early for our ten-thirty appointment with Dr. Chafik, so I was tempted to go explore the site on my own, but I decided strolling around by myself might set off alarm bells, so Mitchell and I walked up the portable metal steps, and I rapped on the door a couple of times.

“Come in. It’s open,” a male voice yelled out in Arabic.

When we stepped inside, we found ourselves in a small, cluttered room with charts, photographs, and drawings covering one wall, and three metal shelves, stacked with books, binders, and wooden trays—most of which were filled with tarnished coins and ceramic shards—were on the opposite wall.

Seated at a desk at one end of the room was Dr. Chafik, who was dressed in a pair of slightly soiled khakis, a loose-fitting shirt, and rugged-looking boots. On his desk were several water bottles—some of them empty—along with stacks of papers and a laptop computer.

It was slightly cooler in the trailer than it was outside, but the air inside had a pungent scent to it, a mixture of body odor, day-old coffee, and a mustiness I usually associated with old books.

“Would you be Dr. Chafik?” I asked.

He nodded and stood to his feet. “Yes, that’s correct. And you must be Zayd Farouq.” He offered me his hand. “Welcome to our dig, Mr. Farouq.”

I shook his hand. “Thank you, Dr. Chafik.”

I gestured toward Mitchell. “This is Mahmoud bin Hassan, my Vice President of Finance at Farouq Luxury Developments.”

Once Chafik and Mitchell shook hands, I said, “I realize we’re a little early for our appointment, and I apologize for that.”

Chafik smiled and placed his hands together in front of him as if he were clapping. “No, no need to apologize. After corresponding with you this past week, I’m not surprised you arrived early. I’m sure you’re anxious to tour the site, and I find that very refreshing.”

“You’re right, Dr. Chafik. I couldn’t wait to get here.”

He pointed to some folding chairs near his desk. “Please have a seat and allow me a few minutes to tell you about the dig, and what we’ve discovered so far.”

For the next twenty minutes, Mitchell and I feigned interest in Dr. Chafik’s detailed explanation of how his crew had been excavating the site, and the number and type of artifacts they’d found. He pointed out the area was known for its well-preserved underground chambers and passages, which he was convinced showed a royal connection.

Some of the significant finds he ticked off included a series of intact sarcophagi, a half-dozen clay tablets with religious texts, and several small statues of gods, all of which offered new insights into the burial customs of officials during Egypt’s Eighteenth Dynasty.

It wasn’t long before I realized part of the reason he was emphasizing the significance of the archaeological finds was to bring the conversation around to the funds he needed to continue the dig.

“As I mentioned in our correspondence,” he said, “I welcome your interest in what we’re doing here, and any contribution you wish to make would be greatly appreciated.”

“Well then,” I said, “shall we take a tour so I can see for myself? Once we’re finished, I’ll let you know what I’m prepared to do.”

He nodded. “Yes, that’s a good plan.”

As the three of us got up to leave, he said, “I should warn you, we may run into a professional photographer and a fashion model who are being shown around the area by my assistant director. Tomorrow, the photographer will be taking pictures for a French magazine, and they’ll be using the dig as the background for the photographs.”

“Thanks for telling me,” I said. “I wouldn’t have expected that.”

He nodded as he opened the door. “Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have permitted it, but the magazine offered a substantial amount of money to use this location.”

Mitchell said, “I’m sure I would have done the same.”

Dr. Chafik looked at me and smiled. “I can see why he’s your financial manager.”

* * * *

As we followed Dr. Chafik down a worn dirt path that led from his office trailer past a medical trailer, I suddenly realized we were about to meet up with Laila and Talbot who were standing outside what appeared to be a refurbished cargo container.

There were three such containers sitting side by side, but all three of them had undergone a few exterior modifications, such as the installation of air conditioning units, regular-looking doors, and some windows.

Dr. Chafik said, “Those structures you see up ahead are repurposed cargo containers which have been converted into sleeping quarters for some of our staff. The one on the end there is reserved for guests who want to spend the night at an archaeological dig.”

After we passed the first one, Dr. Chafik gestured toward the guest quarters and said, “Oh, I see the visitors I told you about are just ahead of us, so you’ll get the chance to meet them.”

Laila and Talbot were in the company of two men. One of them was much younger than the other, and when we got within a few feet of the group, I suddenly realized who the older man was.

I recognized him from seeing his photograph yesterday when we were on the video call with Katherine at the safe house.

His name was Jaberi Diwan.

Diwan was the Minister of Antiquities in the Egyptian government, and according to Katherine’s research, he was an ardent supporter of the Khalifa ideology, as well as knowledgeable about their organization—a person I definitely wanted to meet.

Even from this distance, I could see Diwan was fascinated with Laila, who was wearing a thin linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up, a pair of beige trousers, low-heeled shoes, and a wide-brimmed straw hat, along with a pair of oversized sunglasses.

Talbot, on the other hand, looked much the same as he did when I saw him at the hotel last night, except today he was wearing a ball cap.

When we arrived in front of the guest quarters, Dr. Chafik greeted Diwan first, and as the two men were exchanging the traditional Arabic salutation, ending with a brief cheek-to-cheek air kiss, I glanced over at Laila.

Even though she’d taken her sunglasses off, I found it impossible to tell what she was thinking from the solemn look on her face. It surprised me a little because she hadn’t looked so serious when we were getting acquainted with each other at The Meadows.

However, I realized she’d been trained as a model to mask her feelings, so I figured looking unconcerned was the attitude she’d adopted for her role during this assignment.

Dr. Chafik said, “Minister Diwan, I’d like you to meet Zayd Farouq from the United Arab Emirates. He collects Egyptian artifacts from the New Kingdom period, and from the pictures he’s sent me of his collection, it’s one to be envied.”

Chafik looked at me and said, “Mr. Farouq, this is Minister Jaberi Diwan. He’s the Minister of Antiquities in President Saeed’s government, and as you might guess, he’s well versed in our Egyptian archaeological heritage.”

After Diwan and I greeted one another, I introduced Mitchell—Mahmoud bin Hassan—and then Dr. Chafik made the rest of the introductions, beginning with his assistant director, Sayed, followed by Laila and Talbot.

Minister Diwan gestured toward Dr. Chafik and said, “Amir, when you walked up, I was just telling Sayed that I came out to the dig today to invite you to my birthday celebration tomorrow night. It’s number sixty-five for me, and it’s one I’ve been dreading, so I’ve decided to throw myself a party and invite lots of friends.”

Chafik bowed his head slightly and said he would be honored to attend. As I was running through my options of how to wrangle an invitation for myself, Diwan swept his hand to include everyone and said, “And I’d be so pleased if each of you would also do me the favor of coming to my party as my guest.”

Before any of us could reply, Diwan reached inside the folds of his white thobe and withdrew several business cards. After scribbling on the back of each one, he handed them to us.

I looked down at the card with his address on it and said, “Mahmoud and I would love to attend your party, Minister Diwan.”

He put his hand over his heart. “I’m so pleased to hear that.”

He gestured toward Laila and Talbot. “Would you also do me the honor of celebrating with me? I promise you won’t be bored, and I know all my guests would be delighted to meet a fashion model, and of course, her photographer, especially since you’ll be taking pictures of one of our famous archaeological sites.”

Laila briefly glanced in my direction, which made me wonder if she wasn’t sure whether to accept the invitation or not. I didn’t give her a sign one way or the other, but as soon as Talbot said yes, she also agreed to accept Diwan’s invitation.

After Diwan left, Sayed unlocked the guest quarters, and when he opened the door, we heard him tell Laila she could use this room to change clothes between her photo sessions tomorrow, and then he invited her to check it out to see if it met her needs.

At that point, Dr. Chafik pointed over to the main part of the dig. “And now, Mr. Farouq and Mr. Hassan, are you ready to see the main attraction?"

After we assured him we were, we headed over to the excavation pits, where we spent the next hour going from one station to another.

Once we finished touring the various stations, we observed the previous day’s find of pottery shards and coins being cleaned, processed, and catalogued at one of the makeshift shelters located around the perimeter of the excavation pits.

It was while we were in the last shelter that I caught my first glimpse of Rashid Tadros, the Level 3 operative who had “found” the Golden Dagger at the dig the previous day.

Although Carlton told us he expected Dr. Chafik to show me the dagger at some point, he hadn’t mentioned it yet.

I spotted Rashid climbing out of one of the excavation pits, and evidently, Dr. Chafik saw him at the same time. “Rashid,” he called out, waving him over to the shelter, “come here and meet someone.”

As Chafik was introducing Rashid to us as his site coordinator, I noticed one of the security guards, who was wearing a Khalifa armband, was standing nearby.

I figured Rashid had also seen him, and that was the reason he asked me, “As a collector of Egyptian artifacts, Mr. Farouq, do you specialize in any specific antiquity, or do you acquire objects based on their value?”

“Oh, I definitely have specific interests,” I said, reaching inside my shirt pocket and pulling out the handwritten list Legends had prepared for me on Zayd Farouq’s personal stationery. “These are a few of the items I’m interested in acquiring right now. I took a moment to jot them down before I left my office in Dubai yesterday.”

After Rashid took the list, Chafik walked over beside him and looked over his shoulder while the two of them read it together.

A few seconds later, Chafik said, “Tell me more about the shabti figures you collect.”

“Sure. I mainly focus on rare shabti figures inscribed with hieroglyphics from the New Kingdom period."

“That’s very interesting,” Rashid said.

Chafik said, “I also see you collect ornamental daggers.”

“That’s right. I find the history behind them very fascinating.”

Chafik smiled. “Well, then, I believe we have something you’ll enjoy seeing.” He looked over at Rashid. “Go over to the artifact repository and bring me yesterday’s find from the safe.” He paused a second. “You know the one I mean. We’ll meet you back at my trailer.”

When Rashid headed over to a small mobile unit a short distance away from the director’s office trailer, I looked over at Dr. Chafik and said, “You sound excited. What is it?”

He shook his head. “No, I don’t want to spoil the surprise, but I think you’ll be amazed.”

As Mitchell and I left the shelter with Dr. Chafik, I noticed the Khalifa security guard, who hadn’t moved from his spot, was talking to someone on his phone while keeping his eye on Rashid.

I had no doubt the guard had overheard our conversation.

Hopefully, Operation Buried Dagger had just engaged the target.

Chapter 12

As we made our way back to Dr. Chafik’s office, he asked me about some of the other items I supposedly collected, but he was especially interested in the last item on my list—ceremonial wands.

From the research I’d done on them, I knew they were rare and very expensive, so I figured he was attempting to gauge the state of my finances when he asked me about them.

“How many wands do you have in your collection?”

“Just two, but both of them are ivory and have inscriptions on them associated with royalty.”

“Those are rare, so I’m sure they weren’t cheap.”

Mitchell said, “No, they definitely weren’t cheap.”

Chafik smiled as we stepped inside his office again. “While we’re waiting for Rashid, could I offer you a cup of coffee?” He pointed to a stainless-steel carafe on a table behind his desk.

Mitchell and I accepted his offer, and a few minutes later, as he was handing each of us a small cup of the Egyptian brew, Rashid came in.

He was carrying a brown canvas bag with a drawstring at the top—similar to the ones I’d seen at the processing tables which held various kinds of cleaning tools.

Even so, when he placed the canvas pouch on Chafik’s desk, he did so carefully, as if it held something precious.

Chafik, who had just taken a drink of his coffee, put his cup down and motioned for Rashid to open the pouch. “Since you already have your gloves on, Rashid, go ahead and do the honors.”

As Rashid was untying the cord at the top of the pouch, Chafik said, “Don’t be misled by the bag this artifact is in. I believe we have an exquisite find here, but I don’t want the workers to see me treating it as something valuable until it’s been authenticated. In fact, only the security guards here at the dig know anything about it yet.”

When Rashid drew the artifact out of the brown pouch, there was an additional layer of dark-colored tissue paper—which I assumed was special archival paper—wrapped around the object.

Once he removed the paper wrappings, the artifact was enclosed in a sleeve of high-grade plastic.

Even though the sleeve was clear enough that I could easily see the fake Golden Dagger through it, Chafik handed me a pair of gloves, and then he motioned for Rashid to remove the dagger from the plastic. “I’m sure Mr. Farouq would like to examine it for himself.”

“Thank you, Dr. Chafik,” I said, “but I’m shaking so much I’m not sure I can hold the dagger. Could this possibly be the Golden Dagger?”

Chafik actually giggled. “Oh, yes, I certainly believe it could be. It looks exactly like the drawings we’ve seen of the royal dagger that belonged to Thutmose III from the Eighteenth Dynasty.”

I took the dagger from Rashid, who held it out to me with both hands—much like a servant presenting the weapon to his pharaoh.

Although I remembered admiring the dagger in our briefing when one of the employees in the Agency’s SET department was holding it up to the camera, the workmanship on it appeared even more impressive now that I could examine it in person.

“I’m speechless, Dr. Chafik. I feel like I’m holding a piece of a ruler’s legacy in my hands. It’s truly magnificent.” I paused for a moment as if I were contemplating its beauty. “Just look at the way the stones here in the handle catch the light. That’s amazing, isn’t it? I’m not sure I’ve ever held anything quite so beautiful.”

“So you believe this really is the Golden Dagger?”

“Well, if it isn’t, it’s an excellent fake. I assume you didn’t purchase this. You said you discovered it here at the site, didn’t you?”

“Oh, yes.” He paused for a couple of seconds, as if he was trying to make up his mind about something, and then he gestured toward Rashid. “Go ahead and tell them how you found it.”

Rashid smiled. “Yesterday, around two o’clock, I was down in Pit 3 cataloging some fragments, when I noticed a glint of gold underneath a layer of loose soil. At first, I thought it was just another shard of pottery, but when I brushed the dirt away, there it was, perfectly intact.”

Mitchell, who had placed his messenger bag on the floor and put on a pair of gloves while Rashid was talking, asked Dr. Chafik, “Would you mind if I took a look at it for myself?”

Dr. Chafik said, “No, of course not, go ahead.”

Mitchell, whose acting skills were much better than mine, looked the blade over as if he’d examined such objects many times, and then he appeared to study the individual stones in the handle from several angles before he nodded and said, “I can guarantee you, if it’s authentic, this dagger is worth millions.”

When he handed the dagger back to Rashid, I asked Dr. Chafik, “When do you plan to get it authenticated?”

“As soon as possible. I’ve already requested an appointment with Dr. Ahmed Salim, the art historian from Al-Azhar University, and with Dr. Boba Tariz, a conservator from the Grand Egyptian Museum. Both of them have very busy schedules, but I expect to hear back from one or both of them by tomorrow.”

I said, “Mahmoud and I plan to return to the dig tomorrow, but now that you’ve shown us around, there’s no need for us to take up any more of your time. Feel free to make those appointments whenever it’s best for you tomorrow.”

“I expect there will be a lot of excitement around here tomorrow when the photography session is going on,” Dr. Chafik said, “but by all means, spend as much time here as you want.”

We all watched Rashid place the dagger back in the plastic sleeve, and then, as he began wrapping it up once again, I reached inside my jacket and removed an envelope that had Dr. Chafik’s name handwritten on the front and Farouq Luxury Developments embossed in the upper left-hand corner of the envelope.

As I offered it to Dr. Chafik, I said, “I’m more interested than ever in seeing your work here continue, Dr. Chafik, which is why I want to make this contribution to the El-Qasr Expedition.”

He gave me a big smile, which got even wider when he opened the envelope and saw the amount of the check inside. “This is a very generous contribution, Mr. Farouq. I really do appreciate it.”

“You’re more than welcome, and I’m sure you know I definitely want to be kept updated about the status of the Golden Dagger.”

“Yes, that goes without saying. I’ll get in touch with you the moment I know something.”

When Mitchell and I got up to leave, Chafik looked over at Rashid, who had just placed the dagger back inside the canvas pouch. “You can go ahead and return the dagger to the repository safe now, Rashid. Naturally, when I make the appointment to have it authenticated, we’ll need to have a more appropriate presentation for it.”

I smiled at him. “It definitely deserves the royal treatment. At the very least, I would suggest it be placed in a velvet box.”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Farouq,” Chafik said. “As a collector, I’m sure you understand the importance of how the artifact is displayed.”

Mitchell and I left Chafik’s office trailer at the same time as Rashid, but I waited until all three of us were behind the trailer—where there were no windows—before I spoke to him.

“Let’s pause here as if I’m discussing something with you about the pouch you have in your hand,” I said to Rashid.

He nodded and looked directly at me. “Is that because you saw the security guard watching us earlier when we were at the processing shelter?”

“That’s right. And don’t turn around and look now, but he’s about thirty yards away from us and watching our every move even as we speak. He’s not alone, though. There’s another guard with him who’s also wearing a Khalifa armband.”

“That’s probably Amon. The other guard’s name is Husani. They act as Khalifa’s eyes and ears here at the dig and report back to the leadership at Khalifa whenever anything of significance is found. I’m sure they’ve already told them what’s in the pouch, but they’re probably curious about why Dr. Chafik asked me to show it to you.”

Mitchell gestured as if he were adding a point to our discussion. “That’s good. We want them to be curious about what we’re doing, especially tomorrow.”

I asked Rashid, “Do you know where you want us to meet you tomorrow so you can hand the pouch over to me?”

“It depends on where the photography session is taking place. More than likely, I’ll meet you at one of the processing shelters, but I’ll text you which one after you get here.”

“I assume you have the number to my sat phone.”

“Yes, Sloan gave it to me, but maybe you should pretend to give it to me again if the guards are still watching us.”

I reached inside my jacket and pulled out a business card, and as Rashid took it, he quickly slipped it inside his pants pocket as if he were afraid someone might see him taking it.

“I suppose Drue told you I’ll need to disappear as soon as I give you the dagger tomorrow,” Rashid said.

“Yes, we talked about it yesterday. He said your car will be parked on the service road behind Pit 5, and you’ll leave the site immediately and head to the safe house.”

He nodded. “I’ll need to hide out there for a while until I can leave the country.”

“Okay, we’ll see you tomorrow then. Watch your back.”

He gave me a brief smile. “And you do the same.”

* * * *

When we returned to our hotel, I looked around to see if I could spot Laila and Talbot, and moments later, I saw them sitting in the lobby, exactly where I’d told them to be when I texted them earlier.

The moment they noticed us walking in, they got up and headed over to the elevators, and Mitchell and I did the same.

“Well, hello there,” I said. “When we met at the Dahshur dig, I didn’t realize we were all staying at the same hotel.”

“It’s a beautiful hotel, isn’t it?” Laila said, looking around the lobby. “To be truthful, as interesting as the archaeological dig was, I would much prefer to be staying here than in the site’s guest unit.”

As the four of us were talking, I noticed Baldheaded Guy—the man I’d spotted the day before wearing the Khalifa armband—was standing a few feet away from us.

I was positive he was listening to our conversation, even though he was looking at a brochure. However, just to make sure he could hear us, I raised my voice slightly.

“Mahmoud and I have a suite on the sixth floor, and we were planning to order lunch from room service. We’d be honored if the two of you would join us.”

Laila appeared to hesitate a moment. “Uh . . . sure. Is that okay with you, Elias?”

He nodded. “Yeah, that sounds fine to me. I skipped breakfast, so I’m starving.”

As soon as the elevator arrived, I saw Baldheaded Guy glance in our direction, but he immediately looked away when I made eye contact with him.

Although I figured it was a long shot, I made a mental note to take a picture of him the next time I saw him in the lobby and send it to Katherine. I figured he might be in the Agency’s database, and if so, she should be able to tell me something about him.

For now though, I put him at the back of my mind so I could concentrate on discussing the operation with Laila and Elias.

The purpose of my inviting them to our suite was to hear their thoughts about their tour of the Dahshur site, although I did have Mitchell order us some lunch from room service as soon as we got up to our suite.

Our suite consisted of two bedrooms, a living area with an adjacent kitchenette and dining room, plus a balcony overlooking the Nile River. As with most five-star hotels, the colors were mostly neutral—beige and gray—and the furnishings were plush.

I was pretty sure the artwork alone cost more than my first car.

While Mitchell was on the phone ordering lunch for us, I sat down in the living area with Laila and Talbot. “If you’re wondering if it’s safe to talk openly in here, I can assure you it is.” I pointed to a black rectangular device on the glass coffee table. “This is what the Agency calls a black box, but the technical name for it is Acoustical Protection System. It basically creates white noise, which makes it impossible for anyone to hear our conversation with a listening device.”

Talbot chuckled. “It looks like a cell phone charger.”

“That’s intentional. We always have it on, even though we checked for listening devices and hidden cameras as soon as we got here.”

“Is this standard practice for you, or have you noticed someone at the hotel who seems suspicious of you?” Laila asked.

“It’s standard practice. Most people don’t realize how easy it is for someone to plant a listening device or install a hidden camera in a hotel room. Most guests seldom think about it because they have an expectation of privacy, especially in a nice hotel.”

Laila nodded. “I admit there have been several times when I’ve wondered if there were hidden cameras in the hotel rooms where I was staying. I hadn’t ever thought about listening devices being there, though.”

“When we get finished here, Ben and I will check out your rooms to make sure there’s no electronic monitoring going on.”

Talbot said, “I noticed you didn’t answer Laila’s question about whether you thought someone here at the hotel was suspicious of you. Does that mean you don’t want to talk with us about it?”

“No, I don’t mind telling you what’s going on. As far as my cover story is concerned, I haven’t seen any evidence that my identity is under suspicion. On the other hand, in a country like Egypt, which is run by an oppressive regime, it’s not unusual for the government’s internal security apparatus to station agents in hotels to monitor the activities of international visitors, and I’m certain I’ve seen evidence of that here.”

“You’ve seen evidence someone is watching you?” Laila asked.

“Yes, but I believe this guy is curious about all four of us. I noticed him when we arrived yesterday and again just now before we got on the elevator. The interesting thing is that he’s also wearing an armband that shows he’s sympathetic toward Khalifa.”

“Does that worry you?” Talbot asked.

“No, not at all. The objective of our mission is to get the attention of the leadership of Khalifa, so if I’m doing something that makes them curious about me, I consider that a good thing. Hopefully, it will make it a lot easier to learn more about their organization.”

“Is that why you were so quick to accept the invitation from Minister Diwan to attend his birthday party?” Laila asked.

“That’s right, and what you don’t know is that when we arrived yesterday, Ben and I had a video call with one of the analysts at the Agency, who let us know that Minister Diwan is the person who’s been using his position in the Egyptian government to help Khalifa. So if he hadn’t invited me to his party, I was prepared to get an invitation out of him, even if I had to embarrass myself to do it.”

Laila said, “I wasn’t sure if you wanted us to attend the party or not, but I realized if you didn’t, we could always think of some excuse not to go.”

“What do you hope to learn at the party?” Talbot asked.

“To be truthful, I’m not sure we’ll learn anything, but at least it’ll give us an opportunity to find out who Diwan’s friends are. However, if one of the friends he’s invited to his party happens to be Omar al-Hakim, the head of Khalifa, then it will be worth it.”

Talbot nodded. “Oh yeah, I can understand why you’d want to be there. It’s a perfect opportunity to meet him.”

“If all goes well tomorrow at the excavation site, and the Khalifa guards observe Rashid giving me the dagger, then it may be a case of al-Hakim wanting to meet me, instead of the other way around.”

“What will happen to Rashid after that?” Laila asked. “Won’t Dr. Chafik suspect he sold it to you?”

“Yes, I’m sure he will, but Rashid will disappear as soon as he hands it over to me, and Ben and I won’t stay around too long after that ourselves. When you see us leaving, that should also be your cue to wrap things up.”

Mitchell, who’d been out on the balcony speaking to room service, came in and told us that lunch should be here in thirty minutes, and as soon as he made this announcement, my sat phone vibrated.

It was Drue Sloan, so I put him on speakerphone.

“Good afternoon, Titus. I was just calling to see how things went at the archaeological site today.”

“I’m glad you called, Drue. There’s something I need you to do for me. Without it, our mission could be compromised.”

“That doesn’t sound good. What is it?”

Chapter 13

Mitchell looked a little wide-eyed when he heard me tell Sloan that our mission could be compromised. I figured that was because I hadn’t mentioned it to him beforehand.

However, it couldn’t be helped.

I just realized the possibility existed as I was telling Laila and Talbot about getting the dagger from Rashid.

I said, “Once Rashid hands the dagger over to me, and we’ve made sure the Khalifa guards at the site know it’s in our possession, there’s a possibility they may try to steal it from us. I had planned to put it in the safe here in our hotel suite, but it occurred to me just now that doing so might not deter them. They could be motivated enough to steal the safe along with the dagger.”

“You’re absolutely right. Even though we’re counting on al-Hakim seeing you as a potential donor to the Khalifa organization, he might decide he’d rather have what he believes is an Egyptian artifact worth millions of dollars than approach you about helping the organization.”

“There’s also another possibility. Those two guards at the dig, Amon and Husani, could decide to steal the dagger for themselves. Of course, neither one of those scenarios may happen, but for my peace of mind, I’d like to give the dagger to you for safe keeping.”

“I’m good with that. Where do you want to meet me?”

“Uh . . . let’s meet in the parking lot at the Grand Egyptian Museum near the entrance to the gift shop. I’ll text you when we leave the dig.”

“Sounds good. I’ll be driving a black Mercedes.”

“You asked me how everything went at the site today, and in my opinion, it couldn’t have gone any better.”

“No problems then?”

“None whatsoever. We accomplished the first phase of enticing the target to interact with us by demonstrating that Zayd Farouq is a very wealthy man who’s interested in Egyptian artifacts. Plus, I made sure the Khalifa guards saw me speaking to Rashid privately. We also received a big bonus when Jaberi Diwan showed up, and the four of us got invited to his birthday party tomorrow night.”

“Oh, wow! You scored big, Titus. You must be living right.”

Mitchell grinned at me. “Believe me, this guy walks the straight and narrow.”

Sloan laughed. “That doesn’t sound like the rule-breaking, devil-may-care guy I met five years ago, but I’ll take your word for it.”

I chuckled. “Well, I’ve made a few changes since then.”

After I described our encounter with Diwan, Sloan asked me if there was anything else I needed him to do for me before tomorrow, and once I told him no, I thanked him for checking in with us, and we said goodbye.

As soon as I hung up, Talbot asked, “Would you like to tell us what Drue meant when he described you as a rule-breaking, devil-may-care guy?”

I shook my head. “No, that’s classified information.”

* * * *

As soon as we finished lunch, Laila reminded me that I’d promised to check her room for listening devices and hidden cameras, so I grabbed a signal detector from my suitcase—a piece of electronic equipment that looked like a small flashlight—and walked down to her room with her while Mitchell did the same with Talbot.

Although Laila’s room wasn’t considered a suite, it was still fairly large with a small living area separated by a half-wall divider. The signal detector began beeping when I swept it over an electrical socket in the divider.

“Oh, no,” she said, “does that mean there’s a camera in there?”

“No,” I said, as I began removing the wall plate, “it’s in the wrong location for a camera, but there’s probably a listening device inside.”

Even though I had the black box with me from our suite, and it was sitting near us on the coffee table, she suddenly started whispering. “So does that mean someone’s been listening to my conversations?”

Once I removed the wall plate, I took out a small disc that resembled a hearing aid battery and held it up for her to see. “Well, if they were listening to you, they’re not anymore.”

She had a pained look on her face. “I guess I should have thought of that possibility and been more careful.”

I motioned for her to have a seat on the sofa, while I sat down across from her. “Are you worried that someone may have heard you and Elias talking to each other?”

“No, he hasn’t been in my room, and I haven’t spoken to him on the phone. We usually just text each other.”

Now I was worried. “Then you’ll need to tell me about the person you’ve been talking to, along with the subject matter of your conversations. It doesn’t matter whether they were physically in this room, or on the phone with you; I need to know about it now.”

I was sure I sounded angry, but that was only because I was angry, and I wanted her to know it. She and Talbot had been given strict orders not to have personal contact with family or friends during this operation, and the fact that she had violated those rules and jeopardized the mission meant our lives could be in danger.

She put one hand up to her face and looked away for a moment—like she might be embarrassed—but then when she turned toward me again, she was smiling.

“Believe me, Titus, the only person I’ve been talking to in this room is myself. I haven’t made any phone calls, and no one’s been in here except for you, although Elias did meet me at the door when we were leaving this morning.”

I took a deep breath. “Okay, I’m sorry I overreacted. I apologize. I shouldn’t have assumed you weren’t following the rules.”

She smiled. “There’s no need to apologize. That was a logical assumption. Unless they have mental issues, most people don’t talk out loud to themselves.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. I have a heart-to-heart chat with myself sometimes, especially after I’ve lost my temper, and I usually do it out loud.”

“Well, if someone were listening to me through that device, the only thing they would have heard were questions I was asking myself.”

“What sort of questions?”

She made a futile gesture. “I don’t know how to classify them. I suppose they’re philosophical questions, although some people might call them spiritual questions. When I can’t get to sleep at night, I find myself asking, ‘Am I still a Muslim,’ or ‘What is the meaning of life,’ or ‘What do I really believe about God?’ I’m not sure why it always happens at night, but it does.”

“Oh, yeah, I get that. Although I didn’t grow up in the Muslim faith like you did, I used to do the same thing. Didn’t I hear you say you don’t consider yourself a Muslim any longer? Or were you lying to Deputy Easton when he asked you about being a Muslim?”

“Oh yes, I was being truthful, but even though I’m no longer a practicing Muslim, I still have questions about God.” She paused. “What about you? What did you mean when you said you ‘used to do the same thing’? What was your situation?”

“My situation? Well, unlike you, when I was growing up, I didn’t have any kind of religious connection, so my questions were more about the meaning of life. I didn’t think about God that much until I lived with an Iranian couple in Tehran who were Christians. That was when I realized if I were willing to commit my life to Christ, ask his forgiveness, and do my best to follow his teachings, I’d have the answers to the questions I was asking about the meaning of life.”

“Ahh,” she said, nodding her head, “so you became a Christian.” She smiled. “It’s unusual that it happened to you in Tehran. Were the Iranians originally Muslims who had converted to Christianity?”

“Yes, like you, they had been brought up as Muslims, but the husband, whose name was Javad, became curious about Christianity after he had a disturbing dream, so he purchased a Bible on the black market. Once he began reading it, he became a believer, and not long after that, his wife, Darya, and their teenage son also professed their faith in Christ.”

She was quiet for a moment as she thought about what I’d told her. “That’s an amazing story. I’ve always known that living as a Christian in a Muslim country—even a moderate one like Morocco—would be difficult, but I can’t imagine what it must be like in a country like Iran where Christians are imprisoned for their faith.”

“Yes, their lives are in danger all the time, so you can understand the impact it had on me when I saw how joyful they were in spite of their circumstances. And then, when I started listening to the words they were reading to each other from the Bible every night, I realized the source of their joy and wanted it for myself.”

She motioned at me with her hand. “I’m guessing this happened to you fairly recently, and that’s why you told Drue you had made a few changes in your life since the last time he saw you.”

“That’s right. And the truth is, I’m still changing. It’s a slow process, but I feel like I change a little bit every time I pray or read my Bible.”

She looked down at her hands—which she’d clasped together in her lap—and after she stared at them a moment, she nodded. “I’m not saying I’m going to do this, but if I decided to read the Bible, where would you suggest I begin?”

“I can only tell you what someone advised me to do, and that was to start reading the book of John. It’s one of four books that give an account of the life of Christ. If you’re seeking the truth about the meaning of life, it’s a good place to start.”

“It’s something to think about.” She smiled. “But maybe I shouldn’t think about it out loud from now on.”

I picked up the listening device I’d removed from the electrical socket. “I think you’re safe for now, but I’ll check your room again tomorrow when we get back from the archaeological dig.”

As I stood up to leave, she said, “Just a second, Titus. I’d like to ask you something. Since you’ve been working in the Middle East for several years, I’m wondering if you know Gavin Barrett.”

I nodded. “Yes, I know Gavin. He’s the Chief of Station in Jordan, and I understand he was responsible for recruiting you. Why were you wondering if I knew him?”

“I wanted your opinion of him. I’ve always considered him a friend, but lately, he’s gotten a little paranoid about our friendship.”

“What do you mean by paranoid?”

“I mean he questions me about my friends, and even though Gavin and I are not romantically involved, if I tell him I went out with someone, he acts jealous of them. He wants to know where we went and what we did together. It’s really started to bug me a little.”

“I assume you haven’t talked to him since our briefing.”

“Oh, no, I knew that would be against Agency rules. In fact, it’s been over two weeks since I’ve talked to him. Since we both have busy schedules, that’s not unusual, plus I told him a few weeks ago I’m booked up with photography sessions.”

“To answer your question,” I said, “I don’t really know Gavin all that well, but when we worked together, he seemed to be wound up pretty tight most of the time, like he had a lot of nervous energy and didn’t know what to do with it. He’s actually the youngest station chief I've ever worked with, but as far as I could tell, he was also very good at his job.”

She laughed as she walked me over to the door. “Yeah, that sounds like him, all right. He always has a lot going on in his head.”

“As you might imagine, that’s pretty common among spooks, especially when we’re juggling several scenarios at once.”

“From what I can tell, you seem pretty calm about everything.”

“That’s the art of being a spy. We’ve got everyone fooled.”

* * * *

When I returned to our suite, I was surprised Mitchell hadn’t come back from Talbot’s room yet, but since I’d heard the two of them talking about cameras, I figured Mitchell had convinced Talbot to show him his camera equipment—Mitchell was actually a pretty good photographer himself.

While I was waiting for him, I went over the biographical material Legends had prepared for me on Zayd Farouq one last time just to be sure I hadn’t forgotten anything. I had no doubt some people—like Olivia—might think I was being obsessive about immersing myself in the details, but I had a feeling someone in the Khalifa organization was doing research on Zayd Farouq at this very moment.

I figured either Minister Diwan, the Khalifa guards at the dig, or perhaps even Baldheaded Guy, had informed the leaders in the Khalifa organization about Zayd Farouq, the wealthy real estate mogul from Dubai, who was not only interested in Egyptians artifacts, but who was also sympathetic toward Sunni Muslim causes.

Although I had no way of knowing when someone from the Khalifa organization would make contact with me, I figured it would happen after they did their research on me and came across the materials Legends had planted on the internet about the fictitious Farouq.

More than likely, they would show up at Diwan’s party tomorrow evening to check me out, and if they were skeptical about my story, then they’d bombard me with questions, which was why I needed to be prepared to answer them.

While I was in the middle of quizzing myself about how Zayd got involved in organizing a Sunni school project, my phone vibrated.

It was Carlton.

It wasn’t an Ops Center phone number, though.

It was his personal cell phone number.

I wasn’t too surprised.

Carlton often called me “off the books,” which he usually clarified for me the moment I answered. Basically, what he meant by calling me “off the books” was that he was speaking to me in an unofficial capacity, and thus, he wasn’t required to record the call.

“Good morning, Titus, or I guess it’s afternoon in Cairo, isn’t it? As far as I can tell by the Grid, you’re alone in your hotel room. Am I right about that?”

“That’s right.”

“Just so you know, this phone call is off the books because I needed to clear the air about a couple of things.”

“Sure, I understand.”

Actually, I didn’t understand, but I wasn’t about to tell him that.

From his choice of words, it sounded like he’d been stewing over something, but I was clueless about what it might be.

“First of all,” he said, “I don’t want you to be concerned about Phase Two of the operation. In my mind, there’s no need for you to even consider trying to recruit a Khalifa member as an Agency asset.”

“To be frank, Douglas, I figured Phase Two was more the DDO’s idea than it was yours, so I haven’t given it a lot of thought. If we’re able to accomplish Phase One of the protocols, then I’ll consider this a successful operation.”

“I’m glad to hear that. The second reason I’m calling is to assure you that even though I wanted you to have Operational Field Autonomy for this mission, that doesn’t mean I’m not available if you need to discuss some aspect of the operation with me.”

I wasn’t absolutely sure what to make of this last statement, but my gut told me Carlton was feeling left out of the loop, and he wanted to be updated, even though the first protocol had yet to be fully implemented.

“Well, uh . . . sure, Douglas, and thanks. I’m glad to know that. I do have something I’d like your opinion on, but to give you the context, I’ll need to update you on what happened at the dig today.”

“Oh, absolutely, go ahead.”

From the lilt in his voice, it was obvious I’d identified what was going on with him, so after I went over the events of the day, I ended by telling him about my concerns that someone from Khalifa might try to steal the fake dagger.

His immediate response was that if I felt it was a possibility, I should arrange for Sloan to take possession of the dagger. After thanking him for his suggestion, I assured him I’d do that.

“The last thing I have to tell you,” he said, “is something I wouldn’t ordinarily talk about because it involves an operation occurring simultaneously with Operation Buried Dagger, but I believe the circumstances warrant it.”

“You know I can never have too much information.”

He let out a short, throaty chuckle. “On Saturday, the Egyptian military will be having opening ceremonies for a new military base they’ve established in the South Sinai. Representatives from several nearby countries will be attending, and our analysts have picked up chatter from the Qatar delegation that members of Khalifa are planning to attend and issue a declaration of intent.”

“I’m glad you told me. I might need this intel. Do you think this is some kind of manifesto to publicly launch their organization?”

“That’s unclear, but it certainly sounds like it to me. Even though the chatter about Khalifa’s declaration isn’t relevant to the other operation I have running with the Qatar delegation, I wanted you to have this information just in case it might affect Operation Buried Dagger.”

“I really appreciate it, Douglas. I don’t suppose you could tell me anything about your other operation, could you?”

“No, I couldn’t.”

“I just thought I’d ask.”

“You have plenty to think about with your own assignment, plus you know it’s against Agency rules for me to discuss an operation with an intelligence officer who’s not assigned to the mission.”

“Oh, yeah. We need to follow Agency rules.”

“Always.”

PART FOUR

Chapter 14

Wednesday, November 20

There was a sense of anticipation in the air as Mitchell and I arrived at the Dahshur excavation site on Wednesday morning. I felt it as soon as we headed down the path toward the dig and heard the excited voices ahead of us.

After we came over a ridge and into a clearing, it was obvious what was causing the commotion.

In front of a partially crumbling wall, Talbot had placed a camera mounted on a tripod. However, he wasn’t behind the camera. Instead, he was giving Laila directions about how he wanted her to move around in front of the wall while he was taking shots of her with a handheld camera.

Behind him and to his right were a group of workers. I assumed they’d been working near the wall, but now they were standing off to the side observing the show.

Laila was wearing a long-flowing white gown of pleated, lightweight material—evoking an image of an Egyptian princess. And, since Talbot was having her move around while swirling the material against the backdrop of the reddish brick, it appeared as if she were performing a modern dance, with the sound and rhythm of the clicking mechanism on Talbot’s camera providing the music.

I fully understood why the workers were mesmerized by it.

After Mitchell and I watched her for a moment, I started looking around for Rashid. That’s when I noticed two things: First, the photo shoot was now drawing the attention of another group of workers who were removing dirt from one of the excavation pits, and second, the two Khalifa security guards, Husani and Amon, were standing near the mess tent looking in our direction.

I realized they may have been watching the photo shoot, but I also got the sense they were keeping an eye on Mitchell and me.

I decided to test out my theory, so after giving Mitchell a quick explanation of what I was doing, we began making our way over to a shelter near Pit 3 where two techs were carefully cleaning what appeared to be a smooth black stone with an inscription on it.

Our movements took us out of the guards’ line of sight, but a few seconds later, I saw the older guard, Husani, walking over to the processing tents across from Pit 3.

From there, he had a panoramic view of Pit 3.

More specifically, he could see what we were doing.

Shortly after I spotted Husani, I got a text from Rashid. “Meet me at the back of the cataloging pavilion as soon as you can.”

I acknowledged his text, and then I showed it to Mitchell.

As we carefully made our way around the different sections of Pit 3, pausing a couple of times to observe what the workers were doing, a movement over my left shoulder got my attention. When I looked up, I spotted a surveillance drone hovering overhead.

I figured Husani’s buddy, Amon, was piloting the drone from somewhere nearby, which meant not only did he have the ability to observe what the workers were doing, he could also photograph the artifacts being discovered without actually having to be in the vicinity.

More than likely, the Khalifa guards had been keeping the organization informed about discoveries at the Dahshur site by their ability to use the drone in this way.

I immediately realized the same thing might happen when we met up with Rashid in a few minutes, so I tried not to give any indication I’d seen the drone, or that I’d noticed Husani was now following us over to the cataloging pavilion.

“I guess you spotted the drone,” Mitchell whispered.

“Yeah, it’s possible they already suspect what Rashid is about to do, so let’s hope they don’t try to stop him.”

As we got near the cataloging pavilion, I said, “Rashid may not have seen the drone flying overhead, so we need to alert him and urge him to leave the area as soon as we finish our business here. Of course, if it looks like Husani is going to intervene when Rashid slips us the dagger, then we may need to create some kind of diversion.”

“What would you suggest?”

“Uh . . . I’ll think of something.”

* * * *

The cataloging pavilion was a long rectangular tent supported by sturdy metal poles. It was similar to a wedding party tent, except it had been sectioned off into various workstations filled with tables, shelves, and crates.

Technicians inside the individual workstations were responsible for applying identification codes, taking photographs, wrapping objects, and entering data on laptop computers.

The place had been a beehive of activity the day before when Mitchell and I toured the pavilion with Dr. Chafik, but today, most of the workers were standing outside the tent watching the “show” being put on by Talbot and Laila, which meant no one seemed to be paying attention to Mitchell and me as we made our way towards the back of the pavilion to the collection area where a number of storage crates, plastic containers, and wooden boxes were stacked.

It was also where we found Rashid.

He was standing next to a table taking a bunch of items wrapped in dark tissue paper from a plastic container and transferring them to a wooden crate. One of the items at the bottom of the container was the brown canvas pouch containing the fake Golden Dagger.

Rashid wasn’t alone, though.

There were two workers standing near him who appeared to be counting crates and recording their numbers on a clipboard.

“Good morning, Rashid,” I said. “Mahmoud and I were hoping to find you. We have some questions we wanted to ask you.”

“Of course, Mr. Farouq, I’ll be happy to answer your questions.”

He turned around and spoke to the two men behind him. “You can go ahead and take your break now. I’ll be here for a while.”

The men immediately glanced over at the photo shoot where the crowd of workers continued to increase, and a few seconds later, we saw them heading in that direction. As we watched them go, I spotted Husani just inside the pavilion speaking to a technician, although he was occasionally looking over at us.

Evidently, Mitchell saw him too, so as he removed his leather messenger bag from around his shoulder, he said, “One of the Khalifa guards is watching us, Rashid, so this looks like the perfect time to make the transfer.”

Rashid nodded and took the brown pouch out of the container and carefully placed it on the table. Seconds later, Mitchell reached over and slipped it inside his bag. As he did so, I removed an envelope from my jacket and handed it to Rashid, who immediately crammed it inside his pants pocket. Although it looked like the envelope could be full of cash, it was stuffed with stationery from the Nile Grand Hotel.

Since Husani continued glancing in our direction, there was no way he hadn’t seen the whole thing.

However, I was uncertain what he might do about it, so I whispered to Rashid, “Raise your voice and tell us you want us to wait here while you go check on something, then go ahead and leave the dig exactly like you were planning to do. We’ll make sure Husani doesn’t follow you, but stay alert because we believe Amon is patrolling the perimeter with the security drone.”

Rashid nodded and immediately raised his voice. “Please wait here while I go check on something. I’ll be back shortly.”

“Not a problem, Rashid. Go ahead. We’ll wait here for you.”

The moment he left, I took out my phone as if I were checking my messages. In reality, I was texting Talbot a question. “Could you do something that would create some extra excitement for the crowd around you?”

He quickly texted back. “Yeah, give me a second.”

I whispered to Mitchell, “Elias is creating a diversion for us. Just follow my lead.”

Mitchell nodded, and moments later, we heard loud voices and laughter coming from the area of the photo shoot.

As I began moving in that direction—directly towards where Husani was standing—I said, “It sounds like we’re missing something, Mahmoud. Let’s go see what’s going on.”

The moment Husani saw us leaving the collection area and heading towards him, he stepped outside the pavilion—as if he didn’t want us to cross paths with him—but as soon as he did, I walked up to him and said, “Excuse me, but do you know what just happened down there?”

“Uh . . . no. I wasn’t . . . uh . . . watching.”

When the three of us turned and looked over at the crumbling wall where Talbot was taking pictures of Laila, I immediately knew what Talbot had done to cause the commotion among the workers—he’d asked some of the workers to join Laila over at the wall and be photographed as part of the background.

Thus, two of them were pretending to dust off the wall with large brushes, while one was chiseling on a stone at the base of the wall, and a fourth worker was kneeling on the ground using a sieve tray.

Not surprisingly, the ones who weren’t participating were laughing at the ones who were.

I wasn’t sure whether Talbot had been able to tell Laila what was going on or not, but she was doing her part to draw attention to the workers by posing near them and swirling her gown in front of them.

While the three of us were standing outside the cataloging pavilion observing everything—which I hoped was giving Rashid enough time to get over to the service road behind Pit 5, where his car was parked—I suddenly heard three popping sounds.

I immediately identified them as shots being fired, although it sounded like they were off in the distance and not near the excavation site itself. The shots were soon followed by the sound of metal scraping against metal and a low thumping noise.

Although the crowd at the fashion show didn’t seem to hear anything, Husani definitely did, and he immediately turned away from us and started running toward the sound of the crash.

“What do you think?” Mitchell asked. “Should we follow him or get out of here?”

I did a quick calculation. “We should leave now. I think there’s a good chance Rashid just shot down the surveillance drone, or maybe he shot Amon and the drone crashed. Since I’m supposed to be Zayd Farouq, I don’t believe he would think the noise was any of his business, so he wouldn’t stick around to find out what it was.”

“I agree. I think Farouq would leave now, especially since he has such a valuable artifact in his possession.”

When we got near Laila and Talbot, I sent him a text. “Wrap things up and leave ASAP.”

Although he glanced down at his phone, he didn’t text me back.

Instead, he motioned at Laila. “Okay, that’s all for today. We’ll be back tomorrow to finish up.”

That might not be true.

It all depended on what had happened to Rashid.

* * * *

As soon as we got inside our SUV, I took out my phone and called Sloan. Meanwhile, as Mitchell was driving out of the parking lot, he pointed over to the west where we could see a plume of dust—or maybe it was smoke—rising in the air from where I figured the service road was.

“Are you sure we shouldn’t go check on Rashid?” Mitchell asked.

I thought about it for a second while I waited for Sloan to answer my call. “No, I think it would look suspicious for us to drive over there. At the moment, Husani believes Rashid stole the dagger and sold it to me, but otherwise, there’s no connection between us. We don’t want to give him a reason to start thinking differently.”

Mitchell didn’t say anything, which usually meant he didn’t agree with me, and he was keeping quiet in order to control his emotions.

In my mind, that was a good exercise for him, so I ignored his silence. Naturally, I was concerned about Rashid, but since my first obligation was to the mission, I had to put that aside.

Sloan still hadn’t answered his phone by the time Mitchell was turning on the highway, so I hung up. “Let’s go ahead and drive over to the museum. Maybe Drue can’t talk right now.”

He shot me an angry look. “Or maybe he was tracking Rashid on the Grid, and he’s trying to find out what happened to him.”

“Which is what Drue is supposed to do, and following the protocols is what we’re supposed to do.”

His voice had an edge to it. “That’s true, except if someone on the operational team has an emergency.”

“Right, but Rashid isn’t on our operational team. He’s one of Drue’s operatives, and he’s responsible for him.”

“Yeah, but I think we could’ve just—”

My phone began vibrating. “This is Drue,” I said. “I’ll put him on speakerphone.”

“Hey, Drue,” I said, “we’ve just left the Dahshur site, but we’re concerned about Rashid. We heard what sounded like gunfire shortly after he headed toward his car. Do you know if he’s okay?”

“I was on the phone with him when you tried to call me just now. He’s fine, and he’s on his way to the safe house. He said when he left you, and he was heading over to the service road, he noticed the surveillance drone that one of the Khalifa guards was using was tracking him. He was worried the guard might try to follow him in his own vehicle when he saw him getting in his car, so he decided to shoot the drone down.”

“I was wondering if that’s what happened.”

“I certainly wouldn’t have advised him to shoot it down, but I wasn’t there, so I’m not in a position to judge. I hope his actions didn’t affect anything you were doing.”

“We were actually with one of the other guards when it happened, but he didn’t seem to connect the shooting with us. We immediately left once we heard the shots, and I also texted Elias and Laila and told them to leave as soon as they could get away.”

“I can see them on the Grid on my phone, and they’re leaving now.”

“I believe we’re about ten minutes away from the museum. How far away are you?”

“It’s gonna take me at least thirty minutes to get there. Traffic was stopped for some kind of protest, and it’s just now starting to move again. I’m sorry, but you’re gonna have to wait for me.”

“That’s not a problem. We’ll see you in a few minutes.”

When I disconnected the call, Mitchell said, “I’m glad Rashid’s okay.” He shrugged. “I guess I shouldn’t have been worried about him.”

“It’s okay to be worried, but just make sure it doesn’t affect your decision-making.”

He grinned. “Are you trying to make this a teachable moment?”

“Yes, is it working?”

He took his hand off the steering wheel and waffled it back and forth. “Maybe a little.” A few seconds later, he asked, “What do you think will happen when Husani tells his boss that Rashid shot down the drone after he slipped us the dagger?”

“I hope they’ll be far more interested in hearing Zayd Farouq is in possession of the Golden Dagger than they are in hearing that a site collector at the dig is a thief, and that he shot down a drone to get away.”

Mitchell was quiet for a moment. “Okay, that’s a good point, and you’re probably right.”

“The only way we can be sure if I’m right is when we show up at Diwan’s birthday party in a few hours. If his Khalifa friends treat us like royalty, then we’ll know they believe Zayd Farouq is sympathetic to their cause and a potential supporter of their movement.”

“And how will they treat us if you’re wrong?”

“In that case, when we show up at the party, Minister Diwan will probably have us arrested.”

Chapter 15

As Sloan had predicted, it took him thirty minutes before he finally pulled up next to us in the parking lot at the Grand Egyptian Museum. Once he did, he got in the back seat of our vehicle, where he unzipped Mitchell’s messenger bag and removed the dagger.

While he was looking it over, he got a call from Rashid, who let him know he’d made it to the safe house without being followed.

I got the feeling that all three of us relaxed a little after getting Rashid’s phone call.

Before Sloan got out of our car, I gave him more details about what went down at the excavation site, and then I told him I’d call him tomorrow and update him about any intel we were able to collect at Diwan’s birthday party.

After that, we went our separate ways.

While Mitchell was driving us back to our hotel, I pulled out my phone. “I’m texting Laila and Talbot and telling them to meet us in our hotel suite in an hour for a short debriefing session.”

“Could we make that two hours?” he asked. “I don’t know about you, but I’m really hungry.”

Although Mitchell seemed to live in a perpetual state of hunger, I realized I was pretty hungry myself, so I agreed, and once we arrived at the hotel, we went straight to the Al Fayruz restaurant, one of the hotel’s five dining options. This one specialized in Lebanese food.

As we entered the restaurant, we were met by the enticing aroma of freshly baked pita bread and spicy grilled meats.

The smells only increased my appetite, and when our waiter asked us if we wanted to order an appetizer, and Mitchell immediately said yes, I figured he was feeling the same way.

However, he surprised me when he ordered sorbat adas, lentil soup, because Egyptian restaurants were notorious for serving thin, watery soups that weren’t that filling,

For my part, I ordered muhammara—a thick spicy dip made of pomegranate molasses, red pepper, bread crumbs, and olive oil. My appetizer also came with warm pita bread.

For his entrée, Mitchell chose sayadieh, broiled fish served with caramelized onions and saffron rice, whereas I opted for kibbeh nayyeh, a traditional Lebanese dish of roasted lamb seasoned with spices and served with fresh vegetables.

Once the waiter left, we didn’t say anything for a few minutes while both of us did what we’d been trained to do—scan the faces of the other patrons, along with the wait staff, to see if anyone was paying too much attention to us, or if we saw someone who looked familiar. I came up negative on both counts. I also hadn’t seen any sign of the baldheaded Khalifa guy in the hotel lobby.

When I mentioned it to Mitchell, he touched the messenger bag he’d placed in the empty chair beside him and said, “I guess that means no one alerted him to the treasure we acquired today.”

“I doubt if the baldheaded guy communicates directly with Khalifa’s leadership. I have a feeling he’s just a foot soldier who’s paid to alert his boss to suspicious activity among the guests at the hotel.”

He nodded. “Every organization has to have foot soldiers. That’s what I told Penny when I warned her she might have to start out as a general analyst in the ASA division, and she shouldn’t count on getting a position in the Ops Center right away.”

I was about to respond to Mitchell’s comment, but then our waiter set our appetizers in front of us.

My bowl of muhammara was much bigger than I’d anticipated, plus the cloth-lined basket of warm pita bread held more than I could possibly eat by myself. That might have been the reason I saw Mitchell gazing across the table at what I’d ordered when the waiter set his small bowl of thin, watery lentil soup in front of him.

“Your muhammara looks delicious,” Mitchell said, after the waiter left. “I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.”

I pushed the breadbasket toward him. “Help yourself to some pita bread. There’s plenty for both of us.”

“I’d offer you some of my soup, but it’s a really small bowl.”

“No, it’s fine. I’m sure the muhammara will be very filling.”

“It looks filling. I’m sorry I didn’t order it myself.”

I started to dip some pita bread into the muhammara, but then I paused and motioned for the waiter to come over to our table. “Would you bring me an extra bowl so I can share some of this muhammara with my friend?”

“Of course, sir, but let me do that for you.” He whisked my muhammara away and quickly headed back to the kitchen.

“Thanks, but you didn’t have to do that,” Mitchell said, dipping his pita bread—my pita bread—into his bowl of lentil soup while I sat there and watched him stuff his face.

I motioned toward him. “Well, you sounded like you were starving, and I wasn’t about to let that happen.”

“I appreciate it, but now you don’t have anything to eat.”

“That hasn’t escaped my attention,” I said, looking around for our waiter.

When he finally returned ten minutes later—after I’d eaten two slices of pita bread and nothing else—he also had our entrées with him, along with two bowls of muhammara.

In the end, Mitchell didn’t eat any of the muhammara, although he did ask me for a bite of my kibbeh nayyeh.

I told myself this was a teachable moment for me.

I just wasn’t sure what the lesson was.

* * * *

Following our meal, Mitchell and I met with Laila and Talbot in our hotel suite to go over the events of the morning.

Afterward, I discussed Diwan’s party with them, including the possibility Omar al-Hakim, the head of Khalifa, might show up.

“Is there something specific you want us to do?” Talbot asked.

“No, just treat this evening like you would any other social occasion. Since you’re not hiding behind a cover story, you can answer any questions about your background truthfully. On the other hand, if someone should ask you about Zayd Farouq and Mahmoud bin Hassan, then plead ignorance and tell them you just met us at the archaeological site yesterday.”

“I’m sure you’ve thought of this already,” Laila said, “but shouldn’t Elias and I bring the minister a birthday gift?”

I smiled. “Actually, I hadn’t thought of it, but you’re right. Why don’t you pick up something for Minister Diwan in one of the shops down in the lobby?” I looked over at Mitchell. “I’ll have my Vice President of Finance do the same.”

Mitchell shrugged. “Sure, I can do that. Maybe I can find him a replica of a ceremonial dagger from the New Kingdom period.”

When all three of us looked over at him, he raised his hands. “Just kidding.”

* * * *

Mitchell and I arrived at Diwan’s residence twenty minutes later than the time he’d specified. However, in the Middle East, tardiness was considered normal behavior, so we weren’t technically running late.

Since I told Laila and Talbot not to leave the hotel until fifteen minutes after our departure, their arrival would be even later.

The fifteen-minute delay was to give me enough time to determine if it was safe for them to show up—I figured if Diwan was going to have us arrested, he’d do so immediately—so I told them to wait until they received a text from me before entering the grounds of Diwan’s estate.

“If you don’t get a text from me,” I said, “then call Drue immediately and follow his instructions about what to do next. Under no circumstances are you to go back to the hotel. Do you understand?”

While they both seemed taken aback by my orders—or maybe it was the sternness of my delivery—neither one of them expressed a reluctance to attend the party.

I was glad to see it.

I figured Laila’s presence among the guests would draw attention away from Mitchell and me, the same way it did at the archaeological dig, making it easier for someone in the Khalifa organization to initiate contact with me.

Now, as Mitchell drove up to the wrought-iron gate in front of Diwan’s residence, we were met by a uniformed guard who demanded to see our invitation.

Since all I had was the business card the minister had given us at the dig the day before, I handed that to him.

He took one look at the writing on the back and waved us through.

“Well, that was easy,” Mitchell said, as he drove up the driveway. “Let’s hope we get the same reception in there.” He motioned at the multi-story structure ahead of us, a blend of traditional Islamic architecture and modern design.

“I think we’re gonna be okay,” I said, glancing around at the vehicles parked in the driveway. “None of these cars look like government-issued vehicles, and if Minister Diwan was about to have us arrested for archaeological theft, I’m sure he would have notified the State Security Agency.”

When Mitchell and I walked up to the front entrance of the minister’s impressive-looking house, we were welcomed by a woman wearing a mid-length black dress and a white apron, presumably a member of Diwan’s household staff.

“Marhaba, ya Sada. Welcome, Gentlemen,” she said. “Can I take that for you?” She indicated the wrapped present I was holding, which I handed over to her. “The minister is receiving guests in the garden, which is just beyond the living room through those glass doors.”

As she waved her hand towards the large living area, where there were several people gathered, I noticed a round table near the sliding glass doors filled with birthday gifts.

While the sight of it made me grateful Laila had suggested we bring the minister a present, I also tensed up a little when I saw Dr. Chafik standing next to the table.

He wasn’t alone, though. He was speaking to a man wearing traditional Egyptian attire—a white thobe worn under a bisht, a type of long vest. However, his bisht was made of a bright gold fabric.

Dr. Chafik’s body language—leaning toward the man while maintaining constant eye contact—indicated he respected him, perhaps even admired him, which led me to wonder if the two men might work in the same field.

I’d just finished texting Laila and Talbot to let them know all was well at Diwan’s party, and they could come at any time, when Dr. Chafik looked in my direction and motioned for us to join him.

Since there was no way for me to know if he was aware the Golden Dagger was missing, or if he’d heard about Rashid shooting down the drone, I felt a little apprehensive about speaking to him, although I took it as a good sign when I saw he was smiling at us.

“Good evening, Dr. Chafik,” Mitchell and I both said as we walked up to him.

After greeting us, Chafik looked over at the man next to him. “Dr. Tariz, I’d like for you to meet Zayd Farouq, a real estate developer from Dubai, and Mahmoud bin Hussan, his Vice President of Finance.”

Chafik turned toward Mitchell and me. “This is Dr. Boba Tariz, a conservator from the Grand Egyptian Museum. I was just telling him I’d been trying to contact him about authenticating our most recent find at the El-Qasr Expedition.”

Although Dr. Tariz acknowledged the introduction by briefly nodding his head, he didn’t actually say anything to us.

I suspected his silence was why Chafik hurried on. “I was planning to follow up with you today, Dr. Tariz, but I was tied up for several hours in a budget meeting with my accountant. His offices are an hour away from Dahshur, so I couldn’t make it back to the dig.”

Dr. Tariz didn’t look pleased with Chafik. “Since we’re here to celebrate the minister’s birthday, Dr. Chafik, let’s not discuss this now. Why don’t I give you a call tomorrow morning, and we’ll make arrangements to see the artifact then.”

“Oh, yes, absolutely. Let’s do that.”

After Dr. Tariz briefly nodded at Mitchell and me once again, he walked away, which seemed to embarrass the director. “The demands on Dr. Tariz’s time are incredible. He seldom gets any time off, but of course, that’s understandable with his credentials.”

“I’m sure that’s true,” I said.

“Did you make it back out to the dig today?” Chafik asked.

I nodded. “Yes, but we didn’t stay very long. I had other matters I needed to take care of.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be there. I told Rashid if you showed up, he should make sure you had everything you needed.”

“Yes, we saw him briefly, but like I said, we didn’t stay that long, and unfortunately, we won’t be able to come back tomorrow.”

Chafik looked disappointed, but before he could say anything, Minister Diwan opened the sliding glass doors that led out to his garden and stepped inside.

When he walked over, all three of us wished him a happy birthday.

“Thank you,” he said, bowing his head slightly, “and thank you for coming. Most of my guests are in the garden, and that’s where you’ll also find the food, so please feel free to join them.”

“Yes, we’ll do that.” I pointed toward a wall of built-in shelves which held several Egyptian artifacts. “I was just admiring your collection. It’s very impressive.”

“Come over here and take a closer look at it with me.”

Since the minister didn’t include Mitchell and Chafik in his invitation, only the two of us walked over to see his collection.

“These pieces are on loan from the Grand Egyptian Museum,” he said. “That’s one of the privileges of my position as Minister of Antiquities. I have them on display here to remind my guests of the importance of preserving our heritage.”

“I admire you for doing that.”

“I thought you’d agree, Mr. Farouq. If we neglect our heritage, it weakens us as a nation, and as a Sunni Muslim, I’m bound to protect what is sacred, whether it’s the treasures of our ancestors or our religious traditions. In reality, I’m committed to both. Can I assume that’s also true of you?”

It wasn’t clear to me whether he was asking if I was adamant about protecting Egyptian treasures or Sunni Muslim traditions, but since I knew he was secretly helping Khalifa grow their Sunni organization, I decided to use it as an opportunity to emphasize Zayd Farouq’s commitment to Sunni causes. “Yes, I’ve pledged to support my Sunni brothers in whatever way I can.”

He lowered his voice. “Does that include the growing Khalifa movement?”

I pretended to hesitate a moment. “Uh . . . I’m not sure. I don’t know enough about it yet to make that commitment, but I’m certainly not opposed to it.”

“That’s very wise of you. Since I’m acquainted with the leaders of the movement, would you be interested in meeting some of them while you’re in Cairo?”

“I’d be honored, Minister Diwan. Let me know when you’re able to make the arrangements, and I’ll adjust my schedule.”

“It won’t take more than a phone call, so I should know something soon.” He smiled. “You may have more in common with Khalifa than you realize.”

Before I could question him about his statement, he motioned toward the garden. “Now go enjoy some of my delicious food. The Golden Oasis catered it, so I highly recommend their famous sea bass.”

“Thank you. I’ll do that.”

Although Diwan’s offer to introduce me to the leaders of Khalifa was unexpected, I wasn’t about to turn him down, plus I got the distinct impression he’d already spoken to someone in the organization who was equally interested in meeting me.

As I walked away from Diwan to head out to the garden, I looked around for Mitchell, but when I didn’t see him, I suspected where he might be.

I wasn’t wrong.

The moment I stepped out on the patio, I spotted him at the buffet table, piling his plate with delicacies from The Golden Oasis.

He was surrounded by several other guests, both men and women, but the moment I spotted a familiar-looking female, I immediately changed directions and abandoned my plans to join him.

Her name was Sierra Sherman.

She was a covert operative in the Defense Intelligence Agency (DIA), the intelligence-gathering apparatus of the Department of Defense.

My first thought was, what was she doing here?

My second thought was, what should I do about it?

Chapter 16

The apprehension I felt at seeing Sierra Sherman at the party was instinctive. She knew me as Titus Ray. Approaching her when I was supposed to be Zayd Farouq wasn’t advisable.

I also assumed she wasn’t attending Minister Diwan’s party under her own name, and until I knew what her cover story was, speaking to her could put her life in danger.

As I stood off to the side and observed Sierra, she seemed oblivious to Mitchell’s presence, so I figured that meant she wasn’t aware he was with the Agency.

I met Sierra several years ago during a joint CIA/DIA operation in Amman, Jordan. At the time, she was posing as a journalist covering the Arab League Summit, and I was supposedly the owner of a fleet of cars responsible for transporting the delegates from their hotel to the conference center. In reality, our joint operation was an effort to get intel on Syria’s chemical weapons stockpile.

I didn’t know Sierra’s ethnic background, but with her dark hair and dark complexion, and the fact that she spoke fluent Arabic, it was understandable why Defense had her working in the Middle East.

While she was filling her plate with food, I took the opportunity to look around at what Diwan called his “garden,” although it was a bit more than just an ordinary flower garden.

While there were manicured flower beds in abundance, the focal point was an ornate bubbling water fountain, which looked as if it might have been in the same spot for centuries.

On the stone patio in front of the fountain were ten linen-covered round tables with place settings for eight people.

Strands of miniature lights hanging overhead provided soft ambient lighting, and in a corner of the patio, three musicians were providing live instrumental music.

When a waiter stopped and offered me one of the three kinds of non-alcoholic drinks he was serving—mint lemonade, red hibiscus tea, or sparkling cucumber water—I chose the lemonade, and then I stepped over to where the musicians were playing and pretended to be enjoying the music, while continuing to keep my eye on Sierra.

I was particularly interested to see if she’d come to the party by herself—which didn’t seem likely—or if she were with someone.

At the moment, she was still lingering at the buffet table, but a couple of times she looked behind her and spoke to an older woman who was wearing a beige hijab—a long headscarf worn by Muslim women.

Unlike other Muslim countries, the hijab wasn’t mandatory in Egypt, so very few younger women wore them.

While I was observing her, I saw Mitchell take his plate of food and join Dr. Chafik at a table where there were two other men, one of whom had a Khalifa patch on his thobe. The other man was wearing a suit, as were Mitchell and Chafik. I figured Mitchell chose to sit there, hoping he could learn something from the guy with the Khalifa patch.

By the time I looked back at the buffet table, Sierra was walking away and behind her was the woman wearing the hijab. Sierra seemed unsure where she wanted to sit, and as she looked around at the tables, she briefly glanced in my direction.

Since she showed no sign of recognition, I wasn’t certain she’d even noticed me. However, I reminded myself she knew her tradecraft, so if she had recognized me, I was certain she had the ability to control her emotions and refrain from showing any reaction to my presence.

I continued watching as she and the woman walked over to a table a few feet away from the fountain where several people were already seated. Seconds later, I turned my attention away from her when I saw Diwan step through the sliding glass doors onto the patio.

Standing next to him were Laila and Talbot.

Diwan appeared to be directing them over to the buffet table, but as he did so, I got the impression he was enjoying the attention Laila was getting from his guests, especially since some of the women were whispering to each other as if they might have recognized her from the pages of their favorite fashion magazines.

On the other hand, perhaps his guests were admiring what Laila was wearing—a royal-blue ankle-length dress with a high neckline that featured an embroidery design in gold thread. The design was duplicated on the sleeves of the dress, and she’d accented it by wearing a pair of gigantic gold earrings with a similar motif.

Talbot was wearing a charcoal grey pinstripe suit with a black shirt and no tie. Along with his tousled hair and light stubble, he could have easily been mistaken for a model himself.

While all eyes were on Laila and Talbot as they made their way to the buffet table, I looked over at where Sierra and her friend were sitting.

I saw her female companion.

I didn’t see Sierra.

Seconds later, when I heard someone behind me, I turned around, and there she was.

She motioned for me to follow her.

I took a look around to make sure no one was paying attention to us and followed her along a concrete path that led from the patio down to Diwan’s swimming pool.

From the swimming pool, the sidewalk continued around a thick hedge of bushes and ended at the fountain.

The hedge separated the swimming pool from the rest of the garden, so I figured that was how Sierra had been able to sneak up behind me—she’d left her table, slipped behind the hedge, and made her way over to the patio where I was standing by the musicians.

Now, I followed her down a short flight of steps to the swimming pool, and once she stepped into the shadows of the pool house, she turned around and faced me.

“What are you doing here?” she whispered.

“I was about to ask you the same thing.”

“I’m on an assignment,” she replied.

“So am I.”

“Is Jaberi Diwan your target?”

“You know I can’t—”

She waved her hand at me. “I’m not asking you for specifics about the operation. Just give me a general idea of the objective.”

“Asking if Jaberi Diwan is the target sounds pretty specific to me.” When she let out an exasperated sigh, I said, “No, he isn’t the target. Is Diwan your target?”

“No, and don’t ask me to elaborate. I’m here tonight to meet a contact who claims to have information on Ibrahim Nabil, the man we believe is responsible for killing the American serviceman in Syria last month. I was sent to Cairo two months ago to get intel on Nabil for a future DIA operation, and tonight, I hope to get the intel we need. My contact assured me there’s enough intel on Nabil to fill a flash drive.”

“Did Diwan invite you to his party?”

“No, I was invited by an assistant on his staff, someone I befriended when I interviewed Minister Diwan for a piece I’m supposedly writing on President Saeed’s ten-year-anniversary. My cover story is that I’m a journalist with the Al-Bashir news organization.”

“Your bosses must think you make a believable journalist. That’s the same cover you had during our joint operation. Are you using the same name?”

“Yes, I’m Aisha Nassar. Okay, you’ve managed to get plenty of information out of me; now it’s your turn. What can you tell me about your assignment, and what’s your cover story?”

“I’m Zayd Farouq, a wealthy real estate developer from Dubai who collects ancient Egyptian artifacts. I met Minister Diwan at the Dahshur archaeological dig yesterday, and since our analysts believe he’s involved with the Khalifa organization, I accepted his invitation to his birthday party.”

“So your assignment is to learn more about Khalifa?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Yeah, sure. Would you like to guess which organization Ibrahim Nabil is working with?”

“Uh . . . would that be Khalifa?” When she nodded, I asked, “How much do you know about the Khalifa organization?”

“Not that much. I know their goal is to have a Sunni-dominated presence in the Egyptian government, and the person behind the movement is Omar al-Hakim, but that’s pretty much all I know.”

I wasn’t sure I believed her, but since we had a limited amount of time, and I knew Diwan was making arrangements for me to meet with Khalifa’s leadership, I decided to drop the subject.

However, as I was about to suggest we get back to the party, she said, “But I don’t mind sharing this with you—the ministers I’ve interviewed in President Saeed’s cabinet seem sympathetic to the Khalifa movement, and several of them have expressed dissatisfaction at President Saeed’s reluctance to embrace it.”

“Thanks. I appreciate that little nugget of intel.”

She gave me a coy smile. “If you learn anything about Ibrahim Nabil, would you be willing to pass it along to me?”

“Uh . . . sure, I guess I can do that.”

“I’m staying at the Royal Princess Hotel. Here’s my card with my phone number on it.”

Once I also gave her Zayd Farouq’s business card, I suggested she return to her table first, and then I’d show up a few minutes later.

As soon as she left, I laughed at myself for wanting to get Carlton on the phone immediately and tell him about running into a DIA operative at Diwan’s birthday party.

I quickly stifled that emotion.

While I might be amused, that would not be Carlton’s reaction.

Especially if I told him I had an extended conversation with her.

* * * *

As soon as I reentered the garden by way of the patio, I noticed Diwan had seated Laila and Talbot at his table—located in the center of the other tables—so I quickly filled up a plate with food and joined Mitchell and Dr. Chafik at their table.

When I sat down, I made sure I had a clear line of sight to where Sierra and her friend were sitting. While I couldn’t see how it would affect my operation, I was still curious to see if I could spot her contact when he—or she—gave her information on Ibrahim Nabil.

The rest of the evening proceeded without any other surprises—at least, until the end.

Once everyone had finished eating, the head caterer set up a table on the patio with a birthday cake on it, while the waiters arranged the birthday presents around it. After Diwan made a brief speech, the guests sang the “Happy Birthday” song to him—the Egyptian version had the same melody as the American version, except the Arabic words were “A sweet year, oh beautiful one.”

Once Diwan ceremonially cut the first piece of cake, waiters cut the rest, and then they served large slices to everyone as Diwan opened his presents.

Mitchell had purchased Diwan a coffee table book on Egyptian artifacts. Although he graciously thanked us and said he appreciated it, I had a feeling he probably had dozens of them.

Diwan’s reaction to Laila and Talbot’s gift—a beautiful black globe with Egypt highlighted in silver—left little doubt he liked it, or maybe it was just an excuse to shower Laila with attention.

Besides serving birthday cake, several waiters circulated among the tables with trays of other dessert choices, which made it difficult for me to maintain a constant watch over Sierra’s activities.

As the party was winding down, Diwan visited each table to thank his guests for coming, and when he got to our table, he asked me to come over and sign the coffee table book before I left.

The moment I got up and walked over to the patio, several people were blocking my view of Sierra, and shortly after that, she must have left the party, because I never saw her again.

It soon became obvious Diwan had only asked me to sign the book so he could have a private word with me.

As soon as I signed it, he said, “Mr. Farouq, I wanted to let you know I’ve made arrangements for you to meet Omar al-Hakim, the head of Khalifa, tomorrow, but the meeting needs to take place in the morning at nine o’clock at the Dominion Center, Suite 300.”

I nodded. “I should be able to make that. I’m not familiar with the Dominion Center, but I’ll have Mahmoud look it up for us.”

“It’s near Tahrir Square, and you can park in the garage next to it. However, Omar requested that you come alone.”

I wasn’t happy to hear that I couldn’t bring Mitchell with me, so I pushed back a little. “Mahmoud will be disappointed that he’s not invited. He’s as committed to preserving the Sunni tradition as I am.”

“I’m happy to hear that, but those were the conditions I was given.”

“I understand, and thanks for making the arrangements.”

“You’re welcome. I think you’ll discover you and Omar al-Hakim have interests that will be mutually beneficial to both of you.”

He didn’t have to convince me of that, but I tried not to let my enthusiasm show.

I wasn’t as restrained when I told Mitchell about it.

I was also still pretty pumped about it when I set up a video call with Carlton and Sloan after we got back to our hotel suite.

* * * *

Both men came on the screen moments after I sent them a notification that I had an official Operational Field Update (OFU) for them.

It was late afternoon at Langley, and although I figured Carlton had been at work since sunrise, he still had his suit jacket on, his tie was knotted, and his shirt looked as crisp as if he’d just put it on.

On the other hand, Sloan was wearing a sweatshirt and appeared disheveled. His cat, Elsa, was perched on his lap gazing at the camera, as if she was as interested in the OFU as her owner was.

Olivia, who was at the console next to Carlton in RTM Command Center B, was the first person to speak. “Ben, you’re not sitting close enough to the camera. Move in so we can see you better.”

Mitchell and I were seated next to each other at the dining table in our suite, but he moved his chair slightly closer to mine, leaned in toward my laptop a little, and asked, “Is this better?”

Olivia sighed. “It’ll have to do.”

“Now that we can all see Ben clearly,” Carlton said, with a touch of sarcasm in his voice, “I’ll log us in so Titus can give us his update.”

He cleared his throat. “Level 1 Covert Intelligence Officers, Titus Ray and Ben Mitchell, delivering an OFU on Operation Buried Dagger to Douglas Carlton, Middle East Division Director, Olivia McConnell, RTM Center B Director, and Drue Sloan, Cairo Station Chief. Code 59327.”

I began my Operational Field Update by quickly going over what had taken place at the Dahshur dig earlier in the day, including Rashid shooting down the drone. As soon as I mentioned the incident, Sloan interrupted me and explained Rashid’s reasoning behind his actions.

While Carlton was listening to Sloan, I noticed his lips were pursed, which I interpreted to mean he thought Rashid’s behavior was foolish, and I had no doubt he would bring up the matter with Sloan later, but for now, he said, “Go ahead, Titus. Continue with your update.”

“The reason I accepted Diwan’s invitation to attend his birthday party was that I thought I might have a chance to meet Omar al-Hakim. Unfortunately, he never showed up tonight. However, during the evening, Diwan asked me how I felt about the Khalifa movement, and when I assured him I supported it, he offered me a chance to meet some of their leaders while I was in Cairo.”

Carlton smiled. “Can I assume you jumped at the chance without being obvious about it?”

“It was difficult, but I managed to control my excitement when I told him I might be able to fit it into my schedule.”

“So is that how you left it? Is he supposed to contact you?”

“No, just as the party was ending, Diwan pulled me aside to let me know he had already been able to contact Omar al-Hakim, and he asked that I meet him at his office tomorrow morning at nine o’clock.”

“That’s great news, Titus,” Sloan said.

“There was one stipulation—I have to come alone.”

Carlton frowned. “You know I don’t like that.”

Ordinarily, Carlton would immediately tell me how he wanted to handle the situation, but since I had Operational Field Autonomy, I didn’t give him a chance to make that decision. “Yeah, I knew you wouldn’t like it, Douglas, and I wasn’t happy about it myself, so I’ve decided I’ll wear a hidden camera. I know video devices weren’t included in my Kit, but I’m sure Drue can supply me with one.”

“Oh, yeah,” Sloan said, “no problem there.”

Carlton nodded. “I like that solution. That way, Ben and Drue can watch your back during your meeting with al-Hakim.” He looked over at Olivia. “Can we get the video feed in the Ops Center too?”

“That depends on what kind of video devices Drue has.”

Sloan told everyone to wait a moment while he went back to his safe, and while we were waiting, I debated whether to use the time to tell Carlton I’d run into Sierra Sherman.

I quickly abandoned that idea when I noticed how much he was enjoying the antics of Sloan’s cat after Sloan put her on the floor when he left the room.

The moment he walked out, Elsa jumped up on the coffee table and took a swipe at a box of crackers with her paws. When the box fell to the floor, she immediately pounced on the ones that had fallen out of the box, using her paw to slide them across the floor, and then she devoured them as if they were her prey.

When Sloan came back in the room with a handful of video devices, Elsa ran over and hid under an armchair.

None of us said a word to Sloan about what the cat had been doing, and he seemed too preoccupied explaining the hidden camera devices to Olivia to notice the crackers on the floor behind him.

Once Olivia gave her approval to Sloan’s three selections, I decided to wear a navy-blue silk tie with geometric designs in it. The other choices were a pair of dark-framed glasses or a shirt with a button camera.

I made my choice after Sloan showed me the camera in the tie was in the shape of a triangle and indistinguishable from the rest of the shapes, plus it had the added bonus of having audio capability.

To activate the device, all I needed to do was to press the right side of the manufacturer’s label on the underside of the tie.

Since I needed to leave the hotel for my meeting with the Khalifa leaders shortly after eight o’clock the next morning, Sloan promised to deliver the tie to my room by seven o’clock at the latest.

Just before I ended the call, I made the decision to bring up the situation with Sierra Sherman.

However, I tried to make it sound like it wasn’t a big deal. “There’s one other thing I wanted to mention. I happened to spot a DIA officer at Diwan’s party. She was someone I recognized from working with her on a joint operation a few years ago.”

When Carlton’s eyes widened, I suspected I hadn’t managed to sound that casual about it.

“Are you telling me a DIA officer was at Minister Diwan’s party? Is that what you just said?” When I nodded, he asked, “Who was it?”

“Sierra Sherman.”

Carlton was quiet for a couple of seconds. “Since you’re not offering any details, I’m gonna take a wild guess and say you spoke to her.”

“Well, actually, she spoke to me.”

At that point, I realized there was no point in keeping our conversation a secret, but when I finished going over what Sierra had told me about the DIA’s mission to get intel on Ibrahim Nabil, Carlton’s only reaction was to express concern he wasn’t informed that another intelligence agency was running an operation in Cairo.

He shook his head in disgust and said, “At the very least, I should have seen a DNI bulletin about it.”

The office of the Director of National Intelligence (DNI) was established after 9/11 for the purpose of disseminating information equally among all U. S. intelligence agencies about ongoing operations. Supposedly, the weekly bulletins the office sent out would serve to prevent another terrorist attack on American soil.

Olivia didn’t help the situation when she said, “Well, Douglas, since the DDO gets the DNI bulletins at the Agency, it’s obvious he’s the person who didn’t share it with you.”

Carlton’s response was to ignore her and address me. “At the moment, I’m not sure if the Defense Department’s operation in Cairo will interfere with your assignment, so when you meet with Omar al-Hakim tomorrow, try to get as much intel about Khalifa as you possibly can. There’s a chance the DIA’s operation will take precedence over your mission, so it may be your only opportunity to question him.”

Suddenly, the optimistic attitude I had when I left Diwan’s party took a nosedive, and my successful evening didn’t seem so successful.

My immediate thought was to blame Sierra Sherman.

A part of me knew that wasn’t fair, but I did it anyway.

By the time I went to bed, I was still working through the uncertainty of what tomorrow would bring.

Chapter 17

Thursday, November 21

When I left our hotel at eight-fifteen for my meeting with al-Hakim, I was feeling more optimistic than when I went to bed.

There were several reasons for my change of heart. For one thing, Sloan showed up at our hotel suite at seven o’clock, which gave me plenty of time to test the hidden camera in the tie I was wearing.

Although I’d used such wearable video devices many times, there was a learning curve about the direction I should be facing when speaking to someone in order to capture their face on camera. Once I’d mastered the necktie camera, I called Olivia in the Ops Center to make sure she was receiving the video as clearly as Sloan was getting it on his laptop.

She seemed irritated by my call, but she assured me everything was working fine on her end, and she said when I activated the camera at the Dominion Center, she’d inform Carlton—but not before.

I also told her that Sloan and Mitchell would be parked somewhere near the Dominion Center monitoring everything on Sloan’s laptop.

The second reason I was feeling optimistic was that I had rehearsed several scenarios in my mind about what kind of approach al-Hakim might use to convince Zayd Farouq to become a financial supporter of Khalifa, and I was confident I had an answer for him no matter what kind of spiel he might use on me.

If the situation called for it, I was even prepared to admit I was in possession of the Golden Dagger.

Should that happen, I’d pretend to be reluctant to divulge it, but ultimately, I’d name Rashid as the person who sold it to me.

If al-Hakim was smart—and I felt sure he was—he’d ask me to prove I had the dagger, which was why I’d called Sloan before he left his apartment and told him to bring the dagger with him when he came to our suite.

As soon as he arrived, I had Mitchell use my cell phone to take several photographs of the dagger in different locations around the suite while Sloan was syncing my necktie camera with his laptop.

When the two of them were working on these tasks, I got in touch with Laila and Talbot and asked them if they felt comfortable returning to the Dahshur dig to continue with the fashion shoot. They said they were fine about it, so I added, “As long as you’re okay with it, I’d also like for you to gather some intel for the Agency while you’re there, but I assure you, it won’t be that difficult.”

“Absolutely,” Talbot said. “What do you want us to do?”

Once I made sure Laila was agreeable, I said, “I’d like for you to listen to what the workers are saying about Rashid, and if you get a chance to speak with Dr. Chafik, then try to get a sense of how he’s dealing with Rashid’s behavior. See if you can tell if he thinks Rashid stole the Golden Dagger himself, or if someone else stole it. Of course, I’m also interested to know if he suspects me of taking the dagger.”

I ended our conversation by emphasizing they should only make this effort if they could do so without arousing suspicion.

They assured me they could handle the assignment.

In fact, they both sounded excited about it.

* * * *

The Dominion Center was located across from Tahrir Square, an open space covering several acres, as well as the site of numerous political demonstrations since Egypt’s Freedom Revolution in 2011.

Since I didn’t think Zayd Farouq would have had an occasion to visit the Dominion Center—an office building near the square—I’d lied to Diwan when I said I wasn’t familiar with it. The truth was, I’d been in the building ten years ago during Operation Desert Shadow.

That was when the Dominion Center was considered a prestigious address for influential diplomats and political advisors. Now, according to what I’d seen on the internet, the building had aged considerably, and they were even advertising for renters.

Although I felt sure various factors had contributed to the area’s decline, I suspected it was mainly due to the protests in Tahrir Square.

Despite that, when I emerged from the parking garage next to the Dominion Center, I noticed repairs were being made to the memorial at Tahrir Square. Plus, the park next to it, Legacy Park, was full of people again, so perhaps the area was coming back to life.

I paused on the sidewalk as if I needed to look at something on my phone, but as I held it up in front of me, I was actually scanning the park to see if I was under surveillance by a Khalifa watcher.

I considered two men sitting on a bench as possibilities.

They were good candidates because they appeared to be studying what was taking place at opposite ends of the park, which could indicate they’d been assigned separate sections to watch.

Since the men weren’t paying attention to me, I wasn’t alarmed by them, although I did make a mental note to look for them as soon as I came out of the building.

When I entered the Dominion Center, a sign on one elevator indicated it was out of order, which explained why there were so many people waiting to get on the one elevator that was working.

When an Agency operative was fatally stabbed in a crowded elevator in Moscow during my training days at Camp Peary, we were repeatedly warned to avoid crowded elevators. This was seared in my memory, so I tried to stay away from them whenever possible.

Nevertheless, when the elevator arrived, I stepped inside and punched the button for the third floor, after which I activated the hidden camera on my tie by pressing the label on its underside.

As I got off the elevator—with no stab wounds as far as I could tell—I received a text from Mitchell, although my screen said it was from Mahmoud. “Everything looks good. The contract has been signed.”

Mitchell said he’d let me know if the camera was working, and although I hadn’t told him to be careful what he texted me, I smiled when I saw he’d been cautious in case someone could see the text.

When I stepped off the elevator, the door to Suite 300 was directly in front of me, but when I noticed two other doors farther down the hallway, I ignored the door to Suite 300 and made a quick inspection trip to check them out.

Of particular interest to me was the last door at the end of the hallway, which, as I suspected, was the exit for the stairs.

Once I made sure it was unlocked—just in case I might need it later—I was ready for my meeting with Omar al-Hakim.

* * * *

When I retraced my steps and opened the door to Suite 300—expecting to enter a reception area—I discovered the space was so tiny, there was barely enough room for a desk and two metal chairs.

Not only was there no one seated at the desk, I was the only person in the room.

But not for long.

Seconds after I stepped inside the room, the door opposite me opened, and a bearded young man holding a gun appeared.

I figured whenever anyone opened the door to Suite 300, a silent alarm was triggered, so consequently, the room was only intended as a temporary holding area for visitors until their intentions could be determined.

Evidently, the young man standing in front of me had the responsibility for gauging a visitor’s intentions, and he began the process by greeting me with the traditional Muslim salutation.

I responded in kind, and then I added, “I’m Zayd Farouq, and Minister Jaberi Diwan arranged an appointment for me with Omar al-Hakim for nine o’clock this morning. I realize I’m running a little late, and I apologize for that.”

“There’s no need to apologize, Mr. Farouq,” he said, holstering his weapon. “Omar is waiting for you. Please follow me.”

I followed him through the door and into an open area where there were two long tables filled with propaganda—pamphlets, flyers, and posters—some of which I’d seen around Cairo. The literature was urging people to join Khalifa and return Egypt to Sunni traditions.

Four men at each of the tables were stuffing handfuls of the propaganda into large envelopes. I stopped for a second and looked at what they were doing—as if I were interested in the process—but my real purpose was to make sure the Agency got pictures of the men to add to our Khalifa database by means of my necktie camera.

When my escort asked me, “Is something wrong, Mr. Farouq?” I said I was just curious, and after he nodded, he gestured at me to follow him down the corridor where he stopped at the third door.

Shortly after he tapped on it a couple of times, a voice told him to come in, but after he turned the handle, he quickly stepped aside and motioned for me to enter the room ahead of him.

When I did so, I was surprised by the scene in front of me.

In my mind, I’d envisioned having a one-on-one conversation with Omar al-Hakim in his private office.

However, I wasn’t in his private office.

Instead, I was in a room with a long rectangular table—not unlike a conference room at Agency headquarters at Langley—and seated at one end of the table was an older man with a neatly trimmed gray beard wearing a white thobe under a black bisht.

After seeing his photograph at our briefing, I immediately recognized him as Omar al-Hakim.

He wasn’t alone, though.

There were five other men at the table with him.

Three men were seated on his left, and two men were on his right.

My heart rate increased slightly.

I figured this could be either really good or really bad.

* * * *

Seconds after my escort ushered me inside, al-Hakim rose from his chair, and the rest of the men quickly followed.

“Welcome, Mr. Farouq,” al-Hakim said. “My name is Omar al-Hakim.” He spread his hands out to indicate the empty seat at the end of the table. “Please have a seat.”

As a gesture of respect, I placed my hand over my heart, and then I walked over to the table, where I sat down across from him.

Once al-Hakim and the other men resumed their seats, he said, “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you ever since Minister Diwan called me last evening. However, I admit he was a little mysterious about why he was so eager for us to meet.”

I didn’t believe him.

I was convinced he knew exactly who I was, and why Diwan had made the appointment. Even so, I went along with his charade. “I’ve also been looking forward to meeting you. As Minister Diwan may have told you, I’m a real estate developer in Dubai, and my success has given me the opportunity to support a variety of Sunni causes. I believe that’s the reason the minister wanted us to meet each other. He’s hoping you can convince me to become a contributor to the Khalifa movement.”

He nodded. “Yes, Minister Diwan mentioned your background. As the leader of Khalifa, I’m committed to the restoration of Sunni Muslim traditions in Egypt, as well as among all our Sunni brothers, and the contributions you’ve made to Sunni causes indicate you may also share this vision. Since I don’t know you personally, how can you convince me you’re committed to the Khalifa movement?”

I didn’t say anything for a moment while I pretended to consider his question, although in truth, I was breathing a short prayer that my reply would sound authentic to him.

Otherwise, I wasn’t sure what the outcome would be.

Finally, I said, “Whether I can convince you I’m committed to the Khalifa movement makes no difference to me. All I know is that our Sunni traditions—the very foundations of our faith—have been neglected, and for the first time, I see a chance for the dignity of our heritage to be restored. Any support I give to Khalifa will come from a deep-seated belief that without the Khalifa movement, our identity, our way of life, will disappear forever. That’s why I’m interested in knowing more about what you’re doing as an organization. I can only offer you my support if you have a workable plan for a better future, not just for Egypt, but for all Sunnis throughout the world.”

Omar al-Hakim looked pleased. “Although you said it wouldn’t make any difference to you, you’ve certainly convinced me you’re committed to the Khalifa movement.”

The other five men at the table nodded their agreement, and after I told them I appreciated their endorsement, al-Hakim said, “And now, allow me to introduce some of the members of Khalifa’s leadership council. There are seven members on the council, but only five of them could be here today.”

He began with the three men on his left. Not only did he give me their names, he also told me their titles, which I knew must have pleased Carlton, as well as anyone watching in the Ops Center.

First, he introduced Rafiq Badri, his Chief Financial Officer, a short, rotund man with dark glasses. Next, was Adnan al-Mufti, his Head of Recruitment, who had a thick beard and a scar down his left cheek. Seated next to him was Faris al-Khatib, his Logistics Coordinator, who appeared to be the oldest person in the room.

There were two men on al-Hakim’s right, both of whom looked like battle-hardened fighters.

Tariq al-Mansour, the Head of Security, was seated next to al-Hakim. As he was being introduced, his black eyes locked onto mine with an unwavering gaze that appeared accusatory.

I figured that was his intention.

The last man was the most interesting person in the room.

His name was Ibrahim Nabil.

The moment I heard his name, I immediately regretted not asking Olivia to find me a photograph of Ibrahim Nabil when we talked in Carlton’s study after the funeral, the day she warned me about the chatter she was hearing from several Khalifa militants.

If I had, then I would have recognized Nabil as soon as I walked in the room, and when al-Hakim introduced us, there was a good chance I would have been able to control my facial expression better.

Since I never imagined the thin man with the neatly trimmed beard and broken nose was Ibrahim Nabil—the same man Sierra was gathering information on for a future DIA operation—I flinched when I heard his name.

I couldn’t believe I did it.

However, as soon as I realized I’d raised my eyebrows when I heard his name, I tried to cover it up by lowering my head and faking a brief cough.

Since al-Hakim continued his introduction of Nabil without missing a beat, I was fairly confident my diversion had worked.

“Ibrahim is my Head of Intelligence,” al-Hakim said. “He’s in charge of gathering background information on our opponents, as well as planning operations to achieve our goals.”

Now that I knew Nabil was a member of Khalifa’s leadership council, I was determined not to leave the building without at least trying to persuade al-Hakim to reveal how he was planning to implement Egypt’s return to Sunni traditions.

My determination was based on Olivia’s warning that the chatter U. S. intelligence agencies had picked up between certain Khalifa militants led her to believe they were planning some kind of attention-getting operation to gain notoriety for their cause.

With that in mind, when al-Hakim finished his introductions and asked me if I’d be willing to become a regular contributor to the Khalifa movement, I said, “Although I’m committed to the Sunni way of life, I’m also a businessman, so before I say yes, I’d like to hear more about how you’ve structured the Khalifa organization, and what plans you’ve made to achieve your goals.”

“Yes, I understand why a businessman like you would make such a request, and I’m happy to honor that request. I’ll begin by telling you about our managerial structure, and then I’ll have each of our council members explain their areas of responsibility.”

Ibrahim Nabil suddenly rose to his feet and gestured at his phone. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Omar, but I’ve just received a text about that matter we discussed earlier, so I need to leave now.”

“Yes, Ibrahim, I understand. Go ahead.”

I was disappointed to see Nabil leave the room, especially since it meant I wouldn’t get to hear what he was doing as Khalifa’s Head of Intelligence, something I knew would interest Carlton.

Moments later, it occurred to me that Sierra Sherman would also be interested to know I’d met Nabil, so I’d have to make good on my promise to let her know I had some new intel on him.

I didn’t mind calling her, though.

I figured she might also have some new intel for me.

Chapter 18

After al-Hakim spent several minutes describing the organizational structure of Khalifa, he asked the other council members to explain their responsibilities to me.

Except for Rafiq Badri, his Chief Financial Officer, the others didn’t talk for more than a couple of minutes, and Tariq al-Mansour, his Head of Security, barely said anything at all.

I suspected al-Hakim asked Badri to speak last, because as soon as he started talking, it was obvious he was used to persuading people to donate to Khalifa.

His approach involved a combination of honesty and deception.

“Handling the finances of the Khalifa organization is a lot like running a business,” Badri began, “so I’m sure you can identify with the decisions that need to be made.”

I nodded. “You’re right. I have to make dozens of decisions about my company’s finances every day.”

“Of course, you do. For a business to become successful, it takes time. If you’re going to maintain a continual cash flow, it also takes creativity—whether it’s a business or an organization. The same thing is true in how we’ve managed to be successful in financing the Khalifa organization.”

Using that as his introduction, Badri went on to talk about a unique revenue stream they had discovered—one that involved identifying private collectors of Egyptian ancient artifacts who were willing to pay for unique archaeological finds.

“For example,” Badri said, “the El-Qasr Expedition at the Dahshur site has uncovered some interesting finds, some of which Khalifa has been able to acquire. As a result, our creativity has made it possible for private collectors to purchase these ancient artifacts directly from us, and their purchases have been helping to finance our movement.”

When Badri paused, al-Hakim gestured towards me. “As a private collector yourself, Mr. Farouq, how do you feel about this practice?”

I suspected where this conversation was going, so I said, “As long as the person who supplied you with the artifact is adequately compensated, I consider it a legitimate enterprise.”

After staring at me a couple of seconds, he finally nodded. “Yes, I agree with that statement. And I believe that’s exactly what happened yesterday at the Dahshur dig when you took possession of one of the site’s most incredible finds.”

I feigned a look of surprise. “How did you—”

He shook his head. “No, that’s not important. What’s important is that in the future, we’ll make it easy for you to add to your private collection as long as you agree to purchase them directly from us.”

Badri added, “And if you do that, then you’ll know that whatever price you pay, the funds will be used to finance Khalifa.”

I continued to act stunned by this news. “Well, uh . . . I’m not sure if . . . uh . . .”

Tariq al-Mansour leaned in toward me. “There’s no point in pretending you’re opposed to dealing with independent brokers, Mr. Farouq. I’m sure you’ve done it many times. Why else would you have conducted business with the site coordinator when he approached you privately at the dig?”

I raised my hands. “Okay, you’re right. When the site coordinator spoke to me as he was returning the Golden Dagger to the repository safe, I accepted his offer to compensate him generously if he could obtain the dagger for me.”

“And I’m sure you got a bargain price for it,” Badri said.

Before I could respond, al-Hakim shook his head. “No, we don’t care about that. All we care about is whether you’re willing to purchase future items from us. Of course, we’ll work with you to secure whatever artifacts you want to add to your collection.”

I nodded. “Your offer is very appealing.”

I looked down at the table a couple of seconds, and then when I looked up again, I said, “And I gladly accept it. To be honest, I was already thinking about making donations to Khalifa on a regular basis, but before I would consider making that kind of commitment, I would need to know how you propose to achieve the goals you’ve outlined for Khalifa. I’m talking about the specific plans you’ve made that will prove I’ll be getting a good return on my investment.”

“Of course, there’s nothing that would please me more than for you to make regular donations to our movement,” al-Hakim said, “and I completely understand why you want assurance we have actionable plans to implement our goals before you commit the funds to us. However, since only the members of our leadership council know the specifics of those plans, I’ll need to meet with them first to discuss your request before giving you an answer.”

“I understand why you can’t do it today,” I said, trying not to let my disappointment show, “but when can I expect to hear from you?”

“You should hear from me as soon as I’m able to convene all seven members of the council. That may not happen until Monday, since we’re busy getting our recruitment materials ready to distribute during the rededication of the Tahrir Square monument on Saturday. Did you happen to see the preparations for it when you arrived?”

I thought for a moment. “I did notice something was going on at Tahrir Square, but I didn’t know what it was.”

“Thanks to Minister Diwan’s initiative, the monument in front of the square has been repaired, and this Saturday, the public’s been invited to the Freedom Rising Rally to dedicate it. As you probably know, Tahrir Square is the site of the People’s Revolution in 2011 when Egyptians rose up to overthrow a corrupt regime. That symbolism is why we have our headquarters near the square.”

“You mean because returning to Sunni traditions is revolutionary?”

“Exactly. If you’re available on Saturday afternoon, you should attend the rally. Besides hearing the speakers, you’ll get to see how we’re recruiting young people to join the Khalifa movement.”

“Yes, I’d like that. I have an appointment on Saturday, but I’ll do my best to change it so I can be there.”

Of course, I planned to be there.

Even though I’d achieved the main objective of the operation by meeting with Khalifa’s leaders and learning about their organizational structure, I wouldn’t consider my mission a success until I found out what their future plans were. To do that, I had to convince al-Hakim I was committed to the movement and willing to support it financially.

After I made this statement, al-Hakim motioned toward a young woman who’d been sitting at a small table at one end of the room. Once she adjusted her black hijab, she poured coffee from a carafe into several small cups, placed them on a tray, and brought them to us.

“Now that we’ve had a chance to discuss our mutual interests,” al-Hakim said, “I’d be pleased if you’d join us in some refreshments.”

After the woman served everyone a small cup of strong Arabic coffee, al-Hakim said a few words about being grateful to Minister Diwan for introducing us, and then we each took a sip.

Typically, this gesture of hospitality was made at the end of a successful negotiation and served to conclude the meeting, so I was a little surprised when al-Mansour said he had a question for me just as al-Hakim stood to his feet and offered to escort me to the front door.

When I told him I didn’t mind answering his question, he said, “I’m curious why you weren’t suspicious about the authenticity of the Golden Dagger when the person who miraculously discovered it at the dig was also the person who offered to sell it to you.”

His question alarmed me and informed me at the same time.

It informed me because the only way he could have known Rashid was the person who discovered the Golden Dagger was if the Khalifa guards at the dig told him, which meant al-Mansour had to be the person in charge of supervising the guards.

But his question also alarmed me because it indicated he was either having doubts about my cover story or the veracity of Rashid’s story—maybe both.

“If I understand you correctly, you’re asking me why I was willing to pay Rashid for the dagger without having it authenticated first?”

“That’s right. I know how important authenticity is to a private collector. If the item turns out to be a fake, the piece is worthless to them, no matter how impressive it looks.”

“Yes, authenticity is important,” I said, removing my phone from my pocket, “and that’s why I’ve spent years educating myself on how to spot a fake. Here, I’ll show you what I mean.”

I quickly scrolled through my phone, chose one of the pictures Mitchell had taken of the Golden Dagger, and turned my phone around so al-Mansour could see it.

“See those stones on the dagger’s hilt?” I asked. “When you examine the lapis lazuli closely, you’ll see some golden flecks in it. That’s because the Egyptians only used lapis lazuli from a certain mine in modern-day Afghanistan which produced that deep blue color and those characteristic flecks of pyrite in it.”

After he studied the photograph for a second, I flipped over to another shot of the dagger and held it up for him to see once again.

“Now, examine the golden blade on the dagger. Do you see the hammer marks? The reason you see those marks is because it was shaped using primitive tools. Those marks wouldn’t be present if it had been cast in a modern mold.”

Once again, al-Mansour studied the photograph closely, trying to see the phony hammer marks I’d referenced.

After a moment, he stepped back and nodded. “So you’re saying it’s the imperfections that tell you it’s genuine?”

“Definitely,” I said, putting my phone back in my pocket. “There’s no doubt in my mind where the dagger in this picture came from. I’m completely convinced of its origin.”

And with that—the only true thing I told him—he seemed satisfied.

* * * *

When I emerged from the Dominion Center ninety minutes after I’d gone in, I immediately turned off the necktie camera and sent Mitchell a text.

“We have a lot to talk about, but I need to get some caffeine first. I’ll meet you back at the hotel in a couple of hours.”

He texted me back. “Congratulations on a successful meeting. We’re leaving for the hotel now. Shall I go ahead and order lunch for both of us from room service?”

Even though I wasn’t thinking about food at that moment, I figured he probably was, so I told him to go ahead and order me whatever he was having.

Instead of heading to the parking garage to retrieve my car, I walked over to a coffee kiosk next to Legacy Park.

Not only did I need some caffeine, I also wanted to see if the two candidates I’d identified as possible Khalifa watchers were still sitting on the park bench keeping an eye on people entering the Dominion Center.

Once I paid for my Turkish coffee—served in a surprisingly large disposable cup with plenty of foam on top—I took it over to the park where I sat down at a picnic table.

Although the Khalifa watchers weren’t in the spot where I’d last seen them, I eventually located them on the opposite side near the Tahrir Square monument. They appeared to be observing some kind of platform being erected in front of the monument.

As I sat there drinking my coffee, I suddenly heard someone speaking English. Moments later, I realized it was a middle-aged man occupying another table a few feet away from me.

He was talking to a younger man on the other side of the table, or rather he was reading something to him from a piece of paper. What surprised me—besides hearing his American accent—was that it sounded like he was reading to him from the Bible.

I was naturally curious about what was going on, but once the older man stopped reading and put the paper down on the table, I wasn’t close enough to hear what they were saying.

Although the Egyptian constitution called for freedom of religion, and churches of all faiths were allowed to exist in Egypt, the one thing Christians weren’t allowed to do was proselytize—that is, they couldn’t attempt to convert Muslims to Christianity.

I wasn’t sure if Egyptian security services would consider reading Bible passages to someone as proselytizing, especially since I didn’t see a Bible on the table.

All I saw was the older man reading Scriptures from some papers he was holding, and the younger man was listening intently to him while he was reading them.

Even so, I asked myself if the man should be taking that risk.

Just as I finished my coffee, the older man raised his left hand toward the younger man—as if he were making an important point—and when he did so, his arm brushed the papers he’d put down on the table, which caused several of them to flutter to the ground.

As soon as I saw it happen, my first thought was that I didn’t want anyone else to get their hands on the papers, so I quickly covered the distance between us and scooped them up.

Although the older man didn’t seem concerned when he saw me standing there, the younger man looked frightened.

I quickly tried to alleviate his fear by sitting down beside the older man and speaking to him in English—although I did it with a heavy Middle Eastern accent. “I didn’t want you to lose these papers or have someone else pick them up.”

“Well, thanks for grabbing them for me. I really appreciate it.” As he took the papers from me, he offered me his hand. “I’m Paul Whalen, and this is Yusuf Jamil.”

Yusuf gave me a brief nod but didn’t say anything.

As I shook Whalen’s hand, I said, “My name’s Zayd Farouq. Your accent sounds American. Are you from the United States?”

“Yep. I’m from Tyler, Texas. You’ve probably heard of Dallas, Texas. Well, Tyler isn’t that far from Dallas, only about a hundred miles or so.” He chuckled. “In Texas, we don’t consider that very far.”

I smiled a little. “Yes, I’ve heard of Dallas. I’m from Dubai in the United Arab Emirates, but I’m here in Cairo on business.”

“Your English is very good. I guess I noticed it because that’s why I’m here. My wife and I are spending four weeks in Cairo with a group from our church giving free English lessons.”

He picked up a white card on the table next to Yusuf and showed it to me. The top part was written in Arabic, and the English translation was below that.

I read it out loud. “Free English lessons. Practice your English vocabulary with an English-speaking American. Increase your fluency and gain confidence at no cost to you.”

After reading the card, I looked over at Yusuf and said to him in Arabic, “Why have you been talking to this man?”

He looked frightened again, but I was okay with that.

I wanted to be sure he wasn’t an informant for Egypt’s domestic law enforcement agency, the National Security Service, and to do that I needed to sound authoritative—like I might be with the NSS myself.

He stuttered a little. “Because . . . I . . . uh . . . wanted to practice my English. When I finish my secondary schooling this year, I want to attend a university in the United States.”

“How long have you been studying English?”

“Since I was in preparatory. I had one year then, and I’ve had three years in secondary, but my classes are mostly reading and vocabulary, so when Mr. Whalen gave me this card in the park yesterday, I was excited to practice speaking to him in English.”

“What have the two of you been talking about?”

“Yesterday, we talked about my family and my education, and today, he’s been telling me about growing up in Texas and playing baseball at the University of Texas. He was just telling me how he became a Christian when you sat down.”

When I looked over at Whalen, I switched back to English and said, “Yusuf was just telling me how excited he was to have the opportunity to speak English with you.”

He smiled and nodded. “Yes. That’s why my wife and I enjoy coming on these trips. So many of the young people here in Cairo have studied English for years, but they haven’t had a chance to carry on a conversation with anyone from an English-speaking country. We’re delighted to give them that chance.”

“He mentioned you were telling him about your Christian faith, so I wonder if you know that attempting to persuade a Muslim to change his beliefs is against the law in Egypt.”

Although he didn’t look frightened, he sat up a little straighter. “Oh, yeah, I knew that, and our director reminds us of those rules every time we come. But it’s not against the law to tell a Muslim your life story, and if that includes an explanation of a moment when you decided to follow the teachings of Jesus, then that’s acceptable. I can also answer any questions you might want to ask me about it.”

He smiled at both Yusuf and me when he said this, and I replied, “That’s interesting. I wasn’t aware that was the law in Egypt.”

“It’s also not illegal to teach the Christian faith in a privately run school, which is why our church is raising funds to purchase a building in Cairo so we can start a secondary school.”

“Members of your church are giving their money to educate Egyptian children?"

"Yes, Mr. Farouq, I know that may sound odd to you, but that’s what Christians do.” He took a piece of paper and wrote something down on the back of it. “Here’s the name of our church. You can look it up on the internet if you’re interested.”

After I glanced down at the name, North Parkway Bible Church, Tyler, Texas, I folded the paper in half and slipped it inside my jacket pocket. As I got up from the table, I said, “It was nice meeting you, Mr. Whalen, and you too, Yusuf.”

Yusuf finally smiled at me. “I’m pleasant to know you.”

I thought Whalen was about to correct his English, but instead, he stood to his feet, shook my hand again, and said, “Thanks for picking those papers up for me and also for the warning about proselytizing. That was very kind of you to be concerned about me.”

“You’re welcome. You’re very kind to be doing what you’re doing, and I wish you all the best in getting your school built.”

“Well, thank you, Mr. Farouq. I’ll be praying your time in Cairo will be successful.”

I appreciated his prayers.

I had a feeling I would need them.

Chapter 19

As I headed over to the parking garage after leaving Liberty Park, my phone vibrated, and when I pulled it out of my pocket, I saw a number I didn’t recognize.

I hesitated a second before answering it.

My satellite phone was part of my Kit, and it was only programmed with Agency numbers I would need during the operation. Thus, any phone number I didn’t recognize had to be from someone who had my Zayd Farouq business card with my phone number on it.

I’d only given out a few of the cards since arriving in Cairo, so I figured either Minister Diwan or Dr. Chafik was calling me.

I accepted the call.

“Zayd Farouq speaking,” I said in Arabic.

“It’s Sierra Sherman. Can you talk?” she asked in English.

“Oh, hi, Sierra. What’s up?”

“Are you alone?”

“Uh-huh. I’m about to get in my car and head back to my hotel.”

“Could you come to my hotel room instead?”

“I suppose so, but why would I do that?”

“Because I’ve just verified some intel I got from my contact about Ibrahim Nabil, and you need to hear it ASAP. I’m sorry I can’t leave and meet you somewhere, but I’ve requested a video call from my section chief, and I’m still waiting to hear back from him.”

“That’s okay. I was planning to call you later anyway. I’ve discovered some new intel you’ll be interested in hearing too.”

“That’s perfect. I’m in Room 5213 at the Royal Princess Hotel.”

Although I wasn’t sensing any red flags about Sierra’s phone call, I wasn’t about to take the chance that her urgent call was some kind of trap—like her cover had been blown and someone was using her to get to me—so I decided to ask her a fallback question.

Among intelligence operatives, a fallback question was an inquiry about something that wasn’t true. If the person responded to it by pretending it was true, it was a signal the operative had been compromised.

I asked Sierra, “Wasn’t the Royal Princess Hotel the name of the hotel we stayed at in Riyadh a few years ago?”

She was quiet for a moment. “No, that wasn’t the name of the hotel, but knowing you, I understand why you asked me a fallback question. Really, I’m fine. I’ll be expecting you in about an hour.”

After I hung up, I thought about calling Mitchell to let him know what I was doing, but since everything sounded fine with Sierra, and I didn’t think I’d be that long, I decided not to.

Besides, I figured my delay would give him an excuse to eat my lunch along with his.

* * * *

The Royal Princess Hotel wasn’t as luxurious as the Nile Grand, but it was exactly the sort of place a DIA operative would stay at if she were pretending to be a journalist watching her expenses.

When I entered the lobby, there was a tour group of around twenty older people—all dressed in identical orange T-shirts—listening to their tour guide describe the pyramid they were about to visit. Everyone else in the lobby appeared to be either businessmen or college-age students.

The only person who got on the elevator with me was a hotel employee—the badge on his jacket lapel indicated he was the desk manager—but after telling me to enjoy my stay at the hotel, he got off on the third floor, and I rode up to the fifth floor alone.

Room 5213 was at the end of the hallway.

I knew something was wrong the moment I got there.

The door to the room was slightly open—maybe half an inch.

It couldn’t close because the brass swing bar—attached to the inside security lock—was wedged between the door and the frame.

I knew a hotel’s housekeeping staff often put the swing bar there to keep the door from closing when they were cleaning the room, especially if they were continually having to leave the room to get supplies from their cleaning cart, and they didn’t want to keep unlocking it every time.

However, no cleaning carts were in sight.

And no one was in the hallway.

I checked for security cameras.

There weren’t any.

I removed my gun from my side holster and cautiously eased the door open with my free hand.

The room wasn’t completely dark. A low light was coming from somewhere—possibly the bathroom.

Despite that, I waited a moment to let my eyes adjust so I’d be able to move around freely without falling over something.

To my right was an open clothes closet with female clothing hanging inside. Next to it was an alcove with a small table that held a coffeepot, along with some paper cups and coffee packets.

It was strangely quiet inside the room—no voices, no sound of the air conditioner humming, no noises whatsoever.

As I began moving down the short hallway, it suddenly occurred to me that perhaps Sierra had just left the room momentarily—maybe to get some ice—and she was about to return and find me standing there, gun drawn, invading her space.

How embarrassing would that be?

Seconds later, as I walked over to the foot of one of the double beds, I knew that wasn’t going to happen.

Sierra hadn’t left the room.

She was crumpled on the floor in the space between the two beds.

I quickly checked out the bathroom—where the light was coming from—to make sure there was no one lurking inside. After clearing it, I rushed over and locked the door to the hallway, along with the inside security lock.

Only then did I holster my gun and check Sierra’s wrist for a pulse.

As I expected, she didn’t have one.

The angle of her neck, with her chin almost resting against her shoulder, told me her neck had been broken.

It wasn’t an accident, though.

She had been murdered.

Not only were there scratches on her arms and legs, a lamp on the table between the two beds was shattered, and when I examined her hands, I discovered a large piece of the ceramic base in her right hand.

Presumably—even though her hand was bloody from grasping it—she had tried to use the broken shard as a weapon to defend herself against her assailant.

The synapses in my cerebral cortex were firing off questions so fast I could hardly keep up. Who was her assailant? Was she killed trying to stop a robbery? Was her murder related to her DIA operation? How was her killer able to get inside the room?

The one question I wasn’t asking myself was what I should do about her. I knew what I should do. I’d been trained what to do.

In the event a colleague met an untimely death on an assignment, I was to leave the scene immediately and notify my division head, who was responsible for handling all the details.

Technically speaking, Sierra wasn’t my colleague, nor were we involved in the same operation. However, that hardly mattered. I planned to follow the same procedure.

I couldn’t leave just yet, though.

For one thing, I didn’t think I was in any immediate danger.

And secondly, when Sierra called me, she sounded desperate to tell me what she’d learned about Ibrahim Nabil from her contact last night, and I didn’t want to leave without that information.

I figured once I called Carlton, and he notified his counterpart at the DIA about Sierra’s murder, then her people would come in and sweep the place, and if they found any intel that might be of interest to the Agency, it might be weeks before we knew anything about it.

I walked over to a small desk opposite one of the beds to look for Sierra’s electronics—her cell phone, laptop, tablet, sound distortion box—whatever her journalist/DIA persona had brought with her.

All I found, besides a clock, were two charging cords.

I suspected the clock was a sound distortion box, although perhaps it was just a clock. However, the fact that two charging cords were there was a good indication her assailant had taken her laptop as well as her phone.

I went ahead and searched the room for them anyway.

After going through her suitcase, her handbag, the closet, the bathroom, the two drawers underneath the television set, and the drawers in each of the nightstands, I decided all of her electronics were missing.

Once I completed my search, I sat down in the desk chair a moment to collect my thoughts before leaving the room. As I stared down at Sierra’s limp body, trying to hold my emotions in check, I suddenly remembered what she’d said at Diwan’s party: “My contact assured me there was enough intel on Nabil to fill a flash drive.”

Had her contact literally given her a flash drive?

Since I had no reason to think otherwise, I asked myself, what had Sierra done with the flash drive? I had no doubt if it had been on the desk, the killer would have grabbed it, along with her devices.

But, having worked with Sierra before, I knew she practiced good tradecraft, so once she examined what was on the flash drive, it was logical to assume she had transmitted the contents to her handler by means of her encrypted laptop, and then, after making sure the contents had been received, she’d hidden the flash drive in a safe place until she could physically hand it over to her supervisor.

I picked up her handbag and looked through the zippered compartments again to be sure I hadn’t overlooked the flash drive. I also checked to be sure her handbag didn’t have a false bottom in it.

It didn’t.

After that, I went through her suitcase again.

I admit, while I was rifling through her belongings yet again, I was finding it harder to choke down my emotions, and I wasn’t sure how much longer I’d be able to hold it together.

As soon as I saw there were no hidden compartments at the bottom of her suitcase, I decided that was all I could do, and after snapping it shut, I grabbed the handle to put it back in the closet.

When I did, I suddenly realized the handle was loose.

I took a better look at it.

During my twenty-year career, I’d never been issued a suitcase with a hidden compartment in the handle, but during an assignment in Beirut, I’d exchanged an identical briefcase with an asset, and a safe deposit key was hidden in the handle of the one he took from me.

In that situation, all the asset had to do was twist the handle in a counterclockwise motion to open the compartment and retrieve the key. With that in mind, I grasped the handle of Sierra’s suitcase and gave it a counterclockwise twist.

Bingo! It opened to reveal a hidden panel.

And there, nestled inside the compartment was a thumb-size flash drive. I took it out, slipped it inside my pocket, and closed the handle.

It was time to leave.

First, though, I knelt down beside Sierra’s lifeless body, placed my hand on her head, and said a brief prayer. Then, even though I didn’t want to, I took out my phone and snapped a picture of her so Carlton could verify her identity with her handlers at the DIA.

As I was closing the door to Room 5213, I couldn’t help but ask myself why I’d found the door ajar. Why hadn’t the killer closed it?

I pictured the scene in my mind—the assailant carrying Sierra’s computer in one hand and pulling the door shut with the other.

I couldn’t see why that would be a problem.

Unless . . . what if his free hand had been injured in the scuffle with Sierra? What if she’d cut his hand with the ceramic shard, or what if his hand had been broken?

In that case, it might have been difficult for him to even open the door, much less shut it, especially if the swing bar had flipped back across the door frame after he’d entered the room, something which had happened to me more than once.

If that was the scenario, then the easiest thing would have been for him to just let the door close of its own accord and leave quickly.

While that possibly answered the question of why the killer had left the door ajar, another question was bugging me even more, one I kept asking myself the whole time I was driving over to my hotel.

How did her assailant get inside her room in the first place?

Did she know him?

Was she expecting him?

I rejected that last notion almost as soon as it popped in my head.

For one thing, when she called me earlier, she didn’t say anything about expecting anyone, and for another, she had to know it would blow my cover if someone saw me with her.

As I thought about Sierra’s call, I remembered the last thing she said to me was, “I’ll be expecting you in about an hour.”

Was that it?

Did she open the door without bothering to check the peephole because she thought I was the person at the door?

Was it possible she would have done something so careless?

Of course it was possible. Even the best covert operatives do careless things—mainly because they get distracted.

What could have distracted Sierra? Her video call? A text message?

Suddenly, as I began imagining the last moments of her life, I couldn’t control it any longer.

My emotions got the best of me, and the tears started flowing.

Chapter 20

When I arrived at our hotel—even though I was still feeling burdened by Sierra’s murder—I was determined to put aside my emotions and concentrate on my responsibilities.

My first priority was to contact Carlton about Sierra, but examining the contents of the flash drive was equally important to me.

As I got off the elevator and headed down to our suite, I still hadn’t made up my mind when I should tell Carlton about the flash drive. Should I wait until I had a chance to look at it, or should I tell him now?

If I told him now, there was a chance he might tell me the device belonged to the DIA, and it had to be returned to them immediately—without examining its contents.

On the other hand, there was a good possibility he would be just as eager to know what was on the flash drive as I was, especially when I told him I was convinced it contained the information Sierra wanted me to know about Ibrahim Nabil and the Khalifa organization.

I hadn’t made up my mind what to do until I entered our suite.

Not surprisingly, I found Mitchell at the table eating lunch.

“You took so long getting here,” he said, “that I decided to start without you. There’s plenty of food left for you, though.”

“Yes, I can see that, but I’ll have to eat later.”

I walked over to the room’s mini safe, entered the four-digit code I’d been given at check-in, and removed my laptop. “Right now, I need to contact the Ops Center and request a video call with Douglas.”

“Why? What’s going on?”

I sat down across from him, opened up my laptop, and began entering a series of numbers on the keyboard. “I don’t have time to explain now. You’ll just have to listen when I tell Douglas about it.”

“Can you at least tell me if it has anything to do with Laila or Elias?”

By the time I assured him it had nothing to do with them, the image of the command center in RTM Center B appeared on the screen.

Olivia was seated in her usual place in the center console, but the chair next to her was empty. She gestured toward it and said, “Douglas got your Delta Alert, and he just texted me that he’s on his way.”

A Delta Alert was used when an operative encountered a critical situation in the field that required immediate attention. I’d issued the alert by entering the numbers on my laptop. In turn, Carlton was immediately notified, along with the staff in RTM Center B.

The moment Olivia finished speaking, Carlton walked in the room, took the headset she handed him, and began asking me questions. “So what’s the situation? Do you require an extraction? Has anyone been injured? Is your cover blown?”

Although he sounded anxious, I knew from past experience he was only asking me rapid-fire questions in order to make sure I told him the most important things first and left the details for later.

I said, “Less than an hour ago, I discovered Sierra Sherman’s body in her hotel room. Her neck was broken, and there were signs of a struggle. Whatever electronics she had with her were gone.”

Carlton motioned at Olivia. “Contact Dirk Andersen over at DIA and tell him I need to speak to him ASAP. Let him know we have a Black Flag situation, and it concerns Sierra Sherman.”

Olivia left the center console, rushed over to one of the eight computer stations where Agency personnel were monitoring various displays, and picked up a red desk phone.

Meanwhile, Carlton said, “It may be a few minutes before I can speak to Dirk, so start filling in the blanks for me. Begin with why you were in Sierra’s hotel room in the first place.”

“She called me after I left the Dominion Center and said she needed to see me because of some new intel she’d learned about Ibrahim Nabil. She couldn’t leave her room because she was waiting on a video call from her section chief, so I agreed to meet her there.”

After giving him a detailed explanation of what I found when I got to her room, I transmitted the photograph I’d taken of Sierra’s body, and then I told him about discovering the flash drive.

He looked a little surprised, but he quickly recovered. “I assume you have the flash drive in your possession now.”

Since it was hard to tell what he was thinking, I decided to go with an aggressive approach.

“Oh, you bet I do.” I pulled it out of my pocket and showed it to him. “I wasn’t about to leave it there, not when there’s a good chance there’s intel on here that Sierra wanted me to have.”

He nodded. “Yeah, I can see why you took it.”

He glanced over at Olivia, who was holding up five fingers, which I figured meant it would be five minutes before he could speak to Dirk Andersen.

When he turned and faced me again, he said, “While I’m in agreement with your decision, at some point Dirk may ask me if we’re in possession of it, so go ahead and examine the contents. When you’re finished, transmit the data to Olivia, so we’ll have a copy of it.”

“I’ll take a look at it as soon as we’re finished here.”

Carlton stared at me for maybe fifteen seconds, and then he said, “While Sierra’s murder is a horrible tragedy, it wouldn’t be appropriate if I didn’t take a moment to acknowledge the tremendous amount of intel we received on the Khalifa organization today as a result of your meeting with al-Hakim. Frankly, I was in awe of how knowledgeable you sounded about Egyptian artifacts.”

Carlton seldom handed out such praise, which made me wonder if my attempt to hide my feelings about Sierra’s death wasn’t working, and he was trying to cheer me up.

“Thanks, Douglas. Of course, I was disappointed when I found out two members of al-Hakim’s leadership council were missing, but hopefully, I can meet them on Monday, or it’s possible I might be introduced to them on Saturday during the rally at Tahrir Square.”

“Since you have Operational Field Autonomy, attending the rally is strictly up to you. But yeah, it could be a chance to meet the other members, and once we have those names, you’ll have completed your mission, and you can be on a plane back to Langley ASAP.”

Mitchell motioned at the screen and said, “When Drue and I were listening to al-Hakim talking about the rally, Drue said he’d be surprised if the rally didn’t draw a large crowd. In fact, he said he was worried that Khalifa might be using it to—”

“I have Dirk on the line,” Olivia said, cutting Mitchell off without apologizing for interrupting him.

Carlton immediately ended the call after telling me to alert him as soon as I’d viewed the contents of the flash drive.

The moment the screen went dark, Mitchell shook his head and said, “Your meeting with al-Hakim went so well, I never imagined you’d be issuing a Delta Alert a few hours later.”

“Me either. I’m sorry I couldn’t discuss it with you beforehand.”

“Not a problem.” He pointed down at the other end of the table. “Do you wanna eat some lunch now, or would you rather take a look at the flash drive first?”

“What do you think?”

“Lunch can wait.”

* * * *

When I inserted the flash drive, I had a heart-stopping moment when I thought the drive’s software was about to ask me for a password before I could access the files.

A password screen did appear, but seconds later, it disappeared, and in its place was a file directory.

Mitchell and I both leaned in toward the screen and studied its contents, which at first glance seemed to be well organized, or at least, the contents were divided into four folders.

The folders were labeled: Documents, Communications, Images, and Videos. The one labeled “Documents” had the most data in it, closely followed by “Communications.”

Since Mitchell considered himself more computer savvy than me—which was true, although not easy for me to admit—I wasn’t surprised when he motioned toward me and said, “Give me a second, and I’ll pull up the metadata and see the timestamps for the most recently accessed files.”

“Yeah, that’s a good place to start.”

Five minutes later, he had them sorted according to their timestamps, and the first one on the list was a video, followed by a word processing document, and lastly, an image file.

“These are the files she was looking at two hours ago, which was maybe an hour before she was killed,” Mitchell said. “She opened the rest of them around eleven o’clock last night, and as you can see, it was two o’clock this morning before she accessed the last one.”

“That’s understandable. After her contact delivered this flash drive to her at the party last night, I’m sure Sierra couldn’t wait to get back to her hotel room and start going through the contents.”

“I have to assume you didn’t see anyone hand it off to her.”

“No, even though I kept my eye on Sierra all evening, I never saw any of the other guests approach her table.”

“Whoever it is, they had access to a bunch of stuff. Of course, the files on here might not turn out to be viable intel.”

“Let’s take a look at the last files she opened. Evidently, there was something in those files that she thought would interest me, and since she knew our assignment was to investigate Khalifa, I figure that’s what she wanted to share with me.”

Mitchell frowned. “You told Sierra about our mission?”

I waved my hand at him dismissively. “No, of course not. She figured it out for herself.” When Mitchell rolled his eyes at me, I shrugged and said, “Well, maybe I gave her a hint or two.”

He looked pleased at my admission.

* * * *

When the video file opened, it took me a minute to realize what I was seeing. In reality, Mitchell recognized it first, but I figured that was because he and Sloan had been looking at a similar scene a few hours ago when I was using my necktie camera to record what was going on in the conference room at Khalifa headquarters.

Mitchell said, “Wow, Titus! This video was recorded in the same room you were in this morning. It doesn’t look any different, except there are more people in the room.”

I saw two other differences. The date on a whiteboard behind al-Hakim was two days ago, and unlike when I was in the room, there was a drawing on it with arrows pointing in different directions.

I couldn’t figure out what the drawing meant.

“I recognize everyone but the two men seated next to al-Mansour,” I said, “but I think it’s safe to assume they’re the council members who were missing from my meeting with al-Hakim this morning.”

In the video it looked like al-Hakim was texting someone on his phone, while everyone was waiting for him to finish.

Once he did, he gestured at Ibrahim Nabil, who was seated at the end of the table in the chair I’d been occupying a few hours ago.

I froze the video and pointed out the date to Mitchell. “This meeting took place on Tuesday, the same day we were at the Dahshur site.”

“Yeah, I noticed that.”

When I started the video again, al-Hakim said, “Before we adjourn, Ibrahim has asked permission to address the council, and I was more than happy to grant his request. Go ahead, Ibrahim.”

Nabil stood to his feet and acknowledged al-Hakim with a slight head bow. “Thank you, Omar. I asked for this opportunity to speak because immediately after our plans are executed on Saturday,” he paused and smiled, “then I’ll have to leave Egypt for a while. Hopefully, I won’t be gone for more than a few months, though.”

“Uh-oh,” Mitchell said. “What are they planning on Saturday?”

I kept my eyes glued to the video and didn’t say a word.

Nabil continued. “This so-called Freedom Rising Rally represents everything wrong with President Saeed’s vision of Egypt’s future. He’s celebrating a revolution that promised change, but his revolution has only betrayed true Islam because it’s impossible to have unity under a secular government that marginalizes the purity of Sunni beliefs. By striking here, before the world, Khalifa will send a message: Egypt will no longer bow to those who distort our faith for power. This is not just an assassination; it is a restoration, a declaration that the rightful path of Sunni prominence will rise again, unshackled and unyielding.”

Nabil raised his fist in the air as he delivered this statement, and everyone in the room jumped to their feet and did the same. When the shouting was over, al-Hakim said, “Let the true celebration begin.”

At that point, the video abruptly ended.

I admit I was disappointed.

At the very least, I was hoping to hear the identity of the person they intended to assassinate.

Instead, I got nothing.

“That’s it?” Mitchell asked.

“Yeah, short, but not so sweet.”

“Well, no wonder Sierra wanted you to see this. This is mind-blowing, not only because of what we just saw, but the fact that we got to see it at all. Who do you suppose recorded this video?”

“I’m sure her asset did but how is another question. Was there a hidden camera? Was the person recording it in the room?”

“Did Sierra give you any hint who her contact was?”

“None whatsoever. I did ask her what she was doing at Minister Diwan’s party, and she said she’d made friends with an assistant on Diwan’s staff. I assumed she was the older woman sitting with her at the party, but I can’t believe she was the person who made this video.”

“No, that doesn’t seem likely.”

“Whoever did it had to have access to the conference room, so the person must be a trusted member of the Khalifa organization.”

I clicked the next file on the flash drive. “Maybe this document will give us some answers.”

The next file was a large document entitled “The Path to Restoration: A Framework for Islamic Governance.” Basically, it outlined Khalifa’s vision for restructuring the present Egyptian government to align with Sunni Islamic principles. Although it made several points, it didn’t give any specific plans to implement them.

Despite that, I considered the first point extremely relevant because it presented a case for neutralizing specific enemies of their movement—politicians, activists, journalists, and moderate clerics—either through assassination or discreditation.

Once Mitchell and I read through it, I referred back to point one and said, “It sounds like the assassination they’re planning on Saturday won’t be their last one.”

“So who do they plan to assassinate at the rally? Give me your best guess.”

“Unfortunately, I have to believe it’s President Saeed. From what Sierra told me, there are several cabinet ministers who agree with the Khalifa movement and have expressed dissatisfaction with the direction the president is taking the country. Once Saeed is gone, it’s logical to assume they’ll welcome al-Hakim and his followers with open arms.”

“I agree. Taking out the president makes the most sense.”

As I was about to open the next file in the flash drive’s directory, I got a text from Olivia. “Douglas has scheduled a video call with you in 15 minutes. At the moment, he’s updating Sloan about the situation with Sierra.”

I texted her back. “Can you tell me how the call went with Andersen?”

“No.”

After I told Mitchell about Olivia’s text—leaving out my question about Andersen—I clicked on the image file.

What appeared on the screen was a still photo of the whiteboard in the conference room behind al-Hakim. According to the date, the photograph was taken on the same day the video was shot.

The diagram on the whiteboard also looked the same as on the video, but since al-Hakim wasn’t sitting in front of it, and the person taking the photograph must have been standing only a few feet away from it when the picture was taken, I was able to identify some of the drawings in the diagram.

The structure in the center was obviously Tahrir Square, and the straight lines in front of it appeared to be the platform and bleachers being erected for the rally. As I studied the arrows going in different directions, I finally decided someone must have drawn them as they were explaining what would be happening during the rally. However, without knowing what was being said, it was impossible to understand where the arrows were pointing.

However, now that I could see the universal symbol someone had drawn in the center of the platform, it was impossible to ignore what they anticipated would happen at the rally in Tahrir Square.

The symbol—a circle bisected by two intersecting straight lines—was a set of crosshairs.

Chapter 21

Before Mitchell and I had a chance to look at the other files, an alert box popped up on my screen notifying me that a video call from the Ops Center was coming in, and seconds later, an image appeared showing Olivia and Carlton in RTM Center B’s command center.

A moment after that, a second image appeared, and we saw Sloan at his computer in his apartment—there was no sign of Elsa the cat.

Carlton said, “I’ve just finished bringing Drue up to speed on what happened to Sierra Sherman, but before I tell you about my conversation with Dirk Andersen, give me your assessment of the files you’ve been able to look at so far on the flash drive.”

After describing how the flash drive was organized, I told him we’d only had a chance to examine the files Sierra had been looking at before she was killed, but they were enough to convince me her contact had provided her with viable intel.

“In fact, after only viewing three of the files, my assessment is that we need to revise the protocols of our operation and act on the intelligence we’ve found in them immediately.”

“I felt the same way after talking to Dirk,” Carlton said, “but I’ll get to that in a minute. I need to cover several other things first, beginning with Sierra. The Defense Department is taking care of Sierra now, so there’s nothing else for us to do for her. I would expect the DIA to use her cover story of being a journalist, have someone from her newspaper show up and discover her body, and then put out a story that she died of natural causes.”

He paused and shook his head briefly. “I’m sorry if what I just said sounded harsh and unsympathetic. I didn’t mean it to be. It’s just that there are urgent matters Dirk and I discussed that are relevant to the revisions we need to make to Operation Buried Dagger, and I don’t have a great deal of time to do it.”

I figured since I’d discovered Sierra’s body, his apology was aimed specifically at me, so I spoke up and said, “That’s not a problem, Douglas. I understand. I’m sure you know I’m anxious to hear what else you and Dirk discussed.”

“The first thing I told him was that after you found Sierra’s body, you took possession of a flash drive you found in her room because she told you there was intel on it you needed to have about Khalifa.”

Although Carlton was stretching the truth just a bit, I was sure he viewed what he said as being completely open with Andersen.

This was confirmed a few seconds later when he said, “Dirk thanked me for letting him know we had the flash drive because he’d just been briefed on its contents, so he was considering several options of how to deal with the intel on there.”

“So Dirk already knows what’s on the flash drive?”

“That’s right. He said early this morning, after Sierra finished viewing the files, she transmitted the contents of the entire flash drive to her section chief, and he provided Dirk with a synopsis of the material a couple of hours ago. Dirk shared the highlights with me, but since you’ve viewed some of them yourself, give me your assessment, and then I’ll tell you what Dirk told me.”

I went over the three files Mitchell and I had already seen—the video, the document, and the image on the whiteboard—and since I knew Carlton appreciated having specific details on any intel that might affect a future operation, I did my best to give him those.

“Thank you, Titus. I appreciate the thoroughness of your description, and I think I’ve got the whole picture now.”

Before Carlton could continue, Sloan gestured at the screen. “Well, guys, I don’t mind telling you the video you described blew me away. When I heard about the Freedom Rising Rally, I figured it might bring out some protesters against President Saeed’s policies, but I never expected anything like this.”

“The talk about an assassination also came as a surprise to Dirk,” Carlton said, “and by the way, he seemed genuinely surprised when I told him I didn’t know his office was running an operation on Ibrahim Nabil in Cairo. We both agreed it was just a miscommunication between our agencies, and we left it at that.”

He picked up a yellow legal pad from the console. “We’ve got a lot to cover, so let’s move on to more important matters.”

Carlton sounded stressed, which wasn’t something that happened that often during an operation, but when it did, it was usually because he was forced to make changes in the protocols due to outside circumstances that took precedence over his own operation.

Losing control of anything, much less his own operation, was never acceptable to Carlton, so I had to believe he was already working on a plan to get it back.

“After Dirk and I discussed the connections between our two operations, we each shared what we’d learned about the Khalifa organization, and from there, we came to an understanding of what needed to be done to prevent Khalifa from carrying out an assassination at the rally on Saturday.”

“I’m willing to make any changes to our operation to make that happen,” I said. “I’m sure you know that.”

“I figured that’s what you’d say, so that’s why I’ve agreed to help Dirk out with a situation with his own operation, and in turn, he’s agreed to supply us with any resources we need to prevent President Saeed from being assassinated on Saturday.”

“So you’re certain President Saeed is the person Khalifa has targeted for assassination at the rally?” I asked.

“There’s no doubt about it. I know you haven’t had a chance to look at the other files on the flash drive, but Sierra’s asset provided her with recordings of other Khalifa council meetings where they discussed the assassination and named Saeed as the target.”

“After what we saw in the video, I assume Nabil will be involved?”

“Yes, evidently carrying out assassinations is part of his portfolio.” Carlton held up his hands. “But before we discuss a plan to prevent it from happening, I need to tell you about a problem Dirk has with Sierra’s asset, and why I told him you’d help him solve it.”

“Yeah, I think I better hear about that.”

Mitchell asked, “Does that mean you know the asset’s identity?”

“Yes, and I was surprised when Dirk told me who she was, because it means we saw her in the meeting with Titus and al-Hakim today.”

Mitchell said, “So Sierra’s contact is a woman?”

When Carlton nodded, I said, “Oh . . . wait a second.” After thinking about it a moment, I said, “Okay, I think I know who she is, and it makes perfect sense. Is she the woman who served us coffee at the end of our meeting? The woman wearing the black hijab?”

“Yes,” Carlton said. “Her name is Jomana, and I’m sure the reason you said it makes sense is because she has access to the conference room, and probably the other rooms at Khalifa headquarters as well.”

“That’s partly what I meant, but it also makes sense because in the video we just saw of Nabil giving his speech, when al-Hakim said, ‘Let the true celebration begin,’ the video ended rather quickly, and if she was recording on her phone, then she would have had to put down her phone and serve them a celebratory coffee.”

Sloan let out a low groan. “How in the world did Sierra manage to recruit this woman? Did Dirk share that with you?”

“Yes, but as often happens in this business, it wasn’t something she’d planned. It occurred unexpectedly when she became friends with an assistant on Minister Diwan’s staff named Zahar.”

Carlton told us that Sierra originally cultivated her friendship with Zahar in order to learn more about Minister Diwan’s relationship with Khalifa. However, in the process of doing that, she found out that Zahar’s niece, Jomana, worked part time for Khalifa as a hostess at their headquarters in the Dominion Center, and she also worked part time for a catering company, the same one Diwan often used for catering parties at his residence.

“After learning this, Sierra figured out a way to get Zahar to introduce her to Jomana,” Carlton said, “and when she met her, she discovered the young lady was saving money to attend an American university. Within a few weeks, she was able to convince Jomana to supply her with information on Khalifa for an article she was supposedly writing on the organization. In exchange, Sierra promised to provide Jomana with enough money to attend college in the U. S.”

I said, “From the brief conversation I had with Sierra at Diwan’s party, I don’t think she was expecting the amount of material Jomana had put together for her. She seemed genuinely surprised when she told me Jomana said it was enough to fill a flash drive.”

“You’re right,” Carlton said. “Dirk said when Sierra got back to her hotel last night and started looking over the materials on the flash drive, she couldn’t believe how many files were on there.”

Mitchell asked, “So I’m guessing Jomana was part of the wait staff at Diwan’s party, and that’s how she was able to slip Sierra the flash drive without anyone seeing what she was doing. Is that right?”

I noticed Mitchell didn’t point out that I was the person trying to identify Sierra’s contact, and that I’d completely overlooked the possibility the person could be one of the wait staff.

I started to go ahead and mention it anyway—just to show I took responsibility for my mistakes—but Carlton quickly jumped in and said, “That’s right, Ben, but evidently, Jomana wasn’t careful enough when she gave Sierra the flash drive, because after Sierra got back to her hotel room last night, Jomana called to tell her that after Diwan’s guests left, he demanded to know why he’d seen her talking to the Al-Bashir journalist, and Jomana didn’t think he believed her when she said they were only talking about how nice the party was.”

I said, “I’m sure that concerned Sierra.”

“Yes. She was afraid Diwan might alert al-Hakim, and he would have Nabil investigate Jomana. Sierra didn’t mention it to Jomana, but she did tell her she wanted to get her the money she’d promised her so she could leave Cairo as soon as possible. Jomana said she could meet her somewhere tomorrow afternoon after she finished her job at Khalifa headquarters. Of course, that would have been this afternoon, and Sierra didn’t think that was enough time for her section chief to have the money ready.”

At this point, Carlton glanced down at the notes he’d scribbled on his legal pad. “Dirk told me Sierra handled the situation by telling Jomana it would take her twenty-four hours to get the money, so they wouldn’t be able to meet until Friday. The moment Sierra got off the phone with Jomana is when she made her first call to her DIA section chief at the Pentagon.”

Carlton told us Sierra made another phone call to her section chief after viewing all the files on the flash drive a few hours later. “When Sierra realized what might happen to Jomana if al-Hakim found out what she’d done in giving her all the information contained in the files, she asked the DIA to help her get Jomana out of Cairo ASAP. She said she didn’t think al-Hakim would hesitate to have Nabil kill Jomana.”

I said, “After seeing the video of Nabil’s speech, and knowing he’s responsible for other killings, I have to agree with her.”

“That threat is why Dirk told Sierra she should offer to drive Jomana directly to the airport and buy her a ticket to the U. S. when she delivered the money to her.”

“When did Dirk tell Sierra that?”

“They discussed it during their last video call, which must have taken place shortly before Sierra was killed and you showed up.”

“That sounds about right. When she called me at the Dominion Center, she said she was waiting on a video call. Do you know if Sierra ever got in touch with Jomana and arranged a time and place for them to meet tomorrow?”

“Yes. Sierra was planning to meet Jomana at Caffe Strada—that’s a coffee shop—at ten o’clock, and her phone records show she made a phone call to Jomana when she got off the phone with Dirk.”

Mitchell asked, “Titus said Sierra’s electronics were missing from her room. Since they were government-issued, I’m assuming that if anyone else tried to open them, they would automatically lock down and couldn’t be powered on again.”

“That’s correct,” Carlton said, “so even if Nabil was the person who killed Sierra and took her phone, there’s no way he’d be able to look at her recent phone calls and know she’d been in touch with Jomana.”

I said, “When we started this conversation, you said Dirk had a problem with Sierra’s contact, and you told him I’d be able to solve it.”

“Correct.”

“I’m guessing Dirk’s problem is finding a way to get Jomana out of Cairo safely now that Sierra’s gone.”

“That’s it in a nutshell. Do you have any ideas?”

“Uh . . . no, not at the moment. I don’t have enough details.”

“What kind of details do you need?”

“Let’s start with the cash Jomana’s expecting. Where am I supposed to get that kind of money? And how do I pay for her plane ticket?”

“Dirk already has that covered. His DIA liaison at the American Embassy will have the cash available tonight, and he’s already made plane reservations for her. He’ll also supply Jomana with a temporary U. S. passport.”

“Okay, that takes care of those details. Now for the tough ones. Jomana’s expecting to meet Sierra at the coffee shop in the morning. What happens when I show up? She saw me at the party last night and at the meeting today, so I guarantee you she’ll be suspicious of me. The same thing is probably true of Ben, since he was also at the party.”

“You have a point there,” Carlton said. “Plus, we know she’s already worried about the—”

“On the other hand,” I said, “I don’t necessarily have to show up.”

I paused as the synapses in my gray matter ignited and started firing off sparks of inspiration in all directions.

Moments later, an idea had formed.

I said, “If a woman sat down at the table with Jomana, I doubt if she’d be as suspicious of her as she would be of me if I sat down there.”

“No, probably not,” Carlton said, “but—”

I held up my hand. “I think I’ve got it worked out, Douglas. Go ahead and tell Dirk his problem will be taken care of. All I need from him is a phone number so I can contact his DIA liaison at the embassy.”

I thought Carlton looked slightly amused as he made a notation on his legal pad. “I’m sure he’ll be glad to give it to you.”

Sloan said, “Whatever you’re planning, Titus, if you need me to go over to the embassy and pick something up for you, I can do that.”

“Thanks, Drue. As soon as we get a contact number, I’ll let you know. Right now, my plan is for Laila to go with Ben and me to Caffe Strada tomorrow morning to meet Jomana, but I’ll need to talk it over with her first.”

Carlton nodded. “My only suggestion is that instead of you and Laila taking Jomana to the airport, you have Elias and Laila do it. That way, you and Ben will be available for the two o’clock video call I’ve already scheduled so we can discuss the revised protocols for Operation Buried Dagger. It’s important for you to be on time for that.”

“Does that mean you’re not ready to talk about the revisions today?” I asked.

He smiled. “No, unlike some people, it takes me a little longer than five minutes to come up with a workable plan.”

“Well, my plan doesn’t involve preventing the president of Egypt from being assassinated. That’s gonna take a lot more thought.”

Mitchell said, “If it were me, I’d start with informing President Saeed the Agency has uncovered a plot to assassinate him at the rally on Saturday.”

Olivia, who had managed to stay quiet during the entire call, said, “Seriously, Ben? Do you really think that would stop President Saeed from being present at a rally where he’s promoting the achievements of his presidency?”

Before he had a chance to reply, Carlton said, “I’m logging us off now so I can get in touch with Dirk and let him know you’re handling things with Jomana. I’ll text you the phone number of the DIA’s liaison at the embassy as soon as I get it from him.”

Moments later, after the screen went blank, I received a text from Talbot. “Laila and I just arrived back at the hotel from the dig. If you’re available, we can stop by your suite now and give you a report.”

“Great. See you in a few minutes. We have a lot to talk about.”

Chapter 22

When I opened the door to Laila and Talbot a few minutes later, Mitchell immediately waved them over to the dining table.

“As you can see, I’ve ordered enough lunch for Titus and me, but I don’t think he has much of an appetite, so you might as well help me eat some of this.”

Talbot chuckled a little when he and Laila walked over and looked at all the dishes on the table. “Uh . . . yeah, I can see why you might need some help eating this.”

Despite what Mitchell said, I knew I needed to eat something, so I grabbed a slice of pita bread and some cheese and sat down at the table with them. “So tell me. How did things go at the dig today?”

I figured the outfit Laila had on—a burnt-orange silk blouse over a pair of loose-fitting brown trousers and a pair of strappy gold heels—was the one she’d worn at the photo shoot, but seeing the way she was dressed made me realize I should ask her to wear something more casual tomorrow or else Jomana might feel intimidated by her, which would defeat my purpose altogether.

“The photo shoot went fine, and we drew a crowd again today,” Laila said, “but I’m guessing you’re more interested in what we heard about the Golden Dagger being stolen, aren’t you?”

I nodded. “That’s right.”

“I hope you won’t be disappointed, but we didn’t hear anything. When Dr. Chafik came by the photo shoot, he never mentioned anything about it, and Minister Diwan didn’t show up at the dig today.”

Talbot said, “Yeah, we were both a little disappointed we couldn’t bring you at least some small nugget of information. We can always try again tomorrow, though.”

“No, I’ve got something else for you to do tomorrow, so I’m calling a wrap on the photo shoot. Before I explain your assignment, I need to give you some background.”

I spent several minutes briefing them on my meeting with al-Hakim, and then I described what I found when I went to Sierra’s hotel room. Both of them seemed shocked to hear of Sierra’s murder, and when I saw Laila push her plate away, I had a feeling my description of the scene had caused her to lose her appetite.

I quickly moved on and told them about the contents of the flash drive, as well as our conference call with Carlton and the situation with Jomana. At that point, I realized I’d probably given them too many details all at once, and they were feeling overwhelmed.

“I know this is a lot to take in when you weren’t expecting it,” I said, “but to be honest, it’s not unusual for an operation to encounter a few detours along the way.”

“I can’t speak for Laila,” Talbot said, “but I’m okay with it. I always thought things might not go exactly as planned, and we might need to make some adjustments.”

“I’m so sorry about that woman being murdered,” Laila said. “I can’t imagine what she went through.” She paused for a second. “So what will happen to Jomana now?”

“Of course, she doesn’t know Sierra’s been killed, so we believe she’ll show up at the coffee shop tomorrow morning expecting Sierra to be there with the money she was promised.”

“But someone will go there and tell her what happened, right?”

“Yes, I’ve been given the responsibility to show up and give her the bad news. Hopefully, I’ll be able to give her some good news as well.”

“What kind of good news?” Laila asked.

“Sierra’s supervisor has made arrangements for Jomana to leave Cairo immediately. Like all U. S. intelligence agencies, the Defense Intelligence Agency is obligated to offer protection to a foreign asset who’s put their life at risk to gather information for them, so that’s the good news I have for her.”

“I hope she’ll take advantage of that offer,” Laila said.

“When I show up, I’m afraid she’ll be too frightened to give me a chance to make that offer, and she might leave without hearing me out. On the other hand, if you were to meet her at the coffee shop tomorrow,” I gestured at Laila, “the outcome might be a lot different.”

She stared at me for a few seconds.

“Uh . . . okay, I guess I could do that. I might need some coaching about what to say to her, though.”

“That won’t be a problem. We can work on that this evening.”

Talbot said, “If you think Jomana’s in danger, then won’t Laila be in danger too?”

“Yes, there’s a certain amount of risk involved. But this is a public place, and besides that, I’m planning for the three of us to be in the coffee shop with Laila the whole time.”

“I’m sure I’ll be fine,” Laila said.

Talbot said, “I’d feel better about the situation if you’d show me a picture of Ibrahim Nabil. That way, I can be on the lookout for him.”

“I can do that right now,” Mitchell said, moving my laptop in front of him and clicking on the video from the flash drive.

As the four of us were watching the video, I wondered if Laila was having second thoughts about meeting Jomana, but when it ended, she said, “No wonder Jomana is afraid of that man. After seeing that video, I’m more motivated than ever to convince her to leave Cairo.”

While I was glad to hear the video hadn’t discouraged Laila, I suddenly had a bad feeling about putting her in a situation she wasn’t prepared to handle.

Should I call the whole thing off?

I decided that wasn’t an option.

* * * *

After Laila and Talbot left our suite, I began mapping out the scenario of how I wanted the encounter with Jomana to play out at the coffee shop, including a script of what I wanted Laila to tell Jomana about Sierra. For some reason, it was surprisingly difficult for me to write about Sierra without getting emotional about her murder.

I also had Mitchell go through the video I’d made during my meeting with al-Hakim and isolate an image of Jomana so that we could memorize her features and quickly recognize her when she showed up at the coffee shop.

It occurred to me she might not be wearing a hijab at the coffee shop, which could make it difficult to recognize her, so I made a mental note to mention it to Laila and Talbot.

While Mitchell and I were involved in these tasks, I got a text from Olivia. “I know you’re preparing, probably overpreparing, for tomorrow, so I thought you might want to take a look at these links.”

When I opened the links, they turned out to be photos of the interior of Caffe Strada. There were five of them, and it looked like three of them were from someone’s social media account, and the other two were from the coffee shop’s website.

I texted Olivia back and told her thank you, but she didn’t respond.

While Mitchell and I were looking at the photographs and trying to decide where we would sit in order to have the best views of both the door and the street, I got a call from Carlton.

“I just got off the phone with Dirk,” he said, “and he gave me the contact number for the DIA liaison at the embassy. Her name is Mandy, and she’ll have the money, a passport for Jomana, and a cell phone for her. The phone will give her access to her plane ticket as well as a phone number so she’ll be able to communicate in Arabic with a DIA representative when she lands at Dulles in Washington.”

Once I got Mandy’s number from Carlton, he asked me if there was anything else I needed for tomorrow. “I’m about to get in touch with Drue to see if he has enough communication equipment for the operational team to stay in touch with each other in the coffee shop. If he doesn’t, then I’ll need to get back with you about that.”

“I believe he has what you need,” he said. “When I spoke to him earlier about what you’d need at the rally on Saturday, he assured me he had plenty of comms units available.”

“It sounds like you’ve already worked out a plan to prevent Nabil from carrying out the assassination. Are you sure you don’t want to tell me about it now?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

* * * *

A few minutes after I got off the phone with Carlton, I called Sloan, and when he answered on the first ring, I had a feeling he’d just been waiting around his apartment to hear from me about contacting the DIA liaison at the embassy.

Once I gave him the information about Mandy and let him know what would be in the packet of materials she was preparing for Jomana, Sloan said, “I’ll call Mandy right away, and if she has everything ready, then I’ll go by the embassy and pick it up. When I’m leaving the embassy, I’ll text you that I’m heading over to your hotel.”

Although I wasn’t sure that was necessary, I said, “Okay, Drue. That sounds good.”

“As you’re making plans for tomorrow, don’t hesitate to give me an assignment. I certainly don’t mind filling an empty spot in your surveillance scheme, or I could even be another set of eyes and ears in the coffee shop. However you want to use me, I’m fine with it.”

After having worked with Sloan a few times, I’d come to the conclusion he was one of those operatives who enjoyed the adrenaline rush of a high-stakes mission, and because of that, he was always eager to put himself in the middle of the action.

I understood the feeling.

I sometimes saw myself in that role too.

“I appreciate the offer, Drue. Let’s discuss it when you get here. I already know one thing you can do for me. I need some comms equipment so the operational team can stay in touch with each other inside the coffee shop. Of course, the devices need to be encrypted, and I’d prefer in-ear and hidden mic units.”

“I’ve got everything you need here, and I’ll bring the equipment with me when I come. See you in a bit.”

After I hung up from talking to Sloan, I realized there was nothing left for me to do about tomorrow except brief everyone, so while I waited to hear back from Sloan, I told Mitchell I was going for a walk to clear my head, and that I’d be back within an hour.

For a moment, I thought he was about to say he’d go with me, but I think he recognized I needed some time alone.

By the time the elevator reached the lobby, I decided what I really needed more than some time alone was to hear Nikki’s voice.

I did a quick calculation of the time difference—Cairo was eight hours ahead of Oklahoma time—so it was close to noon in Norman, which meant I might catch her on a lunch break.

Although it wasn’t against Agency rules to call family on an encrypted sat phone, it wasn’t encouraged. The truth was, I didn’t do it that often for a number of reasons—primarily because I couldn’t really tell Nikki what was going on, and when I got off the phone with her, it was hard for me to focus on my assignment again.

Nevertheless, I punched in Nikki’s cell phone number.

As I anticipated, once I greeted her, she sounded concerned. “How are you? Are you okay?”

“I’m doing fine. I’m standing outside my hotel, and I’m facing a busy street, so it may be a little noisy. To be truthful, I just wanted to hear your voice. Are you and Eleanor doing okay?”

“Yes, we’re both fine, although she was a little anxious about going to school today because she had to give an oral book report.”

I chuckled. “Is that right? I’m sure she’ll do fine. Tell her I’d like to hear it when I get home.”

“I’ll do that.” She didn’t say anything for a moment, so I figured she was waiting for me to say something, but for some reason, I couldn’t think of anything to say.

“I hope whatever you’re doing, you’re making progress,” she finally said, “and you’ll be able to be home soon.”

“I lost someone today,” I blurted out. “It’s been a little hard on me.”

“Oh, Titus, I’m so sorry. I know that must be terrible for you. I wish we could be together now. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes, and it’s okay. I’ll be fine. Like I said, I just needed to hear your voice. I’ll tell you all about it when I get home.”

“Even though I can’t be there with you, you have someone there who can comfort you far better than me. I hope you’ll let him do that.”

“Thanks, Nikki. I needed that reminder. I love you, and I’ll see you soon.”

“I hope so, and I love you too.”

When I hung up, I didn’t go for a walk to clear my head.

Nikki did that for me, so I went back inside the hotel, rode the elevator up to the sixth floor, and entered our suite.

When I walked in, Mitchell took one look at me and said, “Yeah, that walk did you a world of good.”

* * * *

A few minutes after I made myself a cup of coffee, I got a text from Sloan telling me he’d left the embassy and was on his way to our hotel.

Since I knew it would take him at least thirty minutes to get here, I went ahead and finished my coffee before texting Laila and Talbot to come down to our suite so we could go over the final details of our plan for tomorrow.

Sloan hadn’t shown up by the time Laila and Talbot arrived, so while we waited, I used the time to discuss with Laila what I wanted her to tell Jomana about how Sierra died.

“It’s reasonable to assume Jomana will make the connection between the flash drive she gave Sierra and Sierra being killed a few hours later. While there’s nothing we can do if she feels responsible for Sierra’s murder, I don’t want her to be so overcome with guilt that she won’t accept your offer to leave Cairo.”

“I really believe I can convince her it would be in her best interests if she allowed Elias and me to take her to the airport, especially when I’ll show her she has a free ticket to Washington.”

Talbot asked, “Since you said you wanted Laila to speak to Jomana alone, but you wanted me to go to the airport with them, when should I introduce myself to Jomana?”

“I’d rather you wait until Laila talks about taking her to the airport. Drue is bringing us some communication devices so you’ll be able to listen to their conversation. Don’t worry, though. They won’t be complicated. The units consist of an earpiece and a mini microphone that will look like a button on your shirt or a piece of jewelry.”

Mitchell said, “Speaking of Drue, I thought he’d be here by now. Do you want me to text him?”

I glanced down at the time on my phone. “No, let’s give him five more minutes. Maybe he got caught in traffic.”

Sloan arrived a couple of minutes later carrying a brown canvas bag. When I let him in the room, I asked him if he’d been delayed by the traffic.

“No, that wasn’t it,” he said, obviously trying to keep his voice down so no one else could hear him. “I had a situation that I’d rather tell you about when we’re alone. I took care of it, though.”

I nodded, and we walked down the short hallway to the living room where he placed the canvas bag on the coffee table.

After greeting everyone, he unpacked the items inside—individually wrapped communication units for each of us, and a feminine-looking red leather backpack, which I assumed was what he’d picked up from Mandy at the embassy to give to Jomana.

When I unzipped the backpack, I found a manila envelope filled with American dollars, along with a cell phone, and a gray U. S. passport with “Temporary” stamped across the front.

I told Laila to instruct Jomana not to remove the items in public, but to leave them inside the backpack when she examined them.

Once Sloan demonstrated how to use the comms devices, I asked him if he wanted a cup of coffee, and when he followed me over to the kitchenette, I asked him to tell me about the situation he mentioned.

“I doubt if it has anything to do with your operation,” he said, “but after I left the embassy, I believe I spotted a tail.”

“You were followed from the embassy?”

“I’m not exactly sure when they started tailing me, but when I was about twenty minutes away from your hotel, I kept seeing a silver Renault in my rearview mirror. Keep in mind, it’s not unusual for foreign actors to follow U. S. embassy personnel just for harassment purposes.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that. So what did you do about it?”

“I followed the usual procedures to shake him off, and once I was sure I’d done that, I came on to the hotel.”

“Did you ever get a look at who was driving the vehicle?”

“No, they stayed a couple of car lengths behind me. Like I said, I really don’t think the incident was connected to Khalifa.”

I wasn’t so sure.

I figured I’d find out tomorrow.

PART FIVE

Chapter 23

Friday, November 22

Caffe Strada, where Sierra was supposed to meet Jomana, was in Zamalek, an upscale Cairo neighborhood known for its contemporary office buildings, quaint shops, and expensive condos.

The coffee shop was located on the ground floor of a high-rise office building on a busy street. Because it shared space with the office complex, there was parking in the adjacent lot, as well as on-street parking across the street.

As Mitchell pulled our SUV into the parking lot next to the building, I spotted Talbot and Laila getting out of their rented Toyota Corolla. I was glad to see Talbot remembered to back it into a space at the front of the lot exactly as I’d instructed him to do.

The plan was for the four of us to enter the coffee shop within a few seconds of each other. That way, we’d have four sets of eyes to scan the customers inside. It was only nine-forty, so I wasn’t really expecting Jomana to be inside, but there was always the possibility she might show up early.

Since I knew Sloan wanted to be in on the action, I’d given him the responsibility of parking on the street and monitoring any suspicious vehicles either in the parking lot or on the street.

When we drove into the lot, I saw his Mercedes parked across the street from the coffee shop, although I didn’t acknowledge him.

However, as Mitchell and I were about to walk into Caffe Strada, I touched the earpiece on my comms device and said, “Sloan, do you copy?”

A few seconds later, he said, “Copy. Everything looks quiet.”

I interpreted his response to mean he hadn’t seen any sign of a Khalifa member, nor had he spotted his tail from last night.

The interior of the coffee shop matched the contemporary style of the building itself, with high ceilings and a minimalist look. The walls were painted a warm beige and were decorated with large black and white photographs of some of Cairo’s famous landmarks, including Tahrir Square.

The seating arrangement consisted of wooden tables with cushioned chairs in the center of the room, with a long communal table with high-back stools along the wall of windows overlooking the parking lot, where customers were working on their laptops.

I was glad to see the front of the shop also had a set of windows facing the street, which meant it would be easy for me to spot Jomana—or anyone else—before they came inside.

Since the place was less than half full, it quickly became obvious Jomana hadn’t arrived yet.

While Mitchell went over to the counter and ordered coffees for us, I chose a table near the front of the room, which afforded me an excellent view of both the parking lot and the street. Meanwhile, Laila sat down at a table on the other side of the room while she waited for Talbot to purchase their drinks.

She’d followed my suggestion and dressed casually in a pair of jeans and a pink pullover with a floral design on it. Talbot, who always seemed to be dressed in casual attire, had on a black turtleneck with a pair of khakis.

Mitchell and I were each wearing an open-collar shirt, dress pants, and a sports jacket—the jackets were to conceal our gun holsters—but several other businessmen in the establishment were similarly dressed, so we didn’t look out of place.

As soon as Talbot sat down at the table with Laila, I saw them both touch their earpieces, so I said, “Are you able to hear me okay?”

They both answered in the affirmative.

It was time for the show to begin.

All we lacked was the main performer.

The question was, would she make an appearance?

* * * *

When ten o’clock came and went, I was beginning to doubt if Jomana was going to show. However, six minutes later, she pulled in the parking lot in a late-model green Hyundai.

As she got out of her vehicle and began walking toward the shop, I noticed she was wearing jeans and a loose blouse, and although she had a colorful hijab around her neck, she hadn’t draped it over her dark brown hair.

The expression on her face didn’t appear to be one of concern, but since she was expecting Sierra to give her a substantial amount of cash, it made sense why she might not be feeling as anxious as she was on Wednesday evening when she called Sierra.

“There she is,” I said to Mitchell.

Talbot said, “I believe I see Jomana,” and then I heard Laila say, “Yes, I see her too.”

When Jomana entered the front door, she paused and looked around for a few seconds, and then she made her way over to the counter to place her order.

She had several empty tables to choose from, but I had a feeling she would choose one that wasn’t near other customers so she and Sierra wouldn’t be overheard. That left only two choices—a table near the front of the shop and one a few feet away from Laila.

As Jomana was walking away from the counter carrying her coffee, she glanced in Laila’s direction. Although I wasn’t positive about it, I had the feeling she recognized her. Since both of them were at Diwan’s party, I suppose I should have anticipated that.

I wasn’t sure whether that was a good thing or a bad thing.

Jomana ended up choosing the table a few feet away from Laila.

Just like we’d planned, Laila waited a few seconds, and then she picked up her coffee, along with the red leather backpack, and walked over to where Jomana was sitting.

Mitchell and I sat quietly, not speaking to each other, as we listened in on their conversation through Laila’s comms device.

“Would you mind if I joined you?” Laila asked.

Jomana looked puzzled. “You look familiar. Aren’t you the fashion model who was at Minister Diwan’s birthday party? I was there as part of the catering crew.”

Laila smiled and said, “Yes, I was there.”

Jomana looked embarrassed. “I apologize, but I can’t invite you to sit down. I’m waiting for someone.”

Laila sat down in the chair opposite Jomana and said, “You’re waiting for the journalist, Aisha Nassar, aren’t you? I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but she won’t be coming. She was murdered yesterday morning in her hotel room.”

Jomana stared at Laila in complete shock. “What? No, I can’t believe it. That can’t be true.” She was quiet for a moment. “But . . . what are you doing here?”

Suddenly, a look of fear came over her face, and just as I suspected, Jomana appeared to be ready to head out the door. As she pushed her chair back, Laila reached over and laid her hand on top of hers. “There’s no need to be afraid, Jomana. I’m here to help you.”

I felt somewhat relieved when I saw Jomana sit back in her chair. However, I still got the impression she was thinking about fleeing as she was listening to Laila.

“I was good friends with Aisha,” Laila said, “and after she spoke to you on the phone Wednesday night, she called and told me if anything happened to her, I should meet you here at the coffee shop and give you the money she promised you.” She gestured at the red leather backpack on the table in front of her. “I have the cash right here.”

“Why was she afraid something might happen to her?” Before Laila had a chance to answer, Jomana put her hand up to her mouth. “Oh, no. Was it because I told her Minister Diwan saw me talking to her?”

“She mentioned that as a possibility.”

“I also gave her a flash drive with some files on it. Could that be why she was murdered?” She was beginning to look really scared now. “Someone in the Khalifa organization must have found out I gave her that flash drive. Do you think one of them murdered her?”

“Yes, and I believe that’s why Aisha also contacted a mutual friend of ours at the American Embassy and asked her to give you a temporary passport along with a plane ticket to Washington. Her friend called me this morning, and I picked up those items before I came here today.”

Laila pointed to the backpack again and said, “Inside here, you’ll find the money Aisha promised you, along with a temporary U. S. passport, and a cell phone. The cell phone has an email on it that shows you’re booked on a flight to Washington, D. C., that leaves at four o’clock today. Your ticket’s already been paid for, and once you land in Washington, you can call a phone number and speak to someone who’ll help you get to wherever you want to go in the U. S.”

I admit when I heard Laila telling Jomana the story I’d made up to explain what was going on—without disclosing the involvement of either the DIA or the Agency—I had a hard time believing it.

It sounded completely phony to me.

I finally decided if Jomana believed the story, it was only because she wanted to believe it.

Evidently, that’s what happened, because when Laila pushed the backpack towards her and told her she could open it and look inside—warning her not to remove any of the items inside while they were in the coffee shop—Jomana began nodding her head. “Yes, that sounds like something Aisha would do. She was such a caring person.”

While Jomana was looking inside the backpack, I was scanning the parking lot and the vehicles on the street, and Mitchell had his head on a swivel watching the customers inside the shop.

Just as I decided everything looked fine, a large white delivery truck pulled away from the curb, exposing a car I hadn’t seen before.

I was shocked to see it, but then I realized I hadn’t noticed it because it was parked around the corner and was temporarily hidden by the delivery truck.

It was a silver Renault.

* * * *

For several seconds, I debated whether it could possibly be the same vehicle Sloan said was tailing him the night before.

That seemed unlikely since the person inside the Renault didn’t have a good view of Sloan from where he was parked.

As I continued studying the sedan, I realized that even though the occupant wasn’t able to see Sloan, he did have an excellent view of Caffe Strada and the parking lot next to it.

Was that the situation?

Was the driver of the Renault interested in one of the customers inside the coffee shop?

Was Jomana his target?

I decided I couldn’t ignore that possibility.

I had to check out the driver.

While I could ask Sloan to do it, I didn’t want him to approach the Renault without backup, and since I would need to be his backup, I decided I might as well do it myself and let him be my backup.

My biggest concern was how Laila would react when she saw me leave the coffee shop. If she got nervous, it might alarm Jomana, and the last thing I wanted was for Jomana to head out to her car.

Since I knew the next item on Laila’s agenda was to convince Jomana it was too dangerous for her to go to the airport alone, and it would be better if she and her friend, Elias, took her to the airport, I decided I would slip out of the coffee shop when Laila motioned for Elias to come over to the table.

I figured when that transition happened, she wouldn’t notice what I was doing. However, I still had to tell Mitchell, so while Jomana was looking through the contents of the backpack, I motioned at Mitchell to turn off his comms unit, and once we both did that, I said, “There’s a suspicious vehicle parked on the cross street, so I need to go check it out. I’m gonna have Sloan watch my back, but if Jomana should head out to the parking lot, you’ll need to create a diversion and delay her.”

“Okay. I can handle things from in here. Go ahead.”

We switched our comms units back on, and when I heard Laila say, “Unless you have a question about what’s in your backpack, there’s something else we need to talk about. If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask my friend, Elias, to come over so we can both discuss it with you.”

I heard Jomana say that was okay, and when I saw Talbot get up and move toward their table, I headed out the front door.

While I was walking down the street parallel to where Sloan was parked, I called him on his cell phone.

“Hey, what are you doing?” Sloan asked. “Why are you leaving the coffee shop?”

“I just noticed a silver Renault parked on the cross street, and I’m heading over there to check it out.”

He was quiet for a couple of seconds. “I can’t see it from here, but I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to check it out on your own, so once you turn the corner, I’ll follow you.”

“Yeah, I was gonna suggest that. For now, I’m just curious to see if I recognize the driver. If that’s the case, then I’ll make a decision about what to do about it after that.”

“I would be surprised if it was the same vehicle as I saw yesterday. I’m positive it didn’t follow me here this morning.” He paused. “Okay, I just saw you turn the corner. I’m right behind you.”

I caught a quick glimpse of Sloan as he came around the corner, but as I made my way down the street on the opposite side, I gave my full attention to the driver of the Renault and ignored Sloan.

The only thing I could tell for sure about the driver was that he was male, and he wasn’t wearing Arabic clothing. In order to see his features though, I knew I’d have to get closer, so I crossed the street where there was a café with outdoor seating and sat down at a table.

A few seconds later, Sloan took a seat at a table behind me.

I pulled out my phone and pretended to be checking a text message, but as I held it up in front of me, I opened my camera and used the zoom lens to magnify the driver’s features.

At that moment, he was facing away from me with his eyes glued to the coffee shop, but even so, there was something about the back of his head that struck a familiar chord with me.

Then, when he turned and briefly glanced at a motorcycle that had pulled up beside his vehicle, I saw his face—bushy eyebrows, scruffy beard, dark brown hair—and I immediately recognized him.

I put my phone down, quickly turned away from him, and walked over to Sloan’s table.

When I sat down, I noticed Sloan also had his phone out, so I figured he’d been doing the same thing.

He shook his head. “I don’t get it. What’s he doing here? Why did he follow me from the embassy last night?”

“I think I have a pretty good idea, but I’m gonna need to confront him about it anyway. First though, I have to let Ben know it’s okay for Jomana to leave the coffee shop and head to the airport with Laila and Elias. I gave him instructions not to let them leave until I’d checked out the Renault.”

“I’ll contact Ben and let him know what’s going on with you. Are you sure you don’t want me to stay here and watch your back?”

I told him I’d be fine, and after he got up and headed toward his car, I waited a few seconds, and then I made my way over to the passenger side of the silver Renault.

Although I was anticipating having to tap on the window to have him unlock the door, that wasn’t necessary; it was already unlocked.

I simply lifted the handle, opened the car door, and slid inside the seat beside him.

Gavin Barrett, the Agency’s Chief of Station in Jordan, looked startled. “What are you doing here, Titus?”

“I was about to ask you the same thing.”

Chapter 24

The expression on Barrett’s face was a combination of anger and embarrassment. After taking a deep breath, he exhaled and looked away from me for a few seconds.

“You won’t understand why I’m here,” he finally said.

“You don’t know that until you tell me.”

He leaned his head back against the seat’s headrest and grimaced. “You couldn’t possibly understand because you’ve never been in love with someone the way I’m in love with Laila Dinari.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. I’m madly in love with my wife.”

He looked surprised. “You’re married now? The last time I saw you, you said you enjoyed being single, and you planned to stay that way.”

“That was before I met Nikki.”

“Okay, so maybe you do understand—at least a little.”

“Do I have this right, Gavin? You’re here in Cairo running surveillance on Laila because you’re in love with her?”

He shrugged. “Yeah.”

“You know I’m gonna need more explanation than that.”

“Yes, knowing you, I’d expect that. I’m just not sure where to begin.”

“Why don’t you start with why you decided to show up here?”

“No, that’s not enough.” He sighed. “Are you aware I’m the person who recruited Laila four years ago after we met at an embassy party?”

I nodded. “When I found out she’d been assigned to my operational team, I checked out her background in the archives.”

“Yes, that sounds like something you’d do, all right.”

I ignored his remark. “After reading those reports, it was obvious you played a significant role in her early assignments.”

“That’s true. I think I fell in love with her the moment we met, and once she agreed to work for the Agency, I used every opportunity to spend time with her.”

“Look, Gavin, I don’t have much time here, so just explain why you’re stalking Laila, and how you knew she was in Cairo.”

“Stalking? I’m not stalking her. I’m just . . .” He took one look at my face and shook his head. “Okay, so here’s what happened.”

He said he realized Laila only thought of him as a friend, but he figured if they could spend more time together, she might change her mind, so since he had some vacation time coming, he tried to contact her to see if she would take a trip to the Bahamas with him.

When she didn’t return his phone calls, he wondered if she might have taken an assignment with the Agency, so he got in touch with a friend in the Ops Center who found out that she’d been assigned to an operation in Cairo to learn about the Khalifa organization.

“I probably should have let things go at that point. But when I heard she was in Cairo, I started to get worried about her safety.” He paused for a second. “Maybe worry isn’t the best word. It was more like an obsession. I couldn’t shake the feeling she was in danger, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to rest until I was sure she was okay.”

“So just like that, you got on a plane and flew to Cairo. I suppose Douglas has no idea where you are.”

“No. Since I had some vacation time coming, I told the Agency I was taking the week off, which means I’m not on the Grid.”

“What happened once you landed in Cairo?”

“I figured Drue Sloan had to be working with the operational team, so in order to find Laila, I decided to stake out his apartment. Yesterday afternoon, I followed Sloan to the embassy, and from there I tailed him to the Nile Grand Hotel.” He smiled. “I only had to ask a couple of people at the hotel before I found out that the beautiful Moroccan fashion model, Laila Dinari, was a guest there.”

“So what were your plans after you followed her here to the coffee shop this morning?”

“I just wanted to observe her, make sure she was okay. I would never interfere with her assignment unless I thought she was in some kind of danger.”

I shook my head. “It’s too late. Your actions have already interfered with her assignment. She’s meeting with a compromised asset inside the coffee shop right now, but she wasn’t expecting me to leave her in there so I could come out here and make sure the driver of a silver Renault wasn’t a threat to her.”

Barrett looked concerned. “But aren’t there other members of your operational team in there with her? My source told me there are four team members assigned to this operation.”

“Yes, there’s another Level 1 operative in there with her, but the other male you saw is an untrained asset just like Laila.”

“I admit, Titus, when I saw you getting out of your vehicle, I realized Laila was in good hands. At that point, I should have just left and gotten on the next plane back to Amman.”

“So why didn’t you? Why did you stick around here?”

“Because a delivery truck pulled up and blocked my view of the coffee shop. After that, I decided to stay put until Laila came out so I could see her one more time before I had to leave.”

“Well, you’re about to get your chance. She should be leaving the coffee shop any minute now, but she won’t be alone. There’ll be another woman and a man with her, and if everything goes as planned, the three of them will get in their rental car and head to the airport.”

“So Laila’s leaving Cairo today?”

“No, she and her photographer, Elias, are helping the compromised asset I mentioned—her name is Jomana—get out of Cairo before a member of the Khalifa organization comes after her. That’s why I had to check out your vehicle. I thought you might be Khalifa’s hit man.”

His eyes widened. “Are you saying you have actionable intel that Jomana could be his target?”

“Enough to make me cautious. Yesterday, a female DIA agent was killed in her hotel room after Jomana gave her a flash drive outlining Khalifa’s plans to assassinate President Saeed. We believe the agent was murdered by a man named Ibrahim Nabil. I recently met Nabil, and I can assure you, he’s more than capable of doing it.”

Barrett was quiet for a moment. “Okay, Titus. Now that you’ve told me that, I think I’ll just wait here and make sure Laila gets to her car safely before I leave.”

I gave him what I hoped he interpreted as a disapproving look. “You’re not thinking of following them to the airport, are you?”

He shrugged. “Why not? Frankly, I’m surprised you’re not doing it.”

“Since we got here, I’ve seen no evidence Jomana is under surveillance, but if I had, I wouldn’t hesitate to follow them. The only suspicious vehicle I’ve seen in the area is yours.”

Barrett flipped his hand in the air. “Okay, go ahead. Rub it in. I guess I deserve it.”

“Look, Gavin, since Khalifa doesn’t have Jomana under surveillance, I doubt if she’s in any danger now, but if you want to make sure they make it to the airport, I don’t have a problem with it.” I gestured toward the coffee shop. “I need to go find my partner now. We’re supposed to have a video briefing with Douglas in a couple of hours, and you know how he is about punctuality.”

“Uh . . . you’re not going to say anything to Douglas about seeing me here, are you? I know it was a dumb move on my part, but no harm’s been done, right?”

I stared at him a moment. “I don’t know what I’m gonna do. Douglas is dealing with a lot of situations right now, so I hate to burden him with your bad decisions.”

“I’m sure you know I’d really appreciate it if—”

I motioned out the front window of the car. “If you want to see Laila, here’s your chance. It looks like they’re leaving now.”

We watched as Laila and Jomana—who was carrying the red backpack in her hand—came out of Caffe Strada, followed by Talbot.

As the three of them were walking toward their Toyota sedan, Mitchell stepped out of the coffee shop and stood at the front door. He appeared to be getting his car keys out of his pocket, although I figured he was standing there to make sure Jomana got in the vehicle with them.

I saw him glance in the direction of the Renault once, but he didn’t look worried, so I figured Sloan had already let him know the driver wasn’t a threat.

As Talbot was getting in the driver’s seat of the Toyota, it looked like Laila was urging Jomana to ride in the front passenger seat, and after she relented and got inside, Laila opened the back door and sat directly behind her.

“Okay, Gavin, I’m leaving now,” I said, “but if you want my advice about Laila, I’d suggest you—”

“Hold on, Titus. Do you see that black motorcycle parked at the back of the lot by that dumpster? He looks like he could be waiting on someone.”

I let go of the door handle. “Uh . . . yeah, I see him. He wasn’t there ten minutes ago.”

The rider was dressed completely in black, his features obscured by a black helmet that offered no hint of the man’s identity. He’d backed his motorcycle into a narrow space between a concrete wall and a dark green dumpster, and he was holding the handlebars in a driving position with the bike running.

As we watched Talbot head out of the parking lot in the Toyota, we saw the motorcycle ease out of the narrow space.

Barrett said, “You don’t suppose he’s—”

Before he could finish his sentence, the rider revved up his engine and went after the Toyota.

“Yep, it looks like he’s following them,” I said, strapping on my seatbelt. “We have to go after him.”

Barrett was already pulling out of his parking space. “I’m on it.”

I had no idea if Mitchell or Sloan had seen the motorcycle, or if they’d even noticed I was leaving in the Renault, so I immediately pulled out my phone and punched in Mitchell’s number.

It took him a few seconds to answer, and when he did, he sounded out of breath. “Where are you?”

“I’m in the Renault, and we’re following a motorcycle that looks like it’s going after Jomana. We’re heading east on Rihana Boulevard.”

“Sloan said Gavin Barrett was driving the Renault. Is he with you?”

“That’s right. So far, the motorcycle is just tailing the Toyota, but I have a feeling once we get out of this traffic, he may have other ideas. You should let Sloan know what’s happening.”

“I’ll do that. We’ll be right behind you.”

“Okay. We’re crossing Safret Road now.”

“Are you gonna let Elias know the motorcycle is shadowing him?”

“I haven’t decided yet. He hasn’t had any training in how to elude a tail, and I don’t want him to do anything foolish, so I’m gonna wait and see what the rider’s intentions are.”

“I’m hanging up now so I can call Sloan.”

While I’d been talking to Mitchell, Barrett had managed to pass several cars, and now he was only two vehicles away from the motorcycle.

“I hope the guy on the motorcycle is only interested in knowing where Jomana is going,” Barrett said, “because if he’s intent on killing her, he won’t care if there are other victims, and I’m not about to let him hurt Laila.”

“I understand your concern, Gavin, but for now, it looks like he’s just following the Toyota.”

Barrett pointed up ahead. “Once they get on the Mosset Expressway, it’ll be four lanes, and traffic will thin out, so that should make it easier to determine his intentions. Whatever they are, there’s a good chance we can stop him.”

“You know we have to—”

He motioned toward me with one hand. “I know the Agency rules, Titus. I haven’t completely lost my mind. I’m aware we have to avoid civilian casualties if at all possible. Don’t worry, I won’t be the one putting anyone in danger.”

Telling me not to worry didn’t help.

I was definitely worried.

I was worried about things getting out of hand with Barrett in his effort to protect Laila, and I was worried about the guy on the black motorcycle, who I suspected was Ibrahim Nabil.

As Nikki often reminded me, the only cure for worry was prayer, so as we merged onto the Mosset Expressway, I said a quick prayer asking God for wisdom and protection.

Seconds later, the motorcycle began picking up speed.

Barrett said, “Do you see that? He’s moving into the lane next to the Toyota. He’s not just following them anymore.”

“Yeah, I see it. Go ahead and get up there with him.”

Barrett pressed the accelerator, and the Renault surged forward just as the motorcycle was moving up beside the Toyota.

When the motorcycle was almost parallel to the Toyota, I saw the rider reach inside his black jacket and pull out a Mini Uzi, a compact submachine gun designed for close-quarters combat.

“He’s got a weapon,” Barrett yelled.

I quickly pulled out my Glock and rolled down the window, but just as the rider was about to aim his gun at the front passenger seat of the Toyota, Barrett maneuvered the Renault within inches of the motorcycle’s back bumper.

The moment the rider realized he was in danger of being hit, he quickly moved into the far-right lane and took aim at the Renault instead. However, his sudden actions caused the motorcycle to wobble, and when he couldn’t control the bike with his left hand, he tried grasping the handlebars with his right as well—the hand holding the gun—but in doing so, the gun slipped from his fingers and dropped to the pavement, striking the back wheel of the bike.

Despite his best efforts, the bike skidded sideways, fishtailed, and slammed onto its side, coming to a stop against the guardrail on the shoulder of the road and throwing the rider down a short embankment.

As soon as we saw what was happening to the motorcycle, Barrett reduced his speed, and while the Toyota continued driving on down the expressway—Elias was apparently oblivious to what was happening—Barrett pulled onto the shoulder of the road a short distance from where the motorcycle had crashed.

Seconds later, two other vehicles pulled in behind us.

While I was holstering my gun, I said, “Stay with the car while I go check on him. We’ll need to leave before the police show up.”

He nodded. “I’ll keep the engine running.”

I got out of the Renault and ran back to where I’d seen the rider get thrown off the bike. When I reached the embankment, I spotted his black helmet in the grass.

His crumpled body was a few feet away.

I made my way down the short incline, walked over, and knelt down beside him.

It was Ibrahim Nabil.

His neck was broken.

He was dead.

* * * *

After taking a picture of him with my cell phone, I walked back up to the shoulder of the road where several other drivers had stopped—either to help or just gawk—and when one guy asked me if the rider was dead, I nodded and walked back down the road to where Barrett was waiting in the Renault.

When I got there, Mitchell and Sloan had pulled their cars off the road in front of the Renault, so I walked over and quickly explained what had happened, and then I told Mitchell to wait for me while I talked to Barrett.

Sloan said, “I’m gonna head back to my apartment so I can be there when Douglas calls. If you guys aren’t back at the hotel by then, I’ll just tell him you got delayed, and you’re on your way. Of course, if he’s following us on the Grid, he knows exactly where we are right now.”

“I don’t believe he’s monitoring the Grid. Otherwise, he would have already called me to find out why everyone was heading to the airport. He’s probably too busy putting together the revised protocols to have his eye on the Grid.”

Sloan gestured toward Barrett’s car. “Have you decided what you’re gonna do about Gavin?”

“I’m not sure yet, but don’t say anything to Douglas about him showing up here. I’d rather do that myself.”

“Yeah, that should be an interesting conversation.”

When I walked over and got inside the Renault, the first thing Barrett asked me was, “Is the guy dead?”

I nodded. “Yeah, the rider was Ibrahim Nabil.”

He shook his head. “He was about to kill innocent people, so I’m not sorry I caused him to lose control and crash the bike.”

“I’m not mourning his death either. He’s already killed several people, including Sierra Sherman, and tomorrow he was planning to assassinate President Saeed.”

“What makes you so sure he killed Sierra?”

“When I was looking at his body, I noticed his left hand had fresh stitches in it. I figured she must have cut him before he killed her yesterday.”

“That’s probably one reason he lost control of the motorcycle.”

“Yeah, that’s ironic, isn’t it?”

Barrett sighed. “Okay, Titus, so what happens now?”

“Now, I think it’s time for you to take that plane back to Amman.”

“I believe you’re right. I should head to the airport immediately.”

“If you’re figuring out a way to see Laila when you get there, I’d rethink that if I were you. You’ve done what you set out to do by coming here, haven’t you?”

He thought for a moment. “Yeah, I suppose I have. I was worried something bad was about to happen to Laila, and if I hadn’t spotted the motorcycle in the parking lot and gone after him, she could be dead right now.”

“You’ve definitely done your good deed for the day.”

“Yes, I have. The problem is, she may never know it.”

“That’s the way it is when you do a good deed. If you do it right, you seldom get recognized for it.”

After telling Barrett goodbye, I walked over and got in the car with Mitchell. As we got back on the expressway, he asked, “How do you think Douglas will react when we tell him Nabil was killed?”

“We’ll have to wait and see. If I were to make a prediction about Douglas, he would do something different just to prove me wrong.”

Chapter 25

On the way to the hotel, I received a text from Laila to let me know that she and Elias were staying with Jomana until her flight boarded. She added that Jomana seemed happy about leaving Cairo.

When I told Mitchell about the text, he asked, “Do you plan to tell Laila about Gavin Barrett showing up here?”

“That’s a tough one. On the one hand, I’d like for her to know he may have saved her life today, but on the other hand, I don’t want her to feel obligated to return Gavin’s affection for her.”

“Are you surprised Elias didn’t seem to notice the motorcycle was following him or even that it crashed?”

“No, it all happened so quickly—like maybe fifteen seconds—and by that time, Elias was already down the road. Plus, since he knew we weren’t going to let them leave the coffee shop if we thought Jomana was in danger, he probably didn’t give the traffic around him a second thought.”

When we got up to our hotel suite, we had five minutes to spare before our call from the Ops Center. While we were waiting, Mitchell asked, “What have you decided to tell Douglas about Gavin?”

“I was just sitting here trying to decide how to handle that situation. He asked me not to say anything to Douglas, but if I did that, I’d have to lie to him about how Nabil was killed, and that makes me uncomfortable.”

“Yeah, that’s the problem with being truthful with your boss. It can get your colleagues in trouble.”

“You might wanna remember that the next time you decide to do something crazy.”

“Are you kidding? When did I ever do anything crazy?”

“What about when we were in Beirut and—”

I stopped in midsentence when I heard a ding from my laptop.

A moment later, an image of RTM Center B appeared, along with the feed from Sloan’s apartment. When I saw who was in the center console in RTM Center B with Olivia and Carlton, I immediately understood why Carlton had insisted we show up on time.

Jake Easton, the DDO, was seated beside Carlton.

However, it was Carlton who spoke first.

After logging us in for the official record, he said, “Okay, Titus, give us a quick update about how things went with Jomana today. We have a lot to cover, so don’t spend too much time on the details. Oh, and by the way, because we’ve had to revise the protocols for the operation, Deputy Easton is here with us today to give us his input.”

The DDO nodded and said, “I also wanted to be here to personally thank you for helping Dirk Andersen take care of his asset. I hope I’ll be able to tell him you convinced Jomana to leave Cairo, and she’s about to board a plane to the U. S. in a few minutes.”

“Yes,” I said, “I just heard from Laila a few minutes ago, and she and Elias were at the airport with her. She said Jomana was excited to be leaving.”

“That’s excellent,” the DDO said. “I’m glad to hear it.”

“Despite that good news, things didn’t go exactly as planned today,” I said. “However, when I finish telling you what happened, I think you’ll agree it’s also good news.”

“Uh . . . okay, let’s hear it,” Carlton said.

His voice sounded uneasy, which wasn’t unusual for him in situations where he wasn’t sure what to expect.

I wasn’t sure what to expect either, but I tried not to show it.

I began by explaining the setup at Caffe Strada, and how Mitchell and I had made sure there weren’t any suspicious vehicles in the parking lot before Jomana arrived. I also mentioned—as casually as I could—that Sloan and another operative were doing surveillance on the street outside the coffee shop.

I never said who the other operative was, and I was hoping they would just assume it was someone on Sloan’s payroll.

“Once Jomana arrived, and it appeared everything was going smoothly between her and Laila,” I said, “I decided to check things out on the street before they left for the airport.”

Easton nodded. “Yeah, it’s always good to doublecheck everything.”

“I was glad I did, because when I walked over to the other operative’s vehicle, he alerted me to a motorcycle he’d just seen near a dumpster at the back of Caffe Strada. The moment Elias pulled their Toyota out of the parking lot, we saw the motorcycle following him, so the two of us went after the motorcycle.”

Mitchell spoke up. “Titus gave me a heads up about what was going on, so Drue and I headed out after them.”

Carlton motioned at me. “Were you able to make out the features of the person on the bike?”

“No, his helmet was completely covering his face, but by the time we got on the expressway, it was obvious what his intentions were. He immediately picked up speed and headed straight toward the Toyota, and when he was close enough, he pulled out a Mini Uzi.”

“If you hadn’t already told us this would be good news,” Carlton said, “I’d be worried by now.”

“The only reason it ended well was because the rider lost control of his motorcycle when we got on his bumper, and although he tried to regain control of it, the bike ended up skidding across the pavement and hitting the guardrail. At that point, the rider was thrown off and sent down an embankment.”

The DDO asked, “What about Elias or Laila? Did they see what was happening with the motorcycle?”

“I haven’t had a chance to ask them yet, but I saw no indication they knew what was going on.”

Carlton said, “I have to assume you were able to get an ID on the person riding the motorcycle.”

“Yes, and I’ve already uploaded the picture I took on my phone, and I’m sending it to you now.”

Seconds after I did that, Olivia said, “Yep. That’s what I thought.”

She pointed to one of the screens mounted on the wall inside the command center where Nabil’s image suddenly appeared. “That’s Ibrahim Nabil. I hope you confirmed he’s dead.”

“Of course, I did.”

“Just checking.”

Carlton and the DDO didn’t say a word while they were studying the photograph. After several seconds had passed, and they still hadn’t said anything, I said, “I have no doubt Nabil’s death completely changes Khalifa’s plans to assassinate President Saeed tomorrow, so I’m sure this news will affect the protocols you’ve developed.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” Easton said.

Carlton took his eyes away from the image of Nabil and focused them on me. “Is there any possibility the authorities could blame you for Nabil’s accident? Were there any witnesses?”

“I don’t see how I could be blamed. It happened very fast, and there weren’t but a couple of vehicles around when he lost control and skidded off the road. When we pulled over to the shoulder, it was thirty seconds or so before any other drivers stopped to help.”

“Okay, that’s good. I suppose you left immediately.”

“Absolutely, and when Ben and I were heading back, we passed a police vehicle and a Red Crescent ambulance on the way to the scene.”

Sloan spoke up. “I’ve been monitoring the emergency channels since I got to my apartment, and I haven’t heard anything about them looking for a vehicle in connection with the motorcycle accident.”

“Well, that’s good,” Carlton said. “In my opinion, al-Hakim must have ordered Nabil to take out Jomana because Minister Diwan told him he saw her passing information to Sierra. Do you agree, Titus?”

“Yes, that seems like a logical assumption.”

The DDO gestured toward me. “Shouldn’t we also assume when Nabil followed Jomana to the coffee shop, he immediately got in touch with al-Hakim when he saw her talking to Laila and Elias? Don’t you think it only makes sense he would have asked permission to take all three of them out?”

“No, I don’t believe so. Nabil wasn’t in the parking lot that long, and I never saw him talking on the phone, so I don’t believe he had an opportunity to tell al-Hakim he saw Jomana with Laila and Elias.”

Easton said, “But you can’t be positive about that, can you?”

I shook my head. “No, I can’t.”

Carlton sat back in his chair and placed his hands on his knees—a sure sign he’d made some kind of decision. “I don’t know if the DDO will agree with me or not, but I see no point in discussing the revised protocols now. To me, the chances of al-Hakim going ahead with the assassination of President Saeed without Nabil are almost nil, so there’s no reason to put anyone at risk.”

The DDO nodded. “Actually, I do agree with you, Douglas. According to the intel on the flash drive, the assassination plot was dependent on Nabil’s ability as a sharp-shooter, so I can’t see them replacing him in twenty-four hours. We might as well shelve those protocols and bring the operational team back to Washington.”

Carlton said, “In that case, I’m officially declaring Operation Buried Dagger over, and I’ll have Olivia start making travel arrangements.”

He gestured at Sloan. “Drue, you’ll need to go to their hotel suite and collect the weapons they were issued, along with their comms units.”

Sloan said, “I’ll leave right away.”

“Well, Titus,” Carlton said, “do you have any last thoughts before I sign us out of the session?”

“I don’t disagree with your decision to end the mission, but I’m sure all of us here are aware Ibrahim Nabil will eventually be replaced, and it won’t be long before the Khalifa organization will come up with another plot to assassinate President Saeed.”

“Sadly enough, that’s true,” Carlton said, “so one day, we may have to resurrect Zayd Farouq and his Vice President of Finance, Mahmoud bin Hassan, and have them return to Cairo.”

“I wouldn’t mind that,” Mitchell said. “The food here has been delicious.”

* * * *

Moments after Carlton logged us off the official record, Olivia told us she’d be sending us a text about travel arrangements within the hour, and then the screen on my laptop went blank.

“Wow, talk about a change in plans,” Mitchell said. “I guess I better start packing.”

“Yeah, it sounds like we could be out of here pretty quick.”

“Frankly, Titus, I’m amazed how you managed to explain what happened on the freeway without ever once mentioning Gavin’s name. That was pretty impressive.”

“I appreciate the compliment, but it might be premature.”

“Are you kidding? Douglas didn’t seem to be the least bit curious about who was driving the Renault. If he suspected something, don’t you think he would have asked you about it?”

“I’m not so sure. Since the DDO was there, he might have been reluctant to say anything.”

“So you won’t know if he suspected you were hiding something until we’re back at Langley. Is that what I’m hearing?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

* * * *

Olivia was true to her word, and just as I finished putting the last of my clothes in my suitcase, I got a text from her about our travel arrangements—Mitchell and I were booked on a flight to Dubai in three hours, and after a brief layover, we had a non-stop flight to Washington, D. C.

Talbot and Laila had reservations on a flight to Paris thirty minutes earlier than us, and from there, they would catch a flight to New York and then on to Washington, D. C.

After Olivia gave me the flight information, she said, “You’ll be picked up at Dulles late Saturday evening and taken to The Gray. Your debrief will take place at ten o’clock Sunday morning. Just a heads up; the DDO won’t be attending your debrief.”

I thanked her for giving me the heads up. She responded with, “Whatever.” Seconds later, she added, “Watch your back.”

I understood her last comment.

Although the mission had been accomplished, our operational team hadn’t left Cairo yet, and until we did, we still had to maintain our cover stories and keep our eye out for any threats.

Even when an operation was officially over, I never completely relaxed until I arrived at one of the Agency’s safe houses near Langley, an actual residence where incoming operatives were required to stay until they were debriefed following an assignment.

There were several safe houses in the area—all of them identified by a color-coded name based on an exterior feature of the residence.

The Gray, a colonial with gray shutters, was the largest at 10,000 square feet. With six bedrooms, it could easily accommodate all four members of the operational team, plus there were several ways to occupy our time while we waited to be debriefed.

Besides a media room with hundreds of movies and a library with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, The Gray also had walking trails around the well-kept property—which included a lake and a boat dock—plus a heated swimming pool and exercise facilities.

Each safe house was managed by an Agency couple who lived there permanently while posing as the owners of the residence. Ever since I’d been staying at The Gray, it had been managed by Greg and Martha.

I was mystified why Olivia decided to let me know the DDO wouldn’t be at the debrief, but I’d given up trying to unravel Olivia’s thought processes a long time ago, so I didn’t try to solve that mystery.

Instead, I went across the hall and gave Mitchell our flight information, and shortly after that, Laila and Talbot arrived.

Once we sat down in the living room, I had them describe their conversations with Jomana and their trip out to the airport with her, before I told them anything about Ibrahim Nabil.

“Since Jomana thought I was Sierra’s friend,” Laila said, “her conversation was mostly about Sierra and their friendship. She also asked me how we met each other, so I just made up a bunch of stuff. I hope that was okay.”

“It was perfect. Half of everything most operatives tell people in the field is stuff they made up.”

She smiled. “It was actually pretty fun.”

Talbot said, “Jomana didn’t talk to me that much, but when we got to the airport, and I saw how excited she was when she realized she was about to fulfill her dream to travel to the U. S., I was actually grateful I was able to help her do that.”

“Good. I’m glad you felt that way. I’ve had those moments too, and those are the ones I try to remember when things go a little sideways.”

Laila said, “You mean like with Sierra?”

“That’s right.”

“I still can’t get her out of my mind.” She shook her head. “I’m just sorry she had to die that way.”

I gestured at them with both hands. “I hope you’ll get some relief when I tell you what went down while you were taking Jomana to the airport.”

Talbot asked, “Did something happen at Caffe Strada?”

“No, what I’m about to tell you happened on the highway directly behind you when I was following you to the airport.”

They both appeared to be in a state of shock as I was telling them about Nabil, and moments later, when Mitchell walked in the living room, he looked at their faces and said, “I guess Titus just told you about the motorcycle, didn’t he?”

Talbot said, “It’s hard for me to believe I never noticed what was going on.”

“If Ibrahim Nabil is the person who killed Sierra,” Laila said, “then there’s some poetic justice in how he died in the crash. It’s like fate or karma, or . . .” she paused and gave me a smile, “or God intervened to end his life in the same way she was killed.”

“You might be on to something there,” I said.

She flipped her hand in the air. “Of course, it’s pretty sobering to think everyone in our car could have easily been killed today . . . but I guess it just wasn’t our time.”

“Personally, I believe God was in control of everything that happened today, and the only reason any of us are alive is because we haven’t fulfilled his purpose for us yet.”

Laila said, “I don’t know, Titus, to me it sounds like you were the one who kept us alive today. If it hadn’t been for you noticing the motorcycle waiting for us, we wouldn’t be sitting here right now.”

Of course, she was wrong about that.

The question was, should I tell her?

Chapter 26

Sunday, November 24

As soon as I woke up Sunday morning at The Gray, my first thought was that I wished I could call Nikki and tell her I was back in the States, and I’d be home soon.

While The Gray offered many amenities to Agency operatives returning from a mission—or guests, as they were called—there were several rules that had to be followed while enjoying them.

One of the most difficult rules was that guests weren’t allowed to communicate with anyone other than the people in the safe house until after they’d been debriefed—this was to ensure their debrief was untainted by outside influences.

And just in case someone might be tempted to ignore those rules, all cell phones had to be turned over to the house managers, which was what the four of us had done when Greg picked us up at the airport last night.

Not being able to call Nikki didn’t bother me so much last night, but I suspected that was because I was exhausted from traveling for twenty-four hours, and all I could think about was crawling into bed and getting some sleep.

Now, I was eager to let Nikki know I was safe, and I’d be catching a flight to Oklahoma City as soon as my debrief was over.

However, when I glanced at the time and realized Carlton would begin our debriefing session in less than three hours, and Nikki would be at church most of that time, I figured I could wait a while longer.

When I walked in the kitchen, Martha took one look at me and said, “Well, you’re looking a lot better than you did last night. I hope that means you got some sleep.”

Part of Martha and Greg’s responsibilities in running the safe house was to help intelligence officers who’d been living a double life in the field make the transition back to the real world.

Martha’s technique usually consisted of being chatty, providing her guests with homecooked meals, and keeping The Gray running on a schedule, whereas Greg’s method was to make himself available for conversations, suggest activities to keep everyone occupied, and observe guests to make sure they were emotionally stable.

Since Operation Buried Dagger had only lasted a week, I didn’t expect the members of my operational team would need too much emotional support from them, but that didn’t mean they weren’t going to be constantly assessing our behavior, as well as our demeanor.

I headed over to the coffeepot and poured myself some coffee. “Oh, yeah, I didn’t have any problems sleeping.” After I took some big gulps, I asked, “Are we the only ones up this morning?”

“No, Laila came downstairs about thirty minutes ago, and after we had a nice talk, I told her she might enjoy watching the sun come up from the sunroom, so that’s where she is.”

“I think I’ll go join her.”

“You haven’t forgotten that breakfast is served at eight, have you?”

“No, I haven’t forgotten. Any idea when Douglas will arrive?”

“When I talked to him yesterday, he told me he’d be here by nine-thirty, but the rest of your debriefing committee probably won’t arrive until around ten.”

“You know why Douglas is coming early, don’t you?”

She smiled. “Of course, I do. He wants to have one of my cinnamon rolls before his meeting starts. Would you like to have one now?”

“No, I’ll wait and have one for breakfast.” As I was about to walk out of the kitchen, I turned around and said, “Just make sure Ben doesn’t eat them all before I get to have one.”

She laughed like she thought I was kidding.

I wasn’t.

* * * *

The sunroom at The Gray had an incredible view of Morningstar Lake, the focal point of the gated community where the safe house was located. While the view was always breathtaking, it was even more spectacular during a sunrise.

When I walked in the room, the sun was already above the horizon, but Laila, who was sitting cross-legged on a blue cushioned couch, still appeared to be mesmerized by the sight of the shimmering beams spilling across the water and turning the lake into liquid gold.

“Look how gorgeous this view is,” she said, as I sat down in the chair next to the couch. “After seeing this, I may have to find a house with a lake and a sunroom.”

“I actually have a sunroom that overlooks a much smaller lake at my farmhouse in Oklahoma, but when I’m sitting there, what usually gets my attention is my dog Stormy harassing the ducks who are just trying to enjoy a swim and a leisurely breakfast.”

She smiled. “I can’t picture you in that domestic setting. It seems much too tame for someone who thrives on excitement.”

“You’re partly right. I usually get restless after a couple of weeks of it and end up begging Douglas for an assignment.”

“That sounds more like you. This may be my last opportunity to tell you this, Titus, but I wanted you to know how much I’ve enjoyed working with you. One of the things I’ve appreciated is how you’ve taught me the importance of paying attention to details.”

“Thanks, but I need to be honest with you about something that you gave me credit for the other day. Since I didn’t have anything to do with it, I feel like I should set the record straight.”

She tilted her head sideways. “What was it?”

“After I told you about Nabil’s accident on the motorcycle, you said I was responsible for keeping you safe because I noticed Nabil was waiting for Jomana outside the coffee shop. That wasn’t exactly true. I wasn’t the one who spotted him.”

“Oh, really? Was it Ben?”

“No, and I’ve been reluctant to tell you who it was for several reasons, which I think you’ll understand.”

“Now I’m really curious. Who was it?”

“Gavin Barrett.”

As soon as I said his name, she uncrossed her legs, put her feet on the floor, and leaned in toward me. “Are you saying Gavin was in Cairo at the same time we were there?”

“Yes, but he wasn’t supposed to be there. He wasn’t there in any official capacity. In fact, if the DDO had any idea he was there, he’d probably be in big trouble.”

She shook her head. “I may already know the answer to this question, but why was Gavin in Cairo if he wasn’t supposed to be there?”

“He said he was worried about you.”

After I gave her the explanation Barrett had given me about how he was able to find out she had an assignment in Cairo, and how he’d followed Sloan from the embassy to our hotel, I said, “Drue told me he thought someone in a Renault had followed him from the embassy, so when I spotted a Renault parked on a side street near the coffee shop, I went out to investigate, and that’s when I discovered it was Gavin.”

“So you were with him when we came out of the coffee shop?”

“Yes, but like I said, I didn’t spot the motorcycle; Gavin did. If he hadn’t seen it at that moment, then the outcome might have been a whole lot different.”

She sighed. “I suppose you’re telling me Gavin saved my life.”

“We’ll never know for sure, but yes, I believe there’s a good chance he did.”

“I guess I have to agree.”

“When I told Douglas what happened on the freeway, I deliberately left Gavin’s name out of my explanation. Now that you know, I’m leaving it up to you whether to tell Gavin you know he was responsible for keeping you safe. That’s strictly your decision.”

“I’m still trying to process this, so I’m not sure what I’ll do.”

“There’s one more thing I should tell you. The reason I decided not to tell Douglas was because Gavin admitted he’d made a mistake, and it was foolish of him to follow you to Cairo. I think his feelings for you just made him a little crazy, and it’s probably why he seems a little paranoid at times.”

“You’re probably right.” After glancing over at the lake for a moment, she turned towards me and said, “Since you’ve been honest with me, I want to be honest with you too. The last night we were in Cairo, I made a big decision—at least it was for me. I decided when I get back to Paris, I’ll follow your advice and begin reading the book of John in the Bible.”

“Yes, Laila, I’m sure that was a big decision for you, but I assure you, you won’t regret it. Even though it may seem strange to you to be reading the Bible, I’m convinced you’ll discover someone there who’s been longing for you to meet him since you took your first breath.”

“The next time we work together, I’ll let you know.”

“With everything happening in the Middle East today, that may be sooner than you think.”

* * * *

After we finished eating breakfast—with plenty of cinnamon rolls available—I stopped Greg in the hallway outside the dining room and asked him if he’d heard anything from the Agency’s travel office about when my flight to Oklahoma would be leaving.

“No, not yet, but it’s been an hour since I checked my email. Come on back to the study with me, and we’ll see if I’ve gotten anything yet.”

Since guests at The Gray weren’t allowed to be on the internet until after they’d been debriefed, when we walked in the room, I took a seat in one of the armchairs by the bay window, while Greg went over and sat down at the desk a few feet away.

As he was looking down at the computer screen, he asked, “Are you still enjoying living in Oklahoma? I remember you weren’t too happy when Robert Ira sent you out there on medical leave.”

I chuckled. “Oh, yeah, it’s a great place to live, plus that’s where I met Nikki. I guess I should be grateful to him.”

Greg, who always seemed to have the latest gossip about Agency personnel, said, “Well, you’d be the first person to express any kind of gratitude to him. You know after he got fired, he bought a place outside of Atlanta, and he’s practically made it into a fortress.”

“No, I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah, I heard he was afraid he could be the target of an assassination attempt because of all the enemies he made after working at the Agency all those years.” He looked up from the computer and grinned at me. “I’m not sure if he was referring to foreign or domestic enemies.”

I raised both my hands in the air. “Don’t look at me. You know the DDO loved me. We were the best of friends.”

“You’re such a good liar that if I didn’t know your history with him, I might believe you.” He turned around and grabbed a sheet of paper that had just come out of the printer. “Okay, here you go. It looks like you’re booked on a flight around four this afternoon.”

As I walked over and took the paper from him, Carlton suddenly appeared in the doorway. “Martha said I might find you in here. Could I have a word with you?”

Greg asked, “Do you want to talk to me or Titus?”

“I need a few moments alone with Titus.”

A meeting before a debrief was seldom a good thing.

* * * *

After Greg left and closed the door behind him, Carlton went over and took the chair I’d just vacated, while I sat down in an identical armchair opposite him.

“What’s that?” Carlton asked, pointing at the paper I was holding.

“It’s the information about my flight schedule from the travel office. Greg printed it off for me.”

“I’m glad you’ll be home for Thanksgiving. Mrs. Hartford told me you were worried about that before your briefing.”

“That’s because Nikki wants us to go to Michigan so we can have Thanksgiving with my family.”

“I know you’re anxious to let her know your assignment’s over, and you’ll be able to make the trip.”

He was quiet for a moment, and after he cleared his throat, he said, “The reason I wanted to speak to you before we went to your debriefing was to get some clarity on the sequence of events in Cairo on Friday when you spotted the motorcycle at the coffee shop.”

I nodded. “Well, to be clear, as I mentioned during our video call, I didn’t spot the motorcycle at first.”

“Yes, that’s what I wanted to understand. Who was driving the Renault? I thought it was one of Drue’s people, but when I called Drue and asked him for a name so I could put a commendation in his record, he said I should ask you about him. What’s going on, Titus?”

“Well . . . uh . . . what happened was . . . ”

“Whatever it is, if you tell me about it now, it’s possible I won’t have to bring it up during the debriefing, in case that’s something that concerns you.”

“Yeah, I’d rather the situation be kept out of the official record, although I realize when I tell you about it, you may have to take some action.”

“Sounds like it might be more serious than I thought.”

“The person driving the Renault was Gavin Barrett.”

Carlton looked puzzled. “Gavin was in Cairo?” He looked out the window for a moment. “What was he doing there?”

After I went through the explanation Barrett had given me, Carlton appeared to be just as upset at Barrett as he was at the person in the Ops Center who had shared the classified information with him that Laila was on an assignment in Cairo.

“Did he tell you who the person was in the Ops Center who leaked that information?”

“No he didn’t, and I didn’t ask him about it.”

“What Gavin did was not only unprofessional, it could have jeopardized the entire operation.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, when I pointed that out to him, he seemed to grasp that his actions had put Laila in danger, and he admitted he had made a mistake. Not long after he made that confession was when he spotted the motorcycle.”

“So I guess in a way he redeemed himself. Is that how you see it?”

“Yeah, pretty much. I really believe if Gavin hadn’t seen the motorcycle, Nabil would have killed Jomana, and probably Elias and Laila as well. And the way Gavin was able to get up on Nabil’s bumper when he was about to discharge his weapon played a big role in him losing control of the motorcycle, so Gavin took a big risk there.”

“By any chance, did Gavin ask you not to mention his name when you were debriefed about what happened on the freeway?”

“Yes, but all I told him was that I hadn’t decided what I would do. Then, when I saw the DDO was on the video call, I decided not to bring up Gavin’s name.”

“I actually appreciate you doing that, Titus. I really need to handle this myself.” He ran his hand over his bald head and said, “To be truthful, I’m tempted to let the matter go, especially since you seem to think Gavin’s learned his lesson.”

“Yes, I’m pretty sure he has, plus it’s a chance for you to do a good deed for Gavin, and I believe he needs one right now.”

Although I didn’t say anything to Carlton, I suddenly remembered I’d said almost the same thing to Gavin.

Two different men.

Two good deeds.

Two lives changed forever.

Chapter 27

When I arrived home late Sunday evening, even though it was after Eleanor’s bedtime, Nikki let her stay up to see me. And despite the fact I’d had a long day, not to mention an exhausting debriefing session, her enthusiasm energized me.

“I’m so glad you’re home,” she said, bouncing up and down on the bed. “Do you want to hear my book report now?”

“Yes, I can hardly wait.”

After she delivered her five-minute oral report on a book entitled The Mysterious Benedict Society about a group of children who were recruited by Mr. Benedict to uncover a dangerous secret, I gave her lots of kudos on how well she was able to explain the story.

“What part did you like best?” she asked.

“Uh . . . I think the part I liked best was where the kids had to go undercover at the creepy school and figure out what was happening with the secret messages.”

“Oh, yes, me too. Did you know that detectives sometimes have to go undercover? Mommy said she had to do it one time. That’s really exciting, isn’t it?”

“It sure is.”

“Okay, Eleanor,” Nikki said. “You need to go to bed now. There’ll be plenty of time to talk to Daddy tomorrow.”

After I kissed her goodnight, she hugged me and said, “I’m so glad you got home in time for us to go to Aunt Carla’s for Thanksgiving. It’s gonna be lots of fun.”

“Oh, yeah, lots of fun.”

When Nikki and I were finally alone in the den—except we weren’t completely alone; Stormy was lying on the couch beside me—Nikki told me she’d been able to get us reservations for a Tuesday afternoon flight to Detroit, as well as hotel reservations near my sister’s house in Flint.

“I decided to get us a suite so Eleanor could have her own room,” she said. “That way we can have more time together.”

“Good thinking. I like that idea.”

She leaned over and gave me a kiss. “Yes, I thought you would. Are you ready to talk about your assignment now, or would you rather wait until tomorrow?”

“I don’t mind talking about it now.”

After I summarized the operation for her, she said, “I know how hard that must have been on you to lose Sierra. No wonder you sounded upset when you called me.”

“That was a low point for me, all right.” I paused and reached inside my jacket. After pulling out a folded sheet of paper, I said, “There were a couple of high points, though, and one of them was when I met an American named Paul Whalen in a park near Tahrir Square.”

Once I told her about the work Whalen’s church was doing with young kids in Cairo, I said, “Tomorrow, I plan to give my accountant a call and have him make an anonymous donation to Whalen’s church. I’m hoping it’ll be enough for them to purchase a building for their secondary school in Cairo.”

I showed her the piece of paper Whalen had given me. “He gave me the name of the church and told me to look them up on the internet, but I’m pretty sure that was his subtle way of getting me to go on their website and find out more about Christianity.”

She laughed. “That’s probably true. Aren’t you afraid he might make the connection between meeting you in the park and getting an anonymous donation from someone in the United States?”

“No, I doubt it. He seemed thoroughly convinced I was a wealthy businessman from Dubai. I’d say there was zero chance he suspected me of being with the CIA.”

“So what you’re saying is that you’re an excellent liar.”

“Yes, and unfortunately, when we’re with my relatives in a few days, you’ll have to be as good a liar as I am.”

“Oh, I think I can manage that.” She put her hand on my cheek. “I’ve had a good teacher.”

I took her hand and kissed it, and then I said, “You don’t plan for us to stay more than a couple of days, do you?”

“No, just until the weekend.” She frowned a little. “You’re not hoping Douglas will call you with an urgent assignment, and you’ll have to leave early, are you?”

“Oh, no, not at all. I want to spend as much time with my relatives as I possibly can.”

“I’m not sure you’re as good a liar as you think you are.”

“I’m not lying when I say I’m glad to be home with you.”

“You know, you do sound pretty convincing.”

Stormy let out a low moan.

“I think Stormy’s letting us know it’s time to go to bed, don’t you?”

“Oh, definitely.”

Never The End, Always A Beginning

Extra bonus! I’ve provided an excerpt from One Day Gone, Book I in the Mylas Grey Mystery Series, on the pages following my bio. Enjoy!

A NOTE TO MY READERS

Dear Reader,

Thank you for reading Two Good Deeds, Book 11 in the Titus Ray Thriller Series. If you enjoyed it, you might also enjoy reading the earlier books in the series and also the spinoff series, the Ben Mitchell/Titus Ray Thriller Series. All of my books can be found on Amazon here.

The next Titus Ray Thriller will be Three Good Lies, due for release in early 2026.

My mystery series is the Mylas Grey Mystery Series, featuring Mylas Grey, a private investigator in Washington, D.C. Books in this series are A Day Ago (the prequel), One Day Gone, Two Days Taken, Three Days Clueless, Four Days Famous, Five Days Lost, Six Days Spent, and Seven Days Off. Find out more about the Mylas Grey Mystery Series here. I’ve provided a three-chapter excerpt from One Day Gone on the pages following my bio.

My newest series is the Silas McKay Suspense Series, featuring Silas McKay, the head of operations for Discreet Corporate Security Services in Dallas, Texas. Books in this series include, One Wonders, Two Believe, Three Confess, and Four Doubt. You can read more about the Silas McKay Suspense Series here.

If you’d like to be updated about my novels, including when Amazon has them on sale or is offering them for a free download, you can sign up for my newsletter here. When you sign up, you’ll receive One Step Back the prequel to the Titus Ray Thriller Series, for free. I usually send out my newsletters every two weeks, and I also include giveaways and promotions from other authors.

I’d love for you to do a review of Two Good Deeds on Amazon. Since word-of-mouth testimonies and written reviews are usually the deciding factor in helping readers pick out a book, they are an author’s best friend and much appreciated.

One of my greatest blessings comes from receiving email from my readers. My email address is author@luanaehrlich.com. I look forward to hearing from you!

Extra bonus! I’ve provided an excerpt from One Day Gone, Book I in the Mylas Grey Mystery Series, on the pages following the acknowledgements and my bio.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Although many people have given me support and encouragement in the process of writing Two Good Deeds, first and foremost, I wish to thank my husband, James, and my daughter, Karis, who have never failed to uplift me with their prayers, strengthen me with their love, and bolster me with their confidence.

In addition, I’m grateful for my beta readers, especially for their critiques and suggestions, and for Kim Kemery, my excellent editor, and for Melissa Troutman, my proficient proofreader. A special word of gratitude goes to Mark K., Simon W., Gregory S., and Andrew R., plus other sources who shall forever remain nameless.

Last, but not least, I’d like to thank all my faithful readers, many of whom write to me on a weekly basis. Your love of Titus Ray Thrillers, Mylas Grey Mysteries, and Silas McKay Suspense keeps me writing past midnight. May you never stop asking, “When is your next book coming out?”

All of you serve as my inspiration.

Now, following my bio, enjoy an excerpt from One Day Gone, Book I in the Mylas Grey Mystery Series.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Luana Ehrlich is a USA Today bestselling and award-winning author, minister’s wife, and former missionary with a passion for spy thrillers and mystery novels. She didn’t begin writing her series of Titus Ray Thrillers, Mylas Grey Mysteries, and Silas McKay Suspense until her husband retired from the ministry. Now, she writes from an undisclosed location, seeking to avoid the torture of mundane housework, grocery shopping, and golf stories. Occasionally, she comes out of hiding to see her two grandsons or to enjoy a Starbucks caramel macchiato. She resides in Norman, Oklahoma.

You’re invited to visit the author’s website LuanaEhrlich.com. She loves to hear from her readers! Email her at author@luanaehrlich.com.

On the pages that follow, you’ll find a Bonus Excerpt from One Day Gone, Book I in the Mylas Grey Mystery Series.

BOOK BONUS—AN EXCERPT

One Day Gone

Book I in the Mylas Grey Mystery Series

Chapter 1

Tuesday, October 9

Today was Tuesday. On Tuesdays, I had lunch with the senator. My schedule for the rest of the day would depend on whether or not the senator had read my one-page weekly briefing sheet.

Even though I’d met with the senator every Tuesday for the past six years, I couldn’t predict what would happen when the two of us sat down together to eat our Cobb salads at precisely eleven-thirty.

I hated Cobb salad.

If the senator had read my briefing sheet, then our lunch meeting would be short, and I could still be on time for my two o’clock appointment. I might even be able to grab a burger along the way.

If he hadn’t read it, then he’d ask me to give him the bullet points, and he’d spend the rest of the time asking me questions. In the meantime, I’d be dying of hunger, and I’d be late for my appointment.

Would I be tempted to let him know his questions were all answered in the document he hadn’t bothered to read?

Oh, you bet.

Would I yield to that temptation?

Not if I wanted to keep my job.

Believe me, I wanted to keep my job.

I worked in the office of Senator Davis Allen.

I was his chief investigator.

Very few senators had a full-time investigator on their payroll, but Senator Allen, the senior senator from Missouri, was the head of the Senate Judiciary Committee, and, according to him, his position required it.

One of the Judiciary Committee’s main responsibilities was to conduct investigations into the backgrounds of the President’s judicial nominees to the federal courts or to investigate the President’s nominee to the U.S. Supreme Court, if such a vacancy occurred.

Each of the senators on Judiciary was allotted a supplemental budget to pay for the investigative work required of the committee. Some senators used these funds to hire a part-time investigator, but most of them preferred to use the money to add extra support staff.

However, Senator Allen, who used to be a federal prosecutor, had chosen to have an entire investigative team operating out of his office, and he was more than willing to allocate extra money out of his operating budget to pay for it.

His investigative team, which he referred to as the R & I Group, consisted of a chief investigator, a deputy investigator, and a data specialist.

Six years ago, when the senator hired me as the chief investigator for the R & I Group, I asked him about the name. At the time, he told me the initials stood for Research and Investigations.

Later, Nathan Lockett, the senator’s chief of staff, swore the senator told him the R & I was short for Rumors and Innuendos.

When it came to the type of fact-finding the R & I Group conducted on a nominee, it hardly mattered.

They both amounted to the same thing.

My current investigation was a case in point.

The one-page briefing sheet I’d prepared for my meeting with the senator outlined what the R & I Group had uncovered on Cameron Woodard, the Missouri Supreme Court Judge who’d been nominated by the President for a position on the Eighth U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals.

Although the investigation was still in the early stages, I’d uncovered some rumors and innuendos about Judge Woodard.

During the next several weeks, my job would be to research and investigate whether any of these rumors and innuendos had any validity to them.

Part of the investigation would involve hours of research, although I usually delegated that boring activity to Nina Rivers, the data specialist in the R & I Group.

The amount of material she was able to uncover when she did a deep data dive into a person’s background always amazed me.

I told her how amazing she was fairly often.

She reveled in such praise.

If I gave her accolades on her work and asked her to do a follow-up on the material, she’d come up with even more stuff.

The opposite was also true.

If I got preoccupied with the results and failed to give her kudos, her output would substantially decrease.

Learning how to work with Nina hadn’t been that difficult.

On the other hand, figuring out how to maneuver my way through the halls of Congress had been a whole lot harder.

If it hadn’t been for Nathan Lockett, my immediate supervisor and self-appointed mentor, I might have quit after my first year and gone back to practicing law.

Or, maybe not.

Practicing law had made me rich—the result of a lucky break, not my lawyering skills—but I’d been unhappy most of the time.

Now, even though I couldn’t say I was any happier, at least I could say I was enjoying what I was doing.

When I was growing up back in Columbia, Missouri, I never thought I’d be anything other than a lawyer.

In fact, I was obsessed with it.

My father blamed Robert Bork for my obsession.

* * * *

I was only fifteen years old when President Reagan nominated Robert Bork to the Supreme Court back in 1987. It was the summer I got my wisdom teeth out.

During my recuperation, I started watching the confirmation hearings from my dad’s Barcalounger in the den, and I stayed glued to the television set weeks after I no longer resembled a chipmunk.

I was completely fascinated by the confirmation process, but I was even more fascinated by the ability of Judge Bork to maintain his composure while being grilled by members of the Judiciary Committee who opposed his nomination.

Although I couldn’t understand their arguments against him, and I was clueless about the cases they cited, Bork’s confidence and self-assurance appealed to me.

As a gawky teenager, not only was I completely unsure of myself, I was also dealing with questions about my future. Where should I go to college? What kind of career should I pursue?

As far as my father was concerned, those questions had already been settled. His plans were for me to live at home and attend the University of Missouri—which was practically in our backyard—and then go to work for him full time after graduation.

He’d had the same plans for Curtis, my older brother, but during Curtis’s senior year at MU, he announced he had received a higher calling, and he left home to attend seminary.

Like Curtis, I had no desire to work for my father. Finding the courage to tell him so was another matter, especially since I didn’t have any idea what career I’d choose instead.

But that summer, after seeing the confident way Judge Bork handled himself in the midst of overwhelming opposition and hearing the passionate way he defended the law, I decided to become a lawyer, a rich lawyer.

Confronting my father came a little later. Like, two years later.

When I was a senior in high school, unbeknownst to my parents, I made the two-hour trip from Columbia over to Kansas City to hear Judge Bork speak at Webster University.

The moment I got back to Columbia, I drove straight over to my father’s office. At the time, he was renting space in a strip mall on 7th Street not far from the Boone County Courthouse.

Although it wasn’t a prestigious address, my father liked the free parking, plus his office was located between a bail bondsman and a seedy law firm, and most of my father’s clientele came from one or both of those establishments.

It was after five o’clock when I entered the reception area. Since Gracie Sturgis, my father’s secretary, had already gone home for the day, I walked down the narrow hallway and pushed open the door to his office without knocking.

“Where have you been, Mylas?” he asked, peering at me over his half-glasses. “I told you I had an assignment for you today. Did you forget that conversation?”

“I won’t be doing any more assignments for you,” I said.

He slowly removed his half-glasses and laid them down on the stack of black and white photographs in front of him. The glossy print on top showed a man and woman seated at a restaurant together. They were both laughing.

He stared at me without saying a word for a moment.

Finally, he asked, “Why not?”

“I’ve decided to become a lawyer. I plan to go to college at Georgetown University—that’s in Washington, D.C.—and then—”

“I know where Georgetown University is.”

“—and then I’ll get my law degree from Georgetown Law School. When I graduate from there, I’ll probably go to work for one of the big law firms in Washington. One day, I may even argue a case before the U.S. Supreme Court.”

“I can see you’ve given this some thought.”

Gesturing at one of the guest chairs in front of his desk, he said, “Why don’t you have a seat, and we’ll talk about it.”

I couldn’t help but notice he was using the same tone of voice I’d heard him use with his clients, especially those who were talking crazy and expressing outlandish ideas.

“Don’t try to talk me out of this,” I said. “I’ve made up my mind.”

“No, Mylas, I won’t try to talk you out of it. In fact, I respect the decision you’ve made. I know it’s never easy when you decide to change directions in your life.”

I sat down across from him.

“Uh . . . yeah, I guess so, but I’m not really changing directions. My life hasn’t even started yet.”

“You’ve been working here since you were fourteen years old, and now you’re telling me you want to become a lawyer. In my mind, that’s changing directions.”

“But, Dad, I was only working here to make a few bucks. It’s never been something I wanted to do for the rest of my life.”

“Since you brought up the subject of money, maybe we should discuss that. You know law school isn’t cheap.”

“I can apply for a scholarship at Georgetown just like I can at MU. I’m an ‘A’ student. There’s no reason for them to turn me down.”

“What about housing? Where would you live?”

“I could live in the dorm. My housing could be part of my scholarship money.”

He reached over and picked up a tattered baseball he often used as a paperweight. After rolling it around in his hand for a few seconds, he looked up and said, “You really want to become a lawyer?”

“Yes, and I think I’d be a good one too.”

He nodded. “I believe you’d be good at almost anything you set out to do, but the question is, would you be happy being a lawyer?”

“Oh, yeah. I’m sure I’ll be very happy. Lawyers who work in Washington make a lot of money.”

“Making a lot of money doesn’t mean you’ll be happy, but that’s a lesson everyone has to learn for themselves.”

He placed the baseball back on his desk. “If you want to become a lawyer, I’ll do what I can to help you.”

“Really?” I was speechless for a moment. “You mean you’re not upset I won’t be working here?”

“No, Mylas. I figured you’d eventually leave and start your own agency one day.”

He stared off in the distance for a few seconds.

“You have great instincts, Son. People trust you. When people trust you, they tell you things. As I’ve said before, the ability to find out stuff is one of the essential qualities of being a successful private detective. Personally, I think you’ll be wasting your talents if you become a lawyer. You’re much better suited for investigative work.”

Of course, he’d been right about that.

* * * *

I’d gotten into Georgetown University, and, despite a few missteps along the way—one involving a fraternity party gone awry—I’d been accepted into Georgetown Law School.

My three years at Georgetown Law were spent reading, listening to lectures, reading, listening to lectures, reading, listening to lectures. In between reading and listening to lectures, I worked.

Criminal law and constitutional law both piqued my interest, but, in the end, I decided to specialize in criminal law.

To a large extent, my decision was influenced by Daniel Epstein, a law professor I met in a coffee shop during my first week on campus. He also helped me obtain a summer associate position at a criminal law firm—a rare occurrence among first-year law students.

I couldn’t say for sure why he took such an interest in me—it was something we never discussed—but I suspected it was his way of paying me back for rescuing him from a couple of punks who tried to mug him outside The Wise Owl—the coffee shop where I was sitting when the incident occurred.

I’d noticed the would-be muggers following him while I was nursing a cup of coffee at a window seat inside The Wise Owl.

At the time, I had no idea he was a professor.

He looked more like an aging businessman. He was carrying a large briefcase in one hand, while glancing down at a document in his other hand, seemingly unaware he was being stalked.

When he passed in front of an alleyway between a couple of buildings, the two muggers quickly rushed forward, pushed him into the darkened passageway, and shoved him up against one of the buildings.

I was out the door and across the street immediately, barely aware I’d made the decision to get involved until the whole thing was over.

The two scumbags abandoned their plans when I showed up. Once they disappeared down the alleyway, I pointed across the street and offered to buy him a cup of coffee.

Ordinarily, I was pretty stingy with my money—I couldn’t afford to be otherwise—but the guy looked as if he might be in a state of shock.

I’d seen that look before on some of my father’s clients, and my father’s first response had always been to offer them a cup of coffee.

“You can talk anyone down off a ledge if you offer them a cup of coffee,” he’d told Curtis and me more than once. “It should be your first solution to every problem.”

I followed his advice, and the professor immediately accepted my offer. As soon as I placed a mug of black coffee in front of him, he introduced himself and thanked me profusely.

When I told him I was enrolled at the Law Center, he began peppering me with questions about my interests, my background, and my aspirations.

“So your father’s a private detective,” he said, nodding his head. “The way you handled yourself with those guys, I thought you might have some background in law enforcement. Was your father a cop before he became a PI?”

“As a matter of fact, he was. He was on the force for ten years. He said he got tired of all the paperwork.”

The professor smiled. “I’m going to take a wild guess and say your father used you when he needed to have an extra set of eyes on a situation.”

“You’re right. He taught my brother and me how to do surveillance, track vehicles, gather information, defend ourselves against the crazies, and a bunch of other stuff.”

“Are you thinking about specializing in criminal law?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“I have a feeling criminal law is exactly where you need to be.” He pulled a business card out of his front pocket. “Call me next week, and I’ll take you to lunch. We can discuss it then.”

When the professor took me to lunch the following week, I discovered he was acquainted with some high-powered lawyers in Washington, and I quickly decided if I wanted to move in those circles, I needed to follow his advice, stay on his good side, and exploit our relationship for all it was worth.

That’s exactly what I did for the next three years.

Chapter 2

A few months before I ended my first year at Georgetown Law, Professor Epstein arranged for me to have an interview with the McKinney Law Firm for a summer associate position.

Theodore McKinney was a criminal defense attorney who had a decades-long track record defending well-known criminal cases in the D.C. area. The firm had less than a dozen lawyers, which made it a small firm by D.C. standards, but it had an excellent reputation.

When I showed up for my appointment—dressed in a suit and carrying a briefcase—I was surprised to discover the person interviewing me was Theodore McKinney himself.

When he introduced himself to me, he told me to call him Mac.

Although Mac asked me the perfunctory interview questions, he spent the majority of his time quizzing me about my skills as an investigator. About midway through the interview, it dawned on me that Professor Epstein must have exaggerated the role I’d played in my father’s PI agency in order to get me the interview.

I went along with the deception anyway, and the next day I got a call from Mac offering me the position.

That summer, I ended up doing some of the same type of work for the McKinney Law Firm in Washington, D.C. that I’d been doing for the Kelvin Grey Private Detective Agency in Columbia, Missouri.

That bothered me for a few weeks, but when I got my first paycheck, I realized not only was I making more money, I was also getting a hands-on education of what it was like to work in a law firm.

When I was invited back the next summer, I didn’t hesitate to accept the position once again, and this time, I worked extra hard to make myself indispensable to Mac.

I must have succeeded, because in January, a few months before my graduation, I received a call from Mac offering me an associate position with the firm, not as an investigator, but as a lawyer.

Needless to say, I accepted his offer without reservation.

It took me ten years to finally admit I didn’t enjoy lawyering.

Then, it took me another three years to decide what I’d do if I were willing to give up practicing law and, most importantly, give up getting a big paycheck.

One option I never considered was moving back to Columbia and working for my father, but the prospect of doing full-time investigative work was definitely on my radar.

While I was weighing my options, something happened that made me change my mind about leaving the firm.

At least, for another two years.

* * * *

Early one morning, Mac called me into his office and told me he wanted me to have a talk with one of his clients.

His name was Tommy Nelson. He was a young African American man who’d been accused of killing a convenience store clerk during a robbery, even though the surveillance cameras had shown the assailant was wearing a mask at the time.

Nelson had been arrested because a young female customer, someone who’d been in the store at the time of the robbery, swore she recognized the killer’s voice. She claimed it belonged to Nelson who lived in her apartment building just around the corner from the convenience store.

Mac had been hired by the father of the accused, Cassius P. Nelson, a City Councilmember in the District of Columbia, who also happened to be running for mayor of D.C. His outrage at the arrest of his son had brought Tommy’s case to the attention of all the major news outlets, and he’d hired Mac to clear his son’s name.

Even though Mac didn’t tell me why he wanted me to have a talk with his client, other than he wanted me to hear his story firsthand, I suspected it was because he hadn’t been able to get much out of Tommy Nelson, and he was hoping someone closer to the guy’s age might get him to open up.

Although Mac was only in his late fifties, he was the first to admit he had difficulty getting on the same page with young people. However, he didn’t just have trouble communicating with them, he often voiced contempt for anyone under thirty.

After one such tirade, I reminded him he’d hired me when I was only twenty-five.

He said, “But I could tell right away you were an old soul. Some people are born old souls, and I knew you were in that category.”

Since Mac had never had children of his own, I wasn’t sure how he was able to make that determination, but I didn’t contradict him. In fact, I seldom contradicted him.

From the moment I’d met Theodore J. McKinney, I knew he was a man who wanted to be treated with deference, especially by a younger subordinate.

I knew this because of what my father called my visceral intuition.

Until I went away to college, I thought everyone had such instincts, but when I returned home for Thanksgiving one year and happened to mention this to my father, he said, “You may not remember it, Mylas, but I tried to tell you that once. It’s the reason I knew you’d make a good PI. Every good PI has visceral intuition.”

I suspected all lawyers had some measure of that same intuition, but instead of defending my career choice, I brushed aside his not-so-subtle comment by making a corny joke.

“Am I hearing you correctly, Dad? Are you saying a good PI has good VI?”

Everyone at the table laughed, and after that, he dropped the subject, which was what I hoped would happen.

When I went to work for Mac, that same visceral intuition had let me know how to push his buttons, and I’d made it my objective to always show him respect, ask his opinion about personal matters, and praise him for his oratory after his closing arguments.

In return, he included me in meetings, allowed me to be second chair on several occasions, and gave me extra perks usually reserved for his older associates.

In essence, Mac treated me like a favorite son—the son he never had—which was a true analogy because, according to an older associate, Mac’s law practice had become his substitute family following the death of his wife in a tragic car accident a few years before I joined the firm.

He told me Mac’s wife had been on her way to join him at a restaurant when a drunken sixteen-year-old kid had hit her car in a head-on collision after failing to stop at an intersection. Once I heard those details, I came to the conclusion Mac’s attitude toward the younger generation could also be traced back to that accident, especially since I was told Mac wasn’t willing to participate in cases involving young people after that. Instead, he handed them off to other lawyers in the firm, which was probably another reason Mac had asked me to have a chat with Tommy Nelson.

However, when I got to the jail where Nelson was being held, I ran into a bunch of TV reporters and journalists, which made me wonder if Mac had also sent me to see Nelson because he preferred to have my face plastered all over the evening news instead of his.

Once I got inside and introduced myself to Nelson, I was surprised to see how glad he was to see me.

A minute or so later, after he made a disparaging remark about the older guy who’d showed up at the jail yesterday—Theodore McKinney himself—I completely understood why he was all smiles.

After chatting with Nelson about some inconsequential matters, I asked him to tell me his side of the robbery story.

“I don’t have a story. I wasn’t anywhere near the convenience store when it was robbed.”

“What about the female customer who identified you as the person who murdered the store clerk?”

“She used to be my girlfriend. She was just trying to get back at me for dumping her.”

I was skeptical of that explanation. I figured the cops had checked out the woman and found her to be a reliable witness.

“That must have been some breakup, Tommy. You’re facing some serious charges here.”

He looked me in the eye and said, “That’s the truth. You have my word on it.”

I told him I believed him, but I needed more than just his word.

I needed facts.

I needed to know stuff.

“Where were you when the robbery went down?” I asked.

“I’d rather not say.”

“Seriously? Haven’t you watched enough cop shows to know we could get these charges dropped immediately if you had a good alibi?”

He looked down at his feet.

“I was at my friend’s apartment.”

“Okay, that’s good. What’s your friend’s name?”

He kept looking down at his feet and didn’t say anything.

I waited him out.

Finally, he raised his head, he said, “If I tell you her name, will you have to tell my old man?”

“Why would that be a problem?”

“My father’s running for mayor.”

“I’m aware of that. Everyone’s aware of that.”

“Well . . . ah . . . my friend . . . she works for his opponent.”

“I don’t think your father would care who—”

“She’s also . . . ah . . . she’s older than me . . . and I . . . ah . . . I may have told her some things about my father.”

“What kind of things?”

“Ah . . . financial things, some deals he’s made, that sort of stuff. She’s using it in the ads they’re running on TV now.”

Well, that explained a lot.

Eventually, I was able to convince Tommy to give me her name, and twenty-four hours later, Tommy walked out of jail a free man.

I never knew whether Cassius P. Nelson decided to punish his son for his indiscretions, but if so, he probably apologized to him later, because according to most political pundits, the reason Cassius P. Nelson was elected mayor of D.C. was due to the extra publicity generated by his son’s case.

Tommy Nelson’s case also brought attention to the Theodore McKinney Law Firm, which in turn, brought in a boatload of new clients following Nelson’s release.

Perhaps that was the reason Mac started dropping hints about making me a partner after the mayor’s election.

But then, on a beautiful Saturday morning in May, as Mac was about to tee off on the fourteenth hole at the Westfields Golf Club, he suffered a massive heart attack.

He died a short time later.

* * * *

It came as no surprise to anyone that Mac had put in place a detailed succession plan to make sure his law practice continued to serve his clients, or that he had an up-to-date will that covered all aspects of his personal estate.

What surprised everyone—myself included—was that Mac had named me as the owner and administrator of his law practice, and that he’d left it up to me to decide whether to keep the firm or sell it.

But, he hadn’t stopped there.

He’d also named me the sole heir of his estate.

Mac’s estate included his six-bedroom home in Wesley Heights, a couple of cars, an extensive stock portfolio, and numerous bank accounts.

While I was sorry about Mac’s sudden demise, I wasn’t sorry about my sudden inheritance.

In fact, I was pretty stoked about it.

I mean, who wouldn’t be?

A few months after the estate was settled, I had a meeting with my accountant, and once she showed me my bottom line, my first thought was, I don’t have to work another day in my life.

My second thought was, if I wanted to work and the numbers on my paycheck didn’t matter, what kind of work would I do?

One answer came to mind.

I’d become a private investigator.

There was one caveat.

I wouldn’t become a PI like my dad.

I’d go for something a lot classier, something far more prestigious, something more in line with my newly acquired social status.

The only type of investigative work that met that criteria took place on Capitol Hill, and while I was in the process of making arrangements to sell Mac’s law practice, I put out some feelers for building a client list for my PI firm among members of Congress.

Several of Mac’s clients had served in Congress, and I started with them first. I didn’t particularly care which party they belonged to; I was more interested in the type of investigations they required.

My research took over a year.

During that time, I was able to sell Mac’s law practice, move into his house in Wesley Heights, and go through the process of obtaining my private investigator’s license.

The day I received my license in the mail was the day I received a phone call from Nathan Lockett, Senator Davis Allen’s chief of staff.

I was sitting in the study of Mac’s two-story house on Foxhall Road—which now belonged to me—and I’d just opened the manila envelope containing a congratulatory letter, my official PI license, and a laminated identification card with my name on it.

“This is Nathan Lockett,” he said, “I’m Senator Davis Allen’s chief of staff. To whom am I speaking?”

“Mylas Grey. I’m with—”

I stopped myself before I said I was with the Theodore McKinney Law Firm.

“—I’m the head of Mylas Grey Investigations,” I said, taking another look at my new ID card.

“Mr. Grey. I’ll get right to the point. Senator Allen is looking for a new chief investigator, and I understand from a colleague of mine that you might be interested in the position.”

“I’m definitely interested in taking on some Capitol Hill clients. What type of investigative work does Senator Allen require?”

“No, Mr. Grey, you must have misunderstood me. Senator Allen is interviewing for a full-time position on his staff. He’s the chairman of the Senate Judiciary Committee. He has his own investigative team.”

“He has a team of investigators on his staff?”

“That’s right. Unfortunately, his chief investigator, Pete Dunham, has decided to return to private practice, so he needs to replace him.”

“I’m not sure I’d be the right person for the job. I don’t have any experience working in a congressional office.”

“I’m aware of that, Mr. Grey. In fact, I know—”

“Please, call me Mylas.”

“Okay, Mylas. I’m aware you don’t have any experience on The Hill, but I know you have a law degree from Georgetown, which means you speak the same lingo as most of the people running around these corridors, and I also know you’ve been working for Theodore McKinney for several years, which means you’re used to taking orders from someone.”

“If you know so much about me, then you must know my resume for doing investigative work is pretty thin. To be truthful, I’m only in the beginning stages of setting up Mylas Grey Investigations. I hardly think I’m qualified to be the chief investigator on Senator Allen’s staff.”

“Mac told me you’re good at getting people to talk. Is that true?”

“You knew Mac?”

“We played golf together for years. I was with him when he had his heart attack.”

“Oh, you’re that Nathan. When he talked about his golf buddies, he never gave out their last names.”

“Mac said you were a good lawyer, but he also said he thought you’d be an even better investigator. In fact, a few weeks before his heart attack, he told me he had a feeling you were going to quit the firm and start your own investigative agency.”

“He was right about that. It had crossed my mind.”

“To make a long story short, when Pete Dunham handed in his resignation letter last week, I was curious about what you were doing after selling off Mac’s lucrative law practice, so I did some investigative work of my own.”

“I take it you disagree with my decision to sell the firm.”

“Why would you say that?”

“Are you saying I’m wrong?”

“No, I’m asking you why you came to that conclusion.”

“I really couldn’t say, Mr. Lockett; maybe it was the inflection in your voice or your choice of words. I’m sorry if I offended you.”

“You can call me Nathan, and you haven’t offended me. Your analysis of my feelings is correct, but that’s a discussion for another day. Right now, I’m only interested in hearing whether you’d be willing to come in and talk with the senator about the position.”

“Does the senator know about my lack of experience in the investigative field?”

“No, he doesn’t. He won’t care anything about your qualifications. If I say you’re qualified, then you’re qualified. When you meet the senator, the only thing he’ll talk about is himself, the importance of the job he does as Judiciary Chair, and why he needs his own investigative team operating out of his office. If you’re willing to listen to him sing that song, and you applaud him for hitting all the right notes, then he’ll hire you.”

Although I didn’t know Senator Allen personally, I certainly knew who he was. He was the senior senator from my home state of Missouri, and Lockett had just voiced my own impression of the man.

“And what happens if he hires me?”

“You’ll become the chief investigator for Senator Davis Allen, which means you’ll have your own staff, your own office space in the Russell Senate Office Building, and your own personal mentor to make sure you eventually become a top-notch investigator.”

“And would that mentor happen to be you, Nathan?”

“Indeed, it would. I’ll also be your immediate supervisor. According to Mac, you take supervision pretty well, and now that you’re independently wealthy, if you don’t like having me as your supervisor and/or mentor, you can always walk out of Senator Allen’s office and never look back.”

At that moment, for some reason, I had a feeling Nathan Lockett and I would become good friends.

While that premonition turned out to be true, it took us six years to get there, and we managed to hit a few bumps along the way.

Well, actually, those bumps were more like potholes.

Chapter 3

Senator Davis Allen occupied SR335 in the Russell Senate Office Building located on Constitution Avenue across from the U.S. Capitol.

SR335 was actually a suite of offices, and according to Nathan Lockett, they’d been remodeled numerous times in the senator’s twenty-five-year congressional career in order to accommodate his growing support staff, which now numbered twenty-three, including two interns.

When I agreed to join Senator Allen’s staff six years ago, I was shown three large rooms at the end of a corridor where the R & I Group had their offices.

The moment I saw the setup, I expressed my disapproval. The offices were located down the same corridor as the senator’s conference room—Corridor C—and I was concerned about all the comings and goings in that hallway. I thought they might be a distraction to my investigative team.

However, Lockett assured me Corridor C was the perfect location for the R & I Group.

He told me the name of the game on Capitol Hill was networking, and the parade of men and women going in and out of Senator Allen’s conference room would give me an excellent opportunity to connect with the movers and shakers in both houses of Congress.

After working for the senator a few months, I saw the validity in Lockett’s argument, and I thanked him for his insight.

Lockett gave me a half-smile and said, “Thanks for the affirmation, Mylas. I get more criticism than praise around here.”

I had noticed the same thing.

Lockett ran the senator’s office with military precision, which wasn’t too surprising since he’d served twenty years in the Air Force as an intelligence officer before becoming the senator’s chief of staff. Although he was no drill sergeant, his leadership style wasn’t always well received, especially by the younger staffers.

Even though Lockett’s methods didn’t always set well with those he supervised, there was no denying his ability to get things done or his skill at handling the senator.

Personally, I liked the man, but that was because he treated me as a co-worker and not as someone he supervised. On the other hand, if he thought I was out of line about something, he didn’t hesitate to let me know about it.

I’d been grateful to have Lockett as my self-appointed mentor when I’d first come to work for Senator Allen. Not only was his experience on Capitol Hill invaluable to me, his intelligence background provided me with a wealth of information on how to conduct an investigation into every aspect of a person’s life.

By combining those skills with what I’d learned from my father, along with incorporating the tactics I’d learned from Mac, I soon felt confident in my role as the senator’s chief investigator.

Being comfortable in that role was another matter, and it took me almost a year before I stopped asking myself if the position was a good fit for me. It took me another year before I realized how much I was enjoying doing investigative work for the senator.

At the end of my third year, when Nathan Lockett and I were discussing my annual evaluation, he let me know I’d gained a reputation on Capitol Hill.

“Good or bad?” I asked.

“A little of both, which is a good thing.”

“Could you expand on that?”

He flicked his hand at me. “Don’t use those interrogation techniques on me, Mylas. I don’t mind telling you what I’ve heard.”

“Sorry. Force of habit.”

“There’s a case in point. You have a reputation for being apologetic one minute and defiant the next. You’re seen as fair because you’re willing to hear both sides of an argument, yet passionate about cutting through the posturing and learning the facts.”

“Vetting a judicial nominee isn’t that much different from interviewing a client or questioning someone accused of a crime. Sometimes, you need to use velvet gloves. Sometimes, you need to use brass knuckles.”

“And that pretty much sums up your reputation around here,” Lockett said. “People see you as an aggressive, detail-oriented investigator who doesn’t lose any sleep over the enemies he’s made but doesn’t put much stock in the people who consider him a friend.”

Although I accepted Lockett’s evaluation of my reputation and thought my hard-nosed image probably benefitted my career as an investigator, I found something disturbing about his analysis.

I wasn’t sure what it was, though.

* * * *

As I rode the elevator up to the third floor of the Russell Building for my lunch appointment with the senator, I chatted with a couple of other Senate staffers who seemed embarrassed they’d overslept and were just now getting to work.

Most Capitol Hill employees put in twelve-hour days, arriving at seven o’clock in the morning and not leaving until seven o’clock at night.

I wasn’t one of them.

Don’t get me wrong. I still put in long hours.

I just didn’t spend all my time behind a desk in SR335.

As the senator’s chief investigator, my primary responsibility was thoroughly vetting all judicial nominees. Vetting a nominee usually took about thirty days, and I spent at least seven of those days traveling to various locations around the country checking out the nominee’s background.

I spent another ten to fourteen days interviewing the candidate and his staff—which meant working around their schedules—and if something inconsistent turned up in those interviews, then I’d have to spend extra time rechecking their answers.

As a result, my daily schedule required a lot of flexibility.

In fact, when I was offered the position, I told Senator Allen I was willing to accept the job if I wasn’t required to adhere to a daily schedule like the rest of his staff. He responded by saying I could set my own schedule as long as I got the job done.

He made one exception—his Tuesday lunch appointment.

It was mandatory unless I was out of town.

After I signed on the bottom line, I negotiated a similar flexible work schedule for the other members of the R & I Group.

However, Nina Rivers still continued to arrive at the office every morning by eight o’clock.

That wasn’t the case with my deputy investigator, Floyd Cunningham. When I told him he didn’t have to show up at the office every morning by seven o’clock, I thought he might hug me.

Floyd, who was in his sixties, said, “You’ve saved me from having to retire early. Maybe I can manage to hang on a little longer now.”

Floyd had been a successful PI in New York City for many years before the senator recruited him to be a Judiciary Committee Investigator. When the senator decided to have his own investigative group operating out of his office, he made Floyd the deputy investigator and then he hired Pete Dunham as his chief investigator. Nina Rivers had been with Senator Allen as a data specialist forever.

When I was hired to take Pete’s place, I was happy to hear Floyd would be sticking around, especially after Lockett mentioned Floyd was an excellent surveillance guy.

Surveillance was my least favorite investigative activity.

For the past six years, Floyd and I had enjoyed a good working relationship, but three weeks ago, he finally retired, and ever since then, I’d been conducting interviews for the deputy investigator position.

Actually, Lockett had done all the preliminary recruiting and initial interviews, but once he found five acceptable candidates, he gave me the responsibility of choosing one.

I’d narrowed it down to two people—a man and a woman.

Today, I had a two o’clock appointment with the woman. Her name was Leslie Irving, and she was definitely at the top of my list.

For one thing, she had an outstanding resume, and for another, she looked outstanding. The guy I was considering, Noah Phillips, just had an outstanding resume.

My plan was to do my second interview with Leslie, and then schedule an appointment with Noah. Unless Leslie totally blew it, I didn’t think Noah would have much of a chance.

As I thought about Leslie, a yellow caution light started flashing on the right side of my brain—the gray matter controlling my emotions.

I reminded myself I’d walked away from a long-time relationship less than two months ago, and it was entirely possible the breakup was affecting my professional judgment.

However, I quickly brushed aside such counsel.

For one thing, I seldom let my emotions get the best of me, and for another, I felt certain I was basing my decision solely on Leslie’s qualifications and not on her gender.

While all that might be true, that didn’t mean I wasn’t looking forward to working with a woman as attractive as Leslie.

* * * *

The moment I walked through the door of SR335, Jenna Myers, the senator’s receptionist, motioned me over to her desk. After handing me a couple of messages, she asked me to wait a moment, and then she picked up the phone and informed the senator I’d arrived.

After she hung up, she said, “You can go in now. The senator’s waiting for you.”

I glanced down at my watch. “I’m not supposed to meet with him for another hour.”

She shrugged. “Mr. Lockett just told me to clear the senator’s schedule and let him know the minute you arrived.”

She paused and grinned at me. “Those were his orders.”

Jenna seldom passed up an opportunity to mention Lockett’s tendency to issue orders instead of making requests, although I’d never heard her openly criticize Lockett to anyone but me.

I suppose that meant she saw me as a sympathetic soul. Even though I often encouraged her to talk about her feelings about Lockett, in reality I was a hypocrite about the matter, because I thought Lockett was a fair-minded supervisor.

I had two self-serving reasons for being so hypocritical.

First, Jenna was the daughter of Colin Myers, a well-known Washington newspaper reporter whose columns influenced a great many people around the Beltway. In addition, he was someone I occasionally consulted about matters related to the judges in the District of Columbia Circuit.

That wasn’t the only reason I tended to indulge Jenna’s feelings. She was also a wealth of information about what was going on in other congressional offices, and I figured the best way to access that information was to stay on her good side.

“So those were his orders, huh?” I gestured in the direction of Lockett’s office. “Maybe I should go in there and say something to Nathan about those orders before I see the senator.”

“Mr. Lockett isn’t in his office. He’s with the senator. They’re both waiting for you.”

I leaned in a little closer and asked, “Any idea what’s going on?”

She lowered her voice and said, “All I know is that Senator Allen has been making his own phone calls this morning. He doesn’t ordinarily do that unless there’s some sort of crisis going on.”

“Were those local calls or long distance calls?”

“Mostly long distance. He was calling area codes in Missouri.”

I thanked Jenna and headed down the hallway to the senator’s office. To me, it sounded like Senator Allen could have received the same information on Judge Cameron Woodard I uncovered several days ago.

If so, I could understand why he might want to see me immediately.

Since I had the one-page summary sheet on the judge in my briefcase, I felt sure I was prepared to handle the senator’s crisis.

Or not.

With the senator, I never knew.

* * * *

The senator’s office was at the end of the hallway in Corridor A. This location afforded visitors a breath-taking view of the U.S. Capitol from the floor-to-ceiling windows in the senator’s office.

I suspected the senator also enjoyed the view.

When Lockett opened the door and ushered me inside, I wasn’t particularly interested in the view. I was more interested in the look on the senator’s face as he sat behind his massive wooden desk in the center of the room.

Senator Allen had snow-white hair, a high forehead, and an elongated face. His pale complexion usually had a pinkish tint to it, but today he looked ashen.

“Have a seat, Mylas,” he said, gesturing at one of the guest chairs in front of his desk.

When Lockett sat down in the chair next to me, I reached over and unsnapped my briefcase, intending to retrieve my summary sheet on Judge Cameron Woodard.

The senator shook his head. “Don’t bother giving me your briefing paper on Judge Woodard. I have more important matters to discuss with you today.”

“Okay, sure. What did you—”

“Lizzie’s missing,” he said, taking a deep breath, “and I want you to find her.”

“Lizzie’s missing? I’m not sure I—”

“My daughter Lizzie is missing,” the senator said, as if I didn’t know he was talking about his daughter.

“I get that, sir, but I’m not sure I know what you mean when you say she’s missing.”

He rubbed his forehead a moment. “I’m . . . I’m not making myself clear, am I?”

Lockett spoke up. “That’s understandable, Senator. If you don’t mind, I’ll be happy to tell Mylas what’s happened.”

He waved his hand at Lockett. “Go ahead.”

Lockett turned to me and said, “Lizzie’s roommate said she didn’t come home last night, and she’s not answering her cell phone. No one’s seen her since yesterday afternoon.”

Lizzie was the senator’s youngest daughter.

She was a junior at the University of Missouri, and the last I heard she was a journalism major.

“Maybe she spent the night with some of her friends,” I said. “Does she have a boyfriend?”

The senator nodded. “Yes, his name is Gus Montgomery, but he hasn’t seen her either. When I talked to Savannah, she said she’d been texting all of Lizzie’s friends, and none of them knew where she was.”

“Who’s Savannah?”

“Savannah Ridley. She’s Lizzie’s roommate,” Lockett said. “They share an apartment together off campus.”

“I assume the police have been contacted?”

The senator gestured over at his phone. “I’ve been on the phone with them several times this morning.”

The room suddenly turned quiet.

I realized the senator was expecting me to ask another question.

I didn’t have another question to ask.

“Well?” the senator said. “How do you plan to find her?”

“Uh . . . don’t you want to leave that to the local police?”

“No, of course not. You’re my chief investigator. I want you there on-site. Nathan’s already booked you a flight to Columbia.”

He looked over at Lockett. “What time does his plane leave?”

“Around five o’clock this afternoon.”

“Couldn’t you get him on an earlier flight?”

“No, sir, I couldn’t. Believe me, I tried.”

Suddenly, just like that, my day had taken an unexpected turn.

While I was used to making adjustments to my schedule, I was afraid this adjustment might turn out to be my worst nightmare.

The senator wanted me to assume the role of a run-of-the-mill private detective—something I’d refused to do all of my life—and he was sending me back to my hometown of Columbia to do it.

My parents still lived in Columbia, and whenever I flew in for a visit—once or twice a year—my dad took great pride in introducing me to his numerous acquaintances. “I’d like for you to meet my youngest son, Mylas. He’s the chief investigator in the office of Missouri’s greatest senator, our own Senator Davis Allen. My son, an investigator on Capitol Hill. Can you believe it?”

My dad had been pleased with my successful law career, but that paled in comparison to how he felt about my job with the senator.

Now, here I was about to show up in Columbia to investigate a missing person, something the local police could handle a lot better than I could.

How was I supposed to deal with that?

To make matters worse, the senator’s daughter had probably just gone off with some friends. More than likely, she’d be home by the end of the day.

The senator seemed disappointed in Lockett’s answer. “It’s a shame you couldn’t get Mylas on an earlier flight. The first twenty-four hours are critical when it comes to finding a missing person.”

That wasn’t necessarily the case, but I wasn’t about to correct the senator at this juncture.

As a matter of job security, I seldom corrected the senator.

“I wouldn’t be able to get away before five o’clock anyway,” I said. “I’ve scheduled an interview with a candidate for the deputy investigator’s position at two o’clock.”

“You can cancel that interview,” the senator said. “I’ve already offered the position to someone.”

I was speechless.

Evidently, if Lockett’s face was any indication, the senator’s announcement also took him by surprise. “I’m sorry, Senator,” he said. “I had no idea you had a candidate in mind. I gave Mylas the list of candidates I’d already vetted and told him to choose one.”

“Charlie Hayes wasn’t on the vetted candidates’ list,” the senator said, “but I assure you he’s well-qualified for the position.”

Lockett said, “I’m not familiar with that name.”

Neither was I, although I suspected he might be related to Malcolm Hayes, one of the senator’s major contributors.

The senator confirmed this a few seconds later.

“He’s the son of Malcolm Hayes of Hayes Energy, but instead of joining the family business, Charlie went into law enforcement. A few years ago, he got promoted to detective in the St. Louis Police Department, and when Malcolm heard the deputy investigator position was open, he suggested I take a look at Charlie.”

“How long has he been a detective?” I asked.

“About five years.” He gestured over at the computer on his desk. “I’ll email you his resume.”

I detected a note of anger in Lockett’s voice. “I’ll also need a copy.”

“Oh, sure. I was planning to discuss this with you today, but then this business with Lizzie came up.”

“You said you offered him the position,” I said, hoping there still might be a chance for me to hire my own deputy. “Has he given you an answer yet?”

“Yes, Charlie called me last night and accepted my offer.”

Without a doubt, this day had definitely become my worst nightmare.

End of Chapter 3

To continue reading One Day Gone, you can visit the author’s website, www.LuanaEhrlich.com, and click on the book link to purchase the book through Amazon or go directly to the Amazon website and purchase One Day Gone, Book I in the Mylas Grey Mystery Series.

Luana loves to hear from her readers. Contact her through her email: author@luanaehrlich.com

Books by Luana Ehrlich

USA Today bestselling author

Available on Amazon

Each book can be read as a standalone novel, but to have the series experience, the following order is suggested.

Order of Titus Ray Thriller Series:

One Step Back, the prequel to One Night in Tehran

One Night in Tehran, Book I

Two Days in Caracas, Book II

Three Weeks in Washington, Book III

Four Months in Cuba, Book IV

Five Years in Yemen, Book V

Two Steps Forward, Book VI

Three Steps Away, Book VII

Four Steps Missed, Book VIII

Five Steps Beyond, Book IX

One Good Time, Book X

Two Good Deeds, Book XI

Three Good Lies, Book XII (Coming 2026)

Order of Ben Mitchell/Titus Ray Thriller Series:

(These novels are in the voice of Titus Ray, but Ben Mitchell is also featured.)

Ben in Love, Book I—chronologically, this book follows Two Steps Forward

Ben in Charge, Book II—chronologically, this book follows Three Steps Away

Ben in Trouble, Book III—chronologically, this book follows Four Steps Missed

Order of the Mylas Grey Mystery Series:

A Day Ago, the prequel to One Day Gone

One Day Gone, Book I

Two Days Taken, Book II

Three Days Clueless, Book III

Four Days Famous, Book IV

Five Days Lost, Book V

Six Days Spent, Book VI

Seven Days Off, Book VII

Eight Days Anxious, Book VIII (Coming 2025)

Order of the Silas McKay Suspense Series:

One Wonders, Book I

Two Believe, Book II

Three Confess, Book III

Four Doubt, Book IV

Five Alive, Book V (Coming 2025)