Whitman could see the terrified look in her eyes. He couldn’t blame her.

“Take them,” he said, consigning Seiran el-Habib and the girl to Flix. Not the smartest move, he suspected, but right this moment he had no choice. Then they all retreated from the room, moved through the maze of rooms and corridors until they reached the first of the interior guards Flix had shot to death.

Aiming his light onto the subject, Whit knelt down beside the corpse. He was dressed as an Arab, but there was something wrong, though he couldn’t immediately put his finger on it.

“Whit,” Charlie said, “check out his boots.”

Whit bent closer, changing his angle so he could see the boots beneath the robe. They were U.S. Army issue.

“Christ,” he whispered.

“It could mean nothing,” Flix said, suddenly as nervous as a ceiling-fan storeowner with a comb-over.

“Idiot,” Seiran el-Habib said, “it means everything.”

Flix slammed the butt of his rifle into el-Habib’s side. “Nobody asked you, motherfucker.”

With added urgency, Whitman searched beneath the guard’s robe. Fishing around, his fingers felt something hard sewn into the lining. He ripped the cloth down the seam, and a dog tag fell into his hands.

“Jesus,” he breathed. “Jesus Christ Almighty.” All the air seemed to go out of him.

“Whit, what is it?” Charlie asked.

The tone of her voice told him precisely what she was thinking.

“Flix, you just killed Marine sergeant Alexander Stephen Moran.”

“All the others,” el-Habib said, “the same.”

Whitman looked from Orteño to Charlie, then he rose to face the Saudi.

Seiran el-Habib’s upper lip curled with disdain. “That’s right, you fools,” he said, “I was being guarded by the American military.”

Chapter 19

19

“I have a routine,” Paulus Lindstrom said. “At eight o’clock I play baseball with my lab assistants for precisely one hour. By nine-oh-five, I’ve entered the lab. Ten minutes for a bowel movement, then wash up, change clothes. I’m working by nine-twenty-five. Forty minutes for lunch.” He looked around nervously at Valerie’s living room. “I leave work at six precisely. Not twelve-thirty. Here’s an entire afternoon drifting in front of my eyes.”

“Aimlessness doesn’t suit you. I understand perfectly,” Valerie said. “But unusual times sometimes call for a break in routine.” She did not want to alarm him any more than he already was. An agitated Lindstrom was not a pretty sight. She was still waiting for Preach’s further instructions.

His hands were working themselves into knots. “But I have my subjects to…”

“What subjects?”

Lindstrom turned away.

“Paulus?”

He went into the kitchen. Valerie followed him, arms crossed over her breasts, watching as he drew water for himself from the sink. His Adam’s apple bobbed wildly; he drank like a man who had been out in the desert for days.