The man underneath the agent’s boot wriggled and spat words up from split and bloody lips. The agent ignored him, and looked out to the east – the sun would soon rise, and the Americans would be exposed – not much time.

Concentration lapsed for only a moment, but it was enough – the man jerked upward, a combat knife appearing in his hand, the blade coming fast at the Metsada agent’s groin. In a swift motion her foot on his neck was withdrawn, and then swung around to stamp down on the wrist holding the knife. Her slim black dagger flashed down once, deep into the man’s orbital socket – he shuddered, and then lay still.

The agent wiped blood from the knife and hand, exposing a small blue star in the meat between thumb and forefinger. The blade was then expertly tucked back into a sleeve, and then she stepped away from the body and rolled it into a ditch.

The agent climbed aboard a long skeletal-looking motorbike. The LEPERD was an Israeli design for fast solo incursions – electric motor with plenty of torque delivered via a lightweight but muscular power plant. Its heavy-duty spring suspension system, adjustable rear shocks, and knobbed tire tread meant it was built for overland desert terrain.

The agent kicked up the guard, pulled goggles down over her eyes, wrapped a keffiyeh headdress around her nose and mouth, and throttled forward, accelerating quickly to seventy miles per hour over the dry flat landscape. It immediately became clear why the motorbike was Metsada’s solo vehicle of choice in the Middle East – it was near silent, the electric motor giving off only a faint whine as it blistered over the predawn desert landscape.

Fifty miles – be there in an hour, thought Adira Senesh, whose name meant mighty in Hebrew. She concentrated on the still dark desert as she drove without lights. Her eyes were as black as pools of oil and they were narrowed in her concentration. She knew she owed the Americans nothing, but there was one man she would never forget, one who had stolen her heart, and who perhaps again one day…She shook her head and gritted her teeth. But not this day, she thought. This day she would do her job, and, as a top Metsada agent, sometimes that job was dealing death.

*

The sun was up and Abrams and the small group had long since left the creek bed. The land was flat save for dry scrub and ochre boulders in an ochre landscape, for miles upon miles upon miles. He thanked his lucky stars that the GPS unit had survived the crash – without electronics he bet even his SEALs would be hard pressed to navigate by just the huge sun.

Berry was out at point, a hundred feet ahead, hunched, and occasionally lifting field glasses to his eyes. Thermal and night-vision were of course now useless. Abrams looked briefly over his shoulder – the geologist and language professor were strolling along as if looking for a picnic spot in Central Park. Behind them was Captain Tania Kovitz with only a sidearm, but she was as vigilant as ever. Deeper back at rear point was Hartogg, adopting the same crouching movement as Berry – Abrams was glad to have both of them, but now wished for another dozen. There was something about the land here that made him feel uneasy…and he hated to admit it, but he was still a little rattled by that weird lumping in the desert he had seen the night before.