Cam and Tim were sitting in Cam’s office at Langley. On his desk was a framed photograph of himself with President Nixon, deep in conversation. Langley was one of the few places where a man could still be proud of having worked for Nixon. “Is Fadlallah planning more kidnappings?” Cam asked.

Tim said: “Is the Pope planning more baptisms?”

“What about the team? Are they trustworthy? Are they under control?” Florence Geary’s objections had been overruled, but her misgivings had not been stupid, and Cam was now remembering what she had said.

Tim sighed. “Cam, if they were trustworthy, responsible people who respected legitimate authority, they wouldn’t be available for hire as paid assassins. They are as reliable as such people ever are. And we have them more or less under control, for now.”

“Well, at least we’re not financing them. I got the money from the Saudis—three million dollars.”

Tim raised his eyebrows. “That was well done.”

“Thanks.”

“We might consider putting the whole project technically under the control of Saudi intelligence, to improve deniability.”

“Good idea. But even then we’ll need a cover story, after Fadlallah is killed.”

Tim thought for a minute, then said: “Let’s blame Israel.”

“Yeah.”

“Everyone will readily believe the Mossad did a thing like this.”

Cam frowned uneasily. “I’m still worried. I wish I knew exactly how they were going to do it.”

“Better if you don’t know.”

“I have to know. I might go to Lebanon. Get a closer look.”

“If you do,” said Tim, “go carefully.”

• • •

Cam rented a white Toyota Corolla and drove south from the center of Beirut to the mostly Muslim suburb of Bir el-Abed. It was a jungle of ugly concrete apartment buildings interspersed with handsome mosques, each mosque on its broad lot, like a gracious specimen tree carefully cultivated in a clearing amid a crowded forest of rough pines. Poor though the country was, the traffic in the narrow streets was heavy, and the shops and street stalls were besieged by crowds. It was hot, and the Toyota had no air-conditioning, but Cam drove with the windows closed, fearful of contact with the unruly population.

He had visited the district once before, with a CIA guide, and he quickly found the street where Ayatollah Fadlallah lived. Cam drove slowly past the high-rise apartment building, then went all around the block and parked a hundred yards before the building on the opposite side of the road.

On the same street were several more apartment buildings, a cinema, and, most importantly, a mosque. Every afternoon at the same time, Fadlallah walked from his apartment building to the mosque for prayers.

That was when they would kill him.

No foul-ups, please, God, Cam prayed.

Along the short stretch of street Fadlallah would have to follow, cars were parked nose to tail at the curb. One of those cars contained a bomb. Cam did not know which.

Somewhere nearby the trigger man was concealed, watching the street like Cam, waiting for the ayatollah. Cam scanned the cars and the overlooking windows. He did not spot the trigger man. That was good. The assassin was well concealed, as he should be.