Ward watched him go, not speaking again until he was out of sight. “Does this mean we’ll all be coming back to life soon? Do you have what you need to identify your mole?”

“The mole you don’t know anything about?”

“Right. That one.”

“Let’s just say I’m closer than I was yesterday.”

Ward’s expression suggested that it wasn’t the answer he’d been looking for.

Rapp closed himself up in the metal shed and settled onto a rickety stool. The structure was located at the end of a dirt path, hidden from the well-heeled guests who would normally be staying at the lodge. Cleaning products and landscaping equipment had been shoved to one side and a small satellite dish was now perched on the roof. The box of phones Coleman had mentioned was lying on a desk built from fuel cans and an old door. Rapp selected a handset at random, double-checked the time, and started dialing.

He’d never seen the phone booth he was calling, but imagined Kennedy closed up in the glass enclosure wearing dark sunglasses and turned away from anyone who might be passing by.

It rang only once before she picked up. The first thing he heard was a quiet hum that, hilariously, was likely generated by a battery-operated sex toy. Some enterprising tech in the Agency’s Office of Technical Services had noticed that the vibrating suction cup was capable of shaking glass at a frequency ideal for defeating passive listening devices. And, as a bonus, getting caught with it would be embarrassing but not at all suggestive of espionage. Apparently, there were other benefits, too, but he couldn’t speak to those directly.

“It’s good to connect,” she said, her voice low and slightly distorted by the fact that she would have a hand cupped around her mouth. “Your show was so convincing you actually had me worried.”

“No need,” he responded. Despite all the precautions, they’d be as vague as possible. Further, he was speaking through a mike attached to his phone via a box that changed his voice. And not one of the old distortion boxes that people equated with testimony from old mobsters and DEA agents. This one generated the perfectly natural voice of a young woman.

“Did you like the stuff I sent?”

He was referring to the numbers that had been dialed on the phone Auma used to call the Saudi liaison, as well as the photos taken of him.

“Not so much the numbers.”

No big surprise there. Auma’s contact would use a burner.

“But the pictures were lovely.”

What followed would sound to anyone listening like a discussion of a foreign vacation and a bit of reminiscing on Kennedy’s part. In truth, though, she was referring to people and situations that would lead him to a name.

It took a while, but he finally got it. Muhammad Singh.