But, every time, the dream turned. Each time, he encountered his own fate. As he sought targets, he came at last to settle on one sunk in shadow, not quite clear. He paused a fatal second, waiting for smoke to clear, and as the wind took it and spread it thin, he saw exactly what he knew he would see in life someday: a man, such as himself, hunched calmly behind the stock of a scoped rifle, its muzzle supported and, hence, stilled by the double vectors of a bipod. At that moment, the flash, a smear of disorganized radiance, lasting but a fraction of a second as the cartridge’s unburned powder consumed itself. He knew he was doomed.

O Allah, hear me. I have served you with all my being and spirit and request humbly absolution for my sins and a welcome to Paradise.

He knew that’s how he would die. Sooner or later, having been hunted his whole life, first by Israelis and then by Iranians and then by Kurds and then by Russians and then by Israelis again and finally by Americans, he would become the trophy to a man as skilled as himself.

He jerked awake—as always—in sweat, fighting panic. The desert night was calm. He rolled from the bed and went to the window to see the broad, empty plain outside. Far off, a light burned, a police station on the other side of the valley. Downstairs, his guards were quiet, though one of them was purportedly on duty. No point in checking, as nothing would happen today.

But his mind wouldn’t settle down. Perhaps what lay before him had him unsettled—it still happened, even after so many years—and his biology was responding. No prayer could still it. He thought of a pipe of hashish, but that left him logy and imprecise in the morning.

Instead, he focused on his moment of glory. It was a gift from God. It was Allah sending him recompense for all that had been taken from him, for the humiliations and the disgrace and the echoes of a pain that never went away.

He thought of the bus.

4

Tel Aviv

Swagger found the address—less than a mile from the beach, and less than a mile from his hotel—which was a certain café with tables outdoors in the sunlight. He sat at one, and the waiter came by, and Swagger ordered an iced tea, though he didn’t like iced tea. He had been told to order iced tea. He sat for a while, figuring that one team was observing him by means of binoculars while another examined passersby for threats. No bombs exploded, no machine guns sounded, no one noticed, no one moved.

Finally, from inside the restaurant, a man came out and joined him.

“Sergeant Swagger? I’m Gershon Gold.”

“Sir,” said Swagger. “Please sit down.”