“He will if he can, if he has time. It’s not necessary, but he’d want to do it. Do you see anything in that?”

“Ah, there’s something in there, but it has yet to clarify.”

“Mr. Gold,” said Nick. “Please clarify! Clarify! We need clarification!”

“I shall so instruct my subconscious. But it seems not to work regular hours.”

“One interesting thing,” Nick said. “Wichita Metro tells me that the AK Juba left behind, it didn’t have a magazine. That is, he removed the magazine and took it with him. Maybe to use it as a blunt-impact weapon. He could fit it under his jacket, in his belt, and it would fit flush. Of course, that would preclude commercial flight, yet another indicator he had private means out of town. But—why? Any thoughts?”

Swagger said, “He don’t do nothing on a whim. He’s a careful bird. He’s got a use for it, and I hope I ain’t around when he comes to it.”

PART 4

47

The ranch

A day later, the pictures of known American snipers came through via email from Juba’s control. He peered at them and, of several possibilities, recognized one: a sergeant’s face like his own, something clever, alive, even wise. but without aristocratic air or expectations beyond the practical. Not interested in luxury, not softened by too much pleasure, steadfast of soul and devoted to duty, unable to relax but for the company of those who’d earned the right to stand nearby. These men—American snipers, security advisors, Green Berets, and SEALs, men of experience and talent—had all acquired the patina of an Assyrian shield, a certain cast to the eyes, surrounded by a fissure of wrinkles, a stolidity of expression, a hardness to the jawline that extended to a mouth that would never yield to gentleness or humor unless deep in the bosom of family, friends, or co-believers. But this sergeant’s face completed Juba’s nightmare portrait of the American sniper who awaited him in the future. It was the face of his death.

He looked at the name, trying to make sense of it. Since its structural foundations diverged so from that of the Arabic, it seemed incoherent. It was simply an accumulation of sounds squished into a single utterance. It seemed to have no meaning.

“What does this mean?” he asked Alberto. “Bobleeswagger?”

“American names are simply labels. They don’t carry meanings and are not adjusted to celebrate an outstanding individual or origin or heritage. His name is Swagger because his father’s name was Swagger, and that is all that can be said.”

“But I have seen this word ‘swagger’ in texts. I did not bother to look it up. But it exists independent of this man.”

“It does. ‘Swagger’ is ‘a bold walk.’”