Then he put together a case with all the necessary logistical components: the iPhone 8, with its precious ballistics program; various wrenches; LensPens; a glazier’s key; a set of screwdrivers; and the ten most perfect rounds of ammunition that he had assembled. This too was wrapped and taped to the stock.

Finally, when the whole package was encased in foam and tape—it looked a bit like a mummy—it was secured in the false bottom of a high-end bookcase, invisible to the eye, which was itself skillfully packed in a shipping crate, secured tightly, made inviolate to all but the most violent accidental intrusions. It would survive a crash landing, in other words, but not a crash.

A day later, Juba watched as this object, under the rubric of a well-known custom furniture boutique, was delivered to UPS for delivery to its next destination. It would thereby enter two systems: UPS’s, but also Iran’s Ministry of Intelligence, whose supple and proficient professionals would be responsible for its transport from several different destinations via several different shipping agencies. At a certain point, it would become affiliated with a credit card registered, through Iranian subterfuge, to Brian Waters, of Albuquerque, New Mexico, and in that way join the train of evidence that was slowly accumulating against the dead man, on whom all blame was to be placed.

The intelligence people would discreetly monitor its progress, taking possession of it intermittently, inspecting it, then shipping it onward. It would reach its destination—only one senior executive knew the final address—at a leisurely pace but still in plenty of time. Juba wanted to be there, in the room with the rifle, facing the target, for a good while before he had to pull the trigger—one day, at least, a full week if possible. The whole enterprise disintegrated if it were rushed or improvised.

Finally, it was done.

He sat in the Land Rover, with Alberto, as they drove back to the ranch. The two Mexican Special Forces troopers, who had handled the transaction at the shipping agency, sat in front, indifferent to the Syrian-accented Arabic being spoken behind them.

“This step is finished,” said Alberto. “It must be a relief. Now, only the journey.”

“That part has been well planned. It will proceed routinely. No one will intercept me.”

“The picture they have put out is quite amusing.”

“It makes me look like a cartoon. It degrades me.”

“Everybody’s a critic. More important, it makes you look like me—like Gamal Abdel Nasser, Harvey Weinstein, John Garfield, Omar Sharif—like any other Semitic with strong features. The dark hair helps. It’s all the same DNA, intermingled by crossfucking over the centuries. That is why there is so much hatred. We’re all family.”

“I do not share your theory of mongrel politics,” said Juba.

“No matter. In the end, the drawing is so stereotypical, it looks like everyone and no one. It can be of no help.”