“Algeria has a problem with these sickos,” she said. “I know that. They’ve got ties to Al Qaeda. Lots of the Afghan vets were Algerian, went back home, viva Allah. Algeria. I understand Algeria.”

“They have more civilians killed because of these jihad nuts than anywhere—anywhere.”

“Except for Israel.”

“No. You’re wrong. One hundred thousand civilians. Same time frame, not even a thousand Israelis.”

“Jesus, Mark, I’m an investigator, not a political science major.”

Mourad kept looking at the clock. It was after eleven. Ghazi was looking too. They were passing around a map of Boston— Mourad thought a subway station would be better in winter for selling coffee than a sidewalk. He had circled three with a red marker for their search the next morning. Ghazi had circled a fourth.

Heather had gone to meet Linda at seven-thirty. Four hours— that was long. She had all that cash. Aziz wished she had let him and Mourad go along.

“Cousin,” Ghazi said. “Call her cell.”

Aziz thought that might provoke Mourad. It implied a special worry. But Mourad looked glad Ghazi had suggested it. He had been wanting to call.

“Maybe they went to meet Linda’s new husband,” Aziz said.

“We should have gone with her,” Mourad said.

“She has a firm mind,” Ghazi said.

Mourad was dialing. Listening.

“The cell-phone user you have called has either turned off the phone or is out of the signal area.”

“It’s off, or she’s way outside Boston,” Mourad said.

“I can’t keep up with all we’re supposed to read,” April said. She was having trouble concentrating. She didn’t know when she’d eaten last. They should open the door, get some air.

“Nothing on Kamal Gamal,” Blake said.

“What does that mean?”

“Algerian intelligence has no information on him. He’s never come to their attention.”

“Okay.”

“Nothing on Abdelrafik Ghezil. Or the Khaled brothers. Or Dhakir Yahyouai. Same for Taffounnout Belghazi and Mourad Arkoun.”

“Mark. I’m sorry. I am in need of sustenance.”

“So let’s order something. We’re here for another hundred hours. At least.”

“Sure. Sure. I’m making a run to the machine for some Fritos in the meantime.”

“Get me some licorice.”

It was a Sunday night and it was January, so Dorfman Street in East Boston was empty. They decided to use vans, but beat-up white ones, none of those superfly SUVs. One said McTAMNEY AND SON PLUMBING. Another said ANDRETTI’S LOCK AND KEY. The ninja look—that was out. They went in dressed like working men. Inside the apartment building, they pulled out white paper vests that said FBI, U.S. MARSHAL, INS, and BOSTON PD in fluorescent orange. They took AK-47s out of toolboxes. There were gas masks in a vestibule under a tarpaulin, delivered by an agent masquerading as a pizza deliveryman an hour earlier.