Battering rams were a thing of the past. They had microscopic drills, silent ones. No sparks.

Lights were off in apartment 8. The suspect was in bed. The stake-out report indicated Kamal Gamal had arrived at twenty hundred hours accompanied by a female in traditional Islamic dress. The female exited at twenty-one hundred hours.

Abdelrafik Ghezil had been followed to a nightclub at 295 Franklin Street called Reach. A SWAT unit in two limousines was positioned for his exit. Three agents inside, outfitted in Italian suits, were incommunicado due to excessive noise.

“Thank you, sir,” April said. The director had called. “I appreciate that, sir.

“I’ll keep that in mind. . . .

“Sir? . . .

“Sir, I was raised in New Hampshire. . . .

“That’s correct. Live free or die. . . .

“At this point in time, no, sir. . . .

“I will notify SIOC. . . .

“If the assistant director feels that is important. . . .

“No question. . . .

“I’ve been briefed. . . .

“I’m crossing my fingers, sir. . . .

“You’re very welcome. . . .

“I will sir. . . .

“Yes. Goodbye, sir.”

They used black SUVs for this sleepy little Everett neighborhood. Looked like everyone here was snug in bed by nine. They could have touched a chopper down at the intersection and no one would have stirred. Drills were not authorized here. They had cased the door weeks ago. It was only going to take a heave-ho to gain entry.

It was past midnight. The cups were bundled together, sorted by language. They planned to get up early and drive around to the subway stations circled on their map. They had found one station that Ghazi thought might be close to a halal butcher shop. Good chance of a Muslim community around there. And Mourad was going to talk to the airport manager about the possibility of the parking garage.

But they weren’t really thinking about the next day. Everything was about Heather. They didn’t know the name of the restaurant. They didn’t know where Linda lived. Mourad and Ghazi wanted to go out and do something, drive somewhere, call someone. There was no one to call and nothing to do but wait.

“Sounds like the director likes you,” Mark said to April when she hung up the phone.

“I don’t know what the assistant director said to him about tonight, but it sure wasn’t the truth,” she said.

“You look good, the assistant director looks good, the director looks good, the bureau looks good.”

“They’re all sitting around SIOC, waiting to hear how the arrests go.”

“Strategic Information and Operations Center, where the UBL room is.”

“Why is it Usama Bin Laden for the bureau, and Osama for the press?”

“Vowels.”

“Vowels?”

“In the Arabic alphabet, most vowels are diacritical marks. They don’t always correspond to our vowels. There’re disagreements about how to put them into English.”

“Right.” Diacritical? Jesus. She looked at her watch. Almost one. They should be hearing something soon.