Now the Martyr could see it more clearly. An old black armored Mercedes, windows smoked, metal rutted and pitted and banged in from use in a war zone. The man was here, just as he announced he would be. How he managed to cross back and forth through the American military checkpoints was a mystery, the answer known only to him.

How he managed to openly cross territory held by Sunni militias was not a mystery—the man was an untouchable.

The car pulled up to the doorway. The window powered down.

The man was white, with sandy-blond hair and an English accent. He was a little overweight, but not sloppy. The extra weight he carried probably came from his love affair with drink, not with food, and certainly not with sedentary behavior. He was a man frequently on the move. Rumor had it that he was a British spy. What else could he be? He had access to intelligence that no one else seemed to have.

His blue eyes were piercing, even in the dark of night.

The Martyr didn’t move from the doorway, not right away. Instead, he scanned up and down the street. It was always possible that the Brit had been followed. More than possible—it was probably guaranteed. The man stuck out in these parts like a green plant on the surface of the moon.

“God is great, eh?” the Martyr said.

Indeed, the news of the kidnapping was now circling the entire world. It was a giant blow to the Great Satan, one that would give hope to people of faith everywhere.

“Not my god,” the man said in his cultured English accent. “And anyway, I suppose I wouldn’t celebrate too soon if I were you.”

The Martyr nearly smiled. “No? Why not? The deed is done.”

The Brit scanned the roadway ahead for a moment.

“There could be a problem,” he said.

“Oh?” the Martyr said. “What problem is that?”

“Do you have the money?” the Brit said.

“Of course.”

“Then give it to me and I will describe the problem to you.”

The Martyr leaned back into the dark shadows of the doorway. Tucked just down the hall, inside an alcove, was a leather satchel. The bag contained untraceable cash in various denominations and three different currencies—American dollars, euros, and British pounds. The money was worth roughly half a million dollars all told.

The man was expensive, but over time he had proven to be well worth the high price. The Martyr darted across open space, carrying the bag between the doorway and the car. He didn’t enjoy being exposed on the street like this.

“The back door is open,” the Brit said. “Put the bag on the floor.”

The Martyr opened the back door and slid the bag onto the floor behind the driver’s side. He slammed the car door and returned to the shelter of his doorway.

“Don’t you want to count it?”