The Brit shook his head. “No. I trust you. How can men work together without a little bit of trust?”

“Also, you will have me killed if the money is wrong,” the Martyr said.

The Brit nodded. “Yes.”

“So what’s the problem then?”

“A small group of American operatives is on a trail that is warm, and may soon grow warmer. A Sunni tribal elder from outside Tikrit has been quite forthcoming with information, I’m afraid.”

“The camp that was raided?”

The Brit nodded again. “Yes.”

“The name of the elder?”

There was a long pause while the Brit sat quietly. He was hesitant, of course, because the brothers would show no mercy to this so-called elder. And they would seek to erase any information the elder might have shared with others, including his family and clan.

“It is no help unless we have the name,” the Martyr said.

“Imam Muhammad al-Barak,” the Brit said. “God have mercy on him.”

“Thank you, Mr. Montgomery,” the Martyr said.

The Brit looked at him, his eyes harder than ever. There was something in those eyes that gave the Martyr pause. It was a coldness, as though the Brit could kill the Martyr slowly, and without emotion. It was a coldness like the cold of deep space. Or perhaps it was just an emptiness. Perhaps it was more that something was missing than that something was there.

But within seconds, the Martyr had recovered himself.

“Oh, yes,” he said. “I know more than I seem to.”

The Brit’s cold gaze never wavered. “There are things in this world that you’re better off not knowing. If I were you, I’d forget some of the things that you think you know. In fact, I’d start working on that project right now.”

The window powered up and the car slowly pulled away.

The Martyr took a long, shaky drag on his cigarette. The Brit didn’t frighten him. No man did. He had given himself to Allah more than twenty years ago. He was trying to martyr himself, and Allah just hadn’t claimed him yet. It was good to remind himself of that from time to time.

“Your god may have mercy on al-Barak,” he said to no one. “But we won’t.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

May 7

10:05 p.m. Eastern Daylight Time (4:05 a.m. Central European Summer Time, May 8)

The Situation Room

The White House, Washington, DC

His worst nightmare had come true.

David Barrett, President of the United States, strode the halls of the West Wing toward the elevator that would take him down to the Situation Room.

A phalanx of people strode with him, ahead of him, behind him, all around him—aides, interns, Secret Service men, staff of various kinds. He had no idea who half these people were. Everyone was much shorter than he was—many were a head shorter or more. His Chief of Staff, Lawrence Keller, walked by his side.