“The first thirty prisoners must be released by tomorrow morning,” Trudy said. “As an indication of good will and acceptance of the terms. No preparation—simply open the gates and let them walk free. And they’re right—in certain places this could be done. After that, at least another ten must be released or transferred to their home country every day, until they’re all set free. The whole operation can take up to three weeks.”

“And if it doesn’t happen?”

“If the first thirty prisoners aren’t released by nine a.m. tomorrow, Baghdad time, then Elizabeth Barrett will be beheaded, and the video will be released on Internet outlets and to news stations. If there is any stumble in the schedule after that, then the same thing will happen. Most outlets won’t show the video, but of course within a short time a few will, then it will be copied, and then it will be everywhere.”

“So…”

Trudy nodded. “Yeah. Twenty-six hours from now, more or less. The President’s daughter will be dead, and the ultimate jihadi recruiting video will be released worldwide.”

* * *

“Trudy, give us your impressions,” Don’s voice said.

They sat around the makeshift conference table—a slab of plywood balanced on two sawhorses. Don’s voice came from the black octopus at the center. Trudy, Swann, Ed Newsam, and Luke formed a rough square.

Big Daddy Cronin and the British spy Montgomery stood at the edges of the rounded, stone room. Luke could hardly imagine why they were here—there must be a thousand other intelligence teams out there who were closer to the action.

“Well, Elizabeth Barrett is a kid,” Trudy said, starting with something that couldn’t be more obvious. “To some extent, because of her position, she’s going to be more sheltered than the average eighteen-year-old. From what we have, her friend, the young woman from the Chadwick family, hooked her up on a blind date of sorts, and taught her how to sneak away from her security detail. But the Chadwick girl was not, as far as we know, complicit in the kidnapping. It was a lark to her, a harmless escapade.”

“Okay…” Don’s disembodied voice said.

It seemed to Luke that Trudy was just speaking to get the feel for talking, that she was warming up to the real meat of this. Like she was priming the pump to get the water flowing. Trudy went on.

“The Turk, however, was not on a lark. Ahmet Kaya, his alias, is a person who does not exist. At this time, we have no idea if he really is a Turk. We do know that he spoke Turkish fluently, as a native speaker would speak it, or close enough that outsiders would think so. We also know he spoke English and French, both at a conversational level. So he has, or had, a lot of high-level language skills.”

“Had?” Luke said.