Anura, an island in the Indian Ocean the size of West Virginia, had a population of twelve million, and was blessed with rare natural beauty and a rich cultural legacy. Janson had been posted there for eighteen months, charged with directing an intelligence-gathering task force to make an independent assessment of the island’s volatile political situation and to help trace whatever outside forces were helping to foment unrest. For during the past decade and a half, Paradise had been disrupted by one of the deadliest terror organizations in the world, the Kagama Liberation Front. Thousands of young men, in thrall to the man they called the Caliph, wore leather pendants with a cyanide capsule at the end; it symbolized their readiness to give their lives for the cause. The Caliph had a particular fondness for suicide bombings. At a political rally for Anura’s prime minister several years ago, one suicide bomber, a young girl whose sari bloused over an enormous quantity of explosives packed with ball bearings, left her mark on the island’s history. The prime minister was killed along with more than a hundred bystanders. And then there were the truck bombings in downtown Caligo. One destroyed the Anura International Trade Center. Another, packed into an express courier and freight service truck, had delivered death to a dozen staff members in the U.S. embassy in Anura.

Among those dozen was Helene. One more victim of the mindless violence. Or was it two: what of the child they were to have had together?

Almost paralyzed with grief, Janson had demanded access to the NSA intercepts, including those of the satphone transmissions among the guerrilla leaders. The transcripts, hurriedly translated into English, gave little sense of vocal intonations and context; rapid dialogue was reduced to black type on white paper. But there was no mistaking the exultant tones. The embassy bombing was one of the Caliph’s proudest moments.

Helene, you were my sun.

In the jet, Márta placed a hand on Janson’s wrist. “I’m sorry, Mr. Janson. I appreciate the anguish this must bring back.”

“Of course you do,” Janson said in a level tone. “It’s part of why you chose me.”

Márta did not avert her gaze. “Peter Novak is about to die. The conference in the province of Kenna was nothing less than a trap.”

“It was insanity to begin with,” Janson snapped.

“Was it? Naturally, the rest of the world has given up, save for those who are furtively promoting the violence. But nothing offends Peter more than defeatism.”

Janson flushed angrily. “The KLF has called for the destruction of the Republic of Anura. The KLF says it believes in the inherent nobility of revolutionary violence. How do you negotiate with such fanatics?”