The Mansur minister bobbed his head; he knew he was out of his depth and, to his credit, realized there was no point in pretending otherwise, at least in the presence of the master tactician who stood before him.

“Therefore, I shall myself accompany the delegation. You need only provide the diplomatic cover, and I shall personally ensure that everything happens as it should.”

“Allah be praised,” the small man said. “We could hope for nothing more. Your dedication will be an inspiration to the others.”

The Caliph nodded slowly, acknowledging the tribute. “What I do,” he said, “is merely what must be done.”

The narrow town house was elegant and yet anonymous-looking, a brownstone like hundreds of others in New York’s Turtle Bay neighborhood. The stoop was a gray-brown, with raised black grip stripes in diagonals across the steps. They would prevent slippage when the stairs became slick with rain or ice; the electronic sensors beneath the strips would also detect the presence of a visitor. The sun bounced off the thick, leaded glass of the parlor: it was purely ornamental in appearance, but proof against even heavycaliber bullets. Sterile Seven is what the deputy director of the Defense Intelligence Agency had called it: it was a safe house reserved by the Mobius planners for their occasional use, one of ten around the country. Janson would be protected here, he was assured; equally important, he would have access to the most sophisticated communications equipment, including direct access to the extensive data banks compiled by the joint intelligence services of the United States.

Janson sat in the second-floor study, staring at a yellow pad. Janson’s eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep; a headache pounded behind his eyes. He had been in scrambler communication with the surviving members of the Mobius Program. None was sanguine, or even pretended to be.

If Novak were arriving in the country, how would he do so? What were the chances that border control would alert them of his arrival? An advisory had gone out to every airport, private and public, in the country. Airport officials were notified that because of “credible threats” to Peter Novak’s life, it was crucial to report his whereabouts to a special security task force coordinated by the U.S. State Department and devoted to the protection of foreign dignitaries.

He phoned Derek Collins, who was on Phipps Island, where the size of the National Guard contingent had been tripled. In the background he heard the jangle of a dog’s collar.

“Gotta say, Butch has really taken to this place,” Collins said. “Hell, the sorry-ass mutt’s actually growing on me. With all that’s been happening, it’s kind of relaxing having him around. Of course, the workmen who were here yesterday fixing things up didn’t exactly take to him—he kept looking at them like they were food. But I bet you’re calling for a status report on other matters.”

“What’s the word?”