“And yet he’s also an American asset,” Janson said. “Christ. Makes a fellow proud to be a soldier.”

“Like I said, it’s a delicate business. Similar to the deal we had with Ali Hassan Salameh.”

A small shiver ran down Janson’s spine. Ali Hassan Salameh was the mastermind of the 1972 Munich Olympics massacre. He was also, for a number of years, the CIA’s chief contact inside the Palestine Liberation Organization. It was during a period when the United States refused to recognize the organization. Yet the secret liaison afforded real protection to Americans based in Lebanon. A tip-off would arrive when a car bomb or an assassination in Beirut was in the works, and a number of American lives were spared as a result. The math may have worked out, yet it truly was a deal with the devil. A line from II Corinthians came to Janson: What fellowship hath righteousness with unrighteousness? and what communion hath light with darkness?

“So this Libyan—our Libyan—has been directing the Caliph?” Janson swallowed hard. “Quite an irony if one of the deadliest terrorists on the planet turns out to have been triply manipulated.”

“I know it sounds preposterous, but we were grasping at straws,” said Collins. “Hell, we still are. I mean, if you can think of a way to use him, go for it. But the problem remains: we can’t get Demarest in our sights.”

“Whereas,” the pasty-faced systems analyst put in, “he seems to have no problem getting us in his.”

“Which means you’re our best hope,” President Berquist repeated.

“You were his ace protégé, Paul,” Collins said. “Face it. You worked closely with the guy for several tours, you know his wiles, you know the quirks of his character. He was your first mentor. And, of course, there’s nobody better in the field than you, Janson.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Janson said through gritted teeth.

“I mean it, Paul. This is my professional fitness assessment. There’s nobody better. Nobody with greater resourcefulness and ingenuity.”

“Except …” Doug Albright was worrying aloud, then thought better of it.

“Yes?” Janson was insistent.

The DIA man’s eyes were pitiless. “Except Alan Demarest.”

Chapter Thirty-six

Chapter Thirty-six

The handsome West African, his silver hair neatly trimmed, gold cuff links glinting in the setting sun, looked pensively out the window of his thirty-eighth-floor office and waited for his calls to be returned. He was the secretary-general of the United Nations, had been for five years, and what he was about to do would shock most of the people who knew him. Yet it was the only way to ensure the survival of everything he had devoted his life to.

“Helga,” Mathieu Zinsou said, “I’m expecting a call back from Peter Novak. Please hold all other calls.”

“Certainly,” said the secretary-general’s longtime assistant, an efficient Dane named Helga Lundgren.