Yet even if Katsaris had not been so extraordinarily gifted, operational equality could not supplant the bonds of loyalty forged over time, and Janson’s friendship with him went far beyond the context of the commando mission. It was a thing compounded of shared memories and mutual indebtedness. They would talk to each other with urgency and candor, but they would do so away from the others.

The two made their way to the far end of the warehouse, where Foundation-supplied weaponry had been stowed earlier that day. Katsaris quickly disassembled and reassembled selected handguns and long-barreled weapons, making sure that the parts were oiled, but not too heavily—combusted lubricant could create plumes of smoke, visual or olfactory giveaways. Imperfectly plumbed barrels could overheat too quickly. Hinges should be tight, but not too tight. Magazines should slide readily into place, but with just enough resistance to ensure they would be held securely. Collapsible stocks, like those of the MP5Ks, should collapse with ease.

“You know why I’m doing this,” Janson said.

“Two reasons,” Katsaris said. “Arguably the two reasons you shouldn’t be doing this.” Katsaris’s hands moved as he spoke, the clicking and snapping of gunmetal providing a rhythmic counterpoint to his conversation.

“And in my position?”

“I’d do exactly the same,” Katsaris said. He raised the disassembled chamber pocket of a carbine to his nose, scenting evidence of excessive lubrication. “The military wing of the Harakat al-Muqaama al-Islamiya never had a good reputation for returning stolen property.” Stolen property: hostages, especially those suspected of being assets of American intelligence. Seven years ago, in Baaqlina, Lebanon, Janson had been captured by the extremist group; his captors initially thought they had taken an American businessman, accepting his legend at face value, but the flurry of highlevel reactions fueled other suspicions. Negotiations quickly went off the rails, foundering on power struggles within the faction. Only the timely intervention of a third party—the Liberty Foundation, as it later emerged—caused them to alter their plans. After twelve days of captivity, Janson walked free. “For all we know, Novak wasn’t even involved, didn’t have any knowledge of the situation,” Katsaris went on. “But it’s his foundation. Ergo, you owe the man your life. So this lady comes up to you and says, Baaqlina has come due. You’ve got to say yes.”

“I always feel like an open book around you,” Janson said, his smile crinkling the lines around his eyes.

“Yeah, written with one time pad encryption. Tell me something. How often do you think about Helene?” The warrior’s brown eyes were surprisingly gentle.

“Every day.”

“She was magical, wasn’t she? She always seemed so free.”

“A free spirit,” Janson said. “My opposite in every way.”