Had he overshot the mark? If the scream drew soldiers who were not assigned to the north wing, the exercise would prove self-defeating. So far there was no sign of that, although the guards who were already present were plainly agitated. Moving his head to the edge of the berm line, he watched the quiet confusion and dismay that had swept through the northern veranda. His destination was the space beneath that veranda, and there was no covered route to it, for the stone walkways that projected from the long east and west walls of the compound stopped fifteen feet before they reached the wall opposite.

That the guards were sitting in the light, whereas he and Katsaris would be in the dark, offered some protection, but not enough: the human visual field was sensitive to motion, and some of the interior light spilled onto the cobbled ground in front of the northern veranda. The mission required absolute stealth: however well trained and equipped, two men could not hold off the hundred or so guerrillas who were housed in the Stone Palace barracks. Detection was death. It was that simple.

Thirty feet away and six feet up, an older man, his leathery brown skin deeply creased, appeared on the veranda, enjoining silence. Silence: so as not to wake the sleeping commanders, who had taken residence in the palace as its proper and rightful inhabitants. As Janson focused on the older man, however, his unease grew. The man spoke of silence, but his face told Janson that it was not his sole, or even primary, concern. Only a larger sense of suspicion could explain the squinted, searching eyes; the fact that his focus moved quickly from the panicked sentries to the shadowy courtyard beyond him, and then to the iron-grilled windows above him. His darting gaze showed that he understood the peculiarities of nighttime vision: the way peripheral vision became more acute than direct vision, the way a direct stare transfigured shapes according to the imagination. At night, observant eyes never stopped moving; the brain could assemble an image from the flickering outlines they collected.

As Janson regarded the man’s creased face, he made some other quick inferences. This was an intelligent, wary man, disinclined to take the incident at face value. From the way the other men deferred to him, his position of seniority was obvious. Another sign of it was the very weapon cradled in a sling around his shoulders: a Russian KLIN. A commonplace weapon, but a smaller and slightly more expensive make than the M16s. The KLIN was more reliable for tightcluster shooting, as opposed to the raking fire to be expected from the relatively untrained.

The others would take their lead from him.

Janson watched him for a few more moments, saw him talking quietly in Kagama, gesturing toward the darkened courtyard, excoriating a sentry who had been smoking. This man was not an amateur.

Detection was death. Had they been detected?