Were there any signs of movement? It took him a few moments before he saw it. Sliding along the ground was the young man who had played the amazing thirteen-card set—the man who had lifted his eyes to the concrete ledge. His midriff was red and slick, but his arms were outstretched, reaching for the revolver of the lifeless soldier next to him.

Janson let off one more burst from his HK. Another shuffle of life’s deck, and the young man became still.

The grotto was an abattoir, filled with the rich, sickening stench of blood and the contents of rippedopen alimentary canals. Janson knew the stench all too well: it was the stench of life once life was taken away.

Oh Christ. Oh God. It was nothing short of carnage, outright butchery. Was this what he did? Was this who he was? The words of an old fitness report returned to mock him: Was he indeed “in his element”? Once more, he flashed back to one of his exit interviews.

“You don’t have a heart, Janson. It’s why you do what you do. Goddammit, it’s why you are who you are.”

“Maybe. And maybe I’m not who you think I am.”

“You tell me you’re sickened by the killing. I’m going to tell you what you’ll discover one day for yourself: it’s the only way you’ll ever feel alive.”

“What kind of man has to kill to feel alive?”

What kind of man was he?

Now he felt something hot and acidic splash in the back of his throat. Had he lost it? Had he changed in ways that made him unfit for the task he had accepted? Perhaps it was simply that he had been out of it for too long, and the necessary calluses had softened.

He wanted to throw up. He also knew he would not. Not in front of Theo, his beloved protégé. Not in the middle of a mission. Not now. His body would be permitted no such indulgences.

A coolly remonstrating voice in his head took over: Their victims were, after all, soldiers. They knew their lives were expendable. They belonged to a terrorist movement that had taken a man of international renown and sworn solemnly to execute him. In guarding a civilian unjustly held captive, they had placed themselves in the line of fire. For Ahmad Tabari, el Caliph, they had pledged to give their lives—all of them had. Janson had merely taken them up on the offer.

“Let’s go,” Janson called to Katsaris. He could rehearse the excuses in his head, could recognize that they were not without some validity, and yet none of it made the slaughter before him any more tolerable.

His own sense of repugnance was the only thing that gave solace. To contemplate such violence with equanimity was the province of the terrorist, the extremist, the fanatic—a breed he had spent a lifetime combating, a breed he had feared he was, in his own way, becoming. Whatever his actions, the fact that he could not contemplate them without horror indicated that he was not yet a monster.