He took another deep breath, calming himself. In truth if Mudah was a monster, then so was he. Yes, a monster.

“Mudah didn’t die quickly.” He turned back and stared at them for a few seconds. “Do you know how easily a man can be made to talk when you’ve removed a finger or two?” Casius asked.

“Mudah told me of a man. An Abdullah Amir—his brother, in fact. He spit in my face and told me that his brother, Abdullah, would strike out at America. And he would do it sooner than anyone might suspect. Not an unusual threat from a man about to die. But what he told me next did catch my attention. Mudah insisted that his brother will strike at American soil from the south. From Venezuela.”

Director Friberg’s eyes flickered, but he held his tongue.

Casius walked back to the table and rested a hand on the back of his chair. “I wouldn’t bother you with the sole confession of a man about to die. But I have more.”

Casius took a settling breath. “You know of a man named Jamal Abin, I’m sure.”

The name seemed to still the room. For a moment they replied only with their breathing.

“It’s our business to know about men like Jamal,” Ingersol finally said. “There’s not much to know about him. He’s a financier of terrorism. What does he have to do with this?”

David spoke for the first time. “I believe Casius is referring to the reports circulated that Jamal was behind the killing of his father in Caracas.”

“Your father was killed in Venezuela?” Ingersol asked. It hardly surprised Casius that the man didn’t know. His history was known only by David, who’d first recruited him.

“My father was a mercenary employed in the drug wars in South America. His throat was slit in a Caracas nightclub, and yes, I believe Jamal was ultimately responsible for his death. Not personally, of course. Jamal isn’t one to show his face much less kill someone himself. But now he’s left a trail.”

They sat there, not comprehending.

“After I killed Mudah, I searched his flat. I found a safe stashed under the bed in his room with evidence that ties Jamal to him and his brother, Abdullah.” Casius pulled a folded sheet of paper from his pocket, unfolded it carefully, and slid it across the table.

“What’s this?” Ingersol asked.

“A receipt for a million dollars delivered to Mudah, earmarked for Venezuela.”

They studied the wrinkled sheet and passed it around. “And you’re saying this J is Jamal’s signature.”

“Yes. It ties Jamal, the ‘financier of terrorism’ as you call him, to Mudah’s brother, Abdullah. I would say that this lends some credibility to our dying man’s confession, wouldn’t you?”

No one responded.

“It’s not really that complicated,” Casius said. “Jamal is a known terrorist. I’m holding evidence that ties Jamal to Abdullah, who evidently has a base in Venezuela. I say that’s a pretty strong case.”