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  Davis leaned across from the other side, giving the image of two rams butting heads. “You’ve got it! On your desk tomorrow morning!” He whirled and stormed toward the door.

  “Davis!” she screeched. “Don’t you walk out on—”

  The door slammed, cutting off the rest. In the anteroom, Davis paused. He could hear Sparky screaming his name and spewing obscenities like some kind of verbal Roman candle. Michael the receptionist was at his desk now. Davis grinned at him.

  Michael grinned right back.

  By the time he hit the parking lot, Davis was feeling better. He’d done a lot of rash things in his time. Sometimes he regretted them. This one felt pretty good. With his military retirement he could get by without the paycheck. And he had enjoyed walking out on Sparky. Really enjoyed it.

  Davis was unlocking his car when he heard a shout.

  “Jammer! Wait!”

  He turned to see Larry Green. Larry headed up the Office of Aviation Safety, one rung above Sparky in the organizational food chain. He was also one of Davis’ old squadron commanders, a guy who’d made two stars before getting out of the Air Force and signing on with the NTSB. Green was running at a good clip, which came naturally—he was a marathon runner, one of those lean, wispy guys who could go all day. When he caught up to Davis he wasn’t even breathing hard.

  “Bad news travels fast,” Davis said.

  “Jammer, hear me out—”

  “I can’t work for that hellion, Larry.”

  “She needs your help.”

  “She needs her barnacles scraped!” Davis reached for the door handle.

  “This is not about her, Jammer.” Green stared with his trademark intensity. Davis knew him as an old-school commander, the kind of guy who would spend thirty minutes spitting profanity-laced nails at his squadron, then turn things over to the chaplain for a prayer. Even now, without the stars on his shoulders, he was a guy you listened to. Davis paused.

  Green said, “An airplane went down. Two pilots are dead.”

  Davis gave no reply.

  “Hell, Jammer. A new airplane type, just certified. Dealing with all the different countries and agencies that’ll be involved. This one’s gonna be a bitch. It might even be out of your league.”

  Davis put his hands on his hips. A challenge. That was good. Flattery wouldn’t have done it. Intimidation? Not a chance. But Jammer Davis never turned down a challenge. A good commander like Green always knew which buttons to push.

  “Larry, I can’t shuttle back and forth to France for a year.”

  “I know. But Collins himself wants you on this one.”

  “Collins? The managing director of the NTSB asked for me?”

  “By name.”

  Davis was skeptical. It must have showed.

  “I talked to him about you, Jammer. I told him you’re a guy who gets things done.”

  “No, I’m a guy who pisses people off—which sometimes gets things done.”

  Green kept pressing. “You speak French, right?”

  “I’m a little rusty, but yeah.”

  “Look, give me two weeks. Go to Houston for the seventy-two-hour, take it to France and look things over. Then, if you want out, I’ll get somebody else.”

  Davis crossed his arms, leaned back on his car. “Two weeks?”

  “Not a day more—unless you agree.”

  “And you’ll demote Sparky?”

  Green didn’t miss a beat. “She’ll be cleaning toilets by lunchtime.”

  “Men’s room?”

  “Men’s room.”

  Davis nodded. Almost smiled. Then he said reflectively, “You know, Larry, a lot of people seem to find me gruff, uncompromising. I’ve never figured out why.”

  His old boss shrugged. “Beats me, Jammer. I think you’re a sweetheart.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  DAMASCUS, SYRIA

  At mid-afternoon, the streets of Damascus were busy. The air was laced with dust as throngs of black-clad women scurried to and from the markets. Businessmen and beggars plied their respective trades. Amid it all, children darted haphazardly between buildings, lean-to kiosks, and donkey carts, chasing a friend here, picking a pocket there.

  No one bothered the two burly men who strode through the chaos. Their speed and posture indicated a purpose, and while no one could give their names, everyone knew who they worked for. The two were sweating heavily when they arrived at the Al-Koura Hotel—winter was a relative term here, and the simple exertion of a quick walk was enough to dampen even those accustomed to the conditions.

  The men stopped at the front desk. Eyes hard and jaws set, they simply glared at the proprietor.

  “Twelve,” the man said meekly, already knowing why they were here. He held out a key.

  The room was on the second floor and a key was not necessary. The door was unlocked. Barging into the squalid place, they found her on the bed, snoring and quite naked. The two men looked at one another in disgust. The woman before them was an unsightly vision. Grievously overweight, her pale, cratered folds sprawled wide, covering nearly the entire mattress.

  “This,” said one of the men, “is why God invented the burqua.”

  The other agreed. “Without it, such a woman could never hope to find a husband.”

  Together they went to the bed and, in the interest of everyone’s dignity, one of the men drew a sheet over her bloated body. With considerable effort they rolled her until her face was displayed—a disappointment in equal measure to the rest of the woman. Flabby chin, pockmarked cheeks, hawkish nose, and a sallow, mottled complexion. Her black hair was bristly and coarse—a cut section might be used to scrub a filthy pot clean.

  “Get up!” one of the men ordered. “You are late!”

  The woman let out a snort that would have sounded more natral coming from a camel. Then she began to stir. “Wha—”

  This one syllable rode on breath that was not only foul, but laced with alcohol—enough to make the nearest man turn his head in revulsion. Her eyes opened briefly, blankly. Then her head sagged back to the pillow.

  “Wretched cow!” Frustrated, one of the men strode into the bathroom. The trash can was empty. He filled it with cold water from the tap, hauled it to the bedroom and took careful aim.

  In the Old City of Damascus the streets were narrow, less busy. The cramped warren of mud-brick buildings was a maze that had evolved over the best part of two thousand years. Complicating things further, many of the most ancient structures within the ramparts of the Old City had been abandoned, simply left behind as a new generation gave up on tradition and migrated to outlying neighborhoods where reliable plumbing and uninterrupted power were a given. The result was predictably awkward—a snarled mix of timeless architecture, rubble stacks, and business as usual.

  Nestled deep amid the confusion, in a labyrinthine network of mismatched buildings, a group of men sat on the floor of a dank teahouse. They formed a swerving line on a long rug, and sipped sweet tea as smoke spun in a blue haze over their heads, a noxious mix of harsh tobacco and hashish from rooms beyond.

  The eight Arabs were encircled at the perimeter by a phalanx of servants and guards. They came from across the region, representatives not so much of countries, but rather tribes—different sects, slightly varied ethnicities. More to the point, each commanded an arsenal of committed warriors, men and women who were expert in the fine arts of rocket attack, ambush, and suicide bombing. Only a few generations back, their ancestors would have been skirmishing across the sands of Persia and Arabia. In the modern world, however, such ancient discord had to be put aside, superseded by the demands of a common faith—and a common, relentless enemy. Four of the room’s occupants were on America’s list of “Most Wanted” terrorists. The others, relative newcomers, hoped to attain the honor soon. It was a teahouse the Americans would love to have the coordinates of.

  The organization was a loose one, none of the men having any particular authority. None allowing it. That being the case, the man in the middle, Abdullah al-Wajid, acted as spokesperson for the most ancient of reasons—he was the eldest. And he was none too happy when Fatima Adara was dragged in.

  His men shepherded the great woman inside and deposited her on the floor, her bulk crushing a large pillow. She looked worse than usual, and for a moment al-Wajid thought Fatima might topple over. But then, with obvious determination, she righted herself. A large flowing robe hid her body, thankfully, but her face was uncovered. The olive eyes were lazy, two black pools of oil floating aimlessly over reddened sclera. Her hair was askew and matted on one side, exactly as it had come off the pillow, no doubt.

  Al-Wajid forced a level of respect into his voice that was not truthful. “Thank you for coming.”

  Fatima blinked and her void expression seemed to focus. “Oh—sure.”

  “How is Caliph?”

  “Caliph? Okay. He sends respect.”

  Clearly not through his deeds, al-Wajid thought.

  Fatima licked her puffy lips. “You got anything to drink here?”

  A surprised al-Wajid exchanged glances with the men at his sides. Left and right, he saw the same question percolate—did she mean alcohol? They had been watching Fatima since she’d arrived last night, earlier than scheduled. Instead of moving up the meeting, she had wandered off to a hotel, gotten drunk, and tried unsuccessfully to take the bellman to her room, no doubt to fornicate. Al-Wajid pushed away the repulsive thought and gestured to a servant near the door. The man quickly produced a tray with a pitcher of water and a glass. He delivered it to their guest. Fatima frowned, but poured a glass and began slurping like a horse at trough.

  “Why has Caliph called this meeting?” asked the bearded man to al-Wajid’s right. He spoke to Fatima slowly, enunciating each wor
d with great precision as one might to a child. “Has something happened to change our plans?”

  She coughed. Water dribbled over her chin and fell into her considerable lap. “Plans? Yeah, they change. We have to move everything ahead.”

  Again, the men swapped unhappy glances.

  “To when?” al-Wajid asked.

  “Right away.”

  There was murmuring throughout the room. Al-Wajid said, “You are sure about these instructions?”

  “Sure? Yeah, I’m sure. Caliph, he makes me say everything until I know his words exactly.”

  This al-Wajid did not doubt.

  One of the others said, “We have gone to great trouble to place Allah’s warriors across the world. Why this change when we are already so near?”

  Fatima shrugged, her mouth curling into an upside down U. “You know Caliph—he never tells me stuff like that.” She cackled, “He’s a real prick.”

  “Woman!” spat a gray-bearded man with a severely hawkish nose. “Do not demean your master!” The old bird was recognized as the most pious of those here, a strict Wahhabist who was always quick to thump his Koran. Fatima’s lopsided grin stayed in place, and a fog of hesitation descended on the room.

  Al-Wajid forged ahead, addressing his peers. “The time for questions has passed. For years we have been fighting the West in our backyard, killing their crusaders and striking against our own traitors and profiteers—those who have forsaken Allah in pursuit of American greed. But in doing so we also kill the innocent, tread upon one another.” Nods of acceptance around the room. It was no small testament to Caliph’s talents of persuasion that those here were an even mix of Sunnis and Shiites. “Caliph has given us a chance to take our fight to the enemy’s ground, a chance to bring the West to its knees. He has united us like none before.”

  Another agreed, “And Caliph himself is blessed, having survived against America’s most accomplished assassins. He is clearly one chosen by Allah.”

  There were no more reservations. All were in concurrence. All were eager to strike.

  Fatima said, “Oh, and Caliph wants to know how soon you can do it.”

  “Everything is in place for the first phase,” al-Wajid said. “Does the interval remain the same?”

  “The wha—oh, the time in between. Yeah, sure.”

  “Very well. Tell Caliph the order will be given immediately, God willing.”

  Fatima emitted a throaty chuckle. “God willing. Caliph, he prays a lot, you know.”

  “He is a servant of the Prophet. A good example for us all,” al-Wajid added pointedly.

  “So I tell him everything will happen soon.”

  “Yes.”

  Fatima rose unsteadily, gave her bristly scalp a scratch, and meandered toward the door.

  As soon as she was gone, one of the two men who had retrieved her appeared. “Shall we follow her to the airport?” he asked.

  Al-Wajid shook his head. “No, do not bother. She somehow always finds her way.” The man disappeared. Al-Wajid turned to the others.

  “Why does Caliph keep such a messenger?” one asked.

  Al-Wajid had often asked himself this same question. Two years earlier, the Americans had nearly killed Caliph. Afterward, he had gone into hiding, become more effective than ever. And Fatima Adara was now his only contact, his dubious messenger.

  “She is an embarrassment,” the same man said, “not even a believer.”

  “When a woman looks like that,” another responded, “she should find religion. But then our leader is shrewd. Imagine—if any man should ever try to seduce her, Caliph will know he is a spy.”

  Muted chuckles came.

  “Enough!” said the ever-serious al-Wajid. “For all her faults, she has been reliable. Our communications with Caliph have always been accurate, and the arrangement allows him to remain in the shadows, where the Americans cannot reach.”

  “I am left to wonder,” a tall Shiite remarked, “why can all the attacks not take place at once? Why must we divide ourselves? After the first strike their security will certainly be—”

  “No!” al-Wajid interjected. “The time for such questions has passed. We have all agreed to Caliph’s plan, and he has never led us down any path without reason. Until we recover our lands from the westerners, we are a people cut in half. Only our faith will again make us whole.”

  More nods.

  Al-Wajid declared an end to the meeting. When the men stood, they broke into small groups and embraced, the age-old tradition when clans formed an alliance. Yet on leaving, all were alone as they disappeared into the dusty haze of the Old City.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  HOUSTON, TEXAS

  The flight from Dulles was on time, but Houston’s traffic was a mess. Davis pulled in front of the house at three o’clock that afternoon.

  Captain Earl Moore’s widow lived in a relatively new two-story tract house in the suburb of Spring. Davis parked in the street and looked things over. The lawn was tightly trimmed, the bushes sculpted, and the street clean. Tidy. A shiny new BMW sat parked along the curb in front of his rental Hyundai. Davis walked up a neat paver-brick path to the front portico. There were more bricks here, Styro-foam racks of faux stone stuck to the side of the house with glue to give a timeless appearance. Like the place had been built a hundred years ago. Or like it might still be standing in another hundred.

  Davis felt uneasy. The woman inside had certainly known about her husband’s death for a full day now. Still, it seemed like he was bringing death to her door. He’d done two notifications during his time in the Air Force. It was lousy duty—pull up in a blue steely wearing your service dress uniform, shoulder to shoulder with the base chaplain. With a picture like that you didn’t need to say much. The wives knew what it meant. Just like he had known two years ago when the highway patrolman with the dour face had come to his door—Diane was late, not answering her phone. You just knew.

  He rang the bell and a bespectacled middle-aged man answered. He wore a suit and was well groomed. Fair hair, thin build, and pale. Very pale. The word that came to Davis’ mind was “milquetoast.” The fellow was putting some effort into his expression, trying for serious and skeptical. Davis still thought, “milquetoast.” The BMW guy, he decided. A gatekeeper, but not family. A brother would have parked in the driveway.

  “Yes?”

  “Hello, sir. My name’s Davis.” He flashed his creds. “I’m with the NTSB, and I’d like to ask Karen Moore a few questions.”

  The guy took a long look at the ID, which was unusual. Most people only glanced. “She’s had a pretty rough time. Can’t it wait?”

  “I’m afraid not. But it won’t take long.”

  He hesitated.

  Davis said, “And you are—?”

  “I’m Jason Lavender, her attorney.”

  Lavender, Davis thought. Like the color of a flower. He said, “Nice to meet you.”

  The guy deliberated, waffled, then said, “Just a minute.” He disappeared into the house.

  A lawyer wasn’t what Davis needed right now. He’d always had a knack for sifting through data and debris, finding the secrets of what brought airplanes down. But delicate conversations with grieving widows, fencing with attorneys—not his game. That required tact and finesse. Soft words and gentle smiles. Like you might get from a crisis counselor or a parish priest. Jammer Davis had the god-given finesse of a wrecking ball. Which wasn’t always a bad thing. Wrecking balls got results. Maybe not what you were after, but something always came down.

  A woman came to the door. She was fortyish and looked a lot like the house—well-tended. She was fit, probably worked out a lot. Her short brown hair was nicely cut and styled with blonde highlights. Davis noticed her eyes, a cool blue with subtle makeup—makeup one day after her nearly ex-husband had died in a terrible crash. He also saw what wasn’t there. No redness, no puffy bags. No crumpled tissue in her hand.

  “Hello, miss. I’m Jammer Davis, an investigator with the NTSB.” He pushed out his ID again. Karen Moore didn’t even look. “I realize this might not be a great time, but there are a few important questions I need to ask.”

  “No, it’s not a good time.” Her voice was winter.