112

Gilad shrugged.

“I don’t know, but Tomer makes the strongest case,” he said.

“You’re just biased because he’s Israeli,” Geoff said, smiling.

“Probably. But look, does Iran have more to gain? Absolutely. But they also have more to lose. A war between their main proxy and us is not, in fact, in their best interest right now. Soon, yes, but not on the day of Ansari’s death. They are doing their best to take full advantage of what al-Masri has done, but they were blindsided by this. Kairos, on the other hand, has been laying low for the past year or so. They had big, showy, spectacular operational successes in your capital and in London and very nearly in ours. And this does fit their profile. They recruit smart, savvy, disgruntled mid-level operatives in key cities and then give them a great deal of money and a plan to execute. Somewhere, somehow, they found al-Masri. They learned he wasn’t happy with the Hezbollah leadership, or at least that he wanted or needed a great deal of money, and they recruited him to do their bidding.”

“Maybe you’re right, but all that just leads back to Marcus’s question,” Jenny said. “Whether it’s Iran or Kairos or someone else, we can’t make a move until we know exactly who recruited al-Masri and who was handling him.”

“Actually, I may be able to shed some light on that,” said a voice behind them.

Everyone turned to find Noah coming up the aisle.

“What’ve you got?” asked Marcus.

“Al-Masri only took or made calls to two numbers on this phone,” Noah replied. “Want to guess where?”

“Tehran,” said Jenny.

“Survey says . . . no.”

“Ankara,” said Geoff.

“Survey says . . . no again—but you’re close on one of them.”

“Istanbul.”

“Bingo.”

Geoff threw his hands up in the air in victory.

“And the other?” Marcus asked.

“You tell me,” Noah said.

“Beirut,” said Callaghan, piping up for the first time.

“No.”

“Somewhere else in Lebanon?” Callaghan asked again.

“Sorry, no.”

“Athens,” said Tomer.

“No.”

“Anywhere in Greece?” Tomer pressed.

“No.”

“Just tell us, Noah,” Marcus insisted, in no mood for a game.

“Fine—be that way,” said Noah. “The other number is in Doha.”

“Doha?” Jenny asked. “As in the capital of Qatar?”

“Is there another?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“This is where most of the calls are to and from,” Noah explained. “There are only three calls to Istanbul, but thirteen to Doha.”

“That’s where his handler is,” Gilad said.

“Then that’s where we need to go,” said Marcus.

HEZBOLLAH HEADQUARTERS, BEIRUT, LEBANON

Sheikh Ja’far ibn al-Hussaini locked himself in his office.

He ordered his chief of staff and personal secretary to clear his schedule, keep everyone away, and put no calls through to him until he told them otherwise. He desperately needed time to think, time to come up with a way out of this self-inflicted catastrophe.

How in the world could this have happened? he asked himself over and over again. How could his men have let this happen? Against every instinct in his body, he had listened to the fools around him who had insisted he go on live television to tell the world that Hezbollah had captured three American spies. Worse, he had let himself be pressured by that traitor Amin al-Masri to speak to the nation even before al-Masri had turned over the prisoners to him. For what? None of it was true. And now the Americans had escaped.

Mubarak’s advice had a certain logic that was compelling. Getting out in front of the story of the prisoners’ escape by announcing that Hezbollah had uncovered and eliminated a joint Mossad/CIA spy ring had an unmistakable appeal. But how long would it be before the Americans showed up on their own television networks to give their version of what happened? Hours? Days? And what would he tell his forces, much less the world, then? The prisoners would very likely sound far more credible than he when they went public. They, after all, knew what happened to them. He still had no idea.

No, he decided, he could not do another broadcast. Not yet. Not until he knew more. And certainly not until he had spoken to General Entezam. Or better yet, until he had spoken to President Afshar. But what was he going to tell them? How was he going to explain the utter incompetence of what was supposed to be the most feared terrorist organization in the world—what the Americans had once called “the A-Team” of international terror?

Tehran, however, was not his only problem. There was still the war with the Zionists. He had upwards of forty thousand IDF troops occupying the entire south of Lebanon, up to the Litani River. As a result of devastating air strikes, millions of Lebanese no longer had power to run their lights or air-conditioning or refrigerators or any of their appliances. They could no longer even watch a televised broadcast if he gave one. At the moment, all their anger was directed at the Zionists. But once they found out the Americans had escaped, would that change? Would their anger be directed at him? At Hezbollah? At the regime in Tehran?

He had to stop this war, the Sheikh suddenly realized. He had to find a way to declare victory and de-escalate. But how?