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Marcus now showed a series of disturbing photos.

Each showed the carnage from a different Kairos attack over the past eighteen months. Some were from the church shooting in Washington, and the subsequent car bombing in D.C. that took the life of Ambassador Tyler Reed. Others showed the suicide bombing at Number 10 Downing Street that killed former National Security Advisor Barry Evans and the suicide bombing on the Temple Mount during the peace summit. Marcus said nothing as he worked his way through the photos. There was no need to go through the particulars of each event. The looks on everyone’s faces were proof enough of how deeply and forever etched in their psyches these attacks were.

“Hamdi Yaşar may not be talking to us—yet—but believe me, his hard drives are,” Marcus finally said. “His phones are. His files are. The videos of each attack we found in his possession are. Yes, grabbing him in the capital of an ally we had not informed we were coming was a risk. And I know that some of you have questioned the wisdom of that tactic. But it has paid off in spades, and I’m grateful to Director Stephens, Dr. Dell, and most of all to the president for the decision to give us the green light.”

At this, Marcus introduced Jenny, who spent several minutes briefing the group in more detail on what they had gleaned from the files and equipment they had taken from the apartment of Hamdi Yaşar. When she was done, she showed slides documenting the number of phone calls Yaşar had made to al-Masri and Abu Nakba, often within minutes of each other. Next, she showed details of wire transfers from a bank in Athens to banks in Switzerland, accounts belonging to—or at least controlled by—Yaşar, according to records found in his safe.

“We were told the name of the organization was Kairos, but that’s not the real name, and the organization is not Greek,” Jenny explained. “The reason neither we nor any of our allies, including the Greek government, have ever found any solid evidence that Abu Nakba and his team are operating in Greece is because they aren’t. The name, the press releases, and the other assorted breadcrumbs we’ve picked up in Athens and Corinth were all designed by Abu Nakba and his operatives to send us and other intelligence agencies on a wild-goose chase.”

Finally she put up satellite reconnaissance photos of a desert compound.

“This is the real home and base of operations for Abu Nakba,” she continued. “This is where he lives and works and plots his wicked schemes. The compound is located just outside a godforsaken town in the western desert of Libya known as Ghat. It’s not far from the Algerian border. Abu Nakba was born in Gaza, but he was actually raised in the oil fields of Libya, and that’s where he settled. We have receipts of nine flights that Hamdi Yaşar has made to Libya—mostly Tripoli, but also Benghazi—from Doha or other cities around the Mideast and Europe over the last several years. We have no hard evidence linking Yaşar to the compound in Ghat. But NSA has reconfirmed—less than an hour ago, in fact—that the satellite phone Yaşar has been calling so often is still active and is currently located inside that compound.”

When she was done, the president asked the question on everyone’s mind.

“Where are we going with this, Miss Morris? What are you and Ryker recommending?”

At this, Jenny deferred to Marcus.

“Sir, we are both nonofficial cover officers for the Central Intelligence Agency,” he replied. “It is not our role to make recommendations, simply to bring you actionable intelligence.”

“So you want me to take action?” asked Clarke.

“Again, that’s not my place, sir.”

“But you want me to order General Meyers here to bomb that compound to kingdom come, right?”

All eyes were on Marcus. He was being asked a direct question by the commander in chief of the United States. Marcus had no intention of glancing over at Director Stephens, though he could see the man was about to cut him off. So Marcus just looked the president in the eye and said, “Well, sir, that sounds about right to me.”

There was a discussion, but it was brief. The president polled the room. The result was unanimous. Everyone wanted him to strike, even Secretary of State Meg Whitney, fresh back from the region.

“Mr. President,” Whitney said, “I’m happy to report that Hezbollah is de-escalating. The Israelis are ready to pull their troops back to the Blue Line once the rockets stop flying. And believe it or not, we’re all set to host the Israelis and the Saudis for a signing on the South Lawn of the White House on Tuesday. I can’t think of any better message to send to the radical jihadists of the world that their day is done and a new era of Middle East peace and prosperity has dawned.”

POTUS nodded and scanned the room, then looked back at Marcus and Jenny. “So be it—let’s get it done.”

Thirty-seven minutes later, a squad of F-35 fighter jets took off from the deck of the USS Nimitz, which was presently steaming across the Mediterranean Sea. As the president and his national security team watched on the monitors, the jets swooped low, hard, and fast across the Libyan desert to avoid detection, then shot up into the blazing afternoon sky and fired their missiles.

The compound was obliterated in a blinding fireball in a matter of seconds, and the satellite phone signal they were all watching on the monitors suddenly went silent.

The room erupted in cheers. Everyone leaped to their feet, shaking hands, slapping each other on the back, and celebrating the total annihilation of the group that had terrorized them and taken too many of their friends.

Everyone, that was, except Marcus.

“You okay?” Jenny asked.

“No,” he said, fighting back his emotions. “But I will be.”

She bent down and gave him a gentle kiss on the cheek.

“I know,” she said. “I know.”