42

The call was answered on the third ring.

Al-Masri provided a nineteen-character code comprising both numbers and letters, speaking slowly and enunciating clearly. When he was finished, he listened as the person on the other end replied with another nineteen-character code. Convinced they were both members of the same organization, al-Masri began to speak. “Jackpot,” he said in Arabic.

“We heard,” came the reply. “Three Americans. No Israelis. Correct?”

Al-Masri was stunned. “How do you know that?”

“It’s all over the news,” came the reply.

“But how? I—”

“The U.S. State Department just put out a statement—it’s the lead on all the networks. How could you not know?”

The question cut al-Masri to the heart. He could not afford to give these people the impression he did not know what he was doing, that he was not in control of every detail. Still, the Americans had been shrewd to announce that three of their people had been taken. It prevented him from acting like he only had one or two. He now had to account for all three.

“There’s been no time,” al-Masri replied. “We’ve been under fire and on the move.”

“Well, you’ve certainly rattled the hornet’s nest. The Zionists say they’ve already sent ten thousand ground forces and mechanized units into southern Lebanon. But reports say that number will likely double by tomorrow. Where are you now?”

“I can’t say.”

“This is a secure line.”

“I’m not giving you operational details—that’s the agreement.”

“Just tell me if you’re north of the Litani River.”

“Why?”

“We’re hearing that the Zionists are promising the Americans they won’t go north of Litani, but they’re going to search every house, every factory, every barn or building of any kind south of the river. Tell me they’re not going to find you.”

“They’re not going to find us,” al-Masri said.

It wasn’t a lie. Not exactly. At the moment, al-Masri and his men were camped out north of the city of Tyre but just south of the Litani River. Soon, however, he would be taking them farther north. And he certainly had no intention of getting caught. Not with all that hung in the balance.

“Convince me,” said the voice on the other end of the line.

“Listen, you either trust me or you don’t.”

“No, you listen to me. We’ve already paid you a fortune for this operation—you work for us, so you’ll answer every question we ask.”

“You paid for Israelis,” al-Masri shot back. “I’m bringing you Americans—three of them—and the price just went up.”

“Forget it—I’m not about to renegotiate in the middle of an operation.”

“Do you want the Americans or not?”

“Of course.”

“Then you’ll pay me double.”

“Have you lost your mind?”

“Maybe, maybe not—but I’ve got the Americans, and if you want them, you’ll pay what I ask.”

“Listen, Amin, if you renege on this deal . . .”

“Then what?”

“We will hunt you down—you and your family—every single one of you.”

“I’m already a wanted man.”

“You haven’t seen anything yet.”

“Enough,” al-Masri said. “Ten million dollars—U.S.—wired to the accounts I gave you. Half now. The rest upon delivery.”

“And if we say no?”

“Then I go to auction and sell to the highest bidder.”

“Where are you going to go? No one’s going to pay that kind of money—no one.”

Al-Masri laughed. “Now who has lost his mind?” he sniffed. “You think the Iranians won’t pay me $10 million for three American federal agents? Even Hezbollah would pay me the money. Every hour that goes by, the Sheikh is growing more desperate. He would fork over the money in a heartbeat. It’s all coming from Tehran anyway.”

There was a long pause.

“Ticktock, my friend,” al-Masri said.

“Are they alive?” asked the man on the other end of the line.

“Of course.”

“Are they well?”

“They’ve been better.”

“But they’ll live?”

“Probably—but they could use medical help, and sooner rather than later.”

There was another pause. “Who exactly do you have?”

“Two men and a woman,” al-Masri said.

“That much we know, you fool—I just told you it’s all over the news. I need names. I need details. I need proof.”

“Of course,” said al-Masri. He spelled the names. “Check your email in about an hour. It’ll take some time to upload. But I’ll send you all the proof you’ll need.”

DOHA, QATAR

Hamdi Yaşar sat in his silver Mercedes, six blocks from his office.

These were not calls he could receive or make from the studios of the Al-Sawt television network. These were not calls he wanted to be making at all. He had implored his superiors that someone else should play the middleman, that things were far too sensitive for him to be directly involved. He had been overruled, told that precisely because these matters were so sensitive, they could not be left to lower-level operatives. Father needed someone he could implicitly trust, and there was no one he trusted more than Hamdi Yaşar.

Staring at the notes he’d just jotted down, he turned off one satphone, then immediately pulled another out of his briefcase and powered it up. He dialed a number from memory and went through a similar verification process that his man on the ground in southern Lebanon had just used, though the authorization codes themselves were entirely different. The process took almost three minutes.

He’d done this hundreds of times. He knew the phones were clean and secure. Yet with every second that ticked by, Yaşar feared the call was being intercepted by the NSA, fed into the supercomputers back at Fort Meade, routed to the Global Operations Center at Langley, and relayed in almost real time to a U.S. Air Force Predator drone pilot on some base out in Arizona. How long before some commander ordered a Hellfire missile strike on his car? How soon would Hamdi Yaşar find himself incinerated and hurled from this world into the next?

The founder of the Kairos terror network came on the line, his voice raspy yet full of anticipation. “Is it confirmed?” Abu Nakba asked in his classic modern Arabic, from his compound half a world away.

“It is indeed,” Yaşar replied. Though a Turk, and a proud one at that, his Arabic was fluent, and it was the only language he and the founder ever used when they spoke.

“Three Americans?”

“Yes, Father—two men and a woman, all employees of the Diplomatic Security Service, just as all the reports are saying.”

“Praise Allah—what a glorious day.”

“Praise Allah.”

“Does he have their names?”

“Yes,” said Yaşar. “The two men are Thomas Millner and Daniel Case.”

“And the woman?”

“Her name is Kailea Curtis.”

“How do you spell the first name?”

“K-a-i-l-e-a.”

“I have never heard of that name.”

“Nor have we.”

“She’s really American?”

“Her parents are originally from India, but yes, we understand she was born and raised in the New York City area.”

“Did your man send pictures and video proof?”

“He’s about to, but there’s something else.”

“What?”

“He wants more money.”

“How much more?”

“Ten million.”

“For three American agents?”

“I told him he was crazy—that’s twice what we had agreed.”

“Surely you are joking, my son,” said Abu Nakba, though he was not laughing. “Even at $20 million, this would be a bargain—a tremendous coup for Kairos. Especially after the disaster in Jerusalem. We need this. We need to remind Washington—and our investors—that Kairos is a force to be reckoned with. Make the deal. Today. And take custody of those three before your man changes his mind.”