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Stephens turned to his immediate left.

There sat Geoff Stone.

As a special agent with the Diplomatic Security Service and head of Meg Whitney’s detail, Stone was supposed to be flying in a few hours with the secretary of state and her entourage to Riyadh, the first of eight Arab capitals they would be visiting in the next six days. Stephens had called him for two reasons.

First, he wanted someone from DSS who had combat experience. A Philly native, West Point grad, and Army Ranger, Stone had done multiple combat tours in both the Afghan and Iraqi theaters before leaving the service, joining DSS, and rapidly rising through the ranks. Stone had also been an intelligence specialist and was conversational, if not quite fluent, in Arabic.

Second, Stephens needed someone who knew Ryker and Curtis personally. Stone, now thirty-nine, fit the bill. He’d become acquainted with Marcus Ryker when Ryker was on the Presidential Protective Detail at the White House and Stone was on the detail of a previous secretary of state. More recently, Stone had worked with Ryker and even more closely with Curtis in the run-up to the U.S.–Israeli–Saudi peace summit in Jerusalem. He knew their files. More importantly, he knew their faces.

“All in, sir,” Stone said without hesitation.

“Good. And the secretary?

“You might want to give her a call, sir, but I think she’ll be just fine without me.”

“Fair enough.” Stephens nodded and looked down the line.

Seated to Stone’s left was Donny Callaghan. The former commander of SEAL Team Six, Callaghan was huge—six feet three inches tall and a muscular 220 pounds. He was also one of the best snipers in any branch of the U.S. Armed Services. Born and raised in south Boston, the son of a three-star Army general, he had closely cropped red hair and a bushy red beard, though both had been dyed black for this operation. He was married, had two young children, and had just celebrated his thirty-sixth birthday. For nearly the last two years following the operation in Tanch’ŏn, North Korea, where he’d first met Ryker, Callaghan had been detailed to the CIA, training young paramilitary operators by day and learning Arabic by night.

“It would be an honor, sir,” Callaghan told the DCI.

“Good. Welcome aboard.”

Stephens turned to his right. Sitting directly across from Callaghan was Noah Daniels. Now thirty-five, Daniels had ostensibly been working on the staff of the White House Communications Agency for the last four years, responsible for ensuring that the president and his senior aides had safe and secure phone lines and data links whether they were in the West Wing, the Residence, Air Force One, or on a road trip. In fact, however, he had always worked for the CIA, having first joined the Agency at the age of twenty-three after earning his bachelor’s from MIT and both a master’s and PhD from Stanford. Daniels was a whiz kid who still looked like he was in high school, but there was no system he couldn’t hack or crash. What’s more, he had known Ryker for years and had met Curtis in Jerusalem during the peace summit.

“Absolutely, sir—whatever you need,” Daniels replied.

Only one person remained.

Sitting to the right of Daniels, this one had not been on Stephens’s original list. It had been Dell’s suggestion. Stephens had initially rejected it out of hand. Dell, however, had pressed hard. Eventually she had called in a favor from the national security advisor. Stephens had endured a lengthy and heated call with Bill McDermott, who had insisted that this person not only be on the team but lead it. McDermott had also made it clear that President Clarke wanted to see the person lead the team, as well, and Stephens had finally relented.

To say that the director of Central Intelligence was not happy about being overruled was to put it mildly. Yet he was nothing if not a master poker player and gave no hint to anyone in the room how much he had opposed this decision.