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The ghost of Wyatt Jackson haunted Marcano as he rode in the backseat of the sedan to the White House. As he had done before, he would have to eyewash the president on these latest developments.

He would have to let her know that there was at least a chance Jackson had been killed in a drone strike. That way she would understand how critical it was to convince the Saudis to take responsibility for the bombings. But Marcano would need to be careful about the way he explained this. He would paint a scenario where the CIA had no reason to believe that Jackson was in the Land Rover at the time of the strike. Only in hindsight, only after reviewing additional satellite and drone photographs, had they developed their suspicions. It would be a difficult line to walk, but the critical point was this—nobody could ever prove that Jackson had been killed. There would certainly be no DNA in the ashes.

White House security processed Marcano, and he joined the president’s other grim-faced advisers in the Situation Room. Philip Kilpatrick was there. He looked like he had aged fifteen years in the last week alone. The gray beard seemed more haggard than before, and his eyes bugged out behind the black-rimmed glasses. He had his shirtsleeves rolled up and his tie loosened, as if he were a blue-collar workingman trapped in a white-collar uniform.

Perhaps it wasn’t so much that he had changed but that the air around him had changed. From confident to wary, the man who was always two steps ahead suddenly finding himself struggling to keep up.

Marcano’s nemesis, the young and cocky vice president, was in the room as well, looking like he had dressed for church. Marcano knew that Leroy Frazier would jump at any chance to discredit the CIA and spout his moralistic tripe about the need for America to lead in the fight for global justice. He was too young and idealistic to understand the complexities of global engagement, the shades of gray that colored international espionage.

Defense Secretary Simpson was also present. But the man who concerned Marcano the most was Attorney General Wachsmann. He was no fool and undoubtedly assumed that such a hastily called meeting would involve some CIA shenanigans he would be asked to support. He had argued against putting Saleet Zafar on the kill list in the first place, and now Marcano would be reporting on the imam’s death.

The president entered the room, and a second round of handshaking commenced. She took her seat at the head of the table and didn’t waste a second. “John, you called this meeting. Let’s get started.”

Marcano handed confidential folders to everyone. He knew that once they had the memos and satellite photos, he would lose their attention. But this was all about creating a paper trail anyway, so he didn’t really care.

He explained that earlier that day, they had confirmed a sighting of Mokhtar al-Bakri, aka Pinocchio, in Aden, Yemen. Amazingly, he was meeting with Saleet Zafar and a few other men. Marcano had authorized drone flights to obtain surveillance video and await further orders.

“The first photo in our package is from our satellite feed. It’s hard to tell who’s there. The second photo is from our drone. It’s taken from behind Saleet and his men but you can see al-Bakri facing them. The third photo is a close-up of al-Bakri’s face.”

The others in the room leafed through the photos. It was possible to discern the vague contours of al-Bakri’s face and the back of Saleet Zafar. A man stood behind Zafar with a weapon, and another man stood next to him wearing a traditional head covering and a long brown coat.

Not included in the folders—because Marcano had left them out—were any shots taken from in front of Zafar, any shots that would show the gray mustache on his sidekick.

“A firefight erupted during the meeting, and al-Bakri was shot,” Marcano continued. “The next photograph was taken a few seconds later. Everybody scattered, so I authorized a drone strike on Zafar, who, as you all know, was on our list of enemies.”

Marcano waited a minute as they riffled through the next few pages showing the crater and the aftereffect of the missiles.

“Saleet Zafar escaped into the city, but we had one of our drones run him down. We missed once when we fired at his vehicle, thinking it was clear of others. It was prayer time and we were afraid that he was headed toward a mosque and would disappear into a crowd. You’ll remember that we had already lost this man once.”

By now, virtually everyone around the table had already leafed through the other photos, well ahead of Marcano’s narrative. They had seen the devastation of the street in Aden and they knew that Saleet Zafar had not survived.

Marcano finished his narration anyway, photo by photo, explaining that the Hellfire 3 missile had struck with precision, keeping casualties to a minimum. He admitted that it wasn’t ideal, but their only alternative would have been to let Zafar escape.

“The Saudis have in the past admitted to firing their missiles at mosques and commercial districts. If they agree to take responsibility here, it will be just one more example of their insensitivity to collateral damage. There will be international condemnation for the killing of a Muslim cleric, but the noise will die down quickly as long as the strike is blamed on the Saudis rather than the United States.”

There was some halfhearted debate, but eventually they adopted Marcano’s proposal. The president would direct the secretary of state to cut a deal with the Saudis. The U.S. would continue its support of the Saudi bombing campaign in Yemen, and in turn the Saudis would take credit for these two hits. They would need to do it quickly. Photos of the devastation were already circulating.

“Who was with Zafar?” Seth Wachsmann asked.

“The man behind him was probably al Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula. We tried to run a facial recognition on the man beside him but came up empty.”

Wachsmann took off his glasses and leaned closer to the photo. He looked up at Marcano and narrowed his eyes. “Was that man part of the collateral damage?”

“He was. He fled with Zafar and was in the vehicle when the missile hit.”

Wachsmann looked at the president, but she didn’t return his gaze. The conversation soon shifted to a plan B—what if the Saudis weren’t willing to take credit? And finally, for the first time since the meeting started, the ever-composed John Marcano took a deep and relaxing breath.

After the meeting, he pulled the president aside and spoke with her privately in the West Wing. “I need you to know about a possible worst-case scenario,” Marcano said.

They were both standing. Marcano had told her this would be very short.

“Wyatt Jackson flew to Dubai last week. We have no record of him crossing into Yemen, but it’s possible.” Marcano watched the president’s face tighten, her eyes wary. She could apparently sense what was coming.

“We don’t know why he went, but it’s possible he might have been meeting with Saleet Zafar. We know Zafar was a friend of Cameron Holloman’s.”

“What are you saying? Get to the point.”

“That the man with Zafar might have been Wyatt Jackson.”

“And you knew this at the time you authorized the strike?” The president’s voice was sharp and accusatory.

Marcano stayed calm, his own voice low and even. “Of course not. There was no record of Jackson flying anywhere near Aden. At the time we were focused on Zafar. The men with him were an afterthought. In hindsight, looking back through the photos, I’m just saying there is a possibility it might have been Jackson.”

The president sighed, exasperated. She began to speak but stopped herself. When she did, her voice was soft and ominous. “John, Wyatt Jackson better make it back to the United States alive. There is no rationale that could justify taking him out if we had even the slightest hint that he was the person with Zafar.”

“I assure you, Madam President, we did not. But with respect, if it was Wyatt Jackson, then he had entered the country of Yemen illegally and was conspiring with our terrorist enemies. Under our rules of engagement, we would have been justified.”

“He’s an American citizen, John. He’s entitled to due process.”

“This is a war, Madam President. If he was conspiring with our enemy, he is entitled to no such thing.”