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Marcus didn’t see him first.

One of the spotters did, informing the team over the radio. Mashrawi was emerging from behind them, through an entrance known appropriately as the Gate of Darkness, located on the north side of the plaza. The spotter explained he was dressed in his clerical robes, did not have a security lanyard around his neck, and was walking with a slight limp.

The king, unaware of what was happening, continued to speak.

The spotter provided continuous updates to Marcus, Tomer, and the rest of the security teams as Mashrawi approached from the back side of the dome. He walked slowly and maintained the same steady pace, making no sudden moves.

When he came around the left side of the shrine, Marcus finally saw him. The two men stared at each other as Mashrawi passed by a grove of olive trees. He was still about a football field away, and Marcus ordered everyone to hold all radio traffic.

The king, looking directly into the main television camera, still didn’t know Mashrawi was approaching. But there was a buzz coming from the staffers, some of whom were beginning to move back toward the presumed safety of the mosque.

“Shooters, mark your target, but hold your fire,” Marcus said into his wrist-mounted microphone. “And watch for a diversion.”

The satphone rang.

President Mustafa answered it immediately.

“Are you watching?” asked Yaşar.

“Of course,” the Turkish president replied, sitting transfixed by the image on the screen on the side wall of his office.

“Do you see the man coming into view right now on the far right side of the screen?” Yaşar asked.

“The cleric, in the robes?”

“That’s the one.”

“What about him?”

“That’s our man.”

“Stand by —something is happening,” said one of the Al-Sawt anchors.

“If you’re just joining us, King Faisal of Saudi Arabia has been speaking in front of the Dome of the Rock for the last several minutes,” said his colleague. “But just now the king has stopped speaking. It’s not entirely clear why he —”

“Wait,” noted the first anchor. “Someone’s approaching.”

“Who is that? A security man?”

“No, no, it’s a cleric of some kind.”

“Let’s see if we can get a close-up of the man who has just stopped the king’s speech in midsentence.”

Yasmine Mashrawi gasped.

“Hey, that’s your husband,” the shoemaker said.

The chief of the Royal Guards took a step toward the king.

Marcus saw the motion out of the corner of his eye yet never took his focus off Mashrawi, who he estimated was now no more than a few yards away from one of the Xs on the pavement.

“Your Majesty, welcome to al-Quds,” shouted a beaming if somewhat–glassy-eyed Mashrawi. “What a joy and an honor to have you here, to have all of you here, in one beautiful and sacred place.”

At this, Marcus stepped directly into Mashrawi’s path, between the approaching cleric and the Saudi king. He shouted to the man to stop right where he was.

“It’s okay,” Mashrawi shouted back. “It’s me, Agent Ryker. It’s Hussam.”

Marcus had not drawn his weapon yet. But Tomer now came up beside him, ready to draw his. Mashrawi kept walking. Not quickly. He still made no sudden movement. He simply continued walking toward them at precisely the same speed.

“Dr. Mashrawi, this is your last chance,” Marcus shouted at the top of his lungs. “Stop right where you are. Do not approach another foot.”

“I don’t understand,” said the shoemaker. “Why are they telling him to stop?”

“Don’t they know who he is?” asked the man’s wife.

Yasmine, too, was confused. Just then, however, she remembered the phone in her hand, looked down at it, and flipped it open. As she did, she tried to remember precisely what her husband had told her. Was she to call him the moment she saw him on television or only when Hussam was in the same shot as the president, the king, and the prime minister? She rested her finger over the 5 button and looked back up at the screen.

Was it time? she wondered. Was this the moment?