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Salim said, “They’re sending us someone from Bosnia. Some guy who apparently knows more than we do.”

The man on the La-Z-Boy leaned forward. Named Khan, he was a squat, burly hulk, looking more like a bear than a human, right down to the coarse hair on his arms and face. He said, “Why is that a bad thing? Maybe we could use his expertise.”

Khalid, one of the video game players, punched a couple of buttons, rotating his arms with the controller in the air, fighting an invisible army and saying, “Why do we need him?”

Salim said, “I don’t know. But I guess Iran does.”

Barely out of his teenage years, Khalid was the youngest man on the team. Wearing a flat-brimmed baseball cap and a Wu Tang Clan T-shirt, he didn’t instill confidence in others with his affection for Western culture, but he had proven himself in training and in real-world operations. He was respected in the room, despite his affinity for video games and other sins of the Great Satan. He said, “We’ve followed the Fifth Fleet commander for a month. We can kill him without their help.”

Salim wanted to agree, because the text from the steganography program was an insult, but he also knew they couldn’t do it on their own. They were at the end of their rope, both fiscally and tactically.

He said, “We ran out of money a month ago. We have no idea what he’s doing now. The last time we paid that clerk in the office was five weeks ago. The last schedule we have is two months old. Yeah, we could have killed him then, but we didn’t get the word to do so. Now we have that order, and we have the man bringing the money to make it happen.”

Khalid set the controller on the couch and said, “Why didn’t we just kill him then? When we had the chance? Why did we wait until we have to start all over? Do they not care about retribution for the general?”

Salim said, “I don’t know, but I’m sure it was for a good reason. When they assassinated him it set everything back. But now it’s going forward again.”

Jamal, the other video game player, said, “Who are they sending?”

“Someone who has a specialty for assassinations. Someone from Bosnia. A killer.”

“What are we supposed to do?”

“Meet him. The contact is asking for linkup information. He’ll have the money, which we need. We can decide whether we want his expertise or not. Where should we do it?”

Khalid said, “Near the causeway. As far away from Manama as possible. Don’t have him fly in. Have him fly to Khobar in Saudi Arabia. If he gets rolled up there, it won’t taint us. If he doesn’t, and he makes it across the border, we’ll meet him in a vehicle here.”

Salim nodded and said, “That makes sense. I’ll use that petrol station right across the causeway. The one with the restaurant just past the tollbooth. If he makes it past that, he’ll be clean.”

He typed up a short message, giving specific instructions, then said, “What picture do I use this time? You guys want to be famous?”

Chapter 18

Inside the basement headquarters of the Knights of Malta, Garrett read his response to the phone text, satisfied it held nothing incriminating. Well, nothing that he couldn’t clean up afterward by taking her phone. He hit send and said, “We’re on for tonight. At her place.”

Raphael smiled and said, “So you liked the idea?”

“Yeah. Yeah I did. This is the statement we need, and we have the connections to make it happen without a lot of work.”

Meaninghehad the connections.

He turned to look at his computer screen, the image of a thirty-something woman with a biography from the U.S. State Department. Her name was Gabrielle Hernandez, and she was the chargé d’affaires of the U.S. mission to the United Nations agencies in Rome.

Known as the world headquarters for food and agriculture, the United Nations agencies in Rome were involved with every single humanitarian disaster on the globe, from Yemen to Myanmar, and the Knights of Malta had dealt with them extensively in Syria, helping them wade through the myriad militias fighting each other to deliver life-giving sustenance to the people just trying to survive the war. It was a goal that both the United Nations and the Knights of Malta wanted to see happen. Which is where he’d met Gabrielle.

He felt bad about the target, but couldn’t fault Raphael for the choice. She was someone they’d both dealt with in Syria, which meant they could design a meeting, and she was also of such importance that her death would not be overlooked by the press. Especially the way they intended to do it.

Garrett turned from the computer, held up his phone, and said, “It’s at her residence in the Eurosky Tower. Thank God she still had the same cell number. I’ve been there before, on Knights’ business. She’s on the twenty-seventh floor.”

“Why did she agree to the meeting? What did you tell her?”

“Only that we need some new help with the UN. Just paperwork stuff. She asked if we could come to her office at the U.S. embassy and I told her I wouldn’t be free until after business hours. She agreed to meet in her residence.”

Donatello said, “Good. Makes it easier.”

“Where do we stand with Bahrain?” said Garrett. “Are we in play there or what?”

Leonardo said, “The message has been sent. Just waiting on the response.”