"Someone known to me?"

"Ivan Borz."

"Your own private ghost. It happens we have a line on him in Cairo. I assume you know that."

"Lines intersect, Eli. Let's make sure they don't cross."

"Lev Bin." Yadin recited a mobile number.

"I'll contact him," Bourne said. "Now tell me why the FSB thinks Sara killed Boris. I'm the one who found her star. No one saw me, no one knows."

"Perhaps it was simply her presence, along with the discovery of the man she did terminate. Consider: the head of FSB is murdered and that same day a Kidon agent is spotted leaving the country."

"How did they make her? I thought Kidon personnel were-"

"A story for another time, Jason. Right now my concern is for Sara."

"Where is she, Eli? Jerusalem?"

"She was. I wanted to hustle her off to the Maldives for a vacation and for her own protection. Only-"

"Only what, Eli?"

"She took a different flight."

A clutch in the pit of Bourne's stomach. "Where did she go, Eli?"

"When you see her, Jason, and you will see her, sooner rather than later, tell her she's in a shitload of trouble from me." A heavy intake of breath, audible even over the secure line. "And, Jason, don't let anything happen to her."

- A young woman brought the tea on a tray she held aloft with one hand. A rolled prayer rug was beneath her free arm. Her black robes covered her from head to toe so only her eyes could be seen, which was the way women were obliged to present themselves in public. Anything less modest was wicked, wanton, an affront to the strict teachings of Allah.

"Time," she said. The two men had long since finished their cigars, the smoke dissipating on the late-night wind that scoured the desert, created tiny sand devils, whirling dervishes that turned the uplights brown.

As the woman set the tray down on a side table, El-Amir said, "Borz, look into her eyes."

Borz did so, saw those magnificent eyes from the new video El-Amir had shot, edited, and uploaded to the Net.

"Congratulations," Borz said. "You're a star."

El-Amir smiled. "No doubt," he added. "No doubt at all."

Ivan Borz reached beneath his chair, unfurled his own silk prayer rug. The woman handed the rug she carried to El-Amir. She looked askance at the severed head in its box.

"Remind you of your homeland?" Borz said, because he couldn't help himself.

Her eyes lifted to his. There was no hint of amusement in them. He had learned rapidly that she had no sense of humor whatsoever.

"I am reminded of the oppressor every time I see drones in the sky, see missiles pulverize a home where someone I knew lived."

Borz grunted. "How well you express yourself in Arabic."

"My parents speak Arabic," she said. "They wonder where I've gone."

"To a better place," Borz said.

She lifted a bowl of water from the tray, handed it around so that the men could wash their bare feet and hands. In this sere wind a towel was superfluous; their extremities dried almost immediately. Then, without another word, she turned and left them.

The men knelt on their rugs, and the sacred ritual began. Their voices were joined in prayer, as synchronous as the movements of their torsos.

Prayers finished, they rolled their rugs, sat back in their chairs, sipped tea in companionable silence.

At length, El-Amir said, "We have almost more recruits than we can handle. Social media has not only raised our profile a thousandfold, it has given us direct access to those who are weak-willed, easily radicalized, immanently susceptible to our cause."

"You have put us in an enviable position," Borz said as he and El-Amir sipped tea beneath the gaze of the Pyramids, of the ghostly moon. "We are actually ahead of schedule."

"I aim to please," El-Amir said. "We both have great ambitions that supersede religion or ideology."

"Tell me," Borz said, because he had no interest in talking ambition with anyone but the boxed head, "do you ever miss your sister? She's just across town, still living on your father's houseboat."

"I always miss Amira, or at least the part of me that died back in London does." El-Amir's voice was low, level, seemingly without emotion. "The person that is here, that films, cuts, and edits your videos doesn't remember who she is."

It was perfect-the best answer he could give, and Borz was pleased.

"And you," El-Amir said. "Are you still seeing this woman, this tour-?"

"What of it?" Borz snapped. He disliked probes into his personal life.

El-Amir shrugged. "I wondered whether you'd see her one more time before we left."

Borz kept silent. All around them dawn crept across the desert, and with it began the parade of tour buses, bringing tourists who braved the international news reports to visit the glories of Egypt's past. These days the buses were two-thirds empty, sometimes never ran at all for lack of customers. Borz felt some pride in that.

The dawn. They had acknowledged it with prayer; now it was time, once again, to work. Four days, he thought as he rose. Four days until the end of the world.

25.

Svetlana Karpova sat on her hospital bed, dressed, overheated, and impatient. She was ready to leave; her doctor had given his consent, had signed all the paperwork. She should have been gone hours ago. Instead, here she sat with a pair of military officers standing guard outside her door. She had tried to step outside her room but they had stopped her, gently but firmly. These were not FSB men; who had given them the command to keep her here she could not say.

She had been moved, of course. The room where Andrei Avilov had died had been cordoned off as a crime scene. Through the open door of her new room, she had caught glimpses of forensic experts coming and going, lugging their mysterious equipment. But for all their vaunted expertise they had found nothing, for the simple reason there was nothing to find. Andrei Avilov had died in that room, but he'd been murdered elsewhere. They, of course, did not know that. They would never know it. And soon enough the case-if you wanted to call it that-would be closed.

These were the facts, as Svetlana knew them. Then why was she being kept here, clearly against her will? She had no idea, but she'd had just about enough. She needed to grieve for her dead husband in solitude and quiet. And a hospital was about the least quiet building in the city.

She stood up, determined to confront the two officers once and for all, bully her way past them if need be, when a striking man walked into her room. He was accompanied by an even more striking young woman, never introduced, who said not a word through the entire interview.

"Mrs. Karpova, I am so very sorry for your loss," the striking man said. His voice was a purr, almost like velvet, a difficult thing to accomplish using the Russian language. He had piercing eyes, a mustache and goatee combination that had gone out of style with Trotsky, and pitch-black hair, slicked back from his window's peak with some kind of pomade she could smell from across the room. He appeared fit and strong. Nevertheless, he was smoking a cigarette, the stench of which made her want to vomit. Smoke curled lazily, lending him a penumbra, like some minor deity, which, in a very real way, he was.

Boris had introduced them at the reception. But even had he not she would have recognized him from the many news photos she had seen of him. His presence answered a number of questions, including the nature of her guards. He advanced across the room to stand between her and the door. She found herself face-to-face with Timur Savasin, the first minister, the most powerful man in the Russian Federation, bar only the Sovereign himself.

"The general was a great man. Great. He will be missed most acutely." Smoke emanated from his nostrils, as if he were a drowsing dragon.

She noted that Savasin said "the general," not "Boris Illyich." So Boris hadn't been kidding about this guy, she thought. Dangerous as an electric eel, and just as slippery. He was no friend of Boris's, he's no friend of mine.

She briefly put on a thousand-watt smile before she allowed her features to return to those of a grieving widow, who had been manhandled. "Thank you, First Minister. Your kindness is greatly appreciated. Now. Can you tell me who killed my husband?"

He waved a hand in dismissal. "Now, now, that's nothing for you to concern yourself with. The matter is being dealt with, trust me."

Trust you? she thought. Not for a second. "I'm afraid I must insist, First Minister. The government owes me that much, at least."

Timur Savasin appeared to consider her request. At length, he stubbed out his cigarette, nodded. "All right, Mrs. Karpova, as a special favor I will tell you what we know. The general was killed by a Mossad agent-a member of their Kidon branch-the assassins. How she gained access to the hotel we'll never know. But rest assured, we know where she's fled to, and agents have been dispatched to ensure her termination."

"A name," Svetlana said. "I want a name, First Minister."

"We don't divulge names," he said flatly.

Men had been saying no to Svetlana all her life. She knew how to deal with them, even the powerful ones. "My husband was the head of FSB. You owe me this, First Minister."

Timur Savasin sighed, apparently decided that telling her could do no conceivable harm. "The only name we have is the one Kidon has assigned her. Rebeka."

"Her operational name is as far as you've gotten."

"That's all we need, Mrs. Karpova," he said darkly, slamming the door on the subject.

He rubbed his hands together. The unpleasant necessities dealt with, he was at once all business. "And now, if you would, please tell me in your own words what transpired between you and Andrei in your hotel suite the night of your wedding."

"I was attacked," Svetlana said. "Assaulted."

"Sexually?"

"Surely you've read the medical report."

"I'd like to hear it from you."

"Of course." She nodded, careful for the moment to be obedient. "I was physically and sexually assaulted."

"My apologies for being so blunt, Mrs. Karpova. It cannot be helped."

"I understand." You shit, she thought.

"Who assaulted you, Mrs. Karpova?"

This was the tricky part. She must not show that she had the slightest motive to kill Avilov. If she told the truth, if she implicated Avilov in the assault, there would be her motive, laid out for Savasin on a silver salver. There was also her cousin Rada to protect. She recalled with vivid clarity the deep and abiding enmity between FSB and Savasin's military cadre, and particularly Andrei Avilov's hatred of Colonel Korsolov burning bright. She needed to gamble that Avilov's prejudice was a reflection of his boss's.

"I was with Andrei when the door burst open and one of the FSB guards advanced toward me. Andrei stepped between us, they grappled. My view was partially obscured, but I saw blood on Andrei's face. Then Andrei crumpled to the floor and the guard..." Here she caused her voice to falter. She forced a tear or two from her eyes, kept her head held high, the better for Savasin to observe the tears rolling down her cheeks. Boris always said she should have been an actor. She cleared her throat, said in a clogged voice, "Well, you know the rest."

"And the FSB guard-how did he die?"

"I think you can guess, First Minister. Andrei came to, pulled the man off me, and knifed him."

"I see." Timur Savasin moved so that he was no longer between her and the door. "Do you know why FSB guards were posted at your suite?"

"I assume to protect me." It was crucial, she knew, to sound rational. No mention must be made of her hysterics, or her trying to get out of the suite to see Boris. "At that point, I knew something must be wrong."

"Your guards were under the direct command of FSB Colonel Korsolov. Have you any idea why one of them would want to assault you?"

Sell it, Svetlana told herself sternly. Sell it by telling him what he wants to hear. "It was all so confusing."

"I understand. Still if you could-"

"He was enraged. Well, his boss had just been murdered. He called me a Ukrainian whore, a filthy traitor, a fucking bitch, more." She wanted him to see that she wanted to turn away, couldn't, was trapped in the memory of the violence and humiliation of the assault. "Much more."

Timur Savasin appeared unmoved, but perhaps that was only her take.

"And Andrei?" he asked. "Why was he with you?"

"He came to tell me what had happened to my husband."

"Yes, Korsolov was otherwise engaged at the, ah, crime scene." Savasin sighed. Of course, he knew why Avilov was there, but there was always the hope that the widow would say something to incriminate herself, to tell him that she was lying, that she was hiding something. Because he knew she must be hiding something. Ukrainians always did. "What an ordeal you've been put through. Again, I am most terribly sorry. Words cannot express..." His train of thought seemed to change midsentence. "Retribution for Andrei knifing one of his men..." His fist clenched. "Colonel Korsolov-though he has just been promoted by the Sovereign to general-must bear responsibility for the wickedness of retribution."

"I don't see how that's possible, since you yourself have said that the Sovereign has promoted him. Is he also the new head of FSB?"

"He was the great General's choice." Savasin's tone made clear his distaste. "I can't fathom why he chose to personally oversee Korsolov's rise through the ranks to become his adjutant. The man's a dangerous psychopath."

No wonder the Sovereign promoted him to fill the void, Svetlana thought. But on one subject she agreed with the first minister. "On that we agree," she said. Now to hammer the last nail home, she thought. "First Minister, those FSB guards-General Korsolov's people-are you aware that they were keeping me prisoner?"

"What do you mean?"

Of course it had been Andrei Avilov who had kept her prisoner while he had abused and assaulted her, but she knew revealing the truth would do her no damn good. "As I told you, I knew something was wrong. After Andrei told me what had happened... I told them I wanted to see my husband-they refused. They pulled weapons to make their intent clear. I was imprisoned on my own wedding night."

"That is unacceptable behavior. It cannot-it will not-be tolerated." Savasin popped another cigarette from a pack at his hip, held out a hand. "You have my word, Mrs. Karpova, that these incidents will not go uninvestigated. The culpable people will not go unindicted. Andrei's death will not go unavenged."

His smile was quite frightening, as if she were confronting a hungry wolf. "Now here is what I have set up for you. A nice long cruise. We'll fly you to Amsterdam, where you will board the liner. A top suite has been reserved for you using your maiden name."

"My maiden name? But why?"

"So you can get on with your life. Leave all this unpleasantness behind." That smile again, sickening her. "It's for your own good, trust me." Timur Savasin lit his cigarette, spread his hands. "I mean, let's face it, as Mrs. Karpova you're damaged goods. Here at home, what man will look at you twice?"

She felt the heat sweep up her neck into her cheeks. Her heartbeat felt like a sledgehammer, and there was a red rage behind her eyes. It was all she could do not to leap at him, scratch his eyes out.

Already, she thought, her answering smile a rictus of pain and humiliation, the outrages perpetrated against me are multiplying exponentially. Is there in truth no justice?

- Early morning and it was already broiling. Sara, in the midst of Cairo's traffic chaos, realized she hadn't been back in more than five years. Back then, she had arrived uninvited and unsanctioned, to take care of a bit of business that would otherwise have gone unattended because it was a minor matter to everyone at Mossad save her.