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Gershon pushed the button and the steel garage door rumbled open. There were no shops on the short street and only a few stragglers. Yigal drove the truck forward. The canvas covers had been dropped and rolled and tied securely and Menachem and Baruch squatted in the back clutching the Chinese AKs they had purchased from a Pakistani arms dealer the day before. In the back, tied and gagged and propped between two crates, Larry Winters kept still, eyes half-closed. They had cinched his bonds tight enough that his arms and feet were insensible.

Have mercy. Let it be over, one way or the other.

The truck lurched. Brakes squealed. They were beginning the journey to the outskirts of Mina. Traffic was heavy on the King Abdul Aziz Road but they had all day. Twelve, fifteen hours, perhaps less, before they pulled back the tarps and opened the tops of the crates, depending on the whim of the breeze blowing across the desert.

The truck rumbled over cobbles, then over asphalt, then dirt, searching for its place.

In the bloody end, surrounded by young monsters, in pain, his memory flickering like a candle in a high wind, he was wracked with fever as he struggled with the knots. They had been wrapped with cord, the cord hidden behind more duct tape. He was still thoroughly bound and he had plucked his fingers raw.

The memory had faded but not the emotion. He did not
know why he felt such rage, such grief, or why he was bound. He tried to scream but the tape would not budge. He tried to cry, but the tape had been pressed into his eyes.

He twitched up against the crate and went slack, energy gone.

Then, unexpectedly, there was light.

‘You stink,’ Yigal said. ‘You’ve fouled yourself. Look at me! Say something!’ To Menachem, squeezed up between the tarp and the crate, he added, ‘Cut him loose. Let him go off to die. He’s disgusting.’

The whisper bird, true to its name, came in low and quiet in the early morning darkness over the almost waveless beach. The back of the stealth craft could carry up to twenty troops but now it held only three: William, Rebecca, and David Grange.

‘We’ve got our coordinates from the Jannies,’ Higashi said to Grange from the cockpit. ‘A small group will meet us east of Mina. We’ll touch down, drop you, hover for just a few seconds, so you’ll have to hustle.’

‘Right,’ Grange said.

Rebecca turned her head side to side. Right now, she and William were seeing the landing site from the POV of a midge. OSMOs had found the Jannies based on their American diet and zeroed in. Hundreds of midges were zipping back and forth through the mountain passes around Mina and Mecca proper. Soon, UAV mothers would deploy thousands more across the plain of Arafat. They networked like birds or bats, swooping and dispersing through the dark sky, swirling up in little gray tornadoes like starlings, then breaking and scattering to examine suspect scent trails.

Jane Rowland spoke from the
Heinlein,
her voice soft and steady in their earnodes. ‘We’ve got hotspots around the richer sections of the tent city. Chief Dalrymple tells me it’s chicken, lamb, beef, lots of olive oil, vegetable protein. No
surprise. If our suspects are hiding in there, it could take forever to find them.’

‘No lovesick phone calls?’ Rebecca asked, finally mastering the display.

‘None so far.’

‘Someone’s taking potshots at our midges,’ Periglas said. He relayed video clips of men with rifles outside the brilliantly lit Grand Mosque, firing automatic weapons and rifles into the air. Their scent profiles showed they were drunk.

‘This town’s going to the dogs,’ Grange said.

‘It’s getting worse,’ Periglas said. ‘Ambulances are trying to get through to the sick and injured. Soldiers are making them pay bribes or grabbing them for joyrides. Not that they can go anywhere. The roads are packed.’

Jane tuned their gogs to a midge tracking an old tourist bus. The sides were thick with strap-hangers and a few clung to the roof, trying to keep their parcels from tumbling away at the turns. Two of the strap-hangers fell into the street. The bus did not slow.

‘I think that’s the Abdul Aziz Road,’ William said. ‘There’s the Al-Malim Mosque.’ He had studied maps during the flight.

‘Correct,’ said Dalrymple. ‘Midge is heading east over the tent city.’

‘The pilgrims are on the move to Arafat,’ Periglas said.

‘How many so far?’ Grange asked.

‘We’re guessing one point two.’

‘Million?’ Rebecca asked.

‘Correct,’ Periglas said.

Another voice came on. ‘Is that Agent Grange?’ It was Fouad Al-Husam. He did not sound happy. ‘We were expecting American Muslim soldiers.’

‘This is Grange. No military. We’re sending agents to direct and render assistance.’

‘What sort of assistance?’ Fouad asked. ‘Without Muslims, we will do well enough on our own. There is no need to—’

‘It’s already been decided,’ Grange said. ‘Is that understood, Agent Al-Husam?’

A few seconds later, ‘Are your papers in order?’

‘All in order,’ Grange said.

‘There are three of us here with a Saudi driver and a minibus. Ten of our agents are already in Mina. They report the main mass of pilgrims are expected at Arafat in five hours. They will return tomorrow to Mina by way of the Jamarat. That could be the best time for pathogen release.’

‘Agreed,’ Grange said. ‘We have to intercept before eighteen hundred hours GMT.’

Rebecca faced William across the narrow aisle. The helicopter was eerily quiet. ‘He’s been with his Jannies for how long now, and we’re supposed to fit right in, without an introduction?’

Grange said, ‘He knows William and respects both of you. He’ll smooth it over with the others, if there’s a problem.’

‘And how are we supposed to help, exactly?’ William asked.

‘However we can,’ Grange said. ‘My guess, someone in Washington doesn’t trust our Muslims to get the job done.’

‘The ol’ FUBAR,’ Birnbaum called back cheerily. ‘Plan B with a vengeance.’

The whisper bird changed its subtle hum and pitched forward.

‘Drop in five,’ Higashi announced.

‘It is not
fard
, to go on Hajj when there is so much danger,’ Amir said.

‘What I read, if a few pilgrims die, bandits get them or whatever, it’s OK. Historically, some danger is inevitable, so it’s
fard
.’ Mahmud stood beside Fouad and watched the lights in the west. They had parked the minibus on a back road leading up and out into an empty, rocky waste of low hills. They were far enough away they could not hear Mecca, but in the dusk they could see its green and orange glow—the lights from the Grand Mosque catching the dust rising from all the trucks, cabs, and cars, forming a low haze in the dry air. The wind in the desert valleys had settled and it was still hot, in the eighties.

‘Only God would have told someone to build a city down there,’ Hasim said.

They were not particularly profane, the young former Iraqis put in his care; but they had too much energy and American attitudes, and so they hid their piety under a layer of banter. Fouad understood. Six years ago he had been like them—unable to believe his good luck at being in America and not Egypt, and yet—

His body and his soul had craved this part of the world. Coming back to Iraq and then to the Hijaz had awakened a deep nostalgia, reminding him of his childhood in the dry air of Egypt. There had been less fear, more variety, more wealth and distraction in America, but also there had been less
life.

They were still in exile, thirsting.

For them, Hajj was out of the question. They had come to the Hijaz in the wrong frame of mind, with all the wrong intentions—they could not be pilgrims. Yet for every Muslim, even those inclined to an American sense of profanity and joking, simply seeing those lights, knowing how close they were to the House of God, to the Black Stone, to the beautifully and newly woven black and gold
Kiswah
that shrouded the
Kaabah…

What they were about to do—allowing infidels into the Holy City—was necessary to save this sacred place, so that they could return when it was proper, when their time had come to stand before God and shed their earthly confusions with maximum spiritual benefit.

A black aircraft came up over the distant hummock with a sound like an angry wasp—and nothing more. As it approached, all five watched in alert silence, American boys pleased by this marvel.

Fouad stepped down from the bumper of the minibus. Through the windshield, he saw the silhouette of Daoud Ab’dul Jabar Al-Husseini, a rumpled, discouraged-looking man in his sixties, rousing from a pre-dawn nap. Al-Husseini had once occupied a high rank in the Saudi Secret Police. He had probably been a strong man, a pious man, a harsh man not above tormenting other men and their wives in the service of the Wahhabis. Now his eyes were haunted by the privileges and stability he had seen blowing away, the end of a good, cruel dream.

Al-Husseini opened the bus’s front door and jumped down heavily to the hard-packed roadbed. He rubbed his nose, then blew it into his fingers and wiped them on his pants. He had become an unkempt, dirty man. ‘So they’re here,’ he said. ‘It will soon be over, one way or the other.’

The whisper bird circled their position swiftly, little louder than a car but blowing up sand in a thin cloud around the
minibus and across the road. The lights of Mecca dimmed.

Then it dropped spindly legs with round pads and set down on the sand twenty meters from the road like a moon lander.

Three people stepped down.

‘Shit,’ Al-Husseini said in English. ‘They brought a woman? I hope they have excellent papers. These are no more Muslims than I am a Jew.’

The chief working beside Jane Rowland was named Hugh Dalrymple. He was quick and businesslike as he took control of various midges that had reported interesting results. The video transmitted by the small flying craft was surprisingly clear, the colors almost too vivid—altered to enhance contrast and salient detail. Living things seemed to glow with an inner light in the pre-dawn darkness. Sleeping pilgrims laid out in rows and uneven clumps in the streets of Mina, lying on thin pads or blankets or prayer rugs, or just on the ground in their two towels, stood out like flames against the gray sand and packed dirt and black asphalt. Soldiers and security police had become scarce in the last few hours.

Not a few of the pilgrims that looked asleep were not glowing; they had died in the night.

Wearing the ship’s heavier gogs and zooming with Dalrymple through the crowded, noisy streets for the last two hours was taking its toll on Jane; she was almost dreaming awake—the ship’s strong coffee was not keeping her focused…The whisper bird had yet to report that it had disembarked its passengers…

‘A person of interest,’ Dalrymple announced, and nudged her gently with his elbow.

‘Midge thinks we have a westerner,’ Captain Periglas said from the bridge of the
Heinlein
. The midge had been circling at fifty feet over a crowded overpass. Cars and trucks and buses moved in a steady stream, as they had all night, crossing
over a pseudopod of tents that had pushed through the formal boundaries of the tent city—if anything could be considered controlled and formal in Mecca now.

‘I’m skimming now, sir,’ Dalrymple said.

The midge descended on a tall, lone man with dirt-colored hair and a staggering, weaving stride. He wasn’t wearing
ihram
; he had on flopping socks, boots, shorts and a torn khaki shirt. Cars brushed close, one knocking him with a mirror and spinning him to his knees; buses moved to within a few inches as he stood again and weaved across the lanes. It seemed he’d be struck down at any moment, but there was something charmed about his uneven gait. He glanced up at the sky, face crinkled in a puzzled frown, as if aware he was being watched. He seemed to be listening to something or someone.

Dalrymple dropped the midge to within a few feet of the man. They had a quick close-up, full on, of the mottled face, filthy with sweat, dirt, and dried blood. His eyes were startling in the darker, stained face, staring, childlike and clear.

Green and blue.

Jane paralleled Lawrence Winter’s FBI portrait in their gogs. Except for the eyes, the emaciated face was only vaguely recognizable. But Jane was certain. ‘That’s him,’ she said. ‘We’ve found Winter. What in the hell is he doing?’

‘Looks pretty out of it,’ Dalrymple said.

Birnbaum, the pilot of the whisper bird, broke in and reported he disembarked all passengers. ‘Wind is one or two knots. Standing off at five klicks and setting out biosensors,’ he said.

A red glow flicked on in the upper right corner of Jane’s vision. Frequencies and satellite positions scrolled below the light. Then, beeps and whoops of digital decoding—somewhere in the ship’s electronic mind, complicated decrypt was being performed. Within seconds, as she held her breath, she heard…

A phone wheedling.

The phone, according to the display, was in the Kiryat Moshe neighborhood of Jerusalem.

The numbers matched.

‘Yigal Silverstein is phoning his girl,’ Jane announced. She was wide awake now like a dog on point.

‘Wonderful,’ Dalrymple said.

The midge rose to ten meters above the wandering man on the overpass.

‘Oh, Christ,’ Periglas said. Jane could see it coming as well. She wanted to turn away, but the image in the gogs followed her head.

A speeding bus, spying a gap in a neighboring lane, had zipped from behind a truck whose bed was thick with pilgrims. Pilgrims leaned inboard where they hung from the slats to avoid being knocked free. The bus accelerated, honking madly—

And the man with one blue eye and one green eye, with dirty hair and bloody face, vanished under its hood and tires. The bus did not even slow. Three more cars rolled over the tumbling pile of meat and rags, lurching on their shocks like kiddy bumper toys.

‘Suspect is down,’ Dalrymple said.

‘He’s gone,’ Periglas said.

Jane closed her eyes. For some reason, no time to guess why, former Special Agent Winter had been cut loose to wander and die.