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said in unaccented English.
    Jonathan studied the fighter more closely. It was the first time he’d heard American English in weeks. “I’m a doctor.”
    “I must ask you to come with me.”
    “We can talk when I’m finished.”
    “You will come now.”
    Another fighter approached, pulled a pistol from his belt, and pressed it against Amina’s head. His eyes went to the leader for approval.
    The taller Afghan pushed the man’s hand away, then looked at Jonathan. “How long might that be?”
    “Three hours. I asked you once already to leave. Now I’m telling you. Get out of my operating room and take your men with you.”
    “A bold response for someone in your position, Dr. …?”
    “Ransom. And you are?” asked Jonathan, though he already knew the answer. He noticed the fighter’s long, curling fingernails and followed his hand past a chunky Casio G-Force wristwatch to the rifle, where the name “W. Barnes USMC” was carved into the stock. “I take it you’re not Barnes.”
    “My name is Sultan Haq.” Haq ordered Hamid to be freed, then handed the rifle to one of his men. “Who is she?”
    “Her name is Amina. She had an accident.” Jonathan explained what had happened and how he was repairing her face. Haq listened as intently as a resident accompanying an attending physician on rounds.
    “You are gifted,” said the Hawk. “I see this. You may fix her face. But her hands can wait another day.”
    “She’s waited long enough,” said Jonathan.
    One of Haq’s men burst into the operating room. “Drone,” he shouted, rushing to the window and pointing to the sky.
    The assembled fighters began talking all at once. Several ran from the building and continued on foot into the village. Others raised their fists at Jonathan and hurled threats his way. Only Sultan Haq didnot move. He eyed Jonathan from a greater distance than the meter separating them. “You are CIA?” he said at length, in the same imperturbable voice.
    “No.”
    “MI6? Mossad, perhaps? You have come to kill me.”
    “No.”
    “Then why are you here so far from where anyone can help you?”
    Jonathan looked at the sleeping girl’s form. “For her.”
    “Then you really
are
a crusader,” said Haq, with respect.
    A dirt-streaked face pressed against the window. “All clear,” the man shouted, using the English terminology. “No drone. A fighter. It is gone to the north.”
    Haq put a hand on Jonathan’s shoulder. “This is your lucky day, but not his.” Turning, he drew a pistol from his belt and put it to Hamid’s forehead. “Dr. Ransom, you have fifteen minutes to finish or I will shoot him. And if you’re not done fifteen minutes after that, I will shoot the girl. You’re my prisoner, and you’ll do as I say.”

5
    Emma Ransom, a.k.a. Lara Antonova , sped down the eight-lane superhighway, a lone courier in the night. The windows were down, and warm air filled the BMW M5 with the scent of saltwater and scorched earth. The digital clock’s numerals glowed 11:47. Ahead, like the first rays of a rising sun, a scythe of light cut the horizon in two. She passed a sign saying “Sharjah Free Trade Zone—5 km.”
    “This is a final systems check,” she announced to the empty cockpit.
    “We have you loud and clear,” came a gruff American voice from deep inside her head.
    “How’s the picture?” A microdigital camera embedded in the top button of her blouse delivered the pictures to her cell phone, which transmitted the images to a suite of offices at Fort Belvoir, Virginia, across the Potomac from Washington, D.C.
    “If you’re driving two hundred kilometers per hour like the speedometer says, the camera’s working fine. Now slow down.”
    “Just tell me if it’s in focus and aimed straight ahead.”
    “Yes and yes. Now remember, all I want you to do is hand over the shipment, get General Ivanov his money, and get the hell out. Are we clear?”
    “Yes, Frank, we’re clear.”
    “Whatever you do,