“Better, physically.”

The man was sitting up. He was trying to read a copy of the International Herald Tribunesomeone had given him, but he appeared to be having difficulty.

Bourne set down a black leather briefcase and peered at the page, which was filled with stock market quotes, company mergers, quarterly results, and the like. “Eyes not focusing right?”

Alef shrugged. “In and out. The doctors said it’s to be expected.”

“See any companies you own?”

“What?” Alef laughed uneasily. “No, no, I was just trying to adjust my eyes to the smaller print.”

Bourne took the paper away, opened the attaché case, and laid a handgun on Alef’s lap. Before he could open his mouth, Bourne said, “What is that?”

Alef picked it up. “It’s a Glock 19 9 mm.” He checked the magazine, saw that it was unloaded. Sighted down it. A professional.

Bourne took it from him and, in the same motion, handed him another. “And this?”

“A CZ-USA 75B Compact Pistol.”

“How many rounds does it take?”

“Ten.”

Bourne took the CZ and replaced it with a far smaller handgun. “Know what that is?”

Alef handled it. “This is a Para-Ordnance Warthog Pistol, WHX1045R, Alloy Regal Finish, 45 ACP Caliber, 10 round capacity, single action.” He looked up at Bourne with an astonished expression. “How do I know all that?”

By way of an answer, Bourne plucked up the Warthog and, throwing down a magazine open to a detailed photo, said in Russian, “ Pozhaluysta, skazhite mne, chto izobrazheno tam.” Please tell me what is pictured there.

“A Dragunov SVD-S rifle with folding butt and polymer furniture.” His forefinger traced a pattern across the photo. “It’s a sniper’s rifle.”

“Good, bad, what?” Bourne demanded.

“Very good,” Alef said. “One of the best.”

“What else can you tell me?” Bourne said, switching to English. “Have you ever used one?”

“Used one?” Alef appeared confused. “I...I don’t know.”

“What about the Glock or the Warthog?”

Alef shook his head. “I’m drawing a blank.”

“You knew them immediately.”

“Yes, I know, but...how is that possible?” He rubbed his temples as Bourne packed away all the weapons. “What the hell does this mean?”

“It means,” Bourne said, “that it’s time to see whether a return to Sadelöga will jog your memory.”

Here’s a flash for you,” Peter Marks said when Soraya came through Treadstone’s security door, “our new boy Richards claims the Djinn Who Lights The Way isn’t a ghost after all. He’s real.”

“Is that so?” Soraya shrugged off her coat and started toward her office.

“Yeah.” Peter strode at her side. “And what’s more, he came up with a name—it’s tentative, mind you, but still...his name’s Nicodemo.”

“Huh.” She threw her coat over the heating sill and sat down at her desk. “Maybe we should go have a talk with Richard Richards.”

“Not right now. I don’t want to break his concentration. He’s hipdeep in it.” He glanced over at Richards’s cubicle. “I think he’s been at it all night.”

She shrugged and pulled the stack of files out of her in-box. In them were transcripts of the night’s oral reports filed by her agentsin-place in the Middle East: Syria, Lebanon, Somalia, and so forth. She flipped open the first file and began to read.

Peter cleared his throat. “So how did things go at the doctor’s?”

She looked up. Putting a smile on her face, she said, “All the tests were negative. It’s just fatigue.” She shrugged. “He thinks I came back to work sooner than I should have.”

“I tend to agree,” Peter said. “You don’t look yourself.”

“No, who do I look like?”

He didn’t laugh at her weak joke. “Go home, Soraya. Get some rest.”

“I don’t want to go home. After what happened, and my forced bed rest, the best thing for me is to keep working.”

“I disagree, and so does your doctor. Take a couple of days off. In fact, don’t even get out of bed.”

“Peter, I’ll go out of my mind.”

He put a hand over hers. “Don’t make me bring Hendricks into this.”

She looked at him for a moment, then nodded. “Okay, but I want this just between the two of us.”

He smiled. “So do I.”

“Anything important comes up you’ll call me.”

“Of course I will.”

“Use my mobile, the landline at my apartment is out again.”

He nodded, clearly relieved that she had acquiesced. “You got it.”

“Okay.” She took a breath. “Just give me a minute to finish this report, then I’ll hand them all over to you.” As he rose, she said softly, “Keep an eye on Richards, will you?”

Peter bent over. “Sure thing.” He went to her door, turning back for just a moment. “Do as you’re told, okay?”

“Okay.”

Soraya watched Peter return to his office across the corridor, then she finished reading the report, scribbled some notes on the margin for Peter, and gathered the files up, stacking them to bring over to him. As she did so, she saw the file containing the reports from her agents in Egypt. An image of Amun bloomed in her mind, and immediately she felt her eyes burning. Angry and heartsick in equal measure, she wiped the tears away with the back of her hand.

Taking several deep breaths, she rose and brought the files over to Peter. On the way down to the ground floor, she checked her watch. It was just before noon. Punching a speed dial number on her mobile, she called Delia Trane, who was an explosives specialist at the Bureau of Alcohol, Firearms, Tobacco, and Explosives. She and Delia had worked closely together on several cases when Soraya had been at Central Intelligence, and beyond that the two were close friends.

“Raya, how are you?”

“Needing to see you,” Soraya said. “Can you do lunch?”

“Today? I have something, but I’ll reschedule it. Are you okay?”

Soraya told her where and when to meet, then rang off. She had no desire to talk any longer over the phone. Forty minutes later, she entered Jaleo, a tapas restaurant on Seventh Street NW, and saw Delia already seated at a table by the windows. She smiled broadly when she spotted Soraya and waved her over.

Delia’s mother was an aristocratic Colombian from Bogotá, and the daughter carried much of her maternal ancestors’ fiery blood. Though her eyes were light, her skin was as deep-toned as her friend’s, but there the similarity ended. She had a plain face and a boyish figure, short-cropped hair, and strong hands. At work, her blunt, nononsense manner was legendary, but with Soraya, she was completely different.

Delia rose and the two women embraced.

“Tell me everything, Raya.”

Soraya’s smile faltered. “That’s why I called you.”

They sat facing each other. Soraya ordered a Virgin Mary. Delia was nursing a caipirinha, a drink prepared with cachaça, Brazilian sugar cane liquor.

Soraya glanced around the room, grateful that it was filling up, the hubbub rising around them like walls. “The doctor was surprised I wasn’t showing, given that I’m at the beginning of my second trimester. He said he can usually tell.”

Delia grunted. “Men are so full of shit about their pregnancy radar.”

“In my case, just like my mother, I may not begin to show until I’m about five or six months.”

A small silence rose between them amid the increasing clamor of the restaurant as more and more diners were seated and those already there became boisterous. The laughter, in particular, seemed shrill and ugly.

Delia, sensing her friend’s mounting distress, reached out and took Soraya’s hand in hers. “Raya, listen to me, I won’t let anything happen to the baby, or to you.”

Soraya’s grateful smile flickered on and off. “The tests came back. I have a subdural hematoma.”

Delia caught her breath. “How bad is it?”

“Like a slow leak in a tire. But the pressure...” Soraya’s gaze flicked away a moment. “Dr. Steen thinks I should have a procedure. He wants to drill a hole in my head.”