Her date appeared at the top of the staircase with an apologetic smile on his face. Kennedy wasn’t the slightest bit irritated that he was twenty minutes late. She pushed back her chair to stand, but her date rushed over and gestured for her not to bother.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said as he bent over to kiss Kennedy.

She offered her cheek and said, “Don’t worry, any chance I get to have a moment alone is one I’ll gladly take.”

The man laughed genuinely and took his seat directly across from Kennedy. He unbuttoned his suit coat and retrieved a pair of reading glasses from his inside pocket. William Barstow ran an investment firm in town and had been divorced for a little more than a year. Kennedy had never met the ex or the two kids and was in no rush. She’d sat next to Barstow at a fund-raiser for the Kennedy Center, and he’d made her laugh. It might sound like a small thing to most people, but there wasn’t a lot to laugh about in her life. As the event wrapped up, Barstow asked her out, Kennedy said why not, and now they were five dates into what was so far a pretty easy relationship.

They were at the Ruth’s Chris Steak House on Connecticut Avenue. The service was excellent, as was the food, but more important, it was one of a handful of restaurants in town that had a good working relationship with Langley. Not far from embassy row, the place was often used for meetings and was rumored to be wired to the hilt. Kennedy liked it because it had a room on the second floor that had two glass walls which at least gave the illusion that you were part of the busy restaurant. It was far less stifling than some of the other private rooms in town, the ones where you felt like you were seated in a closet. Her security team was familiar with the place and could sweep it and employ their countermeasures with relative ease.

Kennedy looked across the table at her date. He was the John Wayne type, that was for sure. A big barrel chest, with warm brown eyes and a disarming grin, which belayed a very serious man who, she had no doubt, could lose his temper at work. She worked with plenty of men just like him, although their suits weren’t as nice. His drink arrived a moment later, and he held it up to toast Kennedy.

As the two glasses clanged, Barstow said, “To an evening without interruptions.” With a conspiratorial wink he added, “I left my phone in the car.”

Guilt washed over Kennedy’s face. Based on what was going on in Afghanistan, she knew there was almost no chance of getting through the evening without a disruption.

Barstow noticed the look on her face. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No… it’s just that… there’s a good chance I will have to take at least one call.”

“That’s all right, your job is a little more important than mine.”

Kennedy heard no malice or jealousy in his voice. It was a gesture of honest humility. “Thank you. I’ll try to keep it short.”

Barstow ordered a fabulous bottle of Bordeaux and they made small talk over salads. He got the wedge and she got the baby arugula. Kennedy enjoyed asking him about the financial markets. He had a master’s degree in economics from the University of Chicago and he usually had a fresh take on the world. Like most economists he also used hard facts to back up his theories. He would have been really good in her line of work.

Three waiters filed into the room with the main course and sides. A petite filet was set down in front of Kennedy as well as steaming side orders of asparagus and mushrooms. A giant slab of meat was placed in front of Barstow as if it were a bar of gold. Kennedy knew it was the porterhouse, and if Barstow acted the way he did last time, he would eat only half of it and take the other half home for his dog. At least, that was the story.

Kennedy savored the aroma of what would be her first steak in four weeks. It was all she allowed herself. The wineglasses were refreshed and then the waiters filed out. Kennedy and Barstow looked at each other in anticipation. Barstow looked to be torn between making another toast and digging into his slab of red meat, which would feed a small family for a week. Kennedy grabbed her steak knife and fork and was poised to go to work, when she sensed something amiss. There was a flurry of movement on the other side of the glass doors. It was men in dark suits, not waiters in white jackets. Kennedy badly wanted to ignore them but knew she wouldn’t. Carefully she turned her head and instantly knew the meal was over.

Looking back at her through the glass was Rob Ridley. The deputy Clandestine chief was a perennial smart-ass. He loved to tease and joke, but there was none of that on his face tonight. He was as grim as Kennedy had ever seen him. Kennedy slowly set her fork and knife down and dabbed the corners of her mouth with her napkin.

After a heavy sigh she said, “Bill, you’ll have to excuse me. It appears that interruption I was anticipating has arrived.”

Barstow tried to look sympathetic, but in truth was already inhaling his first cut and looked like he might pass out. Kennedy went to the door and drew it back. Ridley stepped forward, his eyes as concerned as Kennedy had seen them in some time.

“What’s wrong?”

“We’ve got big problems.”

“How big?” she asked.

“Really big.”

“Mitch?”

“Yep.”

Kennedy sighed. It sounded like he was finally going to get the fight he was looking for. She had resigned herself to the fact that it would happen sooner or later. The conflict was unavoidable, and Rapp’s attitude that they fight it on their terms was probably right, but it still didn’t feel right.

“I’ll brief you on the rest of it in the car,” Ridley said.

Kennedy turned to say good-bye to her date, saw his expression of understanding, and felt very guilty that he would have to eat alone. She considered the time difference, looked at her own meal, and made her decision. Turning back to Ridley she said, “I’ll be down in thirty minutes.”

CHAPTER 17

TRIPLE FRONTIER, SOUTH AMERICA

MORALE was not good. It was something he had failed to account for and Karim rarely failed to account for the important things. That was his strength. He was a scholar first and a warrior second. To be fair to himself, though, he had considered it briefly. In the final few seconds before he killed Zachariah he thought of how the execution would affect the other men. As he drew his sidearm, pulled the trigger, and watched the hollow-tipped round spray the back of Zachariah’s head against the screen, he felt certain that his action would galvanize the men, unify them, force them to put their differences aside and focus their talents on this important mission. He saw now that he had misjudged them.

It was their faith, he decided, a lack of true devotion. Tribal rivalries had also played a role, to be sure, and Karim chastised himself for not seeing that beforehand. Islam was notorious for its infighting; the petty rivalries that had kept them apart for so many years. The four Saudis under his command were fine. They would fight with efficiency and courage to the last man. Even the lone Afghani seemed to be taking it well, but then again the Afghani had served under him for more than a year and had fought bravely in countless incursions with the enemy. Because they had been to battle together they had that trust. The Afghani would be fine. They were the toughest, most selfless fighters Karim had ever known.

The Moroccans, however, were a problem. He now saw that, if anything, the team was more deeply divided than before. He briefly considered executing one of them, but found it impractical. He was not above using fear to motivate, but in this instance he was dealing with a finite supply of men. Karim had studied the brutal tactics of men such as Lenin and Stalin. There was something to be learned from them. Their sheer audacity and thirst for power was unmatched. Most impressive, though, was their ability to seize power and then hold on to it by the most heinous means necessary.