Though he would never say so out loud, Kaseem realized that his business could very well end up being as profitable as, if not more so than, Jewish companies that specialized in kosher foods.

Another aspect of the transaction was that none of the mahleb had been made available to Kaseem to sell through his vast distribution network. Instead, it was intended for some new Muslim spice conglomerate based in the U.S. The Saudis explained that as the conglomerate’s import credentials had not been set up yet, they needed Kaseem’s company to take delivery of the spice and then repackage it and send it along to the conglomerate’s various offices.

A responsible businessman, Kaseem had done a little checking up on the supposed conglomerate. Its principals were all former immigrants like himself and all from Muslim countries, but that was where the similarities ended. As far as Kaseem could tell, none of the men had any experience in the food industry whatsoever. They owned a variety of businesses across the country, most often the types associated with Middle Eastern immigrants who arrive in America and try to get a foothold on one of the lower rungs of the American dream-payday loan, currency exchange, and check-cashing businesses, as well as 7-Eleven-style convenience stores, gas stations, and taxicab companies. They were in fact successful entrepreneurs, but why they would want to get into such a low-margin endeavor like the spice business was beyond him. Maybe they knew something he didn’t. None of it mattered, though, as Kaseem had randomly checked samples of the bitter-tasting mahleb himself and was convinced that it was the real deal. The last thing he wanted to do was be an unwitting party to importing any kind of illegal substance. Whether his client was a Saudi royal or not, he still had his family’s good name and his country to look out for.

As he packed up the last of the mahleb to go out via UPS that afternoon, Kaseem’s mind was on getting home and getting a little sleep before the morning prayer service. Tired and distracted, he failed to notice that one of the packages he had randomly tested had been put back in with the rest of the shipment and that its lid had not been fully reattached.

The mystery illness from the Iraqi village of Asalaam, the same one once destined to decimate all of Rome, had just made its debut on American soil.

FORTY-THREE

FRANCE

Harvath was in his room scanning the reference book Vanessa Whitcomb had allowed him to take with him, Greek Fire,Poison Arrows amp; Scorpion Bombs-Biological and Chemical Warfare in the Ancient World by Adrienne Mayor, when Marie Lavoine knocked on his door and told him he had a phone call. It could have only been one of two people, and whoever it was had either come up empty or had information that would throw some light on what direction he should take next.

Harvath took the call in Marie’s office. “Harvath, “He said as he picked the receiver up off the desk.

“Scot, it’s Kevin McCauliff.”

“That was fast, Kevin, “He replied, looking at his watch. It had only been a couple of hours.

“Well, lucky for you, my guy here in Chantilly is friendly with someone at Spot’s headquarters in Toulouse.”

“What were you able to find?”

“Just like you said, your guy Bernard Lavoine did order a lot of imagery from Spot. The dates from the credit card transactions helped them locate the stuff a lot faster.”

“Good. What did they give you?”

McCauliff toggled through the images on his monitor and said, “All of the imagery your missing person ordered was for an area around Mount Viso and a pass just north of it called the Col de la Traversette. The search was pretty broad in the beginning, but became progressively more focused.”

“What was he looking for?”

“That I can’t tell you,” replied McCauliff, “but I can tell you that money didn’t seem to be an object for this guy. He ordered every kind of test you could imagine-surface spectral reflectance data, temperature data, emissivity data-you name it and this guy bought it. I’m sure there’s some sales rep at Spot who was sorry to lose him as a customer.”

Not as sorry as Marie Lavoine was to lose him as a husband, thought Harvath. “What about the last purchases?”

“All scene-specific.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning your missing person had picked a specific spot and was using satellites to drill down on it as hard as he could. After that, there were no more orders,” said McCauliff. “Whatever Bernard Lavoine was looking for, I think he might have found it.”

“I owe you one, Kevin.”

“Technically,” said the NGA operative, “I owed you one, but there is something you can do for me. My sister is going to be in DC for a conference in April, and I want you to take her to a real nice dinner. It’ll be the highlight of her trip. But we’re just talking dinner here, that’s all.”

“You got it. Now, can you get me copies of those last images along with any data that goes with them?”

“Already done. All I need is an e-mail address and I can send them off to you right now.”

Harvath gave McCauliff one of the remote e-mail addresses he used while on the road and thanked the man again for his help.

As he hung up the phone, Jillian walked into the office. “Marie said you got a phone call. What’s happening?”

“We were able to track down the final satellite imagery Bernard and Ellyson were working off of. It looks like you and I are going climbing.”

After using the computer and printer of Marie Lavoine’s neighbor to download the satellite information, Harvath spent forty-five minutes in Bernard’s equipment room putting together what he thought they would need for their climb. Though most of the hotel’s guests normally brought their own gear, the Lavoines had been well prepared for those who hadn’t. Harvath was able to find not only boots, but also Helly Hansen jackets and pants made from heavy wind-stopper fabric that fit him and Jillian perfectly.

With the pieces of numbered masking tape stuck to the top of the worn kitchen table, Harvath spread out several of Bernard’s maps along with their newly acquired satellite imagery. Suddenly, they had a much clearer picture of where Ellyson had focused his search. Harvath had no idea what he and Jillian would find when they got there, but he couldn’t help wondering if the search and rescue teams would have been able to save Bernard and the rest of his party if they had had the information that was now sitting in front of him. For some reason, he doubted it. Something told him, just as it had Marie Lavoine, that the disappearance of Bernard and the rest of his party had not been any accident.

As it was at least a two-hour hike to get up to the Col de la Traversette, Harvath quickly divided up their gear. He gave Jillian the lighter items like the flares, food, and first aid kit for her to carry in a KIVA technical pack, and he took one of Bernard’s larger internal-frame backpacks to hold everything else.

Marie tried to convince Harvath to postpone the trip for at least a day or two until some of the other local mountain guides, who had been friends of Bernard, were available to go along with them. Harvath would have appreciated their participation, but he couldn’t afford to wait. Besides, the time he spent attached to the Navy’s cold warfare specialists, SEAL Team Two, had made him an experienced enough climber, and he was confident he could teach Jillian anything she needed to know along the way. If they ran across a feature that they couldn’t tackle, they would just have to turn around and come back.

On the surface it looked good, made sense, and sounded safe, but in the back of his mind, Harvath knew that a million fatal expeditions had started out with the same false sense of security. There was no room for excessive pride in climbing, because there was no more imposing foe than an unforgiving mountain that didn’t care if you lived or died.