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alive unless he gives it up—if he eats a bullet, then we’ll never figure out what he was up to.”
    Ryan looked up at the towering building, then back to Hendricks. He didn’t say anything. Personally, he thought that it was a mistake to assume anything about the man on the eighth floor of this apartment complex, Congressional staffer or not.
    â€œHow did you get a line on Shakib?” Kealey asked.
    Hendricks focused his attention on the man standing slightly behind Naomi Kharmai. Kealey was of medium height, with black hair on the long side, a lean, muscular build, and dark gray eyes that were somewhat unnerving in their intensity.
    More than a decade earlier, Luke Hendricks had served as an infantry squad leader in the 82nd Airborne out of Fort Bragg. He had seen action in the Gulf, and had been awarded the Soldier’s Medal for pulling two young privates out of a minefield close to the end of his tour. Hendricks rarely talked about the experience, but he knew the difference between a soldier and someone who had served in the military. He could recognize a soldier when he saw one.
    â€œObviously, we looked at nationality first. It made sense to check out anybody affiliated with Iran working on the Hill. That only took us so far before someone came up with the idea to look at travel plans. Shakib vacationed annually in Valencia. After a day or two, he’d charter a flight to Bucharest under a different name, and then on to Tehran. It was a low-risk strategy with minimal contact, suggesting the possibility that he was a sleeper. Who knows what else he’s given up over the years? A lot of heads are going to roll when the whole thing goes public.”
    After Hendricks stated the obvious, he paused for a moment. “He knows we’re out here. If we were completely off track, then he would have given it up a long time ago. This is the guy.”
    â€œAnd you couldn’t keep this quiet?” Naomi asked.
    â€œI didn’t leak it, if that’s what you’re suggesting. A lot of people had access to this information,” he responded angrily.
    â€œNot us,” she muttered.
    Â 
    High above the commotion, Michael Shakib was kneeling motionless on a prayer mat facing east. His head was bowed in supplication facing Mecca, a place he had not visited, nor would ever visit, although the hajj was specifically required by the fifth pillar of his faith.
    Shakib’s features were distinctly Arabic, which was not surprising as he had been born in Qom before his parents emigrated to California in 1979, despite the immense difficulties associated with leaving the country after the Revolution. All his life he had been exposed to the prejudice and animosity felt toward Islam by his adopted homeland, but had never once considered leaving the faith. He was painfully aware that his appearance alone inspired distrust in the faces of the people he passed each day. This particular prejudice was largely imagined, however, for Michael Shakib was not an unattractive man.
    The sharp green eyes flecked with brown were his most noticeable characteristic, framed by perfect olive skin. Thick black hair was set off by his straight white teeth, a feature most uncommon in the poverty-stricken areas of Iran from which he had risen into the world.
    In reflective moments, Shakib could concede that he had been bestowed certain benefits denied to many of his peers. He was grateful for these advantages, yet despised them at the same time. What had given him the right to be so successful, to enjoy the wealth and privilege usually accorded to only the most elite of America’s youth? On a warm, still night in Barbados four years earlier, he had met someone who would change his path in life, who would give him purpose. It had not been a chance encounter, but that fact had never been revealed to Michael Shakib. Until that first meeting, he had survived on his instincts and innate intelligence alone. It had