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  A young woman in a red dress played an accordion nearby. She had long, dark tresses and she laughed while she played. A small group of smiling people stood in front of her, tapping their feet in time to the music. Children ran through the throng. Carter smiled.

  The night disappeared in violent white light.

  The blast sent Nick backward into the wall and down to the pavement. Pain shot up his spine.

  Everything went white. He was back in Afghanistan. He could smell the dust, hear the AKs firing, the explosions all around him. Then the white faded. The flashback faded. He could still hear the echoes of the AKs and smell the dry dust of the street. For a moment he didn't know where he was. A pall of black smoke hung over torn bodies spread in a red smear across the plaza. A flat, dead silence filled his ears. Then the screaming started.

  A heavy café table lay on top of him. He pushed it to the side and got to his feet. The woman in the red dress lay crumpled and torn nearby, her accordion shattered and silent.

  Broken glass and smashed furniture littered the plaza. There was blood on him, but it wasn't his. Carter took a step and tripped. He looked down at a child's foot in a blue shoe. It was just a small foot. A piece of white bone stuck out of a pink sock.

  He bent over and threw up the espresso in a yellow brown stream. The acrid, coppery stench of blood poisoned the clean night air. He straightened up and wiped his lips. Something caught his eye across the way.

  A man stood off to the side of the plaza. He was of medium height, with close set dark eyes, black hair, a thin black mustache and neat beard. He wore a shapeless brown jacket, baggy brown pants and a dirty yellow shirt. He was talking on a cell phone.

  He was smiling.

  The smile vanished when he saw Carter looking at him. He turned and walked away, holding the phone to his ear.

  Who smiles at a slaughterhouse? Carter started after him.

  Brown Jacket picked up his pace. He glanced back and turned into a wide alley between two buildings. Nick wished he had his .45. The Israelis had refused to let him carry it. He began running. Shouts sounded behind him as he sprinted into the alley.

  The alley crossed between the buildings to the next street over. Brown Jacket and two others stood halfway down. At the far end of the passage a white Volvo waited, motor running, one man inside. Brown Jacket said something to the two men and walked toward the car. The others started toward Nick.

  The larger man wore a loose blue jacket over a dingy white shirt and jeans. His head was bullet shaped and shaven. His face was dissolute, with ridges of old scar tissue over eyes that looked dead. His ears were crumpled cauliflowers and his hands were broad clubs, scarred with swollen and broken knuckles. A street fighter, a boxer.

  The other man was the leader. He was small, mean looking and dark, with shiny, squinty eyes, a scruffy beard and a nasty smile that showed gaps in his teeth. The two separated, a few feet apart, Squinty to Nick's right, Boxer to his left. A flash of steel appeared in each man's hand.

  Knives. He hated knives.

  Words echoed inside his head.

  You've got two choices in an alley fight. Run or attack. If you attack, if there's more than one man, go for the leader. Always take out the leader first.

  He walked straight at them. Not what they expected. Then he sprinted at Squinty and shouted from deep in his gut, a harsh, primal scream that vibrated off the alley walls. It froze both men, just long enough.

  Squinty lunged forward, the knife held straight out and low, coming up for a classic strike under the rib cage to rip the diaphragm and the aorta. Carter grasped his wrist and reached over with his left hand, levered up and out and broke Squinty's elbow, using momentum to fling him to the side. He side kicked and took out Boxer's knee.

  The knee folded sideways at an impossible angle. It crunched and broke, an unmistakable sound of terrible injury and unbearable pain. Boxer screamed and slashed out as he went down. A cut cold as ice opened along Nick's thigh.

  Boxer tried to sit up. Carter kicked him in the throat. He clutched his neck and fell back choking. His eyes opened wide in terror as he tried to breathe. At the other end of the alley, Brown Jacket got into the Volvo. As the car drove off, he threw Nick a look of venomous hatred.

  Squinty reached for his knife with his left hand. Nick kicked him hard in the head, a kick that could have got him into the NFL. Back at the entrance of the alley two cops appeared, guns drawn, shouting. Carter raised his hands, fingers spread wide.

  He guessed he was about to find out what the inside of an Israeli police station looked like.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Selena and Ronnie Peete were in the basement pistol range of the Project building outside of Washington. Ronnie was Navajo, born on the Rez. He was a tough man, yet Selena had seen him reciting a sacred Navajo ritual just before the three of them were about to parachute into the highest mountains on earth.

  She thought it an odd mix, a man who could hold on to something sacred or an MP-5 with equal ease. He'd been in Nick's Recon unit in Afghanistan and Iraq, and, she thought, a few other places people didn't usually hear about. Sometimes she felt a little jealous of the bond between the two men.

  Ronnie was broad shouldered and narrow hipped. He had sleepy brown eyes that looked out past a large, Roman nose and strong arms that bulged under the short sleeves of his Hawaiian shirt. His skin was the color of the desert on a summer day, light brown blended with a subtle undertone of red.

  She watched him lay out two Beretta nine millimeter automatics on the shooting bench.

  "How was Arizona?" she said.

  "It was great. You been down there?"

  "Monument Valley and Four Corners. I've never seen colors like that, the way the light paints the rocks and the desert."

  Ronnie nodded. "You can let your mind go in all that space. When the rains come and the clouds build up over the Sacred Mountains, it's one of the most beautiful sights in the world."

  He reached in his pocket, took a picture from his wallet. He handed it to Selena. It showed a stout, older woman in front of a low building of wood capped with an earthen roof. A deep red velvet dress, almost purple, reached to her ankles. Around her neck and on her arms and hands she wore heavy jewelry of silver and turquoise. Next to her stood a man in jeans, a plaid shirt and a flat brimmed black Stetson sporting a silver Concho hat band.

  "This is my Auntie and Uncle. They're both traditional Navajo. He's a Singer."

  "A singer? You mean like rock and roll?"

  Ronnie laughed, a deep, belly laugh. "No, a Singer is...like a doctor. Only he's a doctor for restoring harmony, not a doctor with pills. When something bad happens, like sickness or if you break one of the traditional taboos, you call in a Singer. He helps you restore personal harmony. Then everyone feels better."

  "Are you traditional?"

  "No. It's mostly the old people. But I speak the language and keep the stories in my mind. So I guess I am, in some ways."

  He put the picture away and picked up one of the Berettas.

  "I don't like these much," he said. "You find them everywhere, so you need to be familiar with them. Our troops carry them and some of our allies."

  "Why don't you like them?"

  "It takes three or four rounds from one of these to put down someone doped up and ready to die for Allah. Not enough punch with nine mil. Nick likes his H-K. I like Glocks, like the one you've got. They're light, they're reliable and the .40mm will stop anyone."

  They shot for a while. Ronnie showed her how to field strip, clean and reassemble the pistol. He had her practice until it felt familiar to her. He timed her and made her increase her speed. Then he blindfolded her and had her practice some more. After another hour he began packing up.

  "How long have you known Nick?" Selena asked.

  "Eight years. We were in Recon together. Special Ops. He was the best officer I ever served with. Never asked us to do anything he wouldn't."

  "Were you there when he got hit? With
that grenade?"

  Something flickered across Ronnie's face, was gone.

  "Yeah, I was there. But I don't really want to talk about it."

  "Sorry."

  "No, it's not like that." He smiled at her. "I just don't want to talk about it."

  "Neither does Nick," she said.

  Ronnie picked up a pistol, set it down again.

  "You serious about him?"

  Selena picked up one of her targets. Round holes in the black.

  "He's still in love with Megan," she said.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Back in her rooms at the Mayflower, Selena dressed in a yellow sport bra and workout pants. She put on a light over shirt to cover her holster and a pair of running shoes. Rule one at the Project: never go anywhere without your gun. Time to go for a run, go to the gym, clear her mind.

  She exited the building and headed for DuPont Circle. She didn't see the blond man across the street taking pictures of her with a telephoto lens. She ran along the busy streets, dodging traffic, feet pounding on the pavement, the sweat building, waiting for the burn. She ran, circled back, slowed, came to the gym. She went inside.

  The place was cool with air conditioning. Filters tried to take away the odors of testosterone and sweat. The A/C couldn't quite pull it off. There was a faint, sour smell of deodorant and mildew in the air. She walked over to a heavy stationary punching bag. She paused in front of the bag, closed her eyes and centered herself, as she'd been taught. She opened her eyes and began hitting it, quick jabs, picking up speed until her arms were pistons, quick blurs of motion. Like a striking cobra. Or whatever snake was so fast, the motion blurred and you were down before you knew what had happened.

  She began throwing side kicks, leg straight out, heel extended, balanced so the full strength of her body traveled down the bone and into the bag. The heavy bag rocked and shuddered with each blow.

  She thought about Nick. She loved his hard, scarred body, the way he took her. But he never relaxed, even after they'd made love. He always acted like he expected something to jump out at him. He never stopped watching, observing. His gray eyes were always moving. He never sat with his back to a door or window. He always walked away from walls. He always carried a pistol.

  She did too, now. She felt the hard shape moving against her hip.

  Damn him. The fury of her kicks increased. She forced herself to slow down, to focus. Being with Nick was like being with two or three different people. He was moody as hell. He got headaches and sometimes he had a far away look in his eyes like no one was home. Relationship, as in a real relationship with a woman, was like a foreign concept to him. At least as far as she was concerned.

  Then there were those nightmares. She'd asked him about them. He dreamed about Afghanistan, where a child threw a grenade that almost killed him.

  He dreamed about things that hadn't happened yet. It was something passed down in his genes. Sometimes the dreams came true, although not always the way he thought they would. It was weird, beyond weird, spooky.

  He dreamed of his dead fiancée. Sometimes when they were in bed she felt like there was a third person in there with them. Megan. All Selena really knew about her was her name.

  Thirty minutes later she was back in her rooms. She stripped off her sweat stained clothes and headed for the shower. She stood under the stream and let the hot water run down. She held her face under the shower and ran her fingers through her the hair while the water beat on her breasts.

  She stepped out of the shower and toweled herself off. She stood naked and considered her body. Five ten, a taut hundred and forty pounds. She wasn't into the anorexic thing. She worked hard to keep herself in shape. It let her do things that made life interesting, like sky diving and scuba, her martial arts.

  She looked in the mirror, touched her face, the high cheekbones, brushed a wisp of hair away from her forehead. She turned on the dryer and thought about the Project while she mussed her hair.

  Before she'd met Harker, she'd consulted with NSA and worked the academic circuit. She was a world class expert on ancient and oriental languages. She was more than accomplished in martial arts. She was rich. She could jump out of airplanes and hit the center of a pistol target from fifty yards. She could run must men into the ground. She could do most anything she wanted to. And she had been bored.

  Before the Project, life had been predictable. A lecture. A consulting assignment. A translation. Then she'd met Nick and Elizabeth Harker and found herself caught up in a world where people tried to kill her.

  Now she was part of the team. Now she carried a Glock .40 mm in a fast draw holster instead of a pen. She was sleeping with Nick and wondering where the hell it was going, or if it would go anywhere. Her life had turned upside down.

  She looked in the mirror and smiled. At least it wasn't boring.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Fluorescent light glared off scarred yellow walls. The cement floor was painted dull gray. The room was bare except for a metal table bolted to the floor and two plastic chairs. A camera watched from one corner. A large mirror took up a portion of one wall.

  Ari Herzog, senior Shin Bet agent in Jerusalem, watched through the one way mirror. The man in the room was around six feet tall, about two hundred pounds. He had black hair and eyebrows, wolf-like eyes, and a hard, square-jawed look. He needed a shave. He sat quietly, waiting for whatever came next. There was no fidgeting, no nervousness. The medic had dressed his knife wound an hour before.

  "He's a cool one."

  The comment came from a tall man with black eyes and sallow skin and big ears. His face was weathered from the desert sun with lines that made him look older than his forty-eight years. He wore a short sleeved white shirt, black tie, crisp blue pants and black shoes. Silver insignia of the National Police glittered on his shoulders. A name tag on his shirt identified him as Ben Ezra.

  "Eighteen stitches for that gash in his thigh, no anesthetic," he said. "He didn't even flinch. While he was being sewed up he worked with the sketch artist. We're running it through the database now. So far, no hits."

  He held out the artist's rendering of the man Nick had followed into the alley. Herzog looked at the drawing, then opened a Shin Bet dossier he carried in his right hand.

  "Nicholas Carter," Herzog said. "Former Major in their Marines, Force Recon. That's part of their Special Operations Command now. He's supposed to be part of an advance party for the US President's visit."

  Herzog continued reading.

  "Silver star, bronze star with cluster, three purple hearts, tours in South America, Persian Gulf, Iraq, Afghanistan. Redacted records. High security clearance. Part of a covert unit that answers to their President and specializes in targeted operations against terrorists."

  "Sounds a little like one of yours, Ari." The policeman scratched under his armpit.

  Carter's effects were in a box on a nearby table. Herzog looked through them. Airline ticket. Rental car keys. A wallet with driver's license, credit cards and two thousand dollars in currency. There was a picture in the wallet of a dark haired woman standing in front of a restaurant, blowing a kiss at the camera. Carter's passport was full of stamps from all over the globe.

  There was a state of the art, encrypted satellite phone. A small pocket knife and flashlight, locally bought. A flat, black credentials holder with Carter's ID. A room key for the King David Citadel Hotel.

  Carter's pistol, a Heckler and Koch .45, had been sent forward from storage at Ben Gurion airport. Herzog picked up the gun, examined it. He eyed the three fifteen round magazines and the shoulder rig.

  "Big pistol. Custom hollow points. This one doesn't fool around." Herzog set the pistol down.

  "You think it's a coincidence he was there when that bomb went?"

  "What does he say?"

  "That he was having a cup of coffee when the bomb exploded. He says he saw a man talking on a cell phone. In his opinion the man was involved with the bombing, so he went after him. When he did,
two others attacked him. The one with the phone got in a white Volvo and was driven away. Then my men showed up and took this one into custody. We're on the lookout for the car, but there are a lot of white Volvos."

  Ben Ezra scratched his arm. "One of the men he fought is dead. The other is in a coma. The one he killed was in our files from demonstrations in the West Bank. No ID on the other yet. When he comes out of it, if he comes out of it, we'll encourage him to answer some questions."

  "Mmmm."

  Ben Ezra continued. "We found two knives in the alley." He gestured through the glass. "This one was unarmed. Except for that little penknife. It was in his pocket."

  "Not bad, against two with knives. We're sure he's who he says he is?"

  "Confirmed."

  "Their President gives his speech two days from now. Why send a covert operative here, using his own name, claiming him as part of the Presidential party?"

  "Maybe we should ask him."

  "Let's do that."

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Carter looked up as two men entered the room. The first was about forty-five, dressed in a crumpled dark blue suit, white shirt with no tie, and black shoes. His hair was curly and black with touches of gray. Around five ten and a hundred and seventy, his eyes were dark brown, intense and bloodshot. He looked tired. Lines of stress were grooved into his cheeks and forehead. He was wearing a wedding ring and carried a folder in his left hand.

  The blue logo of Shin Bet was prominent on the credentials he held up for Nick to see. Shin Bet's motto translated as "The Invisible Shield". In the covert war zone comprising all of Israel, Shin Bet was the front line.

  Standing next to him was a ranking policeman with silver pips and a leaf on his shoulders. A cop in uniform entered the room, closed the door and stood by it.