“It could be,” she said. “This shot isn’t much cleaner than the one we have.”

“St. Kilda’s photo was taken from a blind near a dirt strip in what was then the endless civil war/ethnic cleansing of the King’s Republic of Uhuru and is now the New Democracy of Camgeria,” Steele said. “The photo is five years old.”

“Okay, our photo is a decade old,” Martin said. “In truth, we aren’t even sure it’s Bertone. It’s a possible rather than a probable ID. A pal of mine down in Langley got the photo for me. He said there was one positive ID photo taken five years ago, but he couldn’t get it for me. Looks like this could be the one.”

Steele knew it was.

Prosser was already sorting down through the other prints. Each one of them told a story-the loading of bags of contraband and the unloading of what were clearly cases of weapons.

Then he flipped over a picture showing Bertone with a long sniper’s rifle in his hands, staring through the scope.

“Mother,” he said, startled. “Looks like he was scoping the photographer.”

“He was,” Steele said. “Notice that his hand isn’t on the trigger.”

“Still, glad it wasn’t me.” Prosser blew out a breath. “These will make a great photomontage, if we can authenticate them.”

“Look at the last photo.”

Prosser turned over the last one. Everyone at the table except Steele crowded around to look over his shoulder.

Bertone was somewhat shadowed inside the aircraft, but it was clear that he had shifted from watching to acting. His finger was on the trigger.

“He fired a few seconds later,” Steele said. “A good young man died.”

Prosser blew out another breath. “Shit.”

“Pictures are easy to fake,” Carson said. “Remember the CBS National Guard memos.”

Steele laughed out loud. “Those were badly done counterfeits. No intelligence agency would have bought them and no self-respecting journalist should have.”