“So what do I do?”

“You treat him, Doctor. As best you can. Make him feel better. That’s the best way to make him trust you.”

Rashid nodded.

“Just don’t cure him or he won’t need to see you again.”

“Don’t worry, Miss Simmons — Marci. There’s no cure for heart failure.”

“Good, then. So you’ll help him. And the next time they take you to him, they’ll relax. A little bit. That’s all we need. But before then, we’ll need to meet—”

“We—”

“A few of us will want to debrief you.” You’ll be pure gold, and half the agency will want the credit for this, Holm didn’t say. For the next hour, she refreshed him on codes and contact information. He told her his plan. It was simple enough. He would buy the medicines he needed. Finding them would take a day or two. Then he’d go back to Peshawar and wait for instructions.

“Are you ready for this?” she said.

“I don’t want to make any grand speeches, Miss Simmons. But I’m sure in my heart that these men must be punished.”

“Good luck, Doctor. Go with God.”

“The same God for us all. I wish we could remember that.” He extended his hand and shook hers briefly. Then he disappeared. She listened as his steps shuffled down the hallway and the stairs and into the Karachi night. Trying to track him would be pointless, and anyway she knew where he was going. Back into the mountains. To trap Ayman al-Zawahiri.

Unless the trap was meant for her.

BACK IN KABUL, Cota was thrilled. The agency put a Special Operations squad on what was called “black watch.” The term meant the unit, a twelve-man team, couldn’t be used for any other mission, no matter how important. Basically, the squad was under house arrest at Bagram Air Base, waiting for a shot at al-Zawahiri.