“I asked Manny and he says no. We haven’t searched him before, we can’t start now. Especially since he told us how much he hated those guys stripping him down.”

They were silent. Finally she said, “You know I can’t walk away now. It’s too late. Anyway, Manny has me believing I’m crazy to worry about this. Tell me I’m crazy.”

“The craziest woman I’ve ever met. Why I love you.”

She leaned over, kissed him. “Good night, sweetie.”

In the morning, she felt fine, chipper, even. She saw the truth. Marburg was not a double. He was her agent. He was about to give them Ayman al-Zawahiri. She showered and dressed and drank two big mugs of coffee and headed out.

The day was clear and crisp. A breeze splashed in from the mountains. They saddled up and flew to Camp Holux on two Black Hawks. The team totaled ten officers in all, including Cota and his deputy, the two top officers in Afghanistan. The most junior guy in the group was Tom Lautner, her husband’s brother, on his first tour in Kabul. He had been assigned to help provide security. She liked having him there.

The base was spartan, brick outbuildings that the CIA had rented from a local farmer, ringed with sandbags and barbed wire and low concrete blast walls. A South African contractor managed security, hiring Nepalese Gurkhas for the guard tower and locals to patrol outside the wire. In the one-room brick building that served as the communications center, Holm hailed Ted Khan, the officer overseeing Rashid’s pickup, on an encrypted radio.

“Stinson One, this is Holux, do you copy?”

“Copy. Awaiting subject. Over.” Even on encrypted frequencies, Khan wasn’t chatty. Holm was glad he was handling the pickup. He was half Afghan, and though he’d grown up near Los Angeles, he spoke perfect Pashtun.

Cota’s sat phone buzzed. “Yes, sir… Soon as we hear, sir.” He clicked off. “Erie wishes us luck,” he said to Holm. Erie was the code name for the deputy director of operations, the agency’s second-highest officer.