“Doubtful.” Stanley had played lacrosse at the University of Maryland, which made him practically albino. “What do you think?”

“I think there’s plenty of upside and we can limit the downside. I’d do it.”

Stanley agreed. So did the bosses in the Counterterrorist Center back at Langley. On July 16, the DO — as everyone still called the unit now officially known as the National Clandestine Service — approved Rashid’s recruitment. The CIA gave him the code name Marburg, after an African virus that caused its victims to bleed to death. The agency hoped that Rashid would do the same to al-Qaeda.

Running Rashid from Amman didn’t make sense. He was handed off to Marci Holm, a senior case officer in Kabul. Making Rashid report to a female operative offered another test for him. The agency believed that a genuine jihadi wouldn’t want to take orders from a woman. Plus Holm was a rising star, a tall, angular woman who had managed a half dozen successful ops in Afghanistan.

Rashid didn’t complain when he was told Holm would be his controller. Their first meeting came in late August, in Dubai. They walked the giant Mall of the Emirates as Holm gave Rashid a three-hour crash course on tradecraft. No dead drops or chalk marks, just e-mail addresses and keywords. Cricket to schedule a meeting, pulse if he believed he’d been discovered.

“You shouldn’t have trouble getting in and out,” she said. They were speaking English. Holm’s Arabic was good. Rashid’s English was better. “They won’t want to keep you in the mountains. They don’t have many men who can travel as freely as you.”

“Maybe they’ll want me to take care of them.”

“Even then they’ll let you leave to get the drugs you need to treat them. As long as they trust you, it won’t be a problem. And your brother martyred himself for them.”

“Animals.”

“They’re not stupid. You need to be cautious. No unnecessary risks. I don’t have to tell you what happens if they question your loyalty.”