Though it was going to make his guys look good, there was something about all of this that just didn’t sit right with Mangan-especially the body. He’d been around enough stiffs in his time to know that the only kind that didn’t spill blood when shot or stabbed was the kind that was already dead.

There was something else he didn’t feel right about. Maxwell and Weston looked and acted like the real deal, but there was something off about them that Mangan just couldn’t put his finger on.

Leaving the house, Mangan walked quickly back to the SWAT van and climbed inside. Grabbing one of the team’s small, black surveillance cases, he had his men switch radio frequencies and instructed them to keep their eyes on the house. If either of the FBI agents appeared at a window or was preparing to exit via the front or back door, he wanted to know about it. With that, Mangan exited the truck.

Crouching low so he wouldn’t be seen from inside, Mangan slipped around the side of the house, being careful to stay beneath the window line. When he arrived at the back bedroom where the body was, he unpacked a special fiberoptic stethoscope. He would have loved to have had a camera as well, but there was no way he could have drilled through the wall without being detected.

The fiberoptic stethoscope, or FOS for short, was an exceptionally sensitive instrument that enabled tactical teams to listen through doors, windows, and even concrete walls. Mangan powered up the FOS, put on a pair of headphones, and began listening to what was going on inside.

Considering that Maxwell and Weston had shot up a dead body, Mangan wasn’t surprised that they were busily planting evidence. What did surprise him was why they were doing it and on whose orders.

Once the SWAT team leader had finished recounting his tale, Sheppard understood why he had chosen to keep his mouth shut and go along with the charade. Now the ball was in Sheppard’s court, and he needed to plan his next move very carefully. He was about to accuse the president of the United States of several extremely serious crimes all tied together by a disgustingly elaborate cover-up.

AMMAN, JORDAN

The two men sat inside the blue BMW 7 series on a quiet side street near the center of town. Most of the shops were closed for the afternoon prayer. “After this we’re even,” said the man in the driver’s seat as he retrieved a small duffel bag from the backseat and handed it to his passenger.

Harvath unzipped the bag and looked inside. Everything was there. “As soon as I am safely out of your country,” he replied with a smile, “then we’ll be even.”

Omar Faris, a high-ranking officer of Jordan ’s General Intelligence Department, or GID for short, nodded his heavy, round head. The six-foot-two Jordanian was used to making deals. In the world in which he operated, deals were de rigueur-especially when it came to keeping the swelling tide of Islamic radicalism in check.

What’s more, he had always liked Scot Harvath, even with his unorthodox tactical decisions. No matter how he carried out his operations, Harvath was a man of his word and could be trusted.

The two had been paired together in Harvath’s early days with the Apex Project. A cell of Jordanians had killed two American diplomats and was plotting to overthrow King Abdullah II. Though officially the GID had no idea that Harvath was operating inside their country, Faris had served as his partner and a direct conduit to the king.

Abdullah had asked only one thing of Harvath-that he do his utmost to bring the cell members in alive. It was an incredibly complicated and dangerous assignment. It would have been much easier to kill the terrorists and be done with the entire operation. Nevertheless, at great risk to himself, Harvath honored the king’s request.

In doing so, Harvath not only earned the sovereign’s respect but also earned a couple of points with Faris, who was promoted as a result of the mission’s success.

“Of course if your presence here becomes known, His Majesty will disavow any knowledge of you or your operation. If the Syrians, or anyone else for that matter, discovered that we were allowing you to stalk an operative of theirs who was in our country undergoing cancer treatment, it would be devastating for Jordan ’s image-not to mention the diplomatic fallout,” said the GID officer.

“Don’t bullshit me, Omar,” replied Harvath. “You know as well as I do that Al-Tal’s a threat to you too. A lot of the weapons he’s been helping the Syrians unload are going to groups like Al Qaeda who could very well use them here.”

“We are aware of that, but it doesn’t change the fact that our image is of paramount importance to us. Our credibility with our neighbors and allies would be significantly eroded if our involvement in your operation became known.”

“What involvement?” asked Harvath as he zipped up the duffel.

Faris smiled, removed a manila envelope from beneath his seat, and handed it to his friend. “Per your request, we have compiled a complete dossier.”

Harvath wasn’t surprised at how much was in there. The GID was usually very thorough. “Surveillance logs, photos, layout of the building-this is a pretty impressive dossier for less than twenty-four-hour notice.”

“Al-Tal has been on our radar screen for some time. When it was discovered he had entered the country under an assumed identity to begin his treatment, we began around-the-clock surveillance.”

“Any listening or video devices in the apartment?” asked Harvath.

“Of course,” replied Faris. “We were very concerned about the weapon sales. Any information we could have collected would have proven quite helpful.”

“But?”

“But the man has proven quite cautious. He speaks often on the telephone, but none of what we have picked up is of any direct use. We suspect someone else is running the operation for him while he seeks his medical treatment.”

“You said he doesn’t have much longer.”

“This is what his physicians have said. Weeks. A month tops.”

“And his family?” asked Harvath.

“It’s all in the dossier.”

“I don’t want any record of me being in that apartment. I want all of your listening and video devices removed.”

“I’m afraid we can’t do that,” said Faris.

“Why not?”

“When he first arrived, he and his family traveled to the hospital on an almost daily basis. Now he is resigned to his bed at home full-time. There is always someone with him. It would be impossible for any of my people to get in there and remove those devices.”

“Then I’ll remove them for you,” stated Harvath. “I’ll need a detailed schematic of where they’ve all been placed.”

Faris reached into his breast pocket. “I thought you might ask for that.”

“What about the surveillance teams?” asked Harvath as he slid the piece of paper into the dossier.

“They’ll be pulled off as soon as you enter the building.”

“Then it looks like we’re all done here.”

Faris handed Harvath the keys for the nondescript, gray Mitsubishi Lancer he’d organized and then shook his hand. “Be careful, Scot. Al-Tal may be dying, but it’s when an animal is sick and cornered that it is the most dangerous.”

Harvath climbed out of the car, and as he prepared to close the door, said, “Tell your men to get ready to drop their surveillance.”

Faris was slightly taken aback. “Don’t you want to study the dossier first?”

“I’ve seen all I need to see. The sooner I get in there and get control of Al-Tal, the sooner I can bait the hook and start chumming the waters for Najib.”

Faris watched as Harvath unlocked the Lancer, threw the bag in, and pulled away from the curb. Though he knew Harvath was a professional, he didn’t like what the American was headed into.