Zdrok took the disk and put it in his computer. They watched the clips together.

A man dressed in a jeballaand turban entered the back entrance. . . . He set grenades . . . he dropped leaflets . . . and then he left.

"Who is he?" Zdrok asked. " He's not American."

"Who knows? He's obviously an Arab militant. He deliberately left that Tirma stuff. It's a message, Andrei. Tarighian is sending us a message."

"What does he want, a goddamned war?" Zdrok fumed. He took out the disk and gave it back to Antipov. "I'm going to call the bastard."

He picked up the phone, consulted the directory in his computer, and dialed the number in Cyprus.

"Yes." It was Tarighian, otherwise known as Basaran.

"It is I," Zdrok said.

"Are you on a secure line?"

"Of course."

"How are you, Andrei?" Tarighian sighed. He sounded tired and stressed.

"I could be better."

"Why, what's wrong?"

"What's wrong? You don't know?"

"Know what?"

"Our facility south of Baku was destroyed last night. By one of your men."

"What?"

"We have him on tape. He left Tirma shit all over the place so we'd know it was you."

"I don't believe this! What the hell are you talking about? You're accusing me?" Tarighian sounded way too offended. Zdrok smelled a rat. The man was an actor--after all, he'd been acting a part for the last twenty years.

"Only a handful of people know about that place," Zdrok said. "And I trust every one of them with my life. Except you."

"What are you saying? That I was somehow responsible for this?"

"My friend, if you think you can get away with this, you are sorely mistaken."

"Andrei, it sounds to me as if we're being set up. It was not me, I swear it."

"Oh? Is this the American agent you told me about, then? Is he the one who maybe infiltrated our bank in Baku?"

"Your bank in Baku? I know nothing about that!"

"We think an American broke into the bank the other night."

"Well, no, I don't think it was the man who was here. My men said they killed him. He drowned in Lake Van. Although I must tell you that our facility in Van was breached the other night. My bodyguard was hurt. A lone operative was seen in the steel mill, but he escaped."

Zdrok was aghast. "Tarighian, if this man was a CIA or NSA agent and he obtained some of our secrets from you, I can't tell you how much you and your organization will suffer."

"For the love of Allah, Andrei, we're on yourside!"

"We're not on anyone's side but our own. You know that. I don't care about your bloody jihad. What you're planning to do with the materials we sold you over the last three years is foolish. I wouldn't be surprised if your own men turn against you. All I care about is the business. And speaking of that, why haven't we received payment for the replacement of goods that was sent to you? That was supposed to be in the account this morning, if you recall."

"What?" Now Tarighian really sounded concerned. "That money was transferred. I gave the order personally."

"It's not here."

"That's peculiar. I'll have to--"

"It's more than just peculiar, Tarighian. I suggest that you drop everything and look into the matter right now."

"Andrei, we're trying to finish our project. You know I have grand plans for what we've been building."

"Yes, I know. And I can imagine you're currently having cash-flow problems, too. But I don't care. Prove to me that you didn't do this terrible thing to me and pay me what you owe me."

Zdrok hung up without giving Tarighian a chance to respond. He looked at Antipov and said, "So he thinks the American is dead? The girl in Israel hasn't talked yet, so I suppose it's time we convince her to do so. If he's really dead, we'll soon know for certain." He picked up the phone again and made a call to Jerusalem.

"DAMNZdrok," Tarighian said to Mertens as he hung up the phone.

They were in Tarighian's private office inside the Cyprus shopping mall complex.

"What is it now?" Mertens asked.

"They're screwing us," Tarighian replied. He dialed another number and waited. "Hello, Hani?"

Tarighian's head of finance was on the other line. "Yes?"

"Was that payment transferred to the Shop?"

"Yesterday, sir."

"You're sure?"

"Of course I'm sure. I did it personally."

"They say it wasn't received."

"Impossible."

"Look into it, will you? I have enough problems right now."

"Yes, sir."

Tarighian hung up and glared at Mertens. "I suppose you want to tell me again how crazy this scheme is."

Mertens shrugged. "As a matter of fact . . ."

"All right, Professor. If Baghdad isn't a suitable target, then what is? Are you going to say Israel again?"

"Of course! I cannot believe you are blind to this. Tel Aviv or Jerusalem should be the target because Israel is the key objective in the Middle East. Destroy Jerusalem and the region really willbe in chaos. And it will avenge the assassination of Gerard Bull."

"So that'swhat this is about? Your former boss?"

"He was much more than a boss. He was my mentor. He was like a father to me."

"There is no proof that Israel was responsible for Bull's murder."

"There is every indication that the Mossad was responsible. I was there. I was working with Gerard when it happened. I swore to avenge his life then and I intend to do it."

"Not with my money you don't," Tarighian said. "Just because you were Gerard Bull's right-hand man doesn't give you the privilege to question my motives. Professor, you have done a wonderful job with the Phoenix, but in Allah's name I will not tolerate insubordination. Now that the Phoenix is complete, you are expendable. Don't forget that."

Tarighian's cold brown eyes stared holes through Mertens, and the Belgian physicist saw--not for the first time--why so many men respected and feared the man. Tarighian possessed that rare quality known as charisma. Great men throughout the ages used charisma to influence others, whether it was for good or for evil, and Tarighian was no different. He had seduced Mertens long ago, convincing the Belgian to devote his life to designing and building a weapon for the Shadows. The pay was an additional incentive, of course, along with protection from the Belgian authorities who had been looking for him ever since his escape from the mental institution.

For Mertens, though, he was not in it only for the money. By working on Tarighian's project, Mertens had fulfilled his goal of continuing the dreams of Gerard Bull, the man who taught Mertens everything he knew. Mertens was not a Muslim, nor did he care about the Shadows' objectives to drive the West out of the Middle East and take over Iraq. He had no loyalty to Jews, Muslims, or Christians. His devotion was to Bull and the man's genius. Mertens owed it to Bull to fulfill the man's prophecy.

"Very well," Mertens said. "I apologize. But you should know that many of your own men are unhappy with what you plan to do. They do not agree with your decision to attack a city in a Muslim country."