The Devil's Light by Richard North Patterson

compared to the man in front of him, offering to embrace Marwan as his own. “Yes,” he said at last. “I can do this. I will trust no one, kill anyone who opposes me, and die before betraying our cause.”
    Bin Laden had placed a hand on his shoulder, sealing their bond—
    Alone in Pakistan, Al Zaroor still gazed at the moon, so round and large it seemed he could touch it.
    He must prepare himself. Five miles away, a man who did not know him would soon be waiting with a truck. Facing a cracked mirror, Al Zaroor used a straight razor to shave his head and beard, leaving only a mustache. Then he removed his contact lenses and put on gold-rimmed glasses. Save for his clothes, he resembled a lawyer or banker, a semblance of the man his father had wished him to become.
    Once again, Al Zaroor thought, he had become a shadow.
    As night fell, Brooke and Carter Grey met with Terri Young in Grey’s borrowed office.
    Blond and pretty, Terri still had the well-scrubbed look of the student body president she once had been. One of her specialties as an analyst was the study of al Qaeda operatives; at times, she could discern who had planned an operation by the intricacy of its details. Now she spread three photographs on Carter’s desk.
    â€œIf your theory is close to right,” Terri said, “the man behind this wouldneed connections to the Taliban and al Qaeda; a web of contacts within Pakistan; a decent understanding of nuclear weapons; and a superior grounding in military tactics. All in the service of a first-rate mind.” She looked over at Grey. “Considering the stakes, he’d also have to have had Bin Laden and Zawahiri’s absolute trust. Maybe we’ve never heard of him. But my guess is that he’s one of these guys.”
    â€œTell us about them,” Grey requested.
    She placed a finger beside the face of a heavyset man with a stubbly beard. “Abu Nemir is Jordanian. He has the requisite contacts, and his credits include multiple bombings of embassies and hotels. But sub-Saharan Africa seems to be his specialty, and our most recent information puts Nemir in Somalia.”
    Grey gazed at the second photograph. “Mahmoud Farhat,” he said grimly. “I met him in Afghanistan when all of us were killing Russians. Smart and mean as a snake. He’s also Pakistani, which would fit.”
    â€œAnd maybe dead,” Terri answered. “Our people in Pakistan think we’ve gotten him with a drone. They’re trying to confirm that.”
    â€œDon’t wait up for it,” Brooke said. “Who’s the third?”
    â€œThis one’s worth a closer look.” Using her computer, Terri summoned the grainy profile of a man who appeared to be in his early thirties, his body like a blade of tempered steel, his ridged nose in perfect proportion to a sculpted face. “Looks like a film star,” Grey remarked. “What’s his name?”
    â€œAmer Al Zaroor. At least that’s the name he uses.”
    â€œWhat do we know about him?”
    Gazing at their quarry, Terri’s brow knit. “Regarding his origins, nothing. No past, no family, no country. He seems to have been born as an adult.”
    Grey grunted. “Adam without Eve. How old is this photograph?”
    â€œTwelve years, at least. Al Zaroor is elusive; according to one of our prisoners, some within al Qaeda call him ‘the shadow of God on earth.’ The only Amer Al Zaroor we can trace was a friend of Bin Laden’s who died in childhood—”
    â€œIn other words,” Brooke said, “Bin Laden christened him.”
    â€œSo it seems. His operational fingerprints are rumored to be on some of Osama’s greatest hits.” She looked up from the screen at Brooke. “We believe he helped plan the attack on the USS Cole . We also think that hepersuaded Bin Laden to scale down the plan for 9/11, perhaps enabling its success. That speaks