The Devil's Light by Richard North Patterson Page A

to a very cold mind.”
    Grey studied the two photographs. “What are his connections to Pakistan?”
    â€œImpressive. The last two operations attributed to him were the bombings in 2009 of an army garrison in Rawalpindi, and of a hotel in Peshawar frequented by foreigners—both with massive casualties. There’s no doubt he can work on Pakistani soil.”
    â€œThose operations were two years ago,” Brooke pointed out.
    Terri nodded. “No one claims to have seen him since. He could be dead, in hiding, or working on something very deep. With this guy you just don’t know.”
    â€œWhat do the Israelis know?” Grey asked.
    â€œAccording to them, zip. I actually believe that. They’ve got no resources in Pakistan.” She flicked back her bangs. “According to the Indians, who do, they received a vague description of an al Qaeda operative spotted last year in Peshawar—a dark, slender man with a dark beard, perhaps dyed. But no one knows his name.
    â€œEven the descriptions of men sharing Al Zaroor’s voice and manner vary markedly in appearance—beard, no beard; glasses, no glasses; dark hair, gray hair. The only thing he’s never been is fat.” Terri resumed studying the picture. “Somewhere in the world there are multiple images of this same man on security cameras. But no one has any idea they’re looking at Amer Al Zaroor.”
    â€œWhat do we know?” Brooke asked in frustration.
    â€œWe think he’s a Saudi, fluent in English. That suggests he may have studied in England or America. But he’s completely erased his past.” Terri shut off the computer. “My best guess is that the people he fought with in Afghanistan knew him by another name, and that most of them think he’s dead. That makes him a needle in the haystack of deceased Saudi jihadists. Assuming that his former family ever knew he was one.”
    It struck Brooke again that he had no family other than his parents, and lied to both of them. “Like a lot of us,” he remarked.
    Before leaving, Brooke printed out the photograph of Amer Al Zaroor, wondering if he were adversary or illusion.

FIVE
    A little after 5:00 A.M. in the Bekaa Valley of Lebanon, Dr. Laura Reynolds knelt in a Maronite Catholic church, seeking peace before resuming her life of secrets.
    The church was shadowy and still, candles dimly illuminating its stone walls and worn wooden pews, the tormented Christ set below a stained-glass window. Though new to Laura, this church in Anjar afforded her a fleeting refuge of the soul. On some days, as now, she was accompanied by an intern on the dig, Maureen Strafford, who retained the faith of her Boston Irish childhood. Crossing herself, Laura rose, emerging with Maureen into the first light of morning.
    Maureen drew a deep breath of air, too cool at this hour to burn her lungs. “It’s so beautiful here,” she said.
    Though only ten years separated them, the eagerness radiating from Maureen’s open face made Laura feel old. The town had lovely aspects, she acknowledged, such as leafy trees and stone houses left by Armenian immigrants. But the quarters they shared with other archaeologists were drab, save for the courtyard where they sometimes ate dinner. Nor could either woman indulge her femininity—in loose cotton pants and long-sleeved shirts, they were as androgynous as clothes could make them, Laura more so because of her slightness compared to Maureen’s buxom form. Even their hair—Maureen’s bright red, Laura’s black and straight—was covered to honor the mores of Islam. Among the Shia, females in pants were suspect.
    The two women were part of a dig team financed by a compendiumof Polish universities. Altogether they numbered twenty-five, augmented by cooks and housekeepers from Anjar. Maureen had arrived two weeks before, a student from the program at the American University of Beirut