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“It’s not as simple as that.”

“Of course it isn’t. I’m generalizing here to make a point,” he said. “After the army you entered the police academy. You learned another version of the worldview and adopted a new attitude toward when violence might be appropriate. And there was an adjustment of that when you became a detective and began working on the counterterrorist unit. The step into the DMS was an extraordinary one, Joe. Massive. The very first day you were in multiple firefights. Each time you have had to adjust your emotions and your worldview to allow for the reality of more and different kinds of killing. I know that with each step we have had to take a little time to explore what this is doing to you. And you know the warning I’ve given you several times.”

“I know.”

It was the kind of warning he, as a psychiatrist and a moral person, was honor-bound to give: be prepared for the day when you cannot do this anymore.

After Grace had been killed-after I’d tracked down her killer and torn him apart-I thought I’d reached my limit with this kind of work and this kind of life. Then the Seven Kings case blew up in my face and suddenly I was ankle deep in blood again. As much as I hated being a part of that fight, I discovered the ugly truth that it defined me. Not the killing. No, not that. It was the fight itself. It never seemed to be over and until it was, how could I, in good conscience, lay down my gun and let the innocent fend for themselves? How could I do that and not go crazy myself? Church had been a warrior in this far longer than anyone else I knew. During the Kings thing he tried to explain it to me. He said, “The darkness is all around us. Very few people have the courage to light a candle against it. We hold a candle against the darkness. Like the unknown and unseen enemy we fight, people like you and me-we are the darkness. In some ways we are more like the things we’re fighting than the people we’re protecting. We are part of the darkness. Granted our motives are better-from our perspective-but we wait in the darkness for our unseen enemy to make a move against those innocents with the candles. And by that light, we take aim.”

I repeated those words to Rudy.

“I remember you telling me this. And I remember when you decided that this was, in fact, who you were.”

“Sure, and that’s all very noble, very grand, but can I say that I’m that kind of warrior and measure it against cracking a joke while I shoot a bound prisoner who’s praying for mercy from God?”

Rudy began to answer, but there was a discreet tap on the door.

“I have to go, Rude.”

“Joe-we need to finish this conversation.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I know.”

I hung up, got to my feet, and pulled my gun from my waistband.

Chapter Sixty-Six

Mustapha’s Daily Goods

Tehran, Iran

June 15, 3:19 p.m.

I opened the door a quarter inch. Enough to see a single eye peering in at me. If that eye was red or even reddish I was going to put a bullet through it.

“Are you okay in there, my friend? Do you need assistance?”

They were the kinds of question anyone would ask, but the exact phrasing was a prearranged code. I opened the door a few inches, pistol out of sight. Ghost stuck his nose into the crack and began cataloging everything he could about the man outside.

“I’m just a little tired from the trip,” I said, using the proper response to the coded questions.

“Perhaps I can help,” he said.

I opened the door and the store clerk’s eyes darted first to Ghost, then to my lowered gun and finally to me. No shock or surprise registered on his face.

“I am Jamsheed Mustapha,” he said.

I didn’t give my name, and he didn’t ask.

Jamsheed was about fifty but he wasn’t carrying it well. His posture was bad and his face was deeply lined. Stress lines, not laugh lines. “The store is locked,” he said, “and I’ve engaged the jammers. No one is listening and no one knows you’re here.”

“Works for me,” I said as I eased the hammer down on the pistol and returned it to my waistband. Jamsheed backed away to allow me to step outside. Ghost remained right where he was, cued to do so by a small finger signal I gave him. He would watch and wait and stay alert until I signaled him to stand down.

“ As-salamu ‘alaykum,” I said.

“ Wa-laikum as-salam,” said Jamsheed and offered me his hand. We shook. He had frail bones but managed to give a firm shake. He did a second, longer appraisal, taking in the ill-fitting shirt, bloodstains, my battered face, the works.

“You are hurt? I have a first aid kit in my apartment. We’ll get you cleaned up. I have clothes, too. There will be some in your size.” He paused. “Have you spoken to the Mujtahid?”

I nodded. Mujtahid was the Arabic word for “scholar,” but it was also one of the many code names for Mr. Church. I relaxed even more at that name and gave the stand-down signal to Ghost, who immediately flopped down and appeared to lapse into a canine coma. Apparently he was faking his combat readiness.

“Is there something wrong with your dog?” asked Jamsheed.

I explained about the Taser and the net. Jamsheed asked me to wait, and he went into the store and came back with a plastic bowl, two bottles of water, and a bag of high-protein dog biscuits. He handed everything to me. It was clear that he knew enough about military-trained dogs to not try to give the food and water to Ghost directly. I thanked him. Jamsheed earned a whole lot of points from me for that kindness. I knelt and emptied one bottle into the bowl, tore open the bag of biscuits, and laid six of them in a row. Ghost pried open an eye, flexed his nostrils, and wagged his tail. He got shakily to his feet and set-to with a will, lapping up the water and then suddenly going hog wild on the biscuits, his usual daintiness forgotten for the moment.

“Are the police looking for you?” asked Jamsheed.

I shook my head. “They’re looking for someone, but no one has my description.”

“That simplifies this. You look like you could use some food and drink as well, my friend.”

“At this point, I’d even go for one of the dog biscuits.”

Ghost shot me a “don’t even think about it” look and moved to stand between me and his food.

“My team is coming for me,” I said. “Can I stay here for a few hours and wait?”

“Of course, of course, as long as you need.” He didn’t ask for details, and I had no idea what information Church told him. Jamsheed seemed to be taking all of this in stride. He took me by the arm and led me through a small door into his apartment. It was cramped, but very clean and decorated with gorgeous framed photographs of children, animals, landscapes, and buildings.

“Your work?” I asked.

He nodded. “A hobby. I hope to retire from this work and concentrate on photography.” He leaned on the word “work.”

“You have an incredible eye,” I said, and I wasn’t joking. Each of the pictures was a small masterpiece of composition. Not just a flower, but an angle that showed light caressing the striations on a delicate petal in a way that cast it as an alien landscape. Not merely a photo of a child with a kitten, but a glimpse into the wonder in that child’s eyes and the trust in the body language of the kitten. Each piece was a statement filled with visual poetry that betrayed a deep understanding of the connection between the physical world and the spiritual. “These are really quite beautiful.”