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the country that had hosted the perpetrators of the outrage back into the stone age along with any who protested the action, forces were sent to overthrow the Taliban and rid the world of al-Qaida, an enterprise Jason found as useless as trying to find a specific ant in a series of anthills.
    The only difference was that this particular ant had been identified before 9/11 and ignored by a president more concerned with the political fallout from a loose zipper.
    Jason’s rage and frustration found a use when he was contacted by Momma. He had been her chief terrorist hunter ever since. The money was more than good and the job satisfaction better.
    He would get them all if it took a lifetime. It was his purpose in life per aevum.
    Now he was looking at one of the men who was as directly responsible for Laurin’s death as the pilots of the aircraft who had crashed into the building; he literally had Moustaph in his sights, a dream come true. It had been Moustaph who had recruited the hijackers and who had seen that their expenses were paid while some learned to fly.
    Only the thoughts of the interrogation techniques awaiting the terrorist made Jason shift the scope to Bugunda.
    Wearing a lime-green suit and bright-red tie against an electric-blue shirt, he was as obvious a target as if he had painted a bull’s-eye on his chest. And what looked like white patent-leather shoes, too.
    If Jason didn’t kill him, the fashion police might.
    Jason indulged himself by taking a single sip from his canteen.
    He shifted his posture, spreading his legs and wiggling his elbows into firm position to support the rifle.
    Bugunda, waving more to the TV cameras than to the small gathering of villagers, was approaching a microphone. Over his left shoulder, Moustaph was applauding, as were the two men next to him. Jason studied the latter two carefully. Africans in suits with telltale bulges under the left arms. Their upper faces were shielded by the reflective sunglasses so popular among dictators and tyrants of the Third World. Even so, Jason could see they were more interested in their proximity to the Arab than scanning the audience for any potential threat.
    In the country’s wretched economy, small bribes accomplished a lot.
    Bugunda began to speak, his voice tinny as it rattled through speakers placed around the square. Jason had no idea what he was saying but he noted periodic pauses when men in uniform, outside the view of the cameras, encouraged applause. Other men, not in uniform, circulated through the audience, brandishing sticks in case the more slow-witted spectators failed to get the message.
    Jason checked his watch. The minute hand still had a little space between it and the top of the hour. Time for a final check. As slowly as possible, he turned to make sure he was once again alone. He pushed the palm of his hand against the rifle’s bolt, making certain it was as far forward as it would go, closed and locked.
    He had killed men before in Delta Force operations, anonymous beings he had taken with a gun, a knife, or his bare hands. He had done so as commanded without remorse or qualms. He had only killed enemies of his country who, had the opportunity presented itself, would have returned the favor. A soldier’s duty. Today he was going to snuff out the life of a single unarmed individual who had done him, personally, no harm. The fact that the man was responsible for the deaths of thousands, perhaps tens of thousands, was of no particular interest. But anyone who gave succor to al-Qaida was a candidate for execution. Killing them involved no more moral issues than squashing a cockroach. All concept of kindness to one’s enemies, of fair play, had been burned out of Jason along with the ruins of the Pentagon that September morning.
    Admittedly, there was thrill in danger: insertion into the country, the skill of getting into position without detection. It was a rush that he now realized he’d missed more than he had