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so it didn’t get a lot of attention at first. Declaration of fatwa —a religious proclamation—issued on a standard feed, decent resolution. Remember, we’re looking at the background…This isn’t surveillance tape, so we didn’t really need to run any compression. We got what we were looking for when we adjusted this spot here—you see?”
    As the analyst manipulated strings of data on a laptop computer, the corner of the screen on the second monitor darkened, revealing a small group of people. Some were reading from what Kealey thought were handmade military field manuals, while others were stripping and cleaning weapons.
    â€œGot it?” asked Davidson. “Okay, this tape was shot at midday, at least according to the time-and-date stamp. My tech officers swear up and down that it hasn’t been altered, so we’ll call that fact for now. Now, you can see the glare was initially blocking out this group of people, so we’ve…”
    Ryan tuned the analyst out as he leaned in to stare at the tape. The group of men were seated on the sand beneath a worn canvas tarp lashed to wooden supporting poles. For the most part, they appeared to be of Arab descent, dressed in loose, dark clothing or flowing robes covered in dirt and dust. All were wearing the traditional kaffiyeh, including one man half-turned away from the camera, the sun giving light to blond hair that strayed from beneath the head covering. The angle did not reveal the man’s face, only the clean, straight line of his jaw, obvious even beneath the heavy beard.
    Ryan Kealey stared at the frame for a long time.
    He turned and caught Davidson watching him with a satisfied smile on his face. “Harper said you would pick up on that right away.” He tapped emphatically on the screen where the image was located. “I don’t think it’s an accident that this guy is facing away from the camera. He’s far more disciplined than the others, probably because someone has a file on him somewhere. He’s a player, but he wasn’t always so careful. I’ll show you what I mean.”
    The analyst kept the image on the screen and started a different segment of tape on another of the room’s many flat-screen monitors. “This is a copy of a tape found in the Khyber Pass four months ago. The original was badly damaged by fire, probably in an attempt to destroy it. Mostly they were successful, but we recovered about two minutes of intermittent footage.
    â€œIn this one, we have what appears to be a high-level meeting of lesser Al-Qaeda operatives and members of the majlis al shura , the governing council. Although the time and date are not displayed, we believe that it was recorded well after 9/11, as our intelligence indicates that this man, Abu Musab al-Zarqawi, was still busy recruiting for Ansar al-Islam in northern Iraq until early 2002. In fact, the most recent sighting came in May of that same year, when a Pakistani army captain supposedly spotted him in Peshawar…”
    Kealey might as well have been alone in the room, his attention completely focused on the monitor. At that moment, the man with whom al-Zarqawi was speaking briefly glanced up in the direction of the camera. The face was without expression, but the flashing green eyes seemed to stare right through the glass, as though catching sight of an old friend from across a crowded room.
    â€œSon of a bitch,” Kealey whispered under his breath. He turned to Davidson, abruptly interrupting the man’s impassioned commentary. “I’ve seen enough. Take me to Harper.”
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    Seated in the deputy director’s seventh-floor office, Ryan could catch distant views of the Potomac River across treetops lightly dusted with snow. The sight of the water reminded him of his old house on Cape Elizabeth, and he suddenly felt the urge to call Katie. Would she even pick up the phone? She could definitely hold a