Agnes Becker spoke into the secure-line with hoarse urgency, her face set in a determined scowl. “You’re not listening to me, Geoffrey. You need to pull the trigger on this—now! I’ve sent you the document scans. You already have the intercepted calls and emails. Your analysts and linguists can look them over to their hearts’ content, and they’ll tell you the same thing I am: this intel is rock solid, and the threat is very real. But you know it’ll take weeks for your team to do all that vetting. We’re looking at a timeframe of less than a day. We don’t have the luxury of waiting—we’ve got to take action!”

Her boss’s condescension was palpable. “Like I said before, Aggs—you’re doing great work. But you need to back off, and let the process play out. You know how many ‘credible threats’ the agency gets every month. We can’t do an all-hands-on-deck mobilization on one agent’s say-so. Everything has to run through channels ... So: keep doing what you’re doing. Work your contacts. Update me if you get anything actionable. And never forget, this job is a marathon, not a sprint.”

She hung up the receiver with a bang, and let out a low snarl of frustration: “Fucking DC desk-jockeys with their fucking platitudes!”

(Agnes had cleansed herself of many sinful habits over the years, but profanity was one she’d never managed to shake.)

Although she was exasperated, she wasn’t really surprised the section chief had blown her off. First off, she was inexperienced—only a few years out of Quantico, and low on the totem pole at the agency. And second, this posting was seen as a backwater. Harbalistan was a small country; and the petty royals who ruled it were happy to comply with America’s demands (for a cut of the development money, of course). The place had a scattering of Islamic radicals, but they’d never produced any serious terror threats. In short, it was an assignment no field agent wanted, and no one at Langley expected to be of any importance.

It was different for Agnes, though, because she was on a mission from God.

Oh, she hadn’t always been on a mission. Into her early 20s, she had drifted aimlessly—washing out of college, dabbling with a series of loser boyfriends, and never believing in much. But when she’d found Catholicism, everything had changed. She’d embraced the faith with the puritanical fervor of a convert, and gravitated toward its conservative, militant fringe. For a time, she’d focused on her personal spirituality: repurifying herself and dedicating herself to doing the Lord’s bidding. Gradually, though, she’d realized that God had a special plan in mind for her—to become a guardian of her country, and of the Christian heritage that it stood for.

With His help and guidance, she’d gone back to school, mastering Arabic and earning a degree in Islamic Studies at Harvard (know thy enemy... ). Then the CIA academy. At every step she received top marks; and by the end she had no doubt she’d be good at human intelligence work. The Lord had equipped her faithfully for her mission, and she trusted that her posting to Harbalistan was just another part of His grand design.

Almost as soon as Agnes’s feet hit the tarmac at Yasin Fazil International Airport, she began to understand why God had sent her there. Her sharp nose was able to detect the faint whiff of anti-American hatred, and Islamic extremism. Over time, she built a network of informants, and identified mullahs and clan leaders to be surveilled. Her progress was painfully slow, but she kept plugging away, and eventually started piecing together the true nature of the threat. Her intel suggested that a group of Harbali jihadis had gotten their hands on a batch of North Korean uranium, and planned to detonate a dirty-bomb in a major US city. This, she felt sure, was the demon that God had sent her to slay.

Maddeningly, Agnes’s superiors in DC had refused to take her warnings seriously. From their perspective, she was just another over-enthusiastic greenhorn, trying to turn a second-rate posting into ground-zero for the global war on terror. And besides (they were quick to point out), she still didn’t have anything really definitive to show them. Her evidence remained circumstantial at best.

Then, yesterday evening, Agnes had hit paydirt. One of her tribal contacts had passed her some stolen document scans, in exchange for a $50 payout. He didn’t know what was in the images, and they’d traveled through so many hands that he couldn’t tell her where they originated. But he swore these documents were linked to the jihadis she was after.

At the time, she’d taken his assurances with a grain of salt—too many promising leads had already turned out to be garbage for her to get her hopes up. But this morning, when she had started translating, her heart began to race with excitement. It was a data trove beyond her wildest expectations: the documents in her hands contained the master plan for the attack! They outlined everything in systematic detail—describing the operation so clearly that even her boss Geoffrey would be able to grasp it.

Now, admittedly, there were a few infuriating gaps. For one thing, the five main conspirators were given code names, so there was no identifiable information to go on. For another, the plan didn’t specify the detonation site. She could tell it was in the Pacific timezone; but that still left her with an impossibly long list of potential targets—population centers, technology hubs, military bases, reservoirs, sports arenas, national parks ... ground-zero could be just about anywhere.

One thing the plan did provide, however, was a timetable—and her eyes bugged out when she saw the dates and times specified. The attack was scheduled for—gulp—today. Even factoring in the time difference, they had less than twenty-four hours before the bomb detonated!

As she came to grips with this ominous deadline, the bottom seemed to drop out of Agnes’s stomach, and she broke out in a cold sweat. Up to this point, she’d believed she still had weeks or months to thwart the terrorists. Now it turned out she was teetering right on the brink of botching her mission. If that happened, then the deaths of thousands of innocent, God-fearing Americans would lie on her conscience—tragic victims of her failure and inadequacy.

For a moment, she was paralyzed by the shock of it. Lord, she prayed silently, have I failed You? Please forgive me ... Please help me make it right...

With an effort, though, Agnes pulled herself together. She had her faith—and she had her training and self-discipline as well. In this moment of crisis, she would need to lean on all three. She understood, intellectually, that panic and self-doubt would serve neither her, nor her divine purpose. They would only get in her way. So, she shoved them out of her mind and forced herself to focus on the task at hand.

Grimly, she rechecked the figures carefully. Then she started a countdown timer on her wristwatch. 23:00:00 hours. That was how long she had until the bomb went off.

Recalling her lessons at Quantico, she knew that before doing anything else, she needed to confirm the new intel was genuine. So, she went back to the beginning, and combed through all the documents again, carefully and methodically, looking for any discrepancies, flaws, or mistranslations.

Next, she assessed their authenticity with cool detachment. First off, the materials just looked right. If these were forgeries, they were exquisite. Second, every detail matched the previous reports she had received. Everything cross-checked. Third, she had faith in her informant. And finally, a good agent listens to their gut—and hers was screaming that this was the real deal.

It was only then that Agnes had put in the call to her section chief, Geoffrey Cartwright—feeling sure that with this new data she could finally get him to see sense...

... But of course, as you already know, it didn’t work out that way. She had tried, calmly and rationally, to impress the gravity of the situation on her boss. She’d walked him through the cold, hard facts contained in the documents, spelling everything out for him as if he were a little child. But, Geoffrey was in thrall to procedure. He needed time to vet the materials, time to brief the directorate, time to formulate a response. All time they didn’t have. And then, as the piece-de-resistance, he trotted out ‘a marathon, not a sprint’—God, it made her want to barf!

Ok, he was a useless excuse for a man. Now, though, Agnes needed to let go of her frustration with Geoffrey. Or rather, she needed to bottle up that rage and aggravation and put it to use—channel it into action. She’d done everything she could to mobilize an agency-level response, and it hadn’t worked. But the clock hadn’t run out yet, and the game wasn’t over. If she could figure out the missing details—who, and where—then even an hour’s notice might still be enough time to thwart the attack. So long as American lives might be saved, it was her duty to leave no stone unturned, and no effort spared.

She glanced at her wristwatch. 20:57:37... 20:57:36... 20:57:35... Somehow, some way, she had to track down the necessary intel, and relay it back to authorities in the US, while there was still time for them to take action. She just had to. Once the countdown reached zero, it would be too late.

Agnes spent the rest of the morning working the phones, rapidly and efficiently. One by one, she reached out to all her contacts—wheedling, and bullying, and trying to call in favors. She dispensed with the usual niceties and protocols; there simply wasn’t time to do things the right way. Instead, she bent all her efforts to trying to acquire a lead—any lead—fast.

At first, she’d been absurdly confident that something would turn up. Gradually, though, as the hours passed and the list of names dwindled, her positivity faded. By the time noon approached, she knew she only had one card left to play: Iskander Ali Amin.

Amin was Agnes’s highest profile informant, a deputy defense minister for Harbalistan. The man felt no loyalty to the ruling regime, and she had leveraged his greed to get him to fork over some low-grade intel. Still, she’d only been cultivating him for a few months, and didn’t really have her hooks into him properly yet. Contacting him now was a real long-shot; it was quite possible she would burn him as an asset for nothing. But she was at the end of her rope—there was no point holding anything back now.

She called his government office, and sweet-talked her way past the secretary. Fearing he might be bugged, she kept Amin from saying anything when he came on the line. “I need to see you—now. Usual place. Don’t keep me waiting.” She hung up, hoping desperately that he’d show.

Forty-five minutes later, she was at the apartment safe-house, watching the seconds tick away on her wrist, trying to empty her mind. From the window, she saw a black Mercedes slowly circle the block and enter the building’s parking garage. She bit her nails as she waited. At last, the door opened, and Iskander Ali treaded warily inside.

Amin was a tall man—slightly overweight, but carrying it well. He wore an expensive Savile-Row business suit, and had a full head of jet-black hair. His face was a plump oval, and normally sported a jovial smile. Not today, though. Instead, he barked at Agnes (his deep bass voice and excellent English complemented by a British public-school accent). “What the bloody hell was that?! You can’t just ring me at the defense ministry! If they get wind I’ve been talking to you, the Crown Prince will have me cut up into very small pieces and poured into the foundation of one of his new high-rises!”

She had expected him to be edgy. “Relax Iskander, no one knows who I am. The phone was untraceable. As long as you weren’t followed, then we’re fine. If anyone asks, just say one of your mistresses was feeling neglected.”

He was only slightly mollified, so she decided to try a conciliatory tone. “Look, I’m sorry I had to break protocol, but there wasn’t time to go through the usual channels. I have intel on an imminent terror threat. It’s big—and it involves Harbali nationals. I need your help to stop them.”

The man’s mood remained petulant. “You’re wasting both our time. I don’t know anything about this terror attack. And why should I do your job for you anyway? What’s in it for me?”

She saw she’d have to be tougher with him. “Do I need to spell it out? First off, if America gets hit by Harbali jihadis, we’ll come down on this country like a ton of bricks. I’d hate for you to end up as collateral damage. Second, I know you’ve been buying condos in Miami. I imagine the Emir and Crown Prince would be interested to learn that their deputy defense minister is planning an exit strategy—and downright eager to find out where he is getting the funds.”

He was silent for a moment, and when he spoke his demeanor was more contrite. Sometimes you needed honeyed words, she reflected, but other times you had to let your assets know that you had ‘em by the balls. “Look, Agnes,” he said cajolingly, “if I knew anything, I would tell you. You’re right, of course—it doesn’t serve any of us if these terrorists succeed. And we have intercepted chatter that something big is coming. But I don’t have anything more definite than that. I truly cannot help you—I wish I could.”

Just for a second, Agnes feared she might burst out in tears. Not that she was the over-emotional type—quite the contrary. But the pressure of the situation, the stress, the sense of responsibility for innocent lives, the feeling of being God’s instrument—it had been building up slowly inside her for months, and then come to a rapid and unexpected crescendo today. Even when she’d known that Iskander was her last remaining hope to snatch victory from defeat, she’d maintained an irrational certainty that he would give her something. But now, it seemed, her mission really had reached a bleak and bitter dead-end.

Still—she had her faith, and she wasn’t a quitter. Maybe if she just leaned on the man harder, she could squeeze something out of him. Gulping down her distress, she fixed him with stern eyes. Her voice was low and filled with menace. “Don’t play dumb with me Iskander. You know something, and you’re going to tell me. If you don’t give me something I can work with, I swear to God I will bury you.”

Amin could see the woman standing before him was desperate, and he felt pity for her. But he could also see she was dangerous, and rightly feared what her desperation might drive her to do. “Ok, ok,” he said, the slightest hint of nervousness in his voice. “I can’t make any promises. But let me make a call.”

The call dragged on a long time. Agnes had picked up a fair amount of Harbali since arriving in-country, but Iskander lapsed into a rural dialect, and talked quickly and colloquially, so she had a hard time keeping up. Anyway it was all just fragments. She thought he was speaking to a succession of people. At one point he turned and fixed her with an appraising look. Then he went back to jabbering away.

Finally, he hung up. “I swear to you by Allah: I do not know anything. But there is someone who might. A distant cousin of mine, in fact. A man called Abdullah Rahim. He is willing to meet with you, if that is what you want.”

Agnes knew the name. Rahim was a tribal chieftain out in the hinterlands—an ambitious man who ruled a good chunk of the countryside. His Tashli clan had been feuding with the royal family for generations, and every so often those tensions spilled over into low-grade violence. It was certainly plausible that he had access to information that wasn’t available in the capital.

Iskander went on: “There are some conditions. Rahim likes his privacy, so you will have to go to him. Alone. And you’ll have to leave your firearms and electronics behind. I can’t promise he will help you, but I believe he does know something about the attack.”

Agnes folded her arms obstinately. “Uh, no way. I can’t meet him like that. I’d be a sitting duck to be kidnapped or bushwhacked. Find another option. Bring him here.”

The man replied matter-of-factly. “I understand your concern, but that’s the only way he will agree to see you. He is a careful man, with no desire to get snatched by a CIA rendition team. But he has pledged your safety—and out there in the hills, he has the power to make it stick.”

Agnes wavered. Being an agent involved taking risks, that was part of the business. The trick was to take smart risks. Under any other circumstances, she would have dismissed this proposal out of hand. But she didn’t have anything else to try. What if Rahim had the information to save countless lives, and she simply passed up the opportunity because she was twitchy?

She fixed Iskander with a probing gaze. “Can I trust him?”

He considered carefully before replying. “Abdullah Rahim is not what I would describe as an honorable man. More of a thug, really. But he does have his own sort of code. He won’t lie to you—I feel confident of that. And if he says you will be safe, then you will be.”

Still Agnes hesitated, unsure what to do. Glancing at her watch, she saw the timer now read 17:11:08... 17:11:07... 17:11:06... She thought about what those rapidly vanishing minutes and seconds meant—about the dreadful, gory reality that lay behind them. Setting aside her many misgivings, she made her decision. “Ok, I’ll meet him.”

Iskander nodded and pulled out his phone again. “I’ll set it up. It’s a long drive and I know you’re in a hurry. But ... if it pans out, I’ll expect your lot to buy me another condo in Florida...?”

For most of the afternoon, Agnes bounced along in a series of decrepit vehicles, blindfolded. Rahim’s men were obviously trying to make it hard for anyone to track her. Little did they know (she thought resentfully) that her request for drone surveillance had been turned down. Other regional operations, it seemed, had been given higher priority.

She spent the last stage of the trip in in the back of an old Soviet-made GAZ-66. The road wound and twisted interminably, and from the pounding she was taking, she could tell it was rocky and badly rutted. Finally, they ground to a halt, and there was blessed stillness. Strong hands grasped her elbows and lifted her down to the ground. Then the hood was removed from her head and she found herself dazzled by the slanting rays of the setting sun.

She was standing in the middle of a compound. The bare-dirt courtyard held an assortment of trucks, motorbikes, and Land Cruisers (a few of them had machine-guns mounted, she noted). In and around them was a scattering of young men, who tinkered with the vehicles, chatted in twos and threes, or leaned against the walls smoking. They were a motley group. Some wore tattered camo; some had T-shirts blazoned with the logos of Western rock bands; and a few were clad in traditional caftans, Nearly all of them had AK-47s or Uzis in their hands, or slung with casual indifference on their backs.

The area was bordered on all sides by tall walls. Even the gate that the truck had entered by was already sealed up with a solid slab of sheet-metal. Small out-buildings were dotted here and there, but the focal-point of the enclosure was a large, boxy, three-story dwelling, which loomed before her. The entire place was constructed of mud-brick, plastered smooth and painted in pastel colors. At the front of the main residence, she could see a single large entryway, shaded by a wide green awning. Otherwise, the building was featureless, save for a few small windows, set high up in the structure.

A thin, dry haze of dust hung in the air. Agnes glanced around, but couldn’t pick up any landmarks. She might have been two hundred miles from the capital, or (if the drivers had gone in circles for five hours) in a nearby suburb.

One of the men who had traveled with her, bearded, swarthy, and a bit older than most, gestured toward the entrance of the big house with his rifle. His demeanor wasn’t menacing, just matter-of-fact, maybe even a bit bored.

Beneath the awning, the door was flanked by a couple of guards. They frisked her competently, and ran metal and RF detectors over her body. She fought successfully to keep her cheap plastic wristwatch, which proved too inert to even set off their equipment. (Foolish of them, since the CIA probably could have embedded some useful gadgetry in it; but in fact it was just something she’d picked up at Target a few years back for $9.99.) Beyond that, there was nothing for them to find—she’d left her gun and phone in the office, as directed. Anyway, Rahim’s men had already searched her carefully before putting her in the first truck. She understood the guards’ caution, but resented every second that was wasted this way.

At last, the pair decided Agnes wasn’t a threat. One of them escorted her through the front entrance, and into a sparsely-furnished antechamber. In the far wall, she saw an open doorway, screened by curtains that gleamed with a metallic sheen. The guard called out in Harbali: “she’s here, boss!” Then he turned on his heel and went back outside.

From behind the curtain, a voice rang out, in an animated, masculine tenor. It spoke clumsy English with a strong Harbali accent. “CIA woman, you have come. Enter!”

Agnes parted the curtain, and stepped into a much larger room. It was well-lit and luxurious. Expensive Persian rugs covered the floor, and high-quality textiles adorned the walls. Scattered here and there were sumptuous pillows. On one of them, a man reclined casually. He wore earth-tone robes and a close-fitting black turban, tied from a shemagh scarf. Presumably this was Abdullah Rahim, the man she had come to see.

Rahim nodded slightly to acknowledge her presence, a thin smile on his lips. Then he clapped his hands, calling loudly in Harbali: “Fatima! The woman is dusty from the road. Bring water!”

While they waited, the man looked her over carefully. His frank inspection made Agnes self-conscious. She knew she was attractive. With her creamy complexion, slender nose, and icy blue eyes, all framed by shoulder-length goldenrod locks, she was used to drawing more than her fair share of masculine attention, both at home and here in Harbalistan. But that didn’t mean she sought it out.

In fact, Agnes felt deeply ambivalent about the effect she had on the opposite sex. Even before her religious conversion, she had never really wanted to catch men’s eyes—she would have preferred to be invisible. Now, her faith taught that the flesh was corrupt, and vanity a sin. Yet, physical appeal was undeniably useful for a spy—especially a female spy. Men were far more likely to boast or confide to her, than to her male colleagues. So she tried to think of it as a gift from God.

Her charms appeared to be working on Rahim, at any rate. “You are more beautiful than my cousin said,” he remarked casually. Agnes was torn between wanting to accept the complement and preferring not to encourage this line of conversation. In the end she said nothing, and an awkward silence descended on the room.

Soon, a female figure bustled in through a side-door, toting a small basin and a towel. At first Agnes barely glanced at her, but then she did a double-take. The girl (Fatima?) was entirely unclothed!

She was young, early-20s probably, with a round, cheery face, dark skin, and glossy black hair bound up in a bun. She wore gold combs in her hair, heavy gold bracelets on her forearms, a jewel in her naval, and a pencil-thin belt of gold around her waist. Other than that, she was completely uncovered—revealing a frame that was slightly chubby, with large torpedo-shaped breasts that sagged a bit under their own weight. Agnes knew, hypothetically, that Muslims shaved their genitals, but now she had the proof: the woman was indeed entirely bare, her smooth puffy mons giving way to a deep slit that ran down between her legs. Under the circumstances, this detail struck Agnes’s Catholic sensibilities as vaguely obscene.

Fatima brought the basin over and set it down before Agnes. For a long moment, the agent’s surprise and bewilderment was such that she could only stare at the naked woman before her. She felt her face redden and her chest tighten, as if experiencing sympathetic shame on the poor girl’s behalf. Then, with an effort, Agnes took hold of herself, and looked fixedly away—unsure whether her intention was to preserve Fatima’s modesty, or her own.

Rahim seemed amused by her discomfort.

After Fatima had retired, Agnes crouched at the basin, rinsed her hands and face, and dried them with the towel. Then, straightening, she broke the silence in the room. “Abdullah Rahim, thank you for seeing me. My name is Agnes Becker, and I’m here representing the United States of America. I need your help to stop a terr...”

He cut her off with a curt gesture; then continued gazing at her thoughtfully. This time, she returned his scrutiny with equal candor. She figured he was trying to intimidate her, perhaps to gain the upper-hand in their dealings, so she pitched her body-language to show she wasn’t daunted by him.

Rahim was in his mid-40s, she guessed, but looked older—no doubt from a lifetime spent enduring the sun, wind, and hardship of the Harbali hinterlands. He had dark, leathery skin; a close-trimmed beard; a lean, hatchet-sharp face; a hawk nose; and close-set eyes that were black, liquid, and piercing. Not to her taste, really, but undeniably charismatic. She could see why so many tribesmen had rallied to him.

“You are a puzzle,” he said at last, speaking slowly and deliberately. “You see, I follow tradition. Not like those people in the city, like my cousin, who have turned into Westerners. Here, CIA woman, you are in the real Harbalistan. Here, men come to do business, and I meet them outside, beneath my tent. Here, women are for the home, for family and kids and enjoying life ... But you—you are a puzzle. A woman who comes to do business. What should I do with you?”

Judging the question to be rhetorical, Agnes pasted an attentive look on her face and waited for him to continue. Rahim, it seemed, was an old-school sexist, and intended to do some grandstanding on the subject. She’d met lots of men like that since joining the CIA—more of them here in the Mideast, but plenty back at Langley too—and she had a pretty good idea how to handle them. Under these exigent circumstances, she would be perfectly willing to stroke Rahim’s masculine ego a bit, if that’s what it took to get the intelligence she needed.

The warlord gestured theatrically about him. “Well: I cannot do business with you under the tent, because you are not a man. So, you see: I bring you into my private space, the place for my wives and children.” He pointed to the curtain behind her. “No man comes through that door, except me.” Then, flashing a humorless grin, he added: “If they did, I would shoot them!”

“Thank you for having me in your home, Ra’is Rahim,” she said, with what she hoped was ladylike deference. “It is indeed a special honor. Your wisdom and hospitality are deepl...”

He broke in as if she wasn’t even speaking. “But! If you wish to remain, then you must obey the rules of my house.”

Agnes had no idea what he meant by this. “Of course, I respect yo...”

Again he simply talked over her. “And, it is the rule in this house that women do not wear clothes.”

A chill fell on the room. Faced with such a fantastical proposition, Agnes tried to persuade herself that she had misunderstood him. Perhaps Rahim’s English was worse than it seemed...? After a moment she spluttered, “Um, you don’t understand. I just n...”

Calmly, he raised a hand to her. “In my home, I do not meet with a woman who is clothed. Take them off. Or, leave.”

To hear the provocation repeated sent a jolt of righteous indignation through Agnes’s mind. Who the fuck did this bastard think he was?! She reined in her temper as best she could, but a cold light shone in her eyes, and she spoke through gritted teeth. “So, this is how you greet important visitors, Abdullah? You must be weak in the head!”

He shrugged. “It is you who comes begging favors, CIA woman. If you do not need my help, then go.”