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the bowtie is visible,” DeLuca said. “Mr. Ambassador, if you’ll take a seat in the back next to Agent MacKenzie,
     we’ll be on our way. We have a SEAL team with a fastboat waiting about a mile down the beach and a pair of Predators watching
     our every move, but we’re still going to need a bit of deception until we get there, so just keep your mask on and wave your
     rifle and look angry and we’ll do the rest. Do you know any Arabic?”
    “Allah akbar,”
the ambassador said.
    “That’ll do,” DeLuca said. “We armored the sides and the doors but not the windows, obviously, so if somebody starts shooting,
     stay low. Dennis, let’s not give anybody too much time to think. Captain Allen, the jollies will be here in ten minutes, so
     get your men ready. See you on the
Johnson.
”
    Zoulalian started the car, with Sykes now in the passenger seat and MacKenzie and the ambassador in the back. DeLuca knelt
     on the roof with a black mask over his head while Hoolie held a gun to his neck, lifting the loose folds of the mask with
     his rifle to make sure the red bowtie was visible. The image was going to be a compelling one when it was shown on Al Jazeera
     later that night, a U.S. ambassador with bombs strapped to his chest being led from his stronghold at gunpoint by a brave
     band of terrorists.
    They breached the portcullis and were halfway down the ramp when Zoulalian was forced to step on the brakes. At the base of
     the ramp, the M-113 was parked across the drive to block the way. The rebel troops had dismounted and had their guns pointed
     at the van. The captain, his cigar still in his hand, shook it in the air and gestured for the van to come forward.
    “What the fuck?” Vasquez said under his breath.
    “Easy, everybody,” DeLuca said into his transmitter. “Remember Mog. Dennis—commence ranting and gesticulating.”
    Zoulalian got out of the car and screamed at the rebel captain, gesturing with both arms to get out of the way and let them
     through. When the captain waved him forward, Sykes got out of the car and walked down the ramp to speak with the man in the
     red beret and the wraparound sunglasses.
    “You have to move your truck,” Zoulalian said in accented English. “We have to get through. Now!”
    “Give the prisoner to us and we will take him,” the captain said. “We can provide security for him.”
    “We don’t need security,” Zoulalian screamed. “We have more than enough of that. We have to get to the soccer stadium.”
    “Inducements, Mr. Dan,” DeLuca transmitted.
    “Perhaps you could lead the way,” Sykes said to the captain, reaching into his pocket beneath his
abaya
and pulling out ten hundred-dollar bills, American. DeLuca always found it charming, the way people who hated America still
     liked its money. “Of course, we would want to pay you for the overtime. One hundred for each of your men and three hundred
     for you. Does that sound fair?”
    The captain saw the money and moved his body so that his troops couldn’t see the cash while he considered his options.
    “Give the money to me, and I will pay the men,” the captain said. Sykes handed him the cash, which the captain pocketed surreptitiously.
     “You will follow me, then.”
    He turned and ordered his men to get back in the truck.
    Zoulalian followed in the van, inching through the crowd. Hoolie did his best to block the things the people in the crowd
     were throwing at “the ambassador” to express their dislike for U.S. foreign policies, mostly fruit, vegetables, cassavas,
     one man picking up and flinging a piece of dog shit that struck DeLuca in the arm.
    “Tell that guy he’s going to hear from my cleaner,” DeLuca said.
    “What do you care? It’s not your suit,” Hoolie said.
    “Sorry for the delay,
Johnson,
” DeLuca told the mission controllers on the aircraft carrier, who he knew were watching them, both from an INMARSAT view
     and from a UAV-borne camera closer in. “What are you