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Syrian president. He’s really taken the shine off that name.”
    “True.”
    The man frowned.
    “What about Dr. Evil?” Khoury asked sheepishly.
    “I’m not a doctor,” the man said.
    Khoury gave Berry a discreet grin. “Worth a shot.”
    “Call me Abul Mowt ,” the man proposed, his face darkening with the words.
    Khoury’s face sank. Which Berry noticed.
    “What?” Berry asked.
    “It means ‘father of death,’” Khoury said.
    Berry looked over to their captor. “Not bad,” he said. “ That , we can work with.”
    “So get to work,” the man said somberly.
    “And about the food …?” Khoury asked.
    The man’s tone rose with irritation. “I’ll get you some damn food. Anything else?”
    “It’d be good to have an internet connection,” Berry said. “You know, for research.”
    The man glared at him, half-amused. “Nice try. Get me something, soon. You’re not leaving here until you do.”
    Then he walked out, his fingers snapping his minions to follow suit, leaving the two authors locked in their cell.

6
    Reilly had no idea how capable his targets would prove to be, but as he took another bite of his chicken shawarma wrap, he was certain of one thing: when it came to Lebanese food, these guys knew where to go.
    “Unbelievable,” he said, watching as Malone layered some tabbouleh along the spine of a lettuce leaf.
    “I really miss this in Copenhagen,” Malone managed between mouthfuls. “Can’t get decent Lebanese food there. Nothing like this, anyway.”
    Reilly dipped a triangle of thin Arabic bread into the plate of humus, then studied the restaurant again as he savored the bite.
    It was a long, narrow room. Along one side of it ran a bar made of a slightly garish, richly-veined marble. Behind the bar were the two shawarma stands, huge, fat cylinders of meat—one lamb, the other chicken—that was layered onto a skewer that rotated slowly in front of a gas fire. There was also a wide, narrow horizontal charcoal grill that was used for kebabs, and a wide preparation area where the three chefs added the various condiments and garnishes to the sandwiches or plates. Eight customers, all men, sat on tall stools facing the bar, eating. A couple of them seemed chummy with the chefs and were chatting away with them between bites. A dozen small tables lined the other wall, which was clad with large mirrors. Reilly and Malone occupied the table closest to the door, facing the shawarma stands, where a couple of other men waited for their takeaways. Judging by the uninterrupted flow of such pick-ups, and of diners coming in and out of the place since the two Americans had been seated there, the restaurant was evidently doing a brisk business on all fronts.
    No one in the place stood out though, but then again, Reilly and Malone didn’t have an ID on any of the bad guys. All they could do for now was sit there and wait in the hope that one of the phones would go live again and that GCHQ would pick up its trail, a trail that, with a bit of luck, would lead to a target walking into that very restaurant. Until then, they could only wait—and enjoy the food.
    Reilly took another sip of his Coke, then checked his phone again. He had a strong 4G signal, but nothing had come in yet from GCHQ.
    He was reaching over for another dip at the humus bowl when a new customer walked in. He was dressed in a dark, loose-fitting suit—nothing expensive—and no tie. He hadn’t shaved for a few days and had dark circles under his eyes. Something about this guy attracted Reilly’s attention. He glanced discreetly at Malone. He, too, had sensed something. Agents—good agents—noticed the most minuscule details. Sometimes, it was something you could actually pinpoint: the way a person’s attention flits around a room when they walk in; the tension in their shoulders, in their gait. Other times, it’s a subconscious awareness. Nothing tangible they can point out, just a combination of tiny observations coupled