We put down – none too gently – at a smaller airport just south of Jilil-ayeh. Phil said it was used only by private aircraft. A couple of agents from the Service – ours, not Phil's – met us. We'd been able to get a message through before landing.

After his shoulder was patched up, we spoke with Phil again. He insisted he was undercover for British intelligence and told us he'd been sent to keep an eye not only on Assad and Razzack, but on Nine.

"Or the man who calls himself Nine," Phil said.

"What do you mean by that?" Blake asked.

"Just that we're certain the man who's masquerading as Nine is a ringer. That the real Nine's probably dead by now."

"But fingerprints, voiceprints, DNA…" Blake started.

"They all match. We think they've managed to replace Nine's records with those of the imposter."

"So, what evidence do you have that this Nine isn't genuine?" I asked him.

"I worked with Nine in the field for years," Phil said. "We were partners. I know the man and he knows me. This man – he's, well, he's different. It's hard to explain. Nine had peculiarities. He cocked his head a certain way when he was listening to you, had a fetish for keeping his nails perfectly trimmed, didn't eat meat. This fellow has Nine's gestures and habits down to a science, but there's something missing. Something only someone who knows him like I do could see. And when we found out he was working for Razzack, we knew he wasn't Nine. He was totally uncorruptable. We launched a plan to get him to recruit me and I've been on the inside ever since."

Phil shrugged and then winced. His shoulder was starting to hurt.

"OK. So you're not a bad guy after all. But won't Nine know his cover's been blown if we turn up?"

"Yes. And we'd like to capture him alive. There're a lot of questions we want to ask him, but first we have to stop those planes from leaving." Phil said something in rapid-fire Arabic to a guard. The man replied, then left, only to return with another fellow who looked a lot like David Niven.

"Blake, Eileen, this is Monty. He's Nine's second-in-command. He'll be leading the raid at the airport. We'll round up all of Assad's men and hope to find Razzack and Nine, too. Would you like to go?"

Blake looked at me and I nodded. "Count us in," he said.

* * * * *

We were armed to the teeth and wearing body armor, sitting in the back of a jeep on what had to be the dustiest road in the city of Jilel-ayeh. Blake had an assault weapon and I was armed with twin 45s – my favorite gun. Old habits die hard.

The plan was to hit the airport with everything we had and take as many prisoners as possible. Assault teams would storm all the aircraft immediately, to prevent take-off.

We fanned out and surrounded the airport with the teams. Blake and I were to enter the fence with two other squads after cutting the wire. Each team was assigned a plane. Ours was the one from Halasad. We ran quickly and quietly to the aircraft.

Blake and I climbed the stairs and fanned out on opposite sides of the open hatch. I would go in low to the left and he would go high and to the right (although he opined that I should really be the one to take that position). I'd take the cabin and he would handle the cockpit. On his signal, I whipped around the corner and inside in a low crouch. I could see at least one burgundy shirt up the aisle.

I yelled "Freeze!" in Arabic – it's the only Arabic word I know. Leveling my gun at the man, I inched my way up the aisle, ignoring the shouting behind me. Blake was apparently having a hard time with whoever was in the cockpit.

I motioned for the man to put his hands on his head and kneel, which he did. But just as his knees hit the carpet, a second man came around the corner from the galley and fired at me. I dropped behind a seat and returned fire. The first man – the one I already had on the floor – rolled and came up with a gun, too. Looked like this wasn't going to go down easy.

I took a fast peek around the seat and drew more fire. I needed to move, so I made a quick lunge across the aisle, a somersault really, then came up again with a gun in one hand and a spare inside my waistband.I fired a couple of rounds and dropped to the floor, peeking under the seats. There! I could see two pairs of shoes and some knees, as the men crouched behind the row of seats to avoid the line of fire. I took aim and fired a volley under the seats, then moved quickly up the center aisle. I'd hit both my targets.

The two were balled up, blubbering and holding their shredded knees. I relieved them of their weapons and turned back to check on Blake. He saved me the trouble, marching an obviously belligerent man out at gunpoint. I took the radio from my belt and called Phil.

"Three for pick up, Phil, and two of them aren't ambulatory."

"Good show."

"How about Nine?"

"No sign of him so far. I'll get back to you after the other teams check in."

I looked at my partner. "Do you think he'll ever turn up?"

Blake shook his head. "Not with us in on the bust. We know he's turned." He pushed his prisoner toward the door. "OK, Ace, let's get going."

* * * * *

When the dust settled, we had managed to put a pretty fair dent in old Razzack's organization. He got away, naturally, but we'd captured Assad and Chandler. Nine was still missing – or the fellow pretending to be Nine.

The planes were all disarmed. Chandler filled us in on how they worked: The chemical – a derivative of the cassava plant – was dropped into the air handling system by a timing device that was set to go off after the plane reached and maintained a cruising altitude of over 20,000 feet. The chemical was virtually undetectable and wouldn't register in autopsies. They used it on the Egypt Air flight as a test and again on Chandler's tomb.

"The tomb was a set-up – designed to discredit the Sheik and start the ball rolling," Blake said. "Hey, what's the matter with you? You look like someone just ran over your cat with a steam roller."

"I don't know, I guess I just feel sorry for Mahmoud. Poor kid. His mother's dead and now his father's in custody. What'll happen to the boy?"

"Well, now, that's an interesting story. Ever wonder why Assad had it in so bad for Madya – especially the Sheik? It seems that Mahmoud's mother, Assad's wife, was the youngest daughter of Sheik Hamir.

"Then why did Assad hate Madya so much?"

"Because his wife was killed during a failed palace coup. She was home visiting her parents when it took place. The Sheik had been warned, but chose to ignore the warnings. Assad blamed him for his daughter's death."

"So what happens to the kid?"

"He'll probably go to live with his grandfather in Madya now."

"Poor little rich boy, huh?"

"Yeah, something like that."

* * * * *

I poured myself another cup of coffee. It was quiet now that the kids were in school. The sink was full of breakfast dishes and laundry was piled nearly to the ceiling, but I didn't care: I had all day to catch up on my domestic responsibilities.

I'd been back home for nearly a month and it was funny how quickly I reverted back to my old routine. The kids were glad to see me, but busy and happy with their own lives. My husband was his usual self – wrapped up in the classes he teaches or with his nose stuck in a book or basketball game. But I didn't mind. After all, I took time out to save the world once.

I sighed and sipped the hot coffee. The peace and quiet were starting to get on my nerves. I decided to drag my husband to see the latest Bond film next weekend. My spirit of adventure needed goosing.

The doorbell rang. I wondered who could be at the door at this early hour.

"Blake!"

He was leaning against the door frame, hand in his pocket, crooked smile in place.

"Can I come in?"

"Sure," I said, moving aside to allow him passage. "Want a cup of coffee?"

He smiled. "No time. I'm off on a new assignment." I felt a little twinge of jealousy.

"Where to?"

"You know I can't tell you that, unless…"

"Unless what?"

"Tell me, Eileen, how'd you like to help me find Nine?"

How would I like to help him find Nine? Good grief. Is the man nuts? I spent weeks living in terror, not knowing whether I'd be alive at the next sunrise. I was shot at, tied up and nearly bitten by a poisonous snake. I must have aged a dozen years during that whole horrid incident. Get involved in another one of Blake's grand schemes. Does he think I've lost my mind?

On reflection, perhaps I have. I handed Blake a cup of coffee. "Give me five minutes to get packed," I said, and padded up the staircase to toss a few things in a bag.