Dew Point

The dew point is the temperature below which the vapor of a gas begins to condense into liquid. For liquefied natural gas (LNG), this liquefaction temperature is around –160 °C at atmospheric pressure.

Paris, France, 6:00 p.m.

Boston Harbor was ablaze. Alexandre couldn’t tear his eyes away from the endless loop of images flooding social media. He stared in disbelief at the massive fireball rising slowly into the sky, swelling until it seemed to swallow the entire screen. Over and over, the same moment replayed, captured from every possible angle.

He tried to imagine the heat radiating from the blast. In truth, he was well placed to grasp the sheer, unfathomable energy released in just a few seconds by the strike of the US Air Force F-35s. The explosion had lit up the Massachusetts sky for long minutes, visible as far away as New York City. Any vessel within three miles of the tanker had been swallowed in an instant by the inferno.

Paris, France, 6:00 p.m.

In early September, the weather in Paris still felt like summer. Only a few yellow-tinted leaves betrayed the coming of autumn. Despite the pollution, Victoria felt good. It was the first time she had allowed herself to go for a jog since joining the president’s team. He was away on a trip to Le Puy-en-Velay, and luckily her presence wasn’t required.

After changing clothes, she had quietly slipped out of her attic office at the Élysée Palace. Without wasting time warming up, she had set off at a brisk pace along the Champs-Élysées, heading toward the banks of the Seine. Weaving between tourists, she left the Petit and Grand Palais behind, crossed through the flow of traffic, and descended the few steps that led down to the quays.

She loved this city deeply—its constant bustle mingled with nonchalance, its grand monuments nestled among Haussmannian façades, and its broad avenues with their precise lines. She had a soft spot for the riverbanks, where the Seine split the city in two and its gentle curves contrasted with the straight boulevards. The capital exuded both discipline and carefreeness, much like its inhabitants.

Victoria was running toward the heart of Paris. Leaving the Alexandre III Bridge and its golden statues behind, she followed on her left the white stone wall marked with the levels of past floods. To her right stretched the calm course of the Seine and, beyond the river, the city’s Left Bank. She admired the majestic buildings lining the water: the Ministry of Foreign Affairs with its double colonnade, the Palais Bourbon—with the air of a Greek temple—home to the National Assembly. The warm sunlight danced on the river’s surface, glittering as it reflected off the water. Matching her breathing to her stride, the young woman let her mind drift from one image to another: the moored barges with their polished wooden decks, the sightseeing boats carrying their loads of tourists, a seagull fighting the pigeons for a meager scrap of bread...

She continued running, passing under the Pont de la Concorde. The quay disappeared beneath her feet. From the Léopold-Sédar-Senghor footbridge onward, the space narrowed. At times, she had to weave her way through walkers, leap aside to avoid embracing lovers, or sidestep a child suddenly changing direction. To her left, she could just make out the Tuileries Garden.

Sur, Oman, 6:30 p.m.

Abou Saif cast a quick glance around him. Despite the fading light, he could make out the shapes of his men taking up their positions. First, there were the two Chechen brothers, Ramzan and Aslan Kadyrov, crouched in the shadow of a container. Their short, reddish-tinged beards were just beginning to grow back. The day before, they had reluctantly shaved off their long beards for the needs of the mission. Beside them, he could distinguish the thin silhouette of Selim, a German of Turkish descent from Düsseldorf.

Sheltered in a doorway, Abou Saif could see his compatriot Farid, a French convert from Tourcoing, accompanied by Abdelmalik, a young Belgian barely twenty years old. Finally, a tall man completed the group: Abdul, an Iraqi from Kirkuk.

They were all wearing Omani military uniforms. His stomach tight, Abou Saif tried not to think about the life he had left behind. A chapter was closing today, and within seconds, any way back would be forever lost. The image of his office and former colleagues flashed through his mind. He pushed it away angrily. Mohamed belonged to the past. He had been chosen—he, above all others—to serve as the instrument of Allah and punish the unbelievers. The thought steadied him: there was no other path now but holy war.

He took a few moments to observe his target. The dark outline of the military patrol boat stood before him. The vessel, painted gray, was about twenty meters long. Its cabin was clearly armored, with small, narrow windows. An orange lifebuoy was fixed to the outer wall. On the rear deck, an inflatable Zodiac boat was stored, fitted with a hoisting system for lowering it into the water. At the bow, a mounted machine gun completed the vessel’s armament. The Omani flag fluttered at the stern: a vertical red band at the hoist bearing, in its upper section, the national emblem of the Sultanate of Oman, followed by three horizontal stripes—white, red, and green.

The gangway was unguarded. Onboard, there was no sign of life. How many men could be inside? According to his information, no more than three. But on this evening, at the end of Ramadan, they were likely busy celebrating Eid al-Fitr, just like their comrades ashore.

Suddenly, Abou Saif saw a flare rise into the sky and burst in a red shower with a sharp crack. Then another, green this time, and yet another, white. The fireworks celebrating Eid were the signal he had been waiting for. Tonight, the terrorists were counting on the display to divert the patrol crew’s attention.

Paris, France, 6:30 p.m.

Victoria had crossed the Seine via the Pont Royal, which opened onto the Rue du Bac and its narrow sidewalks. Choosing to run along the street itself, she made her way up against the flow of the few cars that passed. After a few hundred meters, she turned onto Boulevard Saint-Germain. Familiar student memories came rushing back. For the pleasure of seeing her old school again, she turned down Rue Saint-Guillaume. A wave of emotion swept over her as she passed number 27. Students stood there chatting and laughing. Resisting the temptation to stop, Victoria kept jogging — her run had suddenly turned into a quest for her student years.

Rue de Grenelle, Rue de la Chaise, Boulevard Raspail, Rue de Sèvres… each name evoked in her mind bars, laughter, classes, successes — and a few disappointments too. Turning her back on the Hôtel Lutetia, she picked up her pace along Rue d’Assas.

She now stood before the entrance to the Luxembourg Gardens — the goal she had set for herself. The park would close in forty-five minutes; she still had a little time to enjoy it.

Her GPS watch displayed 4.27 kilometers — and a text alert. She had disabled all notifications from social media and news apps, but not text messages.

She stopped inside the garden to read it:

“Victoria, they’re looking for you for the security meeting following the terrorist attack in the United States.”

Victoria had been working for a few months in the office of the President of the Republic, focusing mainly on external security issues.

Her heartbeat quickened. What terrorist attack?

She checked the latest AFP bulletins on her smartwatch. A tanker had been hijacked off the coast of Boston, with the intention of detonating it in the city. The ship and its entire cargo were now burning in the middle of Boston Harbor.

My God, she thought.

Still using her watch, she ordered a car to take her back to the Élysée as quickly as possible.

Sûr, Oman, 6:45 p.m.

With a sweep of his hand, Abou Saif signaled two of his men to head for the gangway. He saw the two Chechens take a run, dart silently toward their objective and vanish into the darkness. AK-47s slung over their shoulders, each wore a large curved blade at his belt. Five minutes passed. Suddenly a red light began to blink inside the patrol boat. The way was clear. Meanwhile the fireworks continued in full force.

Boarding the vessel in turn, Abou Saif saw Ramzan and Aslan — one of them holding a terrified man at gunpoint. Another man lay on the deck in a pool of bright red blood, his throat cut.

“I am Abou Saif Al Faransi. You have nothing to fear,” Abou Saif told the man. “What is your name?” When the man did not react, Abou Saif repeated the question. “Omar,” the man answered, seeming on the verge of fainting.

“Omar, how many people still have to come aboard for the patrol?”

“Five,” the frightened man replied after a few seconds’ hesitation.

“At what time are you due to weigh anchor?” continued the terrorist leader.

“In an hour,” Omar mumbled, barely audible.

During this short exchange, the rest of the commando was boarding: the four men carried heavy sacks on their backs. Abou Saif ordered his men to hide in wait to receive the rest of the patrol. They came aboard one by one and were disarmed as soon as they set foot on the boat.

Abou Saif questioned Omar to find out who was steering the vessel. “It’s me,” he answered.

Phase one of the plan was unfolding as expected. Abou Saif ordered the engine started and the port to be left.

Abdelmalik took care of casting off the moorings. The engine purred to life. Abou Saif grabbed the radio microphone and handed it to Omar. “You will notify the control post of our departure. Just say: ‘patrol departing.’” Omar complied, and the radio crackled back: “Control post to patrol: copy.” The terrorist thought that, with a bit of luck, they now had a few hours before the Omani forces realized the patrol boat was missing.

The vessel moved off. Omar maneuvered it deftly. In an instant they cleared the jetty that protected the harbor. From the coast where they had departed, the fireworks grew smaller and less noisy. Abou Saif now felt the power of the open-sea waves. The boat rolled gently in a light swell. Abou Saif ordered a course due east and to give her full throttle. The vessel leapt forward and the speed tempered the swell’s effect.

The patrol boat now raced at thirty knots through the night. From the new moon of Eid al-Fitr, only a thin sliver showed. To starboard they could make out the lights of Ras Al Hadd — which meant the boat and its crew would soon leave the Gulf of Oman for the Arabian Sea.

Abou Saif commanded the pilot to cut the engine. Silence fell around them. The Omani crew were locked in the ship’s hold. He told his men to fetch each prisoner one by one. “Slit the throats of these kuffars and throw the bodies into the sea.”

They were Ibadi Muslims — the majority religion in Oman, belonging neither to Sunnism nor Shiism. Abou Saif regarded them as heretics whose presence hindered his mission. “To hell with them!” he thought.

The execution was assigned to Farid. Abou Saif watched the converted Frenchman’s eyes light up with a cruel gleam. Of all the team members, Farid took the most pleasure in killing.

He seized the first prisoner and, with a swift motion, slit his throat. The Belgian and the German grabbed the body and heaved it overboard. The executioner repeated the gesture five times in a row, showing no sign of sympathy for his victims. The commando leader watched the scene, trying to hide the disgust it inspired in him. He would have liked to step aside to vomit, but he managed to overcome the moment of weakness so that no one noticed.

When the grim task was done, Farid wiped his hands and his blood-stained machete on his camo trousers. Only Omar remained, trembling all over.

Abou Saif ordered him to resume their course.

But Omar seemed paralyzed with terror and stood motionless, shaking his head pitifully.

“What’s wrong with you? Do you want the same fate as your heretic colleagues?” the terrorist snapped, with a cruel look.

“Mercy, Sayyid! It’s just that…” Omar stammered.

“What?” Abou Saif interrupted impatiently.

“There’s almost no fuel left, Sayyid,” Omar replied as if taking his last breath. Indeed, a red warning light was blinking on the dashboard beside the fuel gauge symbol.

So that was his first mistake, thought Abou Saif. He had simply forgotten to check that the boat was fit to go. He tried to conceal his dismay and to focus on finding a solution.

“Do you have a spare jerrycan on board?”

“No, Sayyid.”

“What is the nearest station to refuel?”

“Ras Al Hadd, right in front of us,” Omar answered with a little more assurance.

That option was risky, especially if the theft of the patrol boat had been discovered. But there was no sign of that: no unusual activity was detectable on the radio frequencies usually used by the military. And without fuel, the mission would fail.

Abou Saif ordered them to head for Ras Al Hadd. He addressed Omar: “You will handle the refueling. Don’t forget that our Kalashnikovs are pointed at you. You know we won’t hesitate to use them. If you make the slightest attempt to flee or send a message, you are a dead man.”

The boat approached the refueling berth. No one was visible beside the pump. Omar gave a short blast on the horn.

Abou Saif jumped. Grabbing Omar by the collar, he hissed in his face, “Are you crazy? Why make that racket? Are you trying to raise the alarm?”

“No, no… It’s the usual procedure when we come to refuel,” Omar whispered.

A man came out of a cabin and walked toward the patrol boat. He seized a mooring line thrown to him by one of Abou Saif’s men and wrapped it around a bollard on the quay. He then called out a loud “Eid Mubarak! Salam Alaikum” to the crew he could see on the ship’s deck. “Wa Alaikum Salam,” Omar answered. “How are you, Omar? New colleagues?”

“I’m fine, Insha’Allah. Yes, new colleagues. Can you refuel us? We’re in a hurry.” The man took the pump nozzle and slipped it into the tank opening. He seemed in the mood to chat.

Abou Saif and his men remained silent.

“It’s a beautiful Eid night — such a shame to have to work,” the man said, seeking the crew’s agreement. Omar nodded.

The tank was filling too slowly for Abou Saif’s taste. To channel his tension, he tightened his fingers on the butt of his AK-47. This situation was torture. “May it be over quickly,” he prayed inwardly.

Suddenly, a phone began to ring. The device was hanging on the wall next to the pump.