Florence of Arabia

CHAPTER THIRTY

Greatness, YOU honor me with this audience. Emir, you have lost weight! You look marvelous!"

Maliq was in no mood for Delame-Noir's triple-cream pleasantries. "The burdens of office. One yearns for the simpler life of the racetrack."

"Yes, of course, but you must eat, Great One. You will waste away to nothing. Was it not your great-great-great-great-uncle on your maternal side, the illustrious sharif Ehem al-Gheik, who received in annual tribute from his subjects in the Wazi Bikkini his weight in Tarfa pearls?"

"Yes, yes, yes. So, you wanted to see me?"

"I will send you my own chef, he was for many years al Taillevent. His Boudin de Homard Breton au Fenouil is not to believe. It is not blasphemy to say it is to taste paradise itself."

"I cannot have a French chef. Dominique."

"But why not?"

"I'm the imam. How would it look? I mean, really." "I have known many well-fed imams in my time."

"I'm meeting with the mullahs in fifteen minutes. It never ends. What— you wanted to see me?"

"I regret, yes. I suspect my imam knows the reason."

"1 told you. Dominique, it's out of my hands. It's a religious matter now."

"Yes. and you are the imam." "It's also a security mailer." "And you are the emir."

"It's also a tribal mutter—matter—isn't it?" Maliq said petulantly. " Tribal'? In what way?"

"One of the men she killed in the escape was a Hazi Agem." "Yes. So?"

"You're the historian." Maliq said.

"I how to your superior knowledge. Educate me on this tribal matter."" "For a hundred years, there has been a blood feud between my line, the Beni Harish. and the Hazi Agem. So you see?" "Frankly, I do not."

"I'm in a delicate position. Most delicate."

Delame-Noir's hooded eyes blinked like a falcon's. His lips pouted with malevolence. I le was a sophisticated man, and he was tired of playing with this gelatin-brained idiot whom he had, in a moment of weakness (and perhaps, he admitted, pride), decided to install.

"Alors. Maliq, you are the grand sharif of the Tribal Council. I don't mean to insult But why, mon vieux, do you waste my time telling me these nonsenses?"

It had been a while since anyone had addressed Maliq as "buddy" or accused him of speaking rubbish. Alas, how quickly we become hostage to the kowtow. But tempted as he was to flick his aasa at the frenchman. Maliq refrained. He refrained for the simple reason that he was terrified of Delame-Noir.

Delame-Noir had ordered more assassinations in his day than llamas and Kim Jong II combined. His legend was long and dark. It was he who had personally directed the sinking of the Whalepeace, the environmental vessel that had been protesting France's nuclear testing in Polynesia. Only Allah Himself knew what tentacles this eminence noir of a spymaster had throughout Matar.

"Understood, mon vieux." Maliq said pointedly, "but if you don't want to waste my time or your time, why don't you go to Kaffa and explain it to Prince Bawad? he's the one who's demanding this woman's head. She apparently did something to annoy him back in Washington, something to do with one of his wives. You see my predicament?"

"Look, Maliq. you don't want to be seen as a Wasabi puppet, do you?" "No more than I do as a French puppet."

"Sire." Delame-Noir said, "how have I deserved this insult? I spend all my hours worrying for you, from the first cry of the muezzin in the morning to the call to evening prayers."

"1 know that I am in your debt, Dominique, but it is not in my power to hand her over to you. Look around—my kingdom is bursting with Wasabis."

Delame-Noir saw it was useless for the time being. He rose. "Very well, but let me implore you to keep this woman alive. You don't want an international martyr on your hands. It would be only a pretext for the Americans."

"The Americans aren't going to do a thing." Maliq snorted. "There's an election coming up. If they moved against me, Tallulah would shut off their oil. Anyway, their ambassador just sent me—this morning—an invitation to the opening of an Elvis Presley cultural exhibit. So I don't think they're planning to parachute soldiers onto my head for some crackpot lesbian CIA stirrer-upper of camel shit."

"Yes, but this crackpot lesbian stirrer-upper of camel shit is now a figure of international celebrity. Your Ministry of Informations can't just keep saying, 'Florence? We don't have no stinking Florence in our dungeon.' No one is believing it. Are you watching the television?"

"I have no time for television."

"You should create lime, my dear emir, because they are saving some very harsh words about you." Delame-Noir threw up his hands. "I will speak to Bawad. But in the meantime, please, for your sake, keep this woman alive."

"Oh. she's alive."

"Maliq."

"I said she's alive."

"You didn't put her in some hole with animals or snakes?"

"What do you take me for?"

"Scorpions?"

"Now you insult me."

"Then accept my profound apologies, Holy One. I should have known that as imam of all Matar, you are guided first and last by the precepts of the Holy Koran, the truths revealed to the prophet Mohammed, blessings be upon his great name. In Allah the wise"—he paused—"the compassionate." Maliq flicked at the air with his aasa. "Whatever."

Delame-Noir turned to leave. "Let me send to you my chef. As a token of fraternal love and respect."

"I could not accept such generosity." Malic] said. "It would be impossible to repay. And an Arab who is not in a position to repay hospitality is a poor friend."

Delame-Noir smiled. "A pity."

As soon as he was gone. Maliq summoned Fetish. "If he sends any food, any wine, anything, have it tested for poison. And tell Sharif bin-Judar to keep him under watch. I want to know everything he does. I want to know when he has bowel movements."

"But Great Imam, surely the Frenchman is our great ally?"

"We have spoken. Fetish."

"Truly. Majestic One. Thy words are like Tarfa pearls glistening in sweet water."

"Eh? What's that? Were you listening to us just now?"

"No, sire. May Allah strike me deaf and pluck the tongue from my mouth. I was only using a figure of speech—"

"Get Prince Bawad on the phone. And have the masseuse make ready. My head is coming off with pain."

"Immediately, sire."

Fetish scurried off backward, scalp prickly with cold sweat. He reminded himself of the ancient Matari proverb: Dung beetles cannot crawl into shut mouths. An English traveler centuries before had stolen it and rendered it less elegantly as You never have to apologize for something you never said.

FLORENCE COWERED IN a corner, unable to move toward the object now sharing her still-darkened cell. The smell made her gag. For a long time she cowered. Then, slowly, tenuously, she extended the fingers of her right hand and touched the body. What she felt made her recoil. The face and head were mostly gone. Finally, she reached out again and this time touched an eye dangling from its socket. She became ill. She forced herself to continue her forensic examination. She fell for the hands and found that these, too, were mostly gone, shredded. She wept silently as she probed.

The body was on its back. She thrust her hand between it and the cold concrete of the floor, feeling for the left shoulder blade. Some weeks before, she had felt there an inch-long ridge of thick scar tissue, the result, Bobby had murmured—his mind on other things—of a stab wound inflicted years before by "this Syrian fucker." The scar was right atop the shoulder blade. The knife, he said, had been deflected by the bone, and damn lucky for him.

Her hand was impeded by the tattered shirt, thick and stiff with blood, as well as the deadweight of the corpse. She maneuvered her fingers inside. Here the skin was not shredded or burned. Rigor mortis and death had made it cold and waxen. Her fingertips moved up. slowly, nervously. She held her breath as she reached the shoulder blade and continued.

There was no scar.

“WILL YOU STOP following me?" Charles Duckett said. "I've told you what I can."

"All you've told me." George said, still following the briskly moving deputy assistant secretary of state for Near Eastern Affairs (DASNEA). "is what I already knew from watching CNN."

"I'm not in a position to discuss it further."

"Charles, this is not a State Department press briefing, nor am I some reporter."

"I said I have nothing further for you on this."

"May I ask why my security clearance was suddenly downgraded? What's going on here?"

"I'm not in a position to discuss that, either. Now, if you'll let me proceed, I'm already three minutes late for a Procurement Committee meeting."

"Horrors, Charles! The world might stop spinning on its axis. But I'm not going until 1 get an answer: Are we doing anything about the capture, imprisonment and, quite possibly, torture of one of our own?"

Duckett was appalled at the prospect of being followed into the most boring meeting on the planet by an agitated, insubordinate subordinate. He peered at George over his glasses with the custard pugnacity of a life bureaucrat and said, as magisterially as he could. "You're out of line." In Duckett's pallid, formatted world, there could be no greater crime than being out of line.

"But don't you care?”

"Yes, I care. I care for process. I care for going through channels. I care for incremental, mutual steps that promote synergy over the long run and provide a platform for harmonious relations and partnering between—"

It was at this point that the spring inside George that had been coiling for sixteen years went sproiiinnng. He began choking Charles Duckett with the neck chain of his State Department ID badge.

"Are vou out of your eugghh—"

Once Duckett's face had achieved a sufficiently livid shade of crimson, George leaned in to it and said, "If you don't tell me, I'm going to kill you. And I'll make it look like the work of terrorists."

"Urgggh..."

"You'll never put a cell phone to your ear again without wondering if it's going to blow your brains in."

George released the garrote around Duckett's neck. Duckett's complexion returned to its normal semolina hue.

"What the hell has gotten into you, Phish?"

"Not quite sure myself. Now—where is she, and what is this pathetic spineless bureaucracy doing about it?"

'They've ... de-decided to adopt a hands-off posture." Duckett collapsed like a deflated balloon at having divulged this sacred piece of intelligence.

George stared. Duckett seemed to be trying to back through the wall. George reached toward him. Duckett cringed. George straightened Duckett's tie and collar.

"Better hurry. You're—omigod—three minutes late."

Duckett edged nervously away, dinging to the wall like a mountain climber negotiating a narrow ledge.

'Ten minutes later, three men from Security surrounded George's desk. They took him to the office of the assistant deputy to the deputy assistant for Internal Security Affairs and Inter-Human Resources. Duckett was already there, face flushed. He flinched when George entered.

"Did you attack Mr. Duckett?" the ADDAISAHIR said.

George looked at Duckett "Oh. Charles, is that what you told them?"

"It damn well is! It's the truth!"

"Where do I begin?" George said with the weary attitude of a reasonable man having to explain something distasteful that he would, on the whole, rather not go into. "Charles—Mr. Duckett—made a pass at me in the corridor."

"What?!" Duckett roared.

"And though my sexual preference is well known and a matter of record within the department, he is, in addition to being my boss, simply not my type. Not to mention that he's married and has three children. I told him all this while he was trying to grope me, in the most awkward way, and 1 went about my business. And now here we are. Charles, 1 must saw I am disappointed in you."

"But—this is preposterous!"

"I don't want to file a sexual harassment suit. I really do not. I'm perfectly willing to let it go as a momentary lapse. But really, if you're going to indulge in this sort of lurid cover-up, I'm ready to swear out a complaint right here and right now. Do you have the relevant forms. Ms. Poepsel?"

The ADDAISAIHR looked at George, then at the blubbering Duckett "Mr. Duckett," she said, "how do you wish to proceed? Do you want to make a complaint against Mr. Phish?"

Duckett, seeing headlines and his career passing before his eves, let out a wan moan. "No. No ..."

"Mr. Phish, do you wish to file a complaint against Mr. Duckett?"

"Let bygones be bygones, I say. But no more Mr. Grabby Groin, Charles-shake on it?"

“Gosh that felt good” George said to Renard. "Poor beast hasn't had a day like that since CIA blew up his cultural exhibit in Quito. But there we have it. Official hands-off posture. She's on her own." "No, she's not."

"We're not exactly a Delta Force hostage rescue team, are we?" "Fuck it." Rick said. "If we're going to go down for the money, we might as well spend it."

"Why not?" George brightened. "Why lucking not" "To Damascus." "To Damascus."

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Highness!" Maliq said into the telephone with perhaps a bit too much fraternal royal bonhomie. His breath reeked from the brandy that he now found a necessary fortification for calling Prince Bawad bin-Rumallah al-Hamooj. foreign minister of the kingdom of Wasabia. beloved nephew to King Tallulah and, in all those capacities. Maliq's de facto boss. "May Allah shine upon tin countenance and make all that thou viewest pleasing unto the eye!"

Bawad reciprocated with a greeting so perfunctory. Maliq might as well have been a gas-station attendant. Since Bawad's promotion from ambassador to the United States to foreign minister, he had become even more grandiose. Too, he was painfully aware that the recent tectonic shift of power in the region had begun with the flight of his flightiest wife, the late Nazrah, back in Washington. D.C. That this Matari usurper, Maliq, had not already beheaded the hateful American woman Florence—along with her sluttish lesbian lover the sheika Laila—was intolerable. Bawad knew instantly from Maliq's fawning, lickspittle tone of voice what he wanted. And great merciful Allah, the Matari jackass was still prattling on.

"Is it true. Royal One, this glorious news that reaches my ear by the west wind?" Maliq was saying, Fetish having briefed him on the fact that Bawad's fourth wife, the ill-fated N'azrah's successor, had just borne him a male child, his forty-second or -third. "A male child, dear prince? My heart leaps like a gazelle uncaged, like a—"

“Eh?" Bawad interrupted. "Yes. So they tell me."

"But this is truly joyous news!" Maliq soldiered on. "And a male child! Allah be praised! May it grow to be as wise and as—heh. heh—prodigious as his worthy father!" Maliq waited. Silence.

"Did ... the gift arrive?" Maliq said finally, swallowing what remained of his pride. He had sent a solid-gold baby crib, ordered from Wenphrcw & Wenphrew. the London jeweler that maintained a special division for the making of solid-gold objects for bored oil potentates.

"Eh? What?"

'"The crib?"

"I don't— Yes. perhaps. I will make inquiries." "No, no, do not trouble thy august self."

"Well. Allah be with you. His Majesty, my dear uncle, bids me attend him. Thank you for calling."

"Uh, Highness, a word, if thou would grace me further. The American woman. Flor-ents—"

"Yes, His Majesty, mv uncle, wonders why the matter has not already been dealt with."

"It is delicate, my prince."

" 'Delicate'? How is it 'delicate.' Emir Maliq? She is an American spy. a provocateur, an insurrectionist, an infidel, immoral, a seducer, a sworn enemy of Islam. A sworn enemy of myself, personally, who tried to humiliate me and, by extension, the entire House of Hamooj, may Allah keep it safe and always wise, This is' is the 'delicate' matter to which you refer?"

"Uh ..." Maliq was keenly aware that Bawad had the advantage over him of a Cambridge education, to say nothing of a lifetime's experience of telling silky lies in gilt parlors. "Nonetheless ..."

"Why is she still alive?"

"Worthy One. she is a figure of world concern—" "What matters it?"

"No sense in making enemies of the entire civi—"

"The Americans have made it plain that they are embarrassed by her existence. The ambassador here in Kaffa has said this to ourselves personally." "Ah? Oh? Well..."

"Look, Maliq, you're either going to rule Matar or not. His Majesty is counting on you. Thy name comes up in the council meetings with increasing frequency."

"Ah? Well, marvelous, marvelous ..." "I wouldn't put it quite that way."

"Uh? Ah. Why don't I send you the woman Flor-ents and the sheika? Then you can deal with them to your heart's content! Give them a good—"

"The crimes these two women committed," Bawad said heavily, "were done on your land. It was Matar's holy soil that was defiled—"

"Well, holy-ish;. Hardly as sacred as yours. We bask in thy reflected glory..."

"No, Maliq, it is Matar that must be cleansed."

"It seems to me. Worthiness, that it was Wasabia these two were out to defile. I mean. Matar was already corrupt And who better to mete out justice than your dear uncle? You should hear the things they've both been saying under interrogation about you and the king. I blush to repeal them, frightful. Disgraceful."

"Hear me, Maliq," Bawad said in a tone of voice indicating the conversation was about to be ended. "His Majesty the King desires that this mutter-matter—be concluded. Promptly, further, that thou thyself, personally, dispose of it. In a manner public, for all to see. So that the minds she has corrupted, in your country and in ours, will see how just and terrible is Allah's punishment. You do aspire to be an instrument of His Majesty and the One God? Don't you. Maliq?"

'Whatever."

"Eh?"

"Of course, yes. Yes, yes, yes." Maliq murmured.

"Good. I wouldn't want to think we made a mistake elevating you to such prominence."

The line went dead. Maliq hurled the phone at the gold and lapis mosaic on the far wall, where it splintered into little plastic and electronic pieces. Fetish heard the crash and entered, pre-emptively bowing and scraping. "Did thy conversation with Prince Bawad displease my lord?"

Fetish's master did not respond. He was drinking directly from the bottle of brandy. Not a hopeful sign in a Muslim spiritual leader, or indeed, of any denomination.

Fetish left Maliq to telephone Delame-Noir and make his report. But Delame-Noir, having been in the room with Prince Bawad throughout the call from Maliq, did not need to be briefed by his spy.

"He has the spine of a Red Sea jellyfish," Bawad said with disgust.

Delame-Noir smiled and opened his palms, denoting bemused frustration.

"It was a mistake putting him in," Bawad said.

"Respectfully, I disagree."

"Of course you do—he was your choice."

"Would you and the king really be happier with a strong, independent thinker on the throne of Matar? Puppets are better made from wood than steel." Delame-Noir's hands moved as if manipulating a marionette. "Much easier. Be content, my prince. Matar is your country now."

"Not forgetting your naval bases and your discount on crude."

"Our naval bases protect your new oil terminals. Historic synergy. Not since the days of Wadi Ben Salaam in the—"

“Yes, yes, but what about the women? Why doesn't the idiot execute them and get it done with?"

Delame-Noir shook his head. "With all respect to your eminent self and to the king. I think it would be a complete calamity to put these women on a platform and publicly cut off their heads. If you want to create martyrs, there is no better way."

"We know a thing or two about martyrs in Wasabia," Bawad said, he reflected. "Our embassy in Washington reports some pressure there for information about the Florence woman."

"Two of her former collaborators are making a media campaign. But it's nothing—as long as Matar's position remains 'We don't know where this woman is. so stop bothering us.""

"Collaborators? They are—actively campaigning?"

"If I thought they were going to be a problem. I assure you I would act."

"Act?"

"We have no secrets, you and I. My contacts within the U.S. government assure me that they, too, are watching the situation there. Very closely. And the last thing they want is a huge publicity about her. 'Florence of Arabia'? No, no. She is at this point an extremely inconvenient woman. I think, to be honest, the Americans would be very content if Maliq would simply give the order to toss her into his new oubliette."

"Your contacts, they are CIA?"

Delame-Noir smiled. "Mon prince, asking an old spy to reveal his sources is like asking a whore to tell hers. It's a matter of professional vanity."

Bawad snorted. "The price of oil can go up as well as clown."

"But I am telling you the substance of what I know. Which is this: The entire Florence operation was approved al the very highest levels of the United States government. Why? 'to embarrass your government. As punishment for your Israel position, for your independence, for your nobility. In any case, as with every other American foreign operation, it turned to absolute shit. But for us, for you, for France, it was a fantastic opportunity, which I must say you yourself brilliantly exploited. So we must not be too upset with the Americans. They have accomplished for us in a few months more than we were able to achieve in eighty years."

"They're not happy about it. Our ambassador at the UN reports that they're preparing a motion against Greater Wasabia for the Security Council."

"Which, I assure you, France will veto."

"They're already saying this was all France's idea. You're getting the credit for it."

"Have you heard one single statement from France, from one single minister, from any representative of the French government, taking credit for Wasabia's actions in Matar?" Delame-Noir said testily. "Not one word have we said."

"What about that Jewish senator in New York? He gave a speech yesterday saying this was all France's doing. I le called Tallulah a 'Parisian tool'!"

Delame-Noir made a disapproving clucking noise. "Disgraceful. But what can you expect? This was the same Jewish senator who made the big fuss when we released an old man of ninety-four years—ninety-four!—because he had something to do with some concentration camp in World War Two. It's the same every time."

"I suppose it's too late to do anything about it," Bawad said, eyeing Delame-Noir carefully.

"About the senator? Really. Your Highness ..." "No—Maliq."

"Ah. I think that would not be a good idea at this point. Perhaps in time ... Look, Matar has gone through enormous turmoil. A few months ago, it resembled Las Vegas. Now it's ... a decent religious state. Not as much fun, to be honest, but okay, for now stability is of the essence. Later, if you are still unhappy with Maliq, I am always at your disposal." Delame-Noir smiled. "Your humble servant."

"Humble. Hah. But Florence?"

"She will not be a factor for too much longer. Of this I am confident. Anyway people quickly forget. And I don't think she will last very long the way it is. It's not the Crillon. eh. where they are holding her. I don't think she is getting mints on the pillow every night."

Maliq had not ridden many camels in his life. On the whole, he rather preferred the Italian leather seat of a Maserati or a Ferrari. But now the occasion demanded it.

Really he thought, the demands on an imam and emir were beyond onerous. But better to ride the damned thing than to have to suck on a piece of its dung. What utter barbarians the Wasabis were.

One of the more unfortunate by-products of the new comity that existed between Matar and Wasabia was that Matar was now required to commemorate the anniversary of the Perfidy of Raliq ("The Unwise"). King Tallulah and his council—Allah's blessing upon them—had dictated that the emir of Matar observe the occasion by riding the Camel Royal down former Winston (now Abgullah) Avenue while receiving the plaudits and ululations of his subjects as the mukfelleen dispensed lumps of the sacramental ordure for them to place on their unhappy tongues. It would not make for the cheeriest day on the Matar calendar, but the point would be made that Matar was now part of Greater Wasabia. Maliq had tried to persuade KingTallulali and foreign Minister Prince Bawad that sucking on dromedary turds was not a ritual likely to enhance a sense of fraternity between the citizens of Matar and Wasabia. But Tallulah and Bawad were adamant: Tallulah because he had to placate his lunatic mukfelleen, Bawad because he was furious at Maliq's recalcitrance in the matter of chopping off the heads of the sheika Laila and the American busybody Florence.

And so Maliq found himself in a foul temper, sitting on a beast he loathed, having to play figurehead at an idiotic Wasabi ritual that would leave his subjects' mouths tasting—as the expression goes—like shit. Allah be praised.

following dawn prayers. Maliq suffered himself to be hoisted onto the hump of Shem, the current Camel Royal. Shem was gorgeously caparisoned in gold and silver and jewel-colored tassels. Maliq wore the ceremonial robes of a high sharif of Matar, as well as the distinctive farfeesh of a grand imam of the Bukka. Into his waistband was tucked the na'q’all, the lustrously bejeweled ceremonial dagger that, legend had it, had been used by Sheik Alik "The Righteous" Makmeh to castrate five hundred English crusaders. (In deference to Matar's new ally France, the dagger used to castrate 150 French knights was not on display.)

As Maliq was lowered onto the saddle. Shem uttered a long, low, pained moan followed by a noxious emission of colonic gas that continued for nearly a full minute.

Maliq waved with annoyance at his nostrils and barked down at Yassim, the attendant to the Camel Royal. "By the Prophet, what have you fed this accursed beast?!"

"Aashaah eshowkiya, Holy One!" Yassim cringed. "The finest!"

"Next time give the lucking thing an enema before I am put on it! It is highly unpleasant!"

"Yes, Great One! May Allah bless—"

"Shut up. Let's get this over with."

Maliq and Shem, the latter still groaning and issuing a mephitic Jetstream behind him, were led out of the courtyard onto Abgullah Avenue, where the sullen crowd of Mataris awaited. Mukfelleen were going down the line dispensing small lumps of dried camel excreta.

"This surely will make them love me," Maliq grumbled under his breath. "Urrrrnnnfninnnwim'ooooooooooorrrrrrahhhhh!" Shem groaned. "If he farts," Maliq hissed at the now trembling Yassim, who was leading the animal, "it's your head." "But Magnificence—" "Shut up. Pick up the pace."

Maliq waved noncommittally at the crowd. The crowd reciprocated. Ahead, a squad of mukfelleen was beating a man who was refusing to put the ceremonial dung on his tongue.

Oh, Maliq thought, let this day he over.

Maliq's royal court walked behind, their faces puckered from Shem's exhaust. Yassim tried to hide himself beneath his own robes. As Maliq passed a group of young men. Shem issued forth an epic gust that caused convulsions of hilarity. Since laughter was forbidden from dawn to dusk on the Feast of the Perfidy of Raliq—and, according to Wasabi precepts, discouraged on all other days—mukfelleen were quickly upon them, dealing vigorous bastinadoes with their rattan canes. These particular howls of pain Maliq enjoyed, inasmuch as he did not enjoy being the object of their amusement, he was certainly the most miserable emir in the Middle East at this moment. Never had he felt more absurd. He was not a great drinker of alcohol, but once this ghastly ordeal was over, he was going to drink an entire bottle of brandy. Possibly two.

It was while Maliq was entertaining this palliative fantasy that the event happened, the event that became known (and is still known to this day) among Mataris—and a good many - Wasabis—as the Revenge of Raliq. It would take days of intense forensic investigation to determine what exactly had happened. But from the point of view of Maliq, what happened was as follows:

One moment he was scowling in the direction of the youths being beaten by the muks; in the next there was a very loud noise coming from directly beneath him, and he became aware of being propelled upward into the fierce morning sky at a rate similar to that experienced by astronauts launched into space, escaping—how does the poem go?—the surly bonds of earth. His ascent became dreamlike, understandable since at this point he had lost actual consciousness. He found himself happily swinging from star to star, like a delighted young child. Alas, this innocent, carefree slate of mind did not last. and as Maliq regained consciousness, he was still a hundred feet or so up in the air and—alas again—earthbound at a rate commensurate with the implacable laws of gravity.

This part of Maliq's wild ride did not endure for long. He was saved—God be praised—from even more terrible injury by landing on what remained of the Camel Royal. If it was an inglorious cushion, it was at least softer than the unforgiving asphalt of Abgullah Avenue. Such of the emir's bones as remained unbroken were, doctors agreed, the result of his having landed on the lower torso of the formerly whole Shem.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Common as explosions are in the Middle East, it's not every day that the ruler of a nation is blown up by his own camel. Word traveled quickly around the globe, despite Matar’s official news blackout.

Someone had covertly filmed the event. Indeed, the episode was so completely captured on tape that the authorities concluded that whoever made the film must have been involved. Within hours, footage of the emir lofting into the sky was being viewed avidly in Internet cafes, in airport waiting areas, in bars, on lens of millions of television screens—everywhere. Headlines ranged from the subdued (MATAR’S NEW RULER IS GRAVELY WOUNDED IN SUSPECTED BOMB ATTACK) to the less restrained (THREE – TWO – ONE – IGNITION - CAMEL!).

Undignified as it is to be blown up by your own Camel Royal, Maliq was more focused on the fact that his legs—legs that once controlled the fastest race cars in the world—now terminated stumpily above the knees. A team of crack French orthopedic surgeons had done what they could, but inasmuch as the legs had landed hundreds of yards apart, and much the worse for wear, there was only so much that could be done.

On a more positive note, the ceremonial silver saddle—used hundreds of years before by the emir Achmed bin Ulala’am—had protected the imams vital parts, at least for the most part. A team of crack French urologists announced that Maliq might, in time, be able to sire a successor with some prosthetic assistance. The royal digestive organs, on the other hand, had undergone great trauma. There would be no more royal feasting on spicy foods, or on any food that required much chewing. Also encouraging was the news that a spleen, though nice to have, is not a necessity medically speaking; meanwhile, some minimal hearing had returned in the emir's remaining ear.

Expressions of sympathy poured in from world leaders, along with assurances of friendship and offers of assistance with the investigation. The United States, whose relations with Matar had deteriorated, volunteered a forensic explosives team, as did Russia, England, Italy and, oddly, Bulgaria. The U.S. offer was, of course, coldly spurned; the others were more or less politely declined. It was announced from the palace that Matar itself would conduct the investigation, by which it was understood perfectly that the matter would be handled by the Wasabis and the French.

THUS IT WAS that Major Bertrand Matteoli-Picquet of the Bureau d'investigation Criminel National, found himself picking through the frankly unpleasant remains of the Camel Royal with an ultraviolet spectrometer and uttering the most useful word in the French language: "Merde." "What's the matter, chief?" his assistant said.

Matteoli-Picquet handed him the instrument. The assistant peered through it. His eyes widened. "Oof." he said. "What now?"

"Make the report. What else?"

The French technicians swiftly concluded their business so that they could proceed to the more important matter of lunch.

Twenty yards away, a man wearing the uniform of the Matar Department of Public Health—Crime Search Scene was hunched over yet more remains of Shem, including a piece of the ceremonial silver saddle and part of the emir's left shoe. These he diligently placed into a plastic container, which he duly sealed and marked. The French team paid him no attention; nor did the police who had cordoned off the scene. The man was just another technician poking through the appalling detritus.

The French team e-mailed its report—classified VRAIMENT SECRET (Really Secret)—up the chain of command. The first slop was the Onzieme Bureau, in the person of Delame-Noir. The French spymaster had immediately flown back to Amo-Amas from Kaffa to supervise the investigation.

When his eyes fell upon the word "Exuperine" in the first line of the report. Delame-Noir stopped breathing for several seconds. He was an unflappable man, yet it look a good quarter hour of pacing and sweating and cursing before he was able to compose himself enough to place the necessary call to Paris.

QUEER STREET IS the name of Washington. D.C.'s gayest bar. It was not a place that George normally frequented. Bobby had suggested it as a good venue for George to receive cell-phone calls. Bobby's reasoning was that U.S. government agents are reluctant to follow people into gay bars, especially really gay bars, for fear of being pinched.

George looked out the front window and saw the black sedan with two crew cuts inside. Precisely at three minutes past eight, the cell phone rang.

Bobby conveyed the information with the efficiency of his tradecraft. It took under three minutes. With all the efficiency of his trade, George memorized it verbatim. He hung up and went to one of the pay phones near the men's room and dialed a number at the New York Times Washington bureau belonging to Thomas Lowell.

Thomas Lowell had spent much of his career covering the Middle East for the Times. In fact, it was he who had coined the phrase "the Arab Street." (His first metonymic term for Arab public opinion was "Sesame Street." but the producers of the children's television program by the same name protested.) Lowell had then tried to coin the term "the Jewish Street." but it had not caught on. Still, he kept putting it in. and New York kept taking it out. He was currently back in Washington after being expelled from Wasabia. allegedly for having a bottle of Scotch in his hotel room: True enough, but the expulsion really had come after he wrote a column pointing out that Crown Prince Bahbar had had a Jewish girlfriend while attending the University of Southern California. Inasmuch as Bahbar was currently the deputy minister for anti-Semitism, this did not go down well in Kaffa's Arab Street, though it played rather well in the Jewish Street.

Lowell and George had known each other for years. They were able to converse in fluent Arabic. Lowell was most interested in what George had to say.

FLORENCE H AD BEEN in a completely dark cell for almost three days with a decomposing body, no food and half a cup of water, now gone. But for discovering that the body wasn't Bobby's, there was little pleasant about her situation. She had rationed the water, which she'd found under the cot in a cup that her jailers had probably neglected to remove. Her thirst raged. Though she was beginning to starve, the thought of food had no appeal. She kept thinking of the Ugolino scene in Dante's Inferno—the nobleman imprisoned in a lower with his beloved children, driven finally to cannibalism. Perhaps this was the particular madness toward which her tormentors were attempting to compel her.

She spent the time praying to any god passing overhead. When the terror crept closer, she tried to ward it off by translating every poem she could remember from English into Arabic, then into Italian, then into French and back into English. As the third day drew to a close, she knew that she was beginning to go mad.

It came as a blessing, then, when the door to her cell burst open and a furious guard—gagging at the stench—waded in and pulled her out. She sucked in lungful after lungful of non-fetid air as if it were pure oxygen. Two guards dragged her down the corridor. No manacles this lime. Florence prayed—she couldn't help it—that they were taking her to her execution. She fell guilty about asking the Blessed Mother (Florence had been brought up Catholic) to grant this wish.

Her grandfather had written an unpublished memoir of fighting in North Africa in the 1930s. As part of Mussolini's attempt to style himself as a latter-day Caesar, Il Duce had sent his army across the Mediterranean to reconquer what had belonged, two thousand years before, to his forebears. Idiotic, to be sure, but all the same the one adventure of her grandfather's life, which up to then had consisted of being a traffic policeman in Florence.

Florence had found the manuscript when she was a young girl and had read it. There was an episode that came to her now. as she was being dragged along these corridors. Her grandfather's unit had been surrounded by Omar Mukhtar's forces. They faced death or certain capture and God knows what after that. Two of the young soldiers under her grandfather's command put their rifles in each other's mouths and simultaneously pulled the triggers. Her grandfather didn't try to stop them. Terrible things were done to captured soldiers, on both sides.

Moments later, an Italian armored column rolled over the hill and dispersed the attackers. Everyone in her grandfather's unit survived except the two who'd killed themselves. He wrote letters to their families saying that the boys had died glorious deaths in the service of the New Rome.

The guards heaved her into a room. She lay on the stone floor, gasping and trembling, her brain a kiln and her throat an oven, praying—no longer guiltily—for death. Surely Our Lady would understand.

A door opened, footsteps. She felt arms lifting her onto a chair. And heard a voice speaking Arabic: "Give her something to drink." Another voice said. "No." but then a cup was shoved at her. She grabbed it and drank. She drained it at a gulp.

A voice barked at her, "I want the names of the plotters. Or you won't leave this room."

Plotters? What was he talking about? What she did know was that the prospect of not leaving this room was preferable to returning to her cell. She summoned the strength to focus on the man asking her these questions. She looked. Yes, this much made sense, it was Salim bin-Judar, head of" the royal bodyguard. Next to him was another man. Her eyes were going in and out of focus. Crisp uniform ... Colonel... Nebkir? Yes, that was it, Nebkir, from the Special Prefecture, a purposely obscure branch of the police set up by the British back in the 1920s. Ostensibly part of the Royal Police, only these men reported directly to the British governor. Florence had seen Nebkir once or twice during her visits to the palace. He usually hovered in the background. A curtain man. Forbidding-looking, yet he had always returned Florence's glance with a nod and sometimes even a smile.

Her mind was wandering. She wasn't thinking clearly. Her head was on fire. It was coming off. Focus, focus—

"Who ... are... the other... plotters?" Salim demanded.

They were going through the motions, she knew, so they could cut off her head. She wanted to speed up the process. Anything but being sent back to an airless tomb with a rotting corpse. She saw that bin-Judar was wearing a pistol.

"Why don't vou." she said quietly, "shove the Koran up your ass? In your case, it would fit." There, that should do it.

Salim bin-Judar bolted from his chair and drew his pistol. Good, Florence thought. She closed her eyes and waited for the bullet. She heard male voices, loud and arguing.

"Don't you see," a voice said, "she's trying to provoke you."

"Infidel bitch!"

Florence opened her eyes and looked into Nebkir's. He was a sturdy, block-laced man with a pencil mustache and a neat goatee. A fastidious man, al peace with the world, but a killer when required. He spoke softly.

"Madame. There has been an attempt on the life of the emir. So you will perhaps understand that we are curious professionally to know what you know:"

Salim bin-Judar murmured to Nebkir that he was giving away too much information. Florence wondered whether all this was planned. She decided to play her own game of counter-deception.

"The only plotter," she said, trying to summon what moisture remained in her body, "was Mr. Thibodeaux, the man you killed and put into my cell."

Nebkir said in a not unkind way, "His death, that could not be helped. Putting him in there with you... I assure you this was not my idea. But madame, I must speak plainly—there are people within these very walls standing ready, eager, even, to perform... unimaginable things upon you." He leaned forward and said with apparent sincerity. "Help me and 1 will try to help you. But 1 must tell you, before Allah, that 1 do not think you will leave this place alive."

"Then before Allah." Florence said, "I will tell you that I know nothing of any attempt upon the emir."

"Lies!" Salim al-Judar exploded, he lunged forward with the pistol, Nebkir pulling at him. Salim put the muzzle against Florence's forehead. How pleasantly cool it was to the touch, she thought. Yes, she thought, pull the trigger—pull the trigger.

"Tell!" he commanded. "Salim!" Nebkir shouted.

It would all be over in a second, she thought. She closed her eyes and took a breath, perhaps the last she ever would. "Tell!"

Then Florence felt a bolt of lightning inside her skull, and all went dark.

"Idiot! What fucking good did that do?" Nebkir seethed at Salim, who stood over Florence's body. Her temple was gushing blood. Nebkir took out his pocket handkerchief and pressed il against the wound.

"Let her bleed to death and give the body to the dogs," Salim growled.

Nebkir rose and thrust his face into Salim's. "Rebi! Fool! Did it occur to you that with all that is now happening, the Americans might intervene? And if the Americans come, do you think that I will take the blame for killing their woman? Do you want to spend the rest of your life in Guantanamo, jerking off to the sound of monkeys?"

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

By some miracle understandable only to Allah the Wise, the All-Knowing. Yassim, attendant to the Camel Royal, was not killed in the blast, though it was not likely he would be leading any more royal parades.

he lay on his bed in King Nadir Hospital, encased head to toe in a body cast, tubes running in and out, connected to an array of machines that emitted so many cheeps and squeaks that the room sounded like an electronic aviary.

Keeping vigil over him were two stern-raced officers of the royal bodyguard—Salim bin-Judar's men—and an agent of the Ministry of Public Health, as well as the obligatory mukfellah, wearing the trademark scowl of his ilk. his lips moving joylessly as he read from his worn copy of the Book of Hamooj. It was into this cheery scene that Delame-Noir, a shade paler than normal, uncertainly strode, accompanied by a French woman of efficient aspect wearing the white smock of a doctor and carrying an attaché case. Delame-Noir did not bother to identify himself to the Mataris. He was well known lo them.

"Has he said anything?" he inquired.

One of the MPH men shook his head sullenly.

Delame-Noir announced in a collegial yet firm way that Dr. Rochet, the "eminent neurologist." had come from Paris and would now make her examination. So, if everyone would please excuse them?

"My orders are to remain." the MPH agent said.

Delame-Noir eyed him with Gallic froideur. "I will make my report directly to the emir. And to His Royal Highness King Tallulah in Kaffa. To whom do you report, sir?"

The room cleared efficiently.

Delame-Noir bent over and peered into Yassim's face. It bore the vacant but not displeased expression of one whose veins course with liquid lotus, bringing surcease from pain and blissful phantasmagorias of virgins on lush Technicolor riverbanks. Yassim was feeding on honeydew and drinking the milk of paradise—by the litre.

Delame-Noir nodded at his "eminent neurologist." one of the Onzieme Bureau's chemical specialists, code name "Fleurs du Mai." She took from her case a hypodermic and injected ten milligrams of naloxone into the intravenous tube going into Yassim's arm. His eyes sprang open like window shades.

"Ooooh."

"So, Yassim, you're alive?" Delame-Noir said. "God be praised. You had us worried, my friend."

"The pain—it is great. Excellency."

“Yes, yes, we will take away the pain in a moment, but first you must answer some questions. Okay?" "What is this place?"

"You're in excellent hands. Good French doctors. Now, Yassini, the camel Shein—what did he eat before the parade of Raliq?"

"The feed. Excellency."

"Feed? What do you mean? Grass? Hay?"

"The special feed, from the king. It was a gift from His Highness."

"Gift—a gift for a camel'?"

"from His Royal Highness King Tallulah. In honor of the Perfidy of Rafiq. For the parade. Excellency."

"Who brought this 'gift'?"

"A man. Excellency."

"Yes, yes, of course, a man, but who, Yassim? Surely you don't accept food for the emir's camel from just any person."

"The pain, Excellency."

"I will make the pain go away. Who was this man. Yassim?"

"A servant of King Tallulah. Excellency."

"How did you ascertain this? How did you know?"

"He said so."

"Yassim!"

"He was very important-looking. He presented a letter from the king to me, to me personally. A great honor." "Go on. Continue."

"The letter said that the feed was from his own royal stables, a symbol of the new friendship between the peoples of Wasabia and Matar."

"This letter, where is it?"

"In my room. Excellency."

Delame-Noir muttered imprecations under his breath. "There was another man. Excellency. Your man."

"How do you mean, my man?"

"He said he worked for you."

"I sent no man to you."

"But he had papers—and a letter from you. He was French. There are so many French persons in Amo these days, helping to build the New Matar. The pain. Excellency..."

Delame-Noir reached into his jacket pocket and look out a photograph. It was of Bobby Thibodeaux. He thrust it in front of Yassim. "Is this your Frenchman?"

"Yes, Excellency. That's the man."

A FEW HOURS LATER The New York Times posted a story on its website. The headline read:

EXPLOSIVE USED IN MATAR "CAMEL BOMB" APPEARS IDENTICAL TO TYPE USED IN SINKING OF VESSEL TIED TO FRENCH SECRET SERVICES

Investigators report traces of Exuperine in remains of royal camel, saddle and clothing of wounded emir

SPECIAL TO THE NEW YORK TIMES By Thomas Lowell

Within an hour the story was being beamed by satellites into a billion television sets. One of these was in Maliq's apartments at the palace, which had been converted into a hospital wing so that he could recuperate at home.

Few world leaders like to hear grim news first from the television set, but in our modern age. this is often the way of it. Even American presidents hear disastrous tidings in this fashion, rather than from their generals and spymasters. Maliq furiously pressed his buzzer and bellowed. Attendants, doctors, bodyguards and spiritual advisers rushed in.

FROM THE POINT OF VIEW of France, the timing could have been better. The president of the republic was in Quebec to give support to a referendum that would require all of Canada to adopt French as its sole official language. Eager to assert the supremacy of the language of Corneille and Racine and Moliere and—if you insist—Victor Hugo, the elegant Gaul instead found himself facing a phalanx of out-thrust microphones and a mob of clamorous reporters demanding to know if he had 'personally approved the assassination of the emir of Matar."

The president "categorically and profoundly" denied these "absurd" allegations: and while he was at it, he denied "for the one thousandth time, okay?" that France had played any role in the sinking of the environmental vessel Whitepeace. He tried to steer the agenda back to the glories of the French language and why it was imperative that cattle ranchers in Alberta fill out their income-tax forms in it, but the reporters preferred to stay on the subject of Fxuperine, a sophisticated high explosive manufactured only in France and—so far, at any rate—used only by the French military and secret services. The president was finally forced to take sanctuary inside the French consulate in Montreal, where, fuming, he growled to his aide, "Get Delame-Noir on the phone—now."

IN WASHINGTON, a group calling itself Friends of Free Matar and working out of the offices of Renard Strategic Communications was busy placing full-page ads in newspapers and magazines in the U.S. and abroad, heavily promoting Thomas Lowell's New York Times stories and calling for an international investigation into the situation in Matar. The ads played up a theme of Thomas's reporting, namely that Wasabia was being manipulated by France; indeed, that Wasabia was "a mere tool" of Paris.

According to Thomas's well-sourced reporting. Wasabia had been persuaded to back the coup in Matar "by the same secret services who now are planting explosives under the saddle of the emir." France. Thomas asserted, was determined to put "its own man" on the throne in order to "keep the Wasabis off balance."

Nor was that all: The advertisements proclaimed that French and Wasabi elements within Matar had captured both the American woman Florence and the widow of the late ("and much beloved") emir, the sheika Laila. The Friends of Free Matar proclaimed that the two women were being held in a "notorious torture center" outside Amo-Amas—"grim by even American torture and interrogation standards."

At the bottom of the advertisements were the words, in large, accusatory lettering:

WHY THE SILENCE OF THE U.S. STATE DEPARTMENT?

It all made for riveting reading—in Paris, Kaffa and Washington. The American president, not a man given to personal coarseness, was moved—having for once actually picked up a newspaper—to say at his regular morning intelligence briefing, "What the fuck is going on in Matar?"

That the situation was approaching a crisis was clear from the headline that appeared the very next day:

PEOPLE FOR THE ETHICAL TREATMENT OF ANIMALS "INDIGNANT" OVER USE OF CAMELS IN ASSASSINATIONS

Calls for Treaty Banning Use of Camels in Political Killings

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Quelle ordure, Delame-Noir thought, pausing before being admitted to the emir's chambers. He pressed a fine linen handkerchief from the Pas de Calais to his perspiring brow. The past few days had not been good. He had taken calls from a furious president of France, a livid king of Wasabia and an apoplectic emir. But he was resolved to stand upright and look his best. Delame-Noir was, when all was said and done, a man of une certaine dignite.

The door opened, and he found himself in the familiar place. Yet how much everything had changed.

"Bonjour. mon emir. You look much better. I delight to say."

"What?" Maliq barked. "Eh?"

A doctor murmured to Delame-Noir that the emir's hearing was 10 percent of its former capacity. Delame-Noir sighed inwardly. He was, in addition to being a man of certain dignity, a man of nuance—an artist of the gesture and feint. Now he would be reduced to shouting his explanations at close range into the (remaining) ear of a purple-faced, legless Middle Fast tin-pot dictator. This, he knew, would be a grim uphill slog. The situation in Amo-Amas had deteriorated catastrophically.

Alter the report about the Exuperine appeared on television—quel desastre!—Maliq had petulantly refused two calls from the president of France. He had also refused calls from Prince Bawad, who was desperate to convince him that Wasabia was no "tool" of France. Maliq had even refused a call from King Tallulah.

The emir was fortified in his obtuse truculence by Salim bin-Judar, who had assumed the duties of vizier in addition to royal bodyguard, Fetish had been arrested. Not just arrested, but being interrogated by Salim's men. undergoing, as the French has it, peine forte et dure. He had made excuses for Delame-Noir and la belle France one too many times. Another calamity in the making. Delame-Noir could only pray that Fetish was made of stern stuff, but he knew from experience never to count on the fortitude of paid informers.

As lor Maliq, he was, if no smarter than before, certainly more determined: no longer the callow vacillator but every inch—such inches as remained— Maliq the Formidable, to say nothing of Maliq the Paranoid.

He had sealed his border with Wasabia, put his military forces on alert, recalled his ambassador from Kaffa and expelled the French ambassador from Amo-Amas, along with all French nationals in Matar. When France dispatched a fleet of Airbuses to collect its citizens. Maliq denied landing rights. The French were forced to undergo the humiliation of standing on the municipal wharf in Amo in the baking heat and board—like refugees—several forlorn coastal freighters for Dubai. Not since Dunkirk had there been such an inglorious evacuation—and who cares more about glory than the French'.''

"I bring "lour Greatness good news." Delame-Noir said.

"WHAT?"

"GOOD NEWS, EMINENCE, WE HAVE ESTABLISHED WHO PLACED THE BOMB."

Maliq scowled. His lips were coated in burn ointment, making his livid visage especially repellent "Ennh!"

The meaning of "Ennh!" was unclear. Delame-Noir soldiered on. "IT WAS THE AMERICANS. THE MAN THIBODEAUX, THE LOVER OF THE WOMAN FLORENCE. HE WAS POSING AS—I REGRET TO SAY—A FRENCHMAN, ALONG WITH AN IMPOSTER PRETENDING TO BE AN EMISSARY OF KING TALLULAH YASSIM—"

"Proof—what proof?"

"I QUESTIONED YASSIM, GREATNESS, BEFORE HE—" "Bah. Bring him here. I will question the dog myself."

"I REGRET THAT IS NOT POSSIBLE. IMAM. HE HAS, MALEUREUSEMENT, EXPIRED FROM HIS WOUNDS."

Yassim, that imbecile of imbeciles, had managed one final spectacular feat of incompetence: dying before he could corroborate what he had told Delame-Noir. Of course. Maliq knew very well that Yassim had died, but he wasn't about to make things easier for Delame-Noir, whom he blamed one way or the other for everything that had happened. It was, after all, Delame-Noir who had first suggested that Maliq take over the throne of Matar. Yassim's death had not only deprived Delame-Noir of his witness, it also made it appear that Delame-Noir had killed him. Had the Frenchman not arrived at Yassim's deathbed with some "eminent neurologist" from Paris and ordered everyone out? And was Yassim not dead a few hours later? All this had been duly reported to Maliq by the guards Delame-Noir had ordered out of the room, eager to assert their innocence and the Frenchman's villainy.

"Where is your proof' Maliq demanded.

"I SHOWED YASSIM A PHOTO. HE—"

"Yassim is DEAD!"

"THEIR PLAN, MAGNIFICENCE, WAS TO MAKE IT APPEAR THAT WASABIA AND FRANCE, YOUR GREAT FRIENDS AND ALLIES. MADE THIS PLOT IN ORDER TO DECEIVE YOU INTO—"

"The explosive—where did the Americans get that? Eh? EH?"

"YES, THAT IS WHAT WE ARE AT THIS MOMENT INVESTIGA—"

"And why didn't your people have THAT in their report? Eh? Eh?"

Maliq now had Delame-Noir by the Achilles heel. Upon seeing the word "Exuperine" in the bomb squad's report, Delame-Noir had changed it to "Semtex." a more common type of plastic explosive manufactured in the Czech Republic and used by—well, practically everyone. It was this altered version of the report that he had forwarded on to the Matari authorities.

But unbeknownst to Delame-Noir. Colonel Nebkir had been conducting his own forensic analysis at the bomb site. His investigators, finding abundant traces of Exuperine in the remains of Shem, in fragments of the ceremonial saddle and in the shredded royal footwear, had passed along their report to the emir's men (and certain other people). Delame-Noir thus found himself in the unhappy position of being trapped in a lie the size of Montmartre.

When I here is no way out, the only way to go is—forward.

"MON EMIR, THERE APPEAR TO BE FORCES AT WORK HERE BEYOND EVEN MY UNDERSTANDING HOWEVER, I AM CONFIDENT- "

"Bah, Lies! It was FRENCH explosive that did this to me! Look at me!"

"WELL. PERHAPS IT WAS MANUFACTURED IN FRANCE, BIT I CAN ASSURE YOU THAT IT WAS NOT YOUR GOOD FRENCH FRIENDS WHO—"

"I have the report!"

"SIRE. DON'T YOU SEE? THEY ARE TRYING TO MAKE IT APPEAR THE WORK OF PARIS AND KAFFA. TO DRIVE A WEDGE BETWEEN YOU AND YOUR MOST TRUSTED FRIENDS AND ALLIES. TO BE SURE, THEY HAVE HAD SOME SUCCESS AT THIS DECEPTION, BUT..."

A doctor with a worried look entered and gave the emir an injection. Delame-Noir forged ahead with his explanations, all too aware of how awkward and unconvincing they sounded. Having to bellow did not help.

"This alleged letter from Tallulah to Yassim," Maliq said, momentarily calmed by whatever it was they'd injected Into his veins, "where is it? Show it to me."

Delame-Noir sighed. Thibodeaux had out maneuvered him here as well. A search of Yassim s room had produced a letter, all right—a thick, expensive piece of creamy foolscap—completely blank. The ink had vanished. One of the oldest tricks in the trade, and still effective, alas, assuming of course that the target was an imbecile like Yassim.

"THE LETTER WAS WRITTEN IN VANISHING INK. HOLY ONE. BUT I AM CERTAIN THAT A CHEMICAL ANALYSIS WILL SHOW BEYOND QUESTION THAT THE PAPER WE FOUND ONCE CONTAINED INK AND—"

"Enough! Enough pathetic, miserable excuses! You were supposed to protect me! And now look at me! How would you like to lose your legs, eh? Eh, French?"

Recognizing that this was a part of the world where the punitive removal of limbs was still practiced, the old Frenchman decided that the prudent course was retreat, immediate retreat. He was not a coward. He had fought at Dien Bien Phu and killed more Arabs in Algeria than anyone. He didn't mind dying, if it came to that—a final ritual cigarette before the firing squad, not such a bad way to go. But having legs sawed off to assuage the pride of a demented emir, no. this prospect Delame-Noir did not relish.

"REST, OH GREAT OXK. I SHALL BRING YOUR PROOF. AND YOU WILL SEE WHO ARE YOUR TRUE FRIENDS."

"OUT! GET OUT!"

The doctor, frowning, leaned forward. "IMAM, YOU MUST REST!"

Delame-Noir retreated backward in the protocol of taking leave of royalty. At the door, he took a last look at the hysterical, legless emir who had once been his chef d'oevre: Maliq's face was one large, ointment-coated bruise, so empurpled that Delame-Noir thought for one ghastly moment that it might just burst.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Florence awoke to light and the suspicion, lasting several seconds, that she was dead and that all this whiteness was the decorative motif in some waiting room on the near bank of the river Styx.

She became aware of a pain in her left temple and a bandage, and she knew that she was not dead. She felt metal around her left wrist: a manacle attaching her to the bed.

She was no longer in a dark cell with a corpse, or in a room with armed men bawling at her. but in a brightly lit. clean room on a cot covered with a sheet. They had bathed her, too. She no longer smelled of death.

Florence looked at the door and saw a face peering through the thick glass and wire-mesh window. The face registered that she was conscious now, and disappeared, leaving her a few more moments of tranquillity in which to try to assess her situation.

The last thing she remembered was a pistol being pressed against her forehead. Salim bin-Judar. Another person had been present, Colonel... Nebkir? The wound in her temple throbbed. With her free hand, she worked her fingers under the bandage, feeling sutures stiff as fishing line. Bin-Judar must have knocked her out with the pistol. Was she in some sort of prison hospital? Evidently, they didn't want her dead just yet.

The door opened, and Salim bin-Judar entered. He no longer looked formidable, oddly, but more like a harassed middle manager running late for a PowerPoint presentation on how to cut 8 percent out of next quarter's operating budget. He carried a clipboard.

"You're awake, then? Will you sign this now?" he handed her the clipboard.

"What am I confessing to today?"

"Your role in the attempt on the emir's life. You're to be executed tomorrow evening. Whether you sign this or not."

His casualness appeared studied. There was something else I had to tell you— oh yes, we're killing you tomorrow night, having a few people over.

All right. Florence thought. She too, could be casual. "I'll sign whatever you want," she said, almost with a shrug, "but you must let me see the sheika."

"She's not here. She's somewhere else." It was obvious he was lying.

"Is she well?"

"Alive is well enough."

"Let me see her, and I will sign." She handed him back his clipboard. "I will talk no more of it. You hold no more terrors for me, Salim."

Salim stared at her. A flicker of something like respect crossed his face. In his career so far, he had informed sixteen people that they would be executed; none had taken the news so placidly. He left.

An hour later, the door to Florence's cell opened again, admitting two guards. They did not handle her roughly or manacle her, but covered her head with an abaaya and led her out of the cell. After walking down a corridor or two, she heard a series of doors opening and fell the immediate baking heat of outdoors. She was put into a vehicle between two men, one of whom had terrible body odor. They drove for under an hour. She was taken from the vehicle, fell again the oven heat of Matar—unless she was in Wasabia—and was taken inside, where it was cool again. They put her in a chair. In front of her, she felt a table. They left the abaaya on her, and having no mesh or eye slit, she could not see. Some minutes passed, then a door opened and she heard male voices. She had told Salim the truth: They had no terrors left for her. Her fear was exhausted.

Then the abaaya was removed. Blinking, she looked and saw, sitting across the table from her. Laila.

"Oh, my dear sister." Laila said, her eyes brimming with tears. "What have they done to you?"

Florence reached across the table and took Laila's hands in hers. Laila looked gaunt, hollowed out, aged, yet still beautiful. Her eyes, once gay and impertinent, looked hunted, if not defeated.

"And how are you, dear sister?" Florence said, and with that, they both burst into tears.

"This is hardly becoming," Laila said, brushing her tears away. "They'll say it's true—that we're a couple of desert dykes."

Florence smiled. The expression felt strange on her face. She realized that it had been a long time since she had smiled.

"So," she said, "we're still alive. How did we manage that?"

They were alone in the small room, though almost certainly being observed and tape-recorded.

"Do you know anything that's happened?" Florence asked Laila.

"I gather someone tried to kill Maliq."

"Yes." Florence nodded. "I'm to ..." Her voice trailed oil'.

Laila's face turned fearful. She shook her head. "No, Firenze, don't do it."

"Have they asked you to confess to anything?"

"Corrupting Gazzy."

Florence smiled. "You always were a bad influence on him. In return?" The two women stared at each other. "A hundred lashes," Laila said.

"Oh, Christ, Laila." It was a death sentence. Did she know that?

"It's no worse than some of the schools I was sent to. They'll deport me after. I imagine." She forced a smile. "I'm hoping for the South of France, not some lugubrious sub-Saharan country. What about you, Firenze? What is to happen to you?"

"Deportation," Florence lied. "It seems I've finally worn out my welcome."

The door was opening. The guards entered.

They clasped each other's hands tightly. They both understood.

"See you in the South of France, then," Florence said.

"In the South of France. We’ll get roaring drunk on champagne."

"Go with God."

"With God, darling. Allah maa'ek yehfathek. Eshoofek biheer."

DELAME-NOIR WAS INFORMED over the phone by an icy voice in Paris that he was to return without delay. A jet was standing by, and this one the Mataris had granted permission to land. Delame-Noir understood.

He leaned forward and asked his driver for a cigarette. A good thing he was in the Middle East. Everyone smoked. He himself had not had a cigarette in over forty years, when he was overcome with shame at having pressed the burning end of one into the chest of a recalcitrant pied-noir prisoner in Algeria while trying to extract critical information. He lit this one and inhaled and leaned back in the leather seat with the serenity that comes from accepting defeat. He decided to place one last call, to Prince Bawad in Kaffa, more out of curiosity than anything.

Bawad immediately began to excoriate Delame-Noir in the harshest terms. Delame-Noir let the torrent of abuse go by him along with the passing desertscape. He was intrigued by Bawad's fear—it was so palpable.

"And what is the decision with respect to the women?" Delame-Noir asked, exhaling a lungful of smoke. How good it felt. What a pity he had given it up for so long.

"He's going to kill them tomorrow!" Bawad shrieked. "You should be pleased, mon prince. After all. it's what you wanted for so long."

"Don't you see—this will only make things worse. Much worse! His Majesty is furious!"

"So why don't you do something?"

"The maniac has sealed the borders and expelled everyone. We can't do anything!"

"Where there are no alternatives, there are no problems. Do you know who told me that saying? De Gaulle himself. I knew him well." "This is all your doing!" "How is it my doing?"

The only reason he’s going to kill the Florence woman is because you kept talking him out of killing her.' And now he hates you so much, he's going to kill her just to spite you!"

"It's true I always thought that to kill the women would be a terrible public-relations mistake. I know how you people love nothing better than to chop off a head every now and then. So now you can enjoy your national sport." Delame-Noir exhaled another lungful of Turkish tobacco smoke. "I think you are going to find yourself in a very big pit of quicksand, mon prince. Give my regards lo the king. Au revoir."

Delame-Noir pressed END. Rarely, he reflected, had it felt so satisfying lo hang up.

The jet was wailing. It was his own jet they'd sent for him, with all the comforts. There were two men inside, instead of Celine, the lovely woman who usually served him. Delame-Noir greeted them cordially, he was aware that everything he said, every action, every gesture, would be a topic of conversation the next day in various offices in Paris—indeed, for many years—and he was determined that these conversations would be conducted in tones of admiration and reverence.

"Come on." he said, "let's have a drink." He found the bottle of forty-year-old single-mall Scotch that Celine kept for him. poured drinks for his subdued guests, and as the jet lifted into the sky and headed out over the sparkling blue Gulf before turning west, he lifted his glass and said. "To the New Matar!"

The obituary appeared in Le Figaro two days later: Dominique Laurent Delame-Noir, seventy-four, army veteran. Croix de Guerre, Legion d'Honneur. widower, assistant subdirector of Near Eastern Affairs within the directorate of the Bureau des Affaires Etrangeres, died of an embolism while walking his dog near his home in Brive-la-Gaillarde. Service and internment private.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Florence was pleased that it was not to be done at a mall

All afternoon she had been tormented by the thought that she would have her head chopped off at a mall, and that her last earthly sight would be a Starbucks. There was no dishonor in dying, but she did not want to die in the middle of a 30 percent-off sale on women's shoes.

The vehicle stopped. She looked out the window and saw that she was in a town square. It looked like Randolph Square, now Yasgur Square. She used to go shopping here. There was a stand that sold wonderful peaches.

A crowd of several hundred had gathered around the scaffold, mostly women. They were moaning and whimpering softly in the manner of Arab women being forced to watch yet another abominable act. A moolah with a megaphone was haranguing them, educating them about Florence's villainy and godlessness and perfidy in attempting to kill the great imam, Allah's blessing be upon his mutilated body.

Florence looked nervously to see if Laila was there. She asked the officer accompanying her if the sheika was to be dealt with here as well. He told her no, that was happening at—the mall. Florence winced. But at least Laila would not have to witness her death; nor would Florence be required to watch them beat Laila to death in front of Starbucks. God is truly merciful.

A murmur went through the crowd as the executioner, a tall Matari of the Qali Sad tribe—Matar's traditional executioners—moved through the parting sea of abaayas toward her, escorted by a moolah and a pistol-bearing captain of the Department of Public Health.

Executions in this part of the world, being commonplace, are not elaborate. Other nations and cultures like a bit of pomp and circumstance on the scaffold—a final statement, the blessing of a priest, the offer of a hood or blindfold, a cigarette (no longer allowed now, for reasons of health), a drumroll. The executions Florence had witnessed had been swift, business-like affairs involving no more ceremony than the chopping off of heads at the chicken market, except for the obligatory complimenting of God for His greatness. This suited her. No point in prolonging it. The more quickly it was over, the less chance there was that she might lose her nerve and make some undignified show. She so wanted to make a good death. But she could feel the fear fluttering in her like a dark moth.

'The headsman took her firmly by the arm and led her toward the scaffold. His attendant stood there, holding the sword. Florence prayed it was sharp. She had been troubled by another thought—that of an incompetent headsman, hacking away like a drunken butcher. It happened. One time in Chop-Chop Square, after eight or nine feckless strokes, a soldier finally pushed the executioner aside in disgust and finished the business with his pistol. She wished she had something of value with which to tip the executioner.

The moolah was still haranguing them through his megaphone. The crowd of women moaned. He took her to the center of the platform and pushed her to her knees. The attendant moved to blindfold her, but she shook him off. She had spent enough time under a hood. She would not have her last view in life be of the inside of a dark stinking doth.

She knelt upright and looked at the crowd and smiled. Women began to wail openly. Florence looked down at the fresh wooden planks of the scaffold and saw, brightly outlined, the shadow of the executioner raising his sword to strike. She closed her eyes and tried to relax her neck muscles.

Then she heard gunshots, and she opened her eyes. The executioner went over backward, his sword falling with a clank onto the scaffold, nearly cutting her in the calf. She spun her head toward the crowd and saw, scattered throughout the crowd, dozens of women, their abaayas lifted, firing weapons al the police and guards. In the next instant, she felt herself being picked up and rushed off by two men. She was tossed into the back of a van. The doors slammed shut, and it roared off.

She lay there, heart beating madly, for a while and then lifted her head toward the front of the van.

"You want to keep your head down, Flo? Y'almost lost it back there."

IT WAS DARK by the time they stopped. When he opened the rear door, she burst out and hugged him.

"Come on," Bobby said finally, "checkout time. Look out for snakes. Whole country's crawlin' with snakes."

She walked across the sand on bare feet toward the water. She wondered whether Maliq's bureaucrats had gotten around to renaming Blenheim Beach. They waited, ankles in the lapping surf. Bobbv watching, holding a machine gun.

Ten minutes passed. Headlights approached from the road. "Bobby!" Florence called out.

He signaled with a small flashlight. The headlights blinked twice, then once more. Bobby sprinted up the beach toward them. A minute later, he returned, supporting with one arm a female form hunched over in evident pain.

Florence embraced Laila.

"Not so hard, darling." Laila winced. "The bastards got in ten lashes before all hell broke loose. I could use that drink now."

The three waited. Then there was the sound of an outboard engine, and they saw men in a boat with blackened faces and weapons.

Florence had never been in a submarine before. She expected to hear Klaxons and men shouting "Down periscope!" Instead, an attractive, unhurried officer in khaki smiled and said. "Ma'am. Your Royal Highness, welcome aboard." Then Florence heard over a loudspeaker. "Prepare to dive." and a moment later, there came another sound sweet to the ear, a cork being propelled from a bottle of champagne, though officially, alcohol is not served on U.S. Navy vessels. But under the circumstances ...

EPILOGUE

Following the Arab Women's Uprising, Matar was plunged once again into turmoil, though not for long. Having cut himself off from his former Wasabi and French patrons. Maliq found himself isolated. Since politics, like nature, abhors a vacuum, Colonel Nebkir of the Special Prefecture—assisted by his patrons. Bobby's people—moved swiftly to fill it. Within a week. Maliq was forced to flee. There was karma in the manner of his departure: the race-car driver being driven into exile, cursing, in the back of a pickup truck. His present whereabouts are not precisely known. Some say he found refuge in Yemen; others. Mogadishu. It is not an especially heated topic of conversation.

After the Restoration, Laila returned to Amo-Amas with her son, Hamdul, who—God willing—will someday assume the throne. In the meantime, Colonel Nebkir administers the country, to the evident satisfaction of most Mataris, though it must be admitted that the promised elections keep being postponed for this or that reason.

TV Matar nourishes again under Laila's leadership, broadcasting with flair and humanity into the darker recesses of the region. The once again enormous advertising revenues go to the fund for Arab Women, administered in Washington by a woman who bears a certain resemblance to the woman known as Florence Farfaletti. If it is true, as the eminent University of Chicago anthropologist insists, that many Arab women do not want to be "liberated." so be it; now, at least, many of their sisters have more of a choice in the mutter.

France once again found herself sans naval bases and discounted crude oil, but still and forever ineffably, irresistibly belle.

Wasabia found itself once again cut off from the sea and having to pay Matar the hated Churchill tax, now double the previous rate. King Tallulah blamed the dismal reversal of his Country's fortunes on his nephew Foreign Minister Crown Prince Bawad. Under an obscure provision of Hamooji law, the disgraced prince was stripped of his wealth and prettiest wives and internally exiled to a region of Wasabia inhabited mainly by baboons (the country's only tourist site of any note). Vans stop, and the guides, shouting above the din of baboons, point out that the lowly mud hut in the distance is the dwelling place of Prince Bawad—yes, "that" Prince Bawad. It is said that his howls can be heard at night even above the baboon din, but this may be an exaggeration. Even Wasabis have a sense of humor.

George and Renard went into business together. Their Firm, Renard Phish Strategic Communications, is one of Washington's top public relations firms, with clients all over the world, in one of those distinctly Washingtonian ironies, they were retained by the Royal Kingdom of Wasabia to improve the kingdom's image in the United States, an image in much need of repair. The two of them are so busy that George complains he is working far too hard: but then George is never really happy unless he has something to be unhappy about. In such free time as he has, he oversees the painstaking renovation of Phish House, which he purchased from the estate of his late mother. Already there is talk of a ghost.

Florence's little house in Foggy Bottom was quickly overwhelmed by media and curiosity seekers. Agents bearing book and movie contracts hurled themselves against her front door. America does not make life easy for its heroes. She escaped out the back on her motorcycle. They pursued her, but she lost them in the Virginia suburbs. With Bobby’s help, she assumed a new name and identity. No useful purpose would be served by describing Florence's new looks, except to say that heads still turn when she walks down a street. The Fund for Arab Women thrives.

Following the submarine exfiltration. there was much debriefing by various government officials. They all professed ignorance, even skepticism, of the shadowy Uncle Sam figure Florence described to them. And yet the officials were forced to acknowledge that she could not have done what she did without the assistance of certain elements of the United States government. The more obvious this became, the less eager they were to pursue the matter. Could this have come from—the very top? The officials began casting nervous glances at one another. The silences grew longer and more awkward. Matar was once again the Switzerland of the Gulf, oil was flowing, America was—God be praised—spared the necessity of having to be more prudent about its gluttonous consumption of energy, the French and the Wasabis were back in their boxes. Why not call it a day and leave well enough alone?

"We're done," the chief debriefing officer said finally. He had never bothered to introduce himself. On the way out, he turned and looked at Florence and said. "Got dinner plans?"

Florence began to have dreams. Being shut up in a cell with a corpse for three days and escaping decapitation by seconds would qualify in any diagnostic manual as traumatic. She woke up trembling, though at least she could reach over and find Bobby. Lately, the dreams had featured Uncle Sam. It was bad enough to spend the days tormented by wondering who he was without having to encounter him in her sleep going, "Heavens to Betsy!" and "Goodness gracious!"

In the dream, she was driving her motorcycle at a very fast speed down the country road, and suddenly, he was standing in the center. She had to hit the brakes and go off the road into a tangle of briar and blazing yellow forsythia. The thick interwoven mesh of vines acted as a net. She hung there like an insect snared in a spiderwcb, and there he was, grinning, standing over her, saying, "You're going to kill yourself if you keep driving like that, young lady"—at which point Florence woke with a squeak, and there was Bobby, who had seen all the horrors the world had to offer, snoring away contently.

It was over coffee one morning, after another of these disturbed sleeps, that a headline in the business section of the Post caught her eye. It was on page three. She might well have missed it.

WALDORF GROUP GETS $2.4 BILLION IN ADDITIONAL WASABI FINANCING

She stared at the headline for a few moments and then read the story. There was nothing particularly remarkable about it. She knew all about the Waldorf Group. Everyone did. It was the Washington-based investment-banking firm with close ties to Wasabia. There were twelve directors on its board: three former U.S. presidents, secretaries of defense, state, commerce, treasury, two ex-CIA directors ...

"Son of a bitch," Florence said.

"Unh?" Bobby said, shuffling barefoot into the kitchen wearing pajama bottoms, scratching his chest and yawning, sniffing at the air for traces of brewing coffee.

THE WALDORF GROUP'S offices occupy the two top floors of a Washington. D.C., office building that, fittingly, overlooks the White House. The view from the boardroom is quite spectacular, allowing the various directors to see many of the government buildings they once ran. The conference table is of rich burled walnut, the chairs Luxuriously upholstered in Milanese leather. The ashtrays— many of the directors like to puff away on fresh Cuban cigars—are of the finest crystal. A map of the world, stuck with dozens of pins denoting Waldorf Group investment projects, seems to announce, "It's a big, big world, and it's all ours!" Today another pin would be stuck into Wasabia and, that done, the directors would enjoy drinks, a little chitchat, the latest off-color jokes—the current one involved two nuns driving through Transylvania—and then disperse variously into Secret Service-driven vehicles and helicopters and private jets. The board meeting might go a bit longer than usual, given the recent developments.

The chief executive officer was presenting an overview of the group's recent investment in a diamond mine near Yellowknife when the door opened and a woman entered.

She was blond, very attractive, dressed in a business suit whose lapel bore a Secret Service badge denoting to the dozen or so agents outside that she was cleared to be in this august company.

The CEO looked at the woman with surprise. Waldorf board meetings were not usually interrupted. His mouth remained open, he turned somewhat nervously to a man in his sixties silting against the wall of the boardroom. This man looked at the woman. He stood, smiled and said. "Well. Florence, hello."

"Hello, Sam." she said.

"No need for introductions," Uncle Sam said.

The twelve men sitting around the table looked at Florence. The three ex-presidents smiled warmly, but then they had the most refined political instincts of those present. The former cabinet secretaries did not smile; the former intelligence directors frowned.

"Can we talk later?" Uncle Sam said. "We're having a meeting."

"No," Florence said, "we'll talk now."

"I really don't think—"

A door at the opposite end of the room opened, admitting a well-built man of steely aspect, he, too, wore a Secret Service lapel badge. He stood there, hands crossed over his chest, jaw set, staring at Uncle Sam.

"Hello. Bobby," Uncle Sam said. "Well, I guess everyone's here."

Florence said, "So, all along, I was working for a bunch of investment bankers?"

One of the ex-presidents said in a kindly, gentle voice, "One way or the other. Florence, we're all working for investment bankers."

"This group." she said, "got started with financing from Wasabia. Profits last year of eight hundred million dollars. Divided by twelve makes sixty-six million. You've been very successful, gentlemen. But the success depends on steady financing from your friends in Wasabia.

"Then the Wasabis start to have internal problems. Terrorism, too much power concentrated in too few people. Forty thousand crown princes. Vast unemployment and half the country under the age of sixteen. And if the kingdom crumbles and becomes an Islamic fundamentalist republic, there goes your financing. So, you want the kingdom to modernize, to reform. Not a bad goal in and of itself.

"Only they won't reform. They can't, because the power's concentrated, and because the royal family struck a deal with a fanatical religious sect hundreds of years ago. The royals got the power, and the fanatics got to keep things the way they were back in the good old Dark Ages.

"They need to reform, but they can't reform. And what leverage, really, do you have? There's only so much pressure you can put on them. Because one of your partners is Prince Bawad, ambassador to the United States. An old golfing, skiing, shooting pal of two thirds of the people around this table. And, if I may say, one of the most despicable human beings on the planet. But let's not allow emotions in. Women are so prone to doing that, aren't they?

"And then one day Bawad's wife tries to defect. We, of course, hand her back, because nothing must interfere with the flow of oil and investment capital. She's executed. And in the process, I become involved. I send in my proposal and cause a major freak-out at the State Department

"And now you have a means of forcing reform on the Wasabis. All you have to do is push a few buttons, pull a few strings. Among the twelve of you, you've got a Rolodex bigger than God's. And here's the amazing part—it's actually all for a good cause. That doesn't happen very often in Washington, does it? Two good causes—women's rights. Waldorf profits."

"Florence," said one of the ex-presidents, "I think I speak for everyone here when 1 say that you did a marvelous job over there."

A murmur went around the table: "Hear, hear."

"I think I also speak for everyone here. Florence, when I say that we would much like you to come aboard."

"Hear, hear." Even the ex-intelligence directors were smiling now. Bobby, on the other hand, looked like he was about to reach into his jacket and take out his pistol and make history. What a headline that would be.

She said to him. "We're done here." Florence and Bobby moved toward the door.

"If you change your minds." Uncle Sam said, "you know where to find us. And we know where to find you."

20 October 2003 - 19 May* 2004 San Luis Obispo; Washington, D.C.

* Death of T. E. Lawrence, 1935

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

A thousand and one thanks once again to Mr. Karp and to Binky Urban; and a thousand and two thanks to the delightful and mysterious T. Freifrau von G. Thanks also to: dear, dear Lucy; Tomas Salley: John Tierney; Eric Fellen; Bill Hughes; Dr. Close; His Eminence Cullen Cardinal Murphy. Background-wise: Bob Baer; David Fromkin: Fetema Mernissi: Sandra Mackey: Sir Richard (F.) Burton. Inspiration-wise: Paul. Mark and Brooke, splendid Americans all in an unsplendid world. Finally, respect and homage to Fern Holland, a real-life Florence of Arabia, assassinated in Iraq. March 9.2004. age thirty-three.

ALLAH YEHALEEHUM. UHTEE

ALLAH HUMMA YESKOONHA FASEEH JEENAANOO.

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