“You are right, you don’t see,” Idris said, growing heated. “But I am no fool.”
“I say you are. I say you are as deluded as the so-called Christians who spread terror in the name of Jesus.”
“Do not compare me to those people!”
“Why not?” Mustafa said. “You chase the same mirage, and worship at the same false altar.”
“No!” Idris wagged a finger. “God is on our side.”
“ ‘Our side.’ And whose side was Fadwa on?”
“I cannot say. I did not know her. But I know that she was either righteous, or unrighteous. If she was righteous, then she died a martyr and will live on in paradise. If not—why should I care that she is dead?”
“Because her life was not yours to take!” Mustafa shouted. “I hope there is a paradise. I hope Fadwa finds her way there, finds the joy I could not give her. But even if that is so, it was not for you, in your supreme arrogance, to send her on her way. And not just her. Thousands dead in the towers alone. Thousands! What were you thinking? What was Osama bin Laden thinking? Who do you people think you are?”
“I am a warrior of God,” Idris Abd al Qahhar said proudly. “I, and Osama bin Laden, and all the men of Al Qaeda. You cannot make us regret what we have done. When this world passes away and God’s final truth is revealed, even to unbelievers who would deny it, everyone will see we were in the right. But it will be too late for you then, Mustafa al Baghdadi.” Nodding, he continued: “Go ahead. Take your revenge. It will change nothing.”
“My revenge.” Mustafa set down his cup and placed a hand on the gun. Took a breath. “I told Gabriel Costello that if the men responsible for 11/9 were brought before me, I would show them no mercy . . .”
“To hell with your mercy,” Idris said. “I care nothing for it.”
“I know,” said Mustafa. “And it would be a great pleasure to kill you—like having a wish come true. But God still does care about mercy. I must believe that, if I’m to go on living in this or any other world . . . Yes, I must believe it.” With an effort he withdrew his hand from the gun. “Anyway,” he went on, “I’ve used up all my wishes already. Time to give someone else a turn.” Sitting back, he called out: “Samir!”
Footsteps in the hall. Samir came in, and Amal, and behind them Abu Naji and Sayyid. Sayyid was holding a tape recorder with a wireless antenna.
Idris shook his head, forcing a smile. “Now you disappoint me,” he said to Mustafa. “I tell you I am willing to die. You think you can punish me with prison?”
“We’ll see how you feel after the first forty years,” Mustafa replied.
Idris laughed. “No,” he said. “No, I don’t think so.”
He lunged for the gun on the table, but Amal had been waiting for this and hit him with a taser before he’d taken two steps.
“Samir,” Mustafa said. “Do the honors, please.”
Idris had collapsed onto his back. He lay breathing shallowly, red-faced, too stunned to move but still able to summon a look of such hatred that Samir, standing over him, hesitated. Then Samir remembered his sons and his fear dissipated. He crouched down, pulling out handcuffs.
“Idris Abd al Qahhar,” he said. “I arrest you for conspiracy to commit murder. By the grace of God the All-Merciful and Compassionate, you have the right to remain silent . . .”
“Hello,” Farouk said, closing the interrogation room door behind him. “I understand you wish to speak with me.”
“Oh, I try never to make wishes,” the man in the white tunic said. “They so rarely turn out the way you expect. I am happy to speak with you, however.”
“Good, then. Let’s start with a name.”
“Of course.” The man’s smile turned mischievous. “What would you like to call me?”
“How about your real name?”
“It would mean nothing to you, I’m afraid. I’m not in any of your databases.”
“What about a home address then?” Farouk pulled out a chair and sat opposite the man. “You don’t sound like a Baghdadi to me.”
“My family home is in Arabia, in the Rub al Khali.”
“I didn’t know there were homes in the Empty Quarter. Do you work in the oil industry?”
“We mind our own business.” That mischievous smile again. “Most of us.”
“And what brings you to Baghdad?”
“I fly all over the country.”
“On your family’s business?”
“A personal research project of sorts. I’ve been going from place to place, studying how things have changed.”
“Changed since when? Have you been away somewhere?”
“That too,” the man in the white tunic said. “I was in prison for many years, and the world changed quite a bit during that time. Since my release, it’s changed again. It’s the second set of changes I’m most interested in. One should recognize one’s own handiwork, but I keep encountering things that surprise me, things that suggest the intervention of another, greater power. So I’ve been trying to work out what it all means. What the larger plan might be.”
“Prison,” Farouk said. “I thought you said you weren’t in our databases.”
“It wasn’t one of your prisons.”
“You know we have access to Interpol files here too, right?”
“My jailer was not a member of Interpol.”
“Where were you locked up, North Korea?” Receiving no answer but that same smile, Farouk continued: “Let’s talk about this afternoon. What were you doing at the rally? More research?”
“I was following that man, the one you are holding in the other room.”
“Why? Do you know him?”
“I know his type. A maker of burnt offerings. Such men were common in my youth, and time doesn’t seem to have lessened their numbers much. I’ve encountered quite a few in my travels.”
“When you encounter them, what do you do?”
“Usually nothing. Interfering in others’ affairs, even with the best of intentions, well it’s like making wishes—there are always unforeseen consequences. I really should have learned that lesson by now. But today, crossing paths with that man, sensing what he was about to do, I felt a powerful urge to intervene. An impulse not entirely my own.”
“What does that mean, not entirely your own?”
“You know how it is,” the man in the white tunic said. “God allows evil to exist in the world. Sometimes He permits it to operate unchecked. But sometimes, He puts a stone in the path of the wicked.”
“And today you were the stone?”
“I thought so.” The smile a bit sheepish now, as he looked down at the steel cuffs on his wrists. “Now I’m thinking I may have been mistaken about the source of the impulse . . .” He shrugged. “Ah well. Ultimately all things proceed from God’s will.”
“Let’s leave God’s will aside for the moment,” said Farouk, “and get back to what happened at the rally. You say you decided to intervene. How?”
The prisoner sighed. “Forgive me. I don’t wish to be uncooperative—”
“Then don’t be. Tell me what you did.”
“You wouldn’t believe it. I could convince you, but it would require yet another intervention. Anyway, we are almost out of time.”
“No, we’re not,” Farouk said, allowing his annoyance to show. “You are a suspect in a terrorism case, and you’re not going anywhere until I get answers.”
From over his shoulder came the muffled sound of shouting. Farouk turned in his chair and saw the mirror shudder as something slammed the other side of the glass.
“They are here for me,” the man in the white tunic said, as Farouk stood up. “Do not resist them. They will only hurt you.”
The interrogation room door burst open. A big man stepped through, holding a pistol.