From behind them they heard the sound of a pump shotgun being cocked. “Don’t move!” said a voice. The words were Arabic, but the voice was American . . . and familiar.
Mustafa spoke without thinking: “Captain Lawrence?”
“Stand up slowly,” the voice said. “Now all of you turn around. Slowly.”
The captain’s T-shirt was torn and bloody, and a chunk was missing from his left ear where one of his dying jailers had bitten him. Looking at him, Mustafa experienced a curious sense of doubling. He felt like he knew this man, had worked with him for years. He knew that he didn’t know this man; they’d never met before. Not in this life.
Without waiting to be told, Mustafa lifted his goggles up to his forehead and tugged down the rag that covered his nose and mouth. The captain lowered the shotgun. “Mustafa?”
“Hello, Captain Lawrence,” Mustafa said. “How is Operation Iraqi Freedom coming?”
The window of the prayer room had been shuttered against the storm and the sand pattern on the floor had been redrawn. A chair of hammered black iron held the captive jinn at the center of the circle. Saddam stood facing the jinn, while Mr. Rammal orbited them both. The sorcerer had donned a peaked cap of densely woven silver thread, and as he walked around the circle with the brass bottle held before him, he muttered incantations in the dead language of Babylon.
Bearing witness to the ritual, their faces lit by flickering torchlight, were Qusay, Uday, Abid Hamid Mahmud, Tariq Aziz, and a half-dozen Republican Guard. The Guardsmen remained impassive—all except for one, who grew increasingly uncomfortable with the blasphemy being committed here and finally opened his mouth to protest. But Uday silenced him with a glance.
Mr. Rammal completed his ninth circuit. He removed his cap and gave the bottle to Saddam, who hefted it in both hands, weighing it like a newborn.
Saddam Hussein addressed the jinn: “Are you ready to do my bidding?”
The jinn stared back at him placidly. “Tell me what it is you want.”
Saddam passed the brass bottle back to Mr. Rammal and snapped his fingers. Abid Hamid Mahmud came forward and handed him a globe. Saddam showed it to the jinn; black marker had been applied to the globe’s surface, changing borders and renaming nations. “I also have some notes,” Saddam said, patting the breast pocket of his uniform. “Perhaps you’d like to study them.”
The jinn flexed his wrists beneath the iron bands that held him to the chair. “That’s all right,” he said. “I believe I understand. You wish to be a ruler again. Arabia will be the seat of your power. From there, your armies will march out, victorious, over Persia and India, Europe and America, and all the rest of the world. Your old enemies will be found and brought to you in chains, to be humbled before you. And you will be the king of all kings, now and forever. Does that about cover it?”
Saddam Hussein grinned. “That will do for a start.” He tossed the globe back to Abid and spread his arms to embrace his future. “You’ve heard my wish,” he said. “Now give it to me! I command you!”
“Very well,” the jinn said. “My answer is no.”
The three Guardsmen stood shoulder to shoulder at the window of the front gatehouse, peering out into the storm.
“It’s not natural,” said the first Guard.
“Fuck you, it’s not natural,” said the second.
“Look how dark it’s getting!”
“It’s a fucking sandstorm, asshole!”
“Yes, and that creature they’ve got up at the house is responsible! Abu Ramzi told me—”
“Abu Ramzi is a fool!”
“Be quiet, both of you!” said the third Guard, who was looking not at the sky but at the road. “Someone’s out there.”
“Where? I don’t see any headlights.”
“Not in a vehicle. Men on foot.” He grabbed his rifle. “Call the main house and the other guard stations and tell them we may have intruders trying to get over the front wall.” On his way out the door, he hit a switch that brought up extra floodlights.
There was someone out there: Just beyond the gate, a figure was crouching to place something against the base of the wall. “Hey!” the Guardsman shouted. “Freeze!” But the figure jumped up and ran back into the storm. The Guardsman continued forward, his eye drawn to the object the figure had left behind: a canvas satchel with a blinking red light on its side.
“What do you mean, ‘no’?” Saddam Hussein said. He glanced sharply at Mr. Rammal, who threw up his hands in supplication.
“Don’t be too hard on your magician,” the jinn said. “His Akkadian isn’t bad. A few thousand years ago, his incantation might have worked. But I’m afraid you’ve both failed to appreciate what it is that I am.”
“What you are?” Saddam said. “I told you what you are: You’re my servant!”
“Once upon a time I was the property of kings,” the jinn demurred. “But during my long imprisonment I heard, from afar, the words of the prophets: Ibrahim, and Jesus, and last of all Mohammed, peace be unto him. Now I’ve said the words of the shahada and become a Muslim, and pagan enchantments no longer have power over me.”
“That’s not true!” Mr. Rammal said. “My spell drew you in! It forced you to reveal yourself!”
“My pride did most of the work, there.” The jinn shrugged apologetically. “But there is no pride in being a slave of Saddam Hussein—and though I really should stop presuming to know the mind of God, I can’t imagine the All-Compassionate would want me to serve such a wicked person.”
Saddam trembled with rage. He unsnapped the holster on his belt and drew out a huge revolver. Thumbing back the hammer, he pivoted and took aim at the sorcerer.
“No!” Mr. Rammal cried. Then the gun roared and he toppled over backwards onto the sand-strewn floor.
Uday stepped forward, eyes fixed on the jinn. “Let me hurt this one, father,” he said. “I’ll get him to do what you want.”
“Shut up,” Saddam said. He pointed the smoking gun muzzle at the jinn’s temple. “I could kill you, too.”
“You could,” the jinn agreed. “And then when I am dead, I must go before God who will judge me for all eternity. Whose wrath should I fear more?”
Saddam began to tremble again. But before he could pull the trigger a second time, there was an explosion somewhere out on the grounds. “What was that?”
The jinn tilted his head, listening to the wind. “A tall man,” he said. “More princely than you, but no less wicked. He means to make a sacrifice of your entire household.”
More noise: the clatter of assault rifles. It seemed to be coming from multiple locations.
“Qaeda,” said Qusay. He was holding a transceiver to his ear. “They’ve blown the front gate, and they may be coming up from the river as well.”
“You, and you!” Saddam said, gesturing with the revolver at two of his men. “Stay here and guard my property! Qusay, Uday, Abid, and the rest of you, follow me!” He went out into the hall, which was noisy with the shouts of the Republican Guard.
After the others had gone out and the door was shut behind them, a pale Tariq Aziz stepped forward from the shadows and stood wringing his hands over the body of the sorcerer. “This was not my doing,” he said. He looked at the jinn. “I didn’t do anything!”
“I will not have an evildoer for a friend,” the jinn replied.
“I don’t actually remember you,” Mustafa said. “I feel as though I should, but I don’t.”
“Nobody remembers me,” the captain replied. “Nobody but Saddam even knows who I am. It’s made the last couple years kind of difficult . . .”
They had entered the mansion through a back door, overpowering two more Guards in the process. Their goal was the converted prayer room, which Captain Lawrence had learned about from Saddam during one of their late-night sessions, and where he’d guessed the jinn would be taken. But they were still on the ground floor, searching for an unguarded flight of stairs, when all hell broke loose. Now they were hiding in a room just off the chamber that held the Nebuchadnezzar statue. It was the same side room where Mustafa had encountered the English boy; he could still see some toy cars and trucks underneath the furniture.