He must be bold, there was no alternative. Because any American man would have in this situation, he said, "Adam Bayzani, District Seventeen, law enforcement."

" Juneau?" she said, and he breathed easier.

He didn't know, but felt it safe to nod.

"Sara Lange, IMO," she said, extending her hand. Her grip was cool and firm. "I'm from Alaska, originally. Born and raised."

In spite of all his training, all the years spent pretending to be what he wasn't, he stiffened. She noticed, and he summoned up a practiced smile. "Just assigned," he said. "I don't know the place all that well yet."

"You will," she said. "You'll see a lot of action."

"So I hear." Determined to direct the conversation into safer channels, he gestured at the agenda. "Are you a presenter?"

She nodded. "Piracy and armed robbery against ships."

"Really." Again she surprised him. He wouldn't expect a topic like that to be placed in the hands of a female. But then Western females were notorious for interfering in and pretending to an expertise in subjects that should be left strictly to men. When Islam triumphed, as triumph it would, women would be put back firmly in their right and proper place. "Quite the topic. What led you to it?"

"Oh," she said, it seemed to him a little too casually, "it was the most interesting of what was on offer. When were you transferred to Juneau?"

They reached the lobby and the door opened, and he was spared the necessity of answering. He smiled. "See you in there."

She abandoned her curiosity with a pleasant nod and preceded him out of the elevator. He exited behind her, and while he was culturally disinclined to ogle women he was still a man, and he couldn't help but admire the view as she walked away, trim and supple in her neat blue uniform, blond hair confined to a simple chignon at the nape of her neck.

The eighty-second session of the IMO's Maritime Safety Committee began on Wednesday, the twenty-eighth of November, featuring panels on topics ranging from new ship construction standards to communications in search and rescue to dangerous goods, solid cargoes, and containers, among many others. He attended several, taking care to remain always in the background, avoiding any attention, striking up no conversations beyond a pleasant greeting or a casual comment on content. Although he was greatly tempted he did not attend Sara Lange's panel on piracy, thinking that the less familiar any one attendee became with his face the better. He didn't want to give her any opportunities to trip him up over his alleged duty station, either. He'd never been to Alaska.

He made his contact as scheduled, on Friday, the last day of the conference, when most of the attendees had tired of sitting in a convention center listening to mid-level bureaucrats from a dozen different nations drone on about ship stability, load lines, and fishing vessel safety. AM spotted him during an already depopulated flag state implementation panel that morning, and by the aids to navigation panel at three that afternoon many of the rest of the attendees had wandered off to sample the delights of the Hagia Sophia, Topkapi Palace, and the Grand Bazaar. They made eye contact as the meeting ended, nodded pleasantly, and left separately.

Four hours later Akil let himself into a room in a nondescript businessman's hotel in a homogenous suburb of the city. He set up the coffee service for two, pulled the one chair into a position in front of the television, and used the remote to channel surf. He found a Baywatch marathon, propped his feet on the bed, and settled in.

He came out of a doze and looked at the time. One a.m. His contact was late. He used the bathroom and made coffee in the pot provided by the hotel. It was lukewarm and tasted of mildewed cardboard. He paced to the window, which had a third-floor view of the parking lot. A taxi came. He drank the second cup of coffee, equally dreadful, and waited. No knock at the door. Another taxi disgorged a load of drunken salesmen and giggling women, who trooped inside a room. Shortly thereafter loud music was heard. Still no knock.

At three a.m. it finally came. He padded over to open the door and the man slipped inside, dressed now in casual shirt and slacks, eyes strained behind round, wire-rimmed glasses. He opened his mouth as if to speak and Akil said, "Softly. We don't want to wake the neighbors." He went to the bathroom and turned on the water in the sink. He motioned the man to stand close to him near the television, which was still on, a low susurration of background noise, it and the water enough to mask their conversation if anyone was listening. "What kept you?"

"I met someone who knew me. He was with a group and they wanted to go to dinner." He grimaced. "I couldn't get out of it." He hesitated, looking at Akil. "I thought you would prefer to wait, rather than have me call."

Akil nodded. "You were correct." He sat in the chair and motioned the man to sit on the foot of the bed. He hitched the chair forward until their knees touched and leaned forward, speaking in English. The other man listened intently, asking only the occasional question.

When Akil was done he sat back, watching.

The other man had folded his arms across his chest and was frowning at Pamela Sue Anderson running down the beach. "Is something wrong? Do you dislike the plan?"

The other man looked up. "No, I-" He caught Akil's glance and stopped the word in mid-utterance. "It is ambitious, but the target is worthy of any effort. The impact of its destruction will be a humiliating blow from which the Americans will not soon recover."

Akil noted the use of "the Americans." Disassociation in a traitor was usual and expected. Still, no reason not to test him. He said in a neutral tone, "There are those who would say it does not leave enough bodies on the ground."

The other was too intelligent to be drawn. "What do you say?"

Akil allowed his lip to curl. "I have believed for a long time now that our strategy has been flawed. Bodies are easily buried and soon forgotten. The psychological impact of the destruction of a national icon will be much more lasting."

Tentatively, the other man said, "And 9/11? That had no lasting impact?"

Akil shrugged. "It led eventually to the greatest recruiting tool we have ever had, the invasion of Iraq. But do you see the West withdrawing? Do you see other countries insisting on that withdrawal? I do not."

The other took a deep breath and let it out slowly, elbows clasped on his knees, hands knotted in front of him.

"But still you are troubled," Akil said. "Do you find the plan ill-conceived?"

The other man feared Akil and the question enough to give it serious thought. "No," he said. "It is simple, it takes advantage of common practices and occurrences in the region, and of existing personnel and equipment in the area. Properly executed, nothing will look out of the ordinary until the very last moment, and by then it will be too late."

"What, then?"

He hesitated. "I am only one man, one of a crew of many men. And women. If somehow they managed to stop me, if I fail, the responsibility will be mine."

Akil smiled. "You will not fail."

The man looked at him, wanting more.

"And Allah will reward you in paradise."

He looked less than convinced. Ah, a realist.

"It is good that you worry," Akil said, rising to his feet. The other man rose as well. "Not to worry would be a sin of pride, of overconfidence. If you fear that you will fail, you will work that much harder to succeed."

Akil walked him to the door. The other man paused. "Yes?" Akil said, making him ask for it.

"When am I to be paid? I wouldn't ask, but I have debts, and a family-"

"I understand," Akil said soothingly, hiding his contempt. "Check your account. You will see that half the payment was deposited today, as we agreed. The other half the day after."