They were all young men, unmarried, some religious, some not. And indeed Ahmad spoke very little of religion.

"A guerilla army," Ahmad said, "targets the enemy not on its flank but at its heart. A school bus. A government building. A hotel."

"You mean civilian targets," Akil said.

Ahmad shrugged. "A guerilla army has one more attractive facet. It is made up of people who volunteered because they support the same cause. True believers, if you will."

"Freedom fighters," someone suggested.

Ahmad nodded equably, but Akil, watching closely, saw his eyes glitter. With excitement, perhaps. Or was it triumph? How long would conversation have gone before Ahmad himself had introduced the phrase "freedom fighters"? "There are many names. Rebels. Partisans."

Terrorists, Akil thought. At least so far as Western propaganda was concerned.

"Soldiers of God," one excitable young man said.

The others looked startled. Ahmad smiled again but made a shushing movement with his hands, as the excitable young man's words had reached tables other than their own. "Regular armies fight because they are doing their two years of national service," he said, in a lower voice, "or they have been called up in a time of war. Often a war they have little interest in fighting." He smiled and raised an eyebrow. "Like in Platoon," he said.

They laughed, and the conversation shifted so smoothly from talk of real war to talk of war movies that no one but Akil noticed.

Over the next few months there were many other conversations on many other topics in coffeehouses around the city. Occasionally Ahmad would invite a favored few to a simple meal in his apartment.

In October the man at the desk next to Akil's came back from lunch pale and sweating.

"What is it?" Akil said.

"They are arresting Arab militants all over the country."

"And so?" Akil said. "You aren't a militant. You have nothing to fear."

"Ahmad is one of them."

It was a purge of dissidents by the government, under pressure from the West. The dissidents were imprisoned briefly and then expelled from Pakistan.

Ahmad invited a select few to his apartment to say good-bye while he packed. "Come," he said, "no long faces. It could have been much worse."

"Where will you go?" one of them said.

Ahmad closed his valise and straightened. "I was thinking…"

He turned to look at them. "I was thinking I would go to Afghanistan." There was a moment of breathless silence. "You go to join the Taliban," Akil said.

Ahmad lifted his shoulders. "Perhaps." He paused with uncharacteristic hesitation. "I did wonder…"

"What?" Akil said.

Ahmad smiled at him, at the circle of intent, watching faces. "I did wonder if you might like to come with me."

Akil knew then that God had been listening to his prayers after all.

A WEEK LATER, HALFWAY TO THE BORDER, THEY HEARD THAT AL QAEDA had released a video of Ayman al-Zawahiri, who called Zarqawi "a soldier, a hero, an imam, and the prince of martyrs."

Karim snorted. "And it only took them sixteen days after he died to admit it."

A week after that bin Laden himself released an audio recording, which Akil and Karim heard in a cafe in Haditha whose television was tuned to Al Jazeera. "Our Islamic nation was surprised to find its knight, the lion of jihad, the man of determination and will, Zarqawi Musab al-Zarqawi, killed in a shameful American raid. We pray to God to bless him and accept him among the martyrs as he had hoped for."

Karim raised an eyebrow at Akil. "What do you think?"

"A very poor-quality recording," Akil said, and drained his cup.

They heard the broadcast of bin Laden's second audio tape in Abu Ka-mal, barely but safely over the border into Syria. "Our brothers, the mujahedeen in the al Qaeda organization, have chosen their dear brother Zarqawi Hamza al-Muhajer as their leader to succeed the amir Zarqawi Musab al-Zarqawi. I advise him to focus his fighting on the Americans and everyone who supports them and allies himself with them in their war on the people of Islam and Iraq."

Karim stared at Akil. "An Egyptian?"

"So it would seem," Akil said.

"You are not surprised," Karim said, almost an accusation.

Akil glanced at him, amused. "Zarqawi was as a father to me, and bin Laden hated Zarqawi. He didn't like Jordanians much, either, he thinks you are all spies for Amman. And never forget that his mother is a Shiite."

Karim brooded all the way to Damascus, where Akil replenished their funds and sent emails to the cell members directing them to contact their new leader. He ignored any replies by the simple process of discontinuing that account.

They spent two nights at the Four Seasons; a risk, Akil admitted, but Zarqawi had left the Swiss account in a very healthy state, and what was fate for, if not to be tempted? He was sure the Prophet would have understood. They outfitted themselves in a Banana Republic a block down the street, Karim looking very smart and very Western in his new clothes, and young enough to think of his appearance as something other than camouflage.

They ate a sumptuous meal in an Indian restaurant in a quiet neighborhood, and found a late-night cafe where the waiter didn't hurry them over their coffee. Karim watched the girls walking by in giggling groups. Akil watched the omnipresent television hung from the ceiling in one corner, this one tuned to CNN. An earthquake in the Far East, more bombings in the Middle East, a plane crash in South America. Tony Blair on his way out due to his slavish allegiance to George Bush's Iraqi agenda. A space shuttle landing at Cape Canaveral after a successful mission to the International Space Station, and then someone from NASA came on to talk about the retiring of the space shuttle in 2010, and the missions scheduled between now and then.

In business news the world's stock exchanges were climbing to new highs, well into recovery from the burst tech bubble a few years back. Construction of new homes was also at a new high. Rupert Murdoch was buying more newspapers and media conglomerates. There was a brief spot on Al Jazeera and how it had become the voice of record to Muslims everywhere. An American media company was being simultaneously lauded and chastised for carrying Al Jazeera on its basic programming. It seemed even the Pentagon was watching Al Jazeera nowadays. Pity it wasn't the White House.

Karim spoke to him twice before he heard him. "I'm sorry, Karim," he said, turning. "What did you say?"

"You have not told me where we are going," Karim said, a little diffidently. One learned not to question in Zarqawi's organization, one learned to obey. "Or when. Or what we do next."

Akil forced a smile. "All in good time, Karim."

Karim looked at him, worried. Isa seemed very preoccupied and remained so all the way back to the hotel.

It wasn't until they got to the airport and Akil gave him his ticket that Karim realized their destination was not the same. "Isa!" he said in consternation. "I want to go with you! I follow you! I look to you!"

"Gently," Akil said, embracing the younger man and kissing him on both cheeks, for indeed he was fond of Karim. They had fought side by side since the invasion of Iraq, in Mosul, in Baghdad, in Fallujah. He trusted Karim, he really did, or he did as much as he was willing to trust anyone. Zarqawi had taught him well in that respect. It was a wrench to sever his last tie from his old master, and Karim's skill really was unequalled at building and setting IEDs, but Akil's plans had no place for him and he held to his purpose. "Where I must go, you cannot follow."

Karim had tears in his eyes. "But where do you go?"

"First to Paris," Akil said, pointing at the next gate, where the agents were preparing to call the flight. "And then, who knows? Bush the Unbeliever says that it is better to fight us on our ground than for the Americans to fight us on theirs. I am beginning to believe he is right, Karim."