“There are some I consider friends,” Rihnai said. “My Arab friends. The Americans I know from studying at their university are not friends. They are the enemy and always will be. My friends are here, in Jordan and Iraq. You are my friend.”

“And I am grateful for that. The money you have given me is so important.”

“No, no,” Rihnai said, wagging his index finger, “I gave you nothing. You worked and earned it.”

The Iraqi’s lips parted in a semblance of a smile. “The American goods you arrange to have shipped here are much in demand. I don’t ask how you avoid the government and its red tape, but you obviously have your ways.”

“My years with the infidels were not wasted. My degree is in business, the American way of doing business, cheat and lie, make your fortunes on the backs of the workers, and abandon them when it is time.” Rihnai laughed. “I was a good student, huh?”

“Very good, Ghaleb. Very, very good.”

Rihnai looked out over the stream that ran fast and deep from recent rains. He said as though addressing the water, “You say the plan is ready to be put into action. When?”

“I do not know for certain, but soon. That is what my brother has told me.”

Still without looking at his friend, Rihnai said, “It will shake the Americans to their core.”

“It is time. Too much time has passed since the towers came down. It is time to strike again.”

“Yes. The time is here.”

They returned to Rihnai’s apartment, where the Iraqi fell asleep on the couch while Rihnai answered e-mail messages on his laptop. At eight, they went to one of Amman’s most expensive restaurants and feasted on mensef, roast lamb stuffed with rice and spiced with cinnamon, pine nuts, and almonds; makheedh, beaten yogurt combined with the fat of mutton; salata bi tahini dressed with sesame oil paste; and finished their celebratory meal with many cups of qahwa, bitter, thin coffee flavored with cardamom seed, and rich, sticky pastries. Sated, they returned to Rihnai’s apartment, where he broke out bottles of red wine that had been included in one of his illegal shipments from the United States. Drunk and happy, they hugged, and the Iraqi eventually stumbled down the stairs and into the cool, damp night.

Rihnai placed a call as soon as the Iraqi was gone. He was on the phone for only a few seconds. He played a DVD containing episodes of The Sopranos on his laptop, constantly checking his watch as he did. Two hours later, he shut off the computer and carried his bicycle down the stairs. After ensuring that his Iraqi friend hadn’t decided to linger in a restaurant across the street, or hadn’t fallen asleep on the sidewalk, he mounted the bike and pedaled fast down the King’s Highway, until reaching a small village twelve miles to the east. He pulled behind a one-story gray stone cottage. A yellow light inside slithered through a crack in the drapes covering the windows. Rihnai went to the rear door and knocked-three times, a pause, then two sets of two raps each.

“Rihnai?” a male voice asked from behind the heavy, rough-hewn door.

“Yes.”

A dead bolt was activated and the door opened slowly and noisily. Facing Rihnai was a large man wearing tan cargo shorts with multiple pockets, sandals, and a T-shirt without markings. He had a round, ruddy face. His hair was blond, bordering on orange. His moustache was gray and in need of trimming. Rihnai knew him only as M.T.

Rihnai stepped inside and the door was closed behind him, the bolt slid into the locked position. The room was small and square, with little furniture. A table and two rail-back chairs stood in the middle. The only light was a faux Tiffany lamp hanging over the table. A digital tape recorder the size of a pack of cigarettes was in the center of the table; a tiny microphone with cables leading to the recorder sat in front of each chair.

“Sit down,” M.T. said, indicating one of the seats. “Wine? Whiskey?”

“Whiskey. Scotch if you have it.”

“I always have Scotch,” M.T. said, his British accent now evident. He poured from a bottle into two tumblers, placed the glasses and bottle on the table, and took the second seat. “So, you finally have something of value, Ghaleb,” he said, his elbows resting on the tabletop, his hands folded beneath his chin.

“Yes,” Rihnai responded, tasting his drink. He pulled a package of four Hoyo de Monterrey cigars from his pocket and offered one to the Brit.

“Thank you, no,” M.T. said. “Nasty habit. You should give it up for your health, Ghaleb.”

“Cuban,” Rihnai said, lighting the cigar. “The best. I get them in the Canadian shipments.”

M.T. laughed. “I’ve always enjoyed the story about President Kennedy, who enjoyed Cuban cigars. When he knew he’d be signing into law a ban on importing all things Cuban, including cigars, he dispatched his press secretary-Salinger, I think it was-to buy every Cuban cigar he could find. Delivered five hundred or so to the president.”

If Rihnai found humor in the anecdote, he didn’t display it. He drew on his cigar, sending a plume of blue smoke in his handler’s direction, and drank more Scotch.

“I always find it interesting,” M.T. said, “that even the most devout Muslims enjoy whiskey under the right circumstances.”

Rihnai ignored the comment and finished what was in his glass. He slid the empty glass in front of the Brit, who refilled it.

“So, tell me what you’ve heard, Ghaleb. I assume it comes from your newfound Iraqi chum.”

“Yes.”

“Glad to hear it. It’s costing us a bloody fortune providing you with cover. The pencil-pushers have been complaining. Frankly, Ghaleb, they’re close to shutting down your operation.”

“That would be a mistake,” Rihnai said.

“I’m afraid that’s not for you, or me, to decide. So, tell me why we meet here at this ungodly hour.” He pushed a button on the recorder.

Rihnai spent the next half hour telling the Englishman what he’d learned from the Iraqi. M.T. said nothing during the monologue. When Rihnai was finished, he was asked, “You have faith in your friend’s account of things?”

“Of course. He met with his brother only days ago in Baghdad. His brother has worked himself up in the organization there. He now holds an important position in the insurgency. He is close to the top.”

“Hmmm,” M.T. said, pushing his chair back on the planked floor and crossing his legs. He smiled. “If what you tell me bears fruit, Ghaleb, I’d bloody well say the money has been well spent. Anything else?”

“I need to leave Jordan.”

“Oh?”

“I believe I have exhausted my effectiveness here.”

“I’d say your effectiveness, as you call it, is just beginning. Having this link to your informant’s brother in Baghdad can be of continuing importance.”

Rihnai shook his head. “It is over,” he said. “I want to go back to the States.”

M.T. sighed deeply and extended his hands in a gesture of futility. “It’s not my call, Ghaleb.”

“Then speak with someone who can arrange it.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“I’ll need extra money.”

M.T. nodded.

After a final refill, Rihnai announced that he was leaving.

“Stay in touch, Ghaleb,” M.T. said, walking him to the door. “Here.” He handed Rihnai an envelope. “A small bonus for you. Good work.”

Rihnai exited the building, got on his bike, and headed for home on the dark, lonely road. It had started to drizzle; he cursed getting wet, his shirt beginning to stick to his back. Had the road not consisted of myriad turns, many of them hairpins, he might have become aware of the small, black European sedan that had fallen in behind him, its lights off, the two men in the front seat saying nothing to each other as they maintained a respectable distance from the bike rider. Rihnai, bone-tired, remained oblivious to their presence all the way to the street on which his apartment was located. By the time he’d dismounted the bike, he was soaked to the skin, rivulets running from his hair down his cheeks and over his nose.