The phone rang, and he answered, "Hasheem."

The voice at the other end said in English, "This is Gabbar. Are you well, sir?"

"I am. And how is your father?"

"Quite well, thank you."

The sign and countersign having been given, Khalil said to Gabbar, "Five minutes. I have a flower for your wife."

"Yes, sir."

Khalil hung up and went again to the balcony. Many of the men, he now noticed, were fat, and many of them had young women with them. Waiters carried trays of beverages to the lounge chairs and tables. It was the cocktail hour; the time to cloud one's mind with alcohol. Asad Khalil recalled the Roman ruins in his native Libya, and he imagined fat Romans in the public baths drinking wine poured by slave girls. "Pigs," he said aloud. "Fat pigs to the slaughter."

Asad Khalil, carrying a flower from his room, walked through the lobby of the Beverly Hills Hotel, noticing a few men whom he recognized as fellow Arabs-men who aped the dress and the manners of the Americans and Europeans. These men, he knew, were more dangerous to Islam than the infidels. They would be dealt with next, and without mercy.

Khalil walked out of the lobby and a doorman asked if he needed a taxi. Khalil had noticed on his last visit here, three years before, that no one walked anywhere in this city. Even a trip of a block or two necessitated an automobile. In fact, he was surprised that the hotel did not provide sedan chairs for guests going to the pool. Roman pigs.

He replied to the doorman, "I am waiting for a car."

"Yes, sir."

A blue Ford Taurus that had been sitting nearby moved forward and stopped at the doors. The driver did not exit, but signaled to Khalil, who got quickly into the passenger seat, and the car moved off.

The driver, whom he knew as Gabbar, said in Arabic, "Good evening, sir."

Khalil did not respond.

The driver headed down the long driveway and said, "I have taken a room under my own name at the Best Western hotel in Santa Barbara."

Khalil nodded and asked, "And what is your name?"

The driver replied, "It is Farid Mansur, sir," but he did not ask his passenger what his real name was.

Khalil inquired, "And what do you do here, Mr. Mansur?"

"I deliver parcels, sir."

"Good. And do you have my parcels?"

"I do, sir. They are in my hotel room, as instructed." He added, "Two locked luggage pieces for which I have no keys." He inquired, "Is that correct, sir?"

Khalil nodded and asked, "Do you have the other two items I requested?"

"Yes, sir. They are in the trunk."

"And the card?"

Mansur handed Khalil a plastic card without comment.

Khalil examined the card, which had little information printed on it for security reasons-not even the name of the airport where it could be used, nor the specific security gate that it would open. In fact, it had only numbers printed on it.

Khalil asked, "How did you get this card?"

Mansur replied, "In truth, sir, I did not get it. It was given to me by our mutual friend here." He added, "I was told to tell you that it is on loan from another friend, a man of our faith who will not be needing it for two days. But I must return the card to our mutual friend so that it can be returned to its owner." Mansur further added, to reinforce his ignorance of this matter, "I do not know the airport in question or the area it will allow you to access, but I trust, sir, that you do."

Khalil asked, "Why do you say airport?"

Farid Mansur realized his mistake and tried to cover it up by saying, "Our mutual friend… he may have used that word… but I may have misunderstood, or-"

"No matter."

"Yes, sir."

Khalil put the card in his pocket.

They came to the end of the driveway, and Farid Mansur asked, "Do you wish to go now to Santa Barbara?"

"I do."

Mansur began to turn right on Sunset Boulevard, but Khalil said, "Go straight."

Mansur crossed Sunset Boulevard and continued on Canon Drive, which was lined with large private homes.

Khalil glanced in the sideview mirror, but saw no vehicles that seemed to be following. He said to Mansur, "This is a rental car, correct?"

"Yes, sir." He added, "I have taken it for three days, as instructed."

"Good." So the vehicle would not be missed until Monday.

Khalil stared out the side window, and Mansur commented, "The wealthy live here. Movie stars and those in the film industry."

Khalil observed, "Sin pays well here."

Mansur replied, as was expected of him, "Here, yes. But there is a higher price to pay in Hell."

Khalil did not respond to that and asked, "Where in Libya are you from?"

"Benghazi, sir."

"Why are you here?"

Mansur hesitated, then replied, "To make money for my parents, sir, and the parents of my wife who are in Benghazi." He was quick to add, "My dream is to return to our country."

"You will."

"Yes, sir."

"And your wife? Is she here with you, Mr. Mansur?"

"Yes, sir. And our four children."

"Good. And are they instructed in our faith?"

"Of course, sir. They study the Koran in a school at our mosque."

"Good." Khalil asked, "And your wife knows you will not be returning home for two or three days?"

"Yes, sir."

The two men fell into a silence, and Farid Mansur realized that this man made him nervous. He had seen men like this in Libya, and sometimes here, at the mosque. They shared with him the same faith, but in a different way. And this man… his voice, his manner, his eyes… this man was different even from the others who were different; this man frightened him.

Farid Mansur, unsure of where to go but suspecting that his passenger was concerned about someone following them, made a few random turns and continued on.

They entered a street lined with expensive-looking shops, and Mansur commented, "This is Rodeo Drive, sir. Only the very rich can shop here."

Khalil stayed silent.

At the end of the shop-lined street, Khalil said, "Santa Barbara."

Mansur turned right onto Wilshire Boulevard and headed west into the sinking sun.

They continued on along the wide boulevard lined with shops and tall buildings that held apartments and offices. Traffic was heavy and moved slowly.

Mansur observed, "Many vehicles here."

Khalil responded, "They suck the oil from the earth."

Mansur allowed himself a small laugh and said, "And pay well for it."

"Yes." Khalil asked, "How long have you been here?"

Mansur hesitated, then he replied, "Eight years, sir." He added, "Too long."

"Yes, too long." Khalil said, "So you were in Benghazi when the Americans bombed the city."

"Yes. I remember that night. April 15, 1986. I was a young boy."

"Were you frightened?"

"Of course."

"Did you wet your pants, Mr. Mansur?"

"Sir?"

"I did."

Farid Mansur did not know how to respond to that, so he stayed silent.

Khalil continued, "I, too, was a young boy living in the Al Azziziyah compound in Tripoli. One of their aircraft flew directly over the rooftop where I was standing and released a bomb. I was unhurt. But I wet my pants."

Farid Mansur managed to say, "Allah was merciful, sir."

"Yes. But my mother, two brothers, and two sisters ascended to Paradise that night."

Mansur took a deep breath, then said softly, "May they dwell with the angels for eternity."

"Yes. They will."

They drove on in silence, then Khalil asked, "Why are you doing this?"

Farid Mansur considered his reply. To say that he was doing this for his country or his faith was to admit that he knew there was more to this than assisting a countryman on his visit. Farid Mansur had done nothing illegal-except perhaps for the plastic card-and if the man sitting beside him was going to do something illegal, he did not want to know about it.