The next song was a folk number about the different kinds of Jew and how much better it was to be a member of Christ’s flock:

I wouldn’t want to be a Pharisee (No!)

A Sadducee (No!) or a Maccabee (No!)

I’m glad that I’m a Lamb of God

Baa! Baa! Baa!

“Baa!” bleated Samir. “Ba-a-a-a-a!” Waj went off on an extended riff about Christians and their livestock that Mustafa didn’t think was funny but which, to his lasting shame, he laughed at anyway. Then he heard footsteps and turned to see Kidane Sellasie, home for once, standing in the apartment doorway with a sad look on his face.

Mustafa immediately apologized and Samir at least managed to keep his mouth shut. But Waj dug himself in deeper by trying to explain away the insult, insisting that he hadn’t been making fun of all Christians, just the fanatical, Jew-hating, American variety.

“I’m glad you are so comfortable with your prejudices, Wajid,” Kidane Sellasie said.

These days, Mustafa reflected, wincing at the memory, Wajid was even more comfortable with his prejudices—though he no longer found American fundamentalists a laughing matter.

Mustafa typed the word “rapture” into the Christian Media Watch search box and the screen filled with video thumbnails. He clicked one labeled “FOX News, January 2002” and the site began streaming an interview with a man identified as FAIRFAX COUNTY EVANGELICAL PREACHER.

“So you aren’t worried by the Arabians’ threat to invade?” the interviewer said.

“Worried?” said the preacher. “No sir, why would I be worried?”

“You’re very close to Washington, here. And you know the president has promised a massacre if enemy troops try to enter the capital.”

“Well sir, God bless the president, but it’s not man’s promises I care about . . . Tell me, have you accepted Jesus into your heart?”

“I attend church regularly, yes.”

“That’s not what I asked. If you’ve accepted Jesus as your personal savior, as I have, then your place in heaven is assured and there’s nothing you need fear. But if you haven’t, there’s no place on this earth that’s safe . . .”

“You talked earlier about the Great Tribulation,” the reporter said. “Do you believe the Arabian invasion could be the start of that?”

“It’s too soon to say. We have heard reports that the head of the Israeli Knesset and the grand rabbi of Berlin are meeting in secret with the leaders of the UAS and Persia. There are also rumors that we may soon see a huge influx of Jews into Palestine. If that happens, it would definitely be a sign of the coming Tribulation.”

“And what would your reaction be?”

“I’d say, ‘Bring it on!’ ” The preacher smiled. “I’d say bring the Arabs on, too—but they’d better be ready for a surprise when they get here.”

“You think God will . . . smite them?”

“No sir, I think they’ll arrive to find this land empty. Emptier, anyway . . . Come the rapture, I know I won’t be home . . .”

Amal, done looking at art, now stood at Mustafa’s elbow watching the video. She said of the preacher: “Do you suppose he’s with God now?”

“He might be, if he stayed in Fairfax. But I doubt he was transported bodily to heaven the way he was expecting.”

Though the Coalition assault on Washington had not been without casualties, the massacre promised by the American president had failed to materialize. A year later, however, after insurgents in a village called Langley had murdered a group of civilian contractors, the UAS Marine Corps had gone into Fairfax County to restore order. The resulting engagement had been one of the deadliest of the occupation, with Marines ultimately using white phosphorous shells and napalm bombs to drive the insurgents from the dense urban zones in which they’d entrenched themselves.

Mustafa studied the face of the preacher, frozen now in the final frame of the video clip. Were you still there when the sky started raining fire? he wondered. What went through your mind? Did you think God had abandoned you? That you’d been left behind in your rapture? Or did you immediately start looking for a new prophecy, one that would make sense of the loss you didn’t believe you could ever suffer?

Powdered sugar like a swirl of fine ash trickled down in front of the computer screen. “Mustafa,” Samir said, through a mouthful of pastry. He indicated a secretary who’d just entered the lounge. “I think Waj is ready for us.”

“A lovely name for a lovely woman,” said Wajid Jamil. “Is she going to be number three, Mustafa?”

“Excuse me?” Amal said.

“I’m kidding, of course.” Waj smiled to indicate no offense was intended. “I’m sure you’re already married . . . And a mother, perhaps?”

This was another of Wajid’s post-11/9 obsessions, the population race between Islam and Christendom. Muslims on average had larger families, but because there were so many more Christians to start with, it would be many decades yet before they achieved parity. And that was assuming nothing changed: Women like Amal, who put career before family, were a reminder that birth rates aren’t fixed.

Mustafa had his own reasons for not wanting to get started on this topic. “With respect, Wajid,” he said, “we didn’t come here to talk about marriage. If you want to have an in-depth discussion of the subject, you should take it up with Amal’s mother, the senator.”

“The senator?” Waj’s smile underwent a subtle phase-shift as he put it together. “You’re Anmar al Maysani’s daughter?”

“She is. And you, Waj, aren’t you working with the senator on some sort of legislation?”

“Yes. I’ve been lobbying her on Uncle—on Governor Gaddafi’s behalf, about the new telecommunications bill . . .”

“Good luck with that,” Amal said.

“Well,” said Waj, moving right along. “Let’s get down to business, shall we?” He retreated behind his desk, a massive executive cockpit equipped with multiple computer screens. “Please, all of you, sit down. Tell me what the House of Wisdom can do for Homeland Security . . .”

They sat. Mustafa described his interrogation of Costello and the search of Costello’s apartment, then gave an edited version of the meeting in Farouk’s office. He omitted all mention of Idris and spoke of the president only indirectly, saying that they had been asked “by Riyadh” to look further into the mirage legend. “We thought if anyone would know about a new Christian myth making the rounds, it would be you, Waj,” he concluded.

“ ‘The mirage,’ hmm . . .” Waj tapped on his desktop keyboard, consulted his screens. “It doesn’t look like there’s anything in my databases yet . . . You say this is related to rapture theology?”

“It’s a theory.”

“Yes, well, that would make sense. These rapturists, they’re like any Christian End Times cult, always expecting the apocalypse next week, and then when next week comes and the world’s still here, they fall all over themselves trying to explain why. With so much theological innovation it’s hard to keep up, even with computers . . . Tell me more about these objects you found. Can I see some of them?”

Mustafa opened his attaché and passed the map of the mirage Middle East to Wajid.

Waj spotted it immediately: “Israel is in Palestine?”

Mustafa shrugged. “God willing, anything is possible.”

“Heh, and Kirkuk is part of Iraq. The guys who manage the Kurdish edition of the Library would love that.” Waj laughed. “This is actually kind of cool, in a completely demented way. Is there more?”

Mustafa showed him the newspaper they’d found in Costello’s apartment. “The New York Times,” Wajid read, his English as good as Mustafa’s. “ ‘All the news that’s fit to print . . .’ ”

“It’s a ghost paper,” Mustafa said. “According to our research, there was a New York Times, but it was shut down by the American government in 1971 for revealing state secrets. The publishers were executed for treason.”