“Why would you mention that to him?”

She shrugged. “It just came up in the conversation. And he said, you know, he had some friends who could get cars, good cars, very cheaply . . .”

Samir let out a rude laugh, then covered his mouth to stifle a yawn.

“Did you know this man was a gangster?” Mustafa asked her.

“Well,” Noor said. “He didn’t introduce himself that way of course, but—”

“But you knew. So you must also have known, or suspected, that he was offering to get you a stolen car.”

“I knew the deal would be no questions asked.” She sighed. “And I know it was stupid, but I do really want a car, so I gave him my number . . . But how did you get it? Did you arrest him for something?”

Mustafa told her what had happened. Noor was taken aback—the more so when Samir jumped in with the details of just how Ghazi had met his end—but it was clear from her reaction that she’d not only had nothing to do with the murder, she was also telling the truth about having just met the man. Ghazi’s death was not a personal loss to her, the way a lover’s death would be.

She said: “It’s a pity he got killed, of course—”

“Not really,” said Samir.

“—but I don’t know how I can help you.”

“You say he came in to do an interview,” Mustafa said. “Do you know what the interview was about?”

“No. You think it has something to do with why he was killed?”

“It’s possible.”

“I could give you the name and number of the producer who handled the interview.”

“Please,” Mustafa said. He pointed to the slip with her home number on it. “Why don’t you just write it on the back of that paper?”

“Of course.” Her lips curved in a knowing smile. “I’ll give you my work number too.”

“That would be most helpful.”

She jotted down the two numbers and handed the paper back to him. Then her smile faltered and she asked: “Should I be worried? About my safety, I mean.”

Samir said: “A woman living alone, who invites criminals to call her at home? No, I’m sure you’ll live a long full life.”

“I doubt the men who killed Ghazi would care about you,” Mustafa said. “But here, take one of my cards . . . If anyone bothers you, you can call me.” He should have stopped there—should have stopped sooner, in fact—but added: “Halal periodically holds auctions of seized property, including cars. The daughter of a treasure-hunter might find a bargain there. I could notify you of the next auction.”

“Thank you,” Noor said. “Yes, I would like that.” Samir, now standing at the apartment door and anxious to go, cleared his throat noisily.

“Right then,” Mustafa said. “Good night.” But as he turned to leave he paused and stared into the kitchen.

“What is it?” Noor asked.

“There is a baby bottle on top of your refrigerator. You have a child?”

“Ah, no,” Noor said. “My friend Hawwa left that here.”

“Ah,” Mustafa said. Then: “Do you want children?” The question just popped out of his mouth, and Mustafa, mortified, was aware of Samir shooting him a long strange look from the doorway.

But Noor was amused by the query. “Not tonight,” she said laughing. “One day, certainly . . . But I am in no great hurry.” She went on laughing, looking at him in that frank way she had, and Mustafa laughed too, shaking his head, feeling like the fool that he in fact was.

Samir cleared his throat again. “Can we go now?”

That night was the beginning of it, the end of it as well really, because although there were still many moments afterwards when Mustafa could have chosen to act differently, he had, on some fundamental level, made up his mind. The devil had whispered in his ear; he’d listened; the rest was just details. Even the surprise windfall from Wajid’s IPO offering, which Mustafa would willfully interpret as evidence that God wanted him to pursue this fantasy, was just another step on a path he had already started down.

Now, departing the House of Wisdom, he felt the old remorse tugging at him. Rather than return to headquarters with Samir and Amal, he told them to go on without him. “I’ll be back later.”

“Where are you going?” Amal asked, and Samir said, with far too much good humor, “To see a woman about a car, I bet.”

“You know, Samir,” Mustafa said, “you have a bigger mouth than Wajid sometimes.”

“Mustafa . . .”

“Bah!” Mustafa flung up his hand in a rude gesture and stalked off.

The condominium he’d bought Noor as a bridal payment was in a building several blocks away. Mustafa had not been inside for several years. Noor had banished him, tired, she said, of being treated as an unindicted coconspirator in Fadwa’s death. Mustafa didn’t blame her, but neither could he bring himself to let her go. Instead of granting her the divorce she wanted, he’d allowed their marriage to continue on in limbo. Every now and again, when he was in the neighborhood and his conscience was preying on him, he’d come stand in her building courtyard awhile, trying to muster the words that would justify ringing the buzzer.

Today all the curtains in Noor’s windows were drawn, a sure sign she was away—probably on assignment for FOX, which had hired her full-time.

“Your wife is not here.”

Idris was sitting in a shady corner of the courtyard with a full tea service arranged on a table in front of him, his casual demeanor suggesting that he’d just happened to choose this spot for some late-morning refreshment. It was a nice bit of stagecraft, Mustafa thought; he recognized the tea set as having come from a café just across the street, but even so, Idris’s people must have had to hustle to set this scene.

“Your wife is not here,” Idris repeated. “Would you like to know where she is? And with whom?”

The appeal to jealousy not the best opener, though. “Is Al Qaeda offering marriage counseling now?”

“Mock if you wish. I’ve kept all my wives.”

“High walls help with that no doubt.” Mustafa took a seat and waited while Idris poured him a cup of tea. “I assume you are here to warn me off the investigation.”

“We both know you can’t drop it now that the president’s involved,” Idris said. “But you would be wise not to pursue it too diligently.”

“Speaking of things we both know, that sort of wisdom isn’t my strong point.”

“Yes, I’d already concluded that threatening you would be counterproductive.” Idris regarded him brightly over his teacup. “What were the other options, again? Delaying tactics, bribery, and extortion?”

Ah, thought Mustafa, now that really isn’t smart. I already suspected the office was bugged, and confirming my paranoia does not impress me. But perhaps you’re too prideful to realize that.

He said: “Try bribery. I’m curious to hear what inducement you would offer.”

“A return to righteousness,” Idris said instantly. “And the peace of mind that goes with it.”

Mustafa smiled. “You can give me righteousness?”

“Do you remember how we met, Mustafa?”

“Yes, I remember it very well. We were in the schoolyard. You and your gang were picking on Samir and that other boy, the one with the stutter, what was his name?”

“Abd al Rahman.”

“Yes.”

“Yes,” Idris said, “and you stepped up to defend them.”

“For what little good it did. You beat up all three of us, as I recall.”

“Of course we did. We were bigger and stronger. You knew we would beat you. But you stepped up anyway, without hesitation.”

“And you find this admirable?” Mustafa said.

“To act without fear is an aspect of righteousness.” Idris poured himself more tea, then went on: “You know, this theory of Farouk’s, that guilt over the death of your wife has made you suicidal and reckless, I don’t think it’s true. I think you have always been reckless.”

“I ask again: You find this admirable?”

“You have lost your way,” Idris said. “You have taken a wrong turning and you are not now where you should be. You know this in your heart. But to return to God’s path is a simple act of will, and you have a strong will. You could be a formidable holy warrior, if you chose. We could help you.”