At least they knew his name. Farouk walked around Mustafa’s Bible cart to the window of interrogation room B, where the second suspect was being held. The man in the white tunic was alert, and as Farouk approached the glass the fellow appeared to stare at him as if he could see through the mirror.

The observation room door opened and Abdullah came in, his arm in a sling. “Hey boss,” he said. “I was just looking for you.”

“Do we have an ID on this one yet?”

“No. His fingerprints aren’t in the system. We’re trying a facial-recognition match now.”

“Has he said anything?”

“Not about who he is. He did say he’d talk to you, though.”

“He asked for me by name?”

“It wasn’t a request,” Abdullah said. “More like a prediction. He said he’d like to talk to Mustafa, but he didn’t think he’d get here in time.”

“Where is Mustafa?”

“Out somewhere. He’s not answering his cell phone.”

Farouk turned back towards the glass. The man in the white tunic was still staring at him. Smiling. “All right,” Farouk said. “Keep trying Mustafa’s cell. And see if you can find the other prisoner some clothes.”

The apartment was on an upper floor of a high-rise in Mansour. Its balcony faced northwest and offered an excellent view of the approaching sandstorm. The storm’s leading edge, a wall of sand and dust several hundred meters high, was advancing in seeming slow motion across Baghdad’s outlying suburbs. Behind this, the horizon was covered by a dark smudge that stretched up into the clouds and made it look as though the heavens and the earth were dissolving into a void. Even to a veteran of holy war who prided himself on his fearlessness, the sight was unnerving, and eventually Idris had to turn away in order to concentrate on his phone conversation.

“Yes, Senator,” he said. “Yes, zero fatalities . . . No. It wasn’t a problem with the device . . . I am sure. I had men in the crowd, they confirm what the news is reporting . . . No, not the hand of God, but not a human hand, either . . . Yes, that’s what I’m saying . . . I have also received a report from Adhamiyah that that Tikriti thug has his people scouring the city for someone . . . Yes . . . Yes, I think so . . . Homeland Security has two individuals in custody. One of them— . . . I’ve already dispatched a team. They understand the seriousness . . . Yes, as soon as I hear anything . . . My men have been instructed to bring the creature to the northern safe house. I suggest you head there now, before the storm hits . . . God willing . . . What? . . . Yes, it is a pity. So many targets on one stage. But there will be other opportunities. In the chaos after the mirage collapses, we can hunt many of them down, the ones who aren’t dead already . . . Yes . . . Peace be unto you as well, Senator.”

He hung up and went back inside. In the living room the TV was on, tuned to Al Jazeera with the sound muted. They were showing the video from the rally: shaky footage of Joe Simeon stabbing the security guard, stepping towards the stage, then several seconds of blackness, and then the ravens, spiraling upwards. The caption read: MIRACLE AT GROUND ZERO?

Idris picked up the remote and switched off the TV. “Khalid!” he shouted. “Get your weapon! We are going out!”

But the person who responded to his call was Mustafa al Baghdadi. Mustafa came out of the kitchen carrying a teapot and two cups and saucers on a silver tray. “You are almost out of sugar,” he said.

“What are you doing here?” Idris said. “Khalid!”

“Your servant won’t be disturbing us,” Mustafa told him, setting the tray on the table in the center of the room. “I asked him to step out so that you and I could have a conversation.”

“About what?”

“About Al Qaeda and the 11/9 hijackings,” Mustafa said. He began pouring the tea. “About your role in the murder of thousands of innocent people. My wife among them.”

There was a leather case on top of a cabinet to Idris’s right. He reached for it, flipped open the lid . . . and found the case empty.

Mustafa cleared his throat. Idris turned and saw the gun he’d been seeking lying on the table next to the tea tray.

“You disappoint me,” Mustafa said. He settled within arm’s length of the gun and picked up one of the teacups. “The crusaders of America, if they kill even a single Muslim, are only too happy to brag about it. But you and Osama bin Laden slaughter multitudes, and you don’t want to claim credit? And after all your talk of righteousness. Shouldn’t a righteous man be proud of his deeds?”

Idris was still looking at the gun. “I’m not afraid to die,” he said.

“Yes, I get that,” said Mustafa. “But you aren’t in a hurry to die, either, are you? You’d rather let others do the dying for you, while you remain to savor the suffering of their victims. Very well, I get that, too: You were always a sadist. What I don’t see is the connection between this and anything worthy of the name Islam. I don’t see how even you fool yourself that such a connection exists.”

“You are right, you don’t see,” Idris said, growing heated. “But I am no fool.”

“I say you are. I say you are as deluded as the so-called Christians who spread terror in the name of Jesus.”

“Do not compare me to those people!”

“Why not?” Mustafa said. “You chase the same mirage, and worship at the same false altar.”

“No!” Idris wagged a finger. “God is on our side.”

“ ‘Our side.’ And whose side was Fadwa on?”

“I cannot say. I did not know her. But I know that she was either righteous, or unrighteous. If she was righteous, then she died a martyr and will live on in paradise. If not—why should I care that she is dead?”

“Because her life was not yours to take!” Mustafa shouted. “I hope there is a paradise. I hope Fadwa finds her way there, finds the joy I could not give her. But even if that is so, it was not for you, in your supreme arrogance, to send her on her way. And not just her. Thousands dead in the towers alone. Thousands! What were you thinking? What was Osama bin Laden thinking? Who do you people think you are?”

“I am a warrior of God,” Idris Abd al Qahhar said proudly. “I, and Osama bin Laden, and all the men of Al Qaeda. You cannot make us regret what we have done. When this world passes away and God’s final truth is revealed, even to unbelievers who would deny it, everyone will see we were in the right. But it will be too late for you then, Mustafa al Baghdadi.” Nodding, he continued: “Go ahead. Take your revenge. It will change nothing.”

“My revenge.” Mustafa set down his cup and placed a hand on the gun. Took a breath. “I told Gabriel Costello that if the men responsible for 11/9 were brought before me, I would show them no mercy . . .”

“To hell with your mercy,” Idris said. “I care nothing for it.”

“I know,” said Mustafa. “And it would be a great pleasure to kill you—like having a wish come true. But God still does care about mercy. I must believe that, if I’m to go on living in this or any other world . . . Yes, I must believe it.” With an effort he withdrew his hand from the gun. “Anyway,” he went on, “I’ve used up all my wishes already. Time to give someone else a turn.” Sitting back, he called out: “Samir!”

Footsteps in the hall. Samir came in, and Amal, and behind them Abu Naji and Sayyid. Sayyid was holding a tape recorder with a wireless antenna.

Idris shook his head, forcing a smile. “Now you disappoint me,” he said to Mustafa. “I tell you I am willing to die. You think you can punish me with prison?”

“We’ll see how you feel after the first forty years,” Mustafa replied.

Idris laughed. “No,” he said. “No, I don’t think so.”

He lunged for the gun on the table, but Amal had been waiting for this and hit him with a taser before he’d taken two steps.

“Samir,” Mustafa said. “Do the honors, please.”

Idris had collapsed onto his back. He lay breathing shallowly, red-faced, too stunned to move but still able to summon a look of such hatred that Samir, standing over him, hesitated. Then Samir remembered his sons and his fear dissipated. He crouched down, pulling out handcuffs.