“Bint Shamal!” Uday crowed. “Daughter of a dead fool, who thought he could stand against a king! Yes, come here, and when I’m done playing with you I’ll send you to join him!”

“You are wrong, Uday,” Amal replied. “My father was a hero, and even in death he is worth ten of your father—and a hundred of you. As for your father’s kingship, I am afraid it is hollow.” She stood up, pointed the rifle at the front of Nebuchadnezzar’s right ankle, and pulled the trigger. The bullet punched straight through the thin tin shell and came out the other side, striking Uday in the back. As he pitched forward, the Guardsmen tried to scramble up and defend themselves, but Amal kept firing, placing her shots at even intervals, and they never even made it all the way to their feet.

Out in the storm, the soldiers of Al Qaeda fought the men of the Republican Guard. The Guard had greater numbers, but Al Qaeda had the element of surprise. Before the main assault commenced, small groups of commandos had snuck over the wall to set up ambush positions on the grounds. The commandos were equipped with thermal imagers that could pick out warm bodies at a distance, even through swirling sand. This gave them a significant tactical advantage over the Guardsmen, many of whom didn’t even bother to don goggles before rushing out of the mansion. The first wave of defenders to respond to the explosion at the gate ran blindly into the ambush and were slaughtered to the last man. A second wave tried to advance more cautiously, but this just gave the commandos more time to aim, and soon enough this second group of Guardsmen had all been killed as well.

There was a lull in the firefight while the Qaeda commandos waited to see whether the Guard would try a third sally. But the Guard had belatedly learned their lesson, and after a moment the commandos picked up and began advancing on the mansion.

By this time Qusay Hussein had taken a squad of men to an upstairs dining room that overlooked the front of the estate. Qusay set up a sniper rifle with a thermal sight at one window and had the Guardsmen with their AK-47s take position at the others. He let the commandos get close to the house, then ordered his men to fire first. Once they had the commandos’ attention, he opened up with the sniper rifle, shifting aim quickly between the glowing man-shaped targets his sight revealed to him. Several rooms away, another squad commanded by Qusay’s father began firing as well. In the first few seconds a dozen commandos were killed or wounded, but the Qaeda men didn’t panic; the survivors quickly found cover and returned fire.

One of Qusay’s men stood exposed too long at a window; an incoming round shattered his collarbone. As he fell back screaming another Guard turned to look at him and took two bullets in the side of the head. Qusay ducked down to avoid a hail of bullets directed at his window. Cupping a hand over his ear so he could hear over the screams of the wounded man and the whine of incoming rounds, he listened to radio reports from elsewhere on the estate. The river house had been hit by a rocket or possibly a suicide bomber and was on fire; most of the Guards there were dead and the rest were trapped by the flames. The squads Qusay had dispatched to the rear of the mansion said that they, too, were taking fire, and one team reported hearing shots inside the house.

“Oh God save me!” cried the wounded Guardsman, and Qusay barked, “Shut him up!” at no one in particular. Then he raised his head above the windowsill, took aim, and shot a Qaeda commando who was crouching behind a palm tree. He tracked right with the sniper rifle and spied another commando, down on one knee with a long tube balanced on his shoulder. There was a bright flash in the thermal sight and a rocket streaked towards the house, blasting away the front doors and killing several Guards in the grand entrance hall; Qusay heard their dying screams over the radio.

He shot the rocketeer, ducked down, counted three, popped up again, and tracked left to where another commando was kneeling. Qusay never saw this second rocketeer; all he saw was the rocket, which appeared in his gun sight as a black circle ringed with fire, that rapidly grew larger.

Several times, as they listened to the sounds of the battle, the two Republican Guardsmen in the old prayer room had exchanged glances, communicating without speaking. Now, as the rocket barrage shook the mansion, they looked at one another again and came to a wordless decision.

“Hey!” Tariq Aziz said. “Where are you going? Saddam told you to stay here!” But the two didn’t even glance back as they fled into the hall.

“Shall I quote you another psalm?” asked the jinn. “The twenty-third perhaps?”

Aziz paced the room, coming to his own decision. “Quote it to yourself,” he said finally, and headed for the door. But before he could escape, an armed party burst in.

“Hello, Mr. Aziz,” Amal said. “Doing a little frontline reporting?”

Mustafa and Captain Lawrence pushed past the terrified news publisher and ran over to the jinn. The iron bands that held him in the chair were secured with modern steel padlocks. Mustafa asked Aziz: “Do you have the keys for these?”

“What?” Tariq Aziz said. “Certainly not! I have nothing to do with this! Nothing at all!”

“We’ll have to smash them off,” Lawrence said.

“Don’t bother,” the jinn said. “There isn’t time.”

Outside, down the hallway, a voice bellowed in terror: “GOD IS GREAT! . . . GOD IS GREAT! . . . GOD IS GREAT!” There was a blood-curdling scream that cut off abruptly.

“Oh God, let me out of here!” Tariq Aziz cried. Ignoring the rifle Amal had pointed at him, he darted through the open doorway.

“Let him go,” Mustafa said, before Amal could chase after him. “Samir, shut and lock that door.”

The jinn flashed a mischievous smile at Captain Lawrence. “So. How are you enjoying your wish?”

“You already know the answer to that,” Lawrence said. “I’ve learned my lesson. I’m willing to take it back, if that’s what you’re offering.”

Mustafa, watching Samir bolt the door, spun around at this. “Wait just a minute,” he said.

“Yes,” Amal said. “Hold on.”

“Seriously, dude,” said Samir. “That’s what Osama bin Laden wants.”

“Maybe it’s what God wants, too,” Lawrence suggested. “Put things back the way they were. The way they’re naturally supposed to be.”

“Supposed to be?” Mustafa said. “And you say you’ve learned your lesson, have you?”

The jinn was laughing. “Arabia in a state of nature, untouched by the dreams of the West. Now that would be an alternate reality . . . Alas, I can’t oblige you. That doorway is shut and cannot be gone back through.”

“All right then,” Lawrence said. He placed the butt of his shotgun against one of the padlocks. “I’ll have you out of this in a minute . . .”

But the jinn shook his head. “I already told you. It’s too late.”

Sand flew through a gaping hole in the wall of a formal bedroom, dusting the corpses of Guardsmen whose flesh had been torn by rocket fragments. The bedding had been ripped by shrapnel as well, and the mattress ticking was on fire, though the sand had begun to smother the flames.

The lid of a large hardwood chest opposite the bed creaked open and Saddam Hussein peeped out. When he was sure he could hear no more incoming missiles, he shoved the lid up all the way and half crawled, half rolled out of the chest, the slipped disk in his back making him groan. He grabbed a rifle off one of the dead Guardsmen and used it as a crutch to get to his feet.

He limped into the hall, limped to the dining room where Qusay had been stationed. What Saddam saw, looking in through the shattered doorway, made him groan again.

He shook it off. The jinn, he thought. The jinn could fix this. The creature claimed to be a Muslim: Very well, he would throw himself on its mercy, say whatever it took to get it to protect him. Then later, once he was safe, he would find a way to bend it truly to his will, and undo this nightmare.