"How far does their control reach?" asked Alai.

"It's impossible to know," said Ivan. "Here in Damascus, your loyal servants have caught and eliminated several dozen agents. But I would not let you board an aircraft in Damascus—military or commercial."

"So if I can't trust Muslims, drive me over the Golan Heights into Israel, and let me fly on an Israeli jet."

"The same group that refuses to obey you in India is also saying that our accommodation with the Zionists was an offense against God."

"They want to start that nightmare all over again?"

"They long for the good old days."

"Yes, when Muslim armies were humiliated left and right, and the world feared Muslims because so many innocents were murdered in the name of God."

"You don't have to argue with me," said Ivan pleasantly.

"Well, Ivan," said Alai, "if I stay here, then someday my enemies will finish in India—either they'll win or they'll lose. Either way, they'll come here, made mad by victory or by defeat, it doesn't matter which. Either way, I'll be dead, don't you think?"

"Oh, definitely, sir. We do have to find a way to get you out of here."

"No plan?"

"All kinds of plans," said Ivan. "But they all involve saving your life. Not saving the Caliphate."

"If I run away, then the Caliphate is lost."

"And if you stay, then the Caliphate is yours until the day you die."

Alai laughed. "Well, Ivan, you've analyzed it well. So I have no choice. I have to go to my enemies and destroy them."

"I suggest you use a magic carpet," said Ivan, "as the most reliable form of transportation."

"You think only a genie could get me to India to face General Rajam?"

"Alive, yes."

"Then I must contact my genie," said Alai.

"Is this a good time?" asked Ivan. "With the madwoman's latest vid all over the nets and the media, Rajam is going to be a crazy man."

"That's the best time," said Alai. "By the way, Ivan, can you tell me why Rajam's nickname is 'Andariyy'?"

"Would it help if I told you that he chose the nickname 'thick rope' himself?"

"Ah. So it doesn't refer to his tenacity or strength."

"He would say it does. Or at least the tenacity of a particular part of his body."

"And yet... rope is limp."

"Thick rope isn't."

"Thick rope is as limp as any other," said Alai, "unless it's very short."

Ivan laughed. "I'll make sure to repeat this joke at Rajam's funeral."

"Just don't repeat it at mine."

"I will not be at your funeral," said Ivan, "unless it's a mass grave."

Alai went to his computer and began to compose a few emails. Within a half hour of sending them, he received a telephone call from Felix Starman of Rwanda.

"I'm sorry to tell you," said Felix, "that I cannot allow Muslim teachers into Rwanda."

"Fortunately," said Alai, "that isn't why I called."

"Excellent," said Felix.

"I am calling in the interest of world peace. And I understand you have already made your decision about who is the best hope of humankind for achieving that goal—no, say no names."

"Since I have no idea what you're talking about—"

"Excellent," said Alai. "A good Muslim always assumes that unbelievers have no idea." They both laughed. "All I ask is that you let it be known that there is a man crossing the Rub' al Khali on foot because his camel won't let him mount and ride."

"And you wish someone to help this poor wanderer?"

"God watches over all his creatures, but the Caliph cannot always reach out a hand to do God's will."

"I hope this poor unfortunate will be helped as soon as possible," said Felix.

"Let it be soon. I am ready at any time to hear good news of him."

They said their good-byes, and Alai got up and went in search of Ivan.

"Pack," he said.

Ivan raised his eyebrows. "What will you need?"

"Clean underwear. My most flamboyantly Caliph-like costume. Three men who will kill at my command and will not turn their weapons on me. And a loyal man with a video camera with a fully charged battery and plenty of film."

"Should the vidman be one of the loyal soldiers? Or a separate person?"

"Let all the loyal soldiers be part of the video crew."

"And shall I be one of these three?"

"That is for you to decide," said Alai. "If I fail, the men who are with me will surely die."

"Better to die quickly before the face of God's servant than slowly at the hands of God's enemies," said Ivan.

"My favorite Russian," said Alai.

"I'm a Kazakh Turk," Ivan reminded him.

"God was good to send you to me."

"And good when he gave you to all of the faithful."

"Will you say so when I have done all that I mean to do?"

"Always," said Ivan. "Always I am your faithful servant."

"You are a servant only to God," said Alai. "To me, you are a friend."

An hour later, Alai received an email that he knew was from Petra, despite the innocent signature. It was a request that he pray for a child that was undergoing an operation at the largest hospital in Beirut at seven o'clock the next morning. "We will begin our own prayers at five in the morning," said the letter, "so that dawn will find us praying."

Alai merely answered, "I will pray for your nephew, and for all those who love him, that he may live. Let it be as God wills, and we will rejoice in his wisdom."

So he would have to go to Beirut. Well, the drive was easy enough, the problem was doing it without alarming anyone that his enemies had set to spy on him.

When he left the palace complex, it was in a garbage truck. Ivan had protested, but Alai told him, "A Caliph who is afraid to be filthied on God's errand is unworthy to rule." He was sure this would be written down and, if he lived, would be included in a book of the wisdom of Caliph Alai. A book he hoped would be long and worth reading, instead of brief and embarrassing.

Dressed as a pious old woman, Alai rode in the back seat of a little old sedan driven by a soldier in civilian clothes and a false beard much longer than his real one. If he lost, if he was killed, then the fact that he dressed this way would be taken as proof that he was never worthy to be Caliph. But if he won, it would be part of the legend of his cleverness.

The old woman accepted a wheelchair to take her into the hospital, pushed by the bearded man who had driven her to Beirut.

On the roof, three men with ordinary, scuffed suitcases were waiting. It was ten minutes to five.

If someone in the hospital had noticed the disappearance of the old woman, or looked for the wheelchair, or wondered about the three men who had arrived separately, each carrying clothing for a family member to wear home, then word might already have gone out to Alai's enemies. If someone came to investigate, and they had to kill him, it would be as good as setting off an alarm by Rajam's own bed.

Three minutes before five, two young doctors, a man and a woman, came onto the roof, ostensibly to smoke. But soon they withdrew out of the sight of the men waiting with their suitcases.

Ivan looked at Alai questioningly. Alai shook his head. "They are here to kiss," he said. "They are afraid of us reporting them, that's all."

Ivan, being careful, got up and walked to where he could see them. He came back and sat down. "More than kissing," he whispered.

"They should not do that if they aren't married," said Alai. "Why do people always think that the only two choices are either to follow the harshest shari'ah or else discard all the laws of God?"

"You have never been in love," said Ivan.

"You think not?" said Alai. "Just because I can't meet any women does not mean I haven't loved."

"With your mind," said Ivan, "but I happen to know that with your body you have been pure."

"Of course I'm pure," said Alai. "I'm not married."