“Go ahead,” St. Vincent said, “if that’s what you want.”

White put down the cutlery. “What is it you want, Luther?”

“I want to know that the resurrected Well will be better than its predecessor.”

“And you think baiting me with your racist shit is going to do the trick?”

“Hmm. Remember what you said when you first walked into the library?”

“What? About the women? That was a joke.”

“And what came after?” St. Vincent shook his head. “We both know that’s a lie, Albin. You’re as sexist as they come.”

“What if I am?”

“You’ve got to curb that instinct.”

“Why?”

“Because I have a recruit for you. Young, strong-willed, vicious, even by your standards.”

“Sounds perfect.”

“Truly. Her name is Lucy.”

Chapter 23

23

“To answer your first question, yes, I am Saudi.” Seiran el-Habib’s voice was garbled, as if he was speaking around a mouthful of stones. “I am one of those not of the royal family who resents the terrible grip it has on Arabia.”

“Like Osama,” Whitman said.

“The easy rejoinder, to be sure.”

Dawn had arrived in Western Pakistan. Light, thick and filthy, seeped through the villa’s windows like lava flowing downhill. The chill of the night was slowly abating.

“But it wouldn’t be the correct one.” El-Habib regarded Whitman out of eyes sunken deep in their sockets. He was sitting opposite Whitman, a damp towel wrapped around his face, as if he were about to have an old-fashioned shave with a straight razor. The razor would have been kinder to him than the fire. Islets of blood oozed from his cheeks and chin, staining the towel. “I have no dog in the religious hunt. You see? Trained in America. I know the idioms well enough to make a hash of them.” He grinned, then grimaced. “Ow, ow, ow!”

Whitman lifted a bottle. “I found liquor in that cabinet over there.”

“For the girls.”

“You like them drunk, then.”

El-Habib’s expression turned sour, and his eyes darkened, as if they were all pupil.

“But we’re not here to discuss your deplorable sexual proclivities.” Whitman offered the bottle. “It will ease the pain.”

“I relish the pain,” the Saudi said. He was on his third bottle of water. “It’s a constant reminder of what you did to me.”

“Stop your crying,” Whitman snapped. “Whatever happens to you now is the consequence of your own actions.” He set the bottle down between them. It was a boundary as well as a symbol of who ate above the salt and who did not. “You made some bad decisions, Seiran. And here you are.”

“I am protected.”

“Correction. You were protected.” Whitman sat back, regarding his prisoner for a moment. “Two questions, Seiran. Answer them and we’re done here. Who is protecting you? And why?”

“You will die for this transgression, you know that.”

“Do I look frightened?”

“You and your people.”