“I don’t have it all worked out yet. But I know that it can’t be done here, or even in the Emirates. Certainly, not in New York or Paris or even Teheran. We need someplace out of the way, cut off a bit from the world. Of all the stops on your itinerary, Tabriz is the best choice.”

“This sounds dangerous.”

“It will be—a little. But not for Karim. Only for you and me.” “You? Why for you?”

“I’ll be there, of course. But we’ve talked enough. Go now, my dear. I see you’re cold. Think it over. If you decide to do it, let me know by saying some- thing, anything, about Tabriz. Even if you can’t make up your mind before I leave, you can still use that signal—in a postcard or something.”

“Oh, God. It’s just so hard to believe, Philippe. This life of mine.” “I’m sorry. You deserve better. Go, my dear. We have several days yet. Perhaps we can talk again. But the decision will still have to be made.” “I don’t know what I’ll do—it’s too much for me, just now. But I do know that I can’t thank you enough, Philippe.”

“It’s not necessary to thank me at all. We have an understanding, do we not? A friendship. Good night, my dear.”

Turning to the house, Amira took a last glance at the crystal moon. As she did, she caught a glimpse of movement at a second-floor window. A cur- tain closing? Perhaps it was just a reflection, or her imagination.

“Good night,” she whispered back into the shadows of the garden. “Good night—my love.”

20. Morning Visitors

Morning Visitors

The festival was over, the Bedu vanishing back into the desert, the foreign guests crowding the airport, but Ali insisted that Philippe stay for another day or two.

“Right here in this house,” he said. “I’m keeping it for a few days, so as not to put you to the trouble of moving to the palace or to a hotel. So you see, the plans are already made.”

His enthusiasm seemed excessive to Amira—surely he had demonstrated his gratitude and hospitality to anyone’s satisfaction—but if he had an ulterior motive, she couldn’t imagine what it might be.

Philippe seemed to resist the invitation, pointing out that he had a practice to maintain in France, but a call from the palace decided the issue: the nonstop feasting had caused yet another onslaught of the king’s gout; Dr. Rochon’s ser- vices were urgently desired.

“You see that God is wise,” said Ali with his best smile. “Even my father’s affliction brings some good.”

“Tomorrow is Saturday, in any case,” said Philippe. “I’d only be puttering around my apartment or loitering in some bistro, while here I’m in the best of company. But I absolutely must leave by midafternoon Sunday. Inshallah,” he added with a smile.

“If it must be, it must be, my friend, although we’ll be sad to see you go.”