“There’s no need to thank me for doing what friendship and respect require. But I hope you understood what I said just now. Badir is a citizen of the world these days. I ask you not to … handle the matter in a way that compromises our country.”

I know of only one way to handle the matter. What did you have in mind?”

“Ah. You cut to the heart of the matter. I thought that perhaps a third party, an independent contractor, as it were, could be engaged. Forgive me for saying it, but I’ve heard that you have certain … contacts in Corsica.”

“My business takes me to many places.”

“Of course. Again, forgive me. I know that I'm asking you to forgo a duty that may seem purely personal. But I ask it for al-Remal. And for that reason, I will gladly pay any costs that … engaging someone might involve.”

“That’s appreciated, but unnecessary. I can take care of the arrangements myself.”

“As you wish, of course. But if any extra expenses arise, please allow me to help meet them. Meanwhile, I’ve taken the liberty of making certain inquiries that may save you some time and effort. For example, I’ve learned that, at this time of year, Badir and his wife vacation at a villa in the south of France, and that twice a week they drive to a bistro in a nearby small town. His car is easily recognized—I’ll give you all the details—and the road is lightly traveled. If there were an accident … a shame, of course, since an act of honor cries out to be known. But there is the country to think of.”

“I understand. A third time, I thank you, Ali Rashad. I'll never forget this.”

Abdallah stopped the tape. He could easily imagine how it might have been done: an assassin who won the confidence of some poor truck driver, got him drunk, crashed his heavy vehicle into an oncoming Mercedes, expertly broke the passed-out trucker’s neck, and simply walked away across country.

Abdallah Rashad’s life’s work was secrets—sometimes the unraveling of them, sometimes their keeping. Here was a secret that he and perhaps three men knew: that Genevieve Badir had not died by accident, but by murder. He had kept the secret because it was in the best interests of al-Remal to do so. But that might soon change. The king was dying, and Ali’s brother Ahmad would succeed to the throne.

Ahmad was as practical as Abdallah himself, as practical as Ali was impetuous. Ahmad neither liked nor disliked Malik Badir, but considered him a potentially valuable asset to the kingdom. Perhaps he should be told that his brother’s personal enmity had endangered that asset and might do so again. Ahmad would be grateful for the information.