He entered the Terem Palace at the Front Hall Chamber entrance and passed through the Cross Chamber to the Throne Room, a gilded chamber with mosaic-tiled walls, its parquet floor covered with a thick wine-red carpet. Floor to ceiling windows stretched along the courtyard side of the chamber, where tsarist petitioners used to stand in line. Lamplight was reflected in the window panes. Where once the tsar himself had sat, Fyedorenko was at work behind a massive desk big enough to be used to land carrier jets, Svetlov mused. Fyedorenko looked up warily.

“Forgive the intrusion, comrade. I came to present the report personally,” Svetlov began.

Fyedorenko nodded. As always, his face gave nothing away. Svetlov stood uneasily before the desk like a schoolboy summoned to the principal’s office.

“The Arabs have bungled this Scorpion business again. We’ll have to move quickly. I’ve already sent a copy of the Scorpion’s dossier via our contact to Prince Abdul Sa’ad,” Svetlov said, placing the report on Fyedorenko’s desk.

“Send Marshal Orlov to me,” Fyedorenko said, his bloodless lips barely moving.

“Are we mobilizing, comrade?” Svetlov asked breathlessly.

“It’s time to move the pieces into position for the center-board game,” Fyedorenko said.

“I have to warn you about the Scorpion. According to the stolen CIA report, he spent his entire childhood studying the Arab culture,” Svetlov said.

Fyedorenko gazed at the fragmented image of the room reflected in the Petition window. When he finally turned back towards Svetlov, his eyebrows were arched and a ghostly smile hovered at the corners of his mouth.

“What did he do after the first twenty minutes?” asked an amused Fyedorenko.

Arabia, 1951

Arabia, 1951

IN THE GRAY LIGHT of the false dawn that precedes the sun, Nick woke to the groans of the camels as they shuffled by outside the tent, their forelegs hobbled so they couldn’t stray. Iffat, a large pudgy woman with a voice like brass and good-humored eyes outlined by kohl, brought him a white cotton robe called a thaub and gestured for him to put it on. His shirt and pants were gone. He put on the thaub. It belonged to Youssef and was too big for him. She laughed and told him he would grow into it.

Outside, the boys were driving the camels to the nearest bushes for forage. Old Mohammed gave the call to prayer, his breath like smoke in the cool morning air:

God is most great.

I testify that there is no god but God.

I testify that Mohammed is the Prophet of God.

Come to prayer!

Come to Salvation!

Prayer is better than sleep.

God is most great.

There is no god but God.