Gitta Békesi’s animal was not the giant creature spoken of in ancient times; it was three feet tall and 120 pounds, Janson estimated. At the moment, it seemed to be pure hostile energy. Few creatures were as deadly as an enraged Kuvasz.

“Mrs. Békesi?” Janson called out.

“Go away!” a quavering voice replied.

“That’s a Kuvasz, isn’t it?” Janson said. “What a handsome animal! There’s nothing like them, is there?”

“That handsome animal would like nothing so much as to clamp its jaws around your throat,” the old woman said, her voice gaining resolve. It floated through the open window; she herself remained in the shadows.

“It’s just that we’ve traveled a long, long way,” Jessie said. “From America? You see, my grandfather, he came from this village called Molnár. People say you’re the one person who might be able to tell us something about the place.”

There was a long pause, silent save for the rasping growl of the enraged guard dog.

Jessie looked at Janson and whispered. “That dog’s really got you spooked, hasn’t it?”

“Ask me sometime about Ankara, 1978,” Janson replied quietly.

“I know about Ankara.”

“Trust me,” Janson said. “You don’t.”

Finally, the woman broke her silence. “Your grandfather,” she said. “What was his name?”

“Kis is what the family was called,” she said, repeating the deliberately generic name. “But I’m more interested in getting a feel for the place, the world he grew up in. Not necessarily him in particular. Really, I just want something to remember … .”

“You lie,” she said. “You lie!” Her voice was a wail. “Strangers come with lies. You should be ashamed of yourself. Now go! Go, or I will give you something to remember.” They heard the distinctive sound of a shotgun cartridge being chambered.

“Oh shit,” Jessie whispered. “What now?”

Janson shrugged. “When all else fails? The truth.”

“Hey, lady,” Jessie said. “You ever hear of a Count Janós Ferenczi-Novak?”

A long silence ensued. In a voice like sandpaper, the woman demanded, “Who are you?”

Ahmad Tabari was impressed by the rapidity with which the intelligence chief worked. It was now their third meeting, and already Al-Mustashar had started to work his magic.

“We work in phases,” the Libyan told him, his eyes bright. “A shipment of small arms is even now on its way toward your men at Nepura.” He referred to the port in the northwesternmost point of Kenna. “These arrangements were not easy to broker. I assume that there will be no difficulties with interception. The Anuran gunboats have created some difficulty for your people, have they not?”

The Kagama warrior was cautious in his reply. “One steps back to step forward. Even the Prophet’s struggles did not always go smoothly. Otherwise, they would not have been struggles. Remember the Truce of Hudaybiyah.” He referred to the compact that Muhammad had made with the denizens of Khaybar, not far from Medina.