“You refer, again, to the Islamic Republic of Mansur,” the gimlet-eyed guerrilla said. Mansur had originated as a secessionist movement within Yemen, spearheaded by a charismatic mullah: if the breakaway was not fiercely contested by the Yemeni forces, it was because nothing of value was being lost. Confined largely to the shifting sands of the Rub’ al-Khali desert, Mansur was a desperately poor country, with few exports other than khat and some paltry handicrafts. The government itself had little to offer to its citizens save a Shiite version of Sharia: piety in medieval garb. Yet if its material exports were scant, it had begun to make a name for itself as an exporter of radical Islam, and the revolutionary fervor it entrained.

Ibrahim Maghur smiled. “On certain occasions, the holy men of Mansur have spoken to me of their security concerns. I have taken the liberty of telling them that I have identified somebody who is both devoted to Allah and truly expert in such matters. You will accompany me to Khartoum, where I have arranged special air transport for you. You will be received in the desert town they call the capital and will, I believe, find them a welcoming people indeed. At that point, you can write your own ticket.”

“And they will help me find the serpent?”

Maghur shook his head. “I will help you find the serpent. We will remain in close contact, you and I. Your Mansur hosts will merely provide you with the official identity and mobility you will need. In short, Mansur will be the stalking horse upon which you will ride.”

A gust of desert air whipped at their loose-fitting garments.

“They say if you strike at a king, you must kill him,” the Caliph mused.

“Your enemies will soon learn the truth of that,” the Libyan said. “Through his hirelings, Peter Novak struck at you—but failed to kill you. Now you will strike at him … .”

“And kill him.” The words were spoken as simple fact.

“Indeed,” Maghur said. “Allah’s own justice demands it. Yet time grows short, for the thirsts of your revolutionary followers are great.”

“And what will slake that thirst?”

“The blood of the infidel,” Maghur said. “It will flow like juice from the sweetest pomegranate, and with it your cause will regain its life-spirit.”

“The blood of the infidel,” the Caliph repeated.

“The only question is whom you can trust to … extract it.”

“Trust?” The Caliph blinked slowly.

“What surrogate will you dispatch?”

“Surrogate?” The Kagama warrior appeared faintly affronted. “This is not a task to be delegated. Recall, it was the Prophet himself who led the onslaught against Khaybar.”

The Libyan’s eyes widened with what seemed to be even greater respect for the rebel leader.

“The blood of the infidel will indeed flow,” the Caliph said, and he held out his hands. “These palms will brim with Peter Novak’s blood.”