The new president of the United Kingdom of Libya, Jadallah Salem Zuwayy, sauntered over to Fazani, barely acknowledging his presence, only casting enough of a glance in his direction to order him to follow. Zuwayy was a tall, light-skinned man in his late thirties, with dark eyes, a thin mustache, and a dark beard that grew to a satanic point to the base of his long, thin throat. He was a former army officer who reportedly engineered the military coup that overthrew Qadhafi. Like Qadhafi before him, Zuwayy liked to wear different outfits depending on the occasion and his audience: Today he wore traditional Bedouin garb, rich-looking silks and muslins, bordering on opulent. Most times, Zuwayy was in desert-style battle dress uniform, often wearing tanker’s boots and carrying a variety of weapons, from antique, ornate curved cavalry swords to live grenades.

“What is it, Fazani?” Zuwayy asked sternly.

“He wants an update on the deployment,” the chief of staff replied. He then held out a secure cellular telephone.

Zuwayy felt like telling Fazani to throw the phone into the garbage—but he dared not. The man on the other end of that secure connection had very long fingers—more like very long claws. “Everything is ready?” the tall, thin, ethereal cleric asked in a low, monotone, disembodied voice.

“Yes, Highness,” Fazani reported. “Just yesterday. All units are in full readiness.” He handed the cellular phone to Zuwayy and bowed.

Zuwayy smiled, then touched a preselected code on the phone’s keypad. “You’d better have some good news for me, Zuwayy,” a voice said angrily. “You’ve been dodging me long enough.”

“All is in readiness,” Zuwayy said. “My troops are in place, and the units are ready.”

“It took you long enough, Zuwayy,” the voice on the other end of the phone warned. “They should have been in place days ago.”

“Come here and try dragging those things across the desert yourself, my friend,” Zuwayy said. “You will see how easy it is.”

“I gave you plenty of time and money to set those units up, Zuwayy,” the voice said. His foreign accent was thick, but his meaning was all too clear. “You had better not screw this up, or the first casualty in this war will be you.” And the call was abruptly terminated.

Zuwayy did not disguise a look of utter contempt on his face as he handed the phone back to Fazani. “I look forward to meeting him in person,” Zuwayy muttered. “I should like to see how black his heart really is.” He erased the scowl on his face, replacing it with a serene smile, as he noticed an entourage heading toward him. “Now I must suffer this lackey.”