“They won’t—President Thom is a spineless weakling,” Fazani said. “But if he does, we withdraw—but not before destroying Salimah. We blow all the oil wells, just like Saddam Hussein did as his forces left Kuwait.” Just then, the outer door opened, and Fazani’s aide stepped quickly in. “What is it, Captain?”

“Sir, an American has been arrested by the security forces outside the gate of the Presidential Palace. He was demanding to see the king.”

“Why are you bothering me with this drivel, Captain? Have him arrested and taken to the interrogation center.”

“He also demands to see the prisoners.”

“What prisoners?”

“He says, the American prisoners,” the aide said. “The ones captured after the attacks in the Mediterranean Sea— including the woman, Wendy McLanahan.”

Fazani and Hijazi looked at each other in complete surprise. No one, they wordlessly reminded each other, knew about the prisoners—and they sure as hell didn’t know any of the prisoners’ names! “Does this man have a name?”

“Yes, sir—he called himself McLanahan too. Brigadier General Patrick McLanahan.”

Both Libyan ministers jumped to their feet in surprise. “McLanahan? He’s here?” Fazani shouted. “Is he armed?”

“Just a small pistol, sir.”

Thank God he didn’t visit them as he visited Zuwayy in Jaghbub—with his bombers buzzing overhead destroying the place and wearing his medieval armor with the built-in bug zapper, Fazani thought. “Bring him up here, right now!”

“I’ll tell Jadallah—” Hijazi said.

“Not quite yet,” Fazani said. “Maybe this McLanahan has information that is valuable to us. We’ll tell Jadallah.. . in good time.”

A few minutes later, Patrick was standing before both Hijazi and Fazani, his hands shackled in front of him with handcuffs and a chain around his waist. He was wearing plain civilian clothes, similar to urban Arabs. One of the guards set a bag on the desk. “He was found with this, sir,” the guard said. Fazani examined the bag: It contained a fake beard, Libyan citizen documents, Libyan money, a small digital camera, a palm-sized radio, a Russian Tokarev pistol—common in both Libya and Egypt—and a fake Egyptian passport. The guard held out another smaller bag—this one held colored contact lenses. “He was wearing these as well. His hair is dyed black, too.” Fazani felt his hair—quick, cheap hair dye. “No other weapons.”

“Very clever, General,” Fazani said in halting but good English. “Fake documents, fake hair, even fake eye color. What do you hope to accomplish here, General?”

“I’m looking for my wife and my men,” Patrick said. “I know you’re holding them.”

“Oh, I am sure you will be joining them soon enough,” Fazani said. “But we have questions first.”

“I’m not answering any questions. I want the Americans. If I don’t come out with them, I’ll destroy this palace.”

“You will? With what? This pistol?” '