“Well, that is a little more defiant than the things your wife has been saying while in captivity, General,” Fazani said with a smile. Patrick angrily tested his shackles yet another time—they were securely locked. “Imshi. Enta tiq-dar ta’mel ahsan min kida. Get him out of here, now.” After the guards had taken McLanahan out, Hijazi said, “I’ll get Kazakov on the phone right away. I think he’s been looking for this guy—I’ll bet he’ll pay a lot for him.”

“You handle Kazakov—I’ll notify Jadallah,” Fazani said. “This way we cover our asses in case Kazakov blabs that we told him and not our boss.”

“Good idea.”

“We’ve also got to get all those captives out of here as soon as possible,” Fazani added. “It can’t be a coincidence that McLanahan just waltzes in here—the exact spot where we happen to be keeping his wife and his fighters. He’s doing a probe. The faster we get him out of here, the better.” Fazani walked over to Zuwayy’s residence and notified the Republican Guards that he wished to speak with the king. Ten frustrating, aggravating minutes later, Fazani was told the king was unavailable. Not daring to push aside one of Zuwayy’s Republican Guards—they were absolute fanatics about security; their lives depended on it—Fazani asked again, and after another ten-minute wait, he was admitted into the king’s private residence.

He could see it immediately. Tahir Fazani had known Jadallah Zuwayy for more than fifteen years, including two years in Sudan where Zuwayy got hooked on heroin. He and Hijazi had nursed him, covered for him, threatened him, and cajoled him into giving up the stuff. They thought they had been successful. “Damn you, Jadallah,” he muttered. “What the hell is wrong with you? We’re going to war with Egypt any day now, and you’re up here getting high.”

“What the hell do you want, Tahir?” Zuwayy asked. He was slumped in a chair, drinking something; his head lolled around every now and then as if he were on some sort of sailboat race on the Gulf of Sidra.

“We had a little visit by someone tonight—one Brigadier General Patrick McLanahan.”

“An Anglo? So what? Is he an arms dealer? A mercenary? If not, kick him out of the country and .. .” Zuwayy stopped and looked at Fazani through bloodshot, bleary eyes and blown pupils. “Did you say . .. McLanahan?”

“The woman we have in your interrogation center is his wife” Fazani said. “He came here to demand we return her and his men to him.”

“And you have him? He actually tried to walk in here and demanded we release the prisoners? Was he deranged?”

“I think it’s some kind of setup,” Fazani said seriously. “I had him taken to the detention center, but I think he should be moved as soon as possible.”