“I’ll give it a try.”

“No, make it a performance. Now go.”

HAL STONE, in the sitting room, reading a rather indifferent thesis, the French windows open to the garden, heard the buzz of the entry phone with irritation. He put the thesis to one side, went into the hall and found Khazid on the small screen.

“Who on earth are you?”

“I am Henri Duval of New Hall College, Monsieur le Professeur. I am an archaeology student. I seek your assistance.”

“Well, as a student at Cambridge you must be able to read English, and my notice board is on the door, so clear off.”

Khazid excelled himself with a stream of very fluent French. “I beg you, with all my heart. My first-year exams are coming up, and I have to write a thesis. I genuinely need your advice.”

Hal Stone paused before replying in the same language. “What’s your thesis subject?”

Khazid was feeling more into his role and returned to fractured English, “The influence of Spartan mercenaries on the wars in Persia.”

Hal Stone laughed out loud. “That’s a tall order, but a glamorous one, which I suppose is why you chose it. All right, I’ll give you twenty minutes.”

The door clicked open and Khazid stepped inside, dropping his flight bag and trench coat to one side, but still wearing the beret and short undergraduate gown. He clutched the silenced Walther in his right hand against his leg and opened the inner door into the hall. Hal Stone was waiting, a smile on his face, which faded instantly as Khazid covered him with the Walther.

“Just do as you’re told or I’ll shoot you in your left kneecap.”

“Who the hell are you? Is this some kind of joke?”

“We have a debt to settle.”

“I’ve never seen you before in my life.”

“But I’ve seen you.” Khazid was so absorbed he’d virtually forgotten about Hussein waiting. “At Hazar, I used to watch you on the deck of the Sultan through Zeiss glasses as I stood on the terrace at the great house at Kafkar. You and your people murdered two of my best friends.”

“Dear God,” Stone said. “You’re not Hussein, so you must be the other one, Khazid.” He shook his head. “Come for your revenge.”

“And I intend to have it,” Khazid told him. “Your world is a world of books, Professor, but in mine one sword is worth ten thousand words, so it teaches us in the Koran.”

“To hell with your damned ideology. What do you want with me?”

“We intended to call on Sara and her parents at their house in Hampstead, but Ferguson has had them spirited away. We want to know where.”

“And you think I know?”

“You’ve been involved in the whole business since the beginning, and you’re Ferguson’s cousin. I’m sure you do.”

“Actually, I don’t. And even if I did, I wouldn’t oblige you.”

“Be it on your own head. Get into the sitting room.”

Stone turned, opened the door, then swung it behind him and ran through the open French windows and made for the garden door. Khazid fired twice. The first shot hit Stone below the left shoulder, driving him against the door. He managed to reach for the large bolt at the top of the door and pull it to one side, and Khazid shot him again in the lower back. Hussein, waiting impatiently, pushed on the door, sending Stone staggering to fall flat on his face.

The body twitched and went still. “What in the hell are you playing at?” Hussein demanded.

Khazid said, “He tried to make a run for it.”

“Why-what did you say to him?”

Khazid, calmer now, was reduced to a certain dishonesty as regards the facts. “He said I was the other one. He knew my name. All I did was try to get the information about where the Rashids have gone from him. He said he had no idea and wouldn’t tell me if he could.”

“And you threatened him?”

“What did you expect me to do, pat him on the head? I told him I’d start with his kneecap; he slammed a door on me and made a run for it.”

“You should have waited for me.”

Hussein knelt on one knee, Hal Stone’s face was turned slightly to one side. He looked terrible, blood seeping through his shirt. Hussein felt in the neck. He shook his head. “He’s dead.”

“Are you certain? Another in the head, perhaps?”

“I studied medicine, fool. How many times have you been glad of that in the past two years?” He stood. “Leave him in place and let’s get out of here.” He pushed Khazid before him. “Hurry, I tell you. Straight to the railway station and back to London.”

“As you say, brother.” Khazid dumped his gown and scarf, put on his trench coat again and followed Hussein as they left the cottage, walked up to the main road and turned to the railway station. They got there with fifteen minutes to spare, just in time to use their return tickets to board.

Once the train was moving, Khazid lay back in the seat, exhausted. “Now what?”

“Give me time to think about it.” Hussein turned to stare out the window, wondering what was happening. His lie to Khazid, the still beating pulse in Hal Stone’s neck that his fingers had felt. Why had he done that? There was no answer, and for Hal Stone, life or death was a matter for Allah.

ALI HASSIM HAD BEEN IMPRESSED when Khan told him Hussein would be in touch with him for any help or aid that Ali could offer. For him, Hussein was the great warrior, the Hammer of God, a liberator for the people from Allah himself. He remembered his shock on first hearing Hussein’s voice on the radio news program from the Middle East, and then in the middle of his Arabic rhetoric, Hussein describing himself in a simple English phrase, Hammer of God. It was a gesture of contempt for his enemies, but that name was now known to millions of Arabs in the Middle East who were not familiar with the English language at all.

So, thinking over his problem about who to first tell about Zion House, he realized that he had found a new and worthier allegiance. But he needed to make everything perfect, so he called in another member of the Brotherhood, a young accountant in a financial firm in the city. A short chat over the phone, the suggestion that he could be of great service to the Brotherhood, produced the man he wanted within an hour, and he also sent for his laptop expert and waited.

SAM BOLTON WAS actually Selim Bolton, his father English, his mother Muslim. He had been raised in an English culture until his first year at London University, studying business and accountancy, and then his father had died of cancer. An immediate consequence of this was that his mother was restored to Islam.

There were those in the Brotherhood who saw great possibilities in individuals with a similar background to his, and he joined their ranks as a sleeper, a handsome young man in a good suit and a university tie, accepted anywhere.

He turned up at the shop and discovered Ali waiting with the laptop expert. Ali said, “Listen carefully while our brother explains,” and the laptop man told him everything regarding Zion House.

Bolton took it all in. Finally, he said, “So what you really want to know is the feel of things generally, the attitudes of the villagers, perhaps to Zion House itself?”

“Exactly. What’s special about it.”

“I think you mean what its purpose is, if any.” He stood up. “I might as well get on with it. I called in at the flat, so I’ve got an overnight bag in the Audi.”

“So you accept this assignment?”

“Of course.”

“You could not do our cause a greater service.”

“I’ll be in touch.”

The laptop man left and Ali nodded to himself. He was doing the right thing. No phone call to Khan. He had set things in motion and could afford to wait to hear from Hussein.