Bian glanced up from her notepad and said to Enzenauer, "Once again, please. I think"-she scribbled something-"I nearly have it."

Enzenauer played it again as Bian tracked the dialogue on her page. "All right," she said, and then read, "After bin Pacha's… after the flatulence… the first voice is a guard. He yells, 'Are you awake yet?' Bin Pacha replies, 'Yes,' and he asks the guard, 'Why are they playing that stupid recording? Only fools would try a trick of such obvious ignorance. It sounds like something Americans would try.' The guard laughs, and yells back that the tape might be phony, but bin Pacha's pain will soon be real enough."

Bian looked up and explained, "Words to that effect. Arabic is structured differently than English. More formal. Also the verbs and nouns are displaced. I'm converting to the vernacular."

I told her, "You're doing great."

She looked down at her pad and continued, "Bin Pacha asks the guard's name. The guard replies that he is named Abu Habbibi. Then bin Pacha warns him, 'You are making a big mistake that will be poor for your personal health.' Again, Habbibi laughs. He asks, 'Why is that?' "

Bian paused, then said, "Bin Pacha told him that to learn the answer to this riddle, Habbibi must make only two phone calls." She looked up for a moment and explained, "Because the tape is noise-activated, there are no breaks in the conversation. I think here, though… from the change in their tone, there was a pause."

Recalling what I had observed on the video, I suggested, "This must be when bin Pacha walked to the cell door."

She nodded-"Makes sense"-and continued, "Again, he tells Habbibi, 'Just make two phone calls-all will become clear. If you fail to make these calls, now I know your name, and you and your family will suffer horrible deaths. But there is a big reward you will be very happy with, if you call and do what these men tell you to do.' Habbibi replies, 'I can barely hear you. The noise from the tape is in the way. Come closer. Move to the opening. Tell me what you have in mind.' "

"And then…" Bian had been looking at our faces, and she looked back down at her notepad and continued, "Then bin Pacha said, 'Call Prince Faud ibn al-Souk, or Prince Ali ibn al-Sayyed. They will tell you what to do with me.' Habbibi answered, 'I can't hear you-' "

Phyllis interrupted, "You're sure of this?"

"Positive."

"I'm referring to the names. He named the two princes?"

"I know what you're asking. Listen to the tape yourself. Both names are easily distinguishable."

Phyllis nodded. "Please continue."

"There's not much after that. Bin Pacha recites the phone numbers to Habbibi. I'm not sure I heard them right-he had repositioned closer to the door and the speaker noise was overwhelming."

"Do your best," I told her.

"Well… Habbibi had trouble hearing him also-or he pretended to have trouble-because his last words to bin Pacha were, 'I need to hear the phone numbers again. Come closer. Move your head against the opening.' " Bian looked up and added, "Then bang-the gun went off."

We all sat back in our chairs. Nobody said a word. Unlike the others, I had a mental visualization to accompany the soundtrack, and as I replayed the scene in my mind, matching words with deeds, it all became clear: a double cross trumped by a double cross.

In retrospect, Ali bin Pacha had thought he was playing us; I recalled that curious smile back in the hospital bed when Bian and I notified him he was being turned over to the Saudis. A smile. We believed we were telling him the last thing he wanted to hear; he believed he was hearing the sound of salvation.

It was, in fact, a death sentence. Neither Ali bin Pacha nor we understood that, though. This man, responsible for countless deaths, believed we had just pulled the ace from his sleeve for him, even as Habbibi maneuvered him, like a big stupid fish, into the perfect position to blow his evil brains out. It was funny, and it was very sad.

Eventually, I looked at Phyllis and asked, "These two princes, who are they?"

She shook her head. "There are five or six thousand princes. The men of the royal family marry many women, and are atrociously fertile. It's the national curse."

I moved on to the next logical questions, which were more in the nature of Socratic statements. "Why would bin Pacha have their phone numbers memorized? And why would he refer Habbibi to them?"

"Protection. He obviously expected some form of intervention."

"But why would they protect him?"

Without answering, she stood and paced to the phone. She lifted it up, punched a number, and after a moment ordered somebody to track down Sheik Turki al-Fayef and escort him to the conference room.

She hung up and said to us, "I will do the talking. You will both remain quiet and polite. Don't challenge or harass him."

"I promise," I told her. I might rip off his head and crap down his throat, but I would neither challenge nor harass him.

Phyllis stared at Bian, who replied with obvious reluctance, "I understand."

We sat in silence.

A few moments later, there was a knock at the door.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

The sheik swept into the room. In his hand was a thin valise constructed of buttery leather, on his body the same ash-stained robe, and on his face his customary visage of complacent boredom.

What his expression did not convey was the slightest trace of regret, worry, guilt, or anxiety. Give the man credit, he had panache, which usually I admire; just not this time. I wanted to get my hands around his throat and throttle him.

Phyllis looked lost in thought for a moment, but finally she looked up and said, "Have a seat. We have something you need to hear."

His quick black eyes took us all in, and settled briefly on the receiver/recorder, which he then made a point of ignoring. I was sure he sensed that he had just entered the lion's den, that the animals were hungry, and that this mysterious device was part of the seasoning. He coolly lit a cigarette, set his valise on the table, and sat. Phyllis nodded at Doc Enzenauer, who nodded back and pushed play.

The sheik puffed on his cigarette and listened. To his professional credit, not when the princes were named, nor even when the shot exploded through the speakers, did he flinch or show the slightest emotional reaction.

Enzenauer wisely shut it down before Tirey launched into his CYA soliloquy.

So there it was.

We all sat quietly, uncertain who was supposed to make the next move. But for Bian, for Doc Enzenauer, and for me, there were no doubts; this was way over our heads. Whatever happened next was between the bosses.

The sheik suddenly clapped his hands together and erupted in a delighted belly laugh. "Ha-ha. Oh, Phyllis… you have, I think, outsmarted me. How did you… No, no-let me guess." He furrowed his brow and playfully stroked his goatee. "A transmitter, yes? Where was it? Sewn into his pants?"

"His body," Phyllis replied, playing the game.

He looked thoughtful. "Ah… yes." He offered a complimentary nod at Enzenauer. "Ingenious." He laughed. "Very excellent work, Doctor."

I had to admit, not only did this guy have balls he had charm. Phyllis, however, was neither warmed nor laughing. She said to Enzenauer, "Would you care to leave now?" which obviously wasn't a suggestion, and he dutifully stood and left.

"Who are the princes?" she asked al-Fayef.

"Why does it matter?"

"It matters. Tell me."

"Inconsequential men. Minor figures in the family. You know how our royals are. A big, horny rabbit farm."

Phyllis stared at him a long time, then asked, "But bin Pacha expected their protection-why?"

Until this moment, I think, al-Fayef had been testing the waters to see if Phyllis had put this together. Well, she had-obviously, we all had-and now the brain behind those clever black eyes was flailing for an angle, a ruse, a bluff. He tried to stall for time with another of those charming chuckles, and said, "Phyllis… Phyllis… how long have we known each other?"