That made it personal and when it became personal it became hate.

He had been afraid of them; now he hated them.

He began to wonder why it had taken so incredibly long for him to think of Jeanette and the children. It was the first thought he had given to them in—how long? Three days? Four?

He had taken the coward’s refuge in mindless despair. Dulled his mind, curled up in a tight defensive little ball around himself—a total selfishness of reaction which appalled him.…

He had to get to know these animals. He had to penetrate the burnouses and the phony voices. He had to watch for every clue, no matter how trivial.

By the time they released him he had to know them: he had to be able to identify them for the world.

He dozed finally and came awake when they brought food: Abdul and Sélim. So Abdul had returned from wherever he had left the airplane.

He tried to draw them out but they both refused to speak. They took his plates away and the lock latched over with a heavy clank.

The rest of that day he had struggled with the problems he had set for himself. No simple resolutions offered themselves. He slept awhile and awoke dreaming of Jeanette.

A second dinner of stew, a second endless lamplit night, and now his second morning in the cell.

Sélim came in: a cold figure in his disguising robes, hard and poisonous—something sleek and cruel about him. No movement in the hooded eyes. Eyes that had seen everything. So cold. A man with whom he could make no real contact. Sélim seemed to possess a superb self-control but Fairlie sensed in him a wild animal unpredictability: an underlying mercurial spectrum of moods and tempers that could be triggered at any time. What was most frightening was that there would be no way to predict wHat might turn out to be the trigger.

Fairlie studied him, tried to form an estimate: five feet eleven, a hundred and seventy pounds. But he couldn’t tell much about what was concealed under the Arab garb.

“I could use a change of clothes.”

“I’m sorry.” Sélim’s sardonicisms were perfunctory: “We’re roughing it.”

Abdul came through the door and stood beside Sélim. Chewing spearmint gum as always. Fairlie studied him too: the broad dark face, the brooding inward expression. Five-ten, a hundred and ninety, possibly late thirties. The hair was shot with gray but that might be fake. The olive chauffeur’s uniform was powdered with the same fine dust Fairlie had found on his own clothes, on his skin, in his hair. Sand particles.

Sélim’s hands: hard, scarred, yet graceful with long deft fingers. The feet? Encased in boots, overflowed by robes. No help there, no help in the eyes which were set deep in secretive recesses, always half shuttered, their color indeterminate.

“It won’t be very long,” Sélim said. “A few days.” Fairlie had the feeling Sélim was giving him a close curious scrutiny. Appraising the appraiser. Sizing me up. Why?

“You’re not afraid, are you.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“You’re a little angry. That’s understandable.”

“My wife is expecting a child.”

“How nice for her.”

“You’re guaranteeing your own extermination,” Fairlie said. “I hope I have a hand in it.”

It made Abdul smile. With Sélim as always there was no gauging the reaction. Sélim said, “Well with us it doesn’t matter. There are always others to take our places. You can’t exterminate us all.”

“By now you’ve encouraged quite a few people to try. Is that what you want?”

“In a way.” Sélim stirred. “Fairlie, if we’d been Jews and that Capitol of yours had been a beer hall in Berlin with Hitler and his storm troopers inside, you’d have congratulated us. And it would have encouraged a lot of Germans to follow our example.”

The argument was as simpleminded as a John Birch Society leaflet and it was amazing a man as sophisticated as Sélim could believe in it. Fairlie said, “There’s one difference, isn’t there. The people aren’t on your side. They don’t share your ideas—the fact is they’re more likely to support repression than revolution. I quote one of your own heroes—‘Guerrilla warfare must fail if its political objectives don’t coincide with the aspirations of the people.’ That’s Chairman Mao.”

Quite clearly it had taken Sélim by surprise, even more so than Abdul. Sélim almost snapped back at him. “You presume to quote Mao to me. I’ll give you Mao—‘The first law of warfare is to protect ourselves and destroy the enemy. Political power grows out of the barrel of a gun. Guerrillas must educate the people in the meaning of guerrilla warfare. It is our task to intensify guerrilla terrorism until the enemy is forced to become increasingly severe and oppressive.’”

“The world’s not a clinic for your experiments in stupidity. Your brand of star-chamber justice stinks of murder. Why don’t you go ahead and kill me? It’s what you really want, isn’t it?”

“I’d like to,” Sélim said in his emotionless monotone. “But I’m afraid we won’t get the chance. You see we’ve been listening to the radio. Your friend Brewster has agreed to the exchange.”

He tried to conceal his feelings. “It might be better if he hadn’t.”

“Not for you. If he’d decided to call our bluff we’d have given him your dead body.”

“I’m sure you would have.”

Abdul said, “You got balls.”

When they left Fairlie sagged back on the cot. They had diseased minds, these self-appointed revolutionaries. They lived in moral twilight with their sterile dogmas that were limited to what could be daubed on a placard. Their frenzied attachment to the apocalypse was terrifying: like the Vietnam generals they didn’t care if they had to blow up the world to save it.

Most of them were congenitally naive; they saw things in a fool’s terms—what wasn’t totally acceptable was totally unacceptable; if you didn’t like something you destroyed it utterly.

But Sélim didn’t ignore things; he took everything into account. Assuredly he was a psychopath but you couldn’t merely label a man and then dismiss him; a good number of the world’s leaders had been psychopaths and it was a bad mistake to call them madmen and let it go at that. Sélim’s mind might function without inhibition but that didn’t mean it functioned without ambition.

Sélim didn’t fit into any concept of the quixotic rebel. He had none of the earmarks of the zealous reformer or the tantrum-throwing resenter. Some of his troops were that kind: Lady for one. (“Get your ass moving before I put my boot up it,” and a little while later, as they had got out of the car, “Do what you’re told. If you hear a loud noise it’ll be you dying.”) But Sélim didn’t play at that game. Sélim had something else in mind.

Fairlie thought he saw what it was. Sélim did not so much want to improve the world as he wanted to improve his position in it.

10:30 A.M. EST Bill Satterthwaite accepted his wife’s unimpassioned kiss and left the house. Backed the car out of the garage and headed down New Hampshire Avenue toward the center of things. The Saturday morning traffic was moderate and he had good luck with the lights.

It was the first time he had been home since the kidnapping and it had proved unnecessary; if Leila had noticed his absence there was no sign of it. She had cooked breakfast for him. The boys were both well, and doing well, at Andover; the man was coming Monday to lay the new carpet in the upstairs hall and on the stairs; the nice pregnant young couple across the street had had a miscarriage; the new Updike novel was not up to his usual standard; how much of a contribution should we make this year to the Arena Theater?

He had called her at least once every day and she knew he was involved in the search for Clifford Fairlie; she knew better than to ask and he knew better than to volunteer anything.