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stepped into the lobby. Flames lapped up silk draperies near the left wall.
    The smoke-filled lobby was already like an oven on low heat. Guests gasped and choked, stepping over themselves, frantically grasping for the outside. Others lay on the floor moaning. Some were motionless. Sunlight poured into the lobby through open areas, but the smoke was thickening, making it difficult to breathe. Sirens from the harbor police blared.
    “Diane!” The crackling flames absorbed Zack’s scream.
    “Everybody out!” a voice blared over a megaphone. “Get out now!” the voice announced in English, then switched to Mandarin.
    “Diane!” Zack put his face into his T-shirt, plunging through the smoke.
    “Out! Out!”
    Pockets of warm air shrank under thickening smoke. Images grew opaque.
    His hands found a counter. Squinting, he realized he had found the front desk. A woman was on the floor behind it. Zack crawled over the counter, bent over, and pulled the woman’s arms over his shoulder.
    As the heat sapped his strength, he lifted the woman onto his back. She gave him no help. Only dead weight. He laid her down on the floor, then repositioned her body and lifted her, cradling her in his arms.
    She coughed.
    Good. At least she was alive.
    He stumbled through the mix of smoke and air toward the light streaming in from where the revolving doors stood just an hour earlier.
    The bright warmth of sunlight crested his face. Fresh air. Sirens closed in on the building.
    Zack collapsed on the grass, the woman still in his arms.

Chapter 3
    Singapore Changi International Airport
    2:05 p.m.
    T he Royal Saudi Airlines Airbus A340 rumbled along the concrete runway of Singapore’s Changi International Airport. Bander Omar finished his call, then turned his cell phone off, leaning back against the headrest for takeoff.
    A moment later, the plane’s nose lifted skyward, its rubber wheels breaking contact with the runway. The giant bird banked to the right, presenting a panorama of the city jutting into the blue waters of the straits. It was like Allah had provided a cinematic view of his divine handiwork.
    In the straits, just off Sentosa Island, white-orange flames raged into the sky, morphing into black smoke rising from two oil tankers moored just offshore. Harbor police in fireboats sprayed long blasts of white water through fire hoses onto the decks of the tankers.
    Just a few yards inland, rising from the cove of lush green palms, smoke plumed from the Rasa Sentosa Resort. The wind was sweeping the billowing white columns in the direction of the burning tankers.
    Cheering erupted from the back of the plane.
    Bander turned and looked over his shoulder. A number of his fellow citizens, Saudi nationals, were glued to their windows, peering with delight at the sight below them. Farouq would be pleased.
    The Airbus rolled back in the opposite direction, bringing into view a deep blue sky, then continued its climb into the sun on its journey to the Saudi homeland.
    Bander pulled the shade, closed his eyes, and felt a satisfied smile cross his face. Un hum del Allah. Praise be to God. The Council of Ishmael had prevailed. It had begun.
    The White House
    2:06 a.m.
    C olonel?” the navy commander said, as Colonel Abraham Rogers, United States Marine Corps, stepped from the West Wing corridor into the small communications office just down from the Oval Office.
    The navy commander, intelligence officer Bob Gleason, handed his boss a white, steaming mug with the gold-and-red globe and anchor emblem of the United States Marine Corps emblazoned upon it.
    “Thanks, Bob,” Abe Rogers said. He accepted the black coffee and took a refreshing swig. “What’s going on tonight?”
    Commander Gleason finished his own sip before answering. “Not much, Colonel. All’s quiet on the western front.”
    “Music to my ears, Bob.”
    Abe Rogers was a Marine’s Marine. His cool head and bravery under fire in Iraq had led the commandant of the Marine Corps