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Soviet-era factory to a Schwinn-owned, capitalist model of efficiency—this had been madness. He’d been sent to Hungary to tackle the project, to bring American bicycle manufacturing to eastern Europe, to open up the whole continent to Schwinn.
    Alan had commissioned a scale model, he’d had a grand opening, there were high hopes all around. Maybe they could send the Hungarian bikes beyond Europe. Maybe back to the U.S. The labor costs would be nothing, the craftsmanship high. Those were the assumptions.
    But it fell apart. The factory never worked to capacity, the workerscouldn’t be trained, they were inefficient, and Schwinn didn’t have the capital to properly modernize the machinery. A colossal failure, and from then on Alan’s days at Schwinn, as a man who could get things done, were numbered.
    And yet looking at this model now, Alan had a sense that this city might really happen, that with Abdullah’s money it would happen. Sayed and Mujaddid were staring at it with him, seeming just as fascinated as he was as they explained the various stages of construction. The city, they said, would be complete by 2025, with a population of a million-five.
    â€”Very impressive, Alan said. He looked for Yousef, who was roaming the lobby. Alan caught his eye, urged him into the room, but Yousef shook his head quickly, dismissing the thought.
    â€”This is where we are right now, Mujaddid said.
    Mujaddid nodded to a building directly below his nose, which looked precisely like the one he was standing in, though this one was the size of a grape. On the model, it stood on a long promenade running along the waterfront. Suddenly a laser’s red dot appeared on its second story, as if a spacecraft had targeted it for disintegration.
    Alan finished his juice, and then had nowhere to put his glass. There was no table, and the man with the platter had disappeared. With his sleeve, he dried the bottom of his glass and placed it on the surface of what he took to be the Red Sea, about a half mile from shore. Sayed smiled politely, took the glass, and left the room.
    Mujaddid smiled grimly. —Should we see a film?
    Alan and Yousef were led into a high-ceilinged ballroom, bright with mirrors and gold leaf, where a series of yellow couches, arranged in rows, faced a giant screen covering one full wall. They sat down and the room darkened.
    A woman’s voice began speaking in a clipped British accent.
    â€˜Inspired by the exemplary leadership and far-reaching vision of King Abdullah…’ A computer-generated version of the city model appeared, now animated and glowing at night. The camera swooped down and over a gorgeous mountain range of black glass and lights. ‘We present the dawn of the world’s next great economic city…’
    Alan looked to Yousef. He wanted Yousef to be impressed. The movie must have cost millions. Yousef was scrolling through messages on his phone.
    â€˜â€¦to diversify the Middle East’s largest economy…’
    Soon it was daytime at KAEC, at street level, and there were speed-boats careening through the canals, businessmen shaking hands by the water, container ships arriving at the ports, presumably sending out the many products manufactured at KAEC.
    â€˜Inter-Arab financial cooperation…’
    A series of flags appeared, representing Jordan, Syria, Lebanon, the UAE. There was a segment on the mosque that would be built, one that could accommodate two hundred thousand worshipers at once. A brief shot of a college lecture hall, women on one side of the classroom and men on the other.
    â€˜A twenty-four-hour city…’
    A port that could process ten million containers annually. A dedicated hajj terminal that could process three hundred thousand pilgrims a season. A giant sports complex that would open like a clamshell.
    Now Yousef was interested. He leaned over to Alan. —A stadium shaped like a vagina. Not bad.
    Alan wasn’t