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leaders, broken too many agreements, betrayed too many friends. Like the Jackal, he had become a weakened old man begging for sanctuary. And possibly, just possibly, if he did this one thing, people would leave him alone.
    He thought of Afaf puttering around her dusty tomb waiting to die. He closed his eyes. Am I an Afaf?
    He sighed wearily. “What is it you want Yassin to do?”
    “That needn’t concern you. Just bring him to me broken in spirit. That’s all I ask.”
    As they walked to the door at the far end of the room, Jaradat said, “Remember, when you have done what I want, I will take you to a safehouse where you can live out the rest of your life in peace and comfort, no longer in fear of the police. In the meantime, my men will take you to that cemetery for your things, then bring you to a villa where you will be under my protection.”
    Outside in the hall, Jaradat paused and looked intently into Faisal’s eyes, watching for a reaction. “The girl Bashir has recently been seen with,” he said, obviously having waited until the last minute to spring this, “is the daughter of Aziz Al-Khalid, Special Deputy to the Minister of the Interior.”
    Faisal felt blood drain from his face. He stared hard at Jaradat, and Jaradat seemed pleased by what he saw. He turned and walked back into the large room and closed the door.
    Faisal was weeping openly when he joined the two men outside at the car. He had intended to demand the return of his pistol and to find out who the woman was who had come with these men to the cemetery. But he could make no demands of anyone. He was totally absorbed in memories of his son. He got into the car with the two men who had picked him up. The woman was not with them. He allowed himself to be blindfolded. He could feel pain in his chest. He didn’t care. He didn’t care that these men had seen tears flowing down his face. All he could think about was the boy in the white sheets with the rope burn on his neck.
    Since the death of his son he had not allowed the name Aziz al-Khalid to be spoken in his presence. He had shot a man once who had taunted him with that name.
    *
     
    The boy, Abdullah, had escaped to England and had been working two months in a London bakery when he was warned by a girl from a nearby pub that the police were looking for him. Other than the girl and the owner of the bakery, he had no friends in England. He had no money, no passport. No one knew he was wanted in Egypt for conspiracy in the murder of President Anwar al-Sadat. Although he was part of a group that had carried out the assassination, he was not with them when the president was shot.
    He was innocent! He was an innocent naïve boy! He hadn’t even known that an assassination had been planned!
    And there had been nothing Faisal could do. His organization had not expanded to England. The boy had no sanctuary. He had only a vague memory of a conversation with a Palestinian guerrilla who had told him about a professor at the London School of Economics. He remembered nothing about the man except his name—Professor Aziz al-Khalid. In desperation he contacted Professor al-Khalid and was invited to his home, was fed and given a bedroom to use. He believed he was safe! But when the boy was asleep, this jackal, this Aziz al-Khalid phoned the Egyptian embassy. Within days, the boy was in Cairo and, after weeks of torture and interrogation, he was hanged.
    *
     
    I am not dead! Faisal told himself. It is Abdullah who is dead. It is my son who has been dead these many years! And I sit here whimpering and feeling sorry for myself! Am I a woman? Am I an Afaf?
    He tore the scarf from his face. “I don’t need a veil,” he yelled at the tall bearded man, who reached out to restrain him. “I am not a woman.”
    The tall man pushed him back against the cushions, then released him. “ Malesh, ” he said, “It doesn’t matter.”
    Faisal lay back in the seat, his heart racing, but not out of fear. Jaradat