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one of those false Nizaris.
    Doctor… think of him not by his name, but as
the Hakim of our time… was gazing through the toughened glass at
his subject within the padded cell, a naked flabby brown man who
suddenly spewed out water which he had only just gorged himself on,
as though this might empty himself of what plagued him. Was
that what his body was trying vainly to do?
    The prisoner clutched his head. His neck
looked swollen. Moments later, blood began trickling from his nose.
His chest flushed with a rash like a blushing girl.
    “Very fast onset,” commented The Doctor
approvingly, scribbling in his notebook. “Extremely
satisfactory.”
    The prisoner staggered. His eyes glared madly
at his observers. His bloodied lips mouthed something theatrically;
the glass was soundproof but he’d probably screamed the words out.
Possibly ‘shoot me’.
    “In olden times,” said The Doctor levelly,
“people drowned themselves or jumped off cliffs… the pain and
thirst was so great. Still very early days, we have years ahead of
us, but I think this is indeed the same disease.”
    I’ll be needing a new identity before long,
reflected Jafar, a new name.
     
    Boston,
Massachusetts: April
    Abigail felt quite ridiculous weaving through
downtown Boston, lurking in bookshop aisles with views of the
street, leaving by alternative exits if possible, plunging into
crowds then doubling back and slipping suddenly down side-streets.
No man in a grey scarf appeared to be tailing her, though that
didn’t mean that someone else wasn’t. Apart from taking great
exception to Jack Turner knowing her business, she didn’t want
Walid to suffer similar attention.
    She took the subway to Ruggles, then marched
briskly into the grounds of North-Eastern University. Entering the
foyer of the Behrakis Health Sciences Center, she checked from
behind the glare of sunshine on blue glass. All seemed okay, just a
few students wandering around. Shabby garb with pseudo-military
pockets and zips plus arty beads, or winter coats thrown over
bright tee-shirts and jogging bottoms or jeans.
    A shame Walid wasn’t closer to hand; more of
a shame that she’d felt forced to take a long detour into downtown
for no other reason than ICEman Jack might be watching her!
Quelling a spasm of anger, she found a rear exit and wended her way
to the intersection of Malcolm X Boulevard and Tremont Street.
    The golden dome of the Roxbury mosque was a
mirror of the bright sun, nestling on ember-red columns and arches
and curtains of brick, although for Abigail its tall minaret
spoiled an otherwise exotic effect , looking as it did like a
nineteenth century factory chimney. The brickwork architecture had
apparently been chosen to fit in with Bostonian style.
    “I’m here to see Walid al-Areqi,” she told an
attendant at the main entrance. “He’s expecting me.” The man nodded
and she stepped inside, then he moved noiselessly away to a
shadowed interior.
    Abigail browsed the notice-board, spotting
Walid’s name on several committees and support-groups. If ever
there was anyone on a mission to help the whole of humanity, it was
Walid. And after fifteen years of dedicated effort towards the
Roxbury mosque project, he certainly deserved his position
here.
    “Abigail… Abigail, it’s good to see you
again. Wonderful!”
    They hugged warmly, by no means a
conventional way for an Islamic man to greet a woman not of his
family.
    Walid’s deep, mellow tones always seemed in
contrast with his slight build and thin, restless features, just as
his wrinkled and nut-brown skin contrasted with the silky white of
his hair and beard. During their previous meetings, Abigail had
occasionally found herself asking him a question just so that she
could be enfolded in the downy duvet of his answering voice.
    “It’s good to see you,” she responded with
feeling. “Are you busy?”
    Walid shrugged and smiled. “This place
doesn’t run itself. But I always have a little time for