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willed.
    â€œIt takes great discipline to be a great leader,” Khalid said. “The country is floundering.”
    â€œThere’s a difference between talking privately about changing things and doing so,” Ahmed said. “Look at Al-Massari. He was exiled to England with his band of dissidents. Osama bin Laden and his Reformation Committee—we all know what happened to him. The government won’t just welcome change for the sake of—”
    â€œI’m not asking them to change,” Khalid said. “If there is a cancer, you don’t persuade the cancer to change . You cut it out. That was both Al-Massari’s and Bin Laden’s problem. Neither had the resources to cut it out. I do.”
    Omar spoke for the first time. “We do.”
    Ahmed stared at him. Khalid had waited until now to bring the director into full confidence.
    â€œWhat do you mean, you have it?” Ahmed asked.
    Khalid smiled. “Let me ask you a question. If a man in my position was to have the full support of the ulema and twenty of the top-ranking princes, and the undeterred ambition to overthrow the king, could he do it?”
    Ahmed glanced at the door. They all knew that talk like this could earn death. He studied Khalid’s face. “No,” he said. “Even with the princes and religious scholars, it’s not enough for a lasting success.”
    â€œYou’re honest. I’ll remember that when this is over.”
    Omar chuckled from his perch on the pillow and threw back the last of the scotch in his glass.
    â€œYou’re right,” Khalid said. “Overthrowing a government isn’t the same as installing a new one. But what if a man in my position also had the full support of the Shia minority in the eastern provinces?”
    â€œThat would not be possible. We are Sunni.”
    â€œAnything is possible when such great power is at stake. You should know that. Indulge me for a moment.”
    Ahmed hesitated. “Then, yes.” His eyes shifted with his thoughts. “It could be done.” Eyes back on Khalid. “How would such support be gained?”
    Khalid stood and walked to a bowl of fruit. He picked up a piece of nangka, a sweet yellow fruit imported from Indonesia. “Through the sheik, of course.” He pushed the fruit into his mouth. If there was a leader among the four million Shia living in the eastern parts of Saudi Arabia, it was Al-Asamm, and to call him the sheik was enough.
    â€œAl-Asamm hasn’t flexed his muscles in ten years. And he’s not a friend to the House of Saud. What do you hope—”
    â€œActually, he hasn’t flexed his muscles in nearly twenty years. Have you thought about that? He offers a token demonstration now and then, but not like he was once known to.”
    â€œThat doesn’t make him a friend.”
    â€œThe Shia are a passionate people. Look at Iran—they know how to overthrow. We wouldn’t give them too much power, of course, but they do constitute 15 percent of Saudi citizens. We will give them a voice.”
    â€œAnd how in the name of God do you propose to approach Sheik Al-Asamm?” Ahmed waved his hand. “It’ll never work.”
    â€œYes, it will,” Khalid’s son said.
    They both looked at Omar.
    â€œYes, it will,” Khalid agreed. “Tell him why it will work, Omar.”

    Omar regarded his father and Ahmed, trying to keep his contempt for both hidden. He’d sat through numerous meetings like this one, plotting and gathering support for his father’s plan. Now, less than a week away from the actual coup attempt, it was becoming his plan. Not because he had conceived it, but because without him, the plan would fail. Then he would become king himself, after Father was killed. The reign of the kingdom would be built on blood, he thought. Blood and marriage. Both at his hand.
    â€œIt will work because I will marry his