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Without a word, she had turned away and the man thought he had won, laughing and gloating at her, making obscene gestures towards his crotch.  
    But then she had turned back, grabbing a machete and with a swinging blow, cut off his gesticulating hand. He had howled with shock and pain as the blood spurted from his wrist and he fell to his knees clutching at his wound, but she didn’t stop there. Shoving him backwards with her boot, she had impassively set to work with the machete, hacking his limbs from his body while he still lived. She didn’t speak, she didn’t flinch, as blood spattered her face and fatigues, turning her into a berserker of ancient times, a warrior consumed by blood lust. The sound of the man’s moaning was soon lost in the dull hacking of the machete and her heavy breathing, but no one tried to stop her. There were no rules in the desert camp of extremist loners.  
    When there were only gory lumps of flesh left, she held up the man’s head and spun around to the onlookers. One of the senior instructors started a slow clap and she had bowed slightly towards him. After that Natasha was respected and feared by the other men and Avi knew that this single act had established her reputation for ruthlessness. She had disappeared off the terrorist grid for a while, apparently caught up with some European project but now it seemed she was back in the Middle East.  
    So when his plans had been approved and funded, he had thought immediately of Natasha. Her father had been an archaeologist, her grandfather an antiquities dealer. She had the contacts but also the sufficient backbone to help him to achieve his goal, although he preferred to remain an unknown coordinator to her and keep her at arm’s length.  
    Avi turned his attention back to the news site, for he needed to release the still images of the murdered Arab youth and the video of the beheading, which he knew would go viral on the extremist sites. It was time to start feeding a media storm and he would stir up the city like a hornet’s nest. For in Jerusalem, there were always people on the edge of violence, those whose daily lives crushed them into mediocrity, but who, given a cause, would find the energy to rise up. Then the Falasha, his people, would go back to Ethiopia, triumphant, when Israel was dust.  

Cairo, Egypt. 5.16am  

    It was shortly after dawn and Cairo was already gridlocked. Morgan felt disheveled from the flight but she wanted to view the scene before things changed too much, so the taxi inched her towards the Museum. She opened the window for some air, but the smog of exhaust fumes mingling with the smell of a polluted city gave her no relief. She shut it again rapidly. With over twenty million people crammed into high rise flats, slums and high density housing, Cairo was now the largest city in Africa. It was a diverse mix of people and culture, always on the edge of chaos, but also a city of dreams, where people fought for democracy against tyranny that had lasted for generations.  
    The motorway was packed, with donkey carts and motorbikes joining the throng of cars and trucks. In front of them, a cart piled high with cauliflowers teetered with every lurch forward to stay in the queue. It seemed incredible to Morgan that behind this mass of poverty was a city that had stood for over a thousand years. Cairo was called the City of Minarets for its Islamic architecture, but before that had stood the great metropolis of ancient Egypt, far removed from the modernity Morgan could see sprawled before her.  
    Finally the taxi pulled up in front of the Museum of Egyptian Antiquities. Morgan paid the fare and turned to look at this famous landmark, a museum that had inspired many young archaeologists. She remembered how her father had talked of this place, where dreams of ancient civilizations touched the vaulted ceilings and the nightmares of dead gods lay in the shadows beneath. The building was the color of faded flamingoes,