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came, and with it utter blackness. The temperature began to drop. Dr. Milhauz reached into one of his many suitcases and drew out a knit woolen ski cap and scarf. Phillipe shoved his hands into the pockets of his Hermès blazer. Hours passed. He smoked the Gitanes he’d brought from Paris, winnowing the pack to one. Dr. Milhauz turned the pages of a book beneath the slowly weakening beam of a flashlight. Neither spoke. Just before midnight, a truck engine sounded in the distance. They waited and the sound came closer and soon they saw the white throw of headlights wavering, bumping over the dunes.
    “Ah!” Dr. Milhauz exclaimed. “Here they come. There must have been some sort of miscommunication . . .”
    The truck pulled up in a swirl of dust. But it wasn’t the Pakistani military vehicle bristling with soldiers the doctor had expected. It was a battered Méhari pickup—little larger than a Volkswagen Bug—with one door missing. Up front, two dark figures, a young man and a boy, veiled against the dust—though the effect of their covered faces was sinister, banditlike.
    “Where are the Pakistanis?” Dr. Milhauz demanded. He did not speak Hassaniya as he had promised, but Spanish.
    “You come,” the driver replied, his Spanish rudimentary. “And you”—he gestured—“in back.”
    Dr. Milhauz looked down at his pile of luggage, aghast, and then back at the truck.
    “But I can’t fit even half my gear—” he began.
    “We go!” the young man insisted. “Now!” And the truck began to roll off. Phillipe tossed his cigarette in a trail of sparks into the dune, shouldered his bag, and jumped aboard.
    “Come on, Doctor.”
    The little man, confused at first, grabbed a bag and ran after the truck, which gathered speed. Phillipe held out a hand, but it was no use, Dr. Milhauz failed to grasp it and fell behind.
    “Help!” he squeaked, running along, panting for breath. “Help!”
    Phillipe turned and pounded on the roof of the cab. The driver didn’t seem to hear him, or heard him and didn’t give a shit. The doctor receded in the vast night of the desert, waving his arms, wailing—who’s to say what would become of him out there alone? Phillipe took off his Hermès blazer, wrapped it tightly around his elbow, and smashed it into the small oval window at the back of the cab. The glass shattered in three large pieces and fell into the front seat, where it crumbled into shards. Phillipe shoved his arm through and crooked it around the driver’s throat.
    “Stop!” he shouted in French. “Stop! Now! ”
    The driver, swearing in Hassaniya, clawed at Phillipe’s arm, but Phillipe squeezed harder and at last the little truck skidded to a halt. The boy in the passenger seat stared, his eyes frightened above the dark veil.
    “Back up!” Phillipe ordered.
    “Let me go!” the driver gasped. “I kill you!”
    Phillipe reached into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out the ebony-handled Italian switchblade he always carried—another Legion tradition; everyone, even the officers, carried a concealed weapon—and brought the point to bear against the young man’s throat.
    “You don’t understand,” Phillipe said through his teeth. “I am not a member of the United Nations Defense Force. I am not a Pakistani. I am not Dutch. I am an officer of the French Foreign Legion. You’ve heard of us?” He pressed the point into the driver’s skin until a drop of blood appeared. “I asked you a question!”
    “Yes,” the young man said. “Imperialist jackals! Murderers of women and children!”
    “Exactly,” Phillipe said grimly. “So understand that it is I who will do the killing if you don’t reverse gear and pick up my friend!”
    The driver shouted something in Hassaniya, perhaps appealing to the boy who didn’t move.
    “Reverse gear,” Phillipe said, his voice full of military authority. “Do it.”
    The driver reached for the gearshift and the truck bounced backward over the veined