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flavor his words. Financial backer or not, Gault would find himself lying in parts all over this corner of Afghanistan if El Mujahid thought that he was mocking his faith. The Fighter’s swagger might have started as affect, but his faith had never been anything but absolute.
    The Fighter nodded his thanks for the comment.
    “Will you stay for dinner?” Gault asked. “I had some chickens flown in with me. And fresh vegetables.”
    “No,” the Fighter said, shaking his head with obvious regret. “I’m crossing over into Iraq tomorrow. One of my lieutenants has stolen a British half-track. I will oversee the placement of antipersonnel mines and then we need to put it somewhere that the British or Americans can find it. We’ll stage it well      the front end will have been damaged by a land mine and there will be one or two British wounded in the cab. Very badly wounded, unable to speak, but clearly alive. This has worked many times for us. They care more about their wounded than they do about their cause, which should convince even the stupidest of men that they do not have God in their hearts or holy purpose to guide their hands.”
    Gault bowed in acknowledgment of the point. And he admired El Mujahid’s tactics, largely because the Fighter understood Allied thinking—they always favored rescue over common sense; which made sabotage so effective for men like El Mujahid, and which made profit so deliciously easy for Gault. Since long before the American body count had hit quadruple digits three of Gault’s subsidiary companies had landed contracts for improved plastics and alloys, both for wheeled vehicles and human assets. Now half the soldiers in the field wore antishrapnel polymer undershirts and shorts. Quite a few lives had even been saved, not that this mattered in anything except price negotiations during contract meetings; but it was there. So, the more damage El Mujahid could do with his clever booby traps the more defensive products would be purchased. And even though plastics, petrochemicals, and alloys were only eleven percent of his business, it still brought in six hundred and thirty million per year, so it was all a winwin situation.
    “Ah, I understand, my friend,” he said, putting authentic-sounding regret into his voice. “You go in safety and may Allah bless your journey.”
    He saw the effect the words had on the big man. El Mujahid actually looked touched. How delicious.
    Amirah had long ago coached Gault in what to say when it came to matters of the faith, and Gault was as good a student as he was an actor. After his second meeting with the Fighter—and after Gault had privately noticed the subtle signs indicating how thoroughly his luggage was being searched every time he came here—he’d started packing a worn copy of a French edition of Introduction to Islam: Understand the Pathway to the True Faith, a book written by a European who had gone on to become a significant and very outspoken voice in Islamic politics. Gault and Amirah spent hours with the book, underlining key passages, making sure important pages were dog-eared, and ensuring that the bookmark was never in the same place twice. El Mujahid had never openly spoken of what he believed to be Gault’s process of conversion, but each time they met the big man was warmer to him, treating him like family now, where once he had kept him at arm’s length.
    “I’ll be finished in time for the next phase of the program,” the Fighter said. “I hope you have no worries about that.”
    “Not at all. If I can’t trust you who can I trust?” They both smiled at that. “All of the transportation steps are locked down,” Gault added. “You’ll be in America by the second of July      the third at the very latest.”
    “That cuts it close.”
    Gault shook his head. “The timetable leaves less time for random events to interfere. Trust me on this, my friend. This is something I do very well.”
    El Mujahid considered for