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sense of humor who did not automatically view all westerners as inherent enemies of Islam. He possessed a deep and abiding hatred of extremism, of terrorists who, in his opinion, distorted the teachings of Islam to suit their own purposes. “Islam is a religion of peace,” he was fond of saying with a ferocity that could keep a pack of jackals at bay.
    But straddling past and present had its price. He was, in his own way, as much an outsider as Bourne. The two men had hit it off at once.
    After the truck driver let him off, Bourne made his way back to Minister Qabbani’s hotel room, took a long shower, first hot, then cold, shaved, and dressed. The pain hit him the instant he toweled himself off. The hot water had lulled him into believing the aftermath of his torture wouldn’t be so bad. He was dead wrong. The pain flashed through him, constricting his chest, bringing back the session with the car battery.
    Opening the room’s safe, he pulled out a small rucksack. He stared at it a moment, thinking of his last, abortive identity, thinking of Soraya and Sonya, thinking of Aaron, his brains exploding from a head that resembled a dropped melon. With a supreme effort he blocked all the flashing images. Then he made the call.
    Zizzy met Bourne at the entrance to the Museum of Weaponry, where they were let in by a wizened old man with a hunchback and a mad gleam in his eye. Being in constant contact with such a display of exquisite weapons dating back to the sixteenth century could do that to you, Bourne supposed.
    Swords from all the great dynastic families of the Middle East were represented, including one belonging to King Faisal of Saudi. But by far Zizzy’s favorite was the dagger once belonging to Lawrence of Arabia. To him it was the crown jewel of the collection, the weapon he returned to over and over.
    “A great man, that Lawrence,” Zizzy said as they stood in front of the case housing the dagger. “A man who understood Islam, a man who appreciated the seven pillars of Islam’s wisdom. Of course, he was considered mad by the British. They said he’d gone native. Poor things. They never understood.”
    He pointed to the scabbarded dagger, curved as a houri’s slipper. “It doesn’t look like much, does it? If you saw it in a bazaar, you’d most likely pass it by. You wouldn’t think that the future of Islam in the desert resided there. But it did. It does.”
    Having spoken his heart, Zizzy turned to Bourne, his expression somber, even worried. “My friend, what has happened?”
    *  *  *
    “Anything of mine is yours for the asking.”
    Bourne, sitting across from Zizzy in a café that was a small part of a shopping arcade Zizzy owned, nodded. “I appreciate that. As always.”
    In sharp contrast to the hypermodern boutiques surrounding it, the café was done up in authentic Arabian Nights style. Walking in was like stepping into a sultan’s palace of three hundred years ago. The place was packed with westerners and locals alike, its reputation for excellent food known throughout Doha’s hotels as well as its expat community. Its buzzy atmosphere was perfect for keeping important conversations private.
    Unlike Bourne, who was in Western gear, Zizzy was in traditional dress—watery blue thoube over loose white cotton trousers. His head was covered in the traditional ghutra , in a black-and-white check, held in place by a doubled black coil, the iqal . To show his Bedouin roots, Zizzy’s iqal had two tassels hanging from it, which Bedouins used to tic—or hobble—their camels at night to keep them from wandering off.
    Sweet mint tea was poured and an array of small dishes were set out until the entire tabletop was covered. When they were alone again, Zizzy said, “Now, tell me what brings you to my great city.”
    “Work,” Bourne said.
    “Yes, work.” Zizzy nodded. “Always work with you, my friend.” He scooped up a bit of hummus with a triangle of pita, toasted a golden brown, chewed