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to hope that she had told it to remember her password. But she had. God is great. The screen came alive with long lists of emails that this woman had sent and received. Even recent emails that she had deleted were still listed under “Deleted.” He scanned down the names of the senders of these emails hoping for a name that he recognized.
    Again, no luck. At least not for the moment. Most email addresses are cryptic. Most offer no clue as to their owner. He would read every message, but no time for that now. He would take this laptop with him when he left here.
    He was about to shut it down when a heading caught his eye. The heading was called “Favorite Places.” It referred to those websites most frequently visited by the person who owned the computer. He clicked on the heading and a long list appeared. There were sites for getting Internet news, a few about cooking and some black history sites. There were also quite a few involving Islam. Of these there were some that spoke of the Nasreens and five or six websites that showed the name Aisha.
    His hopes rose, but were dashed. They referred not to Aisha, the girl who went with Stride, but only to this blasphemous prophecy. That Aisha was known as “The Lady of the Camel” because of some battle in which she led an army, giving orders from the back of a camel. He opened one of these sites. It gave the whole text. It also told of the flame-haired angel named Qaila who will send men to hell if they don’t change their ways or if the try to hurt Aisha. Down below there were comments, dozens of comments, by women, it seemed, from all over the world.
    “Bring her on,” wrote one. “What took her so long?” Another woman wrote that she lived in Damascus and hoped that Damascus would be her first stop. Someone wrote back, “Never fear. She is coming. Her words will soon ride the lightning.”
    Even this angel had a website about her. Its first comment to this angel was, “We’re with you, Qaila. When do we start kicking ass?”
    Stupid women.
    He was about to slam the laptop shut when his eye caught the user name of person who answered the woman from Damascus. The user name was Nikram102. This name seemed familiar. Where else had he seen it? Ah, yes. Among the emails that were sent to Bernice. He rolled the mouse and returned to that list. No, not there. Try the ones that she’d meant to delete.
    And there it was. Nikram102 at a server called Hotmail. When he opened it, Mulazim squealed aloud with delight. It read:
    Oh, please don’t. Elizabeth would kill me. I only emailed that one girl at the school. She’d been nice to me. She was helping me lose weight. I promised that I’d let her know how I was doing. I told her and I said that we’re all still together. Yes, I mentioned Aisha’s birthday and Rasha’s new kitten and that Elizabeth is back with Martin again, but only because these are happy things to say and I couldn’t see how it could hurt. I did not say where we are or anything like of that. I promise I won’t email her again.
    She’d signed it “Niki”
    Niki. Short for Nikram. He should have guessed it. Nikram, like Shahla, is a proper Persian name. He scrolled down and saw that beneath this message was the one from Bernice to which Nikram had responded. Bernice had written:
    You were told no contact except through me. That meant NO CONTACT EXCEPT THROUGH ME. If you do this again, I WILL tell Elizabeth. The least that will happen is you’ll get your butt kicked and she’ll take away your computer. More likely, she’ll conclude that you can’t be trusted and have the Nasreens come and get you. I have a good mind to tell her anyway.
    God is great, thought Mulazim. This is gold. True, it’s only an email address. Hard to trace to a source, but there might be no need. He can email her from Bernice’s machine. He can think of some reason to ask for her address. She will think it is Bernice who is asking.
    He slapped his head. Aisha’s birthday. Of