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suffering of people and justice mean nothing to him.”
    “Your father is an Arab,” he said stiffly.
    She stared at him. “He is not! He is more Western than Arab. Otherwise he would not have divorced my mother to marry that woman. It is the same with his business. How much time does he spend with his own people, in his own land? Two weeks out of the year? It would not surprise me to discover that he even trades with the Israelis. He has many Western friends who are Jewish.”
    “In his own way your father has done much for the cause.” Ali found himself defending a man he had never met. “Our battle cannot be won by soldiers alone.”
    “Our battle will be won by those who are willing to spill their blood and give their lives, not by men like my father whose only interest lies in the profits he can make.” Angrily she stamped back into the bedroom and slammed the door behind her.
    He knocked on the door. “Leila,” he said gently. “Leila, would you like me to order some dinner?”
    Her voice came faintly from the room. “Go away. Leave me alone. I’m not hungry!” A faint sound of sobbing came through the wooden panels of the door.
    He stood there indecisively for a moment, then went to his bedroom to dress for dinner. The young were filled with ideals. To them everything was black or white. There were no shadings in between. It was good and it was bad.
    But he was not in the business of passing judgment. Causes were not run on ideals alone. The young never knew that it took money to make things happen. Money to buy their uniforms, to feed them, to give them guns and weapons and training. Modern warfare, even guerrilla warfare, was expensive. And that was the real reason so much time had been spent indoctrinating her. They had used her resentments against her father until she had reached the point where she was ready to commit herself physically to the Fedayeen. It was not just for what she herself could do. There were many other girls who could have performed as well.
    But none of the others had a father who was among the richest men in the world. He felt a sigh escape his lips. By the day after tomorrow she would be in a training camp in the mountains of Lebanon. Once she was there and under their control perhaps Baydr Al Fay would be more amenable to some of the plans he had already rejected. She would be better than a gun pointed at his head.

CHAPTER 4
    “Your call to the United States is ready, Mr. Carriage,” the hotel operator said in English.
    “Thank you,” Dick said. There was a whine and series of clicks, then a voice came on. “Hello,” Dick said.
    There were more clicks then a buzzing sound. “Hello, hello,” he shouted. Suddenly the line cleared and he heard his wife’s voice.
    “Hello, Margery?” he shouted.
    “Richard?” she sounded doubtful.
    “Of course, it’s Richard,” he snapped, strangely annoyed. “Who did you think it was?”
    “You sound so far away,” she said.
    “I am far away,” he said. “I’m in Cannes.”
    “What are you doing there?” she asked. “I thought you were working.”
    “Jesus, Margery, I am working. I told you the chief was planning to spend the weekend here for his wife’s birthday.”
    “Whose birthday?”
    “His wife’s,” he shouted. “Oh, forget it, Margery. How are the kids?”
    “They’re fine,” she said. “Only Timmy has a cold. I kept him out of school. When are you coming home?”
    “I don’t know,” he said. “The chief’s got a lot of things going.”
    “But you said it would only be for three weeks this time.”
    “Things piled up. It’s not my fault.”
    “We were better off when you worked for Aramco. At least then you came home every night.”
    “I also made a lot less money,” he said. “Twelve thousand a year instead of forty.”
    “But I miss you,” she said; there was the faint edge of tears in her voice.
    He softened. “I miss you too, darling. And the kids.”
    “Richard,” she