'So you know how to handle that thing?' Orville said, pointing at the gun.

'Not really. I hate guns. You're lucky I hit the guy with the knife, and not you.'

'Well, you'd better start liking them,' Orville said, lifting his candy-floss hands and signalling the gun. 'What kind of agent are you?'

'I've only had basic training,' Albert said, looking baleful. 'My thing is computers.'

'Well, that's just great! I'm beginning to feel dizzy,' Orville said, on the verge of fainting. The only that kept him from hitting the floor was Albert's arm.

'Do you think you can make it to the car, Orville?'

Orville nodded, but wasn't too sure.

'How many of them are there?' Albert asked.

'The only one left is the one you scared off. But he'll be waiting for us in the garden.'

Albert took a brief look out of the window but he couldn't see anything in the dark.

'Let's go, then. Down the hill, close to the wall . . . he could be anywhere.'

52.

ORVILLE WATSON'S SAFE HOUSE OUTSKIRTS OF WASHINGTON, DC.

Sat.u.r.day, 15 July 2006. 1:03 a.m.

n.a.z.im was very scared.

He had imagined the scene of his martyrdom many times. Abstract nightmares in which he'd die in a great ball of fire, something huge that would be televised all over the world. Kharouf's death turned out to be an absurd anticlimax, leaving n.a.z.im confused and frightened.

He had run off into the garden, afraid that the police would show up at any minute. For a moment he was tempted by the main gate, which was still half open. The sound of crickets and cicadas filled the night with promises and life, and for a moment n.a.z.im hesitated.

No. I've dedicated my life to the glory of Allah and the salvation of my loved ones. What will happen to my family if I run away now, if I grow soft?

So n.a.z.im didn't go out of the gate. He remained in the shadows, behind a row of badly neglected snapdragons that still displayed some yellowish blooms. Attempting to ease the tension in his body, he switched the pistol from hand to hand.

I'm in good shape. I jumped over the kitchen counter. The bullet that was coming for me missed me by a mile. One is a priest and the other is wounded. I'm more than a match for them. All I have to do is watch the path to the gate. If I hear police cars, I'll go over the wall. It's high but I can do it. There's a place on the right that looks a little lower. It's a shame that Kharouf isn't here. He was a genius at opening doors. The gate to the estate only took him fifteen seconds. I wonder if he's already with Allah. I'm going to miss him. He'd want me to stay and finish Watson off. He'd already be dead if Kharouf hadn't waited so long, but nothing made him angrier than someone who betrayed his own brothers. I don't know how it would help the jihad if I died tonight without taking the koondeh down first. No. I can't think like that. I have to concentrate on what matters. The empire in which I was born is destined to fall. And I will help it to do so with my blood. Even though I wish it were not today.

There was a noise from the path. n.a.z.im listened more attentively. They were coming. He had to be quick. He had to- 'OK. Throw down the gun. Go on.'

n.a.z.im didn't even think. He didn't say a final prayer. He just turned around, pistol in hand.

Albert, who had gone out of the back of the house and had stayed close to the wall so he could reach the gate safely, had found the fluorescent strips on n.a.z.im's Nikes in the dark. It wasn't the same as when he'd fired at Kharouf instinctively, to save Orville's life, and hit him through pure luck. This time he had caught the guy unawares only a few feet away. Albert planted both feet on the ground, aimed at the centre of n.a.z.im's chest, and squeezed the trigger halfway, calling out for him to drop the gun. When n.a.z.im turned, Albert pressed the trigger the whole way, blowing open the young man's chest.

n.a.z.im was only vaguely conscious of the shot. He didn't feel any pain, although he was aware of being knocked to the ground. He tried to move his arms and legs but it was pointless and he couldn't speak. He saw the one who had fired bending over him, checking the pulse on his neck then shaking his head. A moment later, Watson arrived. n.a.z.im saw a drop of Watson's blood fall as he leaned over. He never knew if that drop mixed with his own blood flowing from the wound in his chest. His vision was clouding over by the second, but still he was able to hear the voice of Watson, praying.

'Blessed be Allah, who has given us life and an opportunity to praise him with righteousness and honesty. Blessed be Allah, who has taught us the sacred Quran, which says that even though someone may raise his hand against us to kill us, we shall not raise a hand against him. Forgive him, Lord of the Universe, for his sins are those of the deceived innocent. Protect him from the tortures of h.e.l.l, and bring him close to you, oh Lord of the Throne.'

After that, n.a.z.im felt much better. It was as if a weight had been lifted from him. He had given everything for Allah. He allowed himself to be transported to such a state of peace that when he heard the police sirens in the distance he confused them with the sound of the crickets. One of them was singing next to his ear and it was the last thing he heard.

Minutes later, two uniformed policemen leaned over a young man dressed in a Washington Redskins jersey. His eyes were open, looking at the heavens.

'Central, this is Unit Twenty-three. We have a ten fifty-four. Send an ambulance-'

'Forget it. He didn't make it.'

'Central, cancel that ambulance for now. We'll go ahead and rope off the crime scene.'

One of the officers looked at the young man's face, thinking that it was a shame he'd died from his wounds. He was young enough to be my son He was young enough to be my son. But the man wouldn't lose any sleep over it. He'd seen enough dead kids on Washington's streets to carpet the Oval Office. Yet none of them wore the expression on this one's face.

For a moment he thought of calling his partner to ask him why the h.e.l.l this kid had such a peaceful smile. He didn't do it, of course.

He was afraid of looking like a fool.

53.

SOMEWHERE IN FAIRFAX COUNTY, VIRGINIA.

Sat.u.r.day, 15 July 2006. 2:06 a.m.

Orville Watson's safe house and Albert's apartment were almost twenty-five miles apart. Orville travelled the distance in the back seat of Albert's Toyota, half asleep and semi-conscious, but at least his hands had been properly bandaged, thanks to the first-aid kit the priest carried in his car.

An hour later, dressed in a towelling bathrobe - the only thing of Albert's that fit him - Orville swallowed several Tylenols with the orange juice the priest had brought him.

'You've lost a lot of blood. This will help stabilise you.'

The only thing Orville wanted was to stabilise his body on a hospital bed, but given his limited options he decided he might as well stick with Albert.

'Would you happen to have a Hershey's bar?'

'No, sorry. I can't eat chocolate - it gives me pimples. But in a while I'll go by a Seven Eleven to get something to eat, some extra large T-shirts, and maybe some candy if you want.'

'Forget it. After what happened tonight I think I'm going to hate Hersheys for the rest of my life.'

Albert shrugged. 'It's up to you.'

Orville pointed at the array of computers that cluttered Albert's living room. On a table about twelve feet long sat ten monitors connected to a ma.s.s of cables as thick as an athlete's thigh that ran along the floor next to the wall. 'You have great equipment, Mr International Liaison,' Orville said, speaking to relieve the tension. Observing the priest, he realised they were both in the same boat. His hands were shaking slightly and he seemed a little lost. 'HarperEdwards System, with TINCom motherboards . . . That's how you tracked me down, right?'

'Your offsh.o.r.e in Na.s.sau, the one you used to buy the safe house. It took me forty-eight hours to track down the server that stored the original transaction. Two thousand one hundred and forty-three steps. You're good.'

'You too,' Orville said, impressed.

The two men looked at each other and nodded, recognising fellow hackers. For Albert, this brief moment of relaxation meant that the shock he had held at bay suddenly invaded his body like a group of hooligans. Albert didn't make it to the bathroom. He vomited into a bowl of popcorn he had left on the table the night before.

'I've never killed anybody before. That kid . . . I didn't even notice the other one because I had to act, I shot without thinking. But the kid . . . he was just a baby. And he looked me in the eye.'

Orville didn't say anything, because there was nothing he could say.

They stood like that for ten minutes.

'I understand him now,' the young priest finally said.

'Who?'

'A friend of mine. Someone who's had to kill, and who's suffered because of it.'

'Are you talking about Fowler?'

Albert eyed him suspiciously.

'How do you know that name?'

'Because this whole mess began when Kayn Industries contracted my services. They wanted to know about Father Anthony Fowler. And I can't help noticing that you're also a priest.'

This made Albert even more nervous. He grabbed Orville by the bathrobe.

'What did you say to them?' he shouted. 'I have to know!'

'I told them everything,' Orville said flatly. 'His training, that he was connected to the CIA, to the Holy Alliance . . .'

'Oh G.o.d! Do they know his real mission?'

'I don't know. They asked me two questions. The first was, who is he? The second: who would matter to him?'

'What did you find out? And how?'

'I didn't find out anything. I would have given up if I hadn't received an anonymous envelope containing a photo and the name of a reporter: Andrea Otero. A note in the envelope said Fowler would do anything to make sure she wasn't harmed.'

Albert let go of Orville's robe and began pacing around the room as he tried to piece it all together.

'Everything is starting to make sense . . . When Kayn went to the Vatican and told them he had a clue to finding the Ark, that it could be in the hands of an old n.a.z.i war criminal, Cirin promised to put his best man on the case. In exchange, Kayn had to take a Vatican observer on the expedition. By giving you Otero's name, Cirin made sure that Kayn would allow Fowler to be part of the expedition because then Cirin could control him through Otero, and that Fowler would accept the mission in order to protect her. Manipulative son of a b.i.t.c.h,' Albert said, restraining a smile that was half disgust, half admiration.

Orville looked at him with his mouth open.

'I don't understand a word you're saying.'

'That's lucky for you: if you did then I'd have to kill you. Only joking. Listen, Orville, I didn't rush out to save your life because I'm an agent with the CIA. I'm not. I'm just a simple link in the chain, doing a favour for a friend. And that friend is in serious danger, in part because of the report you gave Kayn about him. Fowler is in Jordan, on a crazy expedition to recover the Ark of the Covenant. And as strange as it might seem, the expedition may prove a success.'

'Huqan,' Orville said, barely audible. 'I found something out by chance about Jordan and Huqan. I gave the information to Kayn.'

'The guys at the Company retrieved that from your hard disks, but nothing else.'

'I managed to find a mention of Kayn on one of the web-mail servers used by terrorists. Do you know much about Islamic terrorism?'

'Only what I've read in the New York Times New York Times.'

'Then we're not even at square one. Here's a crash course. The media's high opinion of Osama Bin Laden, the villain in this film, makes no sense. Al Qaeda as a super-evil organisation doesn't exist. There's no head to chop off. The jihad jihad doesn't have a head. The doesn't have a head. The jihad jihad is a commandment from G.o.d. There are thousands of cells at different levels. They drive and inspire each other without having anything to do with each other.' is a commandment from G.o.d. There are thousands of cells at different levels. They drive and inspire each other without having anything to do with each other.'

'It's impossible to fight against that.'

'Exactly. It's like trying to cure an illness. There isn't a miracle cure, like the invasion of Iraq, or Lebanon, or of Iran. We can only produce white blood cells to kill the germs one by one.'

'That's your job.'

'The problem is that it's not possible to infiltrate Islamic terrorist cells. They can't be bribed. What motivates them is religion, or at least the twisted notion they have of it. You can understand that, I suppose.'

Albert's expression was sheepish.

'They use a different vocabulary,' Orville went on. 'It's a language that's too complex for this country. They can have dozens of different aliases, they use a different calendar . . . a westerner needs dozens of checks and mental codes for each piece of information. That's where I come in. With one click of a mouse I'm right there, in between one of these fanatics and another three thousand miles away.'

'The Internet.'