"If you wouldn't mind..."

"Yes?"

"Choosing nature over artificial laws..."

"Yes?"

"I'd enjoy making love to you."

"Drew..." It was his turn now to ask, "Yes?"

"Come over here."

In the late afternoon, with the draperies closed and the room in cool shadows, they held each other on the bed after making love. Naked, relaxed, enjoying the touch of each other's skin, neither spoke for quite a while. But preoccupations intruded. "The priest," Drew said.

"I know. I wish we didn't have to."

"But the problem won't go away."

Brooding, he reached for his clothes. "There's something I'm curious about," Arlene said. He stopped buttoning his shirt. "Curious?"

"Before, when you had to leave the monastery, you couldn't stop asking questions. About how the culture had changed in the six years you'd been away and who was president and what had happened in the world. But this time, after a year in the desert, you haven't asked me anything."

His cheek muscles rippled. "Yes. Because the last time, I didn't like what I learned."

"Then why call the priest? Why don't we disappear? Retreat. Together."

"Because I no longer believe I can retreat. I want this settled. So I don't have to worry about the Fraternity. Or anyone else interfering with us. Ever again."

Cairo was heat, noise, crowds, and traffic jams. Automobile exhaust fought to destroy the fragrance of Arabian food and spices sold at bazaars. The complex directions they'd been given over the telephone led Drew and Arlene through a maze of narrow streets. They reached a door to a restaurant whose Egyptian sign had an English translation:

"The Needle's Eye." He glanced both ways along the lane, seeing no sudden reaction from anyone, no interruption of the natural rhythm of the crowd. Of course, the absence of unusual activity didn't prove they weren't being followed; a professional tail wasn't likely to give himself away so easily. On the other hand, at least they hadn't proved they were being followed, and for the moment, that consolation would have to do. They entered the restaurant's murky interior. Drew's first impression, apart from shadows, was one of smell. Pungent tobacco smoke. Strong coffee aroma. Next came touch--the gritty feel of the stone floor beneath his shoes. In a moment, his eyes adjusted to the layout of the restaurant--wooden tables and chairs, no tablecloths, but several ornate Arabian rugs on the walls, except in back, where behind a counter colorful bottles and polished brass containers were stacked on shelves below a mirror. Here and there along the walls, intricately carved wooden partitions surrounded the tables. Apart from a white-aproned waiter behind the counter and two men dressed in dark suits and red fezzes sitting at the far left corner table, the place was deserted. Drew and Arlene chose a table on the right. The table was equidistant between the entrance and what Drew assumed would be a rear exit through the kitchen behind the counter. They sat with their back to the wall. "What time did he say he'd meet us?" Drew asked. "He didn't exactly. All he said was, he'd be here before sundown." Drew tapped his fingers on the table. "You want some coffee?"

"Egyptian coffee? That stuff's so strong I might as well put a gun to my head and blow my brains out that way." Drew started to laugh but stopped when he heard a chair scrape behind a wooden partition to his left. A man in a white suit appeared from behind the partition and paused at the table. The man was solidly built, olive-complexioned, with a thick dark mustache that emphasized his smile. The smile was one of amusement as much as friendliness. "Ms. Hardesty, I spoke to you earlier on the phone."

"You're not the priest who came to me in New York," Arlene said. Drew braced himself to stand. "No," the man said agreeably. "You're right,

I'm not. The priest you spoke to--Father Victor--was called away on an urgent assignment" The man continued to smile. "My name is Father

Sebastian. I hope the shift in personnel is acceptable. But of course, you'll want credentials." The man held out his left hand, palm down, revealing a ring on his middle finger. The ring had a large perfect ruby that glinted even in shadow. Its band and setting were thick gleaming gold. On the top of the ruby, an insignia showed an intersecting sword and cross. Religion and violence. The symbol of the Fraternity of the

Stone. Drew shuddered.

"I see you're familiar with it." Father Sebastian kept smiling.

"Anybody can wear a ring."

"Not this ring."

"Perhaps," Drew said. "May the Lord be with you." Father Sebastian's smile faded. "Ah."

"That's right." Drew's tone became gruff. "The code. Go on and finish it. The Fraternity's greeting. 'May the Lord be with you.'"

"And with your spirit"

"The rest of it?"

"Deo gratias. Are you satisfied?"

"Just getting started. Dominus vobis cum

"Et cum spiritu tuo."

"Hoc est enim..."

"Corpus meum."

"Pater Noster..."

"Qui est in co eli Arlene interrupted, "What are you two talking about?"

"We're exchanging the responses of a traditional mass," Drew said. "The

Fraternity's conservative. In the mid-sixties, it never shifted

Catholic ritual from Latin into the vernacular. And you"--Drew studied the swarthy, Egyptian-looking man with the ring who'd said his name was

Father Sebastian-- "are younger than I am. Thirty? Unless you belonged to the Fraternity, you wouldn't have seen a real mass in so long you couldn't remember the Latin responses. Who founded the Fraternity?"

"Father Jerome."

"When?"

"The Third Crusade. Eleven ninety-two."

"His real name?"

"Hassan ibn al-Sabbah. Coincidentally the same name as the Arab originator of terrorism a hundred years earlier. Though a monk. Father

Jerome was recruited as an assassin by the crusaders because he was an

Arab and hence could mix freely with the enemy. But in contrast with

Arab tenor. Father Jerome's was holy terror. And since that time, we've"-- Father Sebastian shrugged--"done whatever was necessary to protect the Church. Now are you satisfied?" Drew nodded. The priest sat at the table. "And your credentials?"

"You had plenty of chance to study me through that partition. You must have a photograph."

"Plastic surgery can work wonders."