ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

"By this means you seldom fail, and at least you thought it all out, planned it all," Omar Hammad Aboudi, a professor of Arabic studies from Iraq, said. He exchanged a brief glance with his colleague Nabih Fadhil Hunarfar, a professor of Iranian descent focusing on Middle Eastern studies and languages, especially Farsi. Both men were Muslim. Omar had become a naturalized U.S. citizen. Nabih held only Iranian citizenship.

The beige four-door Impala that Nabih was driving sped along in the dark on Interstate 94 as they headed toward Detroit Metropolitan Airport for a flight, to depart around dawn, for New York.

"It’s a hardship, Leyla," Nabih said to someone over his cell phone. "They have no one to supply their meals since the proclamation."

"The INS ruling," Omar said, as if listening in.

Both men spoke in Arabic.

It was around five in the morning on Friday, July 11, 2003. Both men were due that afternoon at a conference sponsored by the Arab-American Forum, to be held at the Grand Hyatt Regency in midtown Manhattan, to begin later that day. Omar was to attend only the weekend meetings and then to jet on to Rome the following Monday, on from there to Istanbul and Kuwait City, and from there by taxi across the border into Iraq.

"What they want is a large sum of money," Nabih said, one hand on the wheel, the other holding his phone. "Then we can stay in America. Otherwise, the common answer is, ‘You could be deported,’ and no right to appeal."

"For the most part," Omar said.

Nabih hung up. "She’s distraught trying to tell the children why their father is still in Yemen."

"They’ll have to let him back in after the change in administration."

"Next year’s election," Nabih said. "We can hope. She read off a litany of rumors swirling around the Iraqi community in New York."

"Such as?"

"Such as the sighting of American soldiers embracing Iraqi women on the Baghdad corners like in a Broadway musical. And women burning their veils or the old Iraqi flag."

"What about the electricity?" Omar asked. "And air-conditioning?"

"That the Americans want to make them all sweat, Texas-style dirty tricks courtesy of their sonofabush President."

Omar touched his upper lip a moment and smiled. "Rumors. The source of these rumors?"

"The Internet. The Iraqi family on the next floor in their apartment house. Rumors so bizarre, unreal, yet almost sounding like a summer mirage that will not evaporate. They say the tomb of Nebuchadnezzar in Babylon was defiled by Christian soldiers, American soldiers."

"How so?" Omar asked.

"Two infantrymen in body-armor uniforms put a crucifix at the base of the tomb and turned toward Rome and prayed."

"Outrageous."

"Their commanding officer made them take it away," Nabih said. "Another apology forthcoming from the American high command."

"If American apologies were money, we’d all be rich."

"Then there was an incident involving one of the minarets at the Kadimiyah Shrine," Nabih said.

"What incident?"

"Atop the southwest minaret," Nabih said. "Someone, they think it was an American soldier who had been drinking, climbed up inside the minaret around dusk and began playing a loud radio with shock rock lyrics last month, before the usual call for prayers. There was a speaker blasting it over the entire district for almost a minute before clerics raced up the stairs and smashed the radio by dropping it onto the ground outside the walls. By the time they got there, whoever did it had slipped out of sight. An imam declared the site in need of purification before more prayers."

Shaking his head, Omar said, "No."

"More incredible, and something that Leyla said is truly believed now by hundreds of people throughout the region, is that there is an Islamic spiritual leader who will appear later this year, first in Baghdad, then in Iran, and who will lead a revolt against the Americans."

"A leader?" Omar asked. "What do they mean by spiritual leader? We have many imams who look to the future of the Shiia."

"Leyla said they believe that Islam will be blessed by Allah with a new voice like unto Mohammed. If not as great as Mohammed, at least as inspired. That he will revive all of Islam and lead a crusade."

"As inspired as Mohammed sounds close to blasphemy," Omar said.

"He will be so great that many will believe him to be a precursor to the end of the world," Nabih said.

"Do they have any candidates for the job?" Omar asked.

"No one knows who it will be, Omar," Nabih said. He slowed down as they reached the airport entrance, turned to Omar, and said, "Allah will simply raise up the man, and he will have no choice."

"No choice?" Omar said.

"He will do as Allah says. Allah will choose a faithful Muslim to be this leader, and no one need concern themselves with who he is, or where he is."

"Then the rumors are that this leader or prophet does not know he is the prophet, or that he will be the prophet?" Omar asked.

"Allah alone knows whom He will choose."

"It leaves the mind reeling," Omar said. "It’s mind-boggling."

"No."

"Yes, it’s mind-boggling, Nabih, but that could be all that will save the Near East from apocalypse. A messenger from Allah."

"And here is what he will do," Nabih said, and he repeated details of a legend circulating on the Internet.

"And there are already claimants, false prophets, placing their web-sites on the Net, suggesting they will be this Muslim savior," Nabih concluded as they drove up to a parking space. "And it is rumored that one of these imposters, a Muslim from Connecticut, was shot or disappeared last week."

"Disappeared."

"There are Islamists who do not approve of such things," Nabih said. "Most likely he went into hiding for a while."

They got out, grumbled about not being able to check their luggage street-side, and found a porter to help them with their large suitcases while they toted their carry-on luggage into the Smith Terminal.

Soon they were standing in line noticing the occasional suspicion in the eyes of others waiting to be ticketed, eager for the line at the Delta desk to begin to move forward. They spoke in English now that they were in a crowd.

"Shoe shine," Nabih said. "This will make a fortune for the shoe shine men. No one wants to be embarrassed taking off their dirty shoes."

The name behind the visa.

The entire country in lockdown.

"I saw the electric girders up there wired, but a cut down the middle," Omar said, pointing to some exposed ductwork above the lobby. "It takes a welder."

Six air-conditioning vents in the ceiling above the line were partially exposed. Rumor had it that it was due to mold in the venting.

Omar stared upward. "I can’t get over the lights here early in the morning, all the glass, on driving up to the boarding ramp."

"Perfect for delayed lapse photography," Nabih said.

They both pushed their luggage a bit further, using their feet, casually.

"Who did that?" Nabih asked, pointing to a twelve foot square abstract mural hanging from the ceiling, nearly touching the wall, but suspended, and which most visitors to the terminal rarely stopped to notice.

"I don’t know," Omar said. "Quite a mosaic effect, circles within circles, the fan-like effect."

"Any trouble parking?" another Arabic man standing nearby called over to Nabih.

"No," he said. "Somewhere out in the dark rests my Impala, until next week."

Two white men ages forty-five and fifty-five, one seated at a bench along the wall, the other standing, were flipping through a brochure.

"Sales pitch," Nabih said. "The bald man with the blue tie will get the better of the other."

"Think so?" Omar asked. He pointed to an abstract wire sculpture, over by a fountain area, its golden metal arcing like fireworks. "Quite an explosive effect."

A rather plump short woman in a grey business outfit standing just behind them coughed politely. She had a Touchpad and was alternately watching the men in front of her and using a pen to make entries to the program.

"Here come the hard hats," Nabih said, as two men in blue and grey overalls, with white safety helmets, strode up, one with a sixteen-foot extension ladder.

The lines were obliged to move somewhat so the maintenance men could get up into the ventilation ducts. Wrenches and pliers flopping from their utility belts, the two clambered up the ladder and disappeared into the exposed vents. They began talking, calling to someone far down the concourse, also up in the ceiling.

"The draftsman…it’s the red switch, the red switch. The cable…" and on the chatter from the ceiling area drifted about as the airport technicians sought the source of a problem with the cooling system.

"It’s getting warm," Nabih said.

"Summer-like," the woman in back of them said. "At least with my hair short, it won’t matter if we smother in here."

"Nice earrings," Omar said.

"Thank you."

"First white lady to talk to me at the airport since nine eleven," Nabih said.

"I’m Shoshone," she said.

"Iraqi-American," Omar said.

"Iranian," Nabih said.

"Your work?" Omar asked.

"I’m a manufacturer’s representative for a stone quarry in western Illinois," she said.

"Slabs of marble and granite," Omar said.

"And polished stone," she said. "For office towers and hospitals."

"I teach," Omar said, "at the University in Ann Arbor."

"And I lecture at the University," Nabih said. "Arab studies and the Persian language."

"Middle-Eastern culture and Arabic languages," Omar said.

"I thought of buying one of those," she said, gesturing to Nabih’s notebook.

"It’s state of the art," Nabih said, opening up his laptop. "It has a two gigahertz processor, thirty gig hard drive, lithium ion battery for three or more hours, internal fax and NIC, mobile wireless networking, two fifty-six meg shared DDR SDRAM."

"How does the wireless work?" she asked.

"It’s the Pentium Four makes it work, like my cell phone," Nabih said. "I can call up the Internet from anywhere in the world."

"Could you call up my computer?" she asked.

"Any other computer with wireless," Nabih said, "or that is connected by cable or phone line with the Internet, I can call up from here, standing right here."

They looked toward the massive columns that appeared to recede smaller and smaller down the concourse, a red carpeted stairway to a lounge area, metal railings, endless small ceiling lights, like a starry heaven.

"Any of this from your firm?" Omar asked.

"No, not for the airport," she said. "But we have a bid in for a job at Ann Arbor, at the University Hospital, for the addition."

Omar nodded. "I live near there on Cambridge."

The line moved further.

A few people were groping for their paper tickets.

"E-ticket," Omar said.

"We could play tennis in here while waiting," Nabih said.

It was just beginning to dawn outside, early July. An elaborate four-story tall scaffolding surrounded an exterior building, across from their terminal. "Like a prison," Nabih said, looking out the windows.

"How so?" Omar asked.

"It reminds me of the cages at Guantanamo and my brother."

Just then, Nabih’s brother - Kamal Mumtaz Hunarfar - who went by the pseudonym Akbar, sat in front of a blue electric generator atop his breakfast room bar in his Chicago apartment. He reached up, his watch showing it was about 5:50 a.m., and grasped a red display panel with gages and dials, and adjusted one. He connected wires to the generator and turned it on. Nothing.

He pulled some plugs, flipped some switches, and then the generator began a low humming. He began humming in rhythm. He looked out at the twenty-story blue glass office building just down the street from the 1930’s eight-story house where he had rented an apartment since February 2001, and put on a pair of thick sunglasses that protected his entire eye area. He put on a pair of white gloves, soldered a few connections, got up, placed a cover over the machines on the bar, and walked to his bedroom.

There, in the one arm chair that fit alongside a full-size bed with black wrought-iron bedpost, sat a man of about twenty-seven years, from Yemen, or so he had been told by his parents, who had raised him in Syria.

Akbar took a seat at an antique oak desk on which sat a PC with large flat screen monitor and began typing at the keyboard.

"Ramesh," Akbar said.

Ramesh got up from his chair and stood beside the desk. Using telephony software, a number was dialed.

Back at the airport terminal, Nabih’s cell phone rang. He answered and expressed mild surprise to hear his brother’s voice.

"No, no delays," Nabih said. "A bit of commotion when some technicians climbed into the ceiling vents to get the air conditioning working. It’s beginning to feel stuffy."

Nabih’s laptop, with its state-of-the-art wireless capability, was open, atop his two suitcases, and the green light lit up as he talked. The screen went blank.

"Omar is standing beside me now," Nabih said.

Back in the apartment bedroom, Ramesh was feverishly typing at the PC, glaring at the monitor, and scribbling notes that he quickly passed to Akbar.

"When will Omar be back in Detroit?" Akbar asked.

"Here," Nabih said, "why don’t you ask him?" He handed the cell phone to Omar.

Nabih’s laptop monitor lit up, with displays appearing in rapid succession as if a program were outputting to the screen.

"Hello, Akbar," Omar said, smiling. "Possibly in a month, a little sooner if I can use some frequent flyer miles."

The terminal lighting, everything from ceiling bulbs to fluorescent tubes over the check-in counters, dimmed for a second. The crowd gasped, a few chuckles, "Oh no’s".

"The lights went out," Omar said.

Back in Akbar’s bedroom, Ramesh cracked a wry smile.

Back in the airport, "What the?" rang out from a loud bass male voice up the ceiling area.

One of the technicians began descending the ladder. "My hard drive has disappeared," he called out. He held a laptop which was used to check the airport mechanical systems in his hands. "Hold this," the technician said to a man out of view.

"His hard drive has disappeared?" the Shoshone woman mumbled.

"What happened?" a man in the crowd called up to the man on the ladder.

"I can’t find anything on my hard drive. It’s been erased!"

The monitor on Nabih’s laptop went blank. The green light flashed indicating that a program was being run.

Back in the apartment, Akbar said over the cell phone, "What happened?"

"Computer glitch," Nabih said. "A technician here lost all his files."

Turning to Ramesh, Akbar said, "You erased them… You were to copy them. Can you send them back?"

"If his laptop is still on."

"Hurry," Akbar said.

The crowd went back to standing quietly, shuffling feet, inching their luggage forward. A technician tossed down an orange and yellow vinyl rope from the vent opening. Two other technicians, one with blonde moustache and wavy hair, the other with blue t-shirt, navy blue baseball cap, jeans, and with a brown beard, walked up.

"You were on the net," the man with the moustache called to the technician. "Hand down you laptop."

Already halfway down the ladder, the technician walked back up to where the man’s hands were holding out the computer notebook through the venting.

"You were plugged in," the blonde man said.

"I was plugged into the phone cable. Not the net," the technician said.

"You’re sure?"

"Sure as I’ve ever been." He set foot on the polished flooring and handed his laptop to the blonde man. "Here, Casey. You check it out."

"It’s still on," Casey said.

"I know it’s on. It’s always on. I have it on all the time to keep tabs on the billion wires and connections running through the terminal."

"You’re hard drive is not erased, Kevin," Casey said.

"It wasn’t there a moment ago," Kevin said.

The monitor on Nabih’s laptop, just twenty-five feet away from the technical discussion, went blank again.

"Bye for now," Nabih said, his conversation with his brother having continued, intermittently, while he and the crowd watched the spectacle of the technicians.

"It’s there," Casey said. "You’re files are corrupted."

"It must be the power surge."

"Was there a power surge?" Casey asked.

"For a moment, when the lights went out. Anyway, can’t you feel it? I got the air-conditioning going."

People in the crowd began chuckling lightly, breathing with relief.

"Feels better already," Omar said, looking at Nabih.

Akbar looked at Ramesh, glanced at the additional gigabytes now stored on his PC, and said, "Nabih’s laptop has only two fifty-six processing power."

"I copied his hard drive, erased it from his laptop, and meg by meg siphoned off the technician’s files, and oh no!" And he grasped his mouth. "I forgot to copy your brother’s files back to his laptop."

"Then do so."

"Done."

Back at the terminal, with dawn clearly visible outside, Omar and Nabih had reached the ticket counter. Around them, men with beards, a pregnant woman in a skirt, a child with bonnet and shift, a priest in black garb, stood with hands folded over their chests, calmly waiting their turn.

Omar’s e-ticket was quickly scanned. He prepared to check his bags.

Two tall men with suit jackets came quietly out a door in back of the counter and looked at the agent’s console. One of the two, who walked like a dancer and had the hardened unflinching face of a football lineman, motioned to Omar to step out of the line.

"Mr. Aboudi?" the security agent asked.

"Aboudi," Omar said, correcting the pronunciation.

"Aboudi."

"Yes."

"What?" Nabih asked.

"Please, sir," the second agent said to Nabih.

"Could you come with us?" the first agent asked Omar.

"What’s this about?"

"We’re really not at liberty to say."

"I’m a naturalized citizen. I have a visa to travel back to my homeland."

"Yes. Would you come with us?"

"Must I?"

"Must he?" the first agent asked.

"Would you?" the second agent asked, opening the palm of his hand as if inviting Omar to dine.

"I do not want to miss our flight," Omar said.

"We won’t detain you long."

"Detain?" Omar asked.

"Not another detainee," Nabih said.

"Please, sir," the first agent said, glaring at Nabih.

"Do I have to talk with you?" Omar asked.

"No," the first agent said.

"Then what’s this about?" Omar asked.

"We’re not at liberty to say," the second agent said.

"I’ve been a resident of the United States since twenty years and more. I became a citizen twelve years ago. I attended a university here. I discern something hasty in your manner."

"Well, if you must know," the first agent said, "it has to do with a matter of national security. Could you just step into this office for a few minutes? It would be voluntary. You won’t miss your flight. I promise you."

Omar heaved an angry sigh, glared at the two men, who blinked in astonishment, turned to Nabih and said, "You get us a window seat. I’ll be right back."

"See you at gate eighteen," Nabih said.

"I’ll keep my carry-on," Omar said. "After you. Are you with the Immigration Service?"

"No."

"FBI?" Omar asked.

"No."

"Homeland Security?"

"No."

"NSA?"

"Got it right the fourth try, Omar."

The three men stepped into an office just to the left of the ticket area.

The first agent, who looked uncannily like the second, was clean-shaven with dark hair. He was about thirty, wearing a dark grey summer weight suit with the two lower buttons on the jacket buttoned. His shirt was white with tan and black pin stripes, no buttons on the collar, his tie a burgundy shade with numerous silvery decahedral shapes that looked like circles. Omar had thought he was Moroccan or Syrian on first glance.

The second agent, his side burns also cut almost to the top of his ears, was clean-shaven, a small dark mole in his left cheek. He wore a navy blue suit with a metallic sheen and a light blue pinstripe, double-breasted, with only one button buttoned. He shirt was also white, with lavender, mauve, and light grey pinstripes. His tie was silk with blue-grey streaks that puzzled Omar as to what they were meant to represent.

Seated at a computer was a female secretary, about thirty-two, with thick wavy auburn hair combed back, curled, and eyeglasses with wide rims in a similar shade. She was a white woman, wore large oval earrings of pewter, a white blouse with dark blue boomerang shapes, and brown skirt.

"Pat will keep a record of what we say," the first agent said. "I’m Paul Beltmann."

"I’m Tony Lyeforth," the second agent said.

"We’re with the National Security Agency."

"Why do you want to talk to me?"

"Because you’re booked to fly to Al-Kuwayt."

"I’m from Iraq. I have a tourist visa, even though I’m still a citizen of Iraq or what’s left of it. I’ve had the shots. I have contacted the Republic of Iraq Interests Section in Washington about helping my sister and her family and my cousins for several weeks. I have the sponsorship of the U.S. government. I mean, I have written to the U.S. State Department and have received written reply that they have no objections to my returning to my homeland."

"We know," Lyeforth said. "We understand you’re to return to America in about three weeks."

"If you know this, why are you detaining me?"

"Three weeks isn’t very much of a stay for such a long trip," Lyeforth said.

"I have a full course schedule to teach at the University when I return and much preparation, talks with some graduate assistants," Omar said.

"You’ll have to renew your visa after eight days," Beltmann said.

"I know. I have the information I can stay longer by applying at the Directorate of Residents in Sa’adoun Street. I used to live in Baghdad. I can find it."

"You’ll have to have a letter of support from a sponsor," Lyeforth said. "You have one from the State Department, I understand."

"You are quite thorough," Omar said. "They said I have the right to help there, and I have their letter in my briefcase."

"Could we see it?" Beltmann asked.

"You don’t have to show it to me. I just wanted to make sure it’s in order so the military police won’t track you down."

"Then I won’t. It is a personal visit, but also a sort of relief work and to help my family cope with the situation."

"That’s very admirable of you, Mr. Aboudi," Lyeforth said.

"Then why this harassment? What have I done that you want to speak with me?"

"This is why we want to talk with you," Beltmann said.

Pat began typing into the computer monitor. Omar noticed a small tape recorder on the desk that was running.

Omar had grown up in the 1960’s and 70’s in a marshy area along a tributary of the Euphrates River, halfway between the ancient sites of Uruk and Larsa. He had first learned English at a small outdoor school on a stretch of land that he could walk to in a matter of seconds from his parents’ reed hut.

Sitting in the terminal office, as the NSA agents began explaining why they had pulled Omar from the check-in line, he recalled the crude unpainted unpolished wood desks, little more than leftover crates, on which he and the other schoolboys sat while their itinerant schoolmaster lectured them on the basics of English spelling and grammar.

His first school teacher, a slim man in his thirties, always dressed in a black suit, usually the same suit, wearing black polished shoes, white shirt with cuffs extending just an inch below the arms of the suit, and narrow tie. With a thirty-inch reed in hand, the teacher would point to words on a page in a book he held for all the boys to see.

It was a habitat of reeds. As far as the eye could see, to the pale blue haze over the barren Iraqi landscape, reeds defined the way of life. The ground by the desks was covered by an intricate patchwork of reeds, a flag-pole of reed, fencing of reed, even artful stalks of reed waving like a freeform arrangement from a Silicon Valley florist that costs more than the average Iraqi made in a month. A reed platform with a reed hut, mostly made of reed, some mud daubed on the concave roof of one room, the home consisting of several separate huts through which they moved for meals, or sleep, or in the clean-swept open V-shaped hut where the men would talk late into the night after fishing and herding. There was an opening in the low fence that encompassed their home, so young Omar could always swim in the calm waters of the inlet that separated his daily life from the school area.

The boys, generally with black or dark brown hair, occasionally with lighter hair, wore long sleeve cotton or muslin shirts, with all shades of blue the preference, stripes, collars not too neatly tucked and folded.

Seated with agents Lyeforth and Beltmann talking about the deteriorating situation in Iraq and the theft of art treasures from the museums in Iraq, Omar recalled one day as a boy when he learned to use English verbs at the marsh school.

On the large blackboard resting at an angle on the ground were the phrases: He is, He has, He can, He does, He moves.

On the book in the teacher’s hand were pictures of a young man in swimming trunks about to jump off a dock, and a small map of the world, with Arabic and English words juxtaposed side by side.

Omar had decided that day he would learn to master both languages and make his living as a teacher.

Most of the boys would sit attentively, sometimes scowling if nudged by the boy next to them, studious, politely turning their heads to let the teacher know they were taking notice of everything.

Some with long combed hair, tousled hair, short hair, one boy with a sad pale look in grey shirt, another in blue sweater, listening to the teacher and the ripple of waves along the inlet, their mothers across the way wearing long chadors of black, red, patchworks of colors, their entire bodies and faces usually covered, the wind drying blankets and clothes left out in the sun, black cattle grazing in solitary fields, a few men in the low black river canoes fishing, paddling past the other huts that dotted the tributary.

"So," agent Beltmann concluded, "we want you to sit in row twenty-one. To your left will be a tall man with glasses in business clothes who will give his first name as Phillip. You have until you reach New York to give this more thought, if you want to help us track down some of the looted treasures."

"You know I do," Omar said. "But not necessarily in this way."

"Then tell Phillip you will meet him in the Newark International lounge before heading on to your conference. He’ll agree to meet you, to talk about the situation in Iraq, as if you were colleagues from the same university. And if you do so, he’ll bring you information on whom next to contact in Rome."

"Rome?"

"Yes," Lyeforth said. "This was all quite impromptu as we just last night learned of the suspected destination of the treasures we described."

"I have seen all of them in the museums," Omar said, "several times, even as a teenager. I will give this much thought. Now, I must return to my travel companion."

"Yes," Beltmann said. "Nabih. His brother."

"His brother was questioned by Immigration after nine-eleven and photographed," Omar said. "He’s been fingerprinted. He’s not a terrorist."

"We don’t suspect his brother," Lyeforth said. "But there is a man who lives with his brother."

"I know nothing of that," Omar said.

"Enough then," Lyeforth said.

"Enough," Omar said.

"That’s good enough," Beltmann said, opening the door. "Thank you for that. Have a good flight."

Omar walked to the concourse area and soon was out of sight.

Beltmann and Lyeforth stepped back into the secure office. Pat left the room, and the door was shut.

"Let’s hook up with the other team and see what results they’re getting," Beltmann said. He dialed a number on a computer console, and they waited for the connection to take.

"Awfully risky," Lyeforth said. "What if they all accept?"

"Then we’ll have three Iraqi natives searching for loot."

"But what if they get wise that we have no idea where any of the loot is hidden, that we had the most valuable pieces locked in a bank vault?" Lyeforth asked.

"Then they get the satisfaction of having tried to help retrieve some of their nation’s treasures."

"But what if this first man is the man we’re looking for?" Lyeforth asked. "What if?"

"What if? What if. Here, they’re talking to the man at Logan."

Over the computer speakers came the clear voices of men talking in rather deep serious tones about Iraq, the looting of the museums.

"By the time you’re due in London, the man seated next to you will have opened an issue of Time to an article on the recovered artifacts from the Iraqi National Museum," a baritone voice was saying. "He will offer it to you to read. If you refuse, that will be the sign to him that you are not interested in working with us once you return to Iraq, and he will simply chat about the weather, Tony Blair."

"He will not be interested in my opinion of Tony Blair, I assure you. I’m not sure that I can do much for you," a man’s voice with thick Arab accent said.

"Omar speaks such flawless English," Lyeforth said.

Over the speaker, the Arab’s voice continued, "What reason have you to think the gold and silver billy goat is being hidden in Mosul?"

Another American-sounding male voice came over the speaker. "Intelligence reports from men who looted the museum in April are indicative of much trafficking of the stolen artifacts that were in the lot that included the billy goat, and that similar items are being shipped to the Mosul area."

"And you think my cousins or contacts know of this or were part of this and that they will lead me to the treasure?" the Arab’s voice said.

"We’re offering you security for your efforts," the first voice said.

"Security?" the Arab’s voice resounded with irony. "In Iraq? Today? This month? I think you’re trying to get me killed."

"Think about it," the first male voice said.

"I am thinking about it," the Arab’s voice said. "I’ll think about it. If I want to work with you, I’ll take the magazine. Then I’ll be contacted again in London as to what to do. And you’re both to be in Iraq next week or the following."

"We are," one male voice said.

"Thank you for the interview, Mr. Beltmann. And Mr. Lyeforth."

"It’s our pleasure," the second man said.

"Three Beltmanns and three Lyeforths, and I’m beginning to forget my own name," the Tony Lyeforth in the Detroit Metropolitan Airport safe room said.

"We’ve got three hours before the next team approach their man at Reagan," the Beltmann in Detroit said. "Omar could have signaled by then."

"But think of the risk," the Lyeforth in Detroit said. "What if he’s killed?"

"He hasn’t accepted yet," Beltmann said.

"But friend Omar," Lyeforth began.

"Friend Omar?" Beltmann asked.

"If he accepts, thinking he’s been recruited by NSA to track lost art," Lyeforth said.

"Looted, lost, wandered off, that’s all secondary," Beltmann said.

"I know. If Omar begins to suspect that he’s being groomed, so to speak, to be this prophet rumored on the Internet, that we’re trying to create the illusion of an Islamic savior, to bring the Iraqi people together to end the violence, something to believe in. If he suspects, he’ll tell them all what we’ve been up to."

"By then he’ll be world famous," Beltmann said. "He won’t dare disillusion his followers that he was set up by the NSA. Then he could be killed. He won’t dare tell the people that he’s a fiction. A fictitious prophet."

"But to shoot out his tire on the Long Island Expressway. He could be killed," Lyeforth said.

"It’s a risk. We’ll have three cars, film crew, ready to slow him down and a good Samaritan to offer him a ride to have the tire changed," Beltmann said.

"He looks capable of changing his own tire," Lyeforth said.

"His rental car will be lacking a jack," Beltmann said. "He’ll be given a free ride by an operative who will take him wherever he wants in Queens, arrange for his spare to be put on, deluxe treatment."

"The video," Lyeforth said. "You’re sure camcorders will catch it all?"

"Miraculous survival of a near-fatal crash," Beltmann said. "Just the stuff to begin a legend of a modern Islamic leader."

Back in Akbar’s apartment, the two men at the computer were reviewing files, notes, and pages from a laser printer.

"Play it back," Akbar said to Ramesh.

Over the computer speaker in the bedroom came the voices of the NSA agents in the Detroit safe room who had given their names as Beltmann and Lyeforth, and that of Omar.

"If I have decided to work with you in tracking down the looted treasures you believe are hidden in the marsh villages where I grew up," Omar’s voice said, "I’ll take the magazine. I would like to help. I’m not sure. It will be dangerous."

"We’re offering you some additional security," Beltmann’s voice said on the recording. "We’ll have American and Iraqi agents watching you, keeping an eye on you, gathering information you need."

"You’re going to have me watched? Stalked? By your agents in Iraq?"

"Not stalked," Lyeforth said.

"Yes, stalked," Omar’s voice on the recording said. "Why, if I’m working with you? Don’t you trust me?"

"We trust you to hand over any treasures you find or to tell us the location of treasures you learn about," Beltmann said.

"You trust me to do that," Omar said. "You can trust me in that. Yes. You think the gilded bull’s head with lapis beard could be hidden in one of the reed huts along the Euphrates?"

"Intelligence sources indicate it is, or was. We haven’t a moment to lose, so if your answer is ‘yes’, we’ll use every expediency to get you safely to Bethlehem." Lyeforth’s voice cracked.

Beltmann’s voice broke in, "Larsa."

"Larsa," Lyeforth said.

"Yes," Omar said slowly, "my birthplace near Larsa."

"Turn it off," Akbar said.

Ramesh touched the mouse, and the speaker went silent.

"Friend Omar is being set up," Ramesh said.

"Looted treasure," Akbar said. "Have him followed once he gets to Baghdad. If they’re right, he’ll lead us to one of the most important finds in the art world today."

"We could never sell it on the open market," Ramesh said.

"We’ll return it in triumph to the Iraqi National Museum," Akbar said. "I guarantee it."

"It speaks volumes how stupid the Americans are," Ramesh said, "that they have to recruit Iraqi nationals living here to find looted treasures worth a ransom."

"Stupid? No. How clever all this modern technology. Omar’s cellular phone is connected to his ThinkPad, and Nabih’s laptop with wireless allowed me to turn on the wireless speakers in Omar’s ThinkPad and to eavesdrop on what was being said in that room. If only we knew what the agents were saying after Omar left. Play back the last part."

Ramesh played back the part about Omar’s birthplace.

"Again," Akbar said.

"…safely to Bethlehem." The tape replayed. "Larsa. Larsa."

"Bethlehem. Bethlehem," Akbar said. "Why Bethlehem?"

BY DAVID LAWRENCE CADE

CHAPTER ONE

Copyright 2003 by

David Lawrence Cade

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED