It was obvious that Ibn Muhammed was in a deranged state, and so I focused my attention on the women. Speaking through Tarbell–who turned out to be a master linguist, in keeping with his work as a consummate forger–I described what was about to happen to the countryside around them, using what imagery concerning divine fire I could remember from a college reading of the Koran. As I was speaking, the temperature, even that far underground, continued to rise at an alarming rate, and I pointed out that this had nothing to do with the Americans, which meant that if the women and children died, they would not enter Paradise as martyrs. Ibn Muhammed tried to voice protests but could make no sense, and so eventually the women took their children and followed us out, boarding one of the last vehicles to depart the area and leaving their leader behind to bake in what would shortly become an underground oven.

Our team got quickly and safely back aboard our vessel, to be greeted by Malcolm, whose condition was much improved. As the ship began to withdraw to the north, he asked a flood of questions about the mission, but I for one was utterly exhausted and told him that I couldn’t possibly talk without getting some more substantial rest than I’d had that morning. He accepted this but in a strangely amused way, telling me with what seemed a knowing smile to get what sleep I could. Puzzled but exhausted, I withdrew.

Stumbling back into my quarters, I found them darkened, save for the glow of a lone candle that was sitting on an antique night table. And by the light of that singularly low-tech implement, I could see Larissa waiting in my bed, naked and smiling her most charming smile. Ordinarily, of course, this would hardly have been an unwelcome sight; but given all I’d heard that morning, there was nothing ordinary about the situation.

Larissa instantly read the trepidation in my face. "Oh, dear," she sighed, the silver hair wafting around her face and the dark eyes glittering. "The boys have been talking, I see."

"Yes," I said. "I’ve heard all the stories–all except one, that is."

"Oh?" She dipped her finger in the candle’s pooling wax. "And which one might that be?"

I took a tentative step inside the doorway. "What drove you and your brother to do all these things? Originally, I mean. I’m sorry, but I’m a criminal psychologist–you must have known that I’d ask. Surely Malcolm knew."

Larissa just kept smiling. "Yes. We both did. Well …" She lifted the comforter that covered her. "You’d better come to bed, Doctor, and let me explain."

I stepped fully inside and closed the door to my quarters just as, in the distance behind us, the first American bombs began to fall on the now burning Afghan plain.

TO BE CONTINUED …

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