A dark figure stood at the bed’s foot, and in the moment before his vision adjusted Mustafa had the fleeting thought that it might be Satan. Of course that was foolish. Satan doesn’t stand in the light; Satan comes from behind and whispers in your ear.

The figure spoke: “Have you been watching Al Jazeera?”

Not Satan, no. Just Mustafa’s boss. “Hello, Farouk,” he said, his voice a dry whisper. He raised a hand to his neck and felt a thick bandage covering the place where he’d been cut.

“The reason I ask,” Farouk continued, “is that Jazeera’s newscasters have picked up this habit, lately, of referring to our crusader friends as ‘homicide bombers.’” He shook his head. “Homicide bombers . . . What does that even mean? A man builds a bomb, of course he wants to kill someone. It’s the suicide part that makes them special.”

A water pitcher and two glasses sat on the bedside table. Mustafa took his time pouring himself a drink. “I thought I could take him alive,” he said finally.

“You say that as if it were a sane idea.”

“I had him on the ground with a gun to his head, Farouk. He should have surrendered.”

“Yes, that’s what a rational criminal would have done.” Farouk fished a small object from his suit jacket. “Here,” he said, offering it to Mustafa. “A souvenir.”

Mustafa turned the slender bit of polished steel over in his hands several times before recognizing it as a lighter.

“Taken from his pocket,” Farouk said.

“How did you know—”

“That you’d asked him for a light? I know all things. I gather the idea was to get his hand away from the bomb trigger. That would have been genuinely smart, if you’d followed up by shooting him in the face.”

Mustafa found the igniter button, and a focused jet of blue flame hissed from the side of the lighter. “He tried to set the explosive on fire?”

“No, himself. The autopsy found burns on his inner thigh and genitals.” Mustafa glanced up sharply at this, and Farouk shrugged. “Maybe he was fighting the temptation to surrender. Maybe he just wanted a burst of adrenaline. The point is, you were trying to reason with a man who’d sooner burn off his dick than be taken alive . . . Tell me this isn’t about Fadwa.”

“Farouk . . .”

“Because I know all things, I know the official declaration finally came through last month. In light of that, I could overlook a certain amount of idiocy. But a death wish is out of bounds.”

“I’m not trying to get myself killed because of Fadwa, Farouk.”

“No? What is it about then, the other wife?”

“You called Noor.”

“Of course I called Noor. Do you know what she said when I told her you were in the hospital?”

“She asked if I was dying. When you said no, she told you to call her back if that changed.”

“That’s it almost word for word. What kind of woman talks that way about her husband?”

“You said it yourself: the other wife.”

Farouk shook his head again. “The more I learn about plural marriage, the more I thank God for making me a Christian.”