Declare

go. Bring the car back at dawn.”
    Bin Jalawi had been standing in the doorway; now he nodded and retreated out of sight, closing the door.
    “Sit,” said the Russian, waving toward a palm tree a dozen feet from where he sat; a green or black rattan chair stood there, and Hale crossed the flagstones to it and sat down.
    Hale looked more closely at the Ishmael person; he was much older than he had seemed at first glance, perhaps in his late seventies, and he didn’t look well. His eyes glittered in dark sockets, and his leanness seemed a symptom of fever.
    “You knew Kuwait in the old days, I’m told,” the old man said. “Do you remember the flood of ’34? No? Well, you’d have been a child, wouldn’t you. On the first day of the Ram adan fast, four inches of rain fell in three hours—no drainage, the streets were five feet deep in water, and all the mud houses collapsed. Homeless, destitute. This was in May, when ordinarily there is never any rain. But the desert bloomed, grass for grazing was everywhere, and so butter and mutton and wool were suddenly as cheap as water. They were water, first destructive and then nourishing. You must remember when water was boated in from Iraq.”
    “Yes.” Hale could vividly recall the teak booms that had sailed south daily from the Shatt-al-Arab, anchoring off Ras al-Ajuz to let the silt settle out in the topside tanks; then the itinerant Arab candaris would sell the water from goatskin bags, while established merchants sold it out of carts and trucks.
    Beyond the door Hale heard bin Jalawi’s car engine start up and then shift into gear.
    “And when the sandstorms were fierce from Syria and Iraq,” Ishmael said, “the boats couldn’t sail, and Kuwait went without water for days.” He coughed, and drank from a tumbler of what might have been vodka; when he put the glass down again on the table beside him, Hale noticed an automatic pistol lying beside it. The growl of bin Jalawi’s Chevrolet diminished away down the road outside. “Nowadays,” the old man went on weakly, “the Westinghouse distillation plant at al-Shuwaikh produces millions of gallons of water a day, so pure that brackish water has to be added to give it taste. Do you think the engineers could have accomplished that, if they had not first learned the secrets of rain-storms?”
    “I suppose not.”
    “And still it rains.” What Hale thought was more coughing appeared instead to be laughter. “Other, bigger, powers that can destroy or enrich remain—and if they cannot be tamed as thoroughly as rain and water can be, at least we owe it to ourselves to press for whatever accommodations we can get.”
    The old man gave Hale a quizzical look, and then picked up a cigar from the table and lit it with a gold lighter. In the glare his face was furrowed and lined. “If,” he went on between puffs as the lighter flame rose and fell, “for no other reason—than to prevent inimical nations—from getting such accommodations—for themselves.” He clicked the lighter shut and seemed to disappear in the sudden darkness. “You are , clearly, acquainted with the power I speak of,” came his voice from behind the dim red coal of the cigar, “and you are at the moment a knight without a lord. Will you listen to persuasions?”
    “Yes. Listen.”
    A barefoot Arab boy in a dark turban appeared at an inner doorway and stared with obvious expectancy at Ishmael; and the old man set down the cigar and waved a frail hand in a circle and then made a pulling-down gesture.
    The boy nodded, and went to the nearest section of garden wall and yanked the tarpaulin down, exposing a bright metal mesh with dark movement behind it, and then went to the next tarpaulin. Hale guessed that the boy was a deaf-mute and had been summoned by the aroma of the cigar, in which Ishmael now appeared to have lost interest.
    Brief staccato flutterings and mumbling and a smell like bad cheese on the chilly evening breeze let Hale know that the wire mesh structures the boy was exposing were tall birdcages; and when the boy had yanked the tarpaulin cover from the sixth and last cage, he scampered to a fuse box on the wall and stood on tip-toe to pull a switch, and floodlights lit the garden in a dazzling glare, illuminating dozens or perhaps even hundreds of finches and pigeons and doves and huge green-and-red parrots on perches inside the cages. Squinting, Hale even saw hens and roosters standing up and stretching their stubby