Prince of Fire

British. One day soon, Martineau was convinced, he would be searching for artifacts amid the ruins of a Jewish settlement.
    Abu Saddiq was pulling at his shirtsleeve and calling him by his real name. Martineau turned his head slowly and fixed Abu Saddiq in a heavy-lidded gaze. “Call me Martineau,” he said in French. “I’m Paul Martineau. Doctor Paul Martineau.”
    “You were far away for a moment.”
    “I was in Palestine,” Martineau murmured, his speech heavy with the drug. “Beit Sayeed.”
    “We’ll all be there soon,” Abu Saddiq said.
    Martineau treated himself to a smile—not one of arrogance but of quiet confidence. Buenos Aires, Istanbul, Rome—three attacks, each flawlessly planned and executed. The teams had delivered their explosives to the target and had vanished without a trace. In each operation, Martineau had concealed himself with archaeological work and had operated through a cutout. Abu Saddiq was handling the Paris operation. Martineau had conceived and planned it; Abu Saddiq, from his coffeehouse in the Quartier Belsunce, moved the chess pieces at Martineau’s command. When it was over Abu Saddiq would suffer the same fate as all those Martineau had used. He had learned from the mistakes of his ancestors. He would never allow himself to be undone by an Arab traitor.
    Abu Saddiq offered Martineau the pipe. Martineau lifted his hand in surrender. Then, with a slow nod of his head, he instructed Abu Saddiq to get on with the final briefing. For the next half hour Martineau remained silent while Abu Saddiq spoke: the locations of the teams, the addresses in Paris where the suitcase bombs were being assembled, the emotional state of the three shaheeds. Abu Saddiq stopped talking while the veiled woman poured more coffee. When she was gone again Abu Saddiq mentioned that the last member of the team would arrive in Marseilles in two days’ time.
    “She wants to see you,” Abu Saddiq said. “ Before the operation.”
    Martineau shook his head. He knew the girl—they had been lovers once—and he knew why she wanted to see him. It was better they not spend time together now. Otherwise Martineau might have second thoughts about what he had planned for her.
    “We stay to the original plan,” he said. “Where do I meet her?”
    “The Internet café overlooking the harbor. Do you know it?”
    Martineau did.
    “She’ll be there at twelve-thirty.”
    Just then, from the minaret of a mosque up the street, the muezzin summoned the faithful to prayer. Martineau closed his eyes as the familiar words washed over him.
    God is most great. I testify that there is no god but God. I testify that Muhammad is the Prophet of God. Come to prayer. Come to success. God is most great. There is no god but God.
    Martineau, when the call to prayer had ended, stood and prepared to take his leave.
    “Where’s Hadawi?” he asked.
    “Zurich.”
    “He’s something of a liability, wouldn’t you say?”
    Abu Saddiq nodded. “Should I move him?”
    “No,” said Martineau. “Just kill him.”
    M ARTINEAU ’ S HEAD had cleared by the time he reached the Place de la Préfecture. How different things were on this side of Marseilles, he thought. The streets were cleaner, the shops more plentiful. Martineau the archaeologist could not help but reflect on the nature of the two worlds that existed side by side in this ancient city. One was focused on devotion, the other on consumption. One had many children, the other found children to be a financial burden. The French, Martineau knew, would soon be a minority in their own country, colons in their own land. Someday soon, a century, perhaps a bit longer, France would be a Muslim country.
    He turned into the boulevard St-Rémy. Tree-lined and split by a payage parking lot in the median, the street rose at a slight pitch toward a small green park with a view of the old port. The buildings on each side were fashioned of stately graystone and uniform in height. Iron bars covered the ground-floor windows. Many of the buildings contained professional offices—lawyers, doctors, estate agents—and farther up the street there were a couple of banks and a large interior-design store. At the base of the street, on the edge of the Place de la Préfecture, were a pair of opposing kiosks—one selling newspapers, the other sandwiches. During the day there was a small market in the street, but now that it was dusk the vendors had packed up their cheese and fresh