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in Arabic, “Please, sir…” Wasim shook his head and said, “This is a very bad thing.”
    The tall Bedouin replied, “You, Wasim al-Rahib, are a bad thing. You are a servant of the infidels, but you should be a servant of Allah.”
    “I am truly his servant --”
    “Quiet.” The Bedouin raised his right arm in a signal, then lowered it and looked at Wasim and at the Belgians, but said nothing.
    The four men and five women were looking at their guide, waiting for him to explain what was happening. Clearly, something was wrong, though a few minutes before everyone was smiling and posing for pictures.
    Wasim avoided the worried stares of his group.
    Annette said to Wasim in English, “What is wrong? Did we not give him enough?”
    Wasim did not reply so Annette said to the Bedouin in English, “Is there something wrong?”
    Al-Numair, The Panther, replied to her, “You are what is wrong.”
    The Belgians began asking Annette what had been said, but she didn’t reply.
    Then one of the men in the group shouted, “Regardez!” and pointed.
    In the temple courtyard below, where they had been standing, a group of about twelve men suddenly appeared from the dark recesses of the ruins, wearing Bedouin robes and carrying Kalashnikov rifles.
    At first, all the tourists were silent, but then as the Bedouins began running up the stone steps, a woman screamed.
    Then everything happened very quickly. Two of the Bedouins pointed their rifles at the Belgians while the others bound their hands behind their backs with tape.
    Annette shouted to Wasim, “What is happening? Why are they doing this?”
    Wasim, whose wrists were also bound, was at first afraid to speak, but then he found his voice and said, “It is a kidnapping. Do not be frightened. They kidnap for money. They will not harm us.”
    And as Wasim said this, he hoped it was so. A tribal kidnapping of Westerners. It was a common thing–what was called a guest kidnapping–and they would spend a week, perhaps two with a tribe until money was delivered. And then they would be released. These things usually ended well, he knew, and Westerners were rarely harmed, and never killed unless the army intervened and attempted to free those who were taken by the tribes.
    Annette, though she was terrified, said to her compatriots, “It is a kidnapping. For ransom. Wasim says not to be --”
    “Shut up,” said the tall Bedouin in English. He then said to Wasim in Arabic, “This is not a kidnapping.”
    Wasim closed his eyes and began praying aloud.
    Bulus ibn al-Darwish, The Panther, drew his curved dagger and moved behind Wasim. With one hand, he pulled Wasim’s head back by his hair, and with his other hand he drew his curved dagger across Wasim’s throat, then shoved the man forward.
    Wasim fell face first onto the stone floor of the Temple of the Moon and lay still as his blood flowed quickly and spread across the hot stones.
    The Belgians stared in horror, then some of them began screaming and some began crying.
    The armed men now forced all the Belgians to their knees, and The Panther moved first to Annette, coming around behind her, and said to her, “So you don’t have to watch the others die,” and with a quick motion, he pulled her head back by her long hair and sliced open her throat with his curved dagger, then moved on to the others.
    Some cried or begged for mercy, and some struggled though it was futile because the jihadists held them in a tight grip as The Panther cut their throats. A few accepted their fate quietly. Only one prayed, an elderly woman who The Panther saved for last so she could finish her prayers. It was interesting, he thought, to see how people died.
    In less than two minutes, it was over. All nine infidels and Wasim their servant lay on the floor of the temple, their life blood flowing freely onto the ancient stone.
    Bulus ibn al-Darwish, al-Numair, The Panther, watched the infidels as, one by one, they went into a final death throe, then lay still.
    One, however, the man who was the father of the young woman, suddenly stood, his wrists still bound behind his back, and began running down the stone steps. He quickly stumbled and fell face first onto the stone, then tumbled down the steep steps and came to rest at the bottom.
    The Panther said to his jihadists, “I hope he was not injured.”
    The men laughed.
    The Panther stared at his jambiyah, red with blood, then slid it into its sheath.
    He retrieved one of the tourists’