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book in the world, he knew, but he was not among those who believed it to be the only book worth reading. Neither, evidently, was Masood.
    The mullah was a heavyset man with a long and somewhat unkempt black beard. Oversize tortoiseshell glasses gave him something of an owlish appearance. He wore a white skullcap and a tunic with a vest. His feet were bare.
    â€œAs-
s
alamu alaykum,”
Khan said, with a slight bow.
    â€œSit,” Masood commanded.
    There were chairs in the library, but Masood was sitting on the floor, which was where Khan sat. He rested one arm on an overstuffed pillow and accepted a cup of green tea that the secretary served from a copper tray. The tea, called
kahwah
, was boiled with saffron, cinnamon, and cardamom.
    Khan sipped his tea somewhat uncomfortably as Masood looked him over as though he were inspecting vegetables in the marketplace.
    â€œHow long have you been with us?” he asked.
    â€œAlmost eight months, Janab,” Khan said, using the formal title that was the closest approximation to “sir.”
    â€œAnd in those eight months, what have you done for us?”
    â€œI have kept house, Janab. I have delivered messages. I have done what has been asked of me.”
    â€œAnd does that satisfy you?”
    â€œNo, it does not.”
    â€œYou would like to do more for the organization, would you? More for jihad? For Kashmir?”
    â€œI would, Janab.”
    â€œYou will have your opportunity.”
    Khan said nothing, but he felt his heart quicken slightly.
    â€œYou speak languages,” Masood said. It was not a question.
    Khan nodded agreement.
    â€œHow is your English?”
    â€œIt is excellent.” Khan spoke in English and was rewarded with a slight smile from Masood.
    â€œI need a translator,” the mullah explained. “For a meeting that must remain secret. My regular interpreter is too ill to travel. Everything you do with respect to this event you will carry with you to the grave. If you do anything that causes me to question your loyalty and obedience, you will find yourself explaining your choices to Allah somewhat earlier than you otherwise might.”
    â€œI understand, Janab.”
    â€œDo you? Do you really?”
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    Masood did not tell Khan where they were going. But only an idiot would have failed to understand at the early stage of the journey that they were crossing into India. They traveled at night, on mountain roads that the Hand used as infiltration routes. Masood’s face was well known in India, and Hindu extremist groups would have paid significant sums to see his head mounted on a pike.
    HeM operatives took them as far as Amritsar. For most of the trip, Khan and Masood were wedged into a smuggling compartment in the back of a truck. They traveled largely in silence. Near Amritsar, they were allowed out of the truck to stretch and relieve themselves. It was dark and cool, and the place they had stopped seemed far from any lights. Their Pakistani guides left them here and three Indians took their place. Their new guides were beardless and their hair was cut short in military style. Khan said nothing to them, but he observed everything around him carefully.
    Their new guides drove through the night until they reached their destination. Khan was not certain where they were, but when he got out of the truck, they were parked in front of a dimly lit warehouse building. Inside, a cluster of four wooden chairs stood in a pool of light cast by a single bare bulb dangling from the ceiling. Two of the chairs were occupied. One man had dark skin and was wearing a Western-style suit with no tie. He was short and wiry and almost completely bald. He looked to be in his midfifties. Khan assumed he was an Indian Muslim. Although India was a Hindu country, it was so vast that its Muslim minority numbered in the hundreds of millions. There were nearly as many Muslims in India as there were