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in Pakistan, many of them no doubt sympathetic to the HeM and Islamabad’s claim to Kashmir. The second man was younger and looked Middle Eastern with an olive complexion and a carefully trimmed mustache. He was dressed in a white Arab-style
thawb
, or dishdasha.
    Without asking permission, one of the Indian escorts frisked both Khan and Masood quickly and expertly.
    The older Indian-looking man rose and offered Masood a traditional greeting.
“As-salamu alaykuma.”
Peace be upon you. As he said it, he placed his right hand over his heart. The use of
alaykuma
meant that Khan was included in the sentiment.
    â€œWa alaykumu s-salam wa rahmatullahi wa barakatuh.”
Masood replied with the most elaborate and polite of the available formal responses
.
May peace, mercy, and the blessings of Allah be upon you too.
    â€œWe will speak English,” the Indian said. “We will use no names.”
    Khan translated into Urdu for Masood, who nodded.
    â€œThat is most sensible,” he agreed. Khan translated back into English. His English was good, with only the slightest trace of an accent. He also spoke passable French and decent Russian.
    â€œOur mutual friends have made it known to me that you are interested in acquiring a certain package. I have the information necessary to facilitate this. It is not, however, a simple matter.”
    â€œThere is nothing about this that is simple for any other than Allah,” Masood replied. “But the cause is righteous and He is with us.”
    The Indian nodded. The man dressed as an Arab produced a black briefcase from beside his chair and handed it to Masood.
    â€œInside is the information you will need,” the Indian said. “It includes timetables and maps regarding the transport of the package and precise information about its location. You will also find special instructions regarding the handling of the package. The contents are . . . sensitive.”
    â€œI understand.” Masood did not open the case.
    â€œYou have considered the consequences of this?” the man asked.
    â€œVery carefully.”
    â€œThere have been certain . . . expenses . . . associated with procuring this information.” The Indian addressed this to the Arab, if that was, in fact, what he was.
    â€œI understand,” the Arab replied with equanimity. His English was smooth and cultured, the accent more British than American. “My organization strongly supports this project. The agreed sum will be deposited in the account in the Caymans as you requested. A second deposit will follow upon successful conclusion of the operation.”
    The Indian turned back to Masood.
    â€œYou understand that the time frame for this operation is very precise. It is not open-ended. There will be only this single opportunity. If you miss the window, we will not try again at a later date. There are no second chances.”
    â€œThat has been made clear to us,” Masood replied. “We will be ready. God is great.”
    â€œYes,” the man agreed. “But He is also extremely busy. You will have to do most of the work yourself.”
    Masood smiled enigmatically.
    â€œWe will be ready,” he repeated.
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    Masood and Khan left the warehouse by a side door. Khan carried the briefcase with the mysterious instructions. The young Indian who led them was wearing a dark suit, but it was not much of a disguise. With his square shoulders and straight back, he looked like what he was, a soldier out of uniform. Khan was glad for the guide. The streets were dark and unfamiliar. The Indian soldier led them to a guest house on the edge of the industrial zone where the warehouse was located. There was a reception area on the ground floor, but no one else was there, and there was no sign on the building announcing its identity as a hostel. It did not have the feel of a business. Khan suspected that this