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in the distance—an unreachable, menacing border towering on the dark horizon. Everywhere the flat surface seemed to be a dry mixture of earth and sand, the windless plain devoid of those swelling, impermanent hills of windblown dunes one conjures up with images of the great Sahara. The hard, winding road beneath was barely passable; the brown military sedan lurched and skidded around the sandy curves on its way to the royal meeting ground. Kendrick, as instructed, sat beside the armed, uniformed driver; in the back was a second man, an officer and also armed. Security started at the pickup; a perceived wrong move on Evan’s part and he was flanked. Beyond polite greetings neither soldier spoke.
    “This is desert country,” said Kendrick in Arabic. “Why are there so many turns?”
    “There are many offshoot roads, sir,” answered the officer from the backseat. “A straight lane in these sands would mark them too clearly.”
    Royal security, thought Evan without comment.
    They took an “offshoot road” after twenty-five minutes of speeding due west. Several miles beyond, a campfire glowed on the right. As they drew near, Kendrick saw a platoon of uniformed guards circling the fire, facing out, all points of the compass covered; the dark silhouettes of two military trucks loomed in the distance. The car stopped; the officer leaped out and opened the door for the American.
    “Precede me, sir,” he said in English.
    “Certainly,” replied Evan, trying to spot the young sultan in the light of the fire. There was no sign of him, nor of anyone not in uniform. Evan tried to recall the face of the boy-man he had met over four years ago, the student who had come home to Oman during a Christmas or a spring break, he could not remember which—he recalled only that the son of the sultan was an amiable young man, as knowledgeable as he was enthusiastic about American sports. But that was all: no face came to him,only the name, Ahmat, which Mustapha had confirmed. Three soldiers in front of him gave way; they walked through the protective ring.
    “You will permit me, sir?” said a second officer, suddenly standing in front of Kendrick.
    “Permit you what?”
    “It is customary under these circumstances to search all visitors.”
    “Go ahead.”
    The soldier swiftly and efficiently probed the robes of the aba, raising the right sleeve above the area where Evan had spread the skin-darkening gel. Seeing the white flesh, the officer held the cloth in place and stared at Kendrick. “You have papers with you,
ya Shaikh
?”
    “No papers. No identification.”
    “I see.” The soldier dropped the sleeve. “You have no weapons, either.”
    “Of course not.”
    “That is for you to claim and for us to determine, sir.” The officer snapped out from his belt a thin black device no larger than a pack of cigarettes. He pressed what looked like a red or orange button. “You will wait here, please.”
    “I’m not going anywhere,” said Evan, glancing at the guards, their rifles poised.
    “No, you are not,
ya Shaikh
,” agreed the soldier, striding back toward the fire.
    Kendrick looked at the English-speaking officer who had accompanied him in the backseat from Masqat. “They take no chances, do they?” he said aimlessly.
    “The will of almighty Allah, sir,” replied the soldier. “The sultan is our light, our sun. You are
Aurobbi
, a white man. Would you not protect your lineage to the heavens?”
    “If I thought he could guarantee my admittance, I certainly would.”
    “He is a good man,
ya Shaikh
. Young, perhaps, but wise in many ways. We have come to learn that.”
    “He
is
coming here, then?”
    “He has arrived, sir.”
    The bass-toned roar of a powerful limousine broke the crackling intrusion of the campfire. The vehicle with tinted windows swerved in front of the ring of guards and came to an abrupt stop. Before the driver could emerge, the rear door opened and the sultan stepped out. He was in the robes