The Fist of God

He did not mention that Hilary was back, and he also wished to spend the evening with his friend.

“Where are you going?” asked Paxman.

“America,” said Martin. “An invitation to lecture on the Abassid Caliphate. Rather flattering, actually.

They seem to like my research into the law structure of the third caliph. Sorry.”

“It’s just that something else has come through from the south. Another puzzle that nobody can explain.

But it’s not about nuances of the Arabic language, it’s technical. Still ...”

“What is it?”

“A photo. I’ve run off a copy.”

Martin hesitated.

“Another straw in the wind?” he asked. “All right, same restaurant. At eight.”

“That’s probably all it is,” said Paxman, “just another straw.”

What he did not know was that what he held in his hand in that freezing phone booth was a very large piece of string.

Chapter 17

Terry Martin landed at San Francisco International Airport just after threeP.M. local time the following day, to be met by his host, Professor Paul Maslowski, genial and welcoming in the American academic’s uniform of tweed jacket and leather patches, and at once felt himself enveloped by the warm embrace of all-American hospitality.

“Betty and I figured a hotel would be kind of impersonal and wondered whether you’d prefer to stay with us?” said Maslowski as he steered his compact out of the airport complex and onto the highway.

“Thank you, that would be wonderful,” said Martin, and he meant it.

“The students are looking forward to hearing you, Terry. There aren’t many of us, of course—our Arab department must be smaller than yours at SOAS, but they’re really enthusiastic.”

“Great. I look forward to meeting them.”

The pair chatted contentedly about their shared passion, medieval Mesopotamia, until they arrived at Professor Maslowski’s frame house in a suburban development in Menlo Park.

There he met Paul’s wife, Betty, and was shown to a warm and comfortable guest room. He glanced at his watch: a quarter before five.

“Could I use the phone?” he asked as he came downstairs.

“Absolutely,” said Maslowski. “Do you want to phone home?”

“No, locally. Do you have a directory?”

The professor gave him the telephone book and left.

It was under Livermore: Lawrence Li

vermore National Laboratory, in Alameda County. He was just in time.

“Could you put me through to Department Z?” he asked, pronouncing it Zed , when the receptionist answered.

“Who?” asked the girl.

“Department Zee ,” Martin corrected himself. “Director’s office.”

“Hold on, please.”