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who torpedoed his country, his Empire, into the trenches of the Somme, with results that were now distressingly visible.
    Enigma. The Morse Code of the principal theme. Two shorts, two longs. Followed by two longs and two shorts. In code: I am. Am I . The question mark practically screamed its presence. Man’s existential dilemma, made aural in music. “I am. Am I?”
    Emanuel Skorzeny was a confirmed atheist, and had been since he watched his mother and father executed in the late winter of 1944. A God that could kill one’s family was capable of any enormity, and was one not worthy of worship. Just as the West, in its present incarnation, was not worthy of redemption.
    The ninth variation sounded throughout the airplane. No matter how he steeled his heart, it always moved him. Nimrod , the Hunter. So appropriate. And followed by Dorabella, Elgar’s secret love, to whom he wrote coded communications, both musical and literary. What was he trying to say to “Dorabella,” Miss Dora Penny?
    “Sir?” Mlle. Derrida startled him. “Are you quite all right?”
    “I’m quite all right, Mlle. Derrida, yes, thank you,” he said, in a tone that warned: never interrupt me en rêve.
    “We’re preparing for final descent.”
    “I am always prepared for final descent, Mlle. Derrida,” he said. “You would be well advised to do the same.”
    The plane’s wheels touched down at Macao International Airport with as little disturbance as possible. Skorzeny prided himself on being able to find and hire pilots who made landing an art form. Instead of proceeding to the main terminal, however, the plane diverted onto a secondary runway, heading for a small collection of hangars well away from the main flight paths.
    Mlle. Derrida rose and began to prepare the cabin for exit, but Skorzeny remained seated, still listening to the music, and relaxed even farther back into his chair. “You know the old saying, don’t you?” he inquired idly.
    “I’m sure I don’t, M. Skorzeny,” his attendant replied.
    “If Mohammed will not come to the mountain, the mountain must come to Mohammed.”
    Mlle. Derrida froze. Any talk of Mohammed made her uncomfortable. Being relatively new, she was not sure exactly what Skorzeny’s religious views were, or whether he had any at all, but she was young enough and educated enough to know that, these days, one did not lightly discuss the Prophet. Bohemond, Charles Martel, Sobieski, and the rest of them were moldering in their graves, and yet the Messenger of God lived on; one spoke of the Prophet at one’s own peril. “Sir?” she inquired.
    “I mean, Mlle. Derrida, that Mr. Arash Kohanloo will be meeting with me here, in my aeroplane. Chef, I believe, will have the meal ready in 15 minutes.” He let the look of surprise wash over, and then away from, her face. “Did you have an appointment here? Something, someone, to see? I hope I have not disappointed you, but the blandishments of Macao will have to wait for another time.”
    “No sir, not at all, sir,” she replied quickly. “Might I inquire where—”
    “You may not. Now please get ready to greet our guest and see that all is in readiness in the meeting room. I will need full communication capability, and please instruct the pilots to activate the mobile-phone jammers. I want and expect complete privacy.”
    “Yes sir.” There was a new look of respect in Mlle. Derrida’s eyes. This was the first time she had really seen Emanuel Skorzeny in action, and he could sense that her opinion of him was rapidly undergoing a transformational change: not the doddering old rich fart with time on his hands and money to burn that she had thought him; but then, that was the point.
    “Very well, then, sir,” she said, backing away and out of the private quarters. “All will be to your satisfaction.”
    “Thank you, Mlle. Derrida,” he said. “Please ensure that it is.” And, with that, he dismissed her.
    There were no briefing books or any