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Libya’s national soccer league. He wasn’t the most popular executive in the international governing board of the FIFA, the Federation International Football Association. On one occasion at a state exhibition game he ordered his bodyguards to shoot at spectators chanting epithets about his father. Dozens were reportedly killed on the spot. FIFA considered removing Fadi from the league, but since no one filed a complaint, for obvious reaons, and the family-run press failed to corroborate the story, the matter was dropped as heresay.
    Later, when Fadi’s team lost to Iran, he dismissed the team’s manager, had Army officers cane the players on the soles of their feet and threatened them with a jail sentence if they lost again. Since this was not witnessed by FIFA officials, and only rumored by other teams, it also failed to warrant anything more than a harsh telephone rebuke.
    Two months later, Fadi’s team was defeated by Kazakhstan. This was not a good thing. It eliminated Libya from World Cup competition. The team’s fate was unclear. However, the following year, Libya fielded an entirely new team. After a good deal of debate, FIFA refused to seed them in international competition, citing vague human rights violations.
    And through it all, Fadi Kharrazi projected another image. With his inviting open eyes and a broad smile, the son of the newest gangster dictator was looked upon as a smart and dynamic media mogul. Of course, this was no surprise to anyone. He controlled everything that was reported about him.
    His newspaper published only what he or his father deemed printable. His TV station offered only a mix of propaganda, sports and movies. Viewers generally saw pirated American action movies. Saturday nights were the biggest, filled with old Jet Li, Vin Diesel and Schwarzenegger films, with the exception of True Lies, banned because of its depiction of Arab terrorists.
    By all standards of common decency, Fadi Kharrazi was an evil man. What was troubling to the spooks at Langley, and ultimately the White House, was that General Kharrazi might be seriously ill, perhaps dying, and Fadi was in the line of succession, to which he proclaimed al Hamdulillah —“Thanks be to God.”
    His only competition was his older brother, Abahar, Arabic for more brilliant, more magnificent. Abahar headed Libya’s new secret police, and according to American intelligence reports may have already been anointed as first in line to replace his father in the event of his death.
    The stage was set for a bloody family power struggle, but Fadi had acquired, through a complex transaction, a plan so secret that neither his father nor brother knew about it. This plan, foremost in his mind, was finally coming to fruition and it would assure his accession as the next strongman of Libya and eventually the entire Muslim world. It had a decades old operational designation, though he failed to recognize the legendary significance of the name. Ashab al-Kahf .
Hudson, New York
12:52 A.M.
    Carolyn Hill fluffed up the pillows while Roger C. Waterman examined his latest purchases. The pair of brass picture frames in his hands looked pretty beaten up. “How much do you think these will fetch in New York?”
    The hotel maid was taken by his question. She liked Mr. Waterman, found him attractive, polite and interesting; so much nicer than most of the hotel’s guests. And he was single. If he kept coming to Hudson maybe they could have dinner at Kozel’s, a three-generation old family-owned restaurant, arguably the area’s most popular establishment. But why would he ever be interested in me? she wondered. He lives in New York and he’s so successful.
    “I don’t know,” she answered.
    “Come on. Take a guess. What do you think?” he said. “Ten dollars? More?”
    Carolyn really had no idea. “Ah, $25 each? What did you pay for them?”
    “I picked them up for fifteen. The tarnishing here on the bottom can be polished out. But the patina, the