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over the area now. It was just as well they didn't find four fresh bodies in addition to that of the American ex-President.
    Back in the abandoned hotel room, he removed the billowing white garment he was wearing and dressed in a nondescript brown shirt and trousers he had taped to his body beneath the burnoose. He peeled away the gray moustache and a small latex tip off the end of his nose.
    The police were searching the area for a middle-aged Arab in white robes. Several people had seen him shoot the beggar with the girl. He took a quick glance in the mirror above the bureau to be sure all trace of the spirit gum was gone.
    It was. No one would recognize him now.
    No one ever did.
    He had not expected to find them, really, not after what the concierge had told him. He had asked for the room where the beggar had gone with the girl. The concierge had told him it belonged to an American who was traveling with a boy. The boy had red hair.
    He had known instantly who it was.
    He did not need to follow them. Let them think they've gotten away , he thought with amusement. When the time was right, they would give the cup to him. And it would not be in a crowded city swarming with police over the assassination of some aged politician.
    He picked up a piece of paper, set fire to it, then used the scrap to light a cigarette. Slowly, he walked around the room lighting the pillows and the thin cloth curtains. When the blaze became smoky enough, he went into the hall to wait.
    All in all, it had been a good day's work. Marshall was dead and, in a happy coincidence, the cup had finally been located.
    All the pieces were in place. The game was finally ready to begin.
    At the first scream of "Fire!" he tossed his cigarette to the floor, crushed it with his shoe, and ambled outside.

Chapter Four
    H al pulled the Jeep to a stop some ninety miles northeast of Marrakesh, at a gas station consisting of a mud-brick hut in front of which were stacked two pyramids of gasoline cans under a canvas awning. For the past several hours he had been driving back roads flanking the towering Atlas Mountains, but the mountains now loomed directly in front of them.
    It had all seemed like a colossal waste of time to Hal, not to mention the fact that he faced time in a Moroccan prison for stealing the car if they were caught. And all because a teenage girl thought someone was after her.
    He had been willing to believe her for the first few miles, but the Jeep had been the only vehicle on the road for the past hour.
    "If someone's chasing us, he's a damn slow driver," he had complained, but Taliesin insisted that he go on. For some reason the old man was absolutely convinced that the girl was right. She had directed them onto this road, and Taliesin would hear of no objections, even after she'd admitted that she'd only been in the country for three days.
    Still, the old man's instincts were good—actually, a lot better than good—and if he said run, Hal wasn't about to question him.
    "Well?" he asked. "Where to now? Back to the hotel?" he asked hopefully.
    "That way," Beatrice said, pointing straight at the snow-covered peaks.
    "Those are mountains," Hal said, somewhat unnecessarily.
    "Do what she says," Taliesin said.
    Hal sighed. There was no point in protesting, he knew. He filled the Jeep's tank with eighteen laboriously poured cans of gas, then bought ten more to carry with them.
    "We don't have any food or water, you know," he grumbled. "We'll probably be buried under an avalanche. Anything could happen to us in that wilderness, and we're not prepared for any of them."
    "Yes we are," Arthur said quietly. "We have the cup."
    T hat night they stopped near the village of Ait Haddus. They had tried for a hotel there, but since there was none in the tiny farm community, they had to resign themselves to a night spent in the open air. Fortunately there was a store in Ait Haddus, where Hal further depleted his meager resources to buy a couple of blankets