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“Park the car,” he ordered. From the side pocket of his robe, he withdrew his wallet and extracted a ten-dinar note. The Bedou took the bill in both hands, the gesture indicating that the gift of the benefactor is so weighty that it needs two hands to support it.

“Shukron, sayidi, shukran.” Then without changing his tone of voice, the man added, “When you are in your office, send for me. I have news from your son in the south.”

The merchant thought he must have misheard. The man was shuffling away down the pavement, pocketing the banknote. Al-Khalifa entered the office building, nodded in greeting to the commissionaire, and went up to his top-floor office in something of a daze. When he was seated at his desk, he thought for a moment, then pressed the intercom.

“There is a Bedouin tribesman on the pavement outside. I wish to speak to him. Please send him up.”

If his private secretary thought her employer had gone mad, she gave no sign of it. Only her wrinkled nose, as she showed the Bedou into the cool of the office five minutes later, indicated what she thought of the personal odor of her boss’s unlikely guest.

When she left, the merchant gestured to a chair.

“You said you had seen my son?” he asked shortly. He half thought the man might be here for an even bigger banknote.

“Yes, Mr. Al-Khalifa. I was with him two days ago in Khafji.”

The Kuwaiti’s heart leaped. It had been two weeks and no news. He had learned only indirectly that his only son had taken off that morning from Ahmadi air base, and after that—nothing. None of his contacts seemed to know what had happened. There had been much confusion that day, August 2.

“You have a message from him?”

“Yes, sayidi .”

Al-Khalifa held out his hand.

“Please give it to me. I will reward you well.”

“It is in my head. I could bring no paper with me, so I memorized it.”

“Very well. Please tell me what he said.”

Mike Martin recited the one-page letter that

the Skyhawk pilot had written, word for word.

“ ‘My dear father, despite his appearance the man in front of you is a British officer. ...’ ”

Al-Khalifa jerked in his chair and stared at Martin, having some difficulty believing his eyes or ears.

“ ‘He has come into Kuwait under cover. Now that you know this, you hold his life in your hands. I beg you to trust him, as he must now trust you, for he will seek your help.

“ ‘I am safe and well and based with the Saudi Air Force at Dhahran. I was able to fly one mission against the Iraqis, destroying one tank and a truck. I will fly with the Royal Saudi Air Force until the liberation of our country.

“ ‘Each day I pray to Allah that the hours will speed by until I can return and embrace you again. Your dutiful son, Khaled.’ ”

Martin stopped. Ahmed Al-Khalifa rose, walked to the window, and stared out. He took several long, deep breaths. When he had composed himself, he returned to his chair.

“Thank you. Thank you. What is it you wish?”

“The occupation of Kuwait will not last a few hours or a few days. It will take some months, unless Saddam Hussein can be persuaded to pull out.”

“The Americans will not come quickly?”

“The Americans and the British and the French and the rest of the Coalition will need time to build up their forces. Saddam has the fourth-largest standing army in the world, over a million men. Some are rubbish, but many are not. This occupation force will not be dislodged by a handful of soldiers.”

“Very well. I understand.”

“In the meantime, it is felt that every Iraqi soldier and tank and gun that can be pinned down in the occupation of Kuwait cannot be used on the frontier—”

“You are talking of resistance, armed resistance, fighting back,” said Al-Khalifa. “Some wild boys have tried. They have shot at Iraqi patrols. They were gunned down like dogs.”