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He smiled and, without waiting for Rivers to reply, continued: Coffee? Or would you prefer tea? Of course, I could offer you a cognac, but it's awfully early for a liqueur, wouldn't you agree? And it would be, how can I say, inappropriate under the circumstances.

Rivers nodded again and asked for coffee, and the man motioned for the woman to bring two coffees.

I am the Inspector in charge of airport security, the man said. It is my responsibility to make sure that nothing will occur at this airport that will create a dangerous situation either here or on board the aircrafts that depart from this airport. And of course, I have the responsibility of ensuring that nobody who leaves here will present a danger to the political integrity of the city or state where the planes are headed. He paused.

Of course, it doesn't take much to threaten the political integrity of most of the places in this part of the world, as you know, Monsieur.

He hesitated.

Rivers, yes, Monsieur Rivers. Pardon me if I slip back in just a little bit of French. Un petite peu. I have always preferred Monsieur to Mister. It's the way the word falls softly from the tongue. Gently is perhaps a better description. Mister is so harsh, almost an antagonistic prefix. Monsieur, you seem to be a world traveler of some experience, I see.

He flipped through the pages of Rivers' passport before continuing.

Now Monsieur Rivers—and you are Monsieur Rivers, am I right, despite what this passport says? Of course, you have others, that I know. But please, Monsieur, tell me a little bit about yourself. What do you do? Why you have been in Kalai, and what do you intend to do in, let me see—he checked his watch—you must be flying to Ambala this morning. And, if you have wondered, it is still Ambala. I know it's so hard to keep up with the names of the countries around here.

He looked up. The woman was standing in front of him with a tray with the coffee and cream and sugar. He nodded toward his desk, and she put down the tray and left the room.

Please take your coffee, Monsieur, and cream or sugar as well, as you prefer.

Now, Monsieur Rivers, where were we? Ah, where are you? And who are you?

Rivers took a sip of his coffee before replying. He spoke in general terms, about the search for the exotic, the almost-lost, that which identifies one family or tribe or religious or ethnic group from another, speaking quickly but casually, having been asked similar questions in the past, and well practiced in describing his interests and activities almost by rote. Only when he off-handedly slipped in "ethnographic crafts merchant," did he pause, and look up.

The inspector smiled. So you steal from us, all of us, and then sell our wares to the highest bidder?

No, Rivers replied. I do not steal. I save what you would destroy. What you are destroying if I don't get there first. And I don't sell to private collectors, only to museums and universities. To places that will preserve and protect the cultures that you, you with your wars, your petty jealousies, your failed states, that you are destroying.

He was aware his voice had grown strident, so he stopped suddenly and sipped his coffee.

I apologize for my outburst, Inspector, but it is frustrating to watch civilizations destroy each other. And destroy their past. It is also sometimes dangerous to interfere with this destruction. But please, regard me not as a predator but as a protector. Of crafts and cultures and totems soon to be lost.

The inspector nodded.

You save our cultures because we cannot save themselves ourselves. Or so you say. But we did not invent wars or famine or genocide. At least not in modern times. The West taught us. You were the teachers; we are the students. Perhaps we have learned too well. Perhaps you will now learn from us.

It's your nature as well as ours, of course, he added, his eyes unfocused as he looked past Rivers, the cement block wall behind Rivers unsteady in the wavering light.

Monsieur Rivers, let us now turn to the business at hand, the Inspector continued. You cannot travel to Ambala tonight. At least not as Abdul Salaam. If you do, the authorities will detain you, torture you and eventually kill you. That you know nothing and cannot tell them anything will not save you. Of course, you could use one of your other identities, but if you do, you will be arrested before you board the aircraft. Remember, we have no relations with, he stopped, removed a sheet of paper from his desk drawer and scanned the paper, his eyes moving down the page—Croatia, Holland, Uruguay—and then continued down the list. We consider their citizens infidels, either political infidels or religious infidels. Either way, we are compelled to arrest and, in most cases, murder the citizens of all of these states. At least today. What tomorrow will bring nobody knows.

My advice, Monsieur, is that you travel as Abdul Salaam, but not today.

He halted, put out his cigarette, and picked up the phone on his desk, disentangling the cord as he did so.

I do not use mobile phones, Monsieur, except when I have no choice. The reception is bad in many places.

He held the phone to his ear, said a few words softly, then waited. Finally, he spoke into the phone: I know today is not possible. Tomorrow? All right, the day after. And for how long?

He hung up the phone and turned back to Rivers.

In two days you can go to Ambala. There will be a new government, and they will welcome you. But only for a week. The old government will then return and if you are still in the country, you will be killed. I believe you can accomplish your work within the week. After all, the native cultures have all but disappeared. War and famine tend to do that, as you know better than most.

He smiled and leaned forward, fingering an unlit cigarette he had removed from his pack. Oh, Monsieur, the Nebraska game must have been hard on you.

Rivers' head snapped back and he folded his lower lip under his teeth momentarily, unsure of how he should react, suspicious of the Inspector's casual comment, one he did not understand, which made it all the more treacherous.

Nebraska?

Yes, you're from Kansas, we know that, Monsieur. Nebraska just beat the Jayhawks, 41-0. It was on ESPN. We get all the American channels; there's nothing else worth watching. Such a violent game, American football. And you do it for fun, or so I'm told. But back to the Nebraska game—it was, how do you put it in English—a shellacking?

He tapped the cigarette lightly on the table and returned it to the pack.

One more thing about the game. The goal posts were torn down. But what was strange was that it wasn't the Nebraska fans that tore them down but the Kansas fans—and they did it in Lincoln where the game was played. Usually, it's the winning team, as you know. You may think this is minor, but that's how wars begin. Pretty soon you'll have armed confrontations on the Kansas-Nebraska border, maybe a full-fledged war at some point, then one state or the other will secede from the union.

And then America will be like the rest of the world.

He laughed.

Of course, not very likely. At least not now. But you never can tell. People are so violent these days.

Monsieur Salaam, one more thing. Take this card to the Hotel Ambrose. It is small but clean and comfortable. You will not be asked for identification. At least it is unlikely. The Inspector stood up as if to signal the end of the interrogation, but he abruptly sat down again, swiveled toward the steel cabinet behind him and reached into the top drawer. He removed a looped cord that held a laminated identification card and put the cord around his neck, then held the card out for Rivers to see.

Monsieur, I almost forgot to tell you—I am also Abdul Salaam.