Of Time and Destiny

By Nathaniel H.C. Kim

It is the year 2027AD and in the city of Beirut, Lebanon, a man, his wife, and two children are assassinated in twin explosions. the assassinations are the latest in a series of killings spanning a period of two years and show no signs of abating. Hundreds of miles away in the ancient city of Samarkand, a jihadist command cell summons its members after learning of the latest incident. Who is behind these terrorist acts? What do they want? For what reasons? Though the answers are not obvious, Qutuz Sayfullah, leader of the command cell, believes they are the next targets. He has a theory that lies rooted in Mongol antiquity and a legend that has lived on for centuries.

So begins a dire quest for Qutuz and his companions to stop these assassinations of jihadist leaders and their families. A quest which takes them into the den of the Blue Wolf--Mongolia, once a mighty empire stretching from the Sea of Japan to the gilded doors of Vienna. An empire that nearly erased Islam from the face of the earth.

For Qutuz and his followers, the quest is one of life or death. For an American treasure hunter, Charlie Freedman--seeker of the tomb of the great Chinggis Qan--it is a matter of fame and fortune. For the Mongol peoples, it is the promise of a return to a glorious future and a prominent place on the world stage. And for Mongolias newly elected President, Temujin, it is a calling of time and destiny.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 4, 2006
• ISBN: 9781462837809

Nathaniel H.C. Kim

Sarai is the third and final installment of the Qans Triology. Nathaniel Kim resides in Kaneohe, Hawaii with his two sons and is presently working on a fourth novel based on the legend of Chinggis Qan’s return eight hundred years after his death.

Book preview

Prologue

NEWS FLASHES FROM AROUND THE WORLD: JANUARY 2025 TO SEPTEMBER 2027:

Usama bin Laden dead!

ABD IBN aL-FAQUAH KILLED IN BOMB BLAST.

INDONESIAN TERROR CHIEF DIES IN CAIRO EXPLOSION

Terrorist Che padilla assassinated in BALI.

SHEIK PADWAN SHARIF COMMITS SUICIDE IN KARACHI DETENTION

WARLORD OMAR MANIF DEAD IN SOMALIA

AL-QUDS TERRORIST CHIEF DIES IN EXPLOSION

HUGE TERRORIST CELL UNCOVERED IN LIBYA

Vast gas and oil deposits found in Mongolia!

GOLD AND SILVER ARTERIES UNCOVERED IN KHENTII MOUNTIANS, MONGOLIA!

MONGOLIA ELECTS TEMUJIN NEW PRESIDENT; CONSIDERS CONSTITUTIONAL MONARCHY.

NEW MONGOLIAN PRESIDENT TO ANNOUNCE CAMPAIGN AGAINST TERRORISM.

U.S. Businessman Charlie Freedman still searching for tomb of GENGHIS KHAN

Chapter one

HADIR AL-ZAQAWRI STOOD BY THE DRIVER’S SIDE DOOR OF HIS BLACK MERCEDES S600, looked up and blew a kiss to his wife and two children on the balcony of their fifth floor flat. Around him, the peace of twilight unfurled on another evening in the city of Beirut. The approaching darkness gave birth to light from stylish street lamps along the tree-lined avenue of the quaint, upscale Beirut neighborhood of Khoreitem. Further on toward the main business districts, vibrant neon lights from shops, cafes, clubs and restaurants flickered into the glow of life.

Since moving into the neighborhood two years ago, this form of parting had become a ritual between al-Zaqawri and his wife of ten years, Behnaz. Once he blew her a kiss, she would bend down, cut two red roses from a bush that grew in a large ceramic vase and hand one to each of their children who would lean forward, reach through the wrought iron railing and toss the roses out into space, watching them fall, sometimes twirling, sometimes tumbling, to their father waiting below. In the two years of this ritual, al-Zaqawri had missed catching the roses only once when a young boy on a bicycle lost his balance and collided into him, sending them both tumbling to the rough asphalt. Fortunately, in the years since, no one else had crashed into him and he had caught each rose before it could touch the ground.

Tonight, though was a special night. A night so special, he had not even told Behnaz about it. Tonight as it had been for the last twelve years, he was on his way to a meeting with other members of the high council for jihad to hear status reports on old business, discuss new orders of business and determine what resource needs the council might require in the next two years; resources necessary to carry out the next great enterprises. Although the council was made up of five members, as chair of the high council, al-Zaqawri was imbued with much of the decision-making authority out of respect for his years of experience, intelligence and foresight.

But tonight would be different.

Before the meeting formally began, before the council members’ attention could be diverted elsewhere, he would announce to them what he had shared with no one else and spent many long hours examining and analyzing with the diligence and attention to detail he was known for. A matter he had scrutinized from every conceivable angle and facet; a matter that led him to a single conclusion:

It was time to retire.

He had been in this business for twenty-seven years and while he did not consider himself old at forty-seven, there was much more he wished to do with his life before the rigors of old age finally took hold of his mind and his limbs. The rewards he had received over the last twelve years for his successes had been good. The compensation for his leadership of the high council, his knowledge, planning and strong, analytical mind enabled him to save and invest considerable sums of money in a variety of successful ventures, eventually eliminating any need on his part or that of his family to worry about finances in the future and to live a comfortably secure and relaxed lifestyle. A style of living that would allow him to watch his children grow, be educated in the finest private schools and colleges and devote to his Behnaz the time he had never been able to give before. Reasons and beliefs once so compelling as a young man of twenty, no longer held the same mystique or force of conviction. Perhaps, the passing of years had something to do with it. Certainly, marriage and children had an influence. In the end, he knew it was really many things that led him to this auspicious decision, not the least of which were events that had unfolded in the last two years and rumors circulating amongst the jidhadists networks. Rumors that sent chills down his spine as nothing else ever had. Initially, he dismissed these rumors with disdain, calling them nothing more than western fear mongering until the rumors began to morph into real time events and not just once but over and over again with such a tenacious consistency as to indicate a clear pattern.

Aha! Hadir cried, snatching both roses only a few inches above the roof of his car. Five stories above, his son and daughter of seven and eight, gleefully clapped their hands. He blew another kiss, waved the roses at them then unlocked the driver’s door and slipped behind the steering wheel, smoothly inserting the car key into the ignition and shutting the door. His blue eyes scanned the dashboard and adjusted the air conditioning.

Beirut nights had been unseasonably humid and hot this year and without air conditioning, clothes would be soaked in a matter of minutes. Down the busy, narrow street, vendors and shops were well lit, beckoning shoppers and others out strolling the streets to come in and browse. As his fingers grasped the key to start the car, a smile blossomed on his bearded face. For the last week, he had secretly rehearsed what he would tell the high council members:

It is with deep respect, my muslim brothers, that I, Hadir al-Zaqawri announce my retirement, effective immediately. And then, he would propose a toast—al-Zaqawri fondly patted the brown paper sack next to him containing a magnum of champagne—to their friendship, successes and future victories without him. Of course, after their initial shock, he expected the council members to pepper him with questions about why was he doing this. His answer would be straightforward and firm: I have fulfilled my duty to Allah and my fellow Muslims. It is time for me to now fulfill my duty to my wife and my children before it is too late. They would vociferously attempt to change his mind. He had no doubts of that. Badger him, remind him that his duty and honor as a Muslim was to protect and propagate the greatness of Allah and Muhammad against the bombardment of plagues and diseases from the world’s increasing number of infidels. The same words and reasoning born the day Muhammad first encountered the archangel, Gabriel, in a cave in that age of antiquity. Al-Zaqawri smiled wryly. But not tonight. Tonight it was over for him. He had done his duty to Allah and Islam. He was finished, God willing.

Hadir leaned his head out the window and waved once more to his wife and children still on the balcony. I love you, he mouthed as his right hand turned the ignition key.

The flash blinded him before the shock waves hit, battering his body and car, throwing him violently across the seat into the passenger window, head smashing into the bulletproof glass with such force, spider cracks appeared. Concrete, wood, metal, dirt and unimaginable things rained down on al-Zaqawri’s car, rocking it further, smashing the sides, the hood, the trunk and every window. Slowly, Zaqawri regained consciousness, blood trickling out of each ear, drums ruptured. Dazed, covered with dust and glass, he struggled to right himself on the seat, blearily focusing out the cracked windshield. The acrid smell he knew so well singed his nostrils and then, his eyes widened and his heart stopped at the sight on the hood of his car—the disembodied, bloody head of his Behnaz staring back at him.

Behn—!

Four kilograms of military plastique went off beneath the S600 Mercedes sedan, burying his scream in a thunderous roar that shattered windows a block away.

Chapter two

AMERICAN! IT HAS TO BE THE AMERICANS! OR, THE ACCURSED JEWS! FAROUQ Hazar slammed his right fist into the open palm of his left, dark, angry eyes traveling around the table. Three sets of eyes gazed back at him.

Whomever it is, drives the brothers to the edge, answered a young man at the table.

Farouq’s eyes darted over to Hassan Farah, a young, bearded Palestinian he had known since childhood.

It is driving everyone mad, Hassan, Farouq snapped. He slapped his head in frustration and lit another cigarette, smoke streaming from his lips. In two year’s time, jihadists everywhere have lost their most important leaders. From his holiness, Bin Laden to the brilliant, al-Zaqawri last night! Tell me—who is behind this? How do they get information? Who or what are we dealing with? Please! I beg any of you! Tell me!

Silence enveloped the table, the eyes of the two men and one woman seated around it, lowered in commiseration and painful ignorance. A haze of cigarette smoke floated in the stale air of the one room apartment in Samarkand. Through an open window, the noisy sounds of cars, buses and trucks spilled over the weathered, cracked wooden sill. Horns honked. Engines revved and backfired. Brakes squealed. The loud firecracker sound of a motorbike zipped by, startling them. Above a squat refrigerator, an electric clock read eight p.m.

Hassan Farah leaned forward and grasped his glass of tea and slowly brought it to his lips, noticing the slight tremble in his hand. When word reached them two hours ago that Hadir al-Zaqawri and his entire family had been killed at his residence in Beirut, they had hurriedly assembled in Farouq’s small apartment. Qutuz Sayfullah and Saahara Sabbah, his cousin, were the last to arrive, clearly shaken by the news. Not only had the jihadists lost another well-respected leader but a clear pattern had emerged with this bombing—anyone known to be or suspected of being a leader or commander of jihadist had been killed in countries throughout the Muslim world. And, what was more appalling, beginning with the last two assassinations leading up to al-Zaqawari last night, a new pattern appeared to have emerged. It seemed the families of the men had also been targeted for elimination—a new development in this increasingly frustrating and—none wished to admit it—frightening situation.

Farouq’s dark eyes shifted to Saahara, a young, dark-haired woman seated to his left wearing a white cotton blouse and blue jeans. Wavy, black hair spilled down a nicely curved neck and tumbled over narrow, smooth shoulders.

Have you been able to contact any of the brothers in Beirut, Saahara? Farouq asked, tapping ash into a glass tray.

Saahara’s dark amber eyes, framed by thick dark lashes looked back at him. In the light of the lamp above the table, feminine features glistened with oil and sweat from the evening heat and humidity.

Only two, she replied, opening a small, black notepad in front of her full of writing. Jamal in Kazakhstan reports that recruitment has dropped drastically in the last six months. Not only that, he is having increasing difficulty keeping the men he has. In the last month alone, he lost five percent of his membership. The fingers turned the page. Ramal in Iraq has similar problems. In fact, recently, the leader, Sheik Abd went into hiding with his entire family and refuses to have communication with anyone.

Beside her, Qutuz Sayfullah’s dark brows furrowed. The sheik cut himself off from his men?

Everyone, Saahara said. He took only his family and his brother and a cousin with him. None may visit him. Talk to him. Or bring him anything. His last words to Ramal were—leave him alone. They could not contact him in any way. No one knows where he went. It is as though he and his family vanished from the face of the earth.

"Be Tokhmam! Damnit!" Farouq cursed.

"With all due respect, sadik, Qutuz said. I do not believe it is the Jews or Americans behind the killing of jihadist leaders."

All eyes around the table shifted to him.

Farouq warily cocked his head. Why, Qutuz? he asked. Of the four men seated around the table, Farouq held Qutuz in highest respect. Not only was he experienced and smart, he was the leader of their jihadist cell and a man who’s character was not prone to panic or agitated speech. They had met in Cairo six years before as graduate students and struck up a warm friendship built on mutual respect and belief, which had led them down the same path. After graduation, Qutuz continued advanced studies at Cairo University while he transferred to Tehran University in Iran. They remained in touch and when the opportunity arose to join the cause, they agreed to do so together.

Qutuz sipped his tea, long, bony fingers gripping his glass. Although he was only thirty-two, his hands appeared to be more old than young, pained by an inherited trait of arthritis. He was not a physically imposing figure but it was his eyes that revealed a quiet prowess and power. Eyes that burned like a furnace roaring at maximum capacity.

Qutuz?

The man nodded. I do not feel it is either one. The Americans have not the contacts to do what has been done. Track these men down or their families. And the Israelis are too well known to do so without drawing attention.

Then who? Saahara questioned.

Qutuz lowered his head, smoke curling up from the cigarette in his right hand. After a moment, he looked up. During my last year at Cairo University, he said, I took a roommate. A young Mughal from the city of Ulaan Baatar. We became friends and spent many nights debating religion and politics.

Not chasing girls? Saahara teased.

Qutuz shot her a hard look. She glanced away.

A month before graduation, my Mughal friend told me a fascinating story. A story about another young Mughal who had been growing in popularity and power back in his home country. They were good friends. Like brothers. His friend, he said, was regarded by scholars of the intelligentsia as a certifiable genius and, by the military, a protégé of the greatest of Mughal military leaders. He came from the privileged class. His father was a businessman and investor in the oil and gold industry of the country—

Oil and gold? Hassan repeated, eyes wide.

Saahara frowned. Do you not read the news, Hassan? It was reported two years ago. Huge oil deposits discovered in the Gobi Desert. Exploratory wells revealed deposits exceeding those of Saudi Arabia. Gold and silver arteries in the Khentii Mountains, rivaling any in the world.

I missed it, Hassan confessed, sheepish. I must have been busy working.

On your job or wife? Farouq drawled. The others laughed.

Please, Qutuz, go on, Saahara prodded her cousin.

He continued. According to my sadik, the young Mughal enlisted in the military and quickly rose through the ranks. Some say it was because of his family’s money and political connections. Others because of his genius and popularity with the men. Whatever the reason, he became the youngest general in the Mughal military. Two years ago, at twenty-four, he was elected President of Mongolia. Qutuz paused to sip more tea and chew on a piece of flat bread. A most amazing story, I thought.

Saahara cocked her head. What is his name? The President?

Temujin.

Temujin, Saahara mumbled to herself. For some reason, the name sounded familiar although she did not know why.

Farouq scratched the thick stubble of his jaw. It is indeed an intriguing story, Qutuz. But what does that have to do with who is behind the assassinations?

A moment, Qutuz said, swallowing tea. He took another bite of bread. When my roommate returned to Mongolia, he wrote me to say he was helping his friend fulfill his political ambitions. Great things were coming for his country and he knew his friend would be the one to lead them there. One of his friend’s promises was to fight terrorism. As I said, two years ago, the man became President. Qutuz paused to sip more tea. A month after the election, the first jihadist murders were reported. Then, I received another letter from him. He said he was happy. His life was blessed. After his friend was elected President, he was appointed the man’s Chief-of-Staff. Wealth was flooding into the country and it was expected that the new president would bring glory to the country. The people loved and adored him. All the people.

This Mughal, Temujin, Farouq clarified.

Qutuz nodded. According to my friend, the President had a grand vision to make their country an important partner in world affairs. In fact, to one day stand on the world stage, no less an equal to the western powers of France, Germany and the United States.

Chuckles sprouted and flowed around the table. Qutuz eyes flittered around the table.

You find that amusing, he observed.

Farouq responded with a wry smile. No disrespect intended, Qutuz, but come now. The Mughals may have gold and oil but they are far from being an international power. That will take decades, if at all. The country is small. Isolated. Backwards.

My friend said all that has changed. He gazed at Farouq. "Have you not heard the Western saying—from acorns, grow oak trees? Allow me to finish.

There is another part to this story, which is not well known to most outside the country. It concerns a legend that began eight hundred years ago. A legend about the Mughals’ national hero—Chinggis Qan.

Chuckles turned to laughter. Qutuz’s lips tightened. He shot a hard look at his friends. Do you wish me to finish or not?

Please, please, Qutuz, Hassan said. "Ana asif."

Eyes narrowed, Qutuz went on. The Mughal legend says that eight hundred years after the great Qan’s death, he would return and once again restore greatness to the country. All Mughals know the legend and believe in it. As did my roommate. He paused and took a pen from his shirt pocket. Without asking, he reached over and grabbed Saahara’s notebook and ripped out a page.

Qutuz! Saahara chided.

Ignoring her, Qutuz wrote down the year, 1227 A.D. He held the paper up for all of them to see. Then, he lowered it and added the number eight hundred and summed the two.

What year is this? He asked, holding the piece of paper up.

No one said a word, eyes riveted to the sum of the two numbers he had added together.

It is the year 2027 A.D. Eight hundred years after Chinggis Qan’s death. He saw skepticism in their faces.

You say, Chinggis Qan is suppose to return this year, Farouq said. Is that your meaning, Qutuz?

More or less, Qutuz shrugged. Dates of birth and death in history can be unreliable. The record always depends on who records it and their reason.

Why is it so important if he returns or not? Hassan said. He is not Muhammad. Or Jesus Christ.

Qutuz looked him squarely in the eyes. You know little of Mughal history, Hassan.

I know they butchered millions of Muslims, Hassan scowled. Why would any good Muslim want to know anymore about these dogs?

What is your point, Qutuz? Farouq pressed, curiosity aroused.

Qutuz leaned forward, eyes glowing. Chinggis Qan is not actually a name. It is a title given to him by his nobles when he was proclaimed the Mughals one, true leader. It translates into ‘universal emperor, leader’. But, he had another name—his birth name before that.

Hassan motioned with rolls of his wrist. Which was . . . ?

Qutuz took a deep breath. Temujin.

The two gazed at each other for several moments. The silence around the table seemed to swell and fill the room. Outside, a heavy truck rumbled by, vibrations coming through floor and walls.

So, you believe that Chinggis Qan has returned, Farouq said.

And you imply the assassinations and this Temujin are related, Saahara surmised. What, pray tell, cousin, is the connection?

It is speculation on my part, Qutuz admitted. Perhaps, the connection is strained. But it is something I have been contemplating since the assassinations began.

I think it strained, Hassan opined. What reason would this Mughal have to assassinate terrorists? I do not recall any jihadist incidents in that country. And why is it so important that he may be this Chinggis Qan.

Qutuz gazed patiently at Hassan. In time, you will see, sadik.

What is the name of this Mughal friend of yours? Saahara inquired.

A wry look swept over his gaunt face. Jamuqa, Qutuz said. My roommate was named, Jamuqa.

Wrinkles appeared between brows.

Is that suppose to be significant as well? Farouq pressed.

"Jamuqa was Chinggis Qan’s closest friend and competitor. They were anda. Brothers. By pledge. In the end, Chinggis had to kill him."

So you believe the legend true? Farouq said. That this Temujin is Chinggis Qan and he is behind the assassinations?

Qutuz brought his glass to his lips and paused, eyes looking down into it. As I said, I think we will find out, Farouq. He took a sip and looked up at them. Sooner than later.

Chapter three

THE AMBASSADOR OF THE UNITED STATES, THE HONORABLE WARREN LOCK.

From behind a large, beautifully polished rosewood desk, a young man of twenty-six strode forward, right hand extended toward another man dressed in a dark business suit.

At six-two, Temujin was tall for a Mongol with dark, handsome features hinting of mixed descent from some past melding of ethnic tribes. His broad shoulders and chest filled the traditional Mongol del well, the robe of black silk and wool with gold lapels and embroidered hems of gold thread further accenting a robust build and stature. On either side of his head, long, dark hair hung in two plaited braids, pinned at the back. Although he was not inclined to dress in such a fashion at state and international functions, at home, in his office, he considered it proper attire. The men approached each other, paused and bowed. The eastern greeting was followed by a firm exchange of a western handshake. Warren Lock found the President of Mongolia’s grasp confident and firm.

Please, Temujin bid, holding out a hand to a pair of couches offset to one side of his office, facing floor-to-ceiling windows on the twentieth floor of the ORLOCK building in Ulaan Baatar. Blue sky, fleets of fluffy white clouds and the rise of low mountains filled the windows. Cars and buses, trucks, bicycles and other modes of transportation could be seen moving smoothly along Peace Avenue, the main street of the city. Drivers deftly avoided donkeys and camels and ox drawn carts leisurely making their way along side lanes adjacent with the traffic.

By design, the ORLOCK building was the tallest in the city and home to many government departments and offices. Townhouse complexes, apartment buildings and office towers sprawled throughout the city, some right up to the base of the encircling mountains but none as high. Arrayed against the skyline, an army of giant construction cranes sprouted, tall skeletal structures of steel and cables, testament to the phenomenal growth the country had been undergoing since Temujin took office two years earlier. Once Mongol standards had been made of iron and animal parts. Now, they were made of concrete and steel.

Something to drink, Mr. Ambassador? Temujin inquired as a young woman wearing a dark gray business suit, stockings and high heels waited nearby, hands politely folded before her. The Donna Karan suit fit her well, emphasizing a svelte figure and delicate features.

Please, Lock answered with a smile. Coke or Pepsi, if you have one.

Temujin smiled revealing straight white teeth. He gestured at the woman who strode to a bank of closets, slid the doors back on one side, revealing a large, stainless steel, sub-zero refrigerator. She opened the door and brought out a can.

I’ll have one too, Chabi, Temujin said. Please sit, ambassador.

The two men took seats across from each other while Chabi set lacquered coasters down on the glass coffee table between them and two tall glasses filled with ice. Behind Temujin, Lock noticed a fireplace of stainless steel and marble. Very nice, he thought. They filled their glasses with the effervescent liquid then exchanged salutes and drank while Chabi took a seat in a leather chair next to Temujin. From her suit pocket she took out a small digital recorder and set it on the tabletop.

Coke is the most popular drink in Mongolia, Temujin appraised, gazing at his half-full glass. "After airag, that is."

Understandably, Lock echoed, nodding. Nothing replaces the national drink.

Have you tried it, ambassador? Chabi inquired.

Lock smiled. Twice. I found it a tad too salty for me. But, kicks like a horse if you have too much. He chuckled. And that’s easy to do.

Temujin smiled. So. To what do I owe a visit from the United States? He asked. Has something of concern arisen between our countries?

Oh no, no, Lock quickly assured, shaking his head. Our diplomatic relations are quite solid, Mr. President. No, no, he echoed, setting his glass down. I received some news this morning and I was in the area. So I decided to stop by. See if you’d heard about the latest assassination?

A sliver of a frown creased Temujin’s brows. No. I hadn’t, he replied.

Last night in Beirut, the mastermind behind the Istanbul bombing, Hadir al-Zaqawri was killed along with his wife and children. At his residence. A flat in a upscale neighborhood of the city. His wife and children were on the balcony when the explosion occurred. He was in his car, saying goodbye to them.

Slowly, Temujin’s brows rose and he exchanged looks with Chabi

Lock went on. My counterpart in Lebannon reported it was actually two separate explosions witnesses saw and heard. The first one destroyed the flat they were living in. Killed the wife and children. They died instantly. The second bomb tore apart al-Zaqawri’s car while he was in it. There was just enough of them left to allow for positive identification. Terrible.

Temujin gazed steadily at the ambassador. It is always tragic when children die, Ambassador. But, frankly, in this situation, I do not have much sympathy for the man. The bombing in the port of Istanbul last year. How many people were killed?

Two hundred, Mr. President.

And hundreds more injured.

That’s correct.

Temujin contemplated his glass a moment. Did anyone claim responsibility?

No. Like the others . . . , Lock replied, gazing at his glass, . . . no claims of responsibility. He grunted. Many think it’s the Americans or Israelis behind it. Despite our protestations to the contrary, no one believes us. He shrugged. I suppose it’s to be expected given our past position regarding terrorism. On the other hand, the last four American presidents took a much more moderate stance on the issue. Our current leader, President Tucker realized the war against terrorism can’t be won with military justice. And our people won’t support taking part in such efforts. Not after the sacrifices they made years ago. Painful memories remain.

Truly, a difficult position, Temujin empathized. Do you think these assassinations are intended to fuel the flames of hate against America and Israel?

I wouldn’t be surprised, Lock remarked. Serves the jihadists’ purposes. Keeps the rage burning. The plots coming. Perpetuates the cycle. America is still a power broker in the world.

One would think after a while, these fanatics would start running out of leaders and men, Temujin opined, glancing at Chabi.

Lock cocked his head, parted his coat and leaned forward. Well, now that you mention it, there might be an upside to all this. Our intelligence has been picking up more and more chatter by jihadists in recent months about difficulty recruiting, retention, quality. The fact jihadist leaders can’t be protected doesn’t say much about security to the rank and file. Particularly with the new developments.

New developments? Temujin echoed.

When the assassinations began, it was only terrorists. However, the last three targeted not only the terrorists but their families as well. It appears the bar has been raised.

Temujin’s brows arched. Fascinating.

Isn’t it? Lock chuckled. Of course, it’s intriguing news to the West though no one would openly say so. He reached forward and grasped his Coke, beads of condensation rolling down the glass. If the recruitment and retention information is true and indicative of a trend, there may be hope after all this craziness may finally be coming to an end.

Let us hope so, Temujin agreed.

Nice view. Lock rose and walked to the windows in front of him, quietly contemplating the panoramic scene. This city’s turned into a forest of construction cranes, Mr. President. I hadn’t really noticed before. Good view from here.

Temujin came up and stood next to him. Much of the new construction you see will provide housing for our people—if they care to make use of it. There are new office towers and corporate headquarters for the oil conglomerates and mining industry. Manufacturing. A wide spectrum of businesses unlike any this country has seen before. The city is literally changing overnight. He smiled proudly.

You’ve been president for only two years and yet, what you’ve done in that time is nothing short of phenomenal, sir, Lock acknowledged. Needless to say, your people adore you. He turned and looked at Temujin. I’m told your people refer to you as Chinggis Qan returned. You’re not the President to them. You’re the Qa Qan of the reborn Mongol Empire.

Temujin smiled. Chabi giggled at the reference.

What? I heard it myself the other night, he said. Wife and I were dinning out when we overheard a couple at the next table talking about all you’ve accomplished. They kept saying—qa qan. Not Mr. President. Or, President Temujin. But, Qa Qan.

Temujin gave Lock a wistful smile. You must admit, Ambassador, to believe in something like that lends a certain romantic mystique to it, don’t you think? There’s so little romance or mystery in the world these days. People are either too busy chasing their dreams or locking themselves in their homes out of fear. Or both.

Mind if I ask a question?

Not at all, Ambassador.

During your campaign for the presidency, one of your more popular platforms was launching a war on terrorism. Have I stated that correctly?

"Tum—yes. It is a matter I feel deeply about. I despise indiscriminate death and destruction. It appalls me."

Even though your country has managed to escape being a target? Lock pointed out. It was a well-known fact and an enigma among government elites that Mongolia had not experienced any known terrorist acts to date.

Frankly, Ambassador, I think that’s more luck than design. At any time, these terrorists could decide otherwise. We’ve been blessed with peace . . . so far. I consider it only a matter of time before that changes.

Lock’s eyes fixed on the young president. This campaign of yours—the one you promised to start against the terrorists. I don’t recall ever hearing what it was exactly you were going to do.

Temujin smiled, wryly. Would your great country support it?

The Ambassador gazed out the windows. We’d like to know what it is first before answering that question. Lock’s eyes dropped down to the avenue below. Frankly, I don’t know what my superiors in Washington would say, Mr. President. But, when you decide to launch the campaign, we’d appreciate your letting us know. Help us prepare for any . . . fall out. On the other hand, he looked at Temujin. You may be surprised by Washington’s reaction. Lock glanced at his watch. I think it’s time I get back to the embassy. I’ve a meeting.

The two men walked leisurely to the double teak doors. The ambassador paused a moment before a large oil portrait of the country’s national hero, Chinggis Qan, rendered by a well-respected Mongol artist.

He truly was a great man, wasn’t he? Lock mused aloud, gazing at the round, plain face, the placid look. Looking at him, one wouldn’t think of him as a great warrior or Emperor.

Temujin nodded, eyes aglow. I believe that was the point. Chinggis Qan did not care to look the part. Doing so, put his enemies at ease. Back then, no one ever thought the Mongols would amount to anything. That kind of thinking allowed them to tend to their own needs and designs without interruption.

Lock pursed his lips. Good point. People thought them inconsequential.

You are being diplomatic, Ambassador, Temujin smiled. People regarded us as animals. Possessed of less value than a dog. With about as much intelligence and equally expendable.

Well, Chinggis certainly changed their minds.

Temujin smiled and opened the door. They exchanged bows and Lock left with his security personnel. He closed the door and walked back to the couch.

That was an interesting visit, Chabi said. Think he suspects anything?

Unquestionably, Temujin said. The Americans like certainty. Order. To know. It creates great apprehension for them when they do not know. He chuckled. So they suspect everything.

Sounded like there might be some positive possibilities with them.

We will see.

At that moment across the room, a side door abruptly opened and disgorged a well-dressed young man in a worsted sports coat and wool slacks.

Jamuqa! Temujin exclaimed, rising. You’re back! Another success!

The three came together and exchanged hugs, laughing joyously.

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Professor Arslan Tudor lifted his dark gray eyes from the pages of the instructor’s lesson book opened before him and quietly gazed out at the four rows of students deep in the middle of their final exam. Some sat bent over their papers scribbling furiously; others sat with foreheads cradled forlornly in their hands; and, still others nervously shook pencils, legs or other extremities in their quest for a good grade or at least, a passing one.

The last four months had been gratifying for Arslan who found this class of students studious, serious and devoted seekers of knowledge. Two previous classes, since arriving in Mongolia eighteen months ago, had not been as satisfying. The students of those classes seemed more preoccupied with absorbing the contemporary offerings of Western culture exploding around them than what the history of the world had to offer. Not that he blamed them but for some reason, this class of students had been quite different. He wasn’t sure why though in his short-lived teaching career, it all seemed a matter of luck of the draw. Sometimes a class was full of over-achievers. At other times, barely mediocre. When he first started teaching, he once believed achievers were the products of wealthy, highly educated families and underachievers the product of the lower end of dysfunctional homes. During one semester at the University of Hawaii, he decided to test his hypothesis with four of the undergraduate classes he was teaching. To his mild surprise, he found his hypothesis and belief riddled with falsehoods and stereotypes. Although far from scientific or conclusive, the exact opposite seemed true—those from the disadvantaged strata of society seemed to be more achievement oriented than their wealthier counterparts and much more industrious and willing to put in the hours necessary to succeed. It made sense. By the time students of such background reached this level, only the most successful were left—those who had developed discipline and good study habits in order to achieve. He toyed with the idea of looking into the dynamics of learning further when an email message from a childhood friend he had not seen in three years popped up on his computer one day. A message that was a life-changing event although he didn’t realize it at the time:

Arslan Tudor! Sain Bainuu! (Hello), It’s Sarah Rhinehold. Your good friend! Do good in the world for two years and come join me in a great adventure! The pay