The action began auspiciously.

Salem Nabulsi had prayed for good weather—and God

had rewarded him with a day of brilliant sunshine.

He’d hoped the woman’s husband would leave at his

accustomed hour—and the husband had departed fifteen

minutes early. He’d feared the woman would not admit him to her apartment—

but she had. And he’d feared she wouldn’t die quietly—but she did.

By 8:15 a.m., he’d already washed her blood from his

hands, injected her baby with the contents of the syringe and

chosen, from among her clothing, the hijab and abaya that

were to become his shroud.

God further smiled on their enterprise when He sent a taxi

driver, punctual to the minute, but also so unobservant that

he failed to notice how heavy the baby’s carriage was when

he folded it and stowed it in the cab.

The crowd, too, exceeded all expectations. It wasn’t yet a

quarter to nine when they reached the consulate, and yet the

line already stretched to half the length of the security fence.

But then it all began to go wrong.

How could they have known, how could they possibly have

known that babies attract Brazilians like flowers attract bees?

Salem hadn’t been in place for more than two minutes

before a grey-haired lady stuck her nose under the sunshade

to have a look at the sleeping child.

She cooed at the infant and started telling him abouther grandchildren.

Salem gave her no encouragement,

but it still seemed an eternity before she abandoned her

attempt to elicit a response and returned to her place in line.

Next to interfere was a fat sergeant from the Civil Police.

Salem, fearing the cop’s suspicions would be aroused by the

difference in skin tones between himself and the baby, edged

his hand closer to the detonation switch.

But the sergeant was wearing dark sunglasses and the baby

was in deep shadow, so perhaps he didn’t notice. After a few

complimentary remarks, which Salem didn’t respond to, the

cop gave up and moved on.

He’d no sooner disappeared into an alcove fronting a

leather goods shop when a third busybody appeared.

Salem was never to know it, but her name was Dorotea

Candida. She was a sharp-eyed lawyer, the mother of three

and the grandmother of two.

She was smiling when she bent over, but the smile quickly faded.

“Yours?” she asked, standing upright.

The Mullah hadn’t prepared him for such a question.

“Yes,” Salem blurted.

Her eyes narrowed.

“Uh-huh,” she said.

Salem didn’t like the way she said it.

Then, without another word, she turned and headed

toward a cop, not the same one as before, another one. And

this one looked a lot smarter. She spoke and pointed. The

cop nodded and walked toward Salem.

Wait until nine, the Mullah had said. The crowd will be biggest then.

And it would have been. At least ten people had queued

up behind him. More were arriving every minute. But Salem could wait no longer. Discovery was imminent. He put his hand on the button.

Excerpt ends.