Otherwise he wouldn't be here, with Ghaith, with these other prisoners. His compatriots might have other motives--long-standing grudges or basic religious hatred. They might be undergoing a gang initiation, or be ignorant pawns of rival factions. They could be here simply because they were being paid to be here. But Omar, Ghaith sensed, was still a low-class blowhard. Circumstances dictated that he must act upon his avowed convictions or be seen as a coward. Someone in the Ministry had played Omar like a harp. Who could that be? Anyone. In the current environment, it would be no exaggeration to suspect everyone. That would explain why Ghaith had heard no hint of the power shift in the Ministry. Conspiracy as a social movement. Americans might dismiss it as a passing fad. "There's no such thing as eidetic memory," Ghaith said. "Always the scholar!" Omar complained mildly. "I never could understand half of what you said." "He didn't talk like that back in the truck," the policeman groused.
