That lone gunman would soon be surprised at the penance his sultan planned to make. As would the rest of the world.

The sultan crossed the hallway adjacent to the audience chamber. A few ministers and their assistants scurried from office to office farther down the hall. These were the trusted few. There were not many with whom he had shared his plans, as Omay did not want the word to get out too soon.

Another elevator intended exclusively for the sultan's private use waited in perpetuity on this floor. It was here now, doors wide.

Omay stepped aboard.

"Guest quarters," he hissed to the lift operator, his voice a weak rasp. He was immediately racked by a terrible cough.

Omay was doubled over, clutching his stomach in pain when the doors opened once more. His coughing spasm brought instant attention.

From the hall, servants' hands reached helpfully to the sultan. He swatted them all away.

"Leave me!" he commanded breathlessly.

The effort brought another coughing jag. Omay staggered from the elevator, falling weakly against the far wall.

After a long moment in which he thought his lungs would burst, the sultan managed to get his coughing under control. Another moment and his breath returned to him.

He straightened.

The servants had stayed at a respectful distance, hands outstretched if their master should beckon them. Wiping away tears of pain, Omay left them all. Alone, he steered his uncertain way down a private corridor.

Rich red tapestries lined the walls, stories of ancient Ebla woven into their ornate designs. This was the area of the palace where personal guests of the sultan stayed. He smiled through his pain as he thought of the three American secretaries of state who had stayed here over the past decade. Another would soon arrive.