“Let me see,” Fakir said. Omar ignored him. Fakir grabbed a Beretta, pointed it at Omar. “Let me see.”

“Put it down. You know what Nawif said. Treat them with respect. Next week you can have all the fun you want.”

Now next week had come. Omar steered the Mercedes down the eight-lane avenue that led into downtown Manama. Skyscrapers loomed ahead, glowing in the dark. In the cars around them, women sat uncovered. Across the road was a building hundreds of meters long, with a giant LCD screen displaying brand names in Arabic. A mall. Omar wondered what the inside looked like. A traffic light turned yellow in front of them, and he stopped for it, ignoring the honking behind them.

“You shouldn’t have stopped,” Fakir said.

“No need to rush.”

“You know, you hide it well. How scared you are. If I weren’t your brother, I wouldn’t see it.”

“What is it you want? Tell me. Or I won’t go any further.”

“I want you to believe. Otherwise, you shouldn’t be here. Because you’ll chicken out at the last minute.”

“Don’t worry about me, brother. I’m ready.”

Fakir squeezed Omar’s shoulder. “Good.”

“Good.”

The light dropped to green, and Omar steered them toward the apartment. Fifteen minutes later, they parked outside. Omar grabbed the blue bag and climbed the building’s narrow stairs as Fakir huffed behind. Omar didn’t know who had rented the place, just as he didn’t know who had bought the Mercedes or arranged his passport. Nawif had said they would be kept in the dark for their own protection. Omar didn’t even know why Nawif had told them to attack this particular bar. He saw now that he had been treated all along like a disposable part. But Fakir was right. The time for questions had passed.