“Who?” Wallender said.

“A fellow named Eyad Masharawi. He teaches part-time at our school in Shati refugee camp. The rest of the time he’s a university lecturer.”

“At the Islamic University?” Omar Yussef said.

“No, the other one, whatever the hell it’s called.”

“Al-Azhar.”

“Aye. Well, the poor bugger’s been arrested. So I’ll drop you at your hotel, if you don’t mind, and I’ll get along sharpish to Masharawi’s house to see what can be done.”

Magnus Wallender looked at Omar Yussef. “We don’t want to delay you, James. Why don’t we come with you? You can take us to the hotel later.”

“I’d just as soon drop you first.”

“No, really, we’d prefer to go with you.”

Cree wasn’t looking at them now. “What about your inspection?” he said, softly.

“I’d say this would be part of our inspection, if one of our teachers is in custody,” Wallender said. “Don’t you agree, Abu Ramiz?”

Omar Yussef noticed Cree’s blue eyes flicker across him when Wallender called him Abu Ramiz, “the father of Ramiz,” a respectful and yet familiar form of address. The Scot didn’t give Omar Yussef a chance to respond. “All right, if it’s like that, then.” He turned to the driver. “Nasser, we’ll go to Masharawi’s place first.”

As the Suburban weaved around the potholes and picked up speed, Omar Yussef wondered where this poor Masharawi might be held and what might have led to his arrest. As a teacher of history to refugee children, he felt an affinity with others who chose such work for little money and less respect.

Outside, the heat flamed off the road and the dunes burned white.