His Airbus H175 VIP helicopter plopped down in a cloud of dust at the edge of the Gulf of Aqaba at eight o’clock the following morning. A crewman opened the cabin door, and Khalid, in chinos and an Italian blazer, stepped hesitantly onto Israeli soil for the first time. Only Gabriel and his small security detail were on hand to witness the occasion. Smiling, Gabriel extended his hand, but Khalid drew him into a crushing embrace instead. For better or worse, and for all the wrong reasons, they were now the closest of friends.

Khalid surveyed the harsh khaki-colored landscape. “I had hoped to come here one day under different circumstances.”

“Perhaps,” said Gabriel, “I can arrange that, too.”

They headed north into the Negev Desert in Gabriel’s armored SUV. Khalid seemed surprised to see other traffic on the road.

“It’s better,” explained Gabriel, “if we hide in plain sight.”

“What if someone recognizes me?”

“Israel is the last place in the world anyone would expect to see you.”

“That’s because it’s the last place in the world I should be. But then again, I suppose I have nowhere else to go.”

Khalid was clearly uncomfortable with his reduced circumstances and diminished global status. As they plunged deeper into the desert beneath a cloudless sky, he spoke of what had transpired when he returned to Saudi Arabia after Reema’s murder. He buried her in the Wahhabi tradition, he said, in an unmarked grave in the desert. Then he quickly set about trying to reclaim his place in the line of succession. As he had feared, it was not possible. The Allegiance Council had already settled on Abdullah, Khalid’s mentor and confessor, as the new crown prince. Khalid dutifully pledged his loyalty to his uncle, but Abdullah, fearing Khalid’s influence, summarily stripped him of all his powerful government posts. When Khalid objected, he was arrested and taken to a room at the Ritz-Carlton Hotel, where he was forced to surrender much of his net worth. Fearing for his life, he gathered up his remaining liquid assets and took refuge aboard Tranquillity. Asma, his wife, had refused to go into exile with him.

“She blames you for Reema’s death?”

Khalid nodded slowly. “Rather ironic, don’t you think? I championed the rights of women in Saudi Arabia, and as my reward I have been forsaken by my wife.”

“And by your uncle, too.”

“So much for his advice not to abdicate,” agreed Khalid. “It seems Abdullah was plotting against me from the beginning. The Allegiance Council gave no serious consideration to any other candidate. The cake, as they say, was already in the oven. Once I was out of the way, the throne was Abdullah’s for the taking. Not even my father could stop it.”

“How is he?”

“My father? He has moments of lucidity, but for the most part he exists in a fog of dementia. Abdullah has complete control of the machinery of the Kingdom, and you’ve seen the results. Rest assured, he’s not finished. Those senators and congressmen in Washington who were baying for my blood will rue the day they ever criticized me.”

It was approaching ten o’clock when the mercury-colored surface of the Dead Sea appeared on the horizon. At Ein Gedi, Gabriel asked Khalid whether he wanted to have a swim, but Khalid, with a wave of his hand, declined. He had once bathed on the Jordanian side of the Dead Sea and had not enjoyed the experience.

They flashed through a checkpoint without slowing and entered the West Bank. At Jericho was the turnoff for Jerusalem. They continued north instead. Khalid’s expression darkened as they passed through a chain of Israeli settlements along the Jordan River.

“How do you expect them to build a state if you’ve taken all the land?”

“We haven’t taken all the land,” responded Gabriel. “But I can assure you we’re never leaving the Jordan Valley.”

“There can’t be two states if there are Jews on both sides of the border.”

“I’m afraid that train has left the station.”

“What train?”

“The two-state solution. It’s dead and buried. We have to think outside the box.”

“What’s the alternative?”

“First we have peace. After that,” said Gabriel, “anything is possible.”

They passed through another checkpoint into Israel proper and sped through flat, fertile farmland to the southern end of the Sea of Galilee. There they turned to the east and scaled the Golan Heights. In the Druze town of Majdal Shams they peered through a razor-wire fence into southern Syria. The Syrian military and their Russian and Iranian allies had wiped out the last of the rebel forces. The regime was once again in control of the territory along Israel’s border.

They stopped for lunch in Rosh Pina, one of the oldest Zionist settlements in Israel, before starting across the Upper Galilee. Gabriel pointed out the footprints of abandoned Arab villages. He even walked with Khalid among the ruins of al-Sumayriyya, the Arab village in the Western Galilee whose residents had fled to Lebanon in 1948. The shimmering new skyline of Tel Aviv they viewed from Highway 6, and Jerusalem, God’s fractured city upon a hill, they approached from the west. After crossing the invisible border into East Jerusalem, they made their way along the Ottoman walls of the Old City to Lions’ Gate. The small square that lay beyond it was empty of pedestrians. There were only Israeli police officers and soldiers present.

“Where are we?” asked Khalid, his voice tense.

Gabriel opened his door and climbed out. “Come with me,” he said. “I’ll show you.”

The small square inside Lions’ Gate was not the only section of the Muslim Quarter that Gabriel had arranged to be closed to the public that evening. So was the broad, sacred esplanade to the south known to Jews as the Temple Mount and to Muslims as the Haram al-Sharif, the Noble Sanctuary. Gabriel and Khalid entered the compound through the Bab al-Huttah, the Gate of Absolution. The golden Dome of the Rock glowed softly in the cold light of early evening. The mighty al-Aqsa Mosque was in silhouette.

“You did this for me?”

Gabriel nodded.

“How?”

“I am a man,” said Gabriel, “of some influence.”

A few representatives of the Waqf were huddled on the eastern side of the esplanade. “Who do they think I am?” asked Khalid.

“An Arab notable from one of the emirates.”

“Not Qatar, I hope.”

They entered the Dome of the Rock and together gazed solemnly at the Foundation Stone. It was the summit of Mount Moriah, the spot where Muslims believe Muhammad ascended into heaven and where Jews believe Abraham would have sacrificed his young son were it not for the intercession of an archangel called Gabriel. Afterward, Khalid prayed in the al-Aqsa Mosque while the angel’s namesake, alone in the esplanade, contemplated the risen moon over the Mount of Olives.

Night had fallen by the time Khalid came out of the mosque. “Where is the chamber where you found the pillars of the so-called Temple of Solomon?”

Gabriel pointed downward, into the depths of the plateau.

“And the Wailing Wall?”

Gabriel inclined his head toward the west.

“Can you take me to the chamber?” asked Khalid.

“Perhaps another time.”