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anted to know。 No need to harm him； he wasn't the one they were after。
Quinn…Reece hesitantly raised his head and saw the whiteness of the floor below the edges of the cloth。 Tentatively； expecting to have his hand knocked away at any moment； he lifted the hem。 He could see the room now。 Slowly he pulled the fluffy material away （it was a large towel； he realised； probably from one of the executive bathrooms） and looked around。
He was in the white room。 Kline's white room。
And he was alone。
He pushed himself to his knees； his eyes half…closed against the brilliant glare。 What was happening； what the hell were they playing at？ Was the idea only to keep him out of the way for a while？ The notion came as a relief。 It emboldened him enough to rise to his feet。
Quinn…Reece went to the double…door and listened with his ear flat against the glossy surface。 No sounds without。 He tried one of the doorhandles。 Locked。
Stepping back； he surveyed the entrance for a while； gradually being used to the assailing brightness。 He turned and began walking towards the smaller door on the opposite side of the room； his footsteps loud because of uninterrupted acoustics。 He had reached the low central dais when the harsh whiteness around him collapsed into utter darkness。
Quinn…Reece cried out； as if the abrupt change had e as a physical blow。
There was nothing to see； absolutely nothing to focus on。
Even the floor beneath his feet had somehow lost substance。 His hands…unseen…waved in the air before him； as though grasping for light itself。
'What are you doing？' he shouted； a feeble entreaty to the blackness。
Naturally there was no reply。
So disorientated was Quinn…Reece that he had to will one toot to go forward。 The thought that he might be stepping over the brink into an abyss was difficult to dismiss。 He moved his other foot； arms still outstretched like a blind man's （which； in effect he was）； even though he knew there were no obstacles in his way。
Another step。
His breathing was fluttery。
Another step。
He could not see them； but he was aware that his fingers twitched like insect antennae。
Another step。
And he touched flesh。
So unexpected was the sensation； and so tense had QuinnReece bee； that he shrieked like a woman。 He fell away； a leg ing into sharp contact with the dais。 He slumped across it and lay shaking。
Wondering why the fingertips of the hand that had touched whatever…no； he meant whoever…stood in his way were tingling； he brought them closer to his face； disregarding the fact that he was unable to see。 He felt something clinging to them。
He rubbed his fingers together and whatever had been there flaked away。 It had been tissue…thin。
'Who's there？' he managed to say； and was unfortable with the sound of his own voice。
The silence was more frightening than any reply。
A warm breath brushed his cheek。 He spun around on the platform； scurrying to its furthest edge； away from whoever had leaned over him。
But a sigh close to his ear sent him scuttling back。
The men who had dragged him into this room must have slipped inside somehow after the lights had gone out！ Yet he hadn't heard the opening and closing of a door； there had been no sudden shaft of light。 How could they be in there with him？ He remembered the spicy smell before he had been hooded。 The smell was familiar。 From where； from when？
A low chuckle。 From someone close by。 And then a hand caressing his cheek。
Quinn…Reece flinched violently and quickly squirmed away。
The touch against his cheek had been roughened as though the other's skin was crispy with age。 When he tried to wipe off the mark he felt had been left there； he discovered flaky tissue hanging to his own skin。 He slapped it off in revulsion。
He twisted his head； this way and that； sightless but attempting to perceive。 His whole body was quivering uncontrollably now。 He sniffed； for there was a peculiar aroma in the air。 Nothing to do with spices； this。 Something different； vaguely unpleasant。 Like a faint moulding dampness。 Decay。
Light lashed out at him。
He cringed； covering his face with his hands。 Peeped through open fingers at the rectangle of vivid colours high on the wall。 One of the screens was lit。
It depicted a relief map of an island。 A recognisably irregular shape。 New Guinea。 The colours merged； became a muddy blur。 Faded to white。 Became black。
A new map lit up。 He forced himself to look。 Was it？…yes； it was。 Brazil。 There had been a recent find； a low…grade gold deposit。 Not by Magma； though。 No； by Consolidated。
As the colours merged； Quinn…Reece looked around the room。 The brightness from the screen should have revealed anyone else present。 But he was the only occupant。
Blackness again。
Another screen came alive； and this time he could guess the location without recognising it。 Namibia。 Yes； there had been a new discovery of uranium there。 Again； not by Magma。 He began to understand some of what was going on。
'Felix？' he ventured。
Total blackness。 Still no reply。
'Felix； you're making a mistake。 The girl； you said yourself 。 。 。' His words trailed away。 Kline wasn't in the room。 Why was he talking as if he were？
Quinn…Reece began to slide his legs off the dais。 He stopped when he heard a soft chuckle。
This time not only three screens lit up： they all did。 And the colours ran together； from one screen to the next； frames no longer divisive； blues and greens and browns beginning to streak； to flow around the room； a swift…moving stream； faster and faster； a kaleidoscope of colour； dazzling him； mesmerising him； melting together； faster now； merging； gradually being white； an absence of colour； a broad pale strip circumscribing the room。
Things began to break through that white band。 Creeping things。 Black and shiny。 Like giant cockroaches。 Although their limbs； three on either side of their glossy shells； were like human arms。 But scaly； and dark。
They hatched from the whiteness； wriggling through； dropping to the floor and into the shadows where only muted reflections on their curved backs could be observed。 They scuttled across the floor towards him。
Quinn…Reece moved to the centre of the platform； drawing up his legs； denying to himself that this was happening； certain it was a nightmare； wondering why he could not wake。
The cracked band of white vanished。
Terrible blackness around him once more。
Nothing at all to be seen。
But he could hear those things tapping towards him。
'Felix； please！' he implored； for he knew that Kline was responsible； that Kline was punishing him for his betrayal。 But he didn't understand how this could happen； for he realised it was no nightmare； the pain in his lower lip； where his teeth had clamped down； too sharp to be dreamt。 He shrieked this time。 ' Please！' A chuckle from somewhere behind。
And a clicking close by as the first of those creatures scrambled over the edge of the dais。
Some time later； the doors to the white room opened and Khayed and Daoud slipped in。 They went straight to the dead but unmarked body spread across the low dais； lifted it between them； and carried it out。
When the doors closed behind them； the room swiftly regressed to black。
KHAYED AND DAOUD。 DISPLACED AND FOUND
They were not truly Jordanians。 Asil Khayed and Youssef Daoud were born； in fact； as displaced persons； their families having fled Palestine when the Independent State of Israel was declared in May 1948。 Their parents were of the same clan and came from the same village； which was close to Jerusalem。 They had been led to believe by those who had their own political motives that the Zionist forces would destroy their homes and meagre crops； would slaughter their children and livestock； would rape their women； would torture and murder the men。 Flight to the River Jordan was their only hope。
They came to the refugee camp at Ein es Sultan； one of many such sites scattered around the city of Jericho and along the West Bank。 There the two Arab boys were born within weeks of each other； to be raised in the squalor of a vast tent city containing tens of thousands of grieving migrants； where there were no toilets； kitchens； or medical facilities； and where most days were spent awaiting the arrival of water trucks and supply convoys from Damascus and Amman。 The tents provided by the International Red Cross were of thin canvas which； unlike the tough Bedouin tents of animal skins and furs； were virtually useless against the rains and sandstorms。 Their beds were nothing more than light sleeping mats。 Running； open sewers and hills of rotting garbage were everywhere； attracting flies and mosquitoes by the millions。 Severe dysentery was rife。 Cholera； typhoid and other diseases claimed thousands of lives。 Fierce rainfalls and then intolerable heat brought in by hamsin winds from the desert weakened all。
The muktar of their old village； whom the clans gathered around； could offer no fort； for his spirit had been broken by the ignoble flight of his people and the hopelessness he saw all around。 Hate with all your heart； he could only tell them； despise the Zionist dogs who have brought you to this。 Nurture the hatred； live for revenge against the Jews。
Typhoid took Youssef's father； along with his two older brothers and a sister。 That the young baby and his mother survived was no miracle； for death was indiscriminate。 The widow and her child came under the protection of Asil's father； there being no energy for jealousy among the women。 And the Koran； which spoke severely against adultery and fornication； also preached the blessedness of caring for cripples； idiots； blind men and widows。 The boys grew up together and became closer than natural brothers。
Although rough hovels of mud bricks gradually replaced the tents； a form of rough villages taking shape along the Jordan； the rule of kaif…a passivity that might be described as idleness prevailed。 Few businesses were set up； no industries were started。 There were no schools for the younger exiles； no games or activities organised for them。 The demoralised Palestinians relied on the charity of others； as if content to wallow in their own hatred for the Jews and the foreign powers that had betrayed them。 The Moslem Brotherhood were eager to exploit the persecution and never tired of stoking the fires of vengeance against these infamous 'invaders'； while at the same time extolling the virtues of martyrdom for the great Arab cause of repatriation。
Asil and Youssef were children of a nibbled ghetto； existing on whatever was sparingly given； thriving on bitterness which was generously supplied。 When Asil's father was killed in a riot against the reviled Arab Legion of Jordan's King Abdullah who； along with certain leaders of other Arab states； saw the political advantages in keeping the Palestinians a nation in exile rather than weling and absorbing them as true brothers （acceptance of the State of Israel would be a threat to his own power in the Middle East）； the boys took on the responsibility for their family。 By then the United Nations had taken charge over the welfare of the refugee camps and at least some progress was taking place in these humble villages。 In Ein es Sultan there were mosques； a ritual slaughterhouse； stores； warehouses and food distribution centres。 The boys were lucky enough to find jobs as coffee vendors； passing from shop to kiosk with their trays bearing coffee finjans； cups and sticky sweets； often trekking out to the lines of lorries awaiting customs clearance at the Allenby Bridge。
For pleasure they hung around the cafes and listened to the elders reminiscing about the old life in their villages； of the main square always awash with the aromas of pungent spices； cardamom in coffee； incense； and camel； donkey； sheep and goat dung。 They spoke of important feasts； sighing over the exotic foods once served； while the boys would drool at their mention。
The elders' conversation would turn to memories of the houses they once dwelled in； solidly built with mud bricks and dung； brightly whitewashed to deflect the sun's rays； with a single colou