She wrapped her scarf around her face and lowered her head. It was best not to be noticed, she knew. There were few women on the street, and she was alone. Silently, she slipped through the shadows along the street, turning several times and once losing her way before she came to where she could see it. The golden Dome of the Rock gleamed in the fading light. She had to reach there before it was dark in order to say her prayer.

Quickly she climbed the steps and came closer to its marble walls. The brilliance of their color dazzled her, even in the dim light of the evening. She couldn't go inside, as only men could do that. She could pray here, however, with her head against the wall. But what prayer had she come to say? Suddenly, she couldn't remember. It had been so important. She had left her home and friends behind to come and say this prayer. But what was it?

She began to cry. Her shoulders shook as sobs racked her body and tears streamed from her eyes down her cheeks. Then the sun went down, and it was dark. The stone wall no longer shone before her. She huddled against it for warmth and reassurance, but now it felt cold and hard. She looked furtively around her. She was alone, and everything was being swallowed up by the darkness.

She wanted to scream, but she knew that would draw attention to her. So she remained silent, weeping and alone. Carefully watching each step, she moved slowly back toward the gate. She crept down the steps and moved without a sound into the street. It was so dark that she couldn't see anything, nonetheless she had to find her way home. Slowly, following the wall with her hand, she shuffled forward, trembling with fear and despair.

Then she saw a light ahead, a very small light, like a candle. She took her hand from the wall, reached out both hands before her, and moved cautiously toward the light. Now she could hear singing. She couldn't make out the unfamiliar words, but the music soothed her fears. Coming closer, she noticed a man kneeling before the light with his back to her. His head was bowed, so she was unable to see his face. But the shape of his shoulders looked familiar to her. She came closer. Then the prayer leaped from her lips, the prayer she had been looking for, the prayer she had forgotten: La ilaha illal Lah; Muhammadur Rasulullah.

Khalida awoke. Her face was covered with perspiration, and her nightgown was clinging to her body. For a moment, she was afraid. But then she remembered the music and the light and the feeling she had experienced as she had come closer to the light. She lay still, going over the dream in her mind, remembering all the details. She had done that from the time she was a young girl, and so she remembered many of her past dreams. It had been a long time, however, since she had had such a vivid dream. Why was the dream set in Jerusalem? Who was the man kneeling before the light? And why had she been unable to remember the prayer until it suddenly sprang from her mouth?

She shivered, feeling cold now because of the dampness of her nightgown. Why was she perspiring so? It wasn't very warm in the room. Rising, Khalida went to the bathroom, slipped off her nightgown, took a bath, and then dressed. She combed out her hair and made some tea. Blake was coming to her house in a few minutes. They were trying to get international press coverage of Paul's arrest.

When the phone rang, she thought it might be Blake calling to tell her he'd be late. But it was one of her sources. There was still no confirmation of where Paul was being held.

Blake arrived shortly after she put the phone down. "Come in, Henry. I'm sorry to be rude. But I've just had a call saying there's no word about Paul. Have you heard anything?"

"No, I haven't heard a thing,"

Khalida concentrated on pouring a cup of tea for Blake to steady her nerves. She had been devastated by what had happened in the courtroom. Blake had helped her snap out of it, but she really didn't like Blake. He had little sensitivity to her feelings, perhaps because he just thought of her as a reporter. Moreover, he was a pushy foreigner.

Thus far the press had only printed the fact that the hearing had been adjourned because of a disruption in the courtroom. They had reported that Paul was taken into custody but had not given a full account of what had actually occurred.

"I've called the international press and told them what happened," Blake said. "I expect a report will come out early today. But, you may remember, the international press weren't allowed in the courtroom. At the time I didn't realize that they'd been kept downstairs. In retrospect, it seems very clear that the authorities planned to take Paul, adjourn the meeting without a decision, and limit press coverage. They must have tipped off the Court and gotten agreement from at least some of the justices."

"I've written up the story," Khalida replied, "including an account of the questioning that was used to trap Paul. And I've sent it to my editor, although I'm not sure he'll publish it. I'm afraid the government is putting too much pressure on him. So, it's crucial that we get this story out to the international news media."

"That's what I'm going to work on this morning."

As Blake spoke, the phone rang. Khalida answered it and listened intently for a few moments before returning the telephone to the table.

"Henry," she gasped, "Javed has been picked up, either by the police or the Special Forces. My source wasn't sure which. But he's disappeared."

"My God, what will happen next?"

As Blake paced back and forth across the room, Khalida sat quietly, trying to think of who could help them get information about Paul and Javed,.

"Call Hassan," Blake said suddenly to Khalida. "He left you his number at the hotel."

Quickly, Khalida dialed the number. When the hotel desk answered, she asked to ring Hassan's room. There was no answer.

"Try his secretary in Karachi," Blake pressed. Perhaps he's checked in with her this morning."

Khalida looked up Hassan's office number in her address book and placed the call. In a few moments the secretary answered, but she told Khalida she hadn't heard from Hassan.

Almost as soon as Khalida put down the receiver, the phone rang again. It was another of her sources. She gripped the phone tightly. "There's a rumor on the street that an important Christian is trying to get Paul released," she told Blake, holding her hand over the mouthpiece of the telephone. "Try to confirm that," she said into the telephone before hanging it up again.

"Perhaps they are offering Paul a deal," she said, turning to Blake. "But would what it be?"

"They could promise to release him, if he withdraws the petition."

"No, that wouldn't work. If he were free in Pakistan, the Christian community would rally around him."

"Maybe they are willing to help him leave Pakistan, if he'll keep his mouth shut."

"That's more likely," she said. "I don't think, however, Paul would accept that. Of course, if they've tortured him . . .." She felt her throat tighten up and her heart began to race. She gritted her teeth and tried to push that thought out of her mind. Then she remembered her dream.

"Henry, I had a powerful dream early this morning. Do you believe that dreams sometimes provide us with important meanings?"

"Yes. I've read a number of books about interpreting dreams. Tell me what your dream was about?"

It might help to talk about it, Khalida thought. That would at least take her mind off her fears. "I dreamed I was in Jerusalem. I made my way alone to the wall of the Dome of the Rock to pray. But when I got there, I couldn't remember my prayer. Then it was dark, and as I groped my way toward my home I saw a small light. As I moved toward it, I could see a man kneeling before the light. I heard music I couldn't understand, and when I came closer to the man suddenly the words of the prayer were on my lips."

"Have you stopped saying your prayers?" Blake asked.

Khalida felt the blood rise in her cheeks. She resented the rude way he asked, as if she were his pupil. "Yes," she admitted reluctantly.

"The dream seems to be about returning to your prayers. Did you recognize the man?"

"No. But now I think it must have been Paul."

"Why?"

"The outline of his head and shoulders was familiar. He was kneeling before a light, and I think he was praying."

"You're not sure?"

"Well, I couldn't hear what he was saying. But the music sounded like a prayer, even though it was unfamiliar."

"Maybe it was a vision of Paul praying. The music might have been church music. It could be that you unconsciously want to pray for Paul. But because you've stopped praying regularly, you haven't been able to admit this. Maybe you should just say a prayer for Paul."

Khalida was quiet for a moment. Blake's explanation was plausible, but she found herself resisting it.

"I also felt, when I saw him, that I was safe. The light was small, like a candle, but it made the darkness far less frightening. I felt all right, and he seemed all right, too."

She sat very still and tried to bring the dream back into her mind, to feel once again as she had coming toward the light.

"Maybe the dream was telling me that Paul is safe in prison! The setting in Jerusalem and going to the Dome of the Rock might represent our Islamic context in Pakistan. The darkness is the danger and the fear I feel. But in the end, everything will be all right."

"I hope so," Blake replied. "But I also think you should pray for him. I'm sure he would be grateful for your prayers."

Khalida felt uncomfortable talking about prayers with Blake. As a Christian, he couldn't understand what prayer meant for her, a Muslim. She'd stopped praying because she wasn't sure she believed in Allah any more. Very little about Islam in Pakistan seemed to reflect the reign of a just and compassionate God. She wanted to have faith, however, and helping Paul had made her recognize that. His faith had stimulated hers. She did want to pray again. Today she would resume the Muslim regular prayer schedule, not just to pray for Paul, and for Javed, too, but because she wanted to be faithful.

"Do you pray, Henry?"

"Not as regularly as I should. But I prayed last night in the hotel. I prayed a long time."

They sat together in silence for several minutes, neither of them knowing what to say. Then Blake looked at his watch.

"I'm going to ring the American Consulate. They will be open now. Perhaps one of the officials will be willing to help us." He quickly dialed the number and spoke with a receptionist. Then he hung up. "I can see an official in half an hour, so I'm going over there. Can you get me a taxi?"

Khalida placed another call and arranged for a taxi. "What about Joseph? I'd forgotten all about him. Was he badly hurt during the struggle in the courtroom?"

"He had to have several stitches in his scalp, and I'm sure he has a terrible headache. But the police didn't arrest him. I left him in the hotel to recuperate."

"Before you leave, Henry, let's try Hassan's office one more time." Khalida dialed the number again and spoke briefly with Hassan's secretary. As she placed the phone back on the table she said to Blake, "There's still no news."

"No news is good news," Blake said, preparing to leave.

The insufferable optimism of Americans, Khalida thought scornfully to herself. In this country no news is often bad news, and he ought to know that by now. She saw Blake to the door and then returned to wait beside the telephone, hoping for a call that would really be good news.

After thirty minutes or so, Khalida rose and went quickly upstairs. She walked down the hall to her father's room. She hadn't been there for many years. She'd loved her father deeply, and his death had left her devastated.

Opening a drawer of his dresser, she took out a prayer rug and carefully unfolded it. Then, as her father had taught her, she spread it on the floor facing in the direction she knew to be Mecca. She went into the bathroom, washed her hands, face, mouth, and feet, and then returned to her father's room and stepped onto the prayer rug. It was not the hour for prayer, so there was no muezzin's chant ringing in Khalida's ears. She was silent for a moment, breathing quietly, before she offered her own call to prayer: La ilaha illal Lah; Muhammadur Rasulullah. "There is no god but God, and Muhammad is God's prophet." Khalida knew that the dream had called her to prayer. It might not help Paul, but it was the right thing to do. Paul had told her that it was important to act faithfully, leaving salvation to God.

Allahu-akbar, she chanted, "God is greater than all." Then she began to recite the familiar words from the Qur'an.

In the Name of Allah, the Compassionate, the Merciful

Praise be to Allah, Lord of the Creation,

The Compassionate, the Merciful, King of Judgment day!

You alone we worship, and to you alone we pray for help . . ..

After she completed the passage from the Qur'an, she bowed and said, "Glory to the Lord, the Exalted." Standing erect once more, Khalida chanted, "God hears those who praise him. Our Lord praise to you." Kneeling, she placed her head on the prayer rug and recited three times, "Glory to my Lord, the most High." Khalida remained in this position for a moment and lifted up the lives of Paul, Javed and Hassan. "Keep them safe, O Lord," she prayed silently. "Keep them safe."