Another character providing impetus to this highlight is Sabra Qadira. She is a European woman who now heads the FLS, the Frente para la Liberación Saharauis. Sabra characterizes the FLS as "a political organization dedicated to the liberation of the Sahrawi people." The Moroccan government calls it "a fringe terrorist organization."

The Contessa believes she can do business with Sabra Qadira, but arranging this is difficult, because the woman has no base of operations. All that can be said about her whereabouts is that she is living a nomadic existence somewhere in the Sahara Desert. The Contessa asks Malory to track her down and put an invitation to her. She suggests that he get his mate Ryker to assist him.

The Highlight | Malory is a decade older than Kari, and he arrives in Lucerna equipped with a cover story that explains why he is there. He needs one because the true reason has to do with Kari: he intends to become acquainted with her, win her confidence, and induce her to give him an entrée into the world she has just fled. Malory and Ryker were in a place only Venusians could endure. The two of them were sitting cross-legged on the scalding sand, taking advantage of the small patch of shade afforded by their Humvee. Earlier Malory had made the mistake of leaning back against the door panel. The result was a burn that within minutes began to blister. In lieu of wailing, he checked the multi-purpose gauge on his wrist. The temperature was falling, but it was still on the high side of ninety degrees F.

Sitting next to him was their Tuareg guide, Ahmed. Ahmed was munching on dates. The temperature no doubt oppressed him just as much, but he was inured to it, just as he was inured to living with the prospect that every day could be his last. Ahmed didn't enjoy the ever-present danger, but he accepted it, just as he accepted other afflictions, like sandstorms and skin-infesting bugs and water that always tasted like goat dung. Ahmed accepted reality.

“Two more magenta-robed riders had now appeared. All four riders had rifles strapped to their backs.”

It was an attitude Malory envied. Accepting reality wasn't his long suit.

He began to play with the gauge on his wrist. It was a way to pass some time. He pushed the button that gave him a GPS reading. The good news was -- they weren't lost. The bad news was that they were still in one of the more remote and inaccessible sectors of the Sahara.

They were here in pursuit of quarry: a European woman who went by the name Sabra Qadira. She was also known as El Zarqa,

"Company," Ryker said, verbose as always.

Ryker was on the other side of the Humvee, scanning the valley below with his binoculars. Perhaps he'd spotted a camel train loaded with ecotourists, the lot of them glorying in another wondrous example of Gaia's divine diversity.

"Impossible," Ryker said, continuing to chat away.

Malory roused himself, wondering what his friend was seeing and also thinking of other impossibilities, like how there was no way to dress for a climate like this, and no way to prepare for the kind of situation they were apt to find themselves in. Ryker had at least done his best. His hair was tucked inside a broad-brimmed hat. His face and neck were enshrouded by a large kerchief, a deshmal acquired in Afghanistan, protection against the sand and sun. And unlike Malory, he was carrying a weapon: a cannon strapped to his thigh.

"Take a look," Ryker said. He was still using his glasses. He wasn't peering into the valley but rather across it, toward the high dune on the far side.

Against the glare, all Malory could see was a dark smudge. He raised his own glasses and adjusted them till the smudge came into focus. What he saw was improbable, if not impossible: a rider on a horse. The horse was jet black -- and magnificent. There was no way to tell whether the rider was male or female, because he or she was enveloped from head to foot in magenta robes. The rider's eyes were covered by dark sunglasses.

"What do you think?" Ryker said. He wasn't asking Malory. He was speaking to Ahmed, who was also using glasses.

"An Avalti warrior," Ahmed said. There was fear in his voice. Or maybe terror.

It wasn't long before another magenta-robed rider appeared on the dune, maybe twenty yards from the first. This individual's mount was black as well.

"Diables," Ahmed said. He again sounded fearful, an indication that he wasn't foolhardy, only superstitious. Among the Tuareg it was widely believed that the Avalti weren't human: they were devils.

Ahmed shrilled something in French, about how they were all dead. He scuttled back to the Humvee, seeking protection behind it.

"So much for the celebrated courage of the Tuareg," Ryker said. Malory knew that he wasn't mocking the man; he was using jocosity to hide his own unease.

"Maybe we should seek cover too," Malory said. "Or better still, maybe we should turn tail and run. We're outnumbered." Two more magenta-robed riders had now appeared. All four riders had rifles strapped to their backs.

Ryker ignored his attempt to be witty. He and Malory remained where they were, exposed.

"What do you think of the horses?" Malory said.

"I'm thinking I don't give a shit," Ryker said.

Malory, less able to focus on priorities, was trying to understand how horses could function in this environment. He'd heard the explanation of the Tuareg, which he half accepted. The Avalti had bred their mounts from Arabian stock -- stock already adapted to desert conditions -- and they had then been ruthless in culling any that showed the least sign of weakness. The result was a unique breed possessing toughness and intelligence and able to go long periods without water. The story could be true, Malory supposed

"Check out the rifles," Ryker said.

Ryker was a connoisseur of rifles. And of handguns. And of knives. Ryker's one natural home -- he could accommodate himself to thousands that were unnatural -- was the battlefield. Which meant that he was an authority on weaponry.

Before Malory could do what Ryker suggested, a fifth rider appeared, this one on a pure white stallion. Unlike the others, she was manifestly a woman. She wasn't wearing a covering on her head. Her silver-gold hair was parted in the middle, and two long braids hung down over her shoulders.

"Looks like we might be in luck," Ryker said.

"Too soon to tell," Malory said. "But I will say this. The rider isn't the Lone Ranger. No mask."

"How many fair-haired women you think we're gonna find out here?"

"If the Tuareg are to be believed," Malory said, "the Avalti women are all fair, every one of them."

His brain was playing tricks on him, convincing him that he could actually see the detail of her eyes, and that they were just like those of her mother: turquoise gemstones. Viking eyes.

"Not every one. That's another fable."

All Malory could commit to, right now, was that the person he was viewing was a woman -- or a girl.

Ryker was again using his binoculars. "It's the daughter," he said. "Karina Qadira, not Sabra Qadira."

It was time for Malory to break out the telescope they'd brought with them. He went to the back of the Humvee and removed it from its foam-padded case. He glanced briefly at Ahmed. The man was no longer eating dates; he was preparing for death. Malory thought it might well happen. Men can die of fright. He had witnessed that very thing.

He returned to where Ryker was standing. The telescope had more power than the glasses, way more, and it told him that the woman was probably no older than twenty-five.

"El Zarqa could be nearby," Ryker added.

"Possibly," Malory said. He continued to study the young woman with the braids. The same name could apply to her. El Zarqa. His brain was playing tricks on him, convincing him that he could actually see the detail of her eyes, and that they were just like those of her mother: turquoise gemstones. Viking eyes.

"What now?" Ryker said.

"I'm declaring a victory," Malory said.

"Locating them is just step one," Ryker said.

Sadly, this was true. Malory returned the telescope to its case and put it back in the Humvee. He then resumed his position next to Ryker.

"Looks like our girl has some business on her mind," Ryker said.

Malory was now back to using his binoculars. Karina Qadira had dismounted, and she was carrying a rifle so big she needed both hands to hold it. For a moment she stood on the crest of the dune, looking in their direction. Then she went down on her belly.

She was the Avalti sniper Ahmed had told them about. Malory understood why the Avalti might employ a woman. He had trained as a sniper himself -- and had flunked. His problem was hormonal, the instructor explained. A sniper has to be cool, and testosterone fucks cool. The Royal Marines were increasingly giving the job to women.

"Time to get the hell out of here," Ryker said, walking away in the direction of the Humvee.

Malory didn't see the urgency. He knew it was a mistake to try to estimate the distance that separated them from the girl with the rifle. In this landscape, distances were all foreshortened. Nevertheless, it was safe to say that she was very far away, more than a thousand metres. And she was working without a spotter. Even if they were within range, it would be impossible for her to hit them, except by a fluke. She might hit something, but it wouldn't be anything she was aiming at.Ryker was now hollering at him, employing language that was as remarkable for its blunt directness as it was for its creative use of obscenities.

Ryker wasn't a coward. He was just exhibiting prudence. Malory, being less prudent, continued looking at the young woman. He was now back to using his glasses. She was still on her belly, and she was returning the favour, looking at him using binoculars of her own. Her rifle was beside her on the sand. Its long barrel glinted in the sun.

The two of them continued to check each other out, which placed Malory at a disadvantage. To protect his head from the sun, he was wearing a baseball cap and a scarf that covered his face from nose to chin. His handsomeness wasn't on display.

He could hear the engine of the Humvee. Ryker had started it up. He was also using the horn, making his point noisily.

The girl across the valley put down her glasses and propped up her rifle on some kind of stand. She had a scope, and Malory wondered if she'd take aim at him. If she truly was the Avalti sniper, their tireur d'élite, she wouldn't. According to the Tuareg, her specialty was wreaking mayhem. Rather than anti-personnel cartridges, she used .50 calibre anti-materiel cartridges, small grenades designed to destroy equipment, vehicles, towers, and small buildings. When she did find it necessary to shoot at human beings, her target was invariably the thighbone, not the head.

Ryker was yelling at him again.

Malory continued to ignore him. He said, "Come on, Karina Qadira. Let's see how good you are."

He now found out. He didn't hear the sound of a gunshot until after he heard a different sound -- the explosive blast of a heavy projectile tearing through the front wheel of the Humvee, smashing the hub and reducing the tire to shreds of seared rubber.

Ryker was cursing.

Malory reminded himself that sniper bullets travel faster than the speed of sound. He heard a second blast, as Karina Qadira shot out the rear wheel. Having made her point, she stood up. He continued to watch her through his glasses. She took the rifle apart and placed it in the case that was strapped to her stallion. She then mounted and gave him a little wave with her right hand.

He acknowledged the wave by removing his baseball cap, bowing at the waist, and making a wide sweeping gesture with his arm. It was the least a gentleman could do.

He was no longer using his binoculars, but he could have sworn that she was laughing. He put his cap back on and went to inspect the wheels of the Humvee. Both were damaged beyond repair. He asked himself what kind of gun Karina Qadira had been using -- and what kind of human being could have made those shots.

Ryker came up beside him. "What now?"

"Now we get your birds to pick her up." Malory used the GPS function on his watch to give his friend the coordinates.

Ryker got on the radio and spoke to one of his pilots; they were encamped fifty kilometres away with two army-surplus Apache helicopters. Ryker told the man to grab the girl and leave the others behind.

After he signed off, he came to sit with Malory in the shade of the Humvee. Ahmed had slunk off somewhere, no doubt ashamed to show his face. Malory had no disdain for the man. On the contrary, he had nothing but admiration. When Ryker had let it be known around the open-air marketplace in Tamanrasset that he wanted a guide to help him hunt down a band of renegade Avalti, the other Tuareg retainers he'd hired, so assured and swaggering the day before, had suddenly been taken ill.

"We could hire a brigade of Comanche trackers, and a company or two of Tuareg scouts, and an entire Nimitz helo team, and we'd still never find her.”

"The Contessa will be thrilled," Malory said. "She'll double your fee."

"Not if we don't actually put the girl in front of her," Ryker said.

"Maybe we should pick up her companions as well," Malory said. "If she's not cooperative, one of them might be. Provided we pay a high enough bribe."

"Bad idea," Ryker said. "The Avalti can be hired to deliver guns to El Zarqa's FLS, or to do reconnaissance for that seventh-century Muslim general who swept across North Africa, or to lead a Roman cavalry charge against a Vandal army. But you can't bribe them to betray one of their own."

"Sounds like you've become a believer," Malory said.

The question of who should speak to Karina Qadira never got put to the test. Ryker's birds returned without her. She and her companions had mounted their stallions and disappeared into the desert, leaving no trail at all. Malory couldn't believe it. Ryker said he wasn't surprised.

Malory was left with nothing more than an image, one that would be emblazoned in his mind forever. It was of a sandscape and a setting sun and a solitary woman on the back of a magnificent horse. She was riding away from him. Her hair now looked to be unbraided, and her hand was raised. She was waving goodbye.

But maybe she wasn't waving goodbye. Maybe she was beckoning, daring him to chase her, to catch her if he could.

A few days later, he and Ryker were back in Tamanrasset, in a bar that catered to tourists. Malory's one goal for the evening was to get plastered. Ryker's, as always, was to stay sober.

“What they did is impossible," Malory said. He was still mystified. "It's an open fucking desert."

Ryker pointed out that the desert was open only in the sense that there was no vegetation. They'd been on the edge of the Ahaggar, where there were networks of valleys and mountain caves, offering lots of places where the Avalti could hide from overhead helicopters.

"No doubt," Malory said. "But they didn't have time to get to any of them. Not unless their horses can fly."

"Maybe theirs can," Ryker said.

"When you next see the Contessa," Malory said, "you'll be able to invoke the legends. The daughter is just like El Zarqa. She can make herself disappear any time she wants."

"No kidding," Ryker said. "We could hire a brigade of Comanche trackers, and a company or two of Tuareg scouts, and an entire Nimitz helo team, and we'd still never find her. She'd find us first, just like this time. And she'd greet us the same way. With more bullets telling us we're trespassing in her world."

"You seem to be certain of that."

"She's an Avalti."

"You truly have become a believer."

"They're out there," Ryker said.That world isn't Spain; it's war-torn parts of the Sahara.

Tamara, age thirty-two, is a Pulitzer-Prize winning historian of early America, and she is in Lucerna because she was offered a cushy job by the Centre for North American Studies (CNAS), which is associated with Rayneval University. She is working on a book, tentatively entitled Perfidious America, and its argument is the very opposite of the one she developed in her previous book, Middling America. Why the shift? When pressed to answer this question, Tamara either makes an ironic joke or retreats into silence.

Tamara is sharing a condominium apartment with a long-time friend, Wendy. Wendy is bisexual, and one of her former lovers was another historian associated with CNAS, Lorelle Delambre. Lorelle was killed a year before Eternity's Sunrise begins. She and a more recent lover, Alison Mansel, died when they together fell from a cliff on the outskirts of Lucerna. The local coroner was unable to render a verdict on what caused the fall.