Anman, Jordanian Royal Palace, 1 a.m.
King Hussein was woken from his sleep by the military secretary, and the coffee on the bedside table was still hot—he was in the habit of drinking half a cup of Arab coffee with cardamom before sleep, slightly bitter. The secretary's face appeared pale under the lamp light, as if painted with a layer of lime.
"Your Majesty, the 5th Brigade of the Iranians has moved. They're not heading to Syria; they're coming our way. The vanguard troops are already twenty kilometers north of the Rukban Refugee Camp, at least thirty tanks."
Hussein did not move.
He leaned against the headboard, staring at the ceiling.
Sixty-three years old, had gone through chemotherapy three times, hair fallen out, face thin like a knife. He had been king for forty-six years, from sixteen to sixty-two, and had seen all kinds of storms.
"Where's the U.S. Ambassador?"
"Arrived twenty minutes ago, in the hall."
