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spreading out fast, covering every possible angle. The Major got out and beckoned to several of them, and gave them instructions in a self-important way. He bid Jeebleh farewell, saying, “I hope you find your mother’s grave!”
    He vanished into the village, one armed youth ahead of him, another behind, and two others on either side—a VIP with his own security detail, presumably on his way to the money changer’s.
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    â€œSO, YOU AND THE MAJOR DIDN’T EXACTLY HIT IT OFF,” THE DRIVER SAID.
    There were half a dozen people left in the vehicle, including the wounded youth in the back. The driver did not move off right away, but waited for the Major’s escorts to return. The engine kept running; everyone was now more relaxed.
    â€œIs he on a dangerous mission?”
    Jeebleh took it that the driver knew the Major better than he was prepared to let on, and gathered from the man’s body language that he was comfortable in Jeebleh’s presence. But would he take him into his confidence, tell him things?
    The driver spoke, his voice almost a whisper. “When he was in the National Army, he was trained in intelligence gathering and sabotage. Now he’s been assigned to sneak into the area controlled by StrongmanSouth, where he’ll do a couple of jobs. I’ve no idea what these are, because I have no clearance.”
    Jeebleh remembered reading about the region that the driver, the Major, and these youths came from: their ancestral territory had been turned into a battleground between bloodthirsty warlords. Many of the people had fled their towns and villages, fearful of being caught up in the fighting or of being massacred by drug-crazed militiamen on instructions to do as much damage as possible. The area had become known as the Death Triangle.
    When the youths returned from having done their escort duty, the driver announced that he was ready to move. But no sooner had he done so than an argument erupted among the militiamen, those who had been on the roof insisting that they exchange places with those inside: Voices were raised; triggers were touched; death threats were made. Jeebleh prayed, Oh God, please, no shooting! He feared, for the second time since his arrival, that he might die in a mad shoot-out involving hapless youths.
    Against the driver’s advice, he stepped out of the vehicle, injudiciously volunteering to sit on the roof with the youths on guard duty. To his relief, his ploy worked, because those on the roof consented to remain there—as one of them put it, “for the time being, in honor of our guest.”
    Jeebleh had barely pulled the door shut when he heard one of the youths on the roof lashing out at those inside for being favored by the Major, to whom as cousins they were closer than the youth was. Admitted into the intricacies of kinship, Jeebleh learned that the Major was in fact showing preference to his cousins, whom he kept close to himself, inside the vehicle and farther from danger, whereas he assigned roof duty to those more removed. For Jeebleh, this proved clearly that the family thread woven from a mythical ancestor’s tales seldom knitted society into a seamless whole. He assumed that the driver and the wounded warrior had stayed out of the dispute because their subclan was loyal to an altogether different set of bloodlines.
    Once peace had been at least temporarily restored between the youths, the vehicle was on the move again, but not for long. The driver, as courteous as ever, apologized for the time it was taking to arrive at Jeebleh’s hotel. “It won’t be long now,” he added.
    â€œWhere are we?” Jeebleh asked.
    â€œWe are in the north of the city, where our clanspeople have relocated to, having fled because of StrongmanSouth’s scorched-earth policy,” the driver said.
    The vehicle had scarcely come to a halt when Jeebleh noticed a change in the behavior of the militiamen. They