The cab driver that finally took him out of Abu-Dhabi was chatty. That's how he liked them.
"More and more Americans. We love them, but we also hate them."
Friedman could only stare at him.
"We love their freedom, but we hate how they try to impose values on us. Imperialism never died, it just transformed."
Suddenly he had an idea. "What was your name?" he asked.
The driver only shrugged.
"Does it matter anymore?"
"It does. It does this time."
Suddenly, the car stopped. A black Lexus had come, seemingly from nowhere, cutting them off in the olive grove.
The passenger slowly got out. Friedman realized he had a gun, probably a Glock-17 automatic machine pistol. Despite its flaws, that could put out serious damage. Perhaps that's how he had convinced the driver to come this far just to find a journalist.
He stepped into the opposite seat, gun in hand.
"Go. We have something to talk about."
Friedman could only stare back. It was the same man from Beirut. From Jerusalem. What could he still want with him?
The thread count was still impressive. And so they drove.