Even in the midst of so many distractions, some part of Zula’s mind found it curious that Mr. Jones could be anything less than totally certain that Ivanov’s gun was a 1911. Obviously it was a 1911. He transferred it to his right hand, then put his thumb on its hammer, which was drawn back in ready-to-fire position. He pulled the trigger and carefully let the hammer down so that it wouldn’t fire. Then he reached across with his left and racked the slide once, ejecting a live round, chambering a fresh one, and automatically recocking the hammer. "Cocked," he muttered. With a bit of fumbling, he taught himself how to apply the safety. "And locked." Then, clearly wishing that his right hand were not encumbered, he transferred the weapon back into his left and stuck it in his pants. "Come on," he said, "some kind of fascinating destiny is waiting for us out there. Inshallah ."