“He was a patriot last time I was there,” said Rakkim, “not a hater.”

“He’s a hater now,” said Sarah.

“Why me?” said Rakkim, still suspicious. Sarah was holding something back. “Doesn’t the president trust General Kidd anymore?”

“The president trusts the general with his life,” said Sarah.

“Then why doesn’t the general send one of his shadow warriors to do the job?” said Rakkim. “It’s been over three years since I’ve been in the Belt. Why not send someone with fresh insights, fresh contacts?”

“They did.” Sarah’s lower lip quivered. “They did, Rikki.”

“Two-two months ago…” Spider stuttered; a tic jerked the skin under his right eye. “Two m-m-months ago the general sent one of his best shadow warriors to find out what was going on…” Spider tried to speak, gave up.

“A week later, the man failed to report,” said Sarah, her emotions under control again. “So the general sent another warrior. Same result. Nothing. No contact at all.”

“It’s a particularly in-insular region, as I’m sure you know,” Spider said.

“General Kidd will brief you whenever you want,” said Sarah.

Rakkim walked over to her. Rested his hands on her hips. Looked into her eyes. Waited until her breathing steadied. He embraced her, tilted his head so none of the security cameras could read his lips. Pretended to kiss her ear. Whispered, “Why me?”

Sarah rested her head on his chest. Reached up and drew him closer, her hands cupping his face. They were wrapped in each other’s arms, safe from cameras and microphones. She kissed him, whispered, “Because…the man the Colonel called on to help with the excavation…John Moseby…you know him. He’s a shadow warrior suspected of going rogue eight years ago. You cleared his name. You confirmed his death in action. John Moseby’s real name is John Santee.”

They swayed in the middle of the room while Spider averted his eyes, the map of the Belt blinking over them.

Chapter 5

Rakkim braked as traffic slowed up ahead. Emergency flares fizzed in the darkness, sending out sparks. A semitruck had overturned, spilled its cargo of fresh corn across the freeway. Sarah craned her neck as they passed, ears of corn crunching under their tires, pop pop pop. The driver of the semi leaned against the overturned truck, a young guy, blood running down his forehead as he argued with a policeman. Probably going too fast and lost control after hitting a particularly deep pothole. The winter had been hard, the roadbed lousy to begin with, and the repair crews were way behind schedule.

Sarah moved beside him. “I’m glad you’re careful.”

Rakkim glanced at her.

Sarah laughed. “You know what I mean.”

It was just after 2 a.m., light traffic, rain misting in from the Sound. They had barely spoken after leaving the Presidential Palace-Sarah may have suggested him for the mission, but that didn’t mean she had to like it. She stayed close, while he maintained security protocols-checking the rearviews, taking a different route and different vehicle each time they traveled, always checking the car for bugs and tracers. Like Redbeard used to say, trust but verify.

Rakkim and Sarah had never been directly connected to the events of three years ago, the unmasking of the Old One as the initiator of the suitcase nuke attacks on New York City, D.C., and Mecca. The official version credited Redbeard for the intelligence breakthrough, but the Old One knew better and he was the only one who mattered. Not that anyone had heard from him. There were rumors that he was dead, murdered by his acolytes or one of the Arab regimes, exposed as another fake messiah. Rumors that he was in exile in the mountains of Pakistan or rendered silent by the infirmities of age, his dream of restoring the caliphate abandoned.

Rakkim and Sarah didn’t believe a word of it. Sarah because she was smart enough to appreciate the Old One’s cunning, his incredible patience. Rakkim because he knew the Old One would never abandon his dream…and even more, because Rakkim knew the seduction of hiding in plain sight. The singular pleasure of blending into the background, of setting the table in the house of the enemy and watching him eat dinner. Rakkim had looked into the Old One’s eyes, recognized that special delight in floating among the rest of the world, superior and untouchable, there but not there. So Rakkim and Sarah stayed invisible too, unmentioned and unnoticed, just a rumor now themselves. Sarah had quit the history faculty at the university and spent her days privately advising the president and raising their son. A few months ago she started work on a new book. Not done causing trouble? he had asked her. Never, she had answered.

“Any idea what kind of weapon the Colonel’s looking for?” said Rakkim.

“Not at this point. Spider’s still doing what he can with his own sources…his own methods.”

“I still want to know what al-Faisal’s doing.”

“Let State Security handle it,” she said. “That’s their job.”

He veered toward the shoulder, trying to avoid misaligned sections of freeway. Even with its heavy-duty suspension, their car shook running over the rough pavement. He thought of John Santee, the renegade shadow warrior who now called himself John Moseby. What had it taken for Moseby to throw in with the Colonel? Moseby was a man who wanted only a smooth ride…no more hide-and-seek, no more enemies and knives at the throat. Did he even know what kind of bumpy road he was accelerating down now?

Fedayeen forever, that’s what they told you at the Academy, and it was true enough for the combat units. Not so for shadow warriors and assassins.

The part they didn’t tell you, the dirty little secret, was that given time, shadow warriors always went rogue. To survive, shadow warriors had to walk, talk, and think like the enemy. Ultimately, they became the enemy. Before that happened, they were pulled out of the Belt and given a post closer to home. Promoted with honors. Asked to teach at the Academy. Moseby had gone native sooner than anyone expected, with all his Fedayeen knowledge and training intact. Rakkim had been sent in to find him and kill him. A mission for an assassin, but given to Rakkim instead. They said no one knew the Belt like he did. He’d found Moseby, all right, but let him live. Came back with a lie. A year later Rakkim retired and took up residence in the Zone. He became part owner of the Blue Moon, wallowing in sin. It didn’t help. It took Sarah to save him from himself.

If shadow warriors always turned renegade, assassins always slipped their leash, became drunk with blood, killing without direction or restraint. No such thing as a retired assassin. Darwin had lasted longer than any of his breed before the order to terminate him was given. They’d sent three master assassins to do the job. The commander of the assassins found their three heads sitting on his desk the next morning, their mouths smeared with red lipstick, cheeks rouged like kewpie dolls, rhinestones stuck in their jellied eyes. Then Darwin stepped out of the shadows…the horror show was left on the security cameras for all to admire.

A coyote blinked in the headlights as it tore at something by the side of the road. They were getting bolder every year, coming in closer to the city from the surrounding forests.

Sarah turned her head, watched the coyote as it got back to work.

“Tired?” said Rakkim.

Sarah lowered the window, the sound of rain filling the car. Wind blew her hair, and the smell of her was clean and electric. “A little.”

“Why don’t you sleep in tomorrow? Let me take care of things.”

Sarah rested her hand on his leg. “You have enough to do…before you leave.”

“I’ll be fine.” He glanced over at her, then back at the road. After all they had been through, he could still see the little girl in her-she was four the first time they met, Rakkim nine, a streetwise orphan Redbeard brought home after Rakkim picked his pocket. The two of them had grown up together in Redbeard’s fortified villa, played and fought, swam and argued, and when Rakkim had left at eighteen, Sarah had seen him to the door. She was thirteen, thin and gangly, but she had kissed him, and spoke with the certainty of a woman. I’m going to marry you someday, Rikki. He had laughed but she was serious. Smarter than he was then…smarter than he was now.