“You’re probably right about that.” Stevenson rocked on the heels of his cowboy boots. “It’s just damn criminal stupidity not to pay your centurions. Any fool knows that. You don’t feed the guard dog, sooner or later somebody’s gonna get bit.”

“I’ve been thinking,” said Rakkim.

“Damn. Here I thought I was going to skate.”

“You got some old Roman coins in that collection of yours?”

“I got a little of everything, you know that,” said Stevenson.

“I need a silver coin from around the time of Christ,” said Rakkim.

“Like an imperial denarius? I’ve got plenty of those.”

“As long as it’s silver. I only need one.”

“What are you going to do with that?”

“This Malcolm Crews sounds a lot like David Koresh. You said it yourself-boys like that, money doesn’t mean anything to them. It’s all about heaven and hell.”

“What’s that supposed-”

“Forget the denarius,” said Leo. “You want a shekel of Tyre.”

Rakkim stared at Leo.

“What?” said Leo. “Like I can’t correlate the data?” He tapped his forehead. “Me smart.”

“I don’t know what either of you are talking about,” said Stevenson, “but a shekel of Tyre is a rare coin. I’ve only got one.”

“One’s all I need,” said Rakkim, still staring at Leo.

“Stay away from Houston,” said Stevenson. “There’s typhus-”

“You already told me,” said Rakkim.

“Stick to the backroads. You might run into bandits, but there’s military press-gangs all over the interstates. And watch out for Mexicans.”

Rakkim slid behind the wheel of the rusted-out Cadillac. “I got it.”

“You’re going to want to take Highway Twenty-seven because it’s quicker, but don’t do it,” said Stevenson. “Rangers coop under the big overpass watching for trouble…or folks they can bring trouble to. Had a lot of tourists go missing lately. Women turning up weeks later, kind of condition they’d be better off dead. Best you take the long way around Waco. Rangers aren’t the worst that can happen either. You drive down a country lane and see somebody broke down by the side of the road, don’t stop. I don’t care if it’s a sweet-faced blonde holding the baby Jesus.”

“Why, hello, miss,” cooed Rakkim. “Are y’all in need of assistance?”

“Okay, I deserve that.” Stevenson fumbled for a fresh cigarette. “The Caddy’s got puncture-guard tires and upgraded body armor. She’s fast too. Ugly but fast.” Stevenson handed Rakkim a gun. “Here. Nothing fancy. I know you don’t want to attract attention, but it’s a solid, reliable piece. Twenty-four slims in the magazine.”

Rakkim tucked away the gun. Familiarized himself with the controls. A real steering wheel-no autopilot, no verbal controls, no crash-avoidance system. Redneck iron all the way. Perfect.

Stevenson patted the sides of the Caddy-once pink, now a dull red. “Forty years ago, this baby was the most widely produced car in the country. Most of them are still in operation. Can’t beat a turbo-twelve for reliability.”

“It’s crap,” Leo muttered. “I’m just glad nobody I know will ever see me in it.”

Stevenson inclined his head toward Leo. “You must really need this asshole.”

“That’s what they tell me.” Rakkim started the car, listening. “Me, I’ve got my doubts.”

“Used to be the Chinese made sneakers for us because them coolies worked cheap.” Stevenson spit. “Now they build factories in the Belt because we’re the ones working for peanuts. Cars, clothes, toys, fireworks. Cheap labor, that’s all we got to offer.”

“Best tobacco in the world,” said Rakkim. “That’s still true, isn’t it?”

Stevenson nodded. “Ozark opium poppies are world-class too. Hell, without tobacco, dope, and Coca-Cola, the Belt wouldn’t have any hard-currency foreign trade at all.”

Rakkim revved the engine.

“You got the coin, right?”

Rakkim patted his pocket.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” said Stevenson.

Rakkim floored it, spraying Stevenson with a rain of pebbles.

“Now are we going to Tennessee?” said Leo.

“Not just yet.”

Chapter 14

Anthony Colarusso parked his car on the shoulder of I-90, got out with a groan, and walked toward the blast site carrying a paper-bag lunch that Marie had packed for him. Five days after al-Faisal’s car had detonated at the roadblock and two lanes of the freeway were still roped off, traffic whizzing by in the remaining two lanes. His baggy gray suit flapped around him as a semitruck barreled past. The air smelled of diesel and something worse. Colarusso reached into the bag, unwrapped the peanut butter and jelly sandwich, nibbled on half while he paced off the site.

Must have been some big fucking firecracker. C-6 shaped charge with all the trimmings, according to State Security’s official report. About fifteen feet of asphalt had buckled, one whole section melted from the intense heat of the explosion, shards of metal driven deep into the softened tar. Blast killed a couple of SS officers manning the barricade, injured three more. Real geniuses. Like who could have possibly considered that a fleeing Black Robe homicide suspect and his bodyguard might choose to go out in style, and take some company with them. Muslims…there were plenty of good ones, but Colarusso had never met a Black Robe he didn’t want to kick in the ass.

His tongue probed the space between his right canine and bicuspid. Dislodged a piece of peanut and spit it out. He had only been telling Marie for twenty-seven goddamned years that he preferred creamy peanut butter. Probably a sale on crunchy, buy two jars and get one free. Or maybe it was her way of showing him who was boss. If it wasn’t for the bowing and scraping five times a day, he’d be tempted to convert and get him a good Muslim wife. One who didn’t talk unless spoken to, and didn’t make that face when he came home late. He took another bite of sandwich. Strawberry preserves…his favorite. Homemade too. Marie picked the berries herself, cooked them up in a big kettle every summer, her face steamy from the heat, hair lank across her forehead. She was a lousy cook, but her preserves were something else.

He squatted down, examined the blast pattern, trying to sketch out the debris field in his mind. He ran a hand over the fused asphalt, noted where it was indented, then looked in the opposite direction. Evidence markers from the State Security forensics team waved in the weeds beside the freeway, but they weren’t planted out nearly far enough for the force of the explosion. Another reason to question the official finding that al-Faisal and his bodyguard had killed themselves rather than face arrest. State Security had been in a hurry to claim jurisdiction over the case. In an even bigger hurry to issue their report and put the case to bed. Not that police didn’t do the same thing, but Colarusso didn’t like being overruled under the best of circumstances and no way did this qualify. Particularly with a Bombay strangler involved. Sick fucks.

Joints popping, he stood up, scratched his ample belly. Probably best to keep the wife and religion he had. His knees were in no shape for all that praying, and besides, Marie might have put on ten pounds with every kid, but she still had that nasty grin that got to him, got right to him no matter how tired he was. She gave him that grin and he still felt like the football hero. All-state linebacker, three years running. Loved to hear the crunch of a good hit, see the surprise on their faces, like where did you come from? Colarusso would get up, pretend to adjust his pads and helmet, and look for Marie in the stands. She’d wave, not fooled for a minute. Yeah, save the good Muslim wives for the good Muslim men, Colarusso would stick with a wild Catholic girl any day.

Gnats floated around his mouth, and he wiped his face with one arm, got a smear of peanut butter on the sleeve of his suit jacket. He licked it off. Made it worse. Kept licking until it was gone. Thought he tasted spaghetti sauce from last week too. About time to get it dry-cleaned. Almost. He moved slowly toward the weeds, eyes on the ground. Make sure, Anthony, that’s what Rakkim had said when Colarusso told him that al-Faisal had blown himself up. Make sure. Good advice under any circumstances.