A young blond Ident across the aisle batted her eyes at Leo-her lids, crusted with glitter stones, flashed rainbows. “Y’all just getting into town?”

Leo nodded.

“He’s allowed to talk, isn’t he?” The Ident smiled at Rakkim, her grill-work crusted with glitter stones too. She offered her hand to Leo, reaching across Rakkim. “I’m Amanda.”

“Leo.”

“Leo the lion.” She winked at him. “Bet you know how to growl too, don’t you?”

Leo looked away.

The monorail raced on, a light electrical hum the loudest sound in the compartment. Leo had phoned ahead after they left the Tigards’ farm. Told his contact what had happened, and what Rakkim wanted. Calls within the Belt were generally safe, but the conversation had been in code anyway. Someone overhearing it would have thought it was just casual talk, except for when the man at the other end had said, Your brother is getting a job offer from Switzerland? You’re absolutely certain of that? The slight change in his tone was a lapse in security, but Rakkim was probably just annoyed for having to use Leo’s Atlanta connection.

A few stops later, the trains slowed. Amanda leaned toward Leo. “This is your stop.”

Rakkim followed them down the ramp to the street, part of the throng of reverse commuters. At the bottom of the ramp, Amanda kissed Leo on the right cheek, left a lip print, and pointed toward a small cart selling soda. The man selling soda handed Rakkim a couple of RC Colas, whispered an address. Ten minutes’ walk later, an Ident led them to the service entrance of one of the largest buildings in the city, Freedom Towers.

Another Ident led them into a private elevator, thumb-coded the control panel. Leo put one hand on the wall, breathing rapidly as the car rose. The doors slid open at the penthouse on the 111th floor. The Ident stepped out, waited for them to exit, and then stepped back inside.

“Good talking with you,” said Rakkim.

The Ident didn’t change expression.

“There you are, dear hearts,” said Getty Andalou, fluttering over in a wave of ruffles and silk. The son of the Senate majority leader, he was well over six feet tall, late thirties, slender as a stick, his perfumed hair falling around his shoulders-a real dandy, elegant in cranberry tights and a loose white silk blouse with ruffled sleeves and collar. All he needed was a sword and a floppy hat with a feather in it. He stood with one hip cocked, hands on his hips. “You must be Leo. I’ve heard so much about you.”

Leo shifted from one foot to another. “Okay.”

“The infamous Rikki.” Andalou gave a slight bow. “I’m glad to see you’re taking such good care of the lad.”

Rakkim curtseyed.

Andalou chuckled. “Ah yes…Spider said you were droll.” He waved at the expansive living room. “Please, come in. I’ve had food prepared…” His nose wrinkled. “Perhaps you’d prefer to bathe first.” He lightly clapped his hands and another Ident appeared. “Please escort our guests to their bedrooms.” He looked at Rakkim. “I’ve taken the liberty of having clothes laid out for you.”

“I’m allergic to ruffles and bows,” said Rakkim.

“I’m sure you are.” Andalou’s teeth were perfectly even and white. “I take a certain pride in anticipating the tastes of my guests…although in your case I had some assistance.”

Rakkim followed the Ident down the hall, Leo tagging along after. The Ident opened a door, bowed, and Leo walked inside. Another door opened, and Rakkim thanked him. He tried the door after it closed behind the Ident. It opened easily. He assumed there were cameras. He checked out the spacious room, its high ceilings and buffed hickory flooring.

Situated at the corner of the penthouse, the panoramic windows afforded a view of the Congressional Building and the Lincoln Monument. Down the street was Traitors Square, whose embossed floor tiles noted the names of journalists and politicians who had covertly accepted Saudi oil money. A trip to the capital wasn’t complete until tourists had tromped all over those names. The Putin Building, the tallest skyscraper in Atlanta, cast a shadow across the city. Three hundred ten stories, according to what he had overheard on the monorail. High enough to make the point, but not too high; at 555 stories, the Rio Spire had been the tallest structure in the world-a ten-thousand-mile view, bragged the publicists-until it fell over one bright sunny day without a cloud in the sky or a seismic shift underfoot. Just toppled over into the Atlantic like a drunk on the white-sand beach. Too big to remove, the wreckage, and the twenty thousand dead under it, had become a major tourist attraction.

Rakkim touched a window, noted the anti-eavesdropping filaments in the armored glass. Nice touch. Some folks would feel safe. The bathroom was bigger than most apartments in the Belt or the Islamic Republic, all pink marble and granite, one entire wall a mirror. Probably two-way glass. He took off his clothes, kicked them into a corner, and walked into the bathroom.

The ultrasonic shower first sprayed a mist of scented water, then the ultrasonics kicked in, a barely audible hum that set the water beads vibrating on his skin, tingling him clean. He stayed there for three cycles, enjoying the sensation, then slathered barber cream on his face, his beard dissolving in the mist. His clothes were gone when he got out, replaced by blue breeches and a soft buckskin shirt. He had seen similar outfits on the monorail-a fine outfit, but not so fine as to draw attention. When he walked out of the bedroom, Leo and Andalou were already waiting for him in the living room.

Leo waved. He looked like he had lost ten pounds on the mission so far, the new clothes fitting him perfectly-a dark gray suit of some shiny material and a white shirt with a shroud of Turin impression of Jesus on it.

“Feel better?” Andalou didn’t wait for Rakkim to answer. “We were just discussing your situation. I notified Spider immediately after speaking with Leo this morning. You know Spider…he’s already started hacking into the KGB database. Russian security is very good, full encryption and false entry points, but Spider is quite confident. I hope you appreciate the magnitude of your request.”

“Cracking the database isn’t as hard as you think.” Leo sniffed. “Back-dating your name into the KGB files, that’s the tricky part. Probably not more than a dozen people in the world could-”

“My history has to be planted behind at least one wall, two would be even better, and the history has to be accurate,” said Rakkim. “From the beginning until three years ago, when I was managing the Blue Moon.”

Andalou smoothed his trousers. “I still don’t understand why you’re-”

“You don’t need to understand.”

“Such lovely manners.” Andalou poured ice tea for Rakkim. “Well, if this little game with your KGB file doesn’t work out, I suspect the two-hundred-million-dollar down payment you’re offering the Colonel will affirm your good intentions.”

Rakkim looked at Leo. “Two hundred million? I thought the president didn’t want to leave his fingerprints on the operation.”

Leo squirmed in his seat.

“The president doesn’t know anything about the Colonel’s new Chinese friends or the change of plans,” said Andalou. “Please…try your tea. I hope it’s not too sweet.”

Rakkim leaned forward. “What’s going on, Leo?”

“It’s Spider’s money,” said Leo. “He transferred it into an account at the Bank of Liechtenstein this morning. Left traces of a Russian point of origin.”

“That’s not what I mean,” said Rakkim.

“Rikki wants to know why the president hasn’t been updated,” said Andalou.

“Why do you think you have to explain things to him?” Rakkim said softly. “Does he seem stupid to you?”

Andalou plucked at the ruffles around his neck, pursed his shiny lips. “Kindly do not threaten me, sir.”

“Do you feel threatened?” said Rakkim.