“No need for that, Colonel. I don’t mean you any harm.”

“Of course you don’t.” The Colonel kept his hands in sight. Just as well. His shoulder was stiff for the first hours after getting up. Dying was bad enough-getting Baby hurt because he wanted to play the hero was worse. “How much did you pay my guards? I’m just curious what my life is worth.”

“Your guards are tried and true, Colonel, and only God knows what your life is worth.”

“I see. My guards are steadfast but incompetent.”

The man had a nice laugh. Sincere. Confident. “That’s one possibility, sir.”

Baby rolled over in her sleep, one bare leg sliding out from the covers.

“Why don’t we go in the other room and you can finish things,” said the Colonel.

“If I wanted things finished, you’d already be dead,” said the man. “Let’s stay right here for now.” He pulled over a straight-backed chair. “May I?” He sat down.

The man wore the uniform of one of his irregulars and smelled of campfires and tobacco. He sat beside the bed, seemed utterly at ease, as though he were going to tell the Colonel a bedtime story. Who was he?

“I apologize for giving you a start, Colonel, but I wasn’t sure if the Chinese fellah was still in camp. I’ve got a business proposition and I wanted to keep things private.”

The Colonel didn’t respond, stunned at the mention of the Chinese liaison. This man’s information wasn’t perfect-Ambassador Fong had never been at the camp, had contacted him through the church in Jackson where the Colonel was a deacon-but the mere fact that he knew of a Chinese connection was unnerving. Had to be that damn chopper. Monsoon 4, state of the art, but a giveaway to someone who recognized it hurtling overhead. Word must have leaked out. The Colonel had almost refused when Fong offered the Monsoon as a sign of good faith, not wanting to obligate himself to the Chinese. Almost. He gave himself a dozen reasons not to, then he had accepted the chopper, thanked that little Chinaman, and toasted him with sour mash. The Monsoon 4 was some sweet ride, but it wasn’t a world changer. No, the world changer was at the bottom of the underground lake, waiting for Moseby to find it.

“Zachary?” Baby yawned, stretched, one strap of her pink slip sliding down her arm. “What’s going on?”

The man bowed slightly. “Sorry to disturb you, ma’am, but me and the Colonel have some talking to do. Hope you don’t mind.”

The Colonel patted Baby, as always, aroused by the warmth and electricity of her firm flesh. “It’s okay, darling. Go back to sleep.”

“You want me to make you boys some coffee?” said Baby.

“That’s all right,” said the Colonel.

“Actually, ma’am, if it’s not too much trouble…”

“No trouble at all,” cooed Baby, sliding out of bed.

The man averted his eyes as Baby put on the silk robe the Colonel had given her for their first anniversary. A gentleman. He held out his hand. “Rikki.”

The Colonel shook hands. “Zachary Smitts.” He nodded toward his uniform hanging in the corner. “You mind if I get dressed…Rikki?”

“It’s your house, sir.”

The Colonel dressed quickly. He could easily throw something through a window, send the guards running to help, but the evident ease with which this Rikki had strolled into his bedroom unnerved him. No matter what the Colonel had said, he knew his guards were not incompetent. He heard Baby bustling around in the other room, the coffeepot already sputtering.

“I can zap some biscuits if you want,” said Baby as they walked. She flicked on the gas fireplace. “I made them this afternoon.”

“That sounds fine, ma’am,” said Rakkim, sitting down at the table like he didn’t have a care or concern in the world.

The Colonel thought of pulling the flat gun from the pocket of his uniform and blowing his brains out, but the man made him curious. One of those steady types who seemed to exist in a state of utter calm. Best sniper the Colonel ever knew had the same stillness about him. The Colonel had asked him once how he was doing after his wife left him for another man. I’m serene as a head shot, sir, the man answered, then laughed. Sniper joke, he had explained, although the Colonel never saw the humor in it. He sat down across from Rikki. “You said you have a business proposition for me. Who do you represent?”

Rakkim glanced at Baby.

“Go ahead,” said the Colonel. “I don’t have any secrets from my wife.”

“I heard you were a brave man, sir, but I had no idea,” said Rakkim.

Baby laughed, trailed her fingers across Rikki’s shoulder. “I like this one, Zachary.” She shook out her hair, sleepy eyed, so beautiful it made the Colonel’s chest ache.

“I’m working for the Russians, Colonel.” Rakkim picked up his coffee cup, letting his statement sink in. “It’s pretty simple. The Chinese want what’s in your mountain. My Russian clients want it too, and I think you’d rather do business with them.” He sipped his coffee, looked at Baby. “This is delicious, ma’am, thank you very much.”

The Colonel stared at Rikki. “Why did the Russians feel the need to hire some Belt ghost to do their negotiating?”

“They didn’t want to advertise their interest by sending in one of their own,” said Rakkim. “And they have a certain trust in my ability to get into places where I’m not supposed to be.”

Baby laughed and they both turned to her for a moment.

“I’ve taken assignments from them before and I guess they liked the outcome,” continued Rakkim. “I should also correct your misapprehension, Colonel. I’m not a Belt ghost.” He added sugar to his coffee, stirred, the spoon not making a sound. “No offense, sir, but ghosts aren’t worth a wormy turd. Me, I’m a former Fedayeen shadow warrior.”

Baby put down the plate of biscuits so hard it rattled.

Rakkim broke a biscuit in half. “Ex-Fedayeen, Colonel. I’m strictly apolitical. The Belt or the republic, it’s all the same to me. The last few years I’ve been freelancing for the Russians in Africa and South America, did a little action in Malaysia too.” He slathered peach preserves onto the biscuit halves. “Good work. I enjoy it.”

“The Russians thought I’d do business with a goddamned Muslim?” said the Colonel.

“Well, I’m not much of a Muslim, and besides, it’s not really me you’re doing business with. I’m just the go-between.” Rakkim bit into the biscuit. “So you can choose to work with the Chinese, atheists who deny the very existence of God, or you can work with the Russians, who are Christians, just like you.” He licked jam off his fingers. “You ever been to Russia, Colonel?”

“No,” the Colonel said stiffly. “Can’t say I ever have.”

“Oh, you’d like it.” Rakkim spooned jam onto another biscuit. Stretched his legs out toward the fireplace. “Strong families. Plenty of kids. Crosses everywhere. There’s more churches in Moscow than there are in Atlanta. That’s no lie, sir.”

“Zachary…you always said the Fedayeen were the best soldiers you ever saw,” said Baby. She chased a crumb on the table with a moist fingertip, plopped it in her mouth. “You said if you had a division of Fedayeen you could-”

“I know what I said, Baby, but this man’s our enemy.”

“That’s pretty much a technicality, sir,” said Rakkim, wolfing down his biscuit. “And at least the Muslims believe in one God, like you, and they honor and revere Abraham and Jesus, like you. Russians are the same way. The Chinese? Sir, you go to Beijing, you’re going to see more pictures of Richard Nixon than Jesus Christ.”

Baby bent over the table, staring at Rakkim. “Zachary…he doesn’t look like an enemy.”

Rakkim stared back at her. She had that effect on men. The Colonel had seen it before. Heck, he was the same way himself.

“Oh…I almost forgot.” Rakkim rooted around in his field jacket, pulled out a pad and pen. He wrote three series of numbers on the pad. Shoved it across the table to the Colonel. “The first number is a private account at the Bank of Liechtenstein.” He picked up another biscuit, put it back down. “The second and third numbers are passwords that allow you online access to the account balance, which currently stands at one hundred seventy million Swiss francs. Approximately two hundred million Belt dollars at the current exchange rate. Consider that a down payment. A sign of my client’s seriousness. You get another…” He eyed the pile of biscuits on the plate. “…another three or four billion, depending on how useful the weapons system turns out to be. If it’s a total bust, plans for a car that runs on chocolate syrup or something, you still keep the down payment. Russians are generous people and they treat their friends accordingly.”