“Silence,” whispered the old man.

Gravenholtz felt his jaws snap shut.

“The data cores are ruined. My engineers have no idea how they were corrupted or how to make them function. Without the data-”

“Leo,” said Baby.

The old man glared at her.

Baby lowered her eyes. “Leo was Rikki’s companion. Jewish fellow. Practically a boy. He was the only one who had access to the data cores.” The old man nodded, eyes so bright Gravenholtz couldn’t look at him.

The Old One strolled across the anteroom barefoot after Baby and Gravenholtz left, humming a tune he hadn’t heard in a hundred years, excited as a schoolboy. He dug his toes into the carpet with every step. After so much time and so many setbacks, the Old One’s plans for the republic were finally coming to fruition, his ascension to power assured. At this precise moment, with the Old One about to spin the world again, Allah had signaled his approval through two most unexpected blessings. Not only had Baby shown up with Professor Yamato’s wondrous and terrible creation, but Sarah and Rakkim, the last of the Old One’s…vexations, were about to be delivered to him.

Sarah and Rakkim had exposed his deepest machinations, caused the Old One to flee like a common criminal. He had searched for them without success…until two weeks ago, when Sarah had been spotted at a Catholic street festival, she and a male child, and a woman believed to be her mother. They had been followed by one of the Old One’s operatives, but Sarah managed to lose him at the last minute, disappearing in a warren of abandoned buildings. No matter. The Old One’s men would pinpoint her location soon enough. Al-Faisal, his chief operative in the republic, had begged for the chance to snatch her up. Even better, now Rakkim was coming home, with his new friend, Leo, the Jew who held the secrets. All the Old One had to do was close his hand.

The Old One had little regard for superweapons-they were usually oversold by their makers, or as risky to their owners as their targets. The Old One valued tools, like this beast Gravenholtz, people whose abilities or contacts could serve his ends. Not that he would turn down such a weapon as this hafnium bomb. Yes, Baby’s sudden arrival had presented new opportunities. Glorious opportunities.

First…he would squeeze this Jew of his secrets like a ripe pomegranate, then cast him aside. He still had hopes for Rakkim, wanting one last chance to turn him. Rakkim was too unique a talent to simply discard. Under the Old One’s tutelage…anything was possible. Sarah was different, as dangerous as her husband, but indifferent to the Old One’s temptations. Blame that on Redbeard’s blood coursing through her veins-the high-minded State Security chief had blocked the Old One for years, then had the rank audacity to die peacefully. Insult to injury. Sarah was the last of Redbeard’s bloodline, she and her son. The Old One would gladly snuff them both out, but they might be useful in bending Rakkim to his will. Love enslaved more men than all the conquerors of history, a lesson the Old One had learned at great cost. He basked in the memory as sunlight poured through the one-way window, feeling the heat stir his bones.

The Old One snapped his fingers, summoned one of his courtesans, the Yemeni with the coarse black hair and a mouth that tasted like honey. He inhaled, already smelling her perfume.

Al-Faisal had actually offered to see if there was some way for the Old One to watch the president’s face while he died, every panicked twist and contortion. The Old One had declined, concerned that any such capability might jeopardize the plan, but he appreciated al-Faisal’s initiative. The Black Robe had been invaluable in the past, would be even more important in the future. Last year, al-Faisal had snapped the neck of a meddle-some police captain during noon prayers, done it so quickly that the policeman’s fellow worshippers had thought the man died of a heart attack, and al-Faisal, who was leading prayers at the time, never raised his voice. Such devotion…

The door to the anteroom swung open and the Yemeni entered, bowed low, her thick black braids flying around her shoulders.

“Flower of Allah, how lovely you are,” said the Old One.

Chapter 46

Sarah winced as she stared at the images projected onto the wall of her office. All the pretty girls and boys, foreign advert models in forbidden swimwear, African kids with tiny white seashells stark against their skin-the view from Eagleton’s desk chair. In the upper-right quadrant of the wall was the original five-by-seven holographic card, Eagleton looking back at her while he forced his penis down the throat of a young woman. Sarah imagined him sitting at his desk, building God only knew what while his imagination ran free. The wall was a puzzle, the holo card the key. One of Eagleton’s games, hiding his intentions in plain sight to prove how superior he was to everyone else. She shook her head. At this moment, he was superior, because every moment she spent looking seemed like a violation, and she still had no idea what he was hiding.

She should have been spending her time on better things. Plenty of other items on her agenda, from the president’s upcoming state visit to Aztlán, to the fact that Rakkim was still unaccounted for. The last she had heard was a call from Getty Andalou a week ago. The Colonel had reached out to a woman in Columbia City and she had hacked the KGB file Spider had created. Take a bow. No worries, Getty had said. Maybe for him. She turned, hearing Michael’s laughter through the open door, and her mother laughing with him. Yes, there were much better ways for Sarah to spend her time than trying to help Anthony Colarusso with a case that everyone said was already closed. Al-Faisal had blown himself to pieces, and whatever he had bought from Eagleton had been destroyed with him. Still…She got up and quietly closed the door.

The images of the latest Japanese electronic gear and Italian sports cars on the wall somehow had the same unsavory sheen. In fact, all the images the tech engineer had on his wall had a similar cool, ironic feel, from the mass-produced photos of political and religious figures, to the touristy postcard from the surfing beach in South Africa. Even the in-memoriam card honoring the Russian astronaut killed by a speck of space debris had a tiny hole burned into it at the exact spot the poor man had been struck. Ha ha.

She had tried downloading various screens onto the hologram. Hundreds of screens. Different colors, different filters, all kinds of high-resolution screens that someone like Eagleton would have liked. She ran the holo at high speed and low speed. She spent hours following various parts of the image through 360 degrees of rotation, with particular emphasis on the reflection in the young woman’s eye. Nothing. Once she thought she had broken the code, crying out with delight as a South African diffraction screen showed a string of minute, mirror-image words beyond the reach of the woman’s lips, a ring of words around the base of Eagleton’s penis. When she made the necessary adjustments, the words read, Wish you were here. She felt just as she had the day she ran from Eagleton’s shop, turned back to see him stroking himself and smiling at her.

Loud cries from the other side of the door, Michael shrieking. She jumped up before she realized they were cries of joy. She reached for the door, curious now. The door opened before she could get to it…

Rakkim stood in the doorway, holding Michael in his arms. He shifted the boy, made room for Sarah as she threw herself on him.

She winced as he embraced her, the welts on her back from the Black Robe’s beating fading but still tender.

“What is it?” said Rakkim.