“It’s what I would have done.” Rakkim stropped the knife against the Black Robe’s hairless chest. “Did the grand mullah have the president assassinated? Al-Faisal wouldn’t have done that on his own.”

The Black Robe tried to flatten himself away from the knife. “Al-Faisal is obedient…as am I.”

There was something in the man’s tone, some hidden knowledge. “Who sent you for Sarah and Michael?” The blade started toward the last arm of the star. “Why them, why today of all days?”

“Michael…?” The Black Robe looked confused, dry balls of spit popping from his mouth. “I…I was told the Jew’s name was Leo.”

“Leo?” Rakkim grabbed his hair. “Is that who you were after?”

“You think you’re so clever…” The Black Robe thrashed, jerked against the kitchen knives that held him down. “But the truth…the truth won’t help you at all.”

Rakkim leaned into him, their faces inches apart. “I asked you a question.”

The Black Robe tried to look away, but couldn’t.

“Who sent you?”

“Your f-face…,” said the Black Robe, teeth chattering as though he were freezing. “Your face…it’s different, b-but I recognize those eyes. I know you.”

Rakkim had never met the Black Robe before, he was sure of it.

“What…what is this game?” said the Black Robe, still trembling. “Do you test my loyalty?”

“Who sent you?” demanded Rakkim, the knife skating across the Black Robe’s chest.

“I serve the Old One.” The Black Robe tore one hand free, grabbed Rakkim’s wrist, and plunged the blade into his own throat, blood spurting from his neck like a fountain as he wriggled in pain. “As…do…you, Darwin.”

Chapter 49

Rakkim watched Redbeard’s ruined villa from the nearby woods. Spotted Sarah’s car half-hidden under a collapsed section of roofing and allowed himself to breathe. No other cars, no helicopter hovering in the distance-just her unregistered getaway ride, a beat-up German import with a high-performance engine and rugged frame. He skirted the property just inside the trees, approaching the villa from the blind side, away from any roads.

The villa was a sprawling, one-story retreat outside the city, the house uninhabited since the State Security chief’s death almost three years ago. Many of the white stone walls had been battered down, the rest blackened by fire, marred by obscene graffiti. Sarah and he had grown up in that house, knew every hallway and hiding spot, shared memories of late-night suppers with Redbeard and afternoons studying in the water garden. All gone now, the villa useful only as a rally point, a last resort if they were ever separated. It was enough.

He had been followed after leaving the apartment, a gray sedan with smoked windows-Rakkim driving his own emergency vehicle garaged blocks from his home. He had lost the gray sedan after a series of risky maneuvers, but didn’t believe it. He gave al-Faisal too much credit for that. He avoided the rioting in the downtown core, raced to an underground mall parking garage, and changed cars-Rakkim stole the worst vehicle he could find, a three-wheeled halal-meat delivery van, finding the driver’s cap behind the seat for good measure. Still no phone or communication, but judging from the smoke rising from other parts of the city, and the swarms of police helicopters, the rioting had spread. He drove the delivery van a few miles, switched to a nondescript family wagon from a looted used-car lot, and headed out of town. Once he exited the freeway, he waited twenty minutes to see if he had been followed, then continued on, taking backroads, checking his rearview. He had made the final approach on a logging road not on any map, left the family wagon on the other side of the woods. It had taken him almost two hours, but he knew he hadn’t been followed.

The only thing pursuing Rakkim were the Black Robe’s final words, the cleric driven mad by pain and fear, in his desperation seeing Darwin in Rakkim’s eyes. No…Rakkim knew better. It wasn’t madness that gave the Black Robe such a vision. Today’s terrible events had stirred Darwin from his slumbers and brought him closer to the surface, rising on a tide of blood. Rakkim could feel the assassin under his skin, could hear him calling out, the dead man’s whisper like the rustle of dry leaves. Rakkim ignored him as best he could, and Darwin fell silent, just another ghost along for the ride.

The passenger-side door of Sarah’s car hung open. He imagined her slipping from the driver’s seat, Michael in one arm, while Leo jumped out the other side, looking around, too scared to close the door. Sarah would have been calm…as calm as she could be with Michael there, as calm as she could be knowing what must have happened to her mother.

Rakkim loped through the trees, staying clear of the blackberry bushes sprouting thorns and the morning-glory vines. He hadn’t played in these woods in fifteen years, the trails were overgrown and eroded, but he could have found his way in the dark.

Al-Faisal was working for the Old One, not the grand mullah of the Black Robes. Rakkim cursed himself for his stupidity. It should have been obvious once the president was killed. With both the president and vice president dead, the next in line of succession was Peter Brandt, Speaker of the House. Brandt was a youthful, charismatic politician and a solid moderate with a modern wife. The last person who the Black Robes would want to replace President Kingsley. The Old One didn’t care about lines of succession. He thrived on chaos and uncertainty. The worse things got, the more likely it was for someone of his choosing to seize the reins of power. Rakkim prayed that Speaker Brandt…President Brandt was in a secure bunker somewhere. And General Kidd…no way he would be anywhere but in the thick of the conflict, but he would also have to be a target. If the Fedayeen were compromised…

He increased his pace. A chipmunk observed his progress, scampered deeper into the woods. Rakkim had expected an attempt on his and Sarah’s lives sooner or later-they had too many enemies for someone not to make a move, but he’d never considered that Leo might be a target. He remembered the look on the Black Robe’s face as he pushed the knife deeper into his own throat…as though the man had won some prize. Maybe he had. The prize of silence. Being beyond Rakkim’s questions. It didn’t matter. Rakkim had all the answers he needed. If the Old One wanted Leo, it was because he already had the isotope for making the hafnium bomb. The Big Bang. Hard to imagine the Old One reaching out to Baby and Gravenholtz, but if his operatives could penetrate the Black Robes hierarchy, State Security, and the Fedayeen, they might even have compromised the Colonel’s own household. Baby might not have put up much of a fight either.

Rakkim knelt at the fringe of the woods, ready to make his final approach. This close, the villa was in even worse shape than he remembered. Two years ago during Ramadan, vandals and successive mobs of fundamentalists had swarmed the site-what they couldn’t carry away, they broke or burned. Even the water garden hadn’t escaped their fury.

The water garden was Redbeard’s favorite spot, more him than even his office, a lush acre protected from the cold by a clear plastic dome. Filled with towering tropical trees and plants, waterfalls and streams. A good place to pray, the water garden was as close to Paradise as existed this side of death, that’s what Redbeard had said. Even at their worst moments, arguing over his studies or his insolence, even when Redbeard didn’t speak to him for a week after Rakkim told him that he was joining the Fedayeen, they still sat together beside one of the waterfalls, just the two of them, listening to the water splashing over the flat stones. He and Sarah had first kissed in the water garden, surrounded by flowers, laughing as a bluejay interrupted their innocent ardor with its angry squawks.