Heads lifted from their consoles, and quickly returned to work. Except for the cute girl who had been watching him before, lingering…and a man standing behind the consoles, hands clasped behind his back. Producer. Better get that settled. ASAP.

“I’m Stevens,” he said, shaking hands with the producer. “I’m taking over the room. Order of Redbeard, director of State Security.

The producer trembled. “Is there a problem?” He checked the screen showing the crowd of Black Robes milling around, bullhorns booming. “Surely we’re not in any danger?”

Stevens moved to the preview bay, slipped the download in. “Lock in the override. I’ll be running the preview in a few minutes.”

“But, that’s…that’s my job,” said the producer. “Just tell me what you want me to do.”

Stevens could see the cute girl watching him; saw the pulse in her throat throbbing. “I want you to get your people out of here. You can stay. You and the modern with the blue hair. I’ll need you to run things. You can do that, can’t you?”

“Yes…of course. We’ll go with a straight three-camera-”

“Just tell the rest of them to go to the nearest staff lounge.” Stevens waited until the others left, the door locking into place. The modern with the blue hair kept glancing over at him as she pretended to work. She had a great smile. He leaned close to the producer. “The girl…what’s her name?”

“I really don’t know. I was called in at the last minute when the regular producer got sick.” The man looked as if he was about to cry. “We’re not in any danger, are we?”

“Relax, you’re in good hands here,” said Stevens. “What’s your name?”

“Darwin.”

Stevens sat down at the preview bay, kept his eyes on the live shot. The skinny actress seemed to be winding down. Just a few more minutes until Jill Stanton’s career retrospective. “Okay, Darwin, you just do your job and I’ll do mine.”

CHAPTER 62

“Call your supervisor.” Rakkim stepped forward. “Call him.”

Beason centered the pistol on Rakkim’s chest. “I will shoot you, Mr. Epps.”

Marx, the sandy-haired Secret Service agent, whipped out a pair of clear jelly-cuffs from his belt. “You’re under arrest.”

Beason pressed a finger to his earpiece, listening. “Hang on…”

Rakkim put his hands out, inched back just enough so that when Marx went to slip on the cuffs, he momentarily blocked Beason’s line of fire. Rakkim twisted the cuffs away, slapped them around Marx’s throat. He kept the agent in front of him.

“What are you doing?” said Beason, trying to get a clear shot.

“Drop your weapon.” Rakkim hung on to the back of Marx’s jacket, using him as a shield and preventing him from reaching the gun in his shoulder rig.

Marx wasn’t interested in his gun though. He clawed at the cuffs locking around his throat. Made from a viscous memory-polymer, the cuffs tightened automatically around the wrists of a suspect, stopping just short of pain. Around the neck they strangled.

“Let him go, Mr. Epps!” said Beason, the gun wobbling now. “We’re leaving anyway.”

Marx’s eyes bulged as he tore at the cuffs, his knees buckling.

Beason placed his pistol on the floor.

Rakkim pinched the release point, peeled the cuffs away. They left a deep red line around Marx’s neck. Rakkim passed him over to his partner.

Beason struggled to hold him up, Marx gasping, trying to suck in air. “You didn’t have to do that,” he called after Rakkim. “We’re shifting to Quadrant B. Now, how am I supposed to explain the ligature around his neck?”

“Don’t worry,” said Redbeard. “Rakkim can take care of himself.”

“I know.” Sarah didn’t sound convinced.

The TV in the limo showed Ibn Azziz making his way toward the police line to join his followers. Spotlights raced across the crowd as he urged them on.

Redbeard leaned forward slightly. Any moment now…

Ibn Azziz jerked, his face suddenly slack as the camera zoomed in. He clutched at his stomach, bent slightly forward. Those around him turned, stepped back, even his bodyguards, as Ibn Azziz lost control of his bowels. The cameras caught him in the white glare, shoes spattered with his own excrement, robes soaked. The newscaster on the voice-over giggled, and the crowd started laughing too. The police line rocked with jeers, and even some of the fundamentalists joined in as the image of Ibn Azziz loomed over the auditorium, mouth working like a hooked fish as he emptied himself. For an instant Luc was caught by the cameras…smiling.

Redbeard’s laugh boomed within the limo.

The broadcast was in the middle of a car commercial when Rakkim reached the control room…and saw Darwin inside, giving a jaunty wave from the other side of the glass.

Comprehension like a strobe light. Darwin. A girl with blue-tipped hair working the control panel, sobbing as she called in camera shots, her back toward…toward the table behind her. Stevens sitting in a chair placed atop the table. Silvery tape across his mouth. Arms and legs taped to the chair. A wire around his neck, connected to the boom in the ceiling. Plenty of slack in the wire. But not enough to reach the floor. Enough slack to snap his neck. Full-glide casters on the chair. A sneeze could send it over the edge.

“Door’s open.” Darwin grinned, one hand on the back of the chair, rolling it back and forth. “Come on in, Rikki. The water’s fine.”

Redbeard watched the commercial for the new Ford Pilgrim, thinking of the cars of his youth-the land-yacht Lincoln his proud father had rolled home in one day, his mother’s minivan that smelled of spilled Coke, and the greatest car in history, the Mustang convertible he’d driven in college. He had been a wild Catholic boy in those days, in love with speed and the wind howling around him. That was before his conversion. Before his brother married Katherine. Redbeard felt a great weariness permeating him. It wasn’t his memories bearing down upon his chest. It was the other thing. That which the doctors had been helpless against, their faces long, eyes averted.

The television cut back to the action inside the auditorium, movie stars chatting among themselves, one eye cocked for the camera.

Sarah checked her watch, but didn’t say anything.

Too late for second-guessing. Redbeard focused on Sarah instead. She looked so much like her mother. If he and Katherine had been the ones to marry, would they have had a daughter who looked like her? Probably not. Better Redbeard didn’t pass on his ugly genes. Still…he couldn’t help wondering.

“What is it, Uncle?”

“I was just thinking how beautiful you look.”

Sarah furrowed her brow. “A compliment from you? Are you sick?”

Redbeard eased back into his seat. “Never felt better.” He thought of Katherine again. He had thought of little else since she’d taken off her burka disguise last week. All the time lost. All the things he could have done, should have done. When he’d told Katherine of his regrets, she had pressed a finger against his lips, said, what makes you think it was all up to you? She was right. Which made the regret so fresh that he felt the ache. The burning. No, not now. Not yet. Redbeard breathed deep. Inhaled the warm leather memory of that Mustang convertible. He had done the right thing. They had done the right thing. Katherine was his brother’s wife. There was honor in love denied.

Sarah grabbed his hand. “Here’s the head of the Academy. They’re about to start Jill’s introduction.”

Redbeard wasn’t interested. He had already seen the download. Now the rest of the world could see it. Let Malik bin-Hassan choke on the truth. The Wise Old One. Horseshit. Redbeard looked out the window as the pain in his chest twisted, sharper now. Insistent. He had spent too much of his life thinking about Hassan Muhammed. It had been necessary, absolutely necessary, but the man wasn’t worth another instant of his attention. Allah would deal with the old fraud in his own good time. “Sarah?”