Sarah hesitated, unsure of how to respond. She felt the attention of the room focused on her. The other women thankful that the Black Robe had selected someone else.

“Answer!”

The cane slammed onto her shoulder, and she groaned, bit her lips shut. The sound was like her throes of passion with Rakkim, their cries as intertwined as their bodies. Her cheeks flamed at the memory.

“Have you gone to college? Have you drunk deep from that filthy water?”

“Yes…one year, until my husband forbade it. For which I am grateful.”

The Black Robe nodded. “There may be hope for him yet.” He cleared his throat. “I shall speak to your imam. He needs to discuss your behavior with your husband.”

“Thank you,” said Sarah, her head still bowed. Her shoulder ached from the cane.

The Black Robe tossed her permission card onto the floor.

Sarah made no move to retrieve it. Her eyes shimmered but she refused to cry. Through slitted lids, she watched the Black Robe saunter down the aisle and out the door.

The whispers started as the door shut behind him. Some of the women giggled, more out of nervousness than gaiety. None of them looked at her, not even the girl beside her.

Sarah heard them clicking away at the keyboards again, but she didn’t move. She had known about the brutality of the Black Robes, the beatings and subordination of women, but that was academic knowledge. Her aching shoulder was a true education. Any thoughts she had about the pleasures of fundamentalism were gone. The price paid for such contentment was too high.

History was a messy and treacherous business, her favorite teacher had taught, but the truth was worth it. Sarah had been certain of the professor’s wisdom while sitting in the classroom, but questioning the truth of the Zionist attack had given her pause, made her wonder if she should continue. To rewrite history was to invite chaos, with all its attendant pain and suffering. This goggle-eyed Black Robe had ended her doubts. There were things worse than chaos. No matter the risk, she was going to continue her research. The truth, wherever it led.

CHAPTER 11

“Rakkim Epps,” he repeated to the security guard. “Professor Warriq isn’t expecting me. Tell her I’m here in regard to a mutual friend at the university.” He waited while the guard spoke on the phone, eyeing him. After another moment, the guard hung up, raised the gate, and Rakkim drove through.

It was Wednesday, five days since Sarah had disappeared, three days since Redbeard had called him in. He had spent yesterday going over Sarah’s phone records and electronic receipts for the last year, looking for some pattern that might indicate where she had gone. There was no one and no place she called frequently, but that didn’t surprise him-Sarah’s calls to him had always been made from disposable phones sold under the counter all over the Zone. The GPS system on her car had revealed in minute detail her driving habits, giving him a color-coded grid of her mileage, but Sarah had always taken cabs to their rendezvous for just that reason, and paid cash. He hoped that she might have been less cautious with her chits, but there were no restaurant billings that didn’t jibe with her recorded travel, no shopping sprees off the grid. To his shame, he even checked for hotel receipts, but nothing indicated she was seeing someone else. She was Redbeard’s niece, she didn’t make stupid mistakes. He checked anyway.

Yesterday he’d called Redbeard, asked him again to input Sarah’s iris scans into the transit security system. Redbeard had argued that Sarah was still in the city, and it was too late to implement the procedure now anyway. Enter her data, Rakkim had insisted-if she uses mass transport anywhere in the country, she’ll be flagged. Redbeard finally admitted that there had been a flaw in the software; a persistent Chinese worm had crashed the system and no one had been able to debug it. They were going to have to completely rebuild the security matrix. Rakkim asked how long this had been going on, but Redbeard refused to answer. Rakkim had hung up feeling the world moving in slow motion around him. Traffic lights failed for days at a time, new highways cracked at the first frost, and now one of the nation’s most sophisticated lines of defense had failed, and there was no timetable to fix it. No wonder Redbeard had brought him in to find her.

Earlier this morning, he had used the pink message slip he had found in Sarah’s office and called the Sociology Department, asked to speak to Marian. The secretary said that Professor Warriq only taught class on Fridays. Rakkim apologized, hung up, and looked up her address on the database Redbeard had given him access to. He had nothing better to do, and she seemed to be as close to a friend as Sarah had.

Rakkim drove up the winding residential streets, turned left at an elegant, blue-mosaic-tile mosque, and kept going. Marian Warriq lived in an exclusive Muslim enclave high on the hills overlooking the city, the low-slung mansions designed to take maximum advantage of the panorama. A pricey neighborhood for a sociology professor. The streets were nearly empty, the lawns lush, and the sidewalks scrubbed. No addresses on the houses. He would never have found the Warriq residence without the directions from the database. At least that still functioned.

A stocky man in a gray tunic opened the Warriq front door before Rakkim could knock. He stayed there, blocking the way, an ugly bruiser with a shaved head, a thick black beard, and the physiognomy of an anvil.

“Kindly let Mr. Epps in, Terry,” called a woman behind him.

The bodyguard bumped Rakkim as he stepped aside.

Rakkim removed his boots and walked into the living room. Professor Warriq sat on a purple, floral-print sofa, hands clasped demurely in her lap, her head covered. She was a full-faced woman in her early fifties, with dark, clear eyes, dressed in a green chador shot with gold threads. His arrival was a surprise to her, but she was a surprise to him too. Marian Warriq had been Sarah’s go-between, the woman who had brought Sarah’s initial invitation after Redbeard had banished him. Marian had been veiled that day, but he was certain it was her. Her eyes gave her away…and her eyebrows, thick and lightly hennaed in the old style. He inclined his head. “Professor. A joy to see you again.”

She lowered her eyes in acknowledgment of his hidden meaning, gestured to the sofa opposite her. “Please.”

The living room was filled with antique Italian marble statues and Czarist tapestries, a stone head from Angkor Wat, and a small bronze horse dappled with verdigris, the sculpture so lifelike he almost expected it to gallop away. Terry stood nearby, arms crossed over his broad chest.

“I appreciate you seeing me without an invitation,” said Rakkim. “You’re probably wondering how I found you. I was in Sarah’s office-”

“Sarah told me you were resourceful.” Marian watched him. “She missed our lunch engagement on Friday, and she never called to apologize, which is most unlike her, and today you show up on my doorstep. What other reason would you have to be here?” Her hands were restless now, fingering prayer beads that weren’t there. “Something’s happened to her, hasn’t it?”

“Not yet.”

Marian murmured her thanks to Allah.

“I need to find her, though.” Rakkim glanced toward her bodyguard, then back at her. “Perhaps we could talk on the veranda.”

“Of course.” Marian got control of herself, stood up. “I’ll join you shortly.”

Rakkim watched her glide out of the living room in a rustle of silk. He was still sitting there when Terry barreled over, jaw thrust forward.

“I see you and I see trouble,” said Terry.