It had to be the Old One who had sent the killing team. The government or the Black Robes would easily commit murder to stop her from writing the new book, but she doubted they had any idea what she was up to. If they knew, Redbeard would know-he had spies everywhere-and Redbeard had given no indication that he was aware of her efforts. It had to be the Old One’s hand at work, but why kill Marian? Why not just put her under surveillance and wait to see if Sarah showed up. Why not question her? Marian wasn’t worth anything to the Old One. Unless she had already talked.

Sarah fought back a sudden rush of fear, forced herself to examine the situation dispassionately. No, Marian had been killed because the killers had erroneously determined that she had nothing to offer. Sarah knew Marian. She was a woman of courage and loyalty. Even if she could have bartered her life by giving up Sarah, giving up what information she had, she would gladly have died first. Marian had faith, and her faith gave her strength. Sarah had no such illusions. She adjusted the veil again, annoyed; she would never get used to it.

Nothing was to be gained by staying here, but she couldn’t take her eyes off the house, hoping that somehow Marian would come walking out, and it would all have been a mistake. A miscommunication. That wasn’t going to happen though. Sarah had known that since she’d seen the crime scene van speed past their cab on the access road to the gated community. A premonition, perhaps. Or a guilty conscience. She set her jaw.

Time enough for guilt later; now she had to find out if the killing team had taken the journals. Did the Old One know the reason for Sarah’s regular visits? No way to find out now, but she would have to find out, and if the journals were still inside the house, Sarah was going to have to come back and get them. She felt the ache in her stomach again, the feeling of falling. It was fear. It didn’t matter though; regardless of her fear, Sarah was going to have to come back for the journals. The journals were the key…one of the keys. The only one she had been told of.

The wind kicked up, bent the surrounding evergreens, and Sarah shivered in the warmth of the cab. She needed to get some rest. Lying in a strange bed for the last week, tossing and turning…everything kept her awake; the wind, the rustle of branches on the window, her own thoughts most of all. She had money. She had bought clothes and a toothbrush, and in two more days she would go online and find out what she was supposed to do next. All she had to do was stay calm for the next two days. Stay calm and stay safe.

“Hello, Imam, I’m fourteen and, well…I know the Holy Qur’an says we can’t pluck facial hair, but my older sister has really, really bushy eyebrows and…and I wanted to know if it would be all right anyway so she can look prettier. Thank you.”

“Thanks be to you, my daughter. Is your sister married?”

“Yes, Imam.”

“Then you may tell her that though the Holy Qur’an forbids such practices, if the eyebrows have become so dense that her husband is repulsed, she may then trim them to a more appropriate and normal size.”

Sarah stared out the window. Last night she had almost called Rakkim. She had been dozing and heard running footsteps and woke up in tears. A false alarm. This time. She had picked up her phone, desperate to hear his voice…then put aside the cell. Too late for such weakness now. Too many lives were in the balance. She started to tell the driver that they could leave now, then Marian’s front door swung open. For an instant she actually thought Marian was going to walk out, then she saw Rakkim coming down the steps with that police detective friend of his…Anthony Colarusso.

“Is there a problem, sister?” asked the driver.

Sarah shook her head, so startled she couldn’t speak. It was Redbeard, of course. He must have called in Rakkim to help find her. She wasn’t surprised that Rakkim had been enlisted; she was surprised he had found Marian so quickly.

Rakkim was talking to the policemen. The uniforms must not have known who he was, because they kept glancing at Colarusso, who was busy rummaging in his ear with a forefinger.

She hadn’t seen Rakkim in six months. He looked handsome as ever, but exhausted and worried. His shirt had damp spots on it and she wondered what he had seen inside Marian’s house. A regular slaughterhouse the white-haired neighbor had said. A tear ran down her cheek and was captured by the veil, but she kept her eyes on Rakkim, hungry for the sight of him.

She still wondered if she should have told him what she was working on, maybe even asked for his help. She trusted Rakkim with her life, why couldn’t she trust him with the truth? He was talking to the technicians from the crime scene van now, and she noticed how he nodded when they spoke, how he patted their shoulders. He was intruding on their turf, and he knew he could get better cooperation if they were on his side. Redbeard would have been demanding, more forceful, but he wouldn’t have gotten any more out of them than Rakkim. He might even have gotten less.

She should go. It was dangerous to stay here. The cab would draw attention after a while-a curious policeman, a bored policeman, and things could unravel. Redbeard used to say it was the minor details that invariably tripped people up, because they had only prepared for major confrontations. No, better to leave now. She could come back for the journals later, when it was safe. Even if it wasn’t safe, she would have to retrieve them, more certain than ever that somewhere within their pages was what she sought.

Sarah stayed. She stayed and watched the wind ripple through Rakkim’s short, dark hair…he had such soft hair, even his goatee, and she blushed at the memory of it tickling her most intimate places. Rakkim ran a hand through his hair, as though feeling her gaze. She rapped on the plastic partition, rapped harder than she meant to. “We can go now.” She kept her eyes on Rakkim as the cab turned around. If she stayed here much longer, there was no way she could stop herself from going to him.

CHAPTER 20

“You don’t call me,” said the Wise Old One, “I call you.”

“Shall I hang up?” Darwin said brightly. “Then you can call me back and I’ll pretend to be thrilled by the attention.” He listened. “Hello?”

“Go ahead.”

“You’re sure?” said Darwin. “I’d be happy to oblige.”

The Old One stayed silent, refusing to engage.

Darwin stood with his hands in his pockets, the privacy cell adhered to the inside of his ear canal, the receiver the size of a bloated tick. The mouthpiece was even smaller, a birthmark affixed just above his lip. You could stand beside him and not know he was in the middle of a conversation. The cell was the latest model from Japan, a real breakthrough. “I just wanted to update you. I’ve been playing cat and mousie with Rakkim, but along the way I paid a social call with Sarah’s girlfriend from the university. Rakkim had done the same thing the day before. Great minds and all that.”

Darwin had stood on Marian’s doorstep yesterday, pretending to be a religious census taker, papers spilling from his briefcase, a nervous pencil pusher with a scraggly goatee and a suit that was too big for him. Marian’s bodyguard had ordered him away, a swarthy, barrel-chested sluggo barring the door, but Marian had invited Darwin in. He had apologized for disturbing her, then shuffled into the living room and smelled Rakkim, caught the faint scent of the man and known he was at the right place.

“Give me your update,” said the Old One.

“The girlfriend’s name is Marian Warriq,” said Darwin, freshly shaven and wearing a $3,000 suit. “Midfifties. Sociology professor at the university. Devout but no fundamentalist. That ring a bell?”