“How much has she told you?” said Rakkim.

“She said she’s working on something dangerous. She wanted to make sure I understood there was a risk to taking her in.” Jill’s gaze was cool and clear. “I told her I haven’t been afraid since I found my faith. What about you, Rakkim? Are you afraid?”

“Only when I breathe.”

“Yet, you’re here.” Jill smiled. “You can wait here for her.”

Rakkim wanted to put some distance between them. It was hard to get a read on things with her so close. Redbeard used his bulk and physical presence to intimidate, but Jill used her femininity the same way. He walked over to the spot on the wall marking the direction of Mecca. A large photograph of the Great Mosque hung at the precise proper direction on the wall. The photo was taken at sunrise during the hajj, a sea of believers spread out from the square, black Kaaba, the prostrate multitudes touched by golden light.

“I made my journey three years ago,” Jill said, coming over beside him. “There was a peace I can’t describe, Rakkim. In a way, the lingering radiation makes the passage even more precious. A few months ago my doctor found a lump in my right breast…a tiny lump, no bigger than a poppy seed. I had it removed. Some pilgrims, older ones mostly, choose to do nothing. They think it’s a sign of their devotion, but I-”

“Anybody else living here with you?”

Jill’s eyes flashed, that old diva power, and he felt it like a slap. “A few ranch hands and their families live in the outbuildings, but they’ve been with me for years. They have no idea who Sarah is, and no interest in asking. They’re good Muslims. You can meet them at midnight prayers, if you like.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I see.” Jill lowered her eyes. Hard to see a beautiful woman who felt sorry for him. She patted his arm and made the hair stand up. “Perhaps Sarah will be back before then.”

Rakkim checked the driveway. “Do you have any idea where she went? She must have said something to you when she left.”

“She said she would be back in a few hours, that’s all. I’m going to make some tea.”

Rakkim followed her into the kitchen. “Did she take a cab?”

“Sarah borrowed a car from one of the hands.” Jill ran water into a copper teapot, set it on the stove. “Carl is a mechanic. He builds Frankenstein cars from wrecks he drags back from the junkyard. Mostly he drives them around the property-they’re not licensed. Sarah insisted on taking one of his creations.”

“She didn’t want to bring any trouble on you…in case something happened to her.”

“She’s a friend. Her troubles are my troubles.”

It was an easy thing to say, but hard to live with the consequences. Rakkim kept silent. No point in trying to communicate the possibilities to Jill. A small photo was above the sink, a picture of two teenage boys each with an Academy Award balanced on his head. They had her smile.

“My boys,” said Jill. “Ahmed and Nick. Ahmed is an executive with Puget Shipping, Nick is Fedayeen.” She looked at Rakkim. “Sarah says you’re not Fedayeen anymore.”

“I’m retired. Once Fedayeen, always Fedayeen.” Rakkim watched as she poured water into a couple of ceramic mugs, then dropped a bag of black tea in each.

“Sugar?”

Rakkim shook his head, took the mug. The kitchen was as comfortable and unassuming as the living room, spacious and clean and practical, with pots and pans dangling from hooks and a large, freestanding butcher block. A plain white-pine table was in a breakfast nook. He imagined Jill and Sarah having scrambled eggs with cheese early in the morning, watching the sunrise over the mountains. Then clearing the plates and tending to the animals, shoveling out the barn and dredging the duck pond. “Do you miss it?”

“Hollywood?” Jill knew immediately what he was talking about. She was probably weary of the question. One more reason to stay on the ranch, raise horses, go to the small mosque in town, and let the rest of the world go by. “Sometimes.” She sipped her tea. “What about you? Do you sometimes wish you weren’t retired?”

Rakkim smiled. “Sometimes.”

“I’ve got one more performance in me, although I have to admit I’m not thrilled with the role.” Jill watched him through the steam in her tea. “In a few weeks I’m being given a lifetime achievement award at the Oscars. So, I think we can conclude that I’m officially certified as a living fossil.”

“Lady, you don’t need to fish for compliments.”

Jill laughed. “I see why Sarah is crazy about you. You’re like a rough kiss.” She toyed with one of her braids. “Sarah told me so much about you. I feel like I know you.”

“That would be a mistake.”

“You make her feel safe. You and Redbeard both do, but with him there was always an agenda. Maybe that’s why Sarah and I became friends-we both know what it’s like to be in the public eye. To be judged. To be used. I can remember all those photo ops of her visiting shrines, the televised meetings with the president. Sarah Dougan, the child of the nation’s first great martyr-”

“Redbeard put a stop to that when she was six. No more photos. No nightly news segments. He was worried about her safety-”

Jill snorted. “Redbeard stopped it because he didn’t need her in the spotlight anymore. She had served her purpose.” Jill wandered over to the photo of her sons. “Nick is my youngest. His father was so proud when he became Fedayeen, but I’m a mother. I was worried.”

“He’s all right?”

Jill nodded, still looking at the photo, the boys young and silly with the Oscars balanced on their heads, eyes crossed for the camera. “Sixteen years since Nick took the oath. A few scars and scratches, that’s all. He’s posted to Chicago. Three wives. Ten children. A Fedayeen colonel…” She carefully replaced the photo above the sink, ran a finger lightly across the frame. “I’m proud of my son. He serves Allah and the nation…but when he visits, I don’t recognize him.” She looked at Rakkim. “Is it a sin for a mother not to recognize the fruit of her womb?”

The guard checked Sarah’s identification, his mouth moving as he read. “You’re collecting money?”

“For the United Islamic Benevolence Society, just as it says.”

The wind and rain battered the guard as he stood beside her open window. His green uniform looked brand-new, but the collar was wilting in the damp. He looked over the battered car she was driving. “You got permission to go door-to-door, sister?”

“Asking for donations is as much of a responsibility for good Muslims as making donations,” Sarah said piously. The chador she had borrowed from Jill was a deep plum color that set off her eyes. “I’m sure you know that.”

The guard scratched his puffy face with the card, the sound like sandpaper. He was a big, strapping fellow with slow eyes and a half-eaten sandwich waiting for him on the desk in the guard shack. “We had a problem here earlier this week. A…situation. Woman got killed. Two of her servants were butchered along with her.”

“I’m certain the neighborhood is safe now, Officer. After all…you’re on duty.”

The guard chewed his lip. “I got to be careful who I let in. I could get in trouble.”

“Do I look like trouble, Officer?”

The guard peered at her, taking the question seriously.

“This is a devout neighborhood,” said Sarah. “It’s after dinner. The brothers and sisters will be happy to have the opportunity to satisfy their obligations from the comfort of their own homes. What could be wrong with that?”

“I…I don’t know, sister.”

Sarah inclined her head, blessed him. “Then lift the gate, Officer.”

The guard backed up, stumbling, muttering a blessing in return.

Sarah drove on through.

“When Sarah arrived at the ranch…how did she seem?”

“I got a call from her at three A.M. We hadn’t talked for over a year, but I recognized her voice immediately. I’m a light sleeper…even if it hadn’t been the middle of the night, I could tell she was upset. She said she was at a gas station about five miles away. Protecting me again. So the man who dropped her off wouldn’t know where she was going.” Jill listened to the rain on the roof. “We stayed up until dawn, talking. She was very upset.”