“The Black Robes trot out the Catholics whenever the need arises,” said Katherine. “Oxley did the same thing when it suited him. It will pass. We have greater concerns-”

“A monastery outside of Portland was burned to the ground two days ago. A dozen monks were trapped inside while the fire department stood around and watched.”

“Portland has always been a backwater-”

“Yesterday, three churches in Seattle were vandalized. Stained-glass windows broken, altars overturned. This was Seattle, not some fundamentalist backwater.”

Angelina sat on a bench across from a large building site. A skeleton of steel, six stories high and rising. Jackhammers blasted the air. Trucks and concrete mixers rumbled past. Workmen shouted to each other. The noise from the site insured that Angelina and Katherine’s conversation would not be monitored. A tall man on the second floor took off his hard hat, wiped his forehead. Showed off his beautiful red hair. He went back to work with a vengeance, beating on a beam with a large hammer, the muscles of his arms clearly defined as he pounded away. Dust floated in the air, gray and white specks settling on her black chador, but she made no move to brush herself clean.

“Does Redbeard suspect why Sarah left?” asked Katherine.

“I don’t know.”

“What do you think? You’ve been sharing his home for twenty-five years, woman.”

“Redbeard doesn’t reveal himself to me or anyone else,” said Angelina, annoyed at Katherine’s tone. After all these years Katherine still thought of herself as the lady of the house. A place for everyone, and everyone in her place.

“Forgive me, Angelina. I…I get frustrated being so far away. Having to ask you to be my eyes and ears. It’s unfair of me. I’m sorry.”

Angelina let her wait a few seconds before responding. “All I know is that Redbeard is preoccupied. Last night he scraped his spoon on an empty bowl five times before realizing that there was no more soup. He is worried about Sarah, of course, but it’s more than that. He is not well, Katherine. I don’t know what’s wrong with him.”

“What’s wrong with him is what’s wrong with all of us. We’re getting old.”

Angelina clicked her prayer beads. “I still think you should have gone to Redbeard with your suspicions, not Sarah.”

“They are more than suspicions.”

“All the more reason for you to have gone to Redbeard. Sarah is just a girl.”

“You raised her, Angelina. You will always see her as a girl. I didn’t get that privilege.” No hint of reproach was in Katherine’s voice. “Sarah is the daughter of James Dougan. She may be young, but she will do what is required.”

“Redbeard has resources. If you had gone to him, he would have already found out the truth. That’s all I’m saying.”

“Redbeard would have buried the truth and told himself he was only doing his duty. He still believes in the dream of a pure Muslim state.”

“So do I.”

There was a long silence. “You didn’t have to help me, Angelina.”

Angelina worked her prayer beads faster and faster. Click-click-click-click. “How could I not?”

Katherine sighed, and it was so clear that Angelina looked around, expecting to see Katherine standing beside her.

“Be careful, Katherine. Ibn Azziz, he is not of God. The monastery in Portland…it will not be the last to be fed to the flames. We are in for dangerous times.”

“The times have always been dangerous.”

“Not like this.”

“Well, then…we’ll have to pray for each other,” said Katherine, flirty as a debutante. “With two strong and passionate women like us bending his ear, God is going to have to pay attention.”

Dry leaves whipped across the sidewalk, pirouetting in the eddy. In memory, Angelina could still see Katherine moving gracefully through the parties thrown for the new head of State Security and his lovely wife. The republic was still new, fresh with hope, promising peace and tolerance. Katherine had danced with the president, charming him with her lithe femininity, her openness and wit. Much of the political class had been outraged at her lack of deference, suspicious of her conversion, but the president had been smitten by her. Smitten by her husband as well. James Dougan was handsome and forthright, a defender of the nation, ruthless when he needed to be, charitable even when the cameras weren’t on him. They were the golden couple. The hope of a Muslim future.

It had been a glorious time. Angelina had been hired to help care for the new baby. Sarah had been a sickly child, not a rarity in those early days, not even for the powerful. The baby had blossomed under Angelina’s care, grown fat, with a squall to match. Redbeard had been a constant guest at the villa, the gruff but doting uncle, a fierce, driven man. Angelina had to fight to keep her eyes off him. At times she felt his eyes on her too, but his eyes never lingered on her when Katherine was in the room. Who could blame him? Bright days filled with promise. Ended suddenly. James Dougan murdered. Redbeard wounded. Katherine fleeing after a hasty call to Angelina. Katherine barely controlling her hysteria and grief, begging Angelina to stay with Sarah. Begging her to tell her how much she loved her. Katherine immune from Angelina’s pleadings. Insisting that she had to go. She had a responsibility to her husband. Greater than your responsibility to your child? Angelina had demanded. Yes. The pain in Katherine’s voice…Angelina had never heard anything like it. Yes, greater even than that.

“Maybe when this is over…when the truth is known, I can come home,” said Katherine.

“You could have come home years ago,” said Angelina.

“We’ve been over that many times. It wasn’t worth the risk.”

The risk. Angelina would have risked anything to be reunited with her child, but not Katherine. She had greater priorities. As a good Muslim, Angelina understood the need for sacrifice, but Katherine was no longer a Muslim, and such a sacrifice was only justified for the greater glory of God.

“If you hear any news about Sarah, contact me.”

“I’ll send word immed-” Angelina heard the line go dead. She never knew when their brief conversations would end. Just that they would end abruptly. Katherine had her own timetable and no one was privy to it.

The redheaded workman on the second floor tucked his hammer into his tool belt, stood with his hands on his hips, surveying the site. The morning sun was behind him, set his hair aglow. Three young women passed by below, and he watched them. Once, the girls would have drawn whistles and catcalls from the men on the scaffolding, but now their passing was observed, but not commented on. The tall redhead pushed back his hard hat, following the girls’ progress until they turned the corner. He looked at Angelina, noticed her watching, and grinned. She could almost see him blush.

There was a time before the takeover…a time when Angelina had been a young girl, barely eighteen with slender ankles and high breasts. The men had worked shirtless in the heat, sweating in the summer sun, their bodies gleaming as though anointed with oil. In those days so long ago, she had hurried past such work sites, eyes downcast, and the whistles had rung in her ears…and she had not been totally displeased. Angelina clicked away on her prayer beads, silently counting off the ninety-nine names of God as she watched the tall redhead back at work.