“Come home.”

“I saw Ibn Azziz. At least I think I did. He’s young.” Rakkim watched three cars pull up alongside the trolley. A fourth car pulled onto the tracks ahead, forcing the trolley to a screeching stop. Men jumped out of the cars and into the trolley. Others covered the rear exit. One of them looked like the arrogant dandy who had fetched him the evening of the Super Bowl, but Rakkim was too far away to be sure. He hoped it was him. “You better watch yourself, Uncle. I think Ibn Azziz has already declared war on you.”

“Better him than Oxley.”

Rakkim had picked up a signature transmitter in the Zone, bought it an hour ago from the same electronics wizard who had bought Redbeard’s tracking device from Sarah. A major felony for all concerned. The transmitter sent a cell signature to a small unit he had secreted in the trolley, the same signature as the cell he was using, only more powerful. He watched the tourists filing out of the trolley under the eyes of Redbeard’s agents. “I’ll get in touch with you again when I know more.”

“You can’t outwit the Old One. Not by yourself.”

Rakkim could see the passengers being marched out of the trolley. “Don’t be so sure. You’re smarter than the Old One and I just outwitted you.” He broke the connection.

The setting sun glinted off the tips of Sarah’s hair as the muezzin’s call to pray undulated from the Grand Mosque, summoning the devout. They stayed where they were, watching Redbeard’s men tearing through the trolley. Unnecessary roughness. A sign of weakness.

Rakkim stared up at the new Jihad Cola sign while Mardi’s private number rang. Sarah was beside him, equally entranced.

There must have been five thousand people in Pioneer Square for the great unveiling, the crowd spilling over into the side streets. They were packed in so tightly that it had been no problem for Rakkim to lift the cell from the inside pocket of a young modern. Zebraskin interactive, the latest model.

“It’s me,” said Rakkim as Mardi answered.

“What’s wrong?”

Moderns in the crowd cheered, applauded, gasped as the sign lit up-a three-story-tall hologram that seemed deep as infinity. The fundamentalists swayed, lips moving as they prayed, ecstatic in their approval. Even Sarah was openmouthed with delight.

“What’s that noise?” asked Mardi.

It wasn’t the hologram that the crowd was cheering-holographic advertising had been common for twenty years. It was the ad itself. Islam didn’t approve of representations of the human face or form, so signs in the new republic were forced to use a simple photo of the product, counting on vibrant colors and elaborate typefaces to get their message across. A poor substitute for image, and yet another reason for the economic doldrums.

“I can hardly hear you,” said Mardi.

“You need to get out of the Blue Moon.”

The new Jihad Cola sign portrayed a healthy young Muslim couple drinking a JC in the park, their chaperone discreetly in the background. What was unique about the ad was that it wasn’t just holographic, but mosaic, the images formed from careful layering of Arabic text from the Holy Qur’an. Not only did the use of script circumvent the strictures against graven images, Arabic script itself, particularly script from the Holy Qur’an, was believed to possess a unique and mystical power. An added value to the brand. The computer program used to create the ad had taken three years to write, but the mosaic process was certain to revolutionize advertising. The launch was in the capital, but subsequent unveilings were planned in Los Angeles, Chicago, New Detroit, Denver, and other major cities. Mullah Oxley had given the technique the Black Robes’ approval, but Rakkim wondered how Ibn Azziz felt about it.

“Where are you?” asked Mardi.

Rakkim turned away from the crowd, sheltering the phone from the worst of the noise. “You have to get out of the Blue Moon. You have to leave now. The liquor salesman you were so charmed by…he’s a Fedayeen assassin.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Take the money from the safe and go. Call Riggs from the airport and tell him he’s going to manage the club for a month. He can handle it for a few weeks.”

“He’ll steal us blind.”

“Consider it the cost of staying alive.” Rakkim lowered his voice, trying to reach her. “Take a vacation, partner. You’ve already got more money than you can spend. Just leave. Don’t even go home to pack. Just leave. Call the club in a month and ask to speak to me. If I’m not back yet, then stay gone for another month and call again.”

“It’s really that bad?”

“Worse.”

CHAPTER 39

“I had to jump though hoops to get this for you,” Colarusso straightened the collar on Rakkim’s jacket, dropped the data chip into his pocket. “It’s illegal what I done.”

“Bet it was the first time you ever broke the law too,” said Rakkim.

Colarusso stifled a smile as he leaned back against the railing of the roller rink. He watched Anthony Jr. and Sarah circle the rink, holding hands, Anthony Jr. clomping along, a little unsteady. “They make a nice couple, don’t they?”

“Fuck you.”

The indoor rink was filled with moderns and Catholics, plenty of moderates in posh hajibs too, the skating rink one of the few places where they could have physical contact with the opposite sex under the eye of their chaperone. “I just think if a man puts his career on the line for a friend, the friend should tell him what’s going on, that’s all.”

“Sarah’s working on a book that could bring her a lot of trouble. Safar Abdullah is part of her research. I’m along to make sure she eats right and gets a good night’s sleep. That’s pretty much it.”

“Abdullah’s been dead for twenty-five years, so you’re not going to get much conversation out of him.” Colarusso sucked his teeth. “Engineers must be the dullest people in the world. Who dies of natural causes at forty-three? Probably died of boredom.” Colarusso hitched up his pants. “I’ve always been curious. If I hadn’t gone into police work, I would have probably been a Peeping Thomas.”

“I don’t think Abdullah died of natural causes. Feel better now?”

“A little bit.” Colarusso rocked on his heels. “Hope you’re not planning to exhume the body, because somebody beat you to it. That’s kind of odd, isn’t it? Him being a devout Muslim and yet his family allows him to be dug up a week after burial. Dug him up and cremated him. The wife signed off on it, but the cemetery sure made a fuss. Martyrs of Fallujah Cemetery, Los Angeles. Best Muslim boneyard in the city from what I read. I got a copy of their angry letter to the wife in the file. You should read it. Another one from the poor woman’s imam that’s a real classic. Threatened her with the flames of hell. Her and her dead hubby. Leave it to a holy man to know how to twist the knife.”

Rakkim watched the skaters in bright colors barrel past. In the old days the rinks supposedly played music too, but the rolling wheels made music of their own.

“Now, why would a good Muslim woman allow her husband to be back-hoed up in the middle of the night?” said Colarusso. “I got the order from the mortuary that did the work. Two A.M. is when they did the deed. Mortuary had to pay their workmen double time.” He leaned closer to Rakkim. “You can see why it got my attention.”

Rakkim took in the spectators in the bleachers, the chaperones, and the skaters taking a time-out. All those faces, but none caught his attention. Sometimes the Black Robes would show up, just to cause trouble, but the rink donated to the local mosque. “Were you able to locate the wife?”

“She died a couple of years after the mister. Got planted in the al-Aqua Cemetery in Van Nuys. Not quite the pedigree of Martyrs of Fallujah.”