Anthony Jr. kept his eyes on Darwin. “I’m taking care of it, Mom.”

Darwin pointed at the tiny silver crescent moon hanging above the door. “Have you been accepted in the Fedayeen?”

A wary nod from Anthony Jr.

“Congratulations.” No response from Anthony Jr. “Can I please come inside?” Darwin grinned. “I caught a cold from the mayor last week, and I’m just getting over it.”

Anthony Jr. slowly reached for the door lock. Stopped.

Darwin jiggled the handle. “What’s wrong?”

“You. You’re wrong.”

“Anthony, you’re not scared of me, are you?”

Anthony Jr. stared at him. Slowly nodded his head.

Darwin opened his coat. “I’m not even armed. I’m a liaison officer. We talk. We dialogue. That’s all.”

“Go dialogue with somebody else.”

Darwin shook his head. “If you’re the kind of young man the Fedayeen is reduced to accepting, I should sell my war bonds.”

“I know who you are.” Even protected by a half inch of steel, Anthony Jr. trembled.

Darwin smiled, sincere smile this time. He didn’t remember the last time anyone had detected his true nature. Not before it was too late. Anthony might have the instincts of a born Fedayeen, but it was just as likely that Rakkim had warned him that someone like Darwin might be coming around. Him and his father, the fat cop. One big happy family, all looking out for one another. Telling one another all kinds of things. Darwin’s little visit to the Colarusso homestead hadn’t been wasted.

Anthony’s mother reappeared in the kitchen doorway. “Anthony?”

“Call 911, Mom. Tell them to send a couple of cars.”

Darwin waved to her. “Hello, Marie. You look lovely, as usual.”

Anthony’s mother touched her hair. “Don’t play games, Anthony, let the man in.”

“Call them, Mom.”

“Good for you, Anthony,” said Darwin. “I can’t fool you.”

“I don’t like you saying my name.”

“May I give you some advice?” asked Darwin. “You’ve probably been working out a lot since you got accepted. Taking all kinds of growth-hormone and cobra-venom hotshots.” He smiled again. “You’d be better off training yourself to catnap. Set your alarm clock for one-hour intervals so you wake up every hour during the night. When you can wake up without the alarm clock, and wake up alert, fully alert, then set the intervals for a half hour. That’s what you’re going to need to make it through Fedayeen boot camp, because you’re never going to get more than an hour’s uninterrupted sleep that whole first year.”

“I did it, Anthony,” called his mother. “Close the door. Let the police handle it.”

“I bet she’s a fabulous cook,” said Darwin.

“I’m already sleeping on a hardwood floor,” said Anthony Jr. “I got the heat in my room turned off too. That thing with the catnaps, though…that’s a pretty smart idea.”

“I’m full of smart ideas.” Darwin looked as if he were trying to decide something. “There’s another thing…” He glanced around, the carbon-polymer knife slipping down his sleeve into his hand. “When the escape-and-evasion instructor asks for volunteers”-he lowered his voice and Anthony Jr. unconsciously leaned closer-“you should-” Darwin slammed his right hand into the screen, the blade plunging through the steel mesh. It should have driven into Anthony Jr.’s left eye, but he had pulled away at the last instant.

Anthony Jr. wiped blood off his cheek. He was breathing hard.

“Well done.” Darwin put the knife away. “You just might make it through boot camp. We’ll have to get together again sometime and discuss war stories.” He gave Anthony Jr. a jaunty salute, turned on his heel. He was barely limping now, a new spring in his step.

Sarah pulled wide the curtains, let the last of the sunset into their beach-front motel room. She was nude and slick with sweat, all curves and hollows, and he hardened again just looking at her. She bent forward, hands on the sill, her ass canted toward him. The window was open, the curtains swirling.

“Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

She looked back at him, laughed. “I’ve never been so happy.”

He watched her as sounds drifted through the window. Bicycles. Seagulls keening. Steady pounding of the waves. The whir of jet helicopters passing overhead, almost silent. Airspace in the capital was restricted, but not here. Nothing seemed off-limits here. “Come back to bed.”

“Say-”

“Please?”

The curtains boiled around her. “Look at us, Rikki, making love with the windows open. They had to hear us down below.” Her nipples were dark and hard. “Look at us, out in public, holding hands, not counting the minutes until I have to be home. Not going over my excuses to Redbeard, rehearsing the answers for all the possible questions I might be asked. Colarusso is the only one who knows we’re here. We’re free.” She walked toward him, the sunset outlining her in gold. “I don’t want to look for Fatima tonight.”

“Good.”

“I don’t want to look for her tomorrow either. I want to make love and sleep late. I want to eat breakfast in the café we saw. I want to run in the sun and drink Mexican iced coffee and listen to music. I want you to dance with me. Then I want to make love some more.”

Rakkim watched her getting closer. She was at the edge of the bed now, and he could smell the sex on her. “I’d like that too. Except for the dancing part.”

She slid across the bed, and he caressed the moistness between her legs. “Let’s stay here as long as we can,” she said, “because when we leave, when we find her, it’s going to start up again. There won’t be room for us anymore-”

“That’s not true.”

She slipped him inside her, slipped him inside so smoothly it was as if he had always been part of her. “It won’t be like this.” She gently rocked on him, and he fit himself into her motion, the heat of her radiating through him. “The clock will have started once we leave here. We’ll be looking over our shoulders again.” She tightened her grip on him, purring, squeezed him to the base, and he cried out as she rocked against him, driving him home.

Rakkim groaned, arched his back.

She shook her hair out as she rode him; dark curls flying in the twilight.

CHAPTER 41

“Ain’t nobody going to answer their door, mister,” said the kid as Rakkim pressed the call buttons. He was maybe ten, with feral eyes and dirty blond hair, skinny as rope. Sleeping in his clothes hadn’t helped them. “Half them buttons don’t work anyway.”

Rakkim glanced around while Sarah rooted in her purse. They were on the landing of an apartment building, last known address of Fatima Abdullah, according to the information Colarusso had retrieved. A lousy neighborhood in Long Beach, Catholics mostly. Overturned garbage cans and stripped cars on the streets. If Fatima was still hooking, midmorning was the best time to catch her home. They had spent the last three days at the motel in Huntington Beach, taking it slow, pretending they were just two people in love and not wanting it to end. It was as close to a honeymoon as they might get.

Sarah handed the kid a $10 bill. “We’re looking for Fatima Abdullah. Sometimes she calls herself Francine Archer. Or Felicity Anderson.”

It was too soon to pay the kid. Too soon and too little.

The kid tucked the money into his sneaker. Carefully stubbed out the cigarette, wrapped it in a piece of gum wrapper. Ready to run. “Never heard of her.”

“What’s your name?” said Rakkim.

“Cameron.” The kid held out his hand. “That’s another ten dollars.”

Rakkim knocked the hand aside. “I’ll give you a hundred for useful information.” He keyed up the most recent photograph of Safar Abdullah’s daughter on his cell. Taken from a five-year-old mug shot, it was the best that Colarusso’s contact in personnel had been able to come up with.