Anna smiled at him again.

He hadn’t removed the boyfriend because he was romantically interested in Anna. The boyfriend had made her unhappy, and the Old One liked his dealers cheerful.

Ellis, the pit boss, watched him, expressionless. He had been a stockbroker at the London Board of Trade, a successful one too, but his wife had developed brain cancer, and in spite of all his efforts, she had died an excruciating death. Ellis had gone to Las Vegas to dilute his grief and never came back.

The cocktail waitress came by, picked up his empty Scotch. She wore a short skirt that showed off her fine legs. Seamed stockings. Wantonness in a long, straight line.

Her name was Teresa. Twenty-two years old, born in Biloxi, Mississippi. Moved here two years ago. She was working on a degree in hotel management at the local college. Had a 3.4 grade-point average. The Old One prided himself on knowing the people he came in contact with, and he came in contact with dozens of them every day, hundreds of them every month. It was one of the many things he loved about living in Las Vegas. There was always someone new.

The casinos and hotels were filled with Catholics, Muslims, and Bible Belters, none of them discussing religion or politics. You could have looked around and never thought that there had ever been a civil war. They came to relax, to sin, to be free. They came for business too. Salesmen and industrialists from China and Russia and Brazil cut multimillion-dollar deals while they floated in the pool, slathered on sunscreen. High-tech conventioneers flocked to the digitized amphitheaters, exchanging information while nibbling tiger prawns netted that very morning in the Philippines. The streets were awash with tourists from the booming economies of Brazil and France and Nigeria. Everyone came to Las Vegas. The Open City, that’s what the sign at the airport announced.

Anna had two queens. Swept his bets.

The Old One glanced at his fresh cards. Still no word from Darwin. The assassin left messages. Demanded favors from the Old One, but was not available to update him on his progress. Or lack of same. Darwin knew his value, and so did the Old One.

He should have sent Darwin to kill Redbeard and his brother, James, instead of turning to Redbeard’s personal bodyguard. Everything would have been different. With Redbeard dead along with his brother, the Old One’s cat’s-paw would have taken over State Security. Without Redbeard, the Old One could have used his influence to manipulate the president. To stoke his fears. A few more terrorist incidents and the country would have moved to a war footing. A diplomatic breakdown and an attack on the Bible Belt would have been launched, the army and Fedayeen committed, no matter what the cost. One nation, under Allah.

Anna swept his chips away again. Ellis turned away, watched the other tables.

Darwin wouldn’t have failed to kill both brothers, but he was an unknown back then. The Old One had never used his services before, and what he had heard about the assassin he didn’t believe. He did now.

The Old One checked his cards. It was rumored that Redbeard had survived the attempt on his life because he had a copy of the Qur’an in his clothing, the Holy Book blocking two shots to the chest. It sounded like the kind of disinformation that Redbeard would have spread afterward, holding up his survival as an act of divine providence.

The Old One reminded himself not to dwell on the past. One of the markers of senility. He remembered how he had laughed at old men who bound themselves with past mistakes, kings and princes lost in their own memories. There had been a time he had been able to see fifty or sixty years ahead…and act accordingly. Barely forty years old, already wealthy beyond measure, he had seen the fallacy in the European welfare state before any demographer. A cradle-to-the-grave system requires children to keep the wheels spinning, and the Europeans were godless libertines, fornicators without fatherhood. Starting in the early 1970s, he had begun making large donations to politicians and journalists. Men who shaped the debate on immigration. Hardworking Muslims were deemed the answer, and the floodgates opened wide. Young Muslims from North Africa and Turkey, fertile and faithful. The slow-motion conquest of Europe, the nearly bloodless transformation into an Islamic continent, had been perhaps his greatest victory. The fifty years had passed like an afternoon.

More playing cards slipping across the felt. He lifted a downcard. A one-eyed jack peeked back at him. The red betrayer. The Old One thought of the new pope. His new pope. Installed two years ago. Another crop come to its season. Forty years ago, he had seeded his men among the priesthood, a dozen of them, educated and well-connected, skilled in the ways of diplomacy. A dozen of them rising slowly up the church hierarchy. One had now become Pope Pius XIII. When the Old One gave the sign, the pope would make a public declaration of faith. His conversion to Islam would have a profound impact in the Catholic bastions of South America, and on the holdouts in Eastern Europe.

He took a hit on twelve and caught the other one-eyed jack. Busted by the jack of spades. The betrayer betrayed. A bad sign. In keeping with the bad news of these last weeks. Mullah Oxley, nurtured for years by the Old One, had been murdered by Ibn Azziz, a fiery ascetic barely old enough to sprout whiskers. Even now Ibn Azziz was stirring up trouble with the Catholics. Give him enough time and he would fracture the country.

More cards. Anna humming softly to herself. A lullaby to the son she would never have.

Meanwhile Redbeard’s niece was creating her own mischief. Although…there was still a chance that the Old One could use her to his advantage. She and Rakkim might even become the pivotal pieces in the game. Rakkim was a shadow warrior, one of the invisible men. Darwin wanted to kill him, kill the both of them, but that was just another indication of Darwin’s strategic limitations. The great challenge now was to reunite the country, to reclaim the old boundaries of the United States. In spite of its current malaise, the nation was still the best place for a truly vibrant Islam to take root, a transformational Islam. Rakkim’s knowledge of the Bible Belt would be invaluable.

Anna swept away his chips with a clatter.

The Old One realized he had lost track of the cards played. So intent on his successes and failures that he had stopped paying attention. He stood up. Pressed a $1,000 chip into her hand and offered her his blessing.

A faint beep sounded in his ear as he walked through the casino. What did Darwin want now?

CHAPTER 47

Rakkim flattened himself against the wall of the giant shark, listening. At least four or five of them were outside. The candles were out, the interior in darkness. Moonlight visible through the open mouth, jagged teeth hanging down. A figure darted across the opening. Rakkim loosened his grip on his knife. The figure that he had glimpsed had been wearing a shock helmet and body armor. Bulbous, old-style night-vision goggles. SWAT. No way they were here for Fancy. Oh, Pernell, what did you do? Figures moved past the opaque window toward the rear exit. Bad luck that they knew about the exit, but good luck in that they stumbled in their haste.

Sarah and Fancy were crouched where he had left them. “Who is it?” asked Sarah.

“Police. Is there another way out of here, Fancy?”

“Front and back door, that’s it.” Fancy primped herself. “What do the cops want scaring us like this? They know they just got to ask.”

“It’s SWAT. They don’t ask.” Even in the darkness, Rakkim could see that Sarah understood. “They’re going to hit us from both sides. If you had to hide in here, where would you go?”