In his white jacket and white linen trousers with gold piping, the Old One looked like a weekend commodore out for a cruise. The faux-nautical trappings were pure camouflage, as much a part of the charade as the music and the dancers. The World Court had cleared him of responsibility in the nuke attacks on the U.S. and Mecca, but he had learned caution over the years.

"Father?"

The Old One looked at Ibrahim, his oldest son and counselor.

Ibrahim tapped his earpiece. "John Moseby received a transmission two days ago from Seattle."

"Moseby is contacted regularly, is he not?" said the Old One. "I have other things to concern myself with."

"Moseby evidently left shortly after receiving the most recent one," said Ibrahim.

The Old One glared at him.

"Our…our men on the scene didn't realize Moseby's absence until moments ago," said Ibrahim.

"Moseby was a shadow warrior once upon a time…it should have been expected that he would retain his skills." The Old One pursed his lips. "Have our technicians been able to decipher the code Leo uses to communicate yet?"

"Sadly, no."

"A team of supposed computer experts defeated by one nineteen-year-old boy," said the Old One. "I should hire him and get rid of the rest of you."

"Father, the men who let Moseby slip away…shall I have them punished?"

"Why not have them continue to monitor Moseby's home?" interrupted Baby. "Allow them to redeem themselves, Daddy, they'll work themselves harder than ever."

"This is not your concern, woman," said Ibrahim.

"Leave the men in place, Ibrahim," said the Old One.

"Father-"

The Old One waved him away.

Baby waited until Ibrahim had left. "A weak man's always in a hurry to punish somebody, so he can show how tough he is." She stroked her throat. "Moseby's a family man, Daddy. He won't be gone long without wanting to talk to his wife and girl."

The Old One loved looking at her. She didn't even make the attempt to hide her ambition. "We're all family men, my dear."

Onscreen, Gravenholtz clawed a hand through his scraggly hair, ridiculous in his tourist clothes-madras shorts and a bright orange silk shirt decorated with images of old automobiles. The prosthetics he had worn to kill the oil minister had made him look only a bit more grotesque. Gravenholtz stared directly into the camera lens. Not the obvious one, but the camera inside a clear glass geometric sculpture. "You done playing games?"

The Old One looked at Baby. "Are we done?"

"It's time," said Baby. Ibrahim would have taken a moment to consider, to gather his thoughts so as not to embarrass himself. Not her. "Lester's hot enough to boil away the lies, but not so hot that somebody gets burned. Just right, I'd say."

"Hold this position, James," the Old One said to the captain, "a slow drift to appreciate the view." He offered Baby his arm and she immediately slipped her hand above his elbow. A few minutes later they strolled into the main salon. "Rested, are we, from our labors, Mr. Gravenholtz?"

"Okay, say it." Gravenholtz glared at them. "I freelanced the hit, and I ain't apologizing either. I'm supposed to open the door for your human bomb, and close it afterward? I look like a fucking doorman to-?" He jerked as a wallscreen flashed on, showed the Aztlan oil minister recoiling in shock. Even with the sound turned down, the minister's voice cracked, a cascade of Spanish pleading for his life as Gravenholtz's freckled hand grabbed his platinum necktie. The oil minister swatted at Gravenholtz's huge hand, mouth twitching as blood ran from his eyes.

"No, Mr. Gravenholtz, you most certainly are not a doorman," said the Old One.

Gravenholtz seemed to vibrate slightly, set the silk shirt in motion, the cars seemingly to race across his broad chest. "How'd you get that footage?"

The Old One slipped off his loafers, walked barefoot across the intricate pale blue and gray carpet, slightly clenching his toes with every step, remembering the Persian girl who had woven it, a tall, beautiful girl with small breasts and eyes like fire. It had taken her two years of work, the Old One stopping by every few months when he passed through on business, drinking tea with her father while she labored over her loom in the corner, stealing glances at him when her father wasn't looking. The Old One had been young then, and when he took possession of the carpet he had taken the girl as his third wife, given her something better to do with those strong, nimble fingers than weave carpets. He swayed on the Tabriz, eyes half closed, remembering her aroma.

"I asked you a question," said Gravenholtz.

The Old One gazed at him. "Is that a demand, Mr. Gravenholtz?"

"Could you please tell me how you done that?" said Gravenholtz.

"I had a pinpoint camera installed in your right eye," said the Old One. "It transmitted-"

"When you do that?" The cars on Gravenholtz's chest raced faster.

"Do you remember our discussion of Sultan Murad and his janissaries the first time we met?" said the Old One.

"Yeah. You said this sultan didn't give a shit whether his guards were Muslims or not, he just cared that they were the best," said Gravenholtz.

"He cared that they were the best, but also that they were loyal," said the Old One.

"So I didn't follow the plan," said Gravenholtz. "Now what?"

"Oh, quite the contrary, you met all our expectations," said the Old One. "I wasn't sure what you would do, but Baby…" He soundlessly applauded his daughter as she curtsied. "Baby assured me that you would adapt the plan to your own…needs. She was quite confident that you would take the initiative, and so you did."

"So…you ain't mad?" said Gravenholtz.

The Old One walked over to the glass-bottom area. "Join me, Mr. Gravenholtz. Come on, no need to worry. It's quite safe."

Gravenholtz edged along the margins of the glass, keeping one foot on the carpet.

The morning sun sent shafts of light through the clear water, illuminating the cityscape below-Little Miami, the sunken city off the coast of Nueva Florida. A fake tableau, ten miles of illusion for the tourist trade peering into the abyss. The city was a perfect construct of South Beach at the turn of the century, bright pastel hotels and dance clubs and movie theaters, long lines of convertibles and Italian speedsters, all of it covered with starfish and barnacles, purple and red sea anemones waving in the currents. New Orleans had sunk into the Gulf, killing hundreds of thousands, and the best the idiots in the Belt could do with the site was declare it jinxed, off-limits for development. The Cubans, meanwhile, created a fake sunken city as an homage to the cocaine cowboys of yesteryear and drew free-spending visitors from all over the world. The Cubans were brilliant capitalists. Infidels destined to roast forever in hell, to be sure, but great and creative moneymakers.

The Old One watched schools of iridescent orange fish veer across the city, darting into the open windows and out again, a synchronized, hypnotic ballet. "You really should see this, Mr. Gravenholtz."

"I'll take your word for it," said Gravenholtz.

"I must insist, Mr. Gravenholtz."

"I told you before, call me Lester. Mr. Gravenholtz was my father, and if he was alive today, I'd kill him all over again."

"Come here, Lester."

Haltingly, careful as a fat man on thin ice, Gravenholtz stepped across the glass floor. A few feet away from the Old One, he glanced down, then turned away. Stared at Baby, a single bead of sweat rolling down from his left sideburn. "Ain't…ain't no big deal. I been to New Orleans. You seen one sunken city, you seen them all."

Baby tossed her soft hair. "It's all right, Lester honey." She picked up a compressed-air speargun, checked the balance.