CHAPTER 11

Rakkim saw General Kidd and his son Amir at one of the outside tables of the Kit Kat Klub, the two men lounging in the late-afternoon sun, their long legs outstretched. The crowds that thronged the Zone gave them room, dropping their voices as they passed. A native-born Somali in his sixties, black as an anvil, Kidd commanded the Fedayeen, though his plain blue uniform was without rank, insignia or medals. Powerfully built, his cropped hair shot with gray, he radiated a dangerous calm. Amir was even taller, lean as a panther, his shaved head emphasizing his natural severity-he watched the crowd with undisguised contempt. As Kidd sipped his drink, he spotted Rakkim approaching and stood up.

"Salaamu 'alaikum, sidi," said Rakkim, using the North African term of respect. He embraced General Kidd, saw Amir's jaw tighten.

"Abu Michael," said General Kidd, kissing Rakkim on both cheeks. Abu Michael, father of Michael, a Somali honorific reserved for friends and honored guests. "Peace be upon you."

Rakkim nodded at Amir. "Salaamu 'alaikum." Amir returned the nod but not the blessing. Rakkim pretended not to notice.

"Sit," said Kidd, gesturing to an empty chair at their sidewalk table. "Make room, Amir."

Recorded music blared from inside the club, all bass and grind, some South African thump band popular on underground radio stations and joints in the Zone. Officially called the Christian Quarter, the Zone was a seedy section of the capital lined with nightclubs and game stores and unlicensed tech shops, a place of alcohol, music and dancing, where the cops were paid off and the Black Robes ignored. Loud and dirty, the Zone was a cultural safety valve, untamed, innovative and off the books, a moral free-fire area open to everyone-Christian and Muslim. After he retired from the Fedayeen, and before he married Sarah, Rakkim had lived here. He looked right at home in his casual, moderate attire: lightweight trousers and a soft wool checkerboard sweater in red and black, the sleeves concealing the Fedayeen knife adhered to his inner forearm.

"Your vacation went well?" Kidd tapped his index finger on the small static generator disguised as a cigarette lighter on the table. Between the ambient noise and the static generator, their conversation couldn't be monitored.

"Well enough," said Rakkim, noting how Kidd avoided specifics in Amir's presence.

A waitress appeared to take Rakkim's order, a busty young Catholic, her red hair in a corona of braids.

"Small khat infusion, please," said Rakkim, mirroring the general's own beverage, a sweetened concoction brewed from the leaves of a North African plant known for its stimulating and euphoric properties. As always, Amir drank only water. Fundamentalist Muslims considered khat an abomination, no better than alcohol, but Kidd was a traditionalist, a moderate who trusted Allah to judge what was right and wrong, not some pinched cleric with a soiled bag of his own sins hidden from view.

The waitress punched in Rakkim's request on her handslate, returned a few minutes later with his drink, touching his wrist as she set it down.

Kidd raised his glass, toasted him, but Amir made no move to join in. There had been bad blood between the two young men since Rakkim had inadvertently humiliated Amir a year ago-he had refused to spar with Amir, and when the younger man persisted, his knife thrust an inch from Rakkim's face, Rakkim had disarmed him, done it so easily that it surprised the both of them. Rakkim had attempted to mollify Amir's anger on several occasions without success, and Amir's subsequent rise to power had made the shame of his defeat even more acute.

The call to prayer echoed from the nearby Al-Zawahiri mosque, the muezzin's voice clear and undulating. Come to prayer! Come to God!

Amir glared at the people walking past, fun-seekers either oblivious to the call to prayer, or ignoring it. He caught the eye of a man in a gold and blue Christ the King High School jacket, the man so unnerved by Amir's expression that he stumbled over a crack in the sidewalk, hurried on. Amir had been acclaimed as the "Lion of Durango" for his exploits against the Mormons, and had personally safeguarded then-Senator Brandt and his family after the death of President Kingsley. Only twenty-six years old, Amir commanded the elite Fedayeen strike force defending the capital, and was expected to assume leadership of the Fedayeen when his father retired. It hadn't improved his disposition.

"I don't think Amir likes your choice of a meeting spot, sidi," said Rakkim.

Amir wrinkled his nose. "It stinks of vice and depravity."

Rakkim sniffed. "I think that's perfume."

"Are you mocking me?" Amir said softly.

"Fedayeen should feel free to announce their presence in any part of the city, Amir." Kidd eyed two young women swaying past, moderns with loose hair and university charm bracelets jingling with every step. "Did not the Prophet himself, all blessings upon him, embrace the range of delights this world had to offer without fear of being tainted?"

Amir started to stand. "Father…this is blasphemy," he sputtered.

Kidd gently pushed him back down. "If so, then Allah will take his vengeance upon me, and you need not concern yourself."

Amir spread his huge hands out on the table as though waiting for the earth to open up under them.

"Have you heard about our difficulty on the Southwest border?" Kidd said to Rakkim.

"Aztlan?" said Rakkim.

Kidd nodded. "A squadron of their attack jets entered our airspace three days ago…"

Rakkim inadvertently glanced toward the sky.

"…the worst part," said Kidd, "was that they were over our territory for twenty minutes before they were picked up on our screens. We're not sure if they're utilizing some advanced stealth technology…or just our own incompetence."

"Or the Jews may have sabotaged our system," said Amir. "One way or the other, I'll get to the bottom of it."

"The president has appointed Amir to find out the cause of the breakdown," explained Kidd, his face devoid of emotion. "He's been given full command authority."

"Congratulations." Rakkim looked at Kidd. "You must be proud, sidi."

Amir stood up, bowed to his father. "I have a meeting with the president." He gave a curt nod to Rakkim and walked quickly away. People on the sidewalk moved out of his path.

Kidd downed his khat infusion, banged the glass down. "Now tell me, Abu Michael, what did you find out from our brother in New Fallujah?"

For the next ten minutes they talked, and when their glasses were refilled they kept talking, wiping their lips with the backs of their hands, laughing at things that weren't funny until the waitress walked away. Kidd dragged Rakkim's chair closer, the two of them bent over the table, so close that their faces almost touched.

"Senator Chambers working for ibn-Azziz? It makes no sense," said General Kidd. "The great liberal a pawn of the Black Robes?" He shook his head. "I don't believe it. Chambers's wife is a Christian."

"Which is why Chambers would be the last person we would suspect," said Rakkim. "There is a logic to it." A couple of moderns walked past, young businessmen, smooth and confident, and Rakkim thought about Robert Legault with Sarah this afternoon, the way they matched their pace across the grass…

"Rakkim?" said Kidd. "I said, is Jenkins sure about Senator Chambers?"

Rakkim shrugged. "He told me the president is going to name Senator Chambers to be secretary of defense. Have you heard anything-?"

Kidd dropped his glass. Caught it before it hit the table. "Chambers…the senator is going to be appointed secretary of defense on the next full moon. The announcement won't be made for another few days." The planes of his cheekbones seemed even sharper as he leaned over the table. "Does Jenkins think the president is involved?"