"Not at all, Colonel."

"No fool like an old fool." A vein along the Colonel's jawline throbbed. "After all she's done to me, the lies and betrayal, the humiliation…if Baby was to step out of the darkness right now, I'd take her in my arms and I'd forgive her. I swear to God I would."

The wind rustled through the trees as though someone were leaving in a hurry.

The Colonel shook his head, and then keyed the remote to the jeep, the door opening. "I hope you're hungry. I nailed a wild turkey this afternoon. Mean son of a bitch too. Had him cornered and he went right for me."

"We've spent our time hating on the Muslims, and I'm not making any apologies for that, war is war, and even kin can fight to the death when the blood rises, but brothers and sisters, at least the Muslims are one-God folk. Just like us, one-God folk, whereas Aztlan, they got more gods than a blueridge retriever got ticks." Crews stalked the stage, blindingly white, like a moonbeam on fire.

The crowd ate it up, but from where Gravenholtz sat it was pretty much bullshit. Sure, Aztlan had brought back the Aztec gods, the gods before the conquistadors came to town, but it wasn't like they had x-ed out Christianity. They just kind of mashed it all up together-Mary alongside that killer god wearing blue hummingbird feathers, and the Virgin of Guadalupe beating a drum of human skin at the Easter parade. Religion was all about getting dumbasses to line up and sign up, making people pay today for heaven tomorrow. Every time Crews shouted one-God folk, the crowd amened-fucker was the best shit salesman Gravenholtz had ever seen and that was saying something.

Crews jabbed a finger at the front row and Karla Jean grabbed Gravenholtz's arm.

"Aztlan gods are dark gods. Gods that drown children. Gods that snare travelers, hook 'em up and hang ' em high. Gods of fire and gods of mud, lizard gods and rabbit gods and scorpion gods too…but no Jesus Christ in Aztlan. Not a word. At least Muslims revere Jesus. He may not be the son of God, to the folks in the Republic, but they sing his praises almost as loud as Muhammad himself. We got to remember who our real enemies are, brothers and sisters. We got to keep that thought in our hearts and minds. So when Aztlan says, 'Give us the Colonel,' well, I hear the crowd in Jerusalem shouting for blood. I hear the crowd screaming to Pontius Pilate, 'Give us Jesus! Crucify him!'"

Karla Jean squeezed Gravenholtz's arm tighter.

Crews shook his head. "Not this time. Not now. Not ever. Aztlan wants to try the Colonel for his sins. They want to drag him to their capital city in chains. They want to bend him backwards over a stone altar, tear his heart out and offer it to their gods. Their gutter gods." Crews listened to the people in the audience raging and sobbing. "That's right, we won't let that happen. Not this time. Not this time."

"Not this time," repeated the crowd. "Not this time."

"Not this time," said Crews, voice rising. "Not this time!"

"Not this time!" shouted the crowd. "Not this time!"

Karla Jean released Gravenholtz's arm. Smoothed his sleeve. "I am so sorry, Lester. I must about cut off your circulation."

"No…I liked it. Made me feel like I was taking care of you."

Karla Jean nodded.

"After the sermon…" Gravenholtz cleared his throat. "Maybe you'd like to get a drink."

"I don't drink spirits."

"We could get something to eat then. If…if you want."

"I like ice cream."

Gravenholtz smiled. "So do I."

Karla Jean clung to him. "You should know…I'm not ready for anything boy-girl right now. You know…I just would like to go have some ice cream with you."

"Sure. Me too."

"I don't like being rushed."

"Me neither."

"I knew I could count on you. I knew it the first time I laid eyes on you." Karla Jean lowered her eyes. "I got a weakness for gingers. My husband…he was a redhead too."

Gravenholtz watched a single tear fall into her lap.

"I don't really feel much like ice cream," said Karla Jean. "You're not mad, are you?"

"No."

"I'm going to go home now." Karla Jean looked up at him. "You planning to be at the service day after tomorrow?"

"If you are," said Gravenholtz.

"I surely am. Maybe…we could go out for ice cream then."

"I don't want to push you."

Karla Jean looked into his eyes. "No…I'll be ready by then."

CHAPTER 23

"Your boy has fast reflexes," said General Kidd as Michael and a slightly bigger boy circled each other in the courtyard, swordfighting with sticks. The sound of their battle echoed across the dirt, their bare feet kicking up dust. Mothers sat in the shade, tending to infants, laughing and gossiping-all were modestly dressed, their chadors banded with color, some with their faces veiled.

General Kidd and Rakkim sat cross-legged in the grass at the edge of the courtyard separated from the other men, watching the children's combat. Michael the only white face, smudged with dirt, intent as any of the others. The Somali section of the capital was clannish and heavily guarded, most of the men Fedayeen, always alert for outsiders. Rakkim was welcome here-the few times he attended mosque, he accompanied Kidd to the small, plain mosque at the center of the district.

"See?" Kidd pointed as Michael deftly parried the bigger boy's aggressive attack, always ahead of him. "See how he anticipates Shakur's movements? You've been teaching him."

"He's quick," said Rakkim, wary. Compliments came from Kidd's mouth as rarely as profanity.

"Very quick," affirmed Kidd. "He takes after you."

Michael feinted, drew the bigger boy off balance, speared him lightly in the chest. The boy cried out, not from pain, for it was but the briefest of contacts, but from surprise. The boy hung his head as the mothers applauded. Except for one tall, slender woman, whose white hijab perfectly framed her beautiful black face, making her beauty even more stark. She watched the boys without betraying any emotion.

Michael put his arm around the bigger boy, who shoved him away. Michael pretended not to notice. He suddenly broke his fighting stick over one knee, squatted down and started poking at an anthill. The bigger boy hesitated, clutching his own stick, finally bent down beside him. Michael handed the boy the other half of his broken stick, and together they amused themselves with the ants.

"He's smart too," said Kidd as the bigger boy draped an arm over Michael. "That he gets from his mother."

Rakkim smiled. "It's true."

Kidd didn't smile. "Dangerous for a man to have a wife smarter than he is."

"I'll take the risk," said Rakkim.

"You need another wife," said Kidd. "At least one more. Three would be better."

"I can barely keep up with one," said Rakkim.

"I have a daughter, Irina," said Kidd. "She served us tea."

"She's very lovely," said Rakkim.

"She's fifteen and in good health," said Kidd. "She'd make you a good wife."

Rakkim looked into his large, liquid eyes. "Sidi, I'm honored, but-"

"A warrior needs more than one wife," said Kidd, "and I would be greatly pleased to make you part of my family."

"I feel like I am part of your family."

Kidd shook his head. "It is a matter of blood, Abu Michael." He took Rakkim's forearm, squeezed. "Your blood mixed with mine. It's important."

Rakkim stared at him. He was missing something. "Important…how?"

Kidd released him. Watched the two boys. They were playing tag now, dodging through the smaller children, whooping it up, but deftly avoiding contact with the toddlers.

"Sidi, what are you trying to tell me?"

"I have fourteen sons living," said Kidd, still watching the boys. "All warriors, but it will be Amir who will follow me in leading the Fedayeen. Amir may be challenged, but he is ferocious, widely renowned…and he has the respect of the president."