CHAPTER 24

Mullah Jenkins saw one of ibn-Azziz's bodyguards slouched in the shadows at the south checkpoint leading out of the city, the man cleaning his fingernails with the tip of his knife while the regular patrol checked IDs. If it wasn't for Jenkins's enhanced night vision, he would have never spotted the man. The wind kicked up, a storm coming in fast. He turned into an alley and started running, his black robes flapping around him like bat wings. A member of ibn-Azziz's personal retinue at the south checkpoint, another one at the eastern checkpoint. Had to be a reason and Jenkins didn't like the answer he'd gotten.

He raced down the alley. Should have left with Rakkim when he had the chance. Should have left on his own long before then. He would have liked to convince himself that he stayed because he thought he had more work to do for General Kidd, but that wasn't it. He hadn't left that night because he was afraid Rakkim would kill him as soon as they were off the bridge. He could see it in Rakkim's eyes, a barely restrained moral outrage, a mixture of disappointment and disgust from his former pupil. Almost as great as the disgust Jenkins felt toward himself. He should have taken the risk and left with Rakkim. Even if Rakkim had killed him, that was better than falling into the hands of ibn-Azziz.

Something had gone wrong. Something to draw suspicion to him. Had he been too merciful? Yes…yes, the schoolgirls, the damn schoolgirls. He should have refused Rakkim's demand. Burned them all. Now, look at him, running for his life because Rakkim had a soft heart. The killer with a soft heart. Jenkins tried to laugh but couldn't summon the humor, his laughter as dried and atrophied as ibn-Azziz's mercy.

With late-night prayers finished, the streets were nearly deserted. No place to hide. His apartment was a death trap. He had an emergency refuge, a small room in an abandoned building near the old marina, but it was better to escape the city now, any way he could.

He forced himself to slow, head high, robe billowing around him, as befitting a cleric of his station. Ibn-Azziz had no reason to believe that Jenkins was aware of the danger he was in. The order to pick him up had probably been sent out only to the guards at the checkpoints. If that failed to snag him, a more general order would be sent out at first light, his image shown at every mosque during dawn prayers. Then no refuge would be safe. Nor would anyone risk angering ibn-Azziz to help him. All these years in New Fallujah, and there was no one he could call his friend, no one who would shelter him. The price of being a shadow warrior was that intimacy was a threat. You built your life on a construct of deceit, a house of lies that collapsed with the slightest pressure.

A door opened in the alley, and two men stepped out.

Jenkins froze, heart pounding.

The two men looked at him, fell to their knees. "Mercy…we ask mercy."

Jenkins saw that one of them had a lit cigarette in his hand. Doubtless they had slipped out of their lodgings to smoke in secret.

The man tossed his cigarette to the pavement, crushed it underfoot. The other stayed on his knees, head bowed.

Jenkins let them simmer in their sin for a few moments. Mercy too quickly given would be suspicious. He watched as they trembled before him, waiting for his decision.

"I know your names," Jenkins lied. "See that you double your donations at mosque tomorrow morning."

The man who had tossed his cigarette attempted to kiss the hem of Jenkins's robe.

Jenkins kicked, knocked him backward. He heard the door to the alley slam, drew the hood of his robe tight around his face. As he was about to leave the alley, he heard a car approach and Jenkins shrank back, hugged the wall. A dark green car with two Black Robe enforcers inside drove past, though whether they were looking for him or for sinners, he wasn't sure.

He waited until the car's taillights disappeared before crossing the street. He headed toward the Bridge of Skulls. There was a small boat dock under the bridge, a dock available only to the Black Robes patrol units-the boats used to cruise the bay, looking for lights on after curfew or to intercept smugglers bringing in contraband. The storm would keep boats docked, and the guards huddled in their shacks. Taking one of the boats across the bay to safety would be dangerous in this weather, but the very risk made it less likely that ibn-Azziz would have the area under surveillance.

A long walk from here to the Bridge of Skulls, particularly if he stayed in the alleys and avoided the main streets. It could easily be dawn before he got there. He hurried on.

He started up one of the steep stairways toward the crest of the hill, taking the steps two at a time, holding up the edge of his robe so he didn't trip and split his skull. In the distance the new mosque loomed over the city; still only half completed, it dominated the skyline. The largest mosque in the world, seating three hundred thousand worshipers-ibn-Azziz said it would draw pilgrims from across the planet. Rakkim had wanted to know where the money to build it was coming from, which had gotten Jenkins thinking. Perhaps it had been his own discreet inquiries this last week that had roused ibn-Azziz's suspicions.

Not that he had found out anything concrete. Just that no government was involved, all donations came through individual foundations. What was most interesting to Jenkins was that the idea of the gigantic mosque didn't seem to emanate from ibn-Azziz, whose own ascetic nature rejected ostentation and grandeur. Persons unknown had presented the design for the mosque to him, suggesting that such a grand structure would not only honor Allah, but also shift the attention of the Muslim world from the decadent Arabian Peninsula to the pure Islam of New Fallujah.

A rat scurried across the steps and into the underbrush on the hillside. Jenkins slowed his pace slightly, his knees aching. The wind kept rising, swirling dead leaves around his ankles. The surrounding buildings were dark, although he sometimes heard the sound of a muffled radio from one of the apartments.

It started raining, not too heavy yet, but the slick steps were even more treacherous. He quickened his pace anyway.

More than the sheer enormity of the money donated for the mosque, it was the method of seducing ibn-Azziz that made him think the Old One might have been responsible. Money was irrelevant to ibn-Azziz, even faintly sordid. He was equally immune to love. At one time Jenkins thought ibn-Azziz craved power, but that wasn't the case. Power was simply a means by which ibn-Azziz brought people to Allah. Someone, though, had found his weakness.

Building the largest mosque in the world would have carried the taint of pride, but building the mosque to turn all eyes to the true Islam…that was precisely the kind of subtle vanity to which ibn-Azziz was susceptible. Such targeted temptation was a mark of the Old One, and setting up a spiritual counterweight to his enemies in the Middle East was a bonus. Jenkins had planned on sending another message to General Kidd, telling him of his suspicions about the Old One, but now such plans seemed as foolish as his decision to stay here.

Jenkins reached the top of the stairs, stopped to glance up and down the street before continuing. He was going to have to hurry to get to the boat dock before dawn prayers. The streets would be teeming with believers, his picture everywhere after that. He hung on to the railing. Placed a hand on his heart, trying to establish some sort of feedback link to slow himself down before his chest exploded. All the years here, all the close calls…yet here he was, panicked as a woman. One should get braver as one got older…there was less to lose. Why fear man taking what Allah would take soon enough? Easy to say when one believed in Allah. Paradise awaited the faithful. The problem was…he no longer believed.