The machine guns swept across the water, intersected one of the boats.

The explosion rocked the Yucatan Princess, sent debris from the speedboat skyward.

Screams echoed from below and bin-Siq himself cried out.

Each of the speedboats was packed with TNT, enough to cripple the Yucatan Princess but not sink her. Any more weight would have made the boats sluggish. No, the job of sinking the Yucatan Princess was left to bin-Siq. His luggage contained fifty pounds of plastic explosive. On his shift early this morning, he had formed the explosive between the bulkhead and the main fuel tanks, then attached a radio receiver to the detonator.

The other speedboat hurtled forward, aimed directly midship.

Bin-Siq took the small transmitter out of his pocket.

The machine gun fired frantically at the remaining speedboat, which was less than fifty yards away now, scudding over the waves.

The Belt speedboats would be blamed for the destruction of the Yucatan Princess; any investigation would identify the men responsible and doubtless there would be some connection to the authorities in Atlanta.

Bin-Siq held the detonator as the speedboat roared ever closer. He thought of his watercolors carefully taped to the wall of his cabin-seascapes, birds in flight, sunrise on the waves and a storm on the horizon. He didn't have much talent but he loved the softness of the images, the gentle gradations of color. They soothed him in the long years of waiting. Sad to think that all his work would be lost now.

The second speedboat crashed into the Yucatan Princess, the explosion knocking bin-Siq down. He quickly stood up, the ship listing as the captain's voice came over the loudspeaker, reassuring the passengers.

As bin-Siq pressed the detonator he gave thanks to Allah and hoped that he would be able to paint watercolors in Paradise.

CHAPTER 30

The Old One swept Baby up in his arms, swung her around the cabana, her hair streaming out, the two of them giggling like children. Ibrahim glowered nearby, the wallscreen behind him frozen on the piece of the cross dotted with flowers. The Old One finally put Baby down, heart pounding, all trace of his cold but a memory. He had never realized how much he loved life until he had been faced with dying. Now…now Allah had graced him with a miracle, a most unforeseen reprieve from the claws of death.

"Oh, Daddy." Baby fanned herself with her palm, breasts heaving in the green sundress. "Oh my, that was something."

"I fail to see the significance of this…this piece of wood, Father," said Ibrahim. "Rather than celebrate a useless relic, you should be reveling in our triumph with the Yucatan Princess." He switched channels, the screen showing a dozen news helicopters hovering over the debris field clotting the Gulf. "See, every network in the world is covering what I did…what we did."

"Yes, yes, my son, a job well done," said the Old One. "I'm very proud of you."

Ibrahim remained defiant. "I just do not understand your…excitement over this thing." He glanced at Baby. "I can understand such behavior from her. She has lived among the infidel too long, but you…"

Baby switched the screen back to the piece of the cross. "Look at it, Ibrahim, this is what Sarah sent Moseby after. Daddy had our whole tech unit working on it for weeks now, and they finally captured the transmission the zombie sent from D.C."

"I'll send my blessing to them," said the Old One. "This is indeed a great-"

"This is foolishness," spat Ibrahim.

"Foolishness?" the Old One said softly. "Do you think me growing feebleminded in my dotage?"

Ibrahim shook his head.

"Perhaps you think I need a keeper," said the Old One. "A loyal son who will guide my halting steps?"

Ibrahim gestured at the screen. "Father…"

"Reunification will take a leap of faith by the Belt," said the Old One. "A trust that there's room in Paradise for all of us. With the cross of their savior in our hands-"

"The cross is a lie," said Ibrahim.

"Not where I come from," said Baby.

"Listen to her, Ibrahim. She speaks the truth," said the Old One. "Besides, has it not been said that Jesus Himself will appear to join the Mahdi in the final battle?"

"I don't see Jesus, I see a piece of wood," said Ibrahim, "no better than some curio from a tourist shop. Father, this female has bewitched you."

"Enough." The Old One patted Ibrahim on the cheek. "Congratulations on your success with the Yucatan Princess, a flawlessly executed operation. All of Aztlan will be enraged, none more so than Presidente Argusto. Our moment of triumph approaches, my son, now go, make arrangements for my departure. I'm curious to see how Las Vegas has changed in my absence."

Ibrahim stalked out the door of the cabana.

The Old One watched him go, his good spirits tinged with regret. Ibrahim had served him well for many years. All things must pass, he told himself, then thought of the cross lying somewhere in D.C., and reminded himself that dust need not be his fate. Ibrahim's problem was that he was a modern man, steeped in facts and logic. A man who dismissed sacred relics as mere superstition. The Old One knew better. A piece of the cross would give legitimacy to the Old One's rule, just as he told Ibrahim…but that wasn't the root of his excitement.

One of his great-grandsons, Joshua, had been a cardinal posted to the Vatican, part of the pope's inner circle. The boy had told him a story once, a story about a piece of the true cross kept in a vault under St. Peter's Cathedral, one of several pieces that had survived the centuries. One piece had been sent to Czar Peter of Russia, and disappeared before the death of Czar Nicholas in 1917. Another piece had been stolen from a monastery in France and was presumed lost at sea aboard the Titanic. Another piece was rumored to have been carried back to the thirteen colonies by Benjamin Franklin, an unbeliever himself-a piece that had been secreted in the capital of the new nation after the revolution, symbolizing their covenant with God.

The Old One stared at the wallscreen, so elated he could barely breathe. He didn't care about Christians and their covenants, but Joshua had told him stories about the piece of the cross at the Vatican, stories of miracles performed by its touch, of water turned to wine and the sick healed. And one story…of a dying pope restored to youthful vigor, a dying pope who lived another forty years and brought the Church to its greatest glory. A story. Joshua, for all his prominence, had never seen the piece of the cross hidden in St. Peter's, but he had not doubted its existence or its power. Now…the Old One basked in the sight of flowers blooming on the wallscreen. Now, he too had no doubts.

"Daddy?" said Baby. "I didn't mean to cause problems between you and Ibrahim."

"Was the Colonel so easily fooled by your protestations of innocence?" said the Old One.

"Yes, sir, he was," she drawled.

The Old One wanted to dance with her again, cut loose the bonds of mortality with the scent of her. "Those kisses of yours must have addled his brain."

"I think they worked on another part of his anatomy, Daddy."

The Old One roared at her wantonness, the strength it took to speak to him like that.

Baby indicated the cross on the wallscreen. "What are we going to do about this?"

"About what, my dear?"

Baby stamped her feet in mock annoyance. "Daddy, don't tease me. I heard about a piece of the cross tucked away somewhere in D.C. since I was a little girl. Heard all kinds of tall tales about it. Least I always thought they were tall tales." She pointed at the screen. "If the cross can grow flowers in that foul place…there's no telling what it could do." She slipped her arm in his. "I mean, having the folks in the Belt jabbering in tongues is all well and good for you, Daddy, but me…I might want to live forever myself."