"Found it and lost it," said Rakkim.

"Isn't that always the way. Did Baby take it?"

"No. Gravenholtz did."

Crews folded his hands across his flat belly. "I'd let it go then if I were you."

"You're not me," said Rakkim.

"Send him in," said the Old One.

Gravenholtz was ushered into the Old One's holo-suite in the New Mandarin Hotel, the most modern and luxurious hotel in Seattle. He looked around, whistled, the suite an exact replica of the Doge's palazzo in Venice.

The Old One gestured and his servants left them alone. "Good to see you, Lester. I trust you had a pleasant flight. It took some doing."

"Yeah…thanks." Gravenholtz looked up at the ceiling three stories above him. "I could get used to this." He grinned his yellowed teeth at the Old One. "Except for all the statues of naked men. I don't go that route."

"What's wrong with your voice? I can hardly understand you."

Gravenholtz's eyes blazed. "My tongue," he said slowly. "Rakkim…cut…my tongue." He pulled out a crusty handkerchief, spit blood into it.

The Old One beckoned him closer. Held out his hand.

Gravenholtz pulled a small wooden case out of his jacket. "I'm making up a list of the things I want," he said carefully, trying not to slur his words. "It's one fucking long list too." He gave the box to the Old One. "You want my advice, I'd take Baby to the woodshed if I was you." He spit again into the handkerchief.

"I'm sure you would." The Old One didn't open the box. "You may leave me, Lester."

"That's it?" Gravenholtz walked out, grumbling.

The Old One climbed the thirteen steps leading to the ornate gold throne and seated himself. A perfect simulation, but nothing like the reality cube, part of the hotel wing that he had reserved, a cube three hundred feet in every direction with a gigantic pool at the center. A virtual beach. The cube alone cost $500,000 a night and worth every penny. The ultimate in Chinese technology, one of only five in the world. Anytime, anywhere at his fingertips. No special suit required, no implants, the cube instantaneously responded to the brain waves of the primary guest, but was experienced by everyone within the cube. The Old One had spent last night alone at an oasis in the desert land of his birth, where he had gone as a child with his fathers and brothers, all of them swimming in the warm water at the center of the retreat. Last night he had again felt the windblown sand against his face, felt every grain, and heard the date palms rustling as he floated on his back, the stars burning overhead-stars so sharp and clear in the night sky it was as though he were watching from Paradise itself. Such a long, long time to get from there…to here.

He hefted the box, so light it could have been a dream. Opened it at last…and took out the small piece of wood festooned with tiny white flowers, let it rest in the palm of his hand. He sighed as a warmth flowed through him like electricity. He noted the numerous striations in the ancient wood, the delicacy of the white flowers. His senses were more acute. His vision clearer. His sense of taste and smell heightened. He felt the knots in his body smooth out, the tightness in his chest leaving him. Most important of all, he felt the fear dissipate, the fear he had never acknowledged in these last few months, not once. For the first time since Massakar had told him he was dying, the Old One was certain of his destiny. He knew who he was.

CHAPTER 47

Presidente Argusto stood in his command center watching his air armada leave to destroy the combined armies of el norte, and wished he were in the lead bomber group. He stood with his hands behind his back, hair black as Monterrey crude. The war board was a mass of blinking red lights, wave after wave of red lights moving slowly toward the border. Nine hundred and fifty-seven red lights, nine hundred and fifty-seven combat airplanes, long-range and short-range bombers, fighters and electronic-jamming jets, each one linked to the command-and-control system buried deep in the heart of the Cerro San Rafael Mountains in Coahuila.

It had taken three years to dig the base out in secrecy-a futile hunt for silver, the locals thought-while the world assumed the base was being built under the foothills outside Tenochtitlan. A typically cautious move on the part of Argusto, who believed that great risks could be undertaken only after great preparation. He had mortgaged his nation's economy to pay for the air armada and the command center that ordered them into battle-money well spent. With that air armada he had wrested the Panama Canal away and the rich oil fields of the Isthmus. Soon he would replant the Aztlan flag on the lands of the north, lands that had once belonged to the Mexicans.

The lights on the war board blinked steadily, a soothing consistency as his planes raced across the dry landscape of Arizona, New Mexico, California, Texas, more squadrons taking off across the Gulf, wave after wave of titanium warbirds on their way toward targets in the Belt-power plants and population centers, military bases and manufacturing plants-bringing pain and destruction to el norte. A lesson about to be taught, a hard lesson that would not soon be forgotten.

Argusto rocked gently on his high heels, surrounded by technicians and generals, utterly alone with his dreams and ambitions.

Situated on an outcropping of red sandstone in the Sonora Desert, the Old One's small technical team picked up the first wave of Aztlan's armada moments after takeoff. Dietrich and his band of programmers immediately beamed Leo's encryption-busting equation into the onboard computer of one of the lead planes.

A simple operation. The proper vector, the proper sequence, a momentarily open door…and it was done, the results irrevocable. The team could disappear, be taken out by a cluster bomb, or be chopped to pieces by angry villagers wielding hoes…it didn't matter. Dietrich looked directly into the rising sun, tears running down his face from the harsh glare. In thirty-seven minutes, inshallah, the world would change.

Emilio Guzman watched the Queen Mary explode as he banked over Long Beach harbor, the tourist attraction splitting in half before slowly sinking into the filthy water. He would have liked to compose a rhyme to salute his first strike, but his mind was whirling, fear nosing around the edges of his consciousness.

All the years spent pretending to be a loyal subject of Aztlan, the tests passed, the clearances breached. Paradise better be everything it was cracked up to be. He smiled as Rosario, the squadron leader, directed them to take out the offshore oil rigs, Guzman following the command instantly, his afterburners briefly kicking in. A beautiful plane. A beautiful day, the sky the same deep blue as the Pacific, a perfect circle, no up, no down.

He had broken network security twenty-nine minutes ago, at precisely 6:58 A.M., right after takeoff, closed it up three seconds later. Just as the Old One had ordered. A brief enough interval that the command center monitoring the armada would consider it a simple electromagnetic glitch. Short enough to be undetected, long enough for the Old One's code-breaking program to be inserted into his onboard computer. A Trojan horse instantly sent to the command center in the constant back-and-forth between them. The program was already doing its mischief, transferring command to the Old One. In eight more minutes, command authority would shift abruptly from Argusto to the Old One. He only wished he could be there to see El Presidente's face.

Guzman hadn't asked what the Old One would do once he had control of the armada. He didn't need to. He was only grateful that the Old One had waited until Aztlan had drawn first blood, so that Guzman had gotten to utilize his hard-won skills. Doubtless the Old One had his reasons for waiting…to give time for the whole armada to be in the air, or to inflame el norte. It didn't matter. Only this moment mattered.