CHAPTER 48

"A three-day war," said Robert Legault, wearing a natty sports coat for the midmorning TV audience. "So tell me, Sarah, speaking as a historian, and a member of the president's inner circle, has there ever been a victory so sudden, so complete, so…transformational, as our victory over Aztlan?"

Sarah didn't snicker at "the president's inner circle" hyperbole. She had learned that much since Legault had spotlighted her in his news reports, her and Amir, "the new fresh faces of the Republic." It was necessary. She had no regrets.

"Sarah? Is our victory unique?"

Sarah thought of Thermopylae, Saratoga, Gettysburg, the outflanking of the Maginot Line in World War II and the encirclement of Baghdad in Gulf War II, but that wasn't the answer Legault wanted, and it wasn't the answer she wanted to give either. "No, Robert, the last seventy-two hours have been quite unique. In a three-day period, a unit of Fedayeen computer wizards destroyed the Aztlan air armada, and the combined ground forces of the Belt and Republic collapsed the Aztlan army. I think it's safe to say that God has smiled on both our nations."

"Inshallah, ladies and gentlemen, there you have it," Legault smiled into the camera, "the nation's premier historian has spoken." The camera lights blinked red and he turned to her. "Wonderful as usual, Sarah."

"I think I'm done for the day, Robert. I don't remember the last time I slept."

"I don't think anyone in the city has slept since the victory," said Legault, looking buoyant as ever. "Even the fundamentalists are dancing in the streets…although I wouldn't call that dancing." He patted her hand. "You are going to the embassy party tonight?"

"I had forgotten."

"You have to go, Sarah. I'm doing a live shot outside, and interviewing everyone. You don't want to lose your momentum with the public."

Sarah would rather be home with Rakkim and Michael, but Rakkim was still stranded in Las Vegas, unable to get a flight out. Maybe tomorrow, he had said. "I'll be there."

"That's the spirit," said Legault. "For God and country, eh?"

We must talk. Late-night prayers. Tonight. Abu Michael. Rakkim wiped out the message to General Kidd. He still didn't trust the Fedayeen com system and he had business to take care of tonight anyway. If that didn't work out, no reason to stand Kidd up. Instead Rakkim recorded a longer message outlining his concerns about Amir, and affirming his own respect and love for the general. Set it to be transmitted tomorrow at 9 A.M. Then he recorded another one for Sarah and another for Michael. Said his good-byes. A Fedayeen tradition before every mission, in expectation of death.

Rakkim walked out of the Blue Moon Club, the sidewalks of the Zone drifting with confetti and streamers from the three-day victory party. He had arrived in Seattle last night, decided to sleep in his old room at the Blue Moon instead of going home. He didn't want to see Sarah yet. When he did, he knew he'd have to tell her the truth about what had happened between him and Baby, how close he had come…no, he couldn't allow himself to be distracted. Not now. If he survived the next twenty-four hours, there would be time enough for the truth.

Two men sitting on the curb eyed him as he passed, bleary-eyed moderns, their fine clothes filthy.

Mardi, his former partner at the club, had contacts at all the luxury hotels-the Old One could easily blend into a city like Seattle, but a man like Gravenholtz stood out no matter where he was. The redhead had been spotted at the New Mandarin, the finest, most modern hotel in Seattle. The Old One would have to be there too. With the piece of the cross that Moseby had died for.

Tonight Rakkim was going to pay them a visit.

General Kidd bent over, rested his palms on his knees, out of breath, his gasps echoing across the training arena.

Amir saluted him with his knife, high black cheekbones gleaming, his tunic spattered with blood. "Well done, Father."

General Kidd nodded, straightened up, feeling the blood ooze from more than a dozen light slashes along his arms and legs. "I…I shall comfort myself…with the knowledge that humiliation…humiliation is good for the soul."

In truth their combat practice had been more evenly matched than Kidd let on. Amir was quicker, more agile, but he was reckless in his attacks, leaving himself vulnerable. Amir had delivered three times as many cuts, but Kidd protected his vitals better, his own blade penetrating Amir's defenses to inflict two potentially killing wounds.

Amir wiped blood from the cut along his femoral artery, flung it onto the sand of the arena. Another inch deeper, he would have bled out in seconds. "I know, I know."

"I didn't say anything."

"You didn't have to," said Amir.

"You rely on your speed too much," said Kidd, as he always did. "A young man's vanity. An old man learns to absorb pain and wait for an opportunity."

"I'll remember," said Amir.

Kidd nodded.

"I always say that, don't I?"

Kidd nodded again.

The arena was attached to the family compound, a spartan sixty-by-eighty foot structure of mud-colored brick, the floor a treacherous expanse of sand and boulders designed to trip the unwary or the inattentive. Cool and quiet, it smelled of sandalwood and dry earth, the lighting controlled by panels in the roof. Kidd and his sons fought in everything from noon glare to pitch darkness. Often the women and younger children were allowed to watch, but today it was just the two of them.

Amir wiped his shaved head and checked his wounds, avoiding Kidd's gaze. His expression remained focused, his movements smooth, but Kidd knew him too well. Under that grim calm, Amir was uneasy.

They hadn't trained together in months-their busy schedules and obligations provided an easy explanation, but in truth, the growing tension between them had made the intimacies of training awkward. Today, when Amir had requested a session, Kidd had eagerly agreed, hoping to reestablish their bond, or at the least forget their differences. He had missed their time in the arena as much as his son. They were never so close as when they fought, knives flicking out, attack and retreat, twisting this way and then another, their breath the only sound in the stillness. Afterward they would sit side by side, basking in their own heat…content.

Amir offered cool water and Kidd drank, passed the bottle back. He sprawled on a bench, kneading the kink at the back of his neck, the result of a sudden maneuver to avoid a carotid slash. Amir paced, restless, toying with his knife. He turned his face up to the sun coming through the skylights and stayed there, immobile now, his muscles almost sculptural, his lips oddly delicate…with a different father he might have been an artist.

Looking at his son, Kidd had to fight not to show his pleasure. The boy had developed into a true warrior-resolute, daring and devout. A little temperamental, too easily misled by his passions, but he got that from his mother. Launching the technical team that had cracked the Aztlan code, funding it without Kidd's knowledge, had been a breach of discipline, but Allah had smiled on the boy's boldness and brought victory to them all. Given time…given time Amir might develop the caution and calculation required in such perilous times. Perhaps someday he would become the leader the Fedayeen needed.

Amir saw Kidd watching him and bowed.

Kidd inclined his head. Sooner or later, he would have to relinquish command of the Fedayeen. Rakkim had resisted Kidd's offer to name him as his successor…and Rakkim had been right that passing over Amir would have profound consequences. The problem was that Rakkim was ready now to assume command, but Amir was not. Were something to happen to Kidd…He looked around the arena, took in the long rows of empty bleachers, remembering happier times.