Rakkim felt the wind in his face.

"When I was a student at Oxford, I listened to professors argue whether it was a confluence of events or great men who changed the course of history," said the Old One, sketching away. "Whether Rome was brought down by overextension of the empire or the murder of Julius Caesar, whether it was slash-and-burn agriculture that collapsed the Mayan civilization or the inability of a single warrior-king to unite the cities. The sophistry of scholars." He glanced over at Rakkim. "The secret is to create the conditions for change, a process that sometimes takes decades, and then use certain men as pivot points, a fulcrum to move history." He went back to his drawing. "That's you, Rakkim. That's why you're here."

"Was Malcolm Crews one of your pivot points?" said Rakkim. "Because if he was, you're going to have to sit in the sad chair. Turns out Crews likes being the good guy."

"Well, I rather doubt that will last," said the Old One, "but no matter, Pastor Crews has served his primary function." His dark features were intense in the morning light, his mouth a thin slash. "Crews is a secondary player. Not easily replaced, but certainly replaceable. There's a country singer in Tupelo, Mississippi, drawing large crowds. Pretty girl, skin like cashew butter, sings gospel songs so sweetly you'd think she believed it." He watched Baby diving into the water. "Everyone's replaceable, Rikki. So what do you want?"

"You look tired," said Rakkim. "Vulnerable, somehow."

"Nonsense," said the Old One.

"No, it looks good on you," said Rakkim. "Nobody lives forever, do they? I bet when you lie down at night you can hear the clock ticking. Tickety-tock, tickety-tock."

The Old One's pen scratched away at the paper.

"It must hurt," says Rakkim. "All those years, all that effort, and what do you have to show for it? Just money and a line of corpses stretching on forever. If Allah chose you as the Mahdi he must be rather disappointed, don't you think?"

"Allah doesn't make mistakes," said the Old One.

"Exactly," said Rakkim.

Gravenholtz stayed on the sand, glaring at them.

Baby splashed into the shallows, waxed and smooth as a pink doll, a speargun in one hand, a large fish wriggling on the barbed tip. She tossed the gun up onto the beach as a fresh wave broke over her, white water foaming around her thighs.

Rakkim watched the fish flopping on the sand, its gills opening and closing.

Baby stayed at the waterline, squeezed out her hair-water ran down her breasts, collected in a sparkling arc at the bottom of her belly button…the promise of the dawn.

Rakkim turned to the Old One, who was as transfixed by her as he was. "Sending Baby and Mr. Ugly for the cross…you thinking of converting?"

The Old One showed the drawing to Rakkim. It was Baby, of course. Baby naked in the waves, precisely rendered. Baby, slim and sensuous, her expression playful, knowing just what she was doing. "A man picks up many skills over the years…"

"I wouldn't blame you for going Christian," said Rakkim. "Sure seems like Allah's fed up with you. Ibn-Azziz? Dead. Malcolm Crews? Born again. All you have left is the man with the ear of the president. Maybe that's Amir and maybe it isn't, but I'm talking with General Kidd tomorrow."

The Old One tore off the sheet of paper. "Amir's dead." He released the drawing to the wind, Baby's image rolling down the beach.

Gravenholtz started after it, stopped himself.

"How?" Rakkim's voice broke. "How did he die?"

"He tried to murder Kidd and the general killed him." The Old One shrugged. "I'm not surprised. Kidd is forceful, and Amir…well, it's always difficult for a son to take his father's life. Doubts creep in and slow the hand, divert the intention. Kidd evidently had no qualms killing his son."

"You don't know Kidd."

"No, I don't-not like you do, Rikki. The general has great affection for you, which is understandable. I feel the very same way about you, and with the traumatic events of today, I suspect the general is ready to relinquish control to you very soon now. So he can grieve, of course, perhaps make a pilgrimage home to that desolate stretch of dirt on the horn of Africa."

"I see. You thought you had it covered both ways," said Rakkim. "No matter who won, Amir or Kidd, your man would be in place."

"Are you my man, Rakkim?" The Old One stood up, tossed the sketchbook onto the chair. "The world is a big place, too big for even me to rule by myself. Time to decide whose side you're on."

Rakkim's index finger inadvertently twitched, a well-honed killing reflex.

The Old One noticed. "Do you miss your knife?"

"I don't need a blade," said Rakkim.

"Don't be like that, Rikki," said Baby, walking toward them, water glistening along the curves of her body. "Daddy's right. I see things in you…things you could become. You and me…there's no limit to us."

Gravenholtz rushed to Baby, wrapped a heavy white towel around her. "This ain't right," he said to the Old One, his face flushed. "You're treating him like the fucking prodigal son. I'm the one who brought you the cross."

"Well, Rakkim?" said the Old One.

Rakkim backhanded the Old One, sent him sprawling.

Gravenholtz smiled. A warthog smile, tufts of red hair sprouting from his skull.

"Lester Gravenholtz, you settle down right now," said Baby, helping the Old One up. "Rikki, why don't you go in the water and cool off."

Gravenholtz closed in on Rakkim.

Rakkim backed toward the water, saw Gravenholtz slow. "Come on, Lester, what are you waiting for?"

Gravenholtz charged.

Rakkim dodged, drove the bottom of his foot against the side of Gravenholtz's knee. Any other man would have been lying in agony on the sand, crippled by the blow. Gravenholtz limped slightly, his smile still in place.

They went back and forth on the beach. Rakkim was faster, much faster, but his kicks and punches barely affected Gravenholtz, who kept trying to narrow the arena. Twice Gravenholtz almost grasped him, his nails gouging Rakkim's arms. Rakkim landed a solid strike to Gravenholtz's face, snapped his head back. It should have killed him. Gravenholtz spit blood on the sand and kept advancing, circling…except whenever Rakkim backed into the water. Then Gravenholtz waited for Rakkim to come out. Rakkim glanced over at Baby.

"It's not too late to change your mind, Rakkim," said the Old One.

"The fuck it isn't," said Gravenholtz, blood leaking from his nose.

Rakkim sidled into the water.

Gravenholtz hesitated, came after him.

Rakkim backed farther out, waves lapping against his back.

Gravenholtz stayed put. "I'll make it quick. Just like I did for your buddy."

Rakkim stepped back. The water was chest-high now. "You scared of a little water?" He whipped his hand across the waves, sprayed Gravenholtz's face. As the redhead rubbed his eyes, Rakkim dove, grabbed both of Gravenholtz's ankles, jerked him under, Rakkim on the bottom now, and pulled the both of them into deeper water.

Gravenholtz bent his body, trying to get free, trying to reach him, but Rakkim just kept walking backward along the bottom, still hanging on to Gravenholtz's ankles. Rakkim had once held his breath for nine minutes.

Rakkim tried to keep him under but Gravenholtz was paddling hard with his hands, stirring up silt, the two of them rising slowly. Rakkim let go of Gravenholtz's ankles, clawed his way up the man's bulky body, fighting for every inch, trying to hold him down. Face-to-face now, Gravenholtz snarling, bubbles pouring from his mouth…Rakkim drove his fingers deep into the redhead's eyes, deeper, scooping through the warm jelly as Gravenholtz bellowed, trying to escape; deeper, Rakkim pushing his way right into the sinus cavity, opening him wide. Water poured directly into Gravenholtz's throat now, unstoppable, flooded into his lungs as he struggled, the water pink with blood.