"Maybe you better stay here and protect my virtue, Anthony," said Rakkim.

"Too late for that, troop." Colarusso sucked dried icing off his fingernail. "Long past it." He started back down the path as a new song started up.

"What kind of music is that they're playing?" said Rakkim.

"Prewar classics," said Sarah. "Motor-Town they called it…no, Motown, that's it."

Rakkim rubbed the nape of her neck, felt her yield to his touch. Her dark hair was piled high-he preferred it down, but he liked being able to see her long slender neck. He brushed his lips across the sensitive spot under her ear, and she half closed her eyes.

"Maybe…maybe when things settle down we could have another baby," she said.

"If we wait for things to settle down we'll never have another one," said Rakkim.

Sarah kissed him, a brief kiss but there were promises behind it.

Michael ran up the path, making race-car sounds as he ran right past them at full speed, shirttails flying.

"Ibrahim bin-Salah was found dead at a hotel in Nueva Florida yesterday," said Sarah, as Michael continued up the trail, kicking up pebbles. "Evidently your little friend in Miami has finalized her hold on the Old One's financial empire."

"My little friend?"

Sarah laughed. "You were friends, weren't you?"

"The Belt makes people do crazy things," said Rakkim, "but I wasn't that crazy."

"Well, it's a good thing you turned her down in that motel, Rikki." Sarah took his hand. "If I hadn't killed you, eventually she would have."

Rakkim watched the party below; saw Colarusso bellowing along to the music while his wife tried to quiet him. Nobody else seemed to mind. "You were right about the cross," he said quietly. "That chunk of wood did everything you hoped for."

"Yes, it did. When President Brandt turned it over to the Colonel and the head of the Baptist Synod…that's when I knew it was just a matter of time until reunification."

"Highest TV ratings in history."

"By far." Sarah squeezed his hand. "Both in the Belt and the Republic. The line to view it at that church in Atlanta has never been less than a mile long."

"Congratulations."

Sarah pointed at the monument. "The workmen up there, they come home at the end of the day filthy, covered in dust and dirt and rock fragments, hands scarred from laser slag, but the tourists observing the result someday will see only the strong, comforting faces of great men. Studying history is for tourists-polite, tidy people with clean desks and clean consciences. Making history is for people willing to get their hands dirty, to make mistakes and lie when necessary, so that someday historians can sit quietly at their desks and act shocked."

"You don't have to convince me." Rakkim put his arms around her.

"What's strange, though," said Sarah, resting her head on his shoulders, slow dancing, "what's really strange are the flowers blooming on the cross. I don't know how that happened and neither does Spider. The wood…it looks different too."

"You think it's real?"

"I don't know what's real anymore, and I don't care." Sarah looked up at him. "I just know we needed a symbol and you brought one out of a dead city, you and Moseby, and that's miracle enough for anyone."

The workmen scurried over the presidential heads, moved across the rock on a lattice of thin steel cables as they etched in Lincoln's beard. Behind them, the sky was a rich, deep blue-the face of God, empty and infinite.

"Have you changed your mind about General Kidd's offer?" asked Sarah.

"I don't want to be head of the Fedayeen."

"General Kidd's heart is broken over Amir…and it's a profound honor." Sarah broke their embrace. "Like being offered the presidency."

"I don't want to be president either. Why don't you be president, Sarah?"

"Not yet," said Sarah.

"How nice you're willing to wait."

"What do you want to do, Rikki?"

"I'm waiting for God to give me a clue." He smiled. "It's a good thing I'm patient."

The two of them watched the cloudless sky framing the stone faces, holding hands. A more perfect union, that's what Sarah said Lincoln was after-well, maybe this time they'd do a better job of it. If anyone could make it happen, it was Sarah. He could hear Michael hollering as he approached, his voice echoing off the mountains.

"He needs a brother or sister," said Sarah.

"I'm willing to do my part."

"How noble of you." Sarah stroked the inside of his arm. "I still can't get used to you not wearing your knife. It's been a part of you for so long."

"An old friend told me something the last time I saw him. He wasn't right about anything else, but he was right about this…" Rakkim drewher to him, held her so tightly it was as if the same blood rushed through the both of them. "I don't need a blade anymore."

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

It's been over six years since I started the Assassin Trilogy and I had no idea where it was going to take me. I feel like I've been gone a long time and I'm not the person I was when I started…thank God.

Many people are owed my thanks, and here's a few of them.

Thanks to my family for putting up with my moodiness and distraction during this time, for covering for me when I forgot the names of people I've known for years, and reminding me by their every action why it's good to be home.

Thanks to my agent, Mary Evans, for her insight and determination.

Thanks to my editor, Colin Harrison, for his talent and ability to see to the heart of what I was trying to accomplish. He made the trilogy better and I am grateful.

Thanks to my publisher, Susan Moldow, for her creativity and unwavering support for a difficult project. When writers get together, we mostly talk about how clueless publishers are. Susan left me with nothing to say.

My research led me to the work of many fine writers and thinkers. The five I feel most indebted to are Samuel P. Huntington, Bernard Lewis, Robert D. Kaplan, Mark Steyn and the columnist for Asia Times who writes under the name Spengler. I would also like to thank Hugh Hewitt, law professor and broadcast journalist, whose nationally syndicated radio show both informed me and exposed the Assassin Trilogy to a broader audience.

Thanks to my readers who, by buying the books, have allowed me to finish the trilogy. And put a new roof on my house. A special thanks to the many readers who have written me-your encouragement meant a great deal. I didn't even mind when you asked me to write faster.

Finally, I would like to thank my characters, Rakkim and Sarah, Anthony Colarusso, Spider and Leo, the Colonel and John Moseby and General Kidd. Thanks to the Old One too, and Baby, of course, and preacherman Malcolm Crews, Satan's own holy roller. Lester Gravenholtz, you sick, redheaded warthog, you belong dead. But you're not, of course, not you, not any of them, least of all you, Darwin. I created every one of you, but you outgrew me and I can't follow. The best dialogue you wrote yourselves, whispered it in my ear as I typed. You cracked me up, scared me, made me cry at the Tigards' farmhouse and again at Graceland. I had the best seat in the house because of you, and I couldn't wait to get to the keyboard in the morning. Thanks for the ride.