Chapter 18

Washington, D.C. suburbs

Zen was mildly surprised that Breanna’s car wasn’t in the garage when he came home. Inside, he found Caroline dozing in front of the television. She woke when he flipped the set off.

“Your aunt call?” he asked.

“No, Uncle Jeff. She didn’t.”

“I thought she’d be back by now.”

“It’s OK. Teri was a doll. I’m going to tuck into bed.”

“All right. See you in the A.M.”

Zen went into the kitchen and got himself a beer. The question of whether to wait up for Breanna was moot—he heard the garage door open between his second and third swigs.

“Hey there, lonesome traveler,” he said as she came through the door.

“Jeff, you’re still up?”

“Just got in from the game,” he told her. “Mark did great.”

“Oh—oh, yeah. How is he?”

“He’s doing better. I think a lot better.” Zen watched her put down her pocketbook and rub her eyes. “Long day?”

“Tomorrow’s going to be worse.”

“Want to tell me what’s up?”

The pained expression on her face told him the answer long before her words did.

“I can’t.”

“This have anything to do with Raven?” he asked.

“Jeff, don’t go there,” she said harshly. “That’s out of bounds.”

“Hey, don’t yell at me,” he said, a little louder than he intended.

“You’re the one yelling.”

“Listen, Bree—”

“Our deal was, we don’t bring work home.” She grabbed her pocketbook and began stalking down the hall. “That was our deal.”

“Wait a second.” He reached for her, but she was just far enough from him, and just quick enough, to elude his grasp. “Breanna. Breanna Stockard.”

She slammed the door to their bedroom.

Zen put down his beer and rolled his wheelchair down the hall after her. The door was locked.

“Hey, come on,” he said calmly. “Open the door.”

There was no answer.

“Breanna.” He struggled to keep his voice down. Caroline was on the other side of the house, but Teri’s room was right next door. And in any event, the house wasn’t that big. “Listen—I argued against the subpoena.”

The door flew open.

“What subpoena?” demanded Breanna.

“The one the committee chairman is going to issue tomorrow.”

“That’s bullshit. You can’t subpoena the executive branch. You’re just doing it for publicity.”

“I’m not doing anything for publicity. I voted against it.”

Breanna started to close the door, but this time Zen was too quick—he rolled forward just enough to block it. She pushed for a moment, then let go.

“Hey, why are you mad at me?” he asked.

“I’m not.”

“Well you’re doing a pretty damn good imitation. Look at this—you made me spill my beer.”

Breanna scowled, then went into the bathroom. She closed the door; it wasn’t quite a slam, but it wasn’t gentle either.

Zen wheeled himself over.

“You know, we really shouldn’t fight about this,” he said. “Unless there’s a really good reason. A really good reason.”

He heard the shower go on. Zen took a sip of his beer. He tried not to reach the obvious conclusion from Breanna’s anger: Ernst was right and something seriously illegal was going on.

The next few days were not going to be pleasant. His responsibility as a senator meant he could not sit by blindly and twiddle his thumbs while the administration did whatever the hell it was they were doing.

Todd must have really screwed up this time.

“I’m gonna check the sports scores and finish my beer in the den,” he told the closed door. “When I come back, truce. No work discussion, no nothing. Promise?”

There was no answer.

“Good enough for me,” he said, wheeling back toward the living room.

Chapter 19

Southeast Washington, D.C.

Amara woke in the middle of the night, his internal clock stuck somewhere between Africa and America.

He could smell Ken’s coffee. The burnt liquid permeated the air, its caffeine tickling his nose and throat.

Something about the man scared him. Physically, he was nothing, a weakling. But there was something in his gaze that made him very scary, as scary as any of the blank-eyed teenagers stoned out on khat and the other drugs the warlords sometimes used to encourage their men. Even spookier was the fact that he was smart, smarter even than the Asian, Li Han.

Lying in bed, Amara thought of his earlier time in America. The country was not the great enemy that the followers of al Qaeda claimed. It was a strange and bizarre place, a country of heathens and devils, certainly, but also one where a man might be free of his past.

Lying in bed, he recalled his days as a student. Most of the teachers he had were arrogant jerks, prejudiced against him because he was African and a Muslim. Yet a few had tried to encourage him. He thought about one, a black man who taught history, who invited him into his home around Christmas.

Christmas. The ultimate Christian holiday. It should have been abhorrent, and in fact Amara had only accepted out of loneliness. But the man and his wife—they had no children—were so low key about it, so matter of fact, and above all so kind, that he had begun asking questions. He was impressed by their answers.

“A day not to be selfish,” said the professor. “That’s the best way to sum it up for someone who’s not Christian.”

“And by not being selfish, to save yourself for eternity,” added his wife.

The idea was foreign to Amara. Not the element of religion—he certainly believed in an afterlife. But it seemed strange that one could guarantee a place there simply by helping others.

The other person who had been nice was a Jew. He didn’t know this at first. The man was his math professor. He’d found Amara sitting alone in the college café one lunchtime and asked to sit down. This became a habit through the semester. Only after a few weeks did it dawn on Amara that the man was Jewish. The man never talked about religion or asked about Amara’s, but comments he had made about one of the holidays made it clear enough.

At the end of the semester, grades faltering, Amara was in danger of flunking out. The professor helped him find free tutoring, aiding him with his English, his main barrier. He also loaned him money, and would have helped him find a job if Amara had stayed for the summer.

What if those men were killed by the weapon Ken was constructing? How would he feel?

Were they soldiers, too, as the Brothers’ allies claimed?

What of their relatives, their wives?

It was OK to kill an enemy tribe in revenge. But where was the revenge here? His people had not been harmed.

It was not murder when it was jihad. But was it jihad to kill a man who believed his greatest achievement was to help someone?

The apartment was cold. Amara shifted around under the thin blanket, trying to keep warm. He drifted in and out of sleep. He tried to push his memories away. At one point he saw Li Han in the house, laughing at him. He turned over, realized he’d been dreaming.

There was a shadow in the room, standing over him.

Ken.

He bent down and moved his arm swiftly.

“You have served your purpose,” said Ken.

Something flew across Amara’s throat. He started to protest, to speak, but his mouth wouldn’t respond. It was full of liquid, salty liquid—blood.

He gasped, then began to cough. The shadow disappeared, then the room, then thought.

All was warm; finally, all was warm.