Leo looked out over the city, using its familiar geometry to ground himself. "So…okay, maybe there is a piece of the cross with magical powers, but that doesn't mean this…zombie found it under D.C."

Sarah took his hand. "The sacred relic stayed hidden away in the monastery for hundreds of years, until it was stolen around 1646, during the chaos of the Thirty Years War."

The night was quiet except for the sound of Leo's teeth chattering as they stood atop the tower. He watched her out of the corner of his eyes and she was beautiful, dark hair stark against her face, her expression totally aware, free and fearless.

"Rumors of the cross occur for the next hundred years," continued Sarah, still holding his hand in her warm grip. "A town cured of smallpox by a wandering tinsmith, a mountain village saved from an avalanche that roared all around it, a strange white light spotted in the hills of southern France at Easter. Some say it was finally brought to Louis XIV, that the cross was responsible for the grandeur and glory of Paris during his reign. If he truly had it, the relic didn't stay with him-it was gone by the time of the Revolution and Louis XVI's date with the guillotine, perhaps sold by the last king of France to pay his mounting debts." She released him, her voice softer now, like petting a cat. "The story I heard, the one I like best, is that Louis XVI lost the piece of the cross at cards to one of the visiting American patriots, Benjamin Franklin or Thomas Paine, and they brought it back to the Colonies." She looked at Leo. "The New Jerusalem, that's what they called the new nation. There's actually a coded reference to winning the cross in the Federalist Papers."

"You really think that piece of wood in D.C. is part of the true cross?" said Leo.

Sarah turned away from him, eyes half closed in the breeze. "Well, Leo, we're never going to know unless you find that room."

Leo hesitated, nodded. "I'll do my best…"

"In case your best isn't good enough, I need you to contact Leanne's father on that secure channel of yours. Ask Moseby to leave for northern Virginia as soon as possible."

"You expect Mr. Moseby to wander around D.C.?"

"No, not yet," said Sarah. "I want him to go to zombie country and contact Eldon Harrison's wife. See if she knows anything. I'll have a Fedayeen radiation suit waiting en route-no sense adding to his rad count before he goes into the city."

"I told you I'd locate the safe room. Just give me more time."

"Leo. Contact Moseby tonight. Please?"

"Sure." Leo squinted at the presidential palace. "That's odd." He pointed at the sky. "Look at the blimps. They've altered the aerial security configuration."

Sarah couldn't see anything different. "Maybe someone in authority just realized-"

"Hang on." Leo pressed a finger to one ear. Nodded. "Okay, Pop." He pulled a hand-link out of his pocket, flipped up the screen. "A squadron of Aztlan aircraft entered airspace over Nevada twenty minutes ago. Probably just a navigational mix-up…"

"It's a provocation, Leo, a reaction to the Aztlan oil minister's assassination in Miami this afternoon. They don't know who's responsible. Aztlan's probably doing the same thing over the Belt."

"What can we do about it?"

Sarah could see what Leo was talking about now-the blimps around the palace had shifted slightly. She started down the ladder, feet banging onto the steps in her haste.

"Wait!" said Leo.

"I have to get back to Michael."

"Wait up!"

She was on the ground now, walking fast, trying not to panic. The houses with their late-night music and laughter no longer seemed an indicator of the inhabitants' freedom, but of their ignorance. What had Leo called them? Sleepwalkers.

"Can you please slow down?" Leo called after her.

Sarah started running.

Something was wrong, the Old One sensed it. He should have been pleased-earlier today, Lester Gravenholtz had killed the Aztlan oil minister, the first step in his plan to reshape the geopolitical landscape. In New Fallujah, ibn-Azziz's loyalty remained unquestioned, and with him, control of the Black Robes. Both the Republic and the Belt had fractious populations and weaklings governing them. The time for a strong man to appear was close at hand, and yet…

The Old One felt rested, but the excitement, the heat, the erotic tingle at his nerve ends was missing. Sex was always his first instinct after a session. Always. He tilted his chair to the upright position, took a few more unhurried breaths of pure oxygen before beckoning Massakar to remove the mask.

"Are you feeling better, Mahdi?" asked Massakar, his chief physician, a short Pakistani with tiny, delicate hands and bags under his eyes.

The Old One examined his reflection in the mirrored wall of the recovery room, tapped under his chin. His skin was taut, his eyes clear. His steel gray hair had regained its shine, and his upper lip had lost the indentations that so vexed him. He felt better after his rejuvenation treatment, better than he had felt in weeks, his blood cleansed of impurities, his lungs ionized, his system restored to its natural vigor by Massakar's technicians and their miraculous machines, may Allah be praised. He stood up, naked and unashamed before his own critical gaze. No, something was wrong.

After all these years, the Old One knew his body intimately; he sensed every heartbeat, every pulse, every sag and ripple in his flesh… He stretched…and felt a slight heaviness in his limbs, a weariness. This is what dying feels like, thought the Old One, the first glimpse of the yawning abyss, a whisper that would slowly grow to a scream.

"Mahdi?" Massakar steepled his fingertips like a merchant fearful of losing a sale.

The Old One stared at Massakar.

Massakar lowered his eyes, trembling.

"What did you do to me?" asked the Old One, not raising his voice.

"My b-best, as always, master."

The Old One held out his hands. There was the faintest hint of yellow at the base of his cuticles. He plucked the thin skin on the back of his hand, released it…watched how long it took to smooth out. He looked up at Massakar. "Your treatments have not fully restored me."

"Yes…I know."

"Did you think I would not notice?"

"After last month's session, I thought…perhaps the instruments needed to be recalibrated." Massakar licked his thin lips. "But this time…I knew they were accurate."

"So my decline began last month?"

Massakar rubbed his small hands together as though washing them. "The decline only became statistically relevant last month. I first noticed certain…anomalies in the readings three months ago."

The Old One watched Massakar squirm. "What sort of anomalies?"

Massakar smoothed his white tunic. "A slight decline in liver function and renal output. A minute loss of cardiac elasticity."

"So replace my liver and kidneys, swap out this heart for a new one. You've done that before. What's different now?"

Massakar stiffened. "It's not…organ failure we're dealing with, Mahdi. It's a systemic breakdown. Deterioration at the cellular level. My skills are inadequate to reverse this. Perhaps another doctor, a better doctor-"

The old one waved him silent. "No, you are the best…as was your father before you, and your grandfather." He reached out, wiped away the doctor's tears. "I remember you when you were a child…and the other boys would tease you. You would cry even as you beat them, so fierce you were, and weeping all the time."

Massakar hung his head. "Forgive me, Mahdi."

The Old One stared straight ahead, trying to compose himself. It took every bit of his courage. The only sound in the room was the faint hum of the air-filtration unit. So this is how it ends, he thought, imagining his cells huffing and puffing like cartoon slaves building a pyramid, growing more fatigued by the moment, until finally…"How long?"