The bodyguard sat back down, one hand resting on his pistol.

"Hablas espanol, senor?" the oil minister said to Gravenholtz.

Gravenholtz watched a police helicopter circling the blast site.

"Do you speak English, sir?" said the oil minister without a trace of an accent.

Gravenholtz cocked his head at the tooth lodged in the pitted blast-proof window. His mollusk mouth twisted, plasti-flesh flapping around his gums. He tapped the glass. "If you put that under your pillow tonight, the tooth fairy will leave you money."

"Yes…yes, I've heard that," said the oil minister. "Thank you for saving my life."

Gravenholtz scratched at his matted hair. "I didn't want to let the cold air out."

"Of course. It's very hot outside, isn't it?" said the oil minister.

"I like cold air," said Gravenholtz.

"Jefe, por favor-" started the bodyguard.

The oil minister silenced him with a glance, pressed a finger to his ear, listening. "I'm fine. No, that won't be necessary." His eyes stayed on Gravenholtz. "I don't want an escort, is that clear?" He settled back in his seat. "What is your name, senor?"

"Lester."

"Do you know who I am, Lester?"

"A man with air-conditioning," said Lester.

The oil minister smiled. "Yes, Lester, I am a man with air-conditioning." He had eyes like gray pearls, smooth brown skin and a trimmed mustache. Shiny black suit and a necktie of woven platinum. "I am also a man with a son who looks very much like you."

"There…there ain't nobody like me," said Gravenholtz.

"My son feels exactly the same way. He's twenty-four years old next month…and very lonely." The oil minister plucked at the crease in his slacks. "I'm afraid I don't get to spend much time with him. Hardly anyone even knows of his existence. A man in my position…" He winced. "Are you lonely, Lester?"

"Not really."

"I see," said the oil minister. "Do you have family?"

Gravenholtz shook his head.

"Well, then, perhaps you could do me a favor. Would you like to come live with my son? Keep him company? Be his friend?"

Gravenholtz pondered the questions. "Will there be air-conditioning?"

"Cold as you want, Lester. I'll fly in a mountain of snow for you two to sled down if you like. My son has never had anyone to play with…no one who really wanted to play with him." The oil minister leaned forward slightly. "You could have anything you ask for."

Gravenholtz nodded. He was tired of the game. "Anything?"

"Absolutely."

Gravenholtz pointed at the bodyguard. "Could I kill that pissant 'fore I kill you?"

The bodyguard was already raising his pistol when Gravenholtz chopped him across the bridge of the nose, the armored edge of his hand driving the facial bones deep into the man's brain.

The oil minister must have hit the emergency button, because the driver braked hard, the limo skidding across the road, knocking oncoming cars aside as if they were made of aluminum cans. They finally came to rest after crashing through a billboard advertising canned banana daiquiris that froze to a perfect slush when you opened the top.

Gravenholtz grabbed the oil minister by the necktie, jerked him close, close enough to smell the huevos rancheros the man had had for breakfast. "I ain't nobody's playmate, Pancho," he said, twisting the necktie, platinum links breaking off between his fingers as blood leaked from the oil minister's tear ducts. Gravenholtz jerked forward as the driver unloaded into his back. He broke the oil minister's neck and threw open the door.

A Hotel Viva! van on the way back from the beach had pulled over, tourists in bathing suits standing around ready to help. Until they saw Gravenholtz get out.

Gravenholtz tore open the door, dragged the driver out, the man still clutching the machine pistol, crying out for somebody, Mama, Papa, Jesus H. Christ or the presidente of Aztlan, it didn't make no difference. Gravenholtz drove his fist into the man's chest, ribs splintering like a bag of sticks, then tossed him aside and slid behind the wheel.

He backed out of the daiquiri billboard and peeled out into traffic. The front end wobbled a little bit, but it was a good ride. The old man and Baby would be pissed at him for changing the plan, but too bad. Hold the door open for Stumpy? Yaz, boss. Like Gravenholtz was some hotel doorman with gold brushes on his shoulders.

Gravenholtz maxed the air-conditioning, basking in the cold air. His back itched where the driver had shot him, the seat soaked with blood. No big deal. Only man who had ever really put a hurt on him was Rakkim. He had slipped a Fedayeen blade into Gravenholtz at the Colonel's base camp, found a seam in his armor and cut through to the soft parts like he had X-ray vision. Done it right in front of Baby too. Rakkim almost killed him, which was reason enough for Gravenholtz to go looking for him, prove to the man that he had just gotten lucky. It was more than that, though. He had seen the way that Baby looked at Rakkim, heating things up. Gravenholtz accelerated, one hand on the wheel. Revenge or jealousy, it didn't matter. Either way, that shit couldn't stand.

Rakkim saw the fire as he left the mosque, a greasy red glow rising over the darkened buildings of New Fallujah like a sunrise in hell. Imam Jenkins stood outlined against the glow for a moment, then started up the cobblestone streets toward the blaze, his robe a billow of coarse, black fabric in the wind. Rakkim joined the faithful as they followed the cleric, and the faithful, seeing Rakkim's green jihadi headband, lowered their eyes and gave him room, fearful of incurring his wrath. He didn't blame them.

Jihadis were unstable cowards drunk with death, suicide bombers waiting for the call to heaven, eager to prove their devotion to the Grand Mullah. Last month a jihadi had blown himself up in a packed movie theater in Los Angeles, killed over a hundred Christians watching a new Brazilian romantic comedy. A second bomber detonated himself as the ambulances arrived. You'd think that Allah loved loud noises. If so, God was going to be disappointed, because the jihadi that Rakkim took the headband from got his ticket to Paradise punched without making a sound.

Jenkins increased his pace, his long garments flapping in the storm, dust swirling around his scrawny frame. Head shaved, his beard gone to gray, he was part of the Grand Mullah's inner circle, a Black Robe, one of those grim guardians of public virtue who dominated the fundamentalist stronghold once known as San Francisco.

No cars allowed on the streets after late-night prayers, no stores or cafes open, no satellite dishes on the roofs. Just the faithful. And Rakkim. A deep-cover agent for the moderates who governed the Islamic Republic, he was thirty-four years old, lean and tautly muscled, poised as a tightrope walker in loose-fitting pants and a thin jacket. Like the other men from the mosque his dark hair was cut short, his beard no longer than a fist. Unlike the rest of them, he wasn't out of breath as he climbed the hill. Rakkim moved effortlessly up the steep slope…just like Jenkins.

Rakkim stepped over the rusted cable car tracks and spotted a data chip peeking out from under the rails in the dim light. He bent down quickly, pulled it free. The crowd parted around him, flowed on either side, no one daring to make contact.

The chip gleamed in the moonlight. Must have dated from around the transition forty years ago, a thin black plastic rectangle with a platinum edge. Maximum limit. The hologram of the owner's face was faded, but she had been beautiful, with long, black hair, her head cocked playfully. No idea why he had used the past tense in speaking of the woman, but she had hidden the chip away for safekeeping and not come back for it in thirty years. Jewish, maybe, or accused of witchcraft…or just too proud to stay silent when silence was called for. Whatever her supposed crime, she was gone, the chip and the hope for escape it contained long since abandoned. Rakkim lightly touched her holographic face, whispered a prayer for her soul, then tucked the chip back under the rail. Maybe someone else would retrieve it someday and find out who she was, and what had happened to her. Someone in a more peaceful time. He hurried on through the crowd, moving through them with gentle touches on shoulders and hips, a shadow warrior technique, men giving him room without them even being aware of it.