Colarusso watched Leo follow Marie out, then sat down on the sofa next to Rakkim. "Interesting playmates you got, troop. Leo said it was ibn-Azziz sent the triplets, which is bad enough, but I recognized the fella got his head chopped off-that's Senator Chambers's bodyguard."

"Ibn-Azziz had his heart set on Chambers being defense secretary," said Rakkim, "but it's the Old One who's pulling the strings."

"You know that for sure?"

"Chambers told me."

"I bet that was an interesting conversation," said Colarusso.

"It would have been more interesting if Chambers knew who suggested his name to the president," said Rakkim.

"President gets lots of advice," said Colarusso.

"He only listened to one person in this case," said Rakkim.

"You're certain Chambers didn't know?" said Colarusso.

"I'm certain."

"Yeah, got to believe a man with his pecker in the wind…" Colarusso pressed his finger to his earlobe, listening. "When?" He nodded. "Who's on-scene?" He looked at Rakkim. "Keep me posted. I'll expect a full report in the morning." He released the com-link set to his ear. "Senator Chambers was found dead at his country house an hour ago. Looks like suicide, which is bullshit, of course."

"What about his family?"

"They're safe. On holiday, according to the servants. Grand Canyon." Colarusso picked at a tooth with his pinkie nail, wiped it on his necktie. "Always wanted to go to the Grand Canyon. Probably should do it sooner rather than later, before it's part of Aztlan."

Rakkim heard a car coming down the street.

A few seconds later, Colarusso heard it too. He glanced at the security screen above the fireplace, saw a car pull up out front.

"Thanks again, Anthony."

"No problem, troop." Colarusso watched Sarah and a plainclothes cop walking up the front drive, Sarah carrying Michael in her arms. "How soon until you leave for New Fallujah?"

"You can read minds now?"

Colarusso shrugged. "Just basic police work. You can't kill the Old One; you don't even know where he is. So you'll have to settle for killing ibn-Azziz, right?" He lumbered to the front door. "Besides, maybe ibn-Azziz knows who put the bug in the president's ear." He looked at Rakkim. "So, when are you leaving?"

"Tomorrow."

Colarusso opened the door. "Sarah, come on in. You look beautiful. Who's that big boy with you?"

The Old One had a cold. He sat in an oceanside cabana in Miami, watching the young couple playing on the sand with their toddler, and he hated them for their smooth, healthy pinkness. He wanted to drown the three of them in the shallows, hold their heads under while they thrashed, hold them under until their mouths stopped moving.

The Old One sneezed. The worst possible time to catch something. Ibrahim would be waiting for him inside the suite, wanting to watch the festivities in the Gulf with him, but the Old One didn't want to move. He wrapped his thick terry-cloth robe around himself, pulled the hood lower. The sun beat down on the cabana as he shivered, feeling ice form in his marrow. For the first time in decades, the Old One was sick…and the sickness was a sign of the change that had befallen him.

When his personal physician had first told him that he was dying, the Old One had been stoic at first, then oddly elated, toying with his new-found mortality, the delicious friction of risk. It didn't last. He felt every passing day, every waning moment as a subtraction, a loss. After all these years to finally be this close to success, and have it taken from him…

The Old One coughed, set off a rattling in his chest. He gently touched his cheek, felt the roughness where the shotgun blast at Malcolm Crews's mansion had scorched his skin. That pimply kaffir had almost killed him, ended his life in that overheated, run-down mansion with flies buzzing against the screens and garbage strewn on the lawn. So close to death…as though Allah had taunted him, given him a reminder of the muddy end men came to. The Old One tasted mucus in his mouth, a slimy lozenge that disgusted him.

The toddler in her frilly yellow bathing suit frolicked along the tideline, splashing as the waves trickled toward her. Her hair was as yellow as her bathing suit, a mass of tight curls like a sunflower. Her whole life lay before her, all those endless possibilities, while the Old One's life was winding down. Every breath she took, every joyous coo and tumble, was an insult to him.

The Old One rubbed his arms, trying to bring the blood to the surface, to get warm. It didn't help. He had caught the cold right after the near miss at Crews's mansion. The Old One had risked death before, dozens of times, but this was different. None of those other brushes with death had frightened him. If anything they had affirmed his identity as Allah's chosen one, the Mahdi. All gone now. Catching a cold, a common cold, was just a harbinger of things to come. Worse was on the way, age and infirmity riding toward him across the sands, a pale rider urging his mount on, faster, faster, faster. The Old One felt his cells slowly breaking down, toxins building up, his luck running out.

A dozen high-altitude helicopters hovered to the south, sculpting clouds with their ion beams. Beachcombers pointed and the Old One watched too-part of the appeal of cloud sculpting was not just the skill of the pilots, but trying to figure out what was being created. Words and symbols were easy, but this was much more ambitious. A day with barely any breeze helped, but still, there was an enormous amount of clouds being put to use. The helicopters zipped about, working in tandem, faster now, the object slowly taking shape. Color was added, the seeded particles activated in various parts of the cloud, a vast black cloud with silver and red streaks…all of it in slow motion as the helicopters dipped and soared around it.

The Old One turned, hearing the Ethiopian girl turn over in the bed at the rear of the cabana. A bare breast peaked out of the sheets as she dozed, languid in the heat, beads of perspiration on her forehead. Her mouth opened slightly and he knew that were he to kiss her, she would taste like honey. He had warmed himself with her before, clung to her, let her share her heat with him…but she had not stirred him, and though soaked with sweat, his own chill had prevailed. He watched her sleep until he lost track of time, imagining himself inside her, warm and safe…forever young.

His earpiece tingled, doubtless Ibrahim eagerly awaiting the events in the Gulf. The Old One plucked it out of his ear, threw it into the corner.

He huddled in his robe, tried to take comfort in the fact that Malcolm Crews was doing well in the Belt, even better than Baby had anticipated. The Old One and she watched Crews's television show every day, critiquing his performance, gauging the reactions of the crowd, both in the audience and across the Belt. Crews knew how to speak the lingo of the Belt, not just the proper words and phrases, but more important, the emotional language, the hopes and fears of that mass of unbelievers. Crews would be crucial to the mass conversion that was coming, preparing the ground for the Old One.

Ibrahim watched Crews only when the Old One insisted. Jealous of Baby usurping his role as chief advisor, Ibrahim dismissed the idea of converting the Christians, claimed it was impossible other than through brute force. The Old One knew better. The threat of the sword worked wonders among atheists, weaklings who believed only in this day, this moment, but Christians were faithful. They had merely embraced a false faith. They had confused Jesus for God. Once shown the true face of Allah, they would become his most loyal and ferocious followers. The path to the Caliphate started in the former United States, and the Belt citizens would be his shock troops to convert the rest of the world.