The U.S. military won every battle, but they had no voice, no message that could be heard. The Old One’s servants monitored every TV station and never saw a hero, only the dead. A war without heroes, without victories. Only petty atrocities inflated for all the world to see, clucked over by millionaire news anchors and fatuous movie stars. Their president himself apologized. We must show that we are more humane than the terrorists, he said. As though the wolf should apologize for having sharper teeth than the rabbit. Good fortune beyond the Old One’s wildest dreams, an enemy who wanted to be loved. Be ashamed of the war and soon you will be ashamed of the warriors-the warriors got that message soon enough. Just as blowing the levees in New Orleans broke the bond between the government and the people, the Iraq debacle broke the nation’s spirit, hobbled its ability to defend itself. The former regime never recovered. Those on the Old One’s payroll, knowingly or unknowingly, made certain of that.

Alisha called to him from bed, her voice thick and sleepy, but he ignored her, thinking again of his strangler, Tariq al-Faisal, and how close they had come to failure at this most crucial time. A simple pickup, risky to be sure, but…Instead al-Faisal had been intercepted, the electronic device almost lost, this whole phase jeopardized. The Old One rubbed his fingertips. The device was safe. The plan intact. Still, he found himself curious about the man who had killed al-Faisal’s two Fedayeen bodyguards. Two of his best, al-Faisal had insisted, yet the man had killed them easily. One man. Darwin could have done it in the blink of an eye. So could the man who had killed him, whoever he was. The Old One made a mental note to send word to his agents in Seattle to use all available resources to locate Rakkim or that bitch Sarah. Full surveillance, every informer and covert sympathizer activated. No excuses. Rakkim and the woman were probably not involved in the near intercept of al-Faisal, but the Old One was not going to risk underestimating either of them ever again. Not now.

The Old One watched a seagull buffeted by the rising wind, the bird hanging in space directly in front of the window, all its efforts failing to move it forward…and the gull slowly, ever so slowly fell behind until it disappeared from view. The Old One felt an ache in his belly, a terrible void, worse than hunger.

There were moments now…moments when the plan was too vast, when he lost the tread of the skein for an instant, the faces blurring, connections blurring, before he regained his focus. The duration of his confusion was irrelevant; it was the confusion itself that kept him awake at night. Those lost moments seemed to be occurring more often lately. More than once, the Old One had fallen to his knees, prostrated himself, begging Allah for a little more time to fulfill his divine mission, just a few more years to bend the world to a true and perfect Islam. Many times over the long years the Old One had heard the voice of God, heard it more clearly than the beating of his own heart, but lately…Allah had remained silent. Silent as a stone. Time was running short, that much the Old One was certain of. Even for him.

The Old One placed his hands on his hips, faced the gathering storm. Let it come. Let it huff and puff and blow his house down. He didn’t blame Allah for his silence. God had been patient enough. So had the Old One.

“Are you listening?” said Sarah. “This is important.”

Rakkim played with Michael, holding an index finger in front of the wobbling toddler, pulling it back as the boy grabbed for it. Michael, one of the four archangels, captain of the heavenly host, the angel most beloved of Allah, but this Michael was a chubby infant, not quite two, with his mother’s eyes, dark and bright, his gaze steady. He almost fell over, then one hand darted out and pinched Rakkim’s finger. Michael squeezed, delighted, and Rakkim kissed his shaggy curls. Michael might have his mother’s eyes but he had his father’s quick reflexes. Maybe even his guile. Rakkim still wasn’t sure if the boy had really almost lost his balance or was just distracting him. It worked, whatever the cause. Michael clapped his hands, wanting to play again.

“Rakkim?”

“The Colonel has become more aggressive in the last two or three years,” repeated Rakkim, watching Michael as the boy watched them, head cocked. “He’s expanding his territory, buying weapons, consolidating his support.” He lightly tapped Michael’s nose, retreated. Michael giggled. “Tactically brilliant, generous and popular with the locals, threatening to attack the republic…” Another tap on Michael’s nose. The boy swatted at Rakkim’s hand, missed. “…although the anti-Muslim invective may be just a recruiting slogan.” He looked at Sarah. “I read the data file General Kidd gave me.”

Michael lunged at him, flopped in Rakkim’s lap. Rakkim lifted him up, tossed him into the air. Caught him. Michael laughed.

“There’s currently a power vacuum in the Belt, one that the Colonel could easily exploit-was that in the file?” said Sarah, as Rakkim continued to throw Michael higher and higher. “Their new president was elected with a minority of votes. He’s a smart politician, very likeable, but weak and indecisive. There’s been talk that his party received massive financial support from the Nigerian Confederation, but no proof. The rumor may have been spread by the Colonel’s men for all we know, but…” She glared as Rakkim caught Michael by one ankle, the two of them flopping back onto the bed, Rakkim covering his eyes, pretending to cower as Michael launched an attack. “Do you mind?”

“What are you so mad about?” said Rakkim.

“I want you to be prepared.”

“I am prepared.” Rakkim carefully set Michael down on the floor, reached for her. “As prepared as I can be. Sarah…all the reports and rumors and projections aren’t going to help. They’re after-the-fact assessments, outdated five minutes later or dependent on the skill of whoever gathered the information. The only way I can find out what it’s really like in the Belt is to go there and sit around talking with strangers, making conversation, listening to what they argue about, what they laugh at. You want me to have a plan in place, some guidebook…that’s not going to happen.”

“You need a plan or-”

“The other shadow warriors sent in, they had a plan, and it got them killed.” Rakkim took her hands, pressed them against his heart as tears gathered in her eyes. “I’m going to slip into the Belt, Sarah. I’m going to make my way to where the Colonel is digging up the mountain and I’m going to stop him. Whatever it takes, I’m going to stop him. Then I’m going to come home.”

Sarah put on a brave front, but one eye overflowed.

“I know what I’m doing.”

She let it lay, watching Michael as he walked hesitantly around the room. “Is General Kidd offering transport?”

“I don’t want his help. There may be a mole in the Fedayeen high command.”

She stared at him and he could see the effort it took her to stay calm. “I see.”

He shrugged. “I also think it was a mistake sending the shadow warrior teams in from the north and the west.”

“It’s the shortest route,” said Sarah. “The most direct and we were in a hurry. We’re still in a hurry.”

“People in a hurry get noticed.”

Sarah started to speak. Stopped. Keyed the remote on her earlobe. “Spider’s here.”

Rakkim didn’t ask why. He’d find out soon enough.

The main wallscreen crackled. A car pulled into the armored garage, waited until the blast door closed. Infrared screens showed the outside streets buckled down for the night. No movement. No extraneous electronic activity. Safe. Spider got out of the car, waved to the camera. Someone got out of the passenger side. Big guy…no, it was a kid, a soft, doughy teenager wearing khaki trousers that nipped at his ankles and a baggy brown sweater. He didn’t wave. Just stood there with a sullen expression while pulling at the seat of his pants.