Al-Faisal turned abruptly and Rakkim thought for a moment that he had been spotted, but the cleric turned back, ducked quickly into a tiny storefront, Eagleton Digital Entertainment. That was a surprise. A long-term resident of the Zone, Eagleton was a staunch modern, a Web hacker and freethinker. The tech wizard had spent many afternoons drinking khat tea at the Blue Moon, getting a pleasant buzz on. So what business did ibn-Azziz’s emissary have with him?

Rakkim turned into the next alley, lost himself in the darkness. A glance back to the street, and he free-climbed the vertical brick wall, using just his fingertips and the toes of his boots, swiftly working his way up to the roof of the building next door. From this position he could see if al-Faisal left by the front or back door of the store. Either way, he would follow. Later he would have a chat with Eagleton.

Rakkim waited. Watched as the bodyguards took positions nearby, pretending to window-shop. The trailing bodyguard stood in the doorway of the Crocodile Club listening to music, ignoring the three-hundred-pound bouncer who told him either to come in or move on. The bouncer took a closer look at the man and retreated inside the club.

Rakkim perched in the shadows, noted how the bodyguards carried themselves. He caught his breath, feeling the vibration of the transceiver implanted in his right earlobe. Two long, three short jolts. An emergency signal from Sarah. Three shorts was a call to meet her at the Presidential Palace. Two short meant at home. One short at their safe house south of Khomeini stadium. He waited for the repeal call that would validate the signal. There it was. He hesitated, hating to back off from al-Faisal. No, he should go. He clambered down the wall, slid down the last ten feet. Pulled out his cell. Maybe Colarusso could tail al-Faisal. It wasn’t a police matter, but Rakkim trusted Colarusso more than State Security. He took a look behind him as the phone beeped, saw al-Faisal hurry from the shop, going against the traffic flow now. The cleric patted his right pocket, reassuring himself. He had gotten more than information from Eagleton.

“What’s up, Rikki?” said Colarusso, the detective’s voice gruff.

“Later.” Rakkim slipped the phone away. Checked his watch. If Sarah was at the Presidential Palace, she couldn’t be in any immediate danger. Not likely, anyway. He walked after al-Faisal, slowed as he passed the storefront. The windows were one-way glass. LED CLOSED sign. He had intended to talk to Eagleton after following al-Faisal, but now…something had changed hands in the store, something important enough to draw al-Faisal out of New Fallujah. He reached for the door, saw blood on the knob.

Down the street, al-Faisal increased his pace. Whatever he had gotten from Eagleton made haste his primary concern. Two of his bodyguards fell in beside him, flanked him. The third led the way, breaking a path through the partygoers with his scowl and his shoulders.

Rakkim walked after them, keeping to the edges of the street, where he could make faster progress.

The taller of the bodyguards whirled around.

Rakkim shuffled along, hands waving, muttering to himself like another of the human gin blossoms that frequented the Zone, sloppy from bootleg alcohol. He sagged against a lamppost, pretending to breathe hard, sneaked a look toward al-Faisal.

The tall bodyguard stared right at him. Not taking his eyes away, he said something. The other flanking bodyguard stopped while the third bodyguard in front grabbed al-Faisal by the wrist and dragged him down a side street. The flankers followed slowly as Rakkim hurried to catch up, slipping through the crowd with barely any contact.

This side street must have been picked as their rally point beforehand. Narrow as an alley, its few shops closed for the night. A powerful German sedan waited at the end of the street, idling behind a yellow construction barrier that kept out other traffic. The black sedan was a common vehicle in the capital, easily lost among the evening traffic.

Al-Faisal was halfway to the car by the time Rakkim started down the narrow street. The two tailing bodyguards calmly took positions on either side. Their arms hung loose, knives glinting in the dim light. Like all Fedayeen they were trained to be ambidextrous. The one on Rakkim’s right kept his blade in his left hand, the one on his left held his knife in his right. That way they covered maximum space. Rakkim raised his own knife in a mocking salute. They didn’t react, which spoke well for them. He might have learned something from seeing how they handled their blades.

“What’s your hurry?” Rakkim called to al-Faisal. He had no idea where his own sudden good humor came from. “Stay and watch the fun, al-Faisal. I’m all alone.”

Al-Faisal stopped. Shook off his bodyguard. He seemed calm.

“That’s better.” Rakkim smiled broader. The two bodyguards slightly repositioned themselves, but he ignored them. “The last time I saw you it was Eid al-Fitr, two years ago. You were on the Bridge of Skulls.” He strolled closer. “There was a boy…maybe eight years old. He had broken his Ramadan fast. Ate an orange. Not a whole orange. Just one section.” He could see al-Faisal’s eyes narrow. “You remember the boy?”

“I remember a blasphemer,” said al-Faisal.

“You gave him three hundred lashes.” Rakkim rocked slightly forward. “The boy died after the seventy-third stroke of the whip. Must have been quite a…” Rakkim raced toward al-Faisal, his knife flicking out toward the two bodyguards as he sped past them. “…disappointment to you.”

Al-Faisal’s third bodyguard shoved him into the sedan. Dove in after him as the driver screeched away.

Rakkim grabbed for the door handle. Missed. He watched al-Faisal’s annoyed face pressed against the glass of the back window until the car turned a corner. Rakkim walked back to the two bodyguards.

One of the bodyguards lay curled on the pavement. The tall one stood unmoving, still planted in the direction Rakkim had come from.

Rakkim circled him. The bodyguard was in his late thirties, built strong, with dirty blond hair and a scar meandering along one cheek. Sweat rolled down his face. Rakkim marveled at the effort it must have taken not to move. To tense all of his muscles. All of his being. Rakkim had stabbed the two bodyguards in the upper abdomen as he passed. Stabbed them deep in exactly the same spot. The fourteenth ganglia, a cluster of critical nerves just above the solar plexus. Instantaneous death. Except in very rare instances, when the victim stayed perfectly still. So still that the nerve impulses still managed to make the leap across the cut tissue, the familiar pathways in service for a few moments longer.

The tall bodyguard blinked furiously, sweat glistening along his eyebrows. Fear bloomed in his eyes, but he kept that in check. His tongue moistened his lips. “How?”

Rakkim stayed silent. The bodyguards were combat Fedayeen, some of the best fighters in the world. Only one in a thousand qualified for Fedayeen-that was both a motto and the truth-but only one Fedayeen in a thousand qualified to be a shadow warrior or an assassin. Rakkim’s attack had been fast, too fast for the bodyguards to defend against, but that wasn’t the answer to the tall bodyguard’s question. Rakkim had always been fast, even for a shadow warrior, but it was knowing precisely where to strike that he couldn’t explain. Knowledge of the killing ganglia, the training required to deal the fatal blow…that was reserved exclusively for assassins. Rakkim hadn’t even been aware of what he was doing until he was past the two bodyguards. He had acted instinctively.

A spot of blood appeared on the bodyguard’s shirt. A tiny spot…but growing. The bodyguard twitched. Impossible to hold still enough. Even if he could, there was no fixing the man.