Bartholomew stepped into the security dock, stood quietly while the machine completed scanning him. The machine beeped and a guard waved him through. His electronic gear took much longer to be cleared, each tool and gauge minutely examined by a Secret Service agent. His heart rate and skin-conductivity index were probably also being monitored, so he concentrated on images of Paradise and the blessings that awaited him.
Give good news to those who believe and work righteousness that they will have gardens with flowing streams, and pure spouses therein. They abide therein forever.
“Master Inspector,” said the Secret Service agent, beckoning him over.
“Yes, Officer?” said Bartholomew, stomach churning.
The agent was a small man with a cleft chin and a spotless blue uniform with the presidential seal over his heart. He held up one of Bartholomew’s handheld resonance meters. “This is not on the approved list.”
“It’s the latest model,” sputtered Bartholomew. “Just came in last week from Lagos. That’s why it’s not on your list.”
The agent slipped the resonance meter into a plastic bag. Pursed his lips. “You can pick it up on the way out.”
Bartholomew bowed, seething, his cheeks flushed. He had practiced his reaction for weeks now, clenching his jaw muscles to bring color to his cheeks. Give the agent something easy to reject, something to justify his authority-that way they won’t look too closely at the rest of your things, that’s what al-Faisal had said. As always, the Black Robe was correct.
Peterson clapped him on the shoulder as they started up the corridor to the presidential jet. “Don’t worry, Bartholomew, last week they made me remove a decal of the Kaaba from the inside lid of my toolkit, an innocent souvenir from my hajj.”
Bartholomew shook his head. Peterson was the other aeronautical inspector on the flight, a redundancy like everything else on the presidential jet, human and mechanical, designed to ensure maximum security.
“You been to Mexico City before?” said Peterson, a slender modern with a thin strip of beard running along his jaw, a beard in name only. “Oh, you’ve got a treat in store for you. Stick with me, I’ll show you some places you won’t want to tell the imam about.”
Bartholomew smiled. This time he didn’t have to fake the color in his cheeks.
“Does having a baby…does it, you know, change things?” said Leo.
“Things?” said Sarah.
Leo glanced at Michael, the toddler playing with wooden blocks, then back at Sarah. “Things. Sex.”
“Well, you don’t have as much time for sex, but the-you tend to appreciate it more. Don’t look so glum, you and Leanne have plenty of time before you think about having kids.”
“Tell that to Leanne.”
Sarah looked up. “Is she pregnant? Oh, Leo, that’s wonderful.”
“No, no, I was just asking, because…with my brainpower and everything, I probably pack a real punch down there too.” Leo’s face reddened. “You know…sperm-wise.”
“How romantic.”
Sarah and Leo sat on the floor of Michael’s bedroom, watching as he built tall towers of blocks. Leo had been visiting for the last hour, working up to asking questions about marriage. Sarah was glad for the company, eager to take a break from trying to figure out what Eagleton was hiding on the holographic display card. Tired of watching him star in his own pornographic movie. Even a shower didn’t make her feel clean afterward.
Being with Michael allowed her to breathe again. She watched as he balanced a red block on top of a yellow column, then looked up at her and giggled. He reached for another block. Always pushing the limits, angry when the pile collapsed. Just like his daddy.
“What if Leanne loves the baby more than me?” said Leo.
“You’re getting a little ahead of yourself.” Sarah patted Leo’s arm. “Is this why you dropped in? I heard Spider had you locked away for safekeeping.”
“Spider doesn’t think I can take care of myself. Neither does Rikki.”
Sarah knew what Leo meant. Rakkim said they needed to move, so that’s what they were going to do. She hated the idea. This apartment was their nest. Familiar and spacious. She would argue with him, but eventually Rakkim would get his way. He deferred to her judgment on most issues, but when it came to security, his was the only voice heard.
“You want me to help you with the holographic card?” said Leo.
“No, thanks.”
“You sure?”
Sarah watched Michael banging two blocks together, laughing at the sound. It would have taken more than money to tempt Eagleton to climb in bed with the Black Robes. He must have known the risks, the risks if he failed, the even greater risks if he succeeded. Colarusso’s forensic accountants had traced over $30 million deposited into Eagleton’s overseas account in the last five months. Plenty for him to buy his way out of the republic and retire to that South African surf beach. It couldn’t have been just money that drew him in. The challenge…that would have been the ultimate attraction. To do something…enormous, and get away with it. His little secret. The best of all worlds.
The tower of blocks suddenly collapsed, and Michael bellowed. Threw one of the red blocks across the room. Bounced it off a shelf of other toys. He looked up at her.
“You threw it, you go get it,” said Sarah.
Michael heaved himself up, walked over to the shelf, and picked up the block.
Sarah stared at the shelf loaded with toys. Mechanical toys, computerized dragons, plastic soldiers, knights and warriors, paint sets and coloring books. Like the shelves of toys in Eagleton’s back room. She got up, kicked aside some blocks in her haste.
Michael watched her approach, mouth open.
“What is it?” said Leo.
Sarah picked up the Digi-Sketch off the shelf. A gift from her mother. Supposed to encourage artistic expression in babies, but Michael had ignored it after five minutes and never played with it again. It was a small, flat holographic unit, light enough for an infant to hold, with knobs and buttons to draw numbers and colored images on the monitor. Twelve screen options were available with a touch. Eagleton had three of them in his shop, plus a few antique Etch A Sketches. She carefully removed the control chip from the side of the Digi-Sketch. “Leo, would you play with Michael for a little while?”
“You figured it out, didn’t you?” said Leo.
Michael raised his hands toward the control chip. “Mine.”
Typical male, thought Sarah, closing the door to her office behind her.
“I hardly recognize Leo,” chastised Spider, bundled up in spite of the sun on his face.
Rakkim and Spider sat in sagging lawn chairs atop the flat roof of a house in the Catholic sector. Spider’s latest home, run-down from the outside, but wireless surveillance technology was deployed throughout the structure. Anthony Colarusso sat at the kitchen table downstairs, eating roast chicken and arguing football with Spider’s twelve-year-old daughter, who had evidently memorized every game in the history of the sport. Dogs chased each other, ran through wash hung out to dry. Kids played ball in the crumbling streets, rode bikes through the alleys, whooping and hollering. After years living underground, Spider said he was happier here than anyplace else he could imagine.
“He’s different,” said Spider. “You were supposed to look after him-”
“All that stuff he downloaded into his brain, no wonder-”
“I’m-I’m not talking about that,” sputtered Spider. “Leo’s more than capable of massive data transfers, it’s the rest of him that’s different. You saw what he was like when you two left. Naïve, full of fear and bluster-”
“He was a pain in the ass,” said Rakkim, squinting. “I spent the first week pissed off at you and Sarah for saddling me with him, but the Belt…it changes people. When we left he was a burden…but, he grew up on me. He saw things there, good things, beautiful things, and terrible things too…he did things, Spider, things neither you nor I would have believed him capable of. I’ve seen it happen fast before. I’ve seen it happen overnight. In a single moment-”
“He wants to get married. He wants to move to the Belt and marry some girl he spent less than twenty-four hours with.”
“Leo’s a man now, and he made a man’s decision.”
“Easy for you to say.” Spider slumped in his chair, wrapped the blanket tighter around himself. “Wait until Michael grows up and wants to marry a stranger.”
Rakkim turned his face toward the sun. Not a cloud in the sky. “That’s a long way off.”
“Not as far away as you think.”
Rakkim heard a dog barking, the sound setting off others. “Where is he? Have you checked on him today?”
Spider started to speak. Stopped. Waiting for the shakes to subside. His eyes were clear now. “He’s at your place, talking with Sarah. I thought you knew.”
Rakkim straightened up. “I thought we decided he was to stay put.”
Spider’s hand twitched. “I can’t stop him anymore. He’s a man now, remember?”
Al-Faisal checked his watch for the hundredth time, glanced out into the cloudless sky. A beautiful day. From the minaret of the Grand Saladin mosque he could see the whole city spread out before him, helpless as a kafir on Judgment Day.
He had met last night with Amir Kidd, reassured the Fedayeen that today’s actions were in complete accordance with the Quran. That obedience to the Old One superseded all of his previous oaths and commitments.
Pigeons circled the minaret, wheeled off to more inviting perches in nearby buildings. Filthy birds, may Allah strike them from the sky and shatter their eggs in the nest.
Al-Faisal had sensed uncertainty in Amir last night. After all this time, the young officer still felt the gossamer strands of loyalty to his father, the Fedayeen commander. Such weakness disgusted al-Faisal. He had spent over two years getting close to Amir. Two years of the most gentle persuasion…a comment uttered by a trusted fellow Fedayeen, a sermon by a battlefield imam, a rumor shared by a concubine during a night of lust that questioned the president’s judgment. Al-Faisal had waited a long time before making direct contact with Amir. He had played the youth masterfully, appealing to his youthful idealism, his passion, his faith and courage…and, most of all, to his mixed feelings about his father. Love and ambition were dangerous weaknesses, and al-Faisal had exploited them mercilessly.
So this is the famous Lion of Boulder, al-Faisal had greeted him, kissing Amir on both cheeks, after his Fedayeen unit beat back the Mormon attack into Colorado. Amir had dismissed the phrase, credited his men for the victory, but al-Faisal could see it pleased him.
Even after Amir swore allegiance to the Old One, he insisted that his father not be harmed. His father was no apostate, he assured al-Faisal, but a noble warrior whose piety was beyond dispute. General Kidd’s only failing was that his devotion to the president had left him blind to the man’s deficiencies. Against al-Faisal’s counsel, the Old One himself had decreed that General Kidd’s sin would be overlooked, and the warrior allowed an honorable exile in his native Somalia with his wives and estates.
Two years al-Faisal had worked on Amir. The Old One had spent even longer turning al-Faisal from the Black Robe’s hierarchy. Al-Faisal had no regrets. He would stand at the right hand of the Old One in this life and the right hand of Allah in the next. The Old One had assured him that nothing would be denied the righteous warrior. Al-Faisal glanced at his watch. Turned his face into the blinding sun. A glorious day, inshallah.
Sarah touched the remote, did a rapid turn behind Eagleton’s straining thighs, then darted out the open window. Nothing. The line of headlights had been transformed to a line of flaming torches, Eagleton’s leering face was a cubist nightmare, but there was still no hint of what had drawn his attention for all those hours as he sat at his desk.
The control chip for the Digi-Sketch was compatible with Eagleton’s holo display card, of course, and one of the twelve screens from the Digi-Sketch keyed perfectly to the card’s program. It was a whole new porno show. Some joke. Sarah had been chasing her tail for days trying intricately engineered screens to search for clues, but the answer had been in the opposite direction: using the simple, basic graphics chip of a baby’s toy. Somewhere in hell, Eagleton was amused.
Since downloading the Digi-Sketch screen, Sarah had spent a half hour scanning the card without success, looking in all the corners, inside out and upside down. The screen showed Eagleton with a barbed penis, a monstrous member that drove through the back of the young woman’s skull, spurting flowers from the tip. She followed each bud of the flower, expanding the frame farther and farther, until she was certain there was no useful information there.
“Is everything all right?” called Leo through the closed door.
“Not now.” Sarah’s fingers hovered over the control pad. She needed to slow down. Unpleasant as it was, she had to think like Eagleton. She let the image run, Eagleton’s barbed penis pistoning back and forth.
She closed her eyes, opened them, taking in the whole wall that Eagleton had looked at, the porno card the most important part, but not the only part. High-gloss cars…motorcycles…speed and reflected light…a surfing beach, waves stacked up…a young man with his eyes rolled back in pleasure…a college girl with a charm bracelet. The bracelet was the first thing she had gone over, looking for some symbolic meaning in the charms. It was just a photo, her innocence the basis of her appeal. She forced herself to relax…looked down, then up. Eagleton was supremely arrogant. What would confirm his sense of superiority? What could he see on the wall that no one else would notice? It would have to be obvious. Everyone would have to be proven a fool for Eagleton to be as brilliant as he knew he was.
She went back to the holo card, looking for patterns, light and dark. The young woman’s face drew her attention…but she had already studied it from every angle. She looked at the face again, forced herself not to stare, but just look, the way Eagleton had. What was that? Sarah tilted the holographic image, saw a tiny gold gondola among the strands of the woman’s hair. Just like the gold gondola on the college girl’s charm bracelet. It had been a bead of sweat on the original, without the toy screen. Sarah’s excitement faded as she inspected the gondola without seeing anything.
There. Another gold charm in the young woman’s hair, this one a tennis racquet. A car. A heart. An airplane. A seashell. A rose. All of them in the exact order as the charms on the college girl’s wrist. All of them so artfully placed among the hair that Sarah hadn’t noticed them before. She zoomed in on them one by one, blowing each of them up until they filled the screen, turning them over and around, making sure no surface was unexamined. Halfway through the hidden charm bracelet, she came to the gold airplane.
“Oh…shit.”
Bartholomew held his systems analyzer in the palm of his hand, tapped into the main terminal of the aircraft while a dour Secret Service agent peered over his shoulder. His fingers flew over the keys, making minute adjustments, aligning the computer interfaces. There were fifty-one individual electronic systems on Air Force One. Seventeen separate systems with triple redundancy. Any failure immediately initiated a backup. In the rare event that the backup failed, there was the third system. It had never been needed. He monitored the readouts on the systems analyzer, a Beck-Dibden DB9. If he hadn’t known better, he would have sworn it was his own.
Bartholomew had no idea how Eagleton had done it, but the man had made an exact match of Bartholomew’s DB9, even down to the serial numbers etched into the microscopic components. Same wear patterns as his old one. Same digital history. His own DB9 had been a gift from his father upon his graduation from advanced training five years ago. Cost enough to buy a house, enough to put his father in debt for years, but his father never looked happier than when Bartholomew opened the box. Bartholomew had prostrated himself in gratitude before his father, his tears soaking the carpet. A week ago…a week ago, after getting this one from al-Faisal, he had taken the ferry to Bainbridge Island and tossed the gift from his father overboard halfway across the Sound.
The DB9 beeped. Bartholomew showed the screen to the Secret Service agent, then disengaged the unit. He bowed to Peterson, then sat in the jump seat, while the other inspector did his own check, watched over by another Secret Service agent. Peterson wouldn’t find anything amiss. Allah willing.
Bartholomew belted himself in, then looked out the window at the refueling trucks on their way back to the terminal. He was astounded at how calm he was. From the other side of the curtain, he could hear the president telling a joke to the assembled reporters. Their laughter disgusted Bartholomew. He turned back to Peterson. The man was utterly serious. Focused. He might be an idolatrous modern looking forward to the sins available in Mexico City, but at this moment he was a dedicated, superbly trained professional.
Peterson showed his DB9 to the Secret Service agent and sat down in the jump seat opposite Bartholomew. He clasped his seat belt. Nodded at Bartholomew as the plane started moving.
Bartholomew watched the tarmac roll past, faster and faster, the big jet rapidly gathering speed. He felt as though he were beginning his ascent into Paradise.
Rakkim pointed and Spider turned, the two of them watching the president’s jet rising above the city. Not a plane in the sky other than Air Force One and the six fighter jets providing an escort. People in the surrounding houses walked out into their backyards, shading their eyes with their hands. Most of them crossed themselves. Even with all that had happened, the constant religious tension and steady decline in the quality of life, President Kingsley was the only politician that drew support across all classes and faiths.
Rakkim clasped his hands toward Air Force One. “Salaam alaikum.”
“Shalom,” said Spider.
“Mr. President!” Sarah pressed a finger against her ear link. Static. “Sir!” She was one of only a dozen people who had a direct link to the chief executive. Day or night she should have been able to reach him on this emergency frequency. She stared at the holographic image of the gold airplane on the screen. “Sir!” The gold airplane’s cockpit was filled with fire, and the frightened pilot looked just like the president. “Mr. President?” Static. Sound of electronic snow drifting higher and higher.
Bartholomew stared out at the city below, the neat grid of streets and skyscrapers, the lush green parks…the golden dome of the Great Mosque. It was never more beautiful than now. The great engines of the jet thrummed all around him, the power of man, dwarfed only by the will of Allah.
He slipped off his watch. Time was irrelevant now. He saw Peterson watching him and turned again to the window. Faint static filled the air, every electronic device in the plane overwhelmed by the chaff-Air Force One generated a stream of jamming frequencies across the spectrum on takeoff and landing to prevent a missile attack.
Bartholomew thought of his mother and father down below…in a small house off Green Lake with a neatly trimmed yard and a rusting basketball hoop over the garage. He hadn’t lived at home for years, but his father kept the hoop up anyway. Said he liked to look at it as he left for work in the morning. Bartholomew was their only son, their greatest joy. He hoped they were not looking up in the sky right now, following the president’s progress. He should have been proud of his handiwork, his small part in the vast design, but Bartholomew was weak. He hoped his parents were busy with other things.
“Mr. President!”
“Sarah?” More static. “-that you?”
“Mr. President, thank God.” Tears rolled down Sarah’s cheeks. She could see her mother in the doorway, holding Michael in her arms. Leo stood beside her. “Mr. President, order your plane to land, now.”
“Sarah…” Static crackled, then cleared. “What’s wrong?”
“Please order your plane to land, sir. I don’t care where, just put it down.”
“Yes…yes, of course.”
Sarah heard the president order the pilot to land, his voice steady. Then she heard…silence. All the static of the transmission was gone. All that remained was the president’s voice, perfectly clear, saying, “That’s odd.” And the pounding of her heart, getting louder.
“Mr. President? What’s happening, sir?”
The president cleared his throat. “It seems…we seem to have lost power.”
Bartholomew listened to the nervous whispers from the rear of the plane. The prayers.
A Secret Service agent jerked him from his seat, pushed him toward the main console. “Fix it.”
Peterson was already at work with his DB9, trying to make a connection.
Seventeen separate networks, triple redundancy. Yet, exactly eighteen minutes after Bartholomew had run his preflight diagnostic, every system went dead. Irrevocably dead. The secret was a molecular timer inserted with Eagleton’s DB9. Perfectly normal until eighteen minutes later, at which point the whole system fried.
The floor of the plane tilted down. The pilot performed brilliantly of course, but he had no stabilizers, no engines, no wing flaps, no communications. He had nothing…but a heavy piece of metal, and gravity was calling. The floor tilted farther…farther.
The Secret Service agent kicked Bartholomew in the ass. “Do something.”
Bartholomew fell to his knees, pressed his forehead against the cool carpet, and offered his devotion and praise to Allah, and the Wise Old One who served him.
And as for him who was outrageous and preferred the life of this world, verily, hell is the resort!
But as for him who feared the station of his Lord, and prohibited his soul from lust, verily, Paradise is the resort!
“I saw…I saw it on TV,” panted Colarusso, out of breath. “You know what’s going on?”
Spider shook his head, focused on the small, silver shape that was the president’s plane. He watched as it rolled over, spinning slowly as it fell.
Rakkim ran down the stairs.
“It’s quite all right, Sarah.” The president sounded relaxed. At peace.
“Send out a Mayday-”
“We have no communications at all.” The president chuckled. “It’s just you and I, dear girl.”
Sarah could hear weeping in the background. “The ejection pod-”
“A total systems failure, according to the pilot,” said the president. “There may be some mechanical explanation…or it could be our enemies have finally succeeded.”
Sarah’s mother had turned on the television, stared at the image of Air Force One dropping out of blue, blue sky. She sobbed, trying to distract Michael with a stuffed bear.
“Pay attention, Sarah,” chided the president. “With the vice president and I gone…Sarah, please, don’t cry…”
Sarah heard the background noise from the plane getting louder through her ear link, heard people shouting and the rush and rattle of wind.
“Sarah…tell Rakkim-”
Sarah’s earpiece went dead.
Leo covered his mouth as the television showed a fireball…the tail structure of Air Force One scattered among the fields of red tulips just north of the city…then cut back to the studio news anchor, a handsome man with gray hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He couldn’t speak, lips trembling, finally shook his head, and walked off camera.
Assalaamu Alaikum. A state of national emergency is now declared, said a deep voice, as the other anchor and the weatherman exchanged stunned glances. Until further notice, all forms of communication within the capital are now blocked in the interests of national security. Please go to your homes and await further word from the Office of the President. The screen went to an image of the flag billowing over the Presidential Palace.
Sarah heard pounding at the front door. She wiped her tears, checked the security monitors. Yelled to Leo and her mother.