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They drove separate cars back to Bay Ridge and found a pub down the street from Shabbir's place. The widescreen TV over the far corner of the bar was running a continuous stream of aerial video of the blast area. No football tonight.

They chose a window booth where they could watch the local frenzy of activity.

The whole block had been taped off. Dozens of FBI-labeled flak vests milled through a delirium of flashing lights.

Jack finished his own beer. He'd needed one too.

"Let's do that again."

As Jack signaled the waitress for another round, Davis leaned across the table and lowered his voice.

"The Fibbies will be all over that place. Make CSI look like a food fight. You and Zek didn't leave any trace they can latch onto, right?"

Jack shook his head and took no offense.

"Kept the cigarette butts outside, wore gloves inside. Taught me that in Heir school too."

Davis didn't smile. "Good. If the Oculus's vision was accurate—about loading the vests there—they should find traces of Semtex in the apartment. They can analyze its composition and maybe trace it to the source."

"So? Five'll get you fifty it's Iran." Abe had told him the Iranians were turning out Semtex like pita dough. "What help is that?"

Davis leaned back and sighed. "Not a lot, I guess." He shook his head. "The borders are sieves."

"You think that's the way the Otherness is going? Terrorism?"

A shrug. "Anything that causes terror strengthens the Adversary." He leaned forward again. "And don't forget, this isn't just about America. Terrorism anywhere—Ireland, Iraq, Malaysia—is all food for the Adversary."

"Well then, don't you think that explosion tonight is causing its share of terror?" He nodded toward the TV. "That feed is going nationwide."

Davis nodded. "Yeah, well, I'm sorry about that. It wasn't supposed to go down like this. Miller is—"

"A menace. Something wrong with that guy—sick bad wrong. He's got a piece missing."

"Yeah, but he's loyal and fearless."

"So's Zeklos, but he's being sent to Idaho."

Davis's gaze shifted. "Zek isn't exactly fearless."

"Yeah? How so?"

"Let's leave it at that."

Jack could respect that. He leaned back as the waitress brought them fresh beers. He didn't feel like talking about tonight anymore.

"Okay," he said when she was gone, "honest now: Do you think Miller will ever accept me—not as the Heir, just my presence?"

"Well, he feels only yenigeri should be in the MV."

"That doesn't answer my question. Will he ever accept me?"

After a long pause, Davis shook his head. "Maybe when they stop rerunning / Love Lucy."'

That pretty much said it all. Jack turned to a couple of questions that had popped up during the day.

"Do you guys, you yenieeri, have any lives?"

Davis nodded. "Yeah. It's called Militia Vigilum."

"I mean outside of that."

"You mean a home away from Home. Wife? Kids?" He shook his head. "Forbidden. No Ozzie and Harriet scene. Not even a girlfriend. The MV is all the family we need or get."

Jack couldn't see how that was possible.

"You mean you're some sort of monastic order?"

"In a way. But not celibate."

"You said no girlfriends."

Davis smiled. "We're an ancient order, and we take our comfort from a profession even more ancient."

"But how do you spend your free time? I get the feeling it's not fasting and meditation."

"We play cards and checkers and chess while we're on duty. I've become a pretty decent chess player. Want to play sometime?"

Davis's wistful tone prompted a little epiphany: This man was lonely. He'd sacrificed just about everything so he could devote himself to saving the world. Something to be said for that kind of dedication, that sacrifice, that singleness of purpose. Jack had met some rabid environmentalists who thought they were saving the world, but at least they had real lives on the side.

Jack felt for Davis, but not enough to take up chess again.

"Sorry. Gave it up."

His eyebrows lifted. "You're kidding. It's a wonderful game."

"Don't have the patience for it."

Jack had learned that he was too reckless, too impulsive to be a good chess player. Could last only so long before his patience ran out and he started making crazy moves—anything to get a little action going and break the game open. All the care and detail he put into his fix-its deserted him on the chessboard. Maybe it was a matter of real life versus a game. If he gave into impulses on a fix-it, his skin was at stake; in chess, only some little chunks of wood.

"What else do you do?" he said. "Besides put out fires?"

"We track the Adversary. Sometimes that involves putting out fires, sometimes starting them."

"How so?"

"Well, for instance, in sixty-four A.D. we fought the great Rome fire alongside the official Militia Vigilum. That was when we started thinking of ourselves as a different sort of MV. We'd tracked the Adversary to Rome. To this day we're sure he started the fire, simply to feed on the chaos. But he wound up with a bonus when Nero blamed the Christians and started throwing them to the lions."

"But what about starting fires?"

"The library at Alexandria—we burned that because the Adversary's followers were secretly gathering a collection of dangerous texts there."

Jack wondered if the Compendium of Srem had been among them.

"But those were the old days," Davis said. "Now we watch a lot of TV. Too much, I think."

Jack remembered his references to Lucy, Father Knows Best, Ozzie and Harriet, and Leave It to Beaver, so he took a stab.

"Let me guess: TV Land."

Davis's eyes widened. "You psychic? Or is that something else you learn in Heir school?"

Jack smiled and shrugged. "Tell me this: Can you quit the MV?"

Davis smirked. "Obviously they don't teach you everything in Heir school."

"Can you?"

Davis shook his head. "Nope."

Jack didn't buy that.

"You expect me to believe that after all this time, all these centuries—"

"Millennia."

"—not one person has quit? Come on. Somebody must have."

"Have you ever read an expose of the MV or the yeniceri, or even a news story hinting at our existence?"

Jack hadn't.

"Nobody has ever quit? Not even one disgruntled ex-member wandering around?"

Davis's face was a mask. "You are either loyal to the yenigeri code, or you are not."

"And what if you're not?"

"Then you are… not." He blinked and shrugged. "But let's talk about something else. As I said, I'm sorry about tonight. But I like the way you handle yourself. Next time we go out—"

"Not going to be a next time."

Davis stared at him. "What? You can't be serious."

"Dead serious. This isn't going to work. Call me anal, but I like doing things, my way. I do not like other people making decisions for me, even if they mean well, even if our goals are in tune. How I score is as important as the scoring."

"Look. I'll see to it that you never get teamed with Miller again. I can—"

Jack held up a hand. "Won't matter. It simply isn't going to work."

Davis leaned so far over the table he looked as if he were going to climb on it.

"This isn't about you, Jack. It's about everybody. I'm sorry your sensibilities took a beating tonight, but this is too important to let your ego get in the way."

"Nothing to do with ego."

"Then what? We're in the fight of our lives and we're losing. Every day the Otherness encroaches just a little bit more. Each little increment doesn't seem like much at the time, but if you look back you can see how far it's come. Stalin used the tactic in Eastern Europe. He called it 'salami slicing.' In other words, if you grab the whole salami, there'll be hell to pay. But filch a slice at a time and it's barely noticed; and even if it is, no one gets too upset. But keep on niching those slices and eventually you'll have—"