"That'll be changing too," said Sarah. "If the alliance holds against Aztlan, there won't be any more room for such bigotry."
"Yeah, well, you believe what you want to. I live in the real world." Colarusso looked up at all the newly added security blimps ringing the city. "I sent Marie and the girls off to stay with Marie's sister in Wenatchee until things work themselves out. Nothing there worth bombing except apple trees. Every year her sister sends us that Aplets and Cotlets candy for Christmas. Supposed to be a healthy treat, but it sticks to my molars." He sucked at a tooth. "You and Michael are welcome to join them."
"I'm needed here."
"Me, I'm needed too. I get tempted sometimes to let people take care of themselves." Colarusso belched. "Last time I was here, I was with Rikki. You hear from him?"
"A few garbled messages. He and Moseby evidently found what they were looking for."
"Really?" Colarusso fished out his Saint Christopher medal, kissed it. "What I wouldn't give to see that. Touch it. You got no idea what that would mean to me."
"Yes, I do." Sarah fingered the crucifix around her own neck. "My mother was Catholic."
"Of course. I knew that." Ice cream dripped off the cone and onto Colarusso's hand. "Every time I think about what Rikki is bringing back…I can't hardly think straight."
"That's the idea." Sarah saw his expression, touched his arm. "I didn't mean it that way. I just meant that religious icons operate outside of rational thought."
"No offense taken," said Colarusso. "I've seen what rational thought leads to. Dumbest people I ever met were intellectuals. Present company excepted, of course."
"Of course."
"That one interview you did with what's his name…Robert Legault?" Colarusso watched her. "He seemed sweet on you, but maybe that's just me. Never met a cop who didn't have a dirty mind."
"It's just TV," said Sarah.
Legault had initiated the media campaign that had put Sarah on TV almost constantly ever since the president's speech three days ago. Legault's productions were flawless, dramatically lit, giving her a gravitas far beyond her years. He said she was the perfect advocate for reunion-smart, well-spoken, the beautiful niece of Redbeard, the head of State Security who had kept the Republic safe from terrorists during its early days. In her own right, Sarah was a free-thinking Muslim, advisor to the former president, and a historian able to put Brandt's initiative into context. Vietnam had once been divided, so had Korea, Germany, South Africa, greater Russia. All of them had reunited and grown stronger because of it.
For good or ill, the president's speech had altered the geopolitical landscape. The armed forces had been put on high alert, all leaves cancelled, but with the trade embargo between the Republic and the Belt lifted, the stock markets of both nations were up over 15 percent. The president had called Sarah twice, thanking her for her support and suggesting that she share the stage with him at a national town-hall meeting next week.
Getty, a friend and high-level government official in Atlanta, had contacted her, told her that the Belt president was hunkered down in the bomb shelter under his mansion and refusing to make decisions. Getty and other senior staffers had formed a war cabinet led by the Colonel to deal with the impending hostilities. It's a roller coaster livin' in excitin' times, isn't it? he had told her. I haven't had so much fun since Truman Capote weekend the year I graduated Duke.
A young couple approached, moderates, the woman short and rounded in a shimmering yellow chador, pregnant, the man tall and serious in a gray suit with a REUNION! button on his lapel.
"It is you," said the young man.
"I told him but he didn't believe me," said the young woman. "We're so proud of you."
Sarah pressed her fingertips together in a blessing. "We have some tough times ahead."
"We'll get through them," the young man said eagerly.
"My grandpa told us stories about when we were one country," said the young woman. "Was it really that wonderful?"
"No," Sarah and Colarusso said at the same time.
"They were trying to make it better, though," said Sarah. "Maybe soon we'll get another chance."
The young woman touched her belly. "I'm sure of it."
They watched as the couple left, the young woman turning once to wave at them. Fourth time Sarah and Colarusso had been interrupted by well-wishers since they sat down.
"Look at this," said Colarusso, ice cream dripping onto his suit. He tossed the soggy cone into a trash can, licked his fingers. "My own fault for getting a triple. They price things so the third scoop costs hardly anything, but you got to eat so fast you get a brain freeze." He wiped his hand on his pants, sat down. Took a slow look around. "Well, here's something you might not know-police and State Security busted up five planned terrorist attacks in the last forty-eight hours. Black Robes."
"I'm sure ibn-Azziz isn't pleased with the president kissing up to the Belt."
"That's what I wanted to ask you about," said Colarusso. "We can't connect ibn-Azziz to the planned attacks. Seems to be the work of individual imams acting on their own. State Security intercepted a confidential fatwa from New Fallujah ordering no Muslim to interfere in any way with the president's overture to the Belt."
"Probably disinformation. Ibn-Azziz must have wanted it to be intercepted."
"Maybe." Colarusso shrugged. "Whatever the fatwa's intention, it seems to be working. Things are quiet at the mosques. In fact, captain at State Security told me it was ibn-Azziz's people who tipped them off to the planned attacks. How fucking crazy is that?"
"It's a hudna," said Sarah. "That's what ibn-Azziz assumes the president is really up to with the Belt. That's why he doesn't want to interfere."
"A what?"
"Hudna. It's an Arabic word that means calm…or a peace treaty. A temporary cessation of hostilities, not because the war is over, but so Muslims can regroup or redirect their strength. To ibn-Azziz, our immediate enemy is Aztlan, but our long-term enemy remains the Belt."
"So we're pals until we defeat Aztlan, and then we turn on the Belt?"
"I don't know anybody who expects us to defeat Aztlan, but together we might persuade them to rein in their territorial ambitions."
"You think that's what the president is doing?"
"I don't know."
"Hudna." Colarusso shook his head. "Where I grew up we called that a stab in the back."
"It's considered a morally acceptable Muslim battle tactic," said Sarah. "At least when used against infidels."
"I'll never understand you people."
"Yes, your people are ever so superior, Anthony. Like that lovely Borgia family that just moved in down the block. The sister, Lucrezia, brought by the most marvelous-looking raspberry tart cake yesterday, you'll have to try it."
The two-seat helicopter caught the sunset as it angled across Perdue Airbase outside of Atlanta, skimmed over the trees and set down gently not far from a small private jet idling nearby. "Go!" shouted the military pilot.
Rakkim darted out of the chopper, keeping low as he ran.
"In!" barked the military aide in the gray uniform, a machine gun slung over his shoulder. He half lifted, half threw Rakkim into the open hatch of the jet, then jumped in after him, secured the door. The jet was already taxiing down the runway before Rakkim got seated.
Rakkim's belt snaked across his lap as the jet took off at a steep angle, pressing him back into his seat, the noise so high his ears hurt. The jet penetrated the reddish-orange cloud cover, still climbing, still accelerating, tiny pretzel-wheel snacks rolling down the aisle.
Rakkim had gotten lucky after he left Baby at the motel. The storm had kept most traffic off the road and he made good time. It took a dozen phone calls but he finally got through to the Colonel, who had sent a helicopter for him.