“And a great many dead people,” Lohengrin said.
“What about getting Little Fat Boy back in play? A fourteen-year-old nuke with a personal grudge against Weathers should rein the PPA in, right?”
“Ra,” Lohengrin said. “His name is Ra now, and no. So long as Old Egypt is not attacked, the Living Gods are determined to stay out of the conflict.”
“How very Swiss of them.”
“There is a further problem with Tom Weathers. We’ve always known that Weathers had more powers than most aces. Insubstantiality. Strength. Ultraflight. Heat beams. We know he was involved in the battle in part because these powers were in play. But other powers have been reported as well. The wave of darkness? The terrible mauling of the bodies?”
“You think he’s like the Djinn?” Bugsy said, sitting forward on the couch. Nothing took the humor out of a situation like the Djinn. “You think Weathers is picking up new powers.”
“I do not know,” Lohengrin said. “New powers. Or new allies. We know little about the man himself. Where he comes from, how he drew the wild card, what his weaknesses might be. What exactly his powers are. That is what I want you to uncover, Jonathan. Tom Weathers is likely the most powerful ace in the world, he is starting a war, and I know nothing substantial about him.”
“And so,” Bugsy said, “who the fuck is the Radical?”
Unnamed Island
Aegean Sea, Greece
“Daddy!”
The woman who came flying at him across rocky soil tufted with pale green grass was tall and slender. Despite the fact her handsome face was clearly middle-aged, it showed few lines. Her hair, long and blond, had begun by slowly evident degrees to turn to silver. Yet her manner was that of a seven-year-old girl.
A very happy one. She caught him in a hug that for all his superhuman strength still almost overbalanced him. She was just four inches shorter than his six-two.
He kissed her. “Sprout. Hey, sweetie.” He tousled the long straight hair. “I missed you.”
“I missed you, too. Can we go to the park soon?”
“Aye, that’s a good idea,” said Mrs. Clark, emerging from the modest field-stone cottage behind her. “It’s not fit for her to spend all her days cooped up here alone, with no one for company but an iPod and a dried-up old biddy like me.”
“I wouldn’t call you dried up, Mrs. Clark,” he said, past the woman’s cheek, wet with happy tears.
“You’d not dare.”
“You got that right.”
This was true. The caretaker was a middle-aged to elderly New Zealander, half Maori with a crisp Scots brogue. Her coloration and build were those of a brick wall; her tight bun of curly hair was nearly the same hue. Sprout loved her. She treated Sprout with patient cheerful firmness and took absolutely not ounce one of shit from anybody else. Not even Tom.
Which was fine. It was what he paid her for. Fantastically well, he vaguely gathered. Unlike most of the self-proclaimed socialist revolutionaries he met, Tom had no interest in money whatsoever; it was one of the reasons he always wound up getting pissed off at the posers, and then there was trouble. Dr. Nshombo-more often Alicia-always gave him whatever he asked for. Most, in fact, went toward keeping his daughter well cared for and as happy as possible in a succession of the remotest locations Earth provided.
It was the only way he knew of keeping her safe from that teleporting puke. Until he hunted him down and killed him, of course.
“I could use a day’s shopping as well, I admit,” Mrs. Clark said. “Time to myself and a few necessities for the child and me. Maybe tomorrow, Mr. L?”
She didn’t even try to pronounce the name he gave her, which was Karl Liebknecht. Among the things he paid her so well for was not to wonder about such things as why his daughter sometimes called herself by the last name Weathers, and other times Meadows. Or why the daughter looked older than her father. Her main concern was that there was no funny business between her employer and her charge. Once he had convinced her of that, she was content to live in isolation with her charge, so long as she got the occasional day off in civilization. And in between had a sufficient supply of mystery novels.
“Tomorrow?” his daughter said, blue eyes shining eagerly. “You promise?”
He nodded. “I promise.”
Sprout hugged him fiercely. “I wish I could stay with you, Daddy.”
“Someday you can, sweetie. Someday. But I got some things to take care of first.”
Noel Matthews’s Apartment
Manhattan, New York
Niobe was sleeping, worn-out by the emotional upheaval of the past few hours. Noel wandered around the apartment they had rented while they underwent the fertility treatments. It had come furnished with sofas and chairs designed more for magazine covers than the human body. They had tried to personalize an impersonal space by putting up lots of framed photos-most of them of Niobe’s “children”-the little aces who had lived and died like mayflies. Noel found the pictures depressing, but they were important to Niobe so he never said a word. His own efforts had consisted of leaving magazines piled on the glass coffee table and used teacups on the side tables. Niobe had also crocheted an afghan to throw across the black leather and chrome sofa.
Three more weeks and we can really go home. Noel entered the kitchen and set about brewing a pot of tea. He realized he was hungry and set out a muffin. His back felt tight. He hadn’t worked out in weeks and hadn’t attended a karate class in months. The fact that he had been complacent suddenly alarmed him, and he decided to get back to the gym.
He snapped on the TV in the kitchen, headed to CNBC for the latest financial news, and found himself passing through CNN. He caught a quick flash of the Presidential Palace in Baghdad and a grim-faced Prince Siraj surrounded by security rushing up the steps. Siraj looked old. Shockingly old.
I need your help… I really do need your help.
His old friend’s words echoed filled with sadness, reproach, and might-have-beens.
Noel pulled out his phone and dialed. “What exactly do you want me to do?” he said.
Jackson Square
New Orleans, Louisiana
Michelle was in that strange room again. Juliet and Joey were there. But her mother and father were gone now.
Her throat was still brutally raw. She could barely swallow, much less try to speak. Her arms and legs were as useless as her throat.
And the power was like napalm in her veins. Drake, she thought. Oh, God, Drake. What happened? Did I kill him? Did Sekhmet kill him? Tom Weathers? Was that wound from the medallion worse than it seemed? And how am I not dead? How are we all not dead?
“Wha…” Her voice was a rusty hinge. Her throat felt as if it were being stabbed by a knife when she swallowed.
Juliet started crying, and Michelle wanted to comfort her. To tell her it was all right. Whatever had happened to Michelle had clearly hurt Juliet. Juliet didn’t even have any tats scrolling across her body.
Michelle closed her eyes. Maybe if she went back to sleep, she’d wake up later and everything would be all right.
3
Saturday,
November 28
Presidential Palace
Baghdad, Iraq
The Caliphate of Arabia
The scent of dust, dried lemons, and saffron seemed to pierce not only his sinuses, but his heart.
Noel staggered, and rested his hand against the stone wall. It was hot to the touch. He drew in another deep breath and more scents were added-kerosene from countless cookstoves, the wet smell of donkey, incense from the nearby mosque. The sun beat down on his head and warmed his shoulders. He could almost feel the cold fogs of New York and England leaching from his pores. Yes, he thought somewhat ruefully as he stepped out of the alley, the hem of his robe brushing at his heels. I am one of those desert-loving Englishmen.
The music of spoken Arabic fell like glittering notes all around him, but the point of the conversations were dark and somber. Too many fathers, brothers, husbands, and sons had marched off to the Sudd, and too few had been heard from again. Speculation ran wild in the streets.