“Your information is incorrect,” Abdullah said warily.
“Perhaps. As with the Army of the German Caliphate. One point two million on paper. Two hundred thousand in the field. Or the ally in Italy, the Caliphate of the False Messiah. On paper three quarters of a million. Reality, maybe a hundred thousand. No transport support, either. That’s endemic throughout the Army of Mohammed.”
Bastard, Azhar could hear Abdullah think.
“Try.”
Cheng frowned. “Try what?”
“To test us.”
The Asian laughed. “I’ve no interest in testing anything, Your Most Worthy Successor. I’m making sure that when your father moves against you, you can defeat them. Otherwise, it all falls upon us.”
“We saw how you handled that.” Abdullah sneered.
“Not well,” Cheng said blandly. “Which is what we’re trying to avoid. The point of peace is not to fight. What is your plan when the announcement goes out and the Mufti labels you a traitor.”
“As I told Lenora, that is ours to deal with.”
“As I’m telling you, it becomes ours also. If you fail and your Army attacks us, we have no choice but to use nuclear weapons.”
Abdullah’s jaw tightened. “My father will be eliminated long before.”
“You mentioned that,” Cheng said dismissively. “What about the Council?”
The Son hesitated. “Them too.”
“All eleven?”
“Only those who reject us.”
“All eleven, then.” Cheng nodded to himself. “And the Holy Warriors?”
“They will fight us.”
“To the death.”
“Yes,” Abdullah conceded.
“Twenty million of them, roughly.”
“Closer to thirty,” the Son said smugly.
“And you’ll have how many men under arms….”
Abdullah kicked aside the chair. “All the armies of the Council. The rot is prevalent. Then what is your concern?”
“That you’re fucking us, sir. That you have no solid support. That your head will roll up a Camel’s ass and your people will think us desperate and ripe to finish off. Or your head won’t be used as a couch cushion because this is a trap.”
“Which do you think it is, Mr. Cousin?” Abdullah sneered.
Cheng scowled and left the room. Azhar expected the soldiers to burst in with guns blazing. When one entered, Mustafa lifted up a chair by the leg. The soldier’s frown could be felt under his mask as he motioned them down the corridor, dispensing with black hoods or handcuffs.
They walked past soldiers with lifted face visors, expressions disgusted. That was the point, Azhar realized as they settled into the back seat of a car.
The soldiers were supposed to see them.
The ‘copter waited in the clearing, but Grandma’s Major wasn’t there. Azhar wasn’t surprised.
36
Annette grimaced slightly in the new green-and-gold open toed shoe as she walked gingerly up the wide wooden staircase in the 38th Police Precinct; a trickle of blood seeped into her heel.
Thank you, Puppy, she made a sound as if swapping out one of her lungs for a cheaper model and hobbled up to the police desk, where a nice looking older Blue Shirt carefully read her papers before returning them.
“How can we help you, Ms. Ramos?”
She indicated her sprightly colored yellow skirt and white, trimmed blouse. “As you can see, I’m a dedicated sibling willing to do what’s right.”
“Hopefully, we all are.”
“Yes, well, especially you. What would we do without our Blue Shirts?” Annette took in some especially attractive Blue Shirts strolling past.
“We appreciate that.”
“So when I saw injustice, I spoke up.”
The Blue Shirt wearily nodded for her to continue, wondering when he got his ‘bacco break. “Therefore, my question is small. According to the law, I should meet with the defendant…”
“Not a defendant. The person hasn’t been charged yet.”
“Ah.” She lowered her voice. “What should I call her?”
“Zelda Jones. And yes, the law provides the right of the accused to confront the accuser in private.”
“Accuser sounds so harsh.”
The Blue Shirt squinted. “What else should we call you?”
She felt ashamed. “I guess accuser works. To execute the laws properly, where would I go?”
“The Bronx Courthouse on 161st Street. Know where that is?” She nodded. “But you only have a couple days.”
“What happens then?”
He peered at the screen. “Says she’s being transferred.”
“Where?”
The sergeant frowned. “Doesn’t say.”
Annette pouted. “Is there a hint?”
The Blue Shirt glanced around uneasily and whispered. “BT facility.”
She puckered so deeply a straw couldn’t get through. “Is that unusual, sir?”
The Blue Shirt nodded. “In a case like this.”
Annette swung her handbag over her right shoulder and limped halfway down the steps. She stopped so abruptly two Blue Shirts bumped into her. I hate you so much, Puppy Nedick. She hobbled back up. The sergeant wasn’t thrilled to see her.
“Apologies, apologies.” Annette pressed her nipples against the chest-high desk and fiddled with her shoes. “I left a comb at the desk of those kindly Brown Shirts. It was very expensive, made in Mexico. A girl can’t let her hair get too wild.” She winked at what that might mean. “Are the Detectives in today?”
“You’d have to check with them. They’re very squishy about their side and ours. Fifth Floor.”
“Of course. Fifth Floor.”
Annette limped up the three flights, wishing Puppy a variety of testicular diseases. The two Brown Hats had their feet up on their desks, doodling.
“Good afternoon, sirs.”
They tipped their heads without recognizing her. Detectives passed back and forth to get coffee, donuts or answer their squat black phones.
“Annette Ramos. Fiance to Third Cousin Elias Kenuda.” Their indifference suggested it didn’t matter if she were Grandma’s plaything. “The accuser of Zelda Jones.”
Buca grunted. He and his partner waited.
“I was just chatting with one of your Blue Shirt colleagues.” They nodded vaguely. “At some point I’d like to fully discharge my duties as a member of The Family and allow the accused an opportunity to accuse me back. Not that I’ve anything to be accused about.” The Detectives exchanged bland looks. “Your kind colleague told me she was at the Bronx Courthouse but only for a couple days and since my schedule is crazy, my shoes are very popular and there’s
