Jihad

— pulled onto the road between them and Dean had to slow down again. He was just thinking he might pass the bus when one of the SUVs turned off the highway, once more heading toward the city.

“Tommy, you in your car?”

“About five minutes away. I thought they might have dropped someone off but I can’t see him.”

“They split up. Asad’s in the truck that got off the highway. I’m going to stick with him.”

“Gotcha.”

Dean followed the SUV into a residential area. A few minutes later, he passed the vehicle, which had parked in front of a three-story house. The bottom of the house was made of narrow gray bricks, which gave way about the middle of the second story to dark black clapboard.

“You got him,” said Rockman. “The buggee’s inside.” He chortled a bit, in love with his earlier joke about the buggee getting buggered. “Looks like the other SUV is circling around and headed in your direction. He’s at least ten minutes away. Tommy’s on his tail.”

“Great,” said Dean, continuing down the street so he could find a place to park.

* * *

“Best place to put the receiving unit is this tree behind the house,” said Karr, jabbing his finger at the picture in the screen of the PDA.

“Too close,” said Dean. “You can see it from the top floor of the house.”

They were three blocks away, sitting beneath the pink umbrella of a small cafe. Small was the operative word — there was only one table, and they were the only customers. Karr had launched the Crow, allowing them to view the neighborhood.

“I could land the Crow in the tree and we could get it,” said Karr. “Claim it’s a kite.”

Dean took the PDA and looked at the image from the small, unmanned aircraft. The robot plane flew a random pattern, and looked so much like a real bird that Dean had mistaken a real one for the robot soon after Karr launched it.

“This house here is above them,” said Dean, pointing to a smooth white building two doors away. Even though it appeared to be only two stories, its roof was higher and flat. “We could climb up the vine at the back and stick the unit in the gutter. No one’ll find it.”

“That vine will never hold me. We need Lia.”

“Lia’s not around,” said Dean. “Stay here.”

* * *

The vine gave way as soon as Dean pulled at it. He threw it to the ground and stepped back, looking for another way up. A large metal garbage can nearby would give him a decent boost if he dragged it over; he could push it over to the side and grab onto the metal conduit protecting the power line and pull himself up — assuming it didn’t give way under his weight. But the spot there was exposed; while he hadn’t seen anyone yet, he’d be in easy view from any of the neighboring houses.

Dean took another two steps back and bumped into something that moved. He swirled around, bowling over a boy six or seven years old. The kid’s soccer ball bounced from his hands, rolling away.

“Sorry,” said Dean. “Affedersiniz,” he added immediately, remembering the Turkish word for excuse me. He grabbed the ball and held it out to the boy, who was seven or eight.

The kid leaned forward, tilting his head — and then with a quick flick of his hand swatted it from Dean’s palm. He jumped up in time to rebound it off the top of his knee, settling it down on the ground with a grin.

“Pretty good, kid,” said Dean. The translator gave Dean the phrase in Turkish, but Dean didn’t have time to use it — the boy kicked the ball to Dean, who caught it as if it were an American football.

“How high can you kick it?” Dean asked the kid.

“I can kick higher than the house,” said the boy, his English perfect.

“What are you doing, Charlie?” Rockman asked.

Dean pulled a ten-lira note from his pocket and showed it to the boy. “Yours if you get the ball on the roof.”

He made it on the first try. Dean pulled the garbage can over; as he climbed on top of it the boy reappeared on the edge of the roof above him, laughing.

“How’d you do that, you little monkey?” asked Dean. He grabbed hold of the pipe and pulled himself to the top of the roof. The kid was waiting, ball under his arm, smiling.

Dean dug into his pocket and took out a bill.

“You wanna play soccer, mister?”

“You’d whip me ten ways to Sunday,” Dean told the boy. “Thanks, though ”

The kid gave him a forced little smile, then popped the ball upwards off his head. It shot up about five feet; he headed it again. Dean’s heart leapt as the boy tottered near the edge of the roof. But he recovered his balance, tapped the ball upwards, then dropped and climbed down the side, landing on the ground just as the ball completed its third bounce in front of his feet.

Dean planted the booster device between a gap in the bricks that formed a crown on the front part of the roof.

“Working,” said Rockman. “Much better signal.”

“I’m going to kick the ball around with this kid a bit before I go back to the car,” Dean said, starting down. “For cover.”

“Since when are you nice to kids?” Rockman asked.

“I’m always nice to kids.”

CHAPTER 17

William Rubens was due at the White House at noon to brief the new national security advisor on the operation. With things running well, he decided to leave Crypto City early enough to stop and visit the old national security advisor, his friend and one-time teacher, George Hadash. But as he approached Hadash’s hospital room, he was suddenly filled with dread; it was only out of a sense of loyalty and duty that he forced himself to continue down the corridor. Two days before, Hadash had undergone an operation to remove a brain tumor. The doctors had pronounced the operation a great success, but Rubens, visiting him a few hours later, had a completely different impression.

“Come,” said Hadash when he knocked on the door. Rubens was pleasantly surprised to find him sitting up in bed, the newest issue of Foreign Affairs in his hands. A pile of books sat on the bed next to him; two laptops sat on the rolling tray to the left.

“William! How are you?” said Hadash, his voice as strong as ever.

“I believe the question is how are you?” said Rubens. He shook Hadash’s hand — a good grip, though a little cold — and looked for a chair to sit down in. The nearest one was covered with books: all on the Civil War, Rubens noted as he piled them on the floor.

“Have you read this?” Hadash held up the Foreign Affairs. “McNally on Russia?”

Before Rubens could answer — he had read a few paragraphs and then moved on in disgust — Hadash launched into a lengthy and devastating critique, punctuated several times by the phrase “and people in Congress talk seriously of McNally as the next secretary of state.”

“A comment on the ability of Congress, surely,” said Rubens when the former national security advisor finally paused for a breath.

Hadash burst out laughing.

“You’re doing much better than the other day,” said Rubens. “When will you be out?”

“When they’ve grown tired of poking me. I have another MRI session scheduled for this afternoon. They promise a date then.”

Rubens nodded.

“Do you think about death, William?”

“I don’t,” Rubens answered honestly. “But I don’t think you’re going to die.”