We lay like that for a long time, and then I could feel the change in her as her tension changed from the totality of grief to the awkwardness of awareness. We were as physically close as lovers, but there had been nothing even remotely s.e.xual about her tears or my holding her, not even in our lying down together. Not at first. But now there was a new tension as we both became enormously aware of all the points of contact-of thighs intertwined, of groins pushed forward, of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s against my chest, of hot exhalations, and of animal heat and natural musk.

There was a moment when we should have rolled apart, made a few awkward jokes, and retreated to separate corners of the universe. But that moment pa.s.sed.

After a minute or two she said, very softly, "I didn't come here for this."

"I know."

"It's well, there was no one else. I can't talk to Mr. Church. Not about this. Not like this."

"No."

"And I don't know Dr. Sanchez yet. Not well enough."

"You don't know me, either."

"Yes," she said quietly, her forehead tucked under my chin. "I do. I know about Helen. I know about your mum. You've lost so much. As much as I have."

I nodded, she could feel it.

"Will you make love to me?" she asked.

I leaned back and looked down at her. "Not now," I said. When I saw the hurt on her face I smiled and shook my head. "You've chugged two beers, you're grieving, exhausted, and in shock. I'd have to be the world's biggest jacka.s.s to try and take advantage of that kind of vulnerability."

Grace looked at me for a long time. "You're a strange man, Joe Ledger." She pushed one of her hands up between us and touched my face. "I never thought you'd be kind. Not to me. You're an actual gentleman."

"We're a dying breed they're hunting us down one by one."

She laughed and then laid her head against me. "Thanks for listening, Joe."

After another long time of silence she said, "Back at the plant I asked you a question, about whether we've stopped this. Was that the last cell? Did we stop the terrorist movement here in the States, or did we just burn up our last lead?"

"Bad questions to ask in the dark," I said, stroking her hair.

"Mr. Church spoke with the President and the head of the FDA. The gears are already turning to get the pharmaceutical companies involved. The President will address a closed session of Congress in two days. The full resources of the United States, England, and the other allies will be thrown against this now."

"Yes."

"So why am I still so afraid?" she asked.

The silence swirled around us.

"Same reason I am," I said.

She said nothing more and after a long while her breathing changed to the slow, steady rhythm. I kissed her hair and she wriggled more tightly against me, and after a while, she slept. After a much longer time I, too, drifted off.

Chapter Ninety-One.

The DMS Warehouse, Baltimore / Sat.u.r.day, July 4; 6:01 A.M.

GRACE AND I had a quiet breakfast in the mess hall before first light, then she headed off to muster her team while I made a call. I was hoping I'd wake Church up and get to hear him when he was off balance, but he answered on the first ring. Fricking robot.

Instead of "h.e.l.lo" he asked, "Is there a problem?"

"No. I wanted to touch base about the Liberty Bell thing. You still cool with me taking Echo Team to Philly?"

"Of course," he said, and it implied that I'd have heard different if he'd changed his mind. The communication flow with him was going to take some getting used to. I'm used to a lot more bureaucracy. "I advised the President of our concerns with safety during the holiday, and he approved all of my recommendations. The gears are already turning to get the pharmaceutical companies involved. The President will address a closed emergency session of Congress tomorrow. The full resources of the United States, England, and the other allies will be thrown against this now."

Church briefly outlined the steps he was taking to bulk up security at the top twenty Fourth of July events scheduled across the country. It meant mobilizing tens of thousands of additional police and military, and though that had to be a red-tape nightmare Church seemed confident that it would all be handled. I guess having a rubber stamp from the Commander in Chief lit a lot of fires under the right a.s.ses. Points for Church.

"My question," I said when he'd finished, "is what our actual status is going to be down there in Philly? I mean we can't exactly flash DMS badges, can we?"

"We don't have badges," he said. "I also discussed this with the President and obtained authorization for Echo Team to roll as a special detachment of the Secret Service. How familiar are you with their protocols?"

"I can fake it."

"Last night I called a friend in the garment industry and appropriate clothes should be arriving by six-thirty. IDs were already sent by courier and Sergeant Dietrich has them."

"You don't like wasting time, do you?"

"No," he said, and hung up.

I smiled and shook my head. So this is what it felt like to be in the major league.

I found Dietrich and got the material Church had sent. IDs for everyone plus a detailed set of notes from Church that included the names and numbers of the people we planned to interview.

I found Grace in the computer trailer. I told her about my call to Church. "How is it that he has this much power over the President? I mean who is Church?"

Grace shook her head. "I've heard some bits and pieces of things over the last couple of years that add up to his having the goods on a lot of people in Washington."

"The goods? As in blackmail?"

"I think he quite literally knows where all of the bodies are buried, as the saying goes. He has leverage on a lot of power players and he uses it to get what he wants."

"Good thing he's on our side." I paused. "He is on our side, isn't he?"

"G.o.d, I hope so."

"How'd he get all this dirt?"

"I can make a guess," she said, arching an eyebrow, and then she tilted her head in the direction of the complex array of computer terminals that filled the room.

"MindReader?"

She shrugged. "It makes sense. It's brilliant at digging into everyone else's business without leaving a trace that it was there. That's one of its unique and most dangerous features. With MindReader he can sneak into the Pentagon, read whatever files he wants, and then exit without leaving the usual signature. I've seen him do it."

"Holy smoke." I stared at the computer as if it was Aladdin's lamp. "You ever heard the expression, 'If that were to fall into the wrong hands it'd be curtains for the free world'? Well, that pretty much applies here."

"Too right it does. There are only a handful of people in the world who have access, and Church has to personally grant us access through his mainframe router to allow us to log on each day. It's no joke, and even though MindReader doesn't leave a trace in other computers, all searches and operations are logged on his hard drive."

"So Big Brother really is watching," I mused.

"All the time."

"Does the man ever sleep?"

"G.o.d, I've never seen him so much as yawn. I think he's a cyborg."

"At this point, it wouldn't surprise me. Maybe there's something in those vanilla wafers."

She picked up a printout. "These are the names of the agency directors who have sent staff to the DMS. Nearly half of them will be in Philadelphia today for the Liberty Bell event, either as guests or on the job. Because the First Lady, the Vice President's wife, the wives of fifty congressmen, and over a hundred members of Congress are all attending the event, it's a security mishmash. Most of the chiefs will be there to make sure their individual Indians don't let anyone of importance get scalped."

"I know, I was originally a.s.signed to the detail. How's this helping us?"

"The President, at Mr. Church's urging, has contacted each of these directors to put themselves at our disposal. We can set up meetings, and we can interview them personally."

"During a major event?" I goggled.

"Well we'd have to pick our moments," she conceded.

I was skeptical. "All well and good, but how can we interview them with all of the speeches and rallies going on?"

"The rededication only lasts two hours."

"Good point," I said. "Okay, let's mount up and ride."

Chapter Ninety-Two.

El Mujahid / The Motorways Motel / July 4 THE FIGHTER SAT on the edge of the motel bed in cotton trousers and a tank top that showed off his huge shoulders, bull neck, and the corded muscles of his arms. He had removed his bandage to let his guests inspect his face and the slash mark was a livid red line surrounded by green and purple bruises.

The two men seated on the couch stared at him. Ahmed, Amirah's brother, was on the left, his face showing concern for his brother-in-law. Next to him was a young black man with wire-framed gla.s.ses and a knit kufi on his close-cropped hair. His name was Saleem Mohammad but was born as John Norman twenty-six years ago in West Philadelphia. He was a graduate of Temple University's MFA theater program where he specialized in stage makeup and costume design. For two years after graduation he worked on and off Broadway, but eighteen months ago he met an African-American mullah who introduced him first to the teachings of Muhammad and, later, to the more radical teachings of El Mujahid. Saleem had been totally captivated and over the months moved smoothly from a study of the Koran to a more specialized study of fundamentalist politics. Years of repressed anger bubbled up and came to a boil when he saw the tapes of El Mujahid's diatribes on Western interference in Middle East culture and religion. Unlike many of his fellow converts to the faith, Saleem was thoroughly primed to accept the belief that extreme measures were sometimes necessary in order to protect the followers of the one true G.o.d. Saleem looked like an artist, which he certainly was, but in his chest beat the heart of a soldier of the Faith.

Sitting there on the couch, he looked very young to El Mujahid, but the Fighter could see familiar fires burning in Saleem's eyes. It pleased him. The Fighter was amused by the young man, but he also felt proud of him, of his depth of conviction. For nearly an hour they had discussed scriptures and had all prayed together. Now, their prayer mats rolled up, they sat and talked. El Mujahid had taken off his shirt and bandages to let Saleem take a close look.

"Can you do it?" the Fighter asked.

"Yes. What you want is easy. I mean, there's nothing to it." Saleem looked at Ahmed. "I thought you said you wanted me to do something difficult?"

Ahmed shook his head. "I said I wanted you to do something important."

"It needs to hide everything," said El Mujahid, "the cut, the bruising."

Saleem smiled earnestly. "Give me an hour and I can guarantee you that no one will recognize you or see that injury. I have everything I need at my apartment."

"That's excellent."

They agreed on a time for Saleem to return and the young man left, looking a little starstruck at having been in the presence of El Mujahid. One of Ahmed's agents tailed him surrept.i.tiously though both he and El Mujahid were convinced of Saleem's dedication to the cause. When he was gone, the Fighter pulled on a shirt and b.u.t.toned it up.

"By now Gault knows that I've eluded his a.s.sa.s.sins and that we have the trigger device," El Mujahid said. "If he was man enough to grow a beard Gault would be pulling it out by now. He must be very confused over what has happened." He paused. "Where is the shipment from Amirah?"

"Andrea installed it over a week ago, and it is very cleverly hidden. No one will detect it," Ahmed said, referring to his American girlfriend, a woman he'd converted to their brand of Islam a few years ago. He gestured to a suitcase that he'd brought with him.

"Which version did Amirah send? I tried Generation Seven on a village and it was impressive."

"Generation Ten."

"Ten?" gasped the Fighter. "You mean Generation Seven-"

Ahmed grinned and shook his head. "My sister is ambitious and her anger toward the Western Satan is very great. She did not say much in her coded message, but she said that this will sweep America like the breath of G.o.d."

El Mujahid murmured a prayer.

Ahmed nodded to the suitcase. "Your clothes, identification, weapons everything is there. Once Saleem performs his magic tricks then you will be able to walk among them and not be suspected. Everything is in place, my brother, and Andrea will be on site to make sure that it all goes smoothly." He paused and gave his lips another nervous lick. "There is one more thing. My sister sent something for us. She shipped it using Gault's own pipeline and it was delivered via international hazardous materials courier to a hospital in Trenton, New Jersey, late yesterday. The accompanying papers and forms were flawless so that no eyebrows were raised. My sister is very clever."

"That she is. What did she send?"

Ahmed smiled. "Well on the package it said that it was samples for bacteriological research. Something to do with plant blight. And in truth that's what most of the contents were, heading from one of Gault's labs in India to a research facility here in the States, but of the twenty-four vials of infectious materials there were two that contained something quite different." He paused and repeated that. "Quite different, Allah be praised."

"Tell me "

"She sent Generation Twelve of the Seif al Din."

"Do we need more? I thought-"

Ahmed shook his head. "This is not a weapon, my brother. If Generation Ten is the Sword, then Generation Twelve is the shield."

The Fighter looked confused, and then as understanding blossomed a great ma.s.s of pent-up tension left his body in a long exhale. "Allah be praised, all blessings to His name."

Ahmed reached out and squeezed El Mujahid's arm. "She did it!" he said in an excited whisper. "We have an antidote. Amirah did what no one else has been able to do she created a cure for the disease. We can release it as planned and then only the G.o.dless Americans will die but we-we, my brother-will survive!"

The room swam around him and El Mujahid slid from his chair onto his knees. For weeks now he had been mentally and spiritually preparing himself for what he believed was a suicide mission. He had accepted the will of Allah that he should die from the Seif al Din as he released it on the Americans. It was so small a price to pay to deliver a killing stroke unlike anything ever inflicted on an enemy. Total annihilation of the Americans and an ocean between the wasteland that North America would become and the rest of the world. But now now!

He lowered his reeling head to the floor and gave praise to Allah, weeping with joy, weeping with the knowledge that the one true G.o.d had chosen to spare him and to let him continue to fight for His truth here on Earth. Paradise was a wonderful promise, but El Mujahid was a fighter and had regretted leaving the battle with so much to be done.

Tears sprang into Ahmed's eyes as well and he knelt down next to his brother-in-law, his friend, and together they prayed, both of them knowing that it would all work now, that nothing could stop the Seif al Din.

Nothing.