Dana Stabenow - Prepared For Rage

He'd seen on Irhabi's blog that Ansar was still looking for him. Which meant that the old man was still looking for him, because Ansar would be happy never to see Akil again, happy to step into the power vacuum left by Zarqawi's death. Akil had given some thought to the possibility that Ansar had been the one who had betrayed Zarqawi's location to the Americans, before dismissing the notion. Ansar simply hadn't the courage it took to betray a friend. Neither had he the intelligence to plan it.

What he did have was the ambition to exploit the results.

Akil didn't trust any of them. He had trusted Zarqawi because Zarqawi had stood by him, in spite of his not being Jordanian, in spite of his pioneering of the Internet, in spite of his refusal to lip sync his way through prayers with the rest of them. He'd never lied to Zarqawi. He could barely tell the difference between Sunni and Shia, and he didn't care if the whole world bowed toward Mecca. He hated the West for reasons of his own, and he would do everything in his power to bring it down. He'd proved it over and over again to Zarqawi, with the result that Zarqawi had trusted him completely, going so far as to make him his second in command, a signal honor in al Qaeda for the not Saudi- or Jordanian-born.

He did not contact Ansar, or the old man, or anyone from the organization. He had let all previous email addresses lapse, so he could say with perfect truth that he had received no message recalling him to Afghanistan. When his mission succeeded, they would know where he was, or at least where he had been. Even the old man would be forced to judge his precious money well spent.

So far as he could tell, the American authorities remained ignorant of his activities. He had seen nothing, in the Miami Herald he read every morning or on the television in his room or on Internet news web sites, that led him to believe that they even knew he was in the country. So far his cell was holding together, maintaining an admirable silence. Yussuf and Yaqub had done a good job of recruiting.

There was a soft knock at the door. "Mr. Sadat? Dinner is ready."

"I'll be right there," he said, and shut down his computer. He'd bought it to satisfy the curiosity of his landlady's daughter. He only rarely used it to access anything more alarming than a Hotmail account registered to an Isaac Rabin, which he used to subscribe to online versions of The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, and the Atlantic Monthly. Isaac Rabin belonged to Slate.comand iTunes, too, through which he downloaded news programs from NPR to his iPod. He'd also found a Baywatch fan podcast he listened to while taking ever-longer walks that were beginning to infringe on the edges of the Everglades.

Somewhat to his own surprise, he liked Miami. It was a vibrant city, filled with color and light and just the right amount of civil corruption, or at least enough to make him feel right at home. Everything was available here, for a price, including anonymity.

He left his room and went down the hall to the dining room to find Zahirah and Mrs. Mansour already seated. "I'm sorry to keep you waiting," he said, pulling out what had become his chair and sitting down.

"You work too hard, Mr. Sadat," Mrs. Mansour said in scolding tones, and passed the pile of bread rounds, still hot to the touch. The tagine was spicy, and he tore the naan into shreds and mopped his plate clean.

He sat back and Mrs. Mansour beamed at him. "I like to see a young man enjoy his food."

"I would be very hard to please indeed if I did not enjoy the food set before me at this table," he said.

Zahirah smiled at him, and again he was struck at how much she reminded him of Adara. "Are you ready?"

He drove the three of them to a nearby theater complex where they each bought their own tickets to a Will Ferrell comedy and went inside sedately to find seats. Halfway through the film he whispered, "Will you excuse me?" and slipped out.

There was a coffee shop next door with an online computer free of charge to customers. He bought a latte with a shot of butterscotch syrup and waited tranquilly for the Goth gentleman with the black eye shadow and the multiple piercings to finish his purchase of a studded dog collar from an Internet store called Radiance Bound.

Online, he accessed a remote server, ran through a number of fairly simple algorithms, another much more complicated one, and sent out several emails.

He had mail waiting for him at a server in Canada. The cell was proceeding as ordered, slipping into Haiti one at a time, some through Mexico, some through Canada, a few even through Miami. They had no idea he was in Miami, of course.

He knew a real temptation to join them, to be in at the kill, for once to be an eyewitness to all his work and worry, to see a plan of his very own come to fruition with his own eyes.

It was impossible, of course it was. The chances of detection were high, the chances of survival very low. He had further work to do elsewhere. He could not waste the years of expertise he had accumulated for vanity's sake.

Still, he thought wistfully, it might almost be worth the risk.

Yussuf had reported in with his usual diffidence. Yaqub had written with his usual effusiveness, repeating that his life had had no meaning until Isa came into it. Akil distrusted such fulsomeness, but Yaqub had thus far proved trustworthy. If Yaqub survived the operation-extremely unlikely, in Akil's opinion-a more permanent place might be found for him. His would be a growing organization, after all.

A tentative hand touched his shoulder. "Mr. Sadat, what are you doing?"

He turned his head and saw Zahirah standing behind him, an expression of confusion on her pretty face.

WASHINGTON, D.C.

The familiar tapping of slender heels preceded the equally familiar tap at his door. "Mr. Chisum?" Melanie's artfully tousled blond head came into view. "Mr. Labi on line one. He says it's urgent."

After Omar Khalid was exiled to Tajikistan, Ahmed Labi was one of the few remaining agents fluent in Farsi and Arabic they had managed to keep in D.C, as opposed to the wholesale shipment of anyone with even a passing knowledge of any Middle Eastern language directly to Baghdad. Ahmed also had a working knowledge of Urdu, useful in Pakistan. "Ahmed, this is Patrick. What's up?"

Ahmed's voice was tense. "I've got something. I think you should come down here."

"On my way." Patrick hung up, put on his suit jacket, straightened his

tie, and shot out his cuffs. He marched out into the outer office. "Melanie, you really must start using the intercom to let me know when I have a call."

She said, perfectly calmly, "But I find out so much more when I can hear even a part of your conversations, sir."

His mouth opened, and closed again.

She held her serious expression for as long as she could, before it dissolved in a loud, joyous belly laugh. He stared, transfixed, as her creamy skin flushed; the line of her throat revealed when her head fell back, those lovely breasts outlined by the clinging blue of her sweater set. For a woman getting on forty, she had a lovely figure. He wondered how it would hold up divested of angora wool.

He pulled himself together. Company ink, he reminded himself firmly, and marched out into the corridor with the spine of a soldier on parade. He'd reprimand her later. Not anything permanent, heavens no, just a verbal warning, a hint toward the desirability of discretion in the workplace.

Oh, how he hoped she wasn't sleeping with Kallendorf.

Two floors down he was sitting across from Ahmed, examining a sheaf of papers, printouts of emails and web searches. "They just popped up two days ago," he said, sounding almost as dazed as he looked. "It was like magic. One of the geeks was trying out a new search algorithm, looking for names and pseudonyms of people on the list. We totally lucked out."