Busted Flush

“Please come with us, sir,” says the Fucking Big Idiot.

It’s a very quick helicopter ride to scenic Wick, Texas. SCARE has set up headquarters in city hall, and the fact that SCARE rather than the FBI is in charge tells me that the Americans suspect some kind of wild card involvement. The mayor’s office has that small-town-politician-trying-too-hard-to-seem-important feel. The walls are lined with pictures of the potbellied little mayor posing with various national politicians and movie stars, with commendations from the Elks and the Moose and various other odd American organizations including, in fact, the Odd Fellows.

A woman sits behind the desk, and if the mayor were still here she would dwarf him. Joann Jefferson, aka Lady Black, is the Special Agent in Charge. As she stands she pulls her reflective cloak more tightly about her statuesque body. A tendril of silver hair has slipped from beneath the hood of her black bodysuit, and it seems to shine on her ebony cheekbone. She sketches a greeting with a black gloved hand, and then waves me into the chair across the desk from her. I don’t offer my hand. I know the suit and cloak are supposed to protect me from her energy-sucking power, but I’d rather not test the limits of the technology.

“Noel, what the fuck are you doing here?”

I lean back in the chair and pull out my cigarette case. “Ah, I see we’re dispensing with the pleasantries.” I take my time lighting up, and judge when she’s just about to lose it, then I say, “Someone set off a nuclear device. Normally I’d argue that in this godforsaken part of the world no one would notice and it would make little difference to the general ambience, but I gather some people died.”

She rubs a hand across her face. Despite great cheekbones her features look like they’re sagging. I sympathize. I’d really wanted to catch a nap back at the Swiss Clock. “I know we can’t hide this from other governments, but we don’t want a panic. If people knew a nuke went off . . .” Her voice trails away as if she’s just too weary to keep talking.

“Look, let us help. You might recall that we are allies. That special relationship and all that rot that our prime minister and your president mutter lovingly to one another.”

She’s considering. I decide to help her along. “Sorry about the directorship. We frankly couldn’t believe the news when we heard who replaced Nephi.” Her brows draw together in a sharp frown, but I can sense it’s not meant for me, and she’s a good little soldier and doesn’t take the opportunity to complain. “Well, just know that Flint is on your side, as am I,” I add.

For a brief moment the hard-charging law enforcement agent is replaced by a woman who looks pathetically grateful and vulnerable. It’s gone in the flick of an eyelash, and Jefferson says in a terse, clipped tone, “It’s got to be the Arabs. I guess they’re not content with destroying our economy, now they have to smuggle in a suitcase nuke and bomb us, too.”

“But Pyote, Texas? I mean, really. Not much of a splash with that. No, they would pick a far more visible target.”

“There are oil fields here,” she counters.

“And the Midland/Odessa fields are just about played out, and believe me, the oil ministers in Riyadh and Baghdad and Amman know that.”

She fingers that errant strand of hair and stares at me for a long time. “You people do know the Middle East better than we do.”

“You’re quite right. We’ve been oppressing them and manipulating them for far longer.” I stand. “I’ll see what I can find out. I have a few contacts over there.”

Even through the thick walls of one of Saddam’s former palaces I hear Baghdad humming. Everyone in the Caliphate—and any Muslim nation whether they are part of the Caliphate or not—gets subsidized petrol. It used to be said that every crane in Europe was in Berlin. Now every crane in Europe and a few more to boot are in the Middle East. Siraj is trying to jump fifty years in one. He may just succeed, unless those of us in the Western nations kill him first.

Siraj is neither a religious ascetic like the Nur nor a hedonist like Abdul. Instead, he’s a Cambridge-educated economist, so we are meeting in his state-of-the-art office in the midst of marble splendor. Every few seconds the computer dings, indicating a new e-mail. In the outer office a highly competent secretary answers the constantly ringing phone, and the fax machine whines and buzzes and shakes as it extrudes pages.

I’m in my Bahir form: red-gold hair and beard, traditional garb, shimmering golden cloak, and that damn scimitar. The teleporting ace who beheaded the enemies of the Caliphate had appealed to the Nur, but no assassin likes to get within arm’s length of a target. Give me a McMillan TAC-50 any day, and a location a mile from the objective.