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Dubai International Airport

Asim al-Bashir strode along the sand-toned carpet, which was patterned in curling arcs such as the wind would stir on the desert floor. Golden replicas of graceful palm trees lined the corridor of the Sheik Rashid terminal. Tourists and pilgrims thronged the duty-free shops where goods from all over the world were on display for the avid travelers. Al-Bashir disdained the merchants and buyers alike. Beyond the terminal’s windows he could see the garish skyline of high-rise office towers and hotels, including the thirty-story-high sail shape of the Burj al Arab Hotel. Western ostentation, he sneered inwardly. Instead of resisting the West’s garish culture, they imitate it and even exceed it.

When he entered the private lounge that had been reserved for him, the Egyptian was already there, looking distinctly morose in his poorly fitted white linen suit. Al-Bashir himself wore a hand-tailored silk suit of royal blue.

No, al-Bashir decided, the Egyptian is not depressed; he’s apprehensive, fearful. This business of the power satellite is beyond his capacity.

Al-Bashir had bowed to The Nine’s wish for a face-to-face meeting between the two men; the Egyptian had insisted it be in a location in the Moslem Middle East, where they would be relatively safe. Relatively, al-Bashir thought, with a thin smile. The United States Army occupied Dubai and the other Emirates; despite occasional suicide bombings the Americans were tightening their stranglehold on the Gulf. Well, that will change soon enough, al-Bashir thought.

The Egyptian sat with his back to the window and its view of the skyline while a uniformed airline employee poured coffee for the two men and then made his quiet departure.

“You seem apprehensive, my brother,” al-Bashir said to the Egyptian.

“Randolph plans to turn on the power satellite in ten days.”

“Yes. He made his grand announcement at the Senate hearing last week.” Al-Bashir picked up the delicate cup and sipped at the coffee.

“Randolph made a bold gesture.”

Al-Bashir smiled. “I have come to know the man. He is an egomaniac at heart.”

“Still… will we be ready in ten days?”

Tapping the data disc encased in the breast pocket of his suit jacket, al-Bashir replied, “I have the complete blueprints of the satellite. Once it begins beaming power to the ground, we will seize it and shift the beam to Washington.”

“You can do that?”

“Quite easily. While Randolph’s technicians in Texas are trying to determine what’s gone wrong with their satellite, we will concentrate the microwave beam and kill thousands.”

“Including their President?”

“It is all arranged. Despite his own high opinion of himself, Randolph is a trusting soul. A typical American. I helped him to get the financing he needed, so he believes I am his friend. He has opened his entire operation to me. They are all pathetically naïve.”

“You are certain this will work?” the Egyptian asked, reaching for his own coffee cup. “The others of The Nine are rather… concerned.”

“Tell them it is written. Once the power satellite begins to work we will turn it into a death weapon against the enemies of Allah.”

The Egyptian smiled minimally and appeared to relax somewhat. Al-Bashir smiled back at him. As they sipped the strong, hot, sweetened coffee al-Bashir told himself sternly, Let him believe that we strike in the name of Allah. Let the others believe that I am a fighter in the war between Islam and the West. But don’t let yourself fall into such a belief. Religion has its purposes. Use their faith, but remember your goal: Tricontinental Oil, and the power to bend nations to my will.

The skyline of Houston was almost as garish, and much larger, than Dubai’s. Sitting behind his desk in the FBI building, Nacho Chavez took a bite of the breakfast burrito he was holding in his right hand, wrapped in a napkin that was already soaked with grease.

“It’s got to be al-Bashir,” said Kelly Eamons.

“What evidence do you have?” he demanded.

“This Roberto goon was working for al-Bashir,” Eamons said, sitting tensely on the front three inches of her chair. “Al-Bashir didn’t use any other driver when he was in Houston.”

“So?”

“Roberto was the muscle. He probably killed Larsen.”

“The Astro employee who committed suicide?” Nacho asked through a mouthful of burrito.

“It wasn’t suicide. Roberto murdered him.”

“Prove it.”

Eamons’s blue-green eyes snapped at him. Redheads and their Irish temper, Chavez thought.

“Okay,” she said slowly. “We have his voiceprint from that phony message he left on Larsen’s answering machine. We need to find him and get a voice match from him.”

Still playing the devil’s advocate, Chavez replied, “We don’t know where he is, and even if we did we don’t have anything to hold him on.”

“He jumped bail on the assault charge.”

“Local rap. Not our jurisdiction.”

“He’s probably fled the state, gone back to L.A.”

Chavez chewed thoughtfully, then said, “Probably.”

“That makes him a fugitive, doesn’t it? Interstate. That’s our jurisdiction, isn’t it?”

Chavez had to grin at her earnestness. “Kelly, do you think for half a microsecond that the suits upstairs are going to okay a manhunt for a guy who’s jumped bail on a measly assault charge?”

Eamons said immediately, “Nacho, you could phone the L.A. office and ask them to look for him.”

“Yeah, L.A.’s so small that one particular Hispanic guy will be dead easy to find.”

“Come on! It can’t hurt to ask. He’s got those gang tattoos, according to his sheet. That’ll help, won’t it?”

Putting the remains of his burrito on his desk, Chavez asked, “Wait. Back up a minute. Why are you so interested in Roberto?”

“Because he murdered Larsen. Maybe Tenny, as well.”

“And you think if we nail him he’ll roll on whoever hired him.”

“Right. Al-Bashir. The man’s probably a terrorist. He’s the one who sabotaged Astro’s spaceship and he hired Roberto to cover his tracks.”

“How do you know that?”

“He was part owner of the tanker that blew up beneath the Golden Gate Bridge, Nacho.”

“And the other tanker? In Florida?”

She shook her head. “Different company. But I bet if we keep digging we’ll find he had a hand in that one, too.”

“Maybe,” Chavez admitted. “But what of it? He owns a chunk of Tricontinental Oil, too. Does that make him a terrorist? Hell, they’re funding Astro Corporation and the power satellite project.”

Eamons said nothing.

“It’s too thin, Kelly,” said Chavez. “You don’t have anything except your suspicions. There’s no real evidence at all.”

“The voiceprint.”

“Well, that might be useful,” Chavez agreed. “If we had Roberto and could match him to it.”

“So try to find him!”

With a patient sigh, Chavez said, “I suppose I could call a guy I know in the L.A. office. But I don’t think anything will come of it. Hell, Roberto could be in Hong Kong, for all we know.”

Eamons nodded glumly. It was very thin, she agreed silently. We’re just spinning our wheels, trying to find Roberto. Al-Bashir’s the one we’re after and I’ve got to figure out a way to get to him.