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As of last month, the Americans have a new president, that Democrat Clinton, blabbing peace-peace-peace. I fear we will find him less aggressive and decisive than his predecessor.”
    The Americans  … what a telling phrase, Nasser thought.
    The three of them had centered their lives in the U.S. but none of them thought of himself as an American. Nor a member of any other national or ethnic group, for that matter. They existed beyond that. They were members of the Order which superseded all national and ethnic boundaries.
    â€œHis predecessor,” Drexler said, “though aggressive, was still not decisive enough to strike at Iraq’s jugular when he had the chance.”
    â€œTrue. And America will come to regret that, which will be to our eventual advantage. Don’t forget, we are playing the long game here. But I fear we will need a spectacular act of terrorism to spur this president to a decisive response. I remember that a single truck bomb brought down the Beirut barracks—flattened them.” He turned to Drexler. “Your father had a hand in that.”
    Drexler nodded. “That he did. Like everyone else in the Order, he was disappointed that it did not draw the overreaction we anticipated from Reagan.”
    Nasser had never met Drexler’s father, but wished he had. The late Ernst Senior had been a legend among actuators. He was said to have played a crucial role in Hitler’s ascent within the Nazi party back in the days of the Weimar Republic. Talk about creating chaos! Ernst Sr. was touted by most as the greatest actuator in the history of the Order. Ernst II seemed ever to be trying to separate himself from his father’s long shadow.
    A good example of that eagerness had occurred a couple of years ago when he had jumped on Reggie’s claim to have seen the mysterious “Tony” alive in a cab in Lower Manhattan. Drexler had mounted a search for the supposedly dead man as an avenue toward recouping the High Council’s lost millions, but it all had come to naught. Nasser wondered why Drexler couldn’t see the supposed sighting as a cynical attempt by Reggie to maintain some level of value to the Order. He still kept the loser around, however, promising that he would prove valuable someday.
    Trejador said, “If these jihadists can detonate such a bomb here, in some iconic location, it will spur others of their ilk to try the same. Then the U.S., even with Clinton at its helm, will have to retaliate.”
    â€œA spectacular act of terrorism,” Nasser said, more to himself than the others. “I’ll think on that.”
    â€œDo that,” Trejador said. “We will do the same. In the meantime, hear what they have to say. And if it’s not ambitious enough, spur them to greater heights. What say you, Ernst?”
    Drexler fixed Nasser with his icy blue gaze. “Fine. Listen to them, but make no commitment until we’ve discussed it.”
    Nasser wanted to fling his water bottle at his smug face. The comment was as demeaning as it was unnecessary. Nasser was acutely aware that he had no decision-making power. He swallowed the bile and forced a smile.
    â€œOf course. Perhaps you could arrange to have one of your operatives drive me. For appearance sake.”

 
    9
    â€œYou wasn’t shittin’ us, was you,” the kid said as Vinny pulled to a stop in the shadows beside the high chain-link fence.
    â€œNo, I wasn’t,” Vinny told him.
    He’d already forgotten his name—a street name, so who cared anyway? Five teenage melanzanas in his car, four thirteen-year-olds in the back, and the old man of the troupe—all of fifteen—in the front. Aldo had another five in his car. All runners for Umeme and Chaka Raysor, the kings of the Bed-Stuy crack trade. Not that the brothers limited themselves to rock. They’d push anything that turned a buck. Late last year Vinny and Aldo had come into