Heart of the Assassin (22 page)

The Old One swept Baby up in his arms, swung her around the cabana, her hair streaming out, the two of them giggling like children. Ibrahim glowered nearby, the wallscreen behind him frozen on the piece of the cross dotted with flowers. The Old One finally put Baby down, heart pounding, all trace of his cold but a memory. He had never realized how much he loved life until he had been faced with dying. Now...now Allah had graced him with a miracle, a most unforeseen reprieve from the claws of death.

"Oh,
Daddy.
" Baby fanned herself with her palm, breasts heaving in the green sundress. "Oh my, that was something."

"I fail to see the significance of this...this piece of wood, Father," said Ibrahim. "Rather than celebrate a useless relic, you should be reveling in our triumph with the
Yucatan Princess.
" He switched channels, the screen showing a dozen news helicopters hovering over the debris field clotting the Gulf. "See, every network in the world is covering what I did...what
we
did."

"Yes, yes, my son, a job well done," said the Old One. "I'm very proud of you."

Ibrahim remained defiant. "I just do not understand your...
excitement
over this thing." He glanced at Baby. "I can understand such behavior from her. She has lived among the infidel too long, but
you...
"

Baby switched the screen back to the piece of the cross. "Look at it, Ibrahim, this is what Sarah sent Moseby after. Daddy had our whole tech unit working on it for weeks now, and they finally captured the transmission the zombie sent from D.C."

"I'll send my blessing to them," said the Old One. "This is indeed a great--"

"This is
foolishness,
" spat Ibrahim.

"Foolishness?" the Old One said softly. "Do you think me growing feebleminded in my dotage?"

Ibrahim shook his head.

"Perhaps you think I need a keeper," said the Old One. "A loyal son who will guide my halting steps?"

Ibrahim gestured at the screen. "Father..."

"Reunification will take a leap of faith by the Belt," said the Old One. "A trust that there's room in Paradise for all of us. With the cross of their savior in our hands--"

"The cross is a
lie,
" said Ibrahim.

"Not where I come from," said Baby.

"Listen to her, Ibrahim. She speaks the truth," said the Old One. "Besides, has it not been said that Jesus Himself will appear to join the Mahdi in the final battle?"

"I don't see Jesus, I see a piece of
wood,
" said Ibrahim, "no better than some curio from a tourist shop. Father, this female has bewitched you."

"Enough."
The Old One patted Ibrahim on the cheek. "Congratulations on your success with the
Yucatan Princess,
a flawlessly executed operation. All of Aztlan will be enraged, none more so than Presidente Argusto. Our moment of triumph approaches, my son, now go, make arrangements for my departure. I'm curious to see how Las Vegas has changed in my absence."

Ibrahim stalked out the door of the cabana.

The Old One watched him go, his good spirits tinged with regret. Ibrahim had served him well for many years. All things must pass, he told himself, then thought of the cross lying somewhere in D.C., and reminded himself that dust need not be
his
fate. Ibrahim's problem was that he was a modern man, steeped in facts and logic. A man who dismissed sacred relics as mere superstition. The Old One knew better. A piece of the cross would give legitimacy to the Old One's rule, just as he told Ibrahim...but that wasn't the root of his excitement.

One of his great-grandsons, Joshua, had been a cardinal posted to the Vatican, part of the pope's inner circle. The boy had told him a story once, a story about a piece of the true cross kept in a vault under St. Peter's Cathedral, one of several pieces that had survived the centuries. One piece had been sent to Czar Peter of Russia, and disappeared before the death of Czar Nicholas in 1917. Another piece had been stolen from a monastery in France and was presumed lost at sea aboard the
Titanic.
Another piece was rumored to have been carried back to the thirteen colonies by Benjamin Franklin, an unbeliever himself--a piece that had been secreted in the capital of the new nation after the revolution, symbolizing their covenant with God.

The Old One stared at the wallscreen, so elated he could barely breathe. He didn't care about Christians and their covenants, but Joshua had told him stories about the piece of the cross at the Vatican, stories of miracles performed by its touch, of water turned to wine and the sick healed. And one story...of a dying pope restored to youthful vigor, a dying pope who lived another forty years and brought the Church to its greatest glory. A story. Joshua, for all his prominence, had never seen the piece of the cross hidden in St. Peter's, but he had not doubted its existence or its power. Now...the Old One basked in the sight of flowers blooming on the wallscreen. Now, he too had no doubts.

"Daddy?" said Baby. "I didn't mean to cause problems between you and Ibrahim."

"Was the Colonel so easily fooled by your protestations of innocence?" said the Old One.

"Yes, sir, he was," she drawled.

The Old One wanted to dance with her again, cut loose the bonds of mortality with the scent of her. "Those kisses of yours must have addled his brain."

"I think they worked on another part of his anatomy, Daddy."

The Old One roared at her wantonness, the strength it took to speak to him like that.

Baby indicated the cross on the wallscreen. "What are we going to do about this?"

"About
what,
my dear?"

Baby stamped her feet in mock annoyance. "Daddy, don't tease me. I heard about a piece of the cross tucked away somewhere in D.C. since I was a little girl. Heard all kinds of tall tales about it. Least I always thought they were tall tales." She pointed at the screen. "If the cross can grow flowers in that foul place...there's no telling what it could do." She slipped her arm in his. "I mean, having the folks in the Belt jabbering in tongues is all well and good for
you,
Daddy, but me...I might want to live forever myself."

The Old One didn't react. Not a twitch or a blink betrayed him, but he wondered if Ibrahim wasn't right after all, that Baby
was
a witch, able to read minds.

"Living forever, that's not a bad thing, is it, Daddy?"

"Allah promises the gift of eternal life to all believers, my child."

Baby squeezed his arm. "Yeah, Daddy, but I don't want to have to
die
to find out."

The Old One switched the screen back to the sunken
Yucatan Princess.
The camera focused on various items designed for maximum emotional impact: a child's sneaker decorated with red hearts, a smoldering life preserver, a party hat with streamers and sequins. All well and good, anything to turn the temperature up in Aztlan. Argusto was going to have to retaliate in some truly
grand
fashion now.

Baby watched the rescue boats search for survivors. "Kind of sad, isn't it?"

The Old One switched back to the cross, the flowers tiny but perfectly formed. "Someday we'll have to go on hajj together."

"Me?" Baby shook her head. "I want radiation poisoning, I'll go to D.C."

"The nuke that went off in Mecca was much smaller than the ones that detonated in New York and Washington, D.C.," said the Old One. "I was very clear about that. The idea was to blame the attacks on the Israeli Mossad, not ruin the holiest shrine in Islam."

"Didn't work out quite like you planned, did it?"

"Nothing ever works out as planned, my dear. Only weaklings and atheists let that stop them. One adapts, one regroups, one
continues.
"

"I was just making a point." Baby lightly squeezed his arm. "What are you doing in Las Vegas, anyway? I'd like to come along, if it's okay."

"I have other plans for you." The Old One pointed at the cross. "I want you to go back to the Belt. Link up with Mr. Gravenholtz, and bring that back to me. Do whatever you need to, but bring it to me."

"Daddy...like you said, D.C. is lots worse than Mecca," Baby said. "Besides, how do you expect Lester and I are going to find it?"

"You don't have to find it, that's Mr. Moseby's job.
He's
the finder. You merely have to..." The Old One snatched at the air. "...take it from him after he's fetched it." He kissed the crown of her head. "Mr. Moseby's a family man, just as you said. He'll be eager to call his wife if he's successful, and when he does, my men will be listening. Go to the Belt. I'll let you know where he is when the time comes."

"I've got a better idea," said Baby. "Don't give me that look, Daddy, it's just that I know some people who keep me up to date on the Colonel. Dowdy housewives that I said had pretty ankles, or menfolk who watch dirty movies of me in their mind." She tossed her hair. "Anyway, one of the mechanics in the motor pool saw Moseby with the Colonel about a week ago. Mechanic said the Colonel came to him and wanted him to fix up one of the heavy-duty trucks, put in some lead shielding, install an air filter, trick out the transmission. Didn't take a genius to figure out somebody was going into D.C. Mechanic was surprised when the Colonel and Moseby woke him up in the middle of the night, asked him to explain how to operate all the special things he had done to the truck."

"You think Moseby will come back to the Colonel's with the cross?"

"He can't leave D.C to the north or west; too much radiation," said Baby. "Coming back the way he came makes more sense. Besides, he might need help."

"So you intend to join Gravenholtz and wait someplace near the Colonel until--"

"Hell's bells, no. Can you imagine me laying low in some motel with Lester, watching wrestling matches and the hunting channel on TV?" Baby shook her head. "No, I'll find something else to keep Lester busy."

"What are you going to do?" asked the Old One.

Baby saw her reflection in every shiny surface of the room. "Me...I'm going home to my loving husband."

"You think the Colonel will take you back?"

"Look at me, Daddy." Baby slowly turned, gave him a good look. "Wouldn't you?"

Jenkins lifted his head away from the steel support beam of the Bridge of Skulls. "I...I thought that had to be you," he croaked.

"You saw me?" said Rakkim.

"Saw what you
did.
" Jenkins's mouth sagged, half his lower lip torn away. One of his eye sockets was empty. "I might not have the night vision you do...but I see well enough. You killed...you killed the big one...
entirely
too quickly for my taste."

Rakkim glanced back toward the end of the Bridge of Skulls--the four dead sentries propped up in a semblance of duty along the railing. "I'm on a tight schedule."

"The big one...Salim...he likes..." Jenkins licked his cracked lips. "Likes looking up at me while he drinks soda pop, pouring out what he doesn't finish..." He gasped as Rakkim took a bottle of Jihad Cola out of his jacket.

"Next time I'll kill him slower, okay?" Rakkim slowly gave him a drink, cupping his hand under Jenkins's chin.

"You do that."

Rakkim sat on one of the rusted girders that formed the superstructure, perched there twenty feet above the bridge deck, right beside where Mullah Jenkins had been pinned to the main girder, steel bolts driven into his thighs and shoulders and hands. The gulls had been working on him for the last week, torn chunks of flesh from him, pecked out one of his eyes and near-missed the other. Dried blood crusted the girder.

"I don't think I can free you," said Rakkim.

Jenkins fixed him with his one remaining eye. "
Sure
you can."

Rakkim hesitated.

Jenkins's good eye fluttered. "Five days I've been stuck up here. Wind and fog and cold and heat...and when the sun comes up, the gulls start in again. Five days, no food, no water but the rain. Fedayeen tough...it's a curse sometimes." He opened his mouth and Rakkim dribbled in more cola. "What...what made you come back for me?"

"I didn't come back for you. I came back to kill ibn-Azziz."

"Ah." Jenkins's head sagged forward. It took an effort to pull it back. "So General Kidd finally decided to cut out the cancer."

"
I
decided. General Kidd doesn't know anything about it."

"Oh...
my,
you really have slipped the leash, haven't you?"

The bridge groaned as the tide rushed in.

"Were...were we ever friends?" Jenkins wheezed. "I can't remember."

"No. We weren't friends." Rakkim tried to give him another drink but Jenkins turned away. "We were brothers."

"I wasn't sure. I've been having such dreams these last few days...such beautiful dreams..." Jenkins looked past Rakkim, looked out toward the far shore, beyond the reach of the Black Robes. "I slipped my leash too. Slipped clean away and didn't even know it until it was too late. Couldn't find my way back if I tried."

"Where does ibn-Azziz--?"

"You should be careful, Rakkim."

"I'll be careful."

"Everyone says that...but we all make mistakes." Jenkins didn't take his eye off the distant shore, its outlines obscured, shrouded in mist. "We fool ourselves. The best of us...the best and the brightest, we're the easiest to fool." He started to cry. "I
told
him, Rakkim. I told ibn-Azziz it was you who ruined things with Senator Chambers."

"It's all right."

Jenkins sobbed softly in the night, tears running down his cheeks, even the ruined eye socket glistening. "He had his men...they did things to me, Rakkim--" He lunged forward, half pulled himself free of the spikes. "I was
glad
you ruined Senator Chambers. Even when they hurt me, I was glad. You made ibn-Azziz so angry...."

"Did he ever tell you who suggested the president appoint Chambers secretary of defense? The president would never have listened to ibn-Azziz."

Jenkins shook his head. "I don't think he knows. Did I...did I tell you ibn-Azziz belongs to the Old One?"

"Chambers already told me." Rakkim gently wiped away Jenkins's tears. "You did well. No one could ask more of you."

"Yes, that's why I'm pinned up here being pecked to pieces--because I'm such an inspiring success story." Laughing hurt, but Jenkins tried it anyway. "Before...you started to ask me...you wanted to know where ibn-Azziz sleeps."

"If you know."

"
Of course
I know. There hasn't been a day since ibn-Azziz became Grand Mullah that I haven't thought of killing him. I just...I just never did it." The breeze made him shiver, the bridge creaking. "Thinking of it, and doing it...they're not the same." His head lolled to one side. "It's not going to be easy to kill him. I don't care how good you are."

"Help me then. Tell me where he sleeps."

"Do you believe in God?"

"Yeah...sure," said Rakkim.

"Then you
need
help," Jenkins said. The bridge shifted, bones clattering around them. "Come closer."

Rakkim bent over him, straining to hear.

Jenkins forced himself to speak. "That's all," he said afterward, voice papery now. "I got no more left."

Rakkim bowed his head toward his teacher.

"Don't forget your part of the bargain." Jenkins looked toward the far shore. "I don't want to know when it's coming. Surprise me. Like it's my...like it's my birthday."

Rakkim's blade was already in his hand.

"I used to believe in God too," said Jenkins, still facing the dim hills in the distance. "Now, though...I hope there's no God. Nothing and nobody there. Me...I'd rather slide into the darkness and never wake up than be judged on what I've done here."

"God will understand."

Jenkins shook his head, still watching the distant shore. "Not the God I heard about."

"Maybe you heard wrong. Maybe God forgives."

Jenkins snorted. "You spent too much time in the Belt."

Rakkim drove the blade into Jenkins's heart in the middle of the man's laugh. Prayed to God to forgive them both.

Rakkim pulled ibn-Azziz's head out of the ancient porcelain toilet, the Grand Mullah collapsing onto the floor, sputtering, coughing up great gouts of filthy water. For twenty minutes Rakkim had brought him to the brink of death and back again, and for twenty minutes ibn-Azziz had refused to name his contact in Seattle who had promoted Senator Chambers for defense secretary. Twenty minutes...Rakkim had never heard of anyone lasting more than five in such circumstances without giving up anyone and everything.

"Go ahead,
kill
me," taunted ibn-Azziz through clenched teeth. Rakkim had broken his nose slamming his face into the toilet--blood streamed down the Grand Mullah's bony face, his eyes flaring with hate. "Kill me, you kaffir scum. I'll be in Paradise--"

Rakkim backhanded him, sent him sprawling onto the wet stone floor. "No room in Paradise for you, boy wonder. Not while the ovens of hell need shit to fire them."

Ibn-Azziz struggled to get to his knees, water still running from his nostrils.

Rakkim's earpiece vibrated--Sarah leaving him an encrypted message. She must have boosted the signal to reach him this far underground, which meant it was important, but right now, he had things to take care of. In the corridor, Rakkim could see two of ibn-Azziz's guards, dead, like the other six he had killed getting down here. A cramped cell deep under the main prison, torn from the raw rock and reserved for the worst of the worst, and ibn-Azziz had made it his home.

"Come on," said ibn-Azziz, breathing hard. Water dripped from his scraggly beard. "You're not giving up that easy, are you?"

There was a shift change in less than an hour. Plenty of time to escape. Not nearly enough time to get ibn-Azziz to tell what he knew.

Ibn-Azziz held up his trembling hands. "Break my fingers...perhaps that will make me talk." He wriggled his fingers. "
Do
it."

Nothing on the walls. No mattress. Just the toilet and a tiny cold-water sink. Condensation dotted the ceiling. "You ever think of redecorating?" said Rakkim. "Maybe put in a nice rug...or one of those free-standing fireplaces--"

"Shall I take you to see Jenkins?" said ibn-Azziz, still on his knees, enjoying the discomfort. "He's got a lovely perch on the Bridge of Skulls."

"I've already talked with him. He's out of your reach now."

"He...
betrayed
you, did he tell you that?" Ibn-Azziz spat out one of his teeth, sent it bouncing across the stone floor. "He gave up your name as though offering me a sweet."

"He told me."

Ibn-Azziz tried to hide his surprise.

"I told him it didn't matter. It just gave me an excuse to kill you. I should have done it sooner, but I didn't have time to study your habits. Jenkins helped me out on that."

"Do I appear frightened?" Ibn-Azziz wiped his nose, his torso crisscrossed with old scars. "Do you think death scares me?"

"No...I don't think it does. Not yet."

"Not
yet
? Do you intend to school me in fear?" Ibn-Azziz asked. "I
bring
pain, I do not feel it."

"You bring a
lot
of pain too. I've seen your handiwork."

Ibn-Azziz held his head high. "This world is a sewer, a vast cesspool fouled with sin and depravity. The people are beasts, rutting and sweating, abandoning Allah--"

"You need to get out more."

Ibn-Azziz launched himself at Rakkim, but Rakkim tripped him, knocked him back down, his head hitting so hard the sound echoed.

"You might want to put some ice on that," said Rakkim.

Ibn-Azziz rolled over.

"You're going to be a real disappointment to the Old One."

"Don't even speak his name."

"Yeah, it is a little pompous. 'The Old One.' Ooooh, I can feel my nut-sack clench." Rakkim squinted. "You got a little bit of toilet paper on your forehead."

Ibn-Azziz tore at his forehead for the nonexistent speck of tissue.

"That old bastard probably had high hopes for you," said Rakkim, "and now...well, not to be cruel or anything, but
look
at yourself."

"My...my master will understand my failings...."

Rakkim shook his head. "I've met him. He's not the understanding type." He checked his watch. "The rest of the mullahs consider the Old One an apostate, so when you're killed he won't have the Black Robes to back him up. That's going to upset him."

"My master has conquered death, he does not require the Black Robes' support." Ibn-Azziz pulled himself up, legs rubbery. "The Mahdi stands astride history."

"I'm going to kill him too, by the way. Gonna gut him like a feeder pig, as they say in the Belt. You...you're just the appetizer."

Ibn-Azziz laughed, sprayed a mist of blood. "Are you death?"

"Just an amazing facsimile." Rakkim lowered his voice. "Here's something to think about as you squat in hell. Before I kill the Old One, I'm going to tell him that you helped me find him. I'm going to tell him--"

"Liar!"

"I'm going to tell him you pissed yourself you were so eager to give him up."

Ibn-Azziz moved quicker than Rakkim would have believed, got his hands around Rakkim's throat, those yellowed nails digging in.

Rakkim looked into ibn-Azziz's eyes, and he could see the man's soul compressed into an oily black knot, smelled the stink of the Grand Mullah's breath and let him continue.

Ibn-Azziz clawed at Rakkim.

Rakkim gently placed his thumbs under ibn-Azziz's chin, pushed his head back. "Are you afraid yet?" he whispered, ibn-Azziz's fingers so tight around his throat he could barely speak.

Ibn-Azziz hung on.

Holding ibn-Azziz's head back with one hand, Rakkim drove the fingertips of his other hand into a spot just under the jaw. Not too hard a blow--that would have killed ibn-Azziz outright--but just enough to fracture the hyoid bone. The move yet another souvenir from Darwin, a particularly cruel assassin killing technique. Rakkim had no idea how he had learned the maneuver--perhaps something else that had passed between him and Darwin at the moment of the assassin's death. Rakkim dropped his hands to his sides, no longer worried about being strangled.

Ibn-Azziz tried breathing through his nose, his grip already weakening.

"How about now?" whispered Rakkim. "Afraid yet?"

Fear bloomed in ibn-Azziz's eyes, took root as he struggled. He released his grip on Rakkim's throat, frantic now.

Fracturing the hyoid bone caused the tissues to swell, pinching off the air passage--the more ibn-Azziz struggled, the more constricted his throat became. Ibn-Azziz had toughed out nearly being drowned in the toilet, had actually seemed to grow stronger, but this situation was infinitely worse. The very ferocity that had allowed him to laugh in Rakkim's face worked against him now, his rage narrowing down his airway with every beat of his heart. No pain, no glory, just the gathering darkness.

Rakkim watched ibn-Azziz flopping on the floor, watched as the panic overtook him, ibn-Azziz feeling his dreams dying, his memories dying...and at the end, he watched as ibn-Azziz's soul flared like a horsefly in a furnace, leaving only ashes.

Rakkim walked out of the cell. Soon as he got clear, he would check Sarah's message. See what was so important.