Heart of the Assassin (15 page)

Gravenholtz stood just inside Crews's office, breathing hard, eyes wide. Blood spread across his white dress shirt, ran down his jacket, but he seemed unfazed, the gunshots from Crews's men unable to penetrate the flexible armor under his skin. Ferocious-looking wounds, painful too, but not life threatening.

Crews looked at C.P. flopped on the floor, then over at the Old One. "What...what are you doing this for?"

"Those boys of yours..." The Old One's checkerboard jacket seemed to shimmer in the light from the fireplace. "Murderous scum and toothless morons. Not at all the right image for what you're about to become, Mr. Crews."

"
About
to become?" said Crews.

"You've come a long way in the last six months," said the Old One. "Top-rated gospel show on TV, invitations to preach at the capital...are you satisfied?"

"No."

"Of course not," said the Old One. "One thing I've learned in a very long life, Mr. Crews, is that there's
never
enough."

"How about you tell Gravenholtz to put C.P. down?" said Crews. "Not like he's going anywhere."

"You're fond of him, aren't you?" said the Old One. "I could see that immediately."

"Well, I don't know about
fond,
" said Crews. "C.P.'s been with me a long time."

"Very good," said the Old One. "I appreciate loyalty. Please, put him down, Lester."

Gravenholtz dropped C.P. onto the floor, then wandered over to the desk and picked up a spool of masking tape. He tore off a strip of tape and started pinning down the flap of skin on his scalp.

C.P. slowly rolled onto his hands and knees, gasping.

"Lester," said the Old One, "if you wouldn't mind, bring Mr. Crews one of those pistols."

"Why?" said Gravenholtz.

"Savor the mystery, Lester," said the Old One.

Baby started giggling.

"Do I amuse you, Baby?" said the Old One.

Baby nodded, still giggling.

"Mr. Crews, do you have
any
idea how long it's been since I've made anyone laugh?" The Old One beamed. "Let me tell you, it's a rare pleasure."

Gravenholtz handed Crews a revolver.

"Now, Mr. Crews," said the Old One, "if it's not too much to ask, I'd like you to shoot your old buddy C.P. in the head."

Crews hefted the pistol. "How about I blow
your
brains out?"

"Always a possibility, but I have faith in you, Mr. Crews," said the Old One. "A man of your ambition, your vision...there's no way you'll throw away this opportunity."

Baby saw the pen in the Old One's hand. The same silver fountain pen he had used to spray Gravenholtz, cocooning him in aerosol polymer. The Old One might have faith but he was no fool.

C.P. looked up at Crews. "Jesus, Malcolm...what are you thinking?
Kill
these people--" He grunted as Gravenholtz kicked him.

The Old One turned toward the doorway.

A man leaned against the jamb, a gangly fellow, his shirt soaked with blood. One arm dangled useless, but he propped a sawed-off shotgun against his hip with his good arm. His shattered jaw gave him an obscene grin, his face swollen like a pumpkin.

"Sit down, Deekins," said Crews, "take a load off before you hurt somebody."

The man in the doorway tried to speak, but his mouth wouldn't work. The shotgun wobbled in his grip as he tried to center it.

"Lester?"
The Old One wagged a finger. "You said they were all dead."

Baby moved out of the line of fire.

"Do it, Deekins," said C.P., still sprawled on the floor. "Fuck you waitin' for?"

The man in the doorway fired as Gravenholtz stepped toward him, caught him in the chest; got off another shot before Gravenholtz snatched the shotgun from him.

Gravenholtz beat the man over the head with the shotgun, beat him onto the floor, flailing away at him even after his skull cracked.

"You can stop now, Lester," said the Old One.

Gravenholtz hit Deekins again. Threw the shotgun down.

"You never did tell me what you got planned for me," Crews said to the Old One, his voice calm. "This thing I'm supposed to
become.
"

"That's the spirit," said the Old One.

"Daddy?" Baby crossed over to him, gingerly touched his cheek. "You got shot."

The Old One looked at the blood on her fingertips. Scowled at Gravenholtz.

"Just a scratch," said Gravenholtz. "What? That supposed to be
my
fault?"

"Yes, Lester, actually it is," said the Old One, as Baby dabbed at his cheek with a handkerchief. "Open a window, Mr. Crews, it's too warm in here." He waited until Crews complied. "Things are about to change, both in the Belt and in the Republic. I'm offering you a chance to be a part of those changes."

"I'm no Muslim, in case you haven't got the word," said Crews. "I'm born again."

"You're no more of a Christian than I am," said the Old One.

"I'm not going to argue." Crews checked the pistol, made sure it was loaded. "Did you really nuke New York and Washington, D.C.?"

"Whatever I've done, I'm certain that God will forgive me," said the Old One. "As I'm sure God will forgive you."

"Mister, you're a lot more optimistic than I am," said Crews.

The Old One pointed at C.P. "Time to make a decision, Mr. Crews."

"These changes coming down the road," said Crews, scratching his chin with the muzzle of the pistol, "what exactly kind of a part am I going to have?"

"M-Malcolm?" wailed C.P.

"Don't you
get
it?" Baby said to Crews, stamping her feet. "We're bringing hard times to the Belt. Hard times to the Republic too. Nightmares and fever dreams, just the way you like it--don't pretend you don't, Malcolm Crews. Look at me! We're not here because you're some holy joe motherfucker patting babies and organizing fried chicken socials. I picked you because you smell smoke and reach for the gasoline, and my daddy and me, we're bringing hellfire to town."

Crews's eyes reflected the flames from the fireplace.

"Look at him, Daddy, his pecker's hard. Didn't I tell you?"

"She did, Mr. Crews. Indeed she did."

Crews tapped the side of his thigh with the pistol, expressionless.

"You been waiting for the end times, haven't you, Malcolm?" Baby spun slowly in the center of the room, her skirt fluttering out as she turned round and round like a wind-up ballerina on a music box. "Well, here it is, right in front of your nose. Boil, boil, trouble and toil..."

"I'm sure you remember your Bible, Mr. Crews," said the Old One. "John the Baptist was given the honor of announcing the coming of Jesus. It was he who first proclaimed him the Messiah."

"Well, you ain't Jesus and John the B. got his fucking head chopped off." Crews glanced at Baby. "Chopped off and put on a silver plate for Salome, the dancing girl."

Baby spun faster, laughing.

C.P. was almost to his feet, but Gravenholtz tripped him, sent him sprawling.

"We done yet?" said Gravenholtz.

"
Are
we done, Mr. Crews?" said the Old One.

Crews walked over to C.P.

"Hey!" said C.P., one hand raised. "Hey!"

"You remember Hecklenburg?" said Crews.

C.P.'s eyes darted. "That little town? S-sure."

"We hit them at dawn," said Crews. "It was late fall, but we got an early snow, and it crunched under our boots as we approached the houses? Snow coming down, big fat flakes in the early morning light...like it was raining blood."

C.P. nodded.

"Couple weeks before we found all these Halloween costumes in an abandoned warehouse, and the officers were wearing skeleton costumes, scampering across the snow like they were in some damned cartoon." Crews shook his head at the memory. "We start knocking down doors and the townspeople 'bout pissed themselves, screaming before the shooting even starts...but
you,
C.P., you crazy son of a bitch, you went one better." He glanced over at Baby. "Afterwards, we're checking for survivors, and I spot C.P. here wearing nothing but a purple wig and a gold lame jockstrap, dragging a teenage girl down Main Street." He looked down at C.P. "Where in hell
did
you find a gold jockstrap?"

As C.P. smiled, Crews shot him in the face.

"C.P.... he was a good ol' boy," said Crews. "Always coming up with something to crack me up." He tossed down the gun. Looked over at the Old One. "You want to bring the whole place down around our ears, call forth fire and brimstone...you want to drown the world like a box of kittens, well, then, I'm your man, pops."

Baby winked at the Old One. "Told ya."

Gravenholtz nudged C.P.'s body with his shoe.

"This whole place is going to have to be scrubbed," said the Old One. "Bodies removed, buried someplace where they won't--"

"No...no. Let's leave everything as it is," said Crews. "I'll call a news conference, say we were attacked by end-times remnants angry at me for embracing the light."

"And you were saved by the grace of God," said Baby.

"Yeah, walked right through a storm of bullets untouched," said Crews. "Let's see John the Baptist try that."

"Throw away your black suits," said Baby. "Become the man in white...transformed."

The Old One stared at her. Nodded.

Gravenholtz snorted.

"Call your news conference first thing in the morning," said the Old One. "Sometime soon, Aztlan will formally charge the Colonel with ordering the assassination of their oil minister two weeks ago. I want you out there ahead of the story."

"What am I--?" said Crews.

"The politicians will equivocate, ask for time to go over the indictment, but not you," explained the Old One. "In the Colonel's hour of need you're going to stand by his side. Offer him your total support."

"The Colonel ain't gonna want
his
help," said Gravenholtz.

"Things are happening quite rapidly now, Mr. Crews," said the Old One, ignoring Gravenholtz. "I think you're going to enjoy yourself. Baby and I will be leaving shortly, but Lester's going to stay with you."

"You didn't say nothing about that to me," said Gravenholtz.

"There's a great deal I don't tell you, Lester. More than you can possibly imagine."

"Lester, honey, it's just for a little while." Baby stroked Gravenholtz's arm. "I bet you and Mr. Crews gonna be real good friends."

Gravenholtz pulled away.

"You want to know a secret?" Crews said softly. "Not all my healing is fake. Oh, most of it is suggestion and reinforcement, no doubt, but sometimes...sometimes I feel something flowing from me into them, a heat pouring out from my hands and it...it
does
something to folks." He glanced at C.P. then back at the Old One. "I don't know why it happens, or how it happens, but sometimes I cure people, mister. Me, Malcolm Crews. I cure people and they stay cured. Arthritis, diabetes, heart trouble...I cured cancer a couple of times, cured it right out of them."

"This is a time of miracles, Mr. Crews," said the Old One.

Gravenholtz spit onto C.P.'s ruined face. "You're so good, let's see you raise that asshole from the dead."

Rakkim knelt on one of the large, flat rocks in the water garden, picked a piece of broken glass out of the stream and put it in his pocket. The water garden had been Redbeard's favorite spot on his estate, a full acre of lush greenery under a clear, protective dome. Redbeard prayed here, planned and plotted here, taught Rakkim and Sarah the basics of statecraft and political survival here. He plucked another piece of glass from the stream.

Through a jagged gap in the shattered dome, Rakkim could see the villa where he and Sarah had grown up. Last year someone had driven a stolen car through the plasti-glass, tearing through several panels. The car had been hauled away but the break in the dome remained, along with another dozen breaches. No matter. The vegetation in the dome thrived, the bamboo actually growing through the holes in the roof in parts. He and Sarah and Michael had come here regularly, weeding the garden, cleaning out the streambeds, hauling away trash. Colarusso and his family joined them sometimes, picnicking among the yellow hibiscus blooms beside the waterfall. He picked another piece of glass out of the water. The late-afternoon sun slanted through the dome, bathing the lush greenery with soft, golden light. Cool mist from the waterfall floated across his face.

"I thought you'd be happy," said Sarah.

Rakkim took in the construction cranes around the villa, the workers gone for the day. "You should have told me."

"I wanted to surprise you...and I suspected how you'd react."

After years of vandalism and targeted attacks by followers of the Black Robes, Redbeard's villa was being renovated by the news network in conjunction with the planned retrospective of his life. The outer walls had been rebuilt, the main structure braced, and new landscaping designed. Sarah said Redbeard's office, smaller than most people expected, had already been fully restored. Evidently this was going to be the focus of the documentary, Sarah seated near the great man's desk, talking about his life and the effect he'd had on the fledgling republic.

"It's not the network's job to restore the villa," said Rakkim. "You and I would have gotten to it eventually. Look what we've done with the water garden."

"The villa was falling apart, Rikki."

"Maybe
that's
the lesson. A great man lived here. Slept fitfully here. Taught the people he cared about here...and when he was gone, when he died...it fell into ruin. Men who hated him in life burned it down, broke the windows, knocked over walls, but the things he did, the people he taught...they endured. Is that so bad?"

"We want to
inspire
people, Rikki." She leaned closer. "If we don't, somebody else will. Would you rather ibn-Azziz or the Old One captured people's imagination?"

Rakkim didn't answer.

"Redbeard's life is the story," said Sarah. "Head of State Security, never married, Redbeard devoted his life to protecting the nation from terrorist attacks during the early days of the Republic. His partnership with President Kingsley is seen as part of the golden era of the Republic. His peaceful death from a heart attack is part of his mystique, called to heaven by Allah with a whisper--"

"Okay, okay, enough," said Rakkim. "Just tell Legault to leave the water garden alone."

"I already have." Sarah took his hand. "Come on, I want to show you something."

Sarah led him out of the water garden, down one of the paths and into the rear of the villa, with its vaulted ceilings, marble floors, thick wood and etched glass.

"Nice to know that Legault has no fear of spending other people's money," said Rakkim.

"Hush." Sarah opened the door. "Well?"

Rakkim walked into the solarium. Stared at the clear blue water of the swimming pool.

"Not so bad, is it?" said Sarah, voice echoing. "Took them almost a week just to remove the debris people had thrown in. New filter, new aerator..."

"It's...just like when we were kids." Rakkim looked at her. "It's beautiful. I never expected..." He bent down, put a hand in the water. It was cool. Perfect.

Sarah kicked off her shoes, sat on the edge of the pool and dangled her legs in the water. "This morning Aztlan formally charged the Colonel with murdering their oil minister in Miami."

"I saw the live feed when I went out this morning," said Rakkim. "Thought Argusto was going to have a stroke."

"This is
serious,
Rikki. The three nations are in a precarious balance."

"Charging the Colonel doesn't even make sense--he's too far north to be worried about Aztlan's territorial ambitions. Besides, the Colonel doesn't have anyone who could pull off an operation like that."

"Aztlan seems to think he managed it." Sarah kicked her feet in the water, making waves. "They're demanding he be extradited to Tenochtitlan for trial."

"The Colonel's as popular as Elvis and he's got over eight thousand armed men backing him up, so I doubt he'll be enjoying that famous Aztlan hospitality anytime soon." Rakkim took off his clothes and dove into the water. He came up in the middle of the pool. "If President Raynaud had a brain he'd tell Aztlan to go fuck themselves--he'd have the whole country behind him. Might even get himself reelected."

Sarah watched him backstroking. "'Go fuck yourself' isn't really a foreign policy. More of a...personal philosophy."

"I should have mentioned that last night at the faculty tea."

"You weren't too miserable, were you?"

"Time of my life. If my life was being stuck in a book." Rakkim beckoned. "Come on in."

Sarah shook her head.

"There are security guards on the access roads--this is as private as it gets. Come
on.
"

Sarah looked around. Slowly unbuttoned her dress.

Rakkim whistled, beat at the water.

"
Stop
it," said Sarah.

Rakkim didn't.

Sarah finished undressing, neatly folded her clothes on the bench. Looked around again, then walked down the steps into the pool. Breast-stroked toward Rakkim, trying to keep her hair dry. They embraced in the center of the pool, kicking to stay aloft. The afternoon sun turned the water droplets along her ear to gold beads.

"You'll have to thank Legault for me," said Rakkim.

"He wants you in the retrospective too."

"Not a chance."

"Such a shy boy."

Rakkim pressed his erection against her.

"Unhand me, sir," she ordered, her arms wrapped tightly around him, holding him close.

"Let's have another baby," Rakkim said softly.

"This isn't...this isn't the right time."

"When is the right time?"

Sarah shook her head.

They drifted apart. Rakkim floated on his back, staring up at the glass ceiling, the clouds floating overhead.

"I'm sorry," said Sarah, "it's just...there's so much going on right now."

"Yeah, I forgot how calm and simple things were when we had Michael."

"Don't be like that."

Rakkim closed his eyes and focused on the sensation of being in the pool again, the feel of the water. So many memories in that house...most of them good. Rakkim couldn't imagine what would have become of him if Redbeard hadn't taken him home that day, made him part of the family. He would have ended up in prison...or maybe working in the Zone, someplace where risk was rewarded, but he wouldn't have ended up here. With Sarah. He owed a lot to Redbeard.

"What are you thinking?" asked Sarah.

Rakkim opened his eyes. "How lucky I am."

"Me too." The birthmark between her breasts was just above the waterline. "Don't be mad at me."

"No...we've got time."

She squeezed out her hair.

"Who was that older man you were talking to at the faculty tea?"

"Karl Hoffman," said Sarah. "Professor Hoffman's one of the world's authorities on the subject of the true cross."

"I bet that's been a real career booster." He saw her expression. "Sorry."

Christians might believe that Jesus died on the cross, but Muslims didn't. The cross was a symbol of rebirth to Christians, but for Muslims it was just the vehicle of Jesus' deception and escape from the Romans. To them, Jesus was a great man, a prophet second in importance only to Muhammad, but he wasn't the Son of God.

"Professor Hoffman is very highly regarded internationally," said Sarah.

"Last night Satrice referred to him as Professor One Note."

Sarah splashed him. "Ask your friends in the Belt what the cross means to them."

"We're not in the Belt."

Sarah swam over to the end of the pool, sat on the steps, drying off in the last of the sun. "It always comes down to that. The Belt and the Republic. Christian and Muslim. We have to get beyond that, Rikki. Look at Spider, as Jewish as Moses, but
he's
helping me because he knows that reconciliation is best for everyone."

Rakkim strode over to her, sat beside her, feeling her heat. "You want me to go to D.C.? I'll do it. You want me to go to fucking Mars to find the Holy Grail or the Ark of the Covenant or any of that other junk from the Goldberg movies, fine, just say the word."

Sarah smiled. "Mars?"

"Well, maybe not quite that far." He kissed the water off her shoulder. "Just saying, if you want me to see what's really in that safe room..."

"I'll let you know." Sarah shook her hair out. "It's
Spielberg,
by the way. Goldberg was the political historian, Spielberg was the filmmaker."

Rakkim lightly pinched her nipple and she squealed, pushed him back into the water. He swam back, lay beside her, serious now. "I worry that maybe you're right. That we
don't
have time."

"For babies?"

"For anything," said Rakkim. "We walk around Seattle and everyone pretends to get along--maybe they avoid eye contact or curse you quietly, but we keep the peace. Even in the conservative districts, no one has been stoned to death in years for adultery or blasphemy. Then you go to New Fallujah...and you see what happens when fundamentalists take over."

"I know."

"You
don't
know. You might read about it, or see censored images on TV, but it's not the same as being there. I think about what Jenkins told me, all the new Black Robe mosques going up around the country, President Brandt backing down...Senator Chambers set to become secretary of defense. If that happens, ibn-Azziz will be able to do anything he wants. Him and his master, the Old One--"

"You don't know that Chambers is in the pocket of ibn-Azziz."

Rakkim rested his cheek against her belly. "No, but I'm going to find out."

"Redbeard had a technique...what did he call it?" Sarah played with his hair. "The affirmation trap, that was it. Remember?"

Rakkim kissed her belly button. "No."

"I had stolen a bottle from his stash of Coca-Cola and he counted and found out...but he didn't know which one of us was responsible. He confronted us separately. I said I didn't know what he was talking about, but you...you took the blame."

"It was my fault for showing you where he kept them."

"He knew you well enough not to trust your admission of guilt, not when it came to me. So he never disagreed with you, just accepted the truth of what you were saying and took it to its logical conclusion. The simpler the better. In this case, it was just asking for your help in covering up your crime."

"Son of a bitch." Rakkim sat up. Importing Coca-Cola or anything else from the Belt had been a felony then; even Redbeard might have been charged if caught. "He asked me what I had done with the empty bottle, so he could dispose of it safely. He wasn't angry, he just said he wanted to protect us. We even talked about how good Coca-Cola tasted, how much better it was than Jihad Cola, how everyone drank it when he was a boy." He shook his head. "I tried to tell him that I had taken care of it, but he insisted on seeing the empty bottle. 'The whole household could be in jeopardy, Rikki. You, me, Sarah...we would all be equally guilty. You wouldn't want that to happen, would you?'" Rakkim looked at Sarah. "When I couldn't come up with the empty...he just patted me on the head and walked away. He didn't tell me the interrogation technique actually had a name."

"The affirmation trap. That's what Redbeard called it."

"Redbeard told you this? You were
five years old
. I was ten."

Sarah ran a finger down his spine, made him shiver. "I was smarter."

"Affirmation trap," said Rakkim. "I'll have to try that."

Sarah squeezed out her hair, water running down her shoulders. "It doesn't work on me."

"I wasn't planning on using it on you."

They were on their way back to the car, clothes still damp, when Sarah spoke again. "You said before that you felt like time was running out. You were right. That's why President Brandt and President Raynaud need to forge some kind of alliance."

"Good luck."

"The true cross can help bridge the gap," insisted Sarah. "People
need
symbols, Rikki. We're wired for it. Symbols are the most potent and direct language we have."

"Yeah, well, that's your specialty, not mine. Like I said, I'll
go
to D.C. I'll search for the true cross like some crusader on a mission from the pope. Just ask Spider and Leo if they can narrow the search. I'm not interested in sightseeing."

Sarah shook her head. "I already asked John Moseby to go."

Rakkim stopped. "When?"

"Leo contacted him on a secure link a few days ago. He's already on the way," said Sarah. "I know you think I should have asked you, but John's a
finder.
You said yourself he was the best. He's also a Christian."

"It's too dangerous."

"He's not going into D.C. Not yet, anyway. I sent him to talk with the wife of the zombie that found the safe room."

"I don't want John going into D.C. by himself, Sarah."

"He won't."

"You don't know Moseby."