Heart of the Assassin (21 page)

The Old One had a cold. He sat in an oceanside cabana in Miami, watching the young couple playing on the sand with their toddler, and he hated them for their smooth, healthy pinkness. He wanted to drown the three of them in the shallows, hold their heads under while they thrashed, hold them under until their mouths stopped moving.

The Old One sneezed. The
worst
possible time to catch something. Ibrahim would be waiting for him inside the suite, wanting to watch the festivities in the Gulf with him, but the Old One didn't want to move. He wrapped his thick terry-cloth robe around himself, pulled the hood lower. The sun beat down on the cabana as he shivered, feeling ice form in his marrow. For the first time in decades, the Old One was sick...and the sickness was a sign of the change that had befallen him.

When his personal physician had first told him that he was dying, the Old One had been stoic at first, then oddly elated, toying with his new-found mortality, the delicious friction of risk. It didn't last. He felt every passing day, every waning moment as a subtraction, a loss. After all these years to finally be this close to success, and have it taken from him...

The Old One coughed, set off a rattling in his chest. He gently touched his cheek, felt the roughness where the shotgun blast at Malcolm Crews's mansion had scorched his skin. That pimply kaffir had almost killed him, ended his life in that overheated, run-down mansion with flies buzzing against the screens and garbage strewn on the lawn. So close to death...as though Allah had taunted him, given him a reminder of the muddy end men came to. The Old One tasted mucus in his mouth, a slimy lozenge that disgusted him.

The toddler in her frilly yellow bathing suit frolicked along the tideline, splashing as the waves trickled toward her. Her hair was as yellow as her bathing suit, a mass of tight curls like a sunflower. Her whole life lay before her, all those endless possibilities, while the Old One's life was winding down. Every breath she took, every joyous coo and tumble, was an insult to him.

The Old One rubbed his arms, trying to bring the blood to the surface, to get warm. It didn't help. He had caught the cold right after the near miss at Crews's mansion. The Old One had risked death before, dozens of times, but this was different. None of those other brushes with death had frightened him. If anything they had affirmed his identity as Allah's chosen one, the Mahdi. All gone now. Catching a cold, a
common
cold, was just a harbinger of things to come. Worse was on the way, age and infirmity riding toward him across the sands, a pale rider urging his mount on, faster, faster, faster. The Old One felt his cells slowly breaking down, toxins building up, his luck running out.

A dozen high-altitude helicopters hovered to the south, sculpting clouds with their ion beams. Beachcombers pointed and the Old One watched too--part of the appeal of cloud sculpting was not just the skill of the pilots, but trying to figure out what was being created. Words and symbols were easy, but this was much more ambitious. A day with barely any breeze helped, but still, there was an enormous amount of clouds being put to use. The helicopters zipped about, working in tandem, faster now, the object slowly taking shape. Color was added, the seeded particles activated in various parts of the cloud, a vast black cloud with silver and red streaks...all of it in slow motion as the helicopters dipped and soared around it.

The Old One turned, hearing the Ethiopian girl turn over in the bed at the rear of the cabana. A bare breast peaked out of the sheets as she dozed, languid in the heat, beads of perspiration on her forehead. Her mouth opened slightly and he knew that were he to kiss her, she would taste like honey. He had warmed himself with her before, clung to her, let her share her heat with him...but she had not stirred him, and though soaked with sweat, his own chill had prevailed. He watched her sleep until he lost track of time, imagining himself inside her, warm and safe...forever young.

His earpiece tingled, doubtless Ibrahim eagerly awaiting the events in the Gulf. The Old One plucked it out of his ear, threw it into the corner.

He huddled in his robe, tried to take comfort in the fact that Malcolm Crews was doing well in the Belt, even better than Baby had anticipated. The Old One and she watched Crews's television show every day, critiquing his performance, gauging the reactions of the crowd, both in the audience and across the Belt. Crews knew how to speak the lingo of the Belt, not just the proper words and phrases, but more important, the
emotional
language, the hopes and fears of that mass of unbelievers. Crews would be crucial to the mass conversion that was coming, preparing the ground for the Old One.

Ibrahim watched Crews only when the Old One insisted. Jealous of Baby usurping his role as chief advisor, Ibrahim dismissed the idea of converting the Christians, claimed it was impossible other than through brute force. The Old One knew better. The threat of the sword worked wonders among atheists, weaklings who believed only in this day, this moment, but Christians were
faithful.
They had merely embraced a false faith. They had confused Jesus for God. Once shown the true face of Allah, they would become his most loyal and ferocious followers. The path to the Caliphate started in the former United States, and the Belt citizens would be his shock troops to convert the rest of the world.

The Old One fought back a cough. Yes, he had ample reason to be pleased. Things were moving rapidly now, hurried on by his own increasing desperation. Today's action in the Gulf would be a big step. Credit Ibrahim with the planning and execution of the action, as he would rightly be the first to claim.

The Old One coughed, kept coughing until there were tears in his eyes. Oh, the loss of Senator Chambers's defense appointment had been vexing, and he didn't need that pinched ascetic ibn-Azziz to tell him Rakkim was responsible. Idiot, who
else
could it be? The method of Chambers's undoing, parading him naked through the streets...The Old One smiled. Most men would simply have murdered Chambers, but Rakkim...the youngster loved his little jokes, and the Old One appreciated playfulness now more than ever. That was one of the reasons he had been so drawn to Baby. She was competent and creative and cold-blooded...but, even more, the girl
enjoyed
herself, which was more than he could say for Ibrahim, always fussing and worrying.

He closed his eyes, swallowed the bile brought up by his coughing spasm. Yes, there were many reasons to give thanks to Allah, but still...after all his efforts, all the many years, the Old One was not going to live to see the final resolution of his plans. That would fall to Ibrahim, or Baby, or someone else Allah deemed more worthy to carry the Caliphate forward. The Old One's triumph left a bitter taste.

Applause interrupted his reverie. The young family stood on the sand looking up, clapping their hands wildly.

The Old One didn't know how much time had elapsed, but the cloud sculpture was finished, at least enough of it for the beachcombers to recognize what it was: the new Brazilian luxury car, the Rio D. The black cloud car was long and sleek, with silver chrome trim, red and leather inside, green accents, a perfect simulation, and there...The Old One leaned forward, staring. The wheels of the Rio D were actually
moving,
going round and round over the deep blue sea. He was tempted to wake the Ethiopian girl and show her, but better she slept on. Perhaps later he would have use for her.

The Old One heard footsteps, turned and saw Ibrahim run up to the entrance to the cabana, stopping before the one-way security curtain. He wore a dark three-piece suit and lace-up shoes.

"F-F-Father."

The Old One shivered, returned his attention to the young family. The little girl was dragging a pail behind her...one of the waves caught her, filled the pail, the weight of it knocking her over. Her father pulled her into his arms, the little girl crouping up seawater.

"Father?
It is nearly time."

The Old One opened the security curtain and Ibrahim scurried inside.

Ibrahim looked at the blank wallscreen. "You're not watching?"

The Old One shivered, covered it with a stretch. It would not do to show weakness in front of Ibrahim. "Go ahead."

Ibrahim rushed over, switched on the screen. He scrolled through the remote until the image of a packed ballroom came on, people dancing.

"Is the signal properly banked?" said the Old One.

"No need for security masking, Father," said Ibrahim, the screen showing a vast display of cut fruit, lobster and fresh fish, mounds of caviar and a whole suckling pig with an apple in its filthy mouth. "The signal is beamed from the Aztlan Board of Tourism channel, millions of people are watching."

"What's the name of the liner? The
Yucatan Queen
?"

"
Yucatan Princess,
Father."

"You vetted the crew of the speedboats? Made sure the registration is in order?"

"
Yes,
Father. I have attended to everything. Have I ever disappointed--?"

"Knockety-knock!"

The Old One turned, saw Baby standing outside the security curtain in a pale green sundress.

"Send her
away,
Father."

The Old One touched a button and Baby strolled inside, her bare feet bringing in sand. Her toes were painted bright pink, like the inside of a conch shell.

Baby glanced at the screen. "What are you boys up to?"

"It's none of your concern," said Ibrahim.

"Ibrahim has instituted a mission in the Gulf," said the Old One. "It's about to come to fruition."

Baby stared at the screen, saw a remote shot of the luxury liner churning across a flat blue sea, happy people on deck waving to the camera. "That's real pretty, but it doesn't seem like all that much, to me."

"I'm sure it doesn't," said Ibrahim.

The Ethiopian girl raised herself up on one elbow, rubbed her eyes.

"Go back to sleep," said the Old One, addressing her in her native tongue.

The Ethiopian girl rolled over, the sheet slipping down around her hips, already snoring.

"You don't look so good, Daddy," said Baby. "You okay?"

"I'm fine."

"Well, I got something here that's gonna make you feel a whole lot better." Baby held up a thumb drive to the Old One. "Let me turn that thing off, and I'll show--"

"Don't you
dare,
woman," Ibrahim said quietly.

"Wait your turn, Baby," said the Old One. "Besides, I think you're going to enjoy the show that Ibrahim has prepared for us."

"For
you,
Father," said Ibrahim. "My efforts are all on your behalf."

Baby dragged a chair next to the Old One, sat down beside him as the tourism channel showed people gambling in the luxury liner's casino, bent over the roulette and craps tables. She looked at Ibrahim, sniffed. "Least you could do is serve popcorn."

Mustafa bin-Siq leaned against the railing of the
Yucatan Princess,
watching the sunset over the Gulf, the water so warm you expected the sun to sizzle as it settled in. A poetic image for an engineer who wrote poetry and painted watercolors in his spare time, which, alas, there had been little of lately. Through the deck vibrations, he felt the port engine labor slightly, then smooth out. First assistant engineer Zapato should look into that, make a few adjustments to the fuel flow...bin-Siq stopped himself, half closed his eyes. No, there would be no need for that now.

"Hey, Paulo, can I get you some coffee?"

Bin-Siq jerked. He usually had this spot on the upper deck by himself, the passengers congregating on the lower decks where the bars and discos were.

The steward shifted, the gold buttons on his white jacket catching the sunset. "Didn't mean to startle you...sir."

Juan...that was the steward's name. Juan Tesca, a young man from Sinaloa, who always had his head in a book when he wasn't working. "Not your fault. I was just thinking."

The
Yucatan Princess
was one of a string of small Aztlan cruise liners that regularly sailed the Mexican Gulf Coast, with stops in Tampico, Havana, St. Petersburg, New Orleans and Matamoros. When the second assistant engineer got sick in Havana, as the Old One had planned, bin-Siq had presented his credentials and been hired. For the duration of the voyage, he was Paulo Maradona, an Argentinean engineer between ships.

"Nice, huh?" said the steward, nodding at the sunset. "Private too, I like that. You hear about tomorrow?"

"No."

"Captain called off the stop at New Orleans," said the steward. "Said it was too dangerous considering the noise the Belt's making about that church bombing in Texas. Lot of the passengers were plenty pissed off. They were hoping to dive the ruins, maybe come back with a hood ornament from a Cadillac or a string of Mardi Gras beads. They're talking about demanding a refund."

"Not our problem, is it?"

"Guess not."

Bin-Siq glanced at his watch. "You probably should get back to your duties."

"So...yes or no?" said the steward.

"Yes or no
what
?"

"Can I get you some coffee?"

"No...no, thank you."

"I guess you don't want to be kept awake."

Bin-Siq smiled. "I intend to sleep like a baby, no matter what."

"Iron constitution, huh? Okay, I can see you want to be left alone. Adios, Paulo."

"Adios, Juan." Bin-Siq watched the young man descend the metal stairs, and thought of the cubist painting by that Frenchman, "Nude Descending a Spiral Staircase," where the kinetic movement of the nude woman was captured in one static image. The painting was, of course, un-Islamic, but he admired it nonetheless, the mechanical sensuality, so cold and austere and elegant.

Bin-Siq turned back to the sea. Engineering had in some ways been a poor career choice, but the Old One evidently had need of a marine engineer, and that was that. Not that such a thing had ever been articulated to him by the Old One; he had only met the Mahdi once, as a boy of ten, treasuring the memory of the man's even gaze resting upon him. Not a word passed between them. Twenty years later, his time to serve had arrived.

Three weeks ago he had gotten a call while on a freighter en route to Manila, a voice saying at the first port he was to leave for Havana and wait. Bin-Siq had not hesitated. There was no one to say good-bye to. He had lived a quiet life at sea, a life of solitary prayer, biding his time with his work and his books...and his watercolors. Like Juan, the steward, he too found solace in the quiet of the printed page, avoiding the clamor of the holos, and the crudeness of conversation with his fellow sailors. So he had gone to Havana and done as the voice on the phone had directed him. He had waited.

Spider lay on a lounge chair on the flat roof of his house, bare-chested, basking in the sun. Sarah sat on a chair beside him.

"Why would Moseby do such a foolish thing?" said Spider.

"He's a
finder,
" said Sarah, shading her eyes with her hand. "He spent a few days questioning the locals in zombie country, got nowhere and decided to go into D.C. and look for the cross himself. I should have known he'd do something like that."

"It's not your fault," said Spider.

"I sent him on the mission," said Sarah.

"And he
chose
to go," said Spider, eyes closed, his chest and shoulders covered with silky gray hair. "Are you so all-powerful that no one can refuse your requests?"

"I wish," said Sarah.

Spider didn't react. "What's Moseby's condition?"

"Mild radiation poisoning, from what I can determine. He's taking the standard drug regime to reduce the effects, but--"

"Was there a malfunction in his rad suit?"

"No. Evidently one of the zombies gave him a map of the city with the hot spots mislabeled."

"That was to be expected." Spider sighed in the heat, his eyes still closed.

"Rakkim's going to have to go help him," said Sarah.

"You always intended to do that. Do you think me a fool?"

"Yes, but...I had hoped that Leo might have narrowed the search grid first."

Spider opened one eye, stared at her. "Tell Moseby to stay where he is. Tell him to
wait.
Give Leo more time. As soon as he comes back from Las Vegas--"

"You're letting him go?"

"Leo...Leo is beyond restraint. Smart as he is, he still seeks the approval of supposed wise men. The opportunity to address the International Pure Math Symposium is just too tempting. I told him he'll be disappointed, but he has to find out for himself."

"How is he getting there?"

"Oh, you know Leo." Spider tickled his hairy belly, his white skin pink now. "He hacked into the national travel database, created a fake history for himself--he'll pass through border control at the airport without a second look." He turned his face to the sun. "Mullah Cushing may have a more difficult time on his next trip abroad. Leo made some...additions to the mullah's security profile." He smiled again. "Evidently the good mullah is suspected of having a hidden pocket in his small intestine where he hides datachips for his Jewish overlords."

Sarah looked across the city. Defense blimps floated thickly around the presidential palace, the Fedayeen on high alert, but daily life went on in the capital as always. The monorail ran on time, the freeways were crowded and
Temptations of a Young Muslim
was still the most popular television show.

"You're not going to wait for Leo to come back, are you?" said Spider.

"We can't wait."

"Do you really want Rakkim barreling around D.C. with no idea where he's going?"

"Moseby might not be able to get a straight answer out of the zombies, but Rikki has a different way of asking questions," said Sarah. "He can get at the truth just talking and skipping rocks into a lake. I've seen him do it."

Spider rose up on one elbow. "I hope you know what you're doing."

Sarah closed her eyes. She refused to show her own doubts to Spider or anyone else.

In spite of all his spiritual preparations, there had been a moment of doubt as bin-Siq boarded the
Yucatan Princess,
a moment when he wondered what would have happened if he had turned and walked away, lost himself in the city, the maze of flesh...but bin-Siq had done his duty. Soon he would earn the blessings of Allah.

The sun had sunk lower when he saw the first dot on the horizon, first one then another, coming straight out of the setting sun. The lookouts on the com deck would be blinking behind their binoculars. Bin-Siq felt a delicious anticipation from the soles of his feet to the crown of his head, an effervescence, like bubbles rising through cold, clear water.

He leaned forward over the railing as the dots slowly neared, his fingers tapping on the railing in delight. Such a long time to have waited. There had been times lying in his bunk, surrounded by tons of steel and infidels, that he had almost smothered in doubt, but he had stayed true. He had remained faithful. Now...

Two speedboats...moving very fast...He squinted...could it be? Yes...bin-Siq clapped his hands in delight. The boats each towed a water-skier behind them, the tow ropes invisible...it looked as though the skiers were carried forward by wings of desire.

The
Yucatan Princess
made a minor course correction, and the speedboats kept pace.

In the sunset, the Gulf seemed ablaze, the two boats shooting across the flames toward the cruise liner. Down below, bin-Siq could see the tourists crowding the rail, pointing at the approaching speedboats. Their voices rose, excited, not in any way concerned--they were ten miles from land, the Belt a mere shadow in the distance. Surely this was some entertainment the company had planned for them, some small compensation for the cancellation of their New Orleans dive.

The captain's voice boomed over the loudspeakers, warning off the boats both in Spanish and in English.

One of the water-skiers waved and the crowd on deck cheered.

The captain would be on the radio now, alerting his superiors in Puerto Madero, asking for guidance.

Bin-Siq inhaled deeply, drew in the clean salt air. He felt himself growing lighter and more diaphanous by the moment. Were Juan here he could look right through him now.

The .50-caliber machine guns on the foredeck opened up, fired a warning burst near one of the boats. The crowd of tourists went silent for a moment...then cheered even louder.

The two speedboats came directly at the
Yucatan Princess
now, full speed. The water-skiers each unfurled the flag of the Belt, the banners snapping in the reddening glow.

The crowd lowered their voices, retreated back from the rail, hurrying inside.

The machine guns fired. Tore up the water. The crew were unused to anything other than simulations, and the speedboats zigzagged now, made themselves hard targets.

Bin-Siq had shaved his head before boarding the
Yucatan Princess
in Havana. This morning he had shaved his body completely, made himself presentable to enter Paradise.

The speedboats closed in, engines roaring. Close enough now that bin-Siq could almost make out faces. He wondered how long those men had waited to hear the call from the Old One, telling them their time had come.

The machine guns swept across the water, intersected one of the boats.

The explosion rocked the
Yucatan Princess,
sent debris from the speedboat skyward.

Screams echoed from below and bin-Siq himself cried out.

Each of the speedboats was packed with TNT, enough to cripple the
Yucatan Princess
but not sink her. Any more weight would have made the boats sluggish. No, the job of sinking the
Yucatan Princess
was left to bin-Siq. His luggage contained fifty pounds of plastic explosive. On his shift early this morning, he had formed the explosive between the bulkhead and the main fuel tanks, then attached a radio receiver to the detonator.

The other speedboat hurtled forward, aimed directly midship.

Bin-Siq took the small transmitter out of his pocket.

The machine gun fired frantically at the remaining speedboat, which was less than fifty yards away now, scudding over the waves.

The Belt speedboats would be blamed for the destruction of the
Yucatan Princess;
any investigation would identify the men responsible and doubtless there would be some connection to the authorities in Atlanta.

Bin-Siq held the detonator as the speedboat roared ever closer. He thought of his watercolors carefully taped to the wall of his cabin--seascapes, birds in flight, sunrise on the waves and a storm on the horizon. He didn't have much talent but he loved the softness of the images, the gentle gradations of color. They soothed him in the long years of waiting. Sad to think that all his work would be lost now.

The second speedboat crashed into the
Yucatan Princess,
the explosion knocking bin-Siq down. He quickly stood up, the ship listing as the captain's voice came over the loudspeaker, reassuring the passengers.

As bin-Siq pressed the detonator he gave thanks to Allah and hoped that he would be able to paint watercolors in Paradise.