Heart of the Assassin

by Robert Ferrigno

  In the distance a wave-energy buoy bobbed on the water, warning lights flickering. There had been hundreds of them initially, the Cubans investing heavily in alternative energy. Almost 50 percent of Nueva Florida's electrical supply had come from the wave buoys...until the latest cycle of super-hurricanes had torn through, uprooting their land links and sending them hurtling far inland. The Cubans had shifted to solar power.

  The Old One massaged his knuckles, wondering when he would start stiffening with the infirmities that troubled other men. Rage twisted through him again, rage and frustration...and doubt. Rage and frustration were to be expected, but doubt...to question his anointing was to question Allah's judgment and that was blasphemy. The Old One inhaled deeply, let the clean salt air fill him. Whether he had three years or three minutes, he would not falter.

  Others had been rumored to be the mahdi over the course of history, sixty false prophets as predicted, the most successful of them gathering whole armies to their cause before their inevitable defeat, like that fool in the Sudan in the 1880s and Osama bin Laden a hundred years later. These imposters announced themselves with trumpets and declarations, turned themselves into targets for the infidels and then were surprised when they were destroyed. The Old One knew better. He might have hundreds of billions of euros in assets, thousands of men who would eagerly die for him, but against nations--against Christians and Jews and false Muslims--he had no choice but to use more delicate tactics: stealth, bribery, assassination--methods that required patience. The world was a vast, multilayered chessboard, and the Old One took years between moves. Perhaps he had been too patient, relying on his own false sense of immortality to achieve his aspirations.

  He had spent twenty years engineering the rise of one of his many sons to a position of prominence in the Catholic Church, having favorable articles written about this young cardinal, eliminating rivals. When the man finally ascended to the papacy as Pius XIII, it turned out that his time in the Church had changed him. His son had truly become a devout Catholic, and proceeded to do everything he could to thwart the Old One's ambitions, jailing clerics loyal to the Old One, and dramatically increasing his security. The Old One's attempts to cajole him were rejected, as were his efforts to discredit him. When all else failed he summoned Darwin. A week later, Pius XIII was found lying peacefully in his bed at the Vatican, hands neatly folded in prayer, one staring eye red with blood. Dead of an aneurysm, according to a team of coroners. Darwin never did tell him how he had accomplished the feat. Now it was too late.

  The Old One watched the stars reflected in the waves, let his gaze linger so that after a time he couldn't tell the heavens from the sea.... He whirled around, saw Baby standing just inside the doorway, a healthy young animal that had lost all fear of him. "I told you I wanted to be alone," he said quietly. "You disobeyed me."

  "Yes, I did, Daddy."

  "Where is Ibrahim?"

  "Ibrahim is a good boy." Cold eyes, almost as cold as his own. "He does what he's told."

  "Ibrahim has been by my side since he was born. I barely know you, girl."

  "Ibrahim has been in your shadow since he was born, Daddy. I see things more clearly than he does...I can be more useful to you." Baby walked out beside him, leaned against the railing. "This thing you had Lester do today...killing the Mexican oil minister, it's fine and good, and Lord knows, Lester needed to kill somebody or there'd be no living with him, but I don't really see the purpose of it."

  "I'm not used to explaining myself."

  "That's because Ibrahim's too much of a fraidy cat to ask, but I can't really help unless I know your intentions, Daddy." Baby stroked the base of her throat. "So who's getting blamed for the killing, 'cause I know it's not going to be us?"

  Us. The Old One looked past her, not wanting to be distracted. It had been a long time since he had shared more than bits and pieces of his plans with anyone, but Baby was right--even his inner circle was too intimidated by him to do more than acquiesce. By turns coquettish and crafty, she had improved his mood almost from the moment she arrived, and he had come to realize that even her seemingly idle suggestions were worth considering.

  "Daddy?"

  "The Belt president will be blamed," said the Old One. "Not immediately, of course, not directly. Aztlan has many enemies, but I'll make sure their suspicions eventually turn to the Belt."

  "You looking to stir up border troubles or start a trade war?"

  "It's a bit more subtle than that," said the Old One.

  "Subtle? See, that's the problem, Daddy." Baby kicked off her shoes, vaulted onto the wide, flat marble railing, teetered slightly as a gust caught her skirt, the fabric boiling up around her. Forty stories above the earth she stretched out her arms, wiggled her pink perfect toes. "Subtle's just another word for safe." She looked down at him, blond hair whipping across her face. "Daddy...it feels like everybody here's moving in slow motion, afraid to make a move. Well, I can't live like that. You may have all the time in the world, but I don't."

  "Yes..." The Old One looked up into her eyes and the stars seemed to go out. "Having all the time in the world does change things, doesn't it?"

  She hopped off the railing, stood before him, so close he almost took a step backward.

  Baby breathed harder, a flush rising in her cheeks. "So what's really going on?"

  The Old One watched her. There was a tautness to her, an eagerness, as though she were straining at an invisible leash. It made her incredibly attractive. He wished he could remember her mother, but he had only a vague recollection of a beautiful, pale-skinned girl with hair that smelled like pine soap. They hadn't had much time together, a few weeks...never enough time. A thousand years wouldn't have been enough and now he had so much less than that.

  "Please, Daddy?"

  "The murder of the oil minister is just the first step," said the Old One. "I intend to start a full-scale war with Aztlan, bullets and bombers and the rockets' red glare."

  "Now you're talking." Baby clapped her hands in glee. "If you want a war, though, you better forget slow and steady. You need to jump-start a regular shitstorm...pardon my French."

  "Yes, you may be right..." said the Old One. "It might be best to move forward my timetable...even at the cost of increasing the risk." Baby slipped her arm through his and the Old One suddenly could see her mother's excited face, the two of them locked in passion. "So...how would you suggest we start this shitstorm, as you so colorfully described it?"

  "Well, FYI, blaming the Belt president for the murder of the oil minister is the wrong play," said Baby. "President Raynaud's popularity is thin as tissue paper. Aztlan demands his head on a stick, the senate's likely to give it to them. You want to set the Belt boiling, sic Aztlan on the Colonel. Folks in the Belt love him. Raynaud's just a vote whore. My husband's a certified hero with a chestful of medals. If Aztlan blames him for what Lester did, you're going to get your war sooner than later."

  The Old One locked eyes with her. If it were possible for him to be afraid of a woman, she would be the one. Blood of his blood. "Thank you."

  "You're welcome." Baby bit her lower lip. "I know what y'all are thinking. You're wondering if you underestimated me. Don't feel bad, men do it to me all the time."

  "Yes...I imagine they do." The breeze kicked up off the ocean, moist and briny. He hadn't lived in the desert for well over a hundred years, but sometimes he still missed it. "Will the Colonel accept help from the Republic?"

  "The Republic helping out the Belt?" said Baby.

  "Would he?"

  Baby pretended to be thinking about the question, but he knew she was really thinking about the rationale behind the question. "Well...there's plenty of bad feelings to go around, but he's a Christian. To forgive's divine."

  "Good."

  Baby moved closer. "So you're stirring up a war between Aztlan and the Belt, so the Republic can come riding to the rescue. You're going to a lot of trouble to get the Belt and the Republic to kiss and make up."


  "I'm a peacemaker at heart."

  Baby giggled. "Me too." She gave his arm a gentle squeeze. "You planning on putting the two pieces together again?"

  The Old One shouldn't have been surprised, but he was. Ibrahim would have never understood; his faith would have blinded him to the possibility.

  "Reunification's the only reason I can think of for you to do what you're doing." Baby didn't look at him. "Strange thing, though. You busted up the United States so you could put it back together again?"

  "To reunite it under the banner of Allah, stronger than ever. A beacon to the faithful around the world, a call to initiate the caliphate."

  "That's going to be a hard sell, Daddy. Ask Humpty Dumpty how that worked out."

  "Desperation reminds even half brothers that they are brothers nonetheless."

  "Yeah, nothing like a wolf scratching at the door to stop folks from squabbling." Baby glanced at him. "You got a big problem, though. From what I hear, even the Belt and the Republic together aren't strong enough to defeat Aztlan, not as long as the Mexican air armada can pound every one of our cities flat."

  "Yes, that is a problem."

  "I guess you're working on it, huh?"

  The Old One didn't respond.

  Baby swayed against him. "One thing I always wondered about. Why start your caliphate in the USA instead of some Muslim country? I mean...why not make it easy on yourself?"

  "I did try to make it easy on myself." The Old One watched the stars on the water. "I placed the Shah of Iran back on the Peacock Throne, but that upstart Khomeini ruined things. Then the Saudi prince I had maneuvered to succeed King Fahd fell from favor. My contacts in the U.S. State Department convinced Benazir Bhutto to return to Pakistan, but the silly bitch got herself killed before I intended." He shook his head. "After fifty years of failure in the Muslim world, I decided the solution lay elsewhere."

  "The Great Satan," said Baby, fingers on her head making devil horns.

  The Old One laughed and for an instant he forgot all about Massakar's sad face and even sadder diagnosis.

  "I like hearing you laugh, Daddy."

  "What could have greater impact on the Muslim world than the collapse of their ancient enemy?" said the Old One as Baby's hair wafted across his face like angel wings. "I had already laid the groundwork--politicians and journalists, newsanchors and academics, they were all for sale, and the religious leaders sold themselves cheapest. Their whole culture was rotten, riddled with greed and filth. I merely helped things along." The tide splashed in, the waves stacking up in the moonlight. "However...it turned out that bringing down the Great Satan was easier than putting it back together again. I came close five years ago, but our friend Rakkim and his meddling wife made me postpone my plans." Clouds edged across the moon. "That's why Ibrahim is so cautious. Inevitability is a tenuous asset, not to be squandered. I can't afford another high-profile setback."

  Baby kissed his cheek. "Well, you didn't have me beside you back then. Now, you do."

  "Yes," said the Old One, the feel of her lips lingering. "Now, I do."

  CHAPTER 9

  Rakkim was hurrying home when he spotted Sarah and Michael getting on the monorail at Fremont, both of them dressed as modern Muslims, which made no sense. He had to run to catch up, just managed to slide through the door of the Catholics-only car behind them. He didn't even have time to sit down before the monorail left, the elevated train shooting rapidly across the capital. The Catholics-only car was half full at midmorning, service workers and young mothers, mostly, a few old people staring out the windows as they gnawed on fibrous vitamin bars.

  He settled back in the hard plastic bench, kept one hand half over his face, as though deep in thought, watching Sarah and Michael through the smoked glass between the cars. The Muslim cars were more luxurious, the seats padded, the air lightly perfumed with the scent of vanilla, verses from the Quran inscribed on the walls in gold script. Only fundamentalist cars were legally forbidden to nonbelievers, with a Black Robe posted on the platform to make sure no infidels tried to enter. Even so, Catholics chose to be among their own kind. Sarah stared straight ahead, head high, but Michael gawked from side to side, even peered at Rakkim for a moment before being distracted by the fat man sitting opposite him tapping away on his handheld.

  Rakkim still didn't understand why she was dressed as a modern, her forearms bare, her gauzy dress barely covering her knees. Moderns drew attention. Better to go out as a moderate Muslim--there were more moderates than any other group, and a head scarf and modest dress engendered anonymity. Fundamentalist attire offered near-total invisibility, faces and bodies completely obscured, but a fundamentalist woman on her own could be stopped by any passing Black Robe, asked to show written permission from a male family member. Better to go out as a moderate, or a Catholic, with their rugged, working-class clothes and practical shoes. Catholics dressed for flight. Sarah knew all this...so why was she dressed like a modern?

  Sarah leaned over, said something to Michael, and the boy smiled. Rakkim ached to be with them. He had only been gone a couple weeks, but it seemed longer, and never more so than when he saw the two of them together, realized how self-contained they were. How little they seemed to need him.

  It had been three days since he slipped out of New Fallujah, winding his way beyond the control of the Black Robes. He had changed clothes at a rest stop in Northern California, emerged as a Catholic day laborer and gotten onto a crowded bus to Seattle, standing for most of the trip as the bus stopped at every town along the way.

  He should have contacted General Kidd as soon as he got off the bus at Seattle's downtown produce market, should have briefed Kidd on what he had learned in the fundamentalist stronghold; that was the protocol, but Rakkim had headed home instead, desperate to see Sarah and Michael, more shaken than he wanted to admit by what he had seen back in New Fallujah. He closed his eyes and saw the burning madrassa, heard the screams, fresh innocents flickering like candles. If a shadow warrior like Jenkins could lose his way and find a home on the Bridge of Skulls...what hope was there for Rakkim?

  A shout from the other side of the car, an old woman pointing out the window. One of the large freeway overpasses below had collapsed, crushed cars scattered across the roadway. He turned, saw Michael with his face pressed against the glass as the monorail moved past the destruction.

  "Might help if they actually put some cement in the concrete," muttered a man across the aisle, a skinny twenty-something in worn jeans and a Starbucks giveaway nylon jacket. "'Course, that would cost money." He held out a bright red can of Jihad Cola to Rakkim.

  Rakkim didn't react.

  The young man got up from his seat and sat down next to Rakkim. He offered the can of cola again, his cuticles rimmed with grease, his knuckles raw. "It's mostly vodka. Made it myself from potato peelings." He toasted Rakkim. "I'm Eddie Flynn."

  Two schoolgirls nearby giggled, turned away, whispering.

  Rakkim looked out the windows, watched the city pass by. "What's the occasion?"

  "My big brother's just enlisted. Airborne Rangers." Flynn sucked at the cola can. "Now I've got the bedroom to myself. No more arguing over the holo or having to hurry through my shower before we run out of hot water." He clutched the can. "Aren't you going to tell me how proud I should be?"

  "No."

  "That's good, because I ain't proud. Stupid bastard'll probably get shipped out to the Arizona front to bake his balls. Mexicans don't get him, the scorpions will. I told him not to do it...." Flynn wiped his nose, smeared snot across the back of his hand. "I said it ain't our country. If the Muslims want to fight the Mexicans, let them."

  "Keep your voice down," said Rakkim.

  "I got good grades, but you see me at university?" said Flynn. "No, I'm on my way to some shit job, just like you." He stared at his scuffed work boots. "School counselor told me if I wanted to convert, she could get me into the technical college." He looked up at Rakkim. "I told her to kiss my Catholic ass
."

  "Hail Mary, full of grace." Rakkim placed his fist against his chest, thumb curled inside, the sign of the Saint George rowdies, and the young man repeated the motion.

  "I was good in chemistry," Flynn said, slurring his words. He took a swallow from the can of vodka, offered it again. "Try this and tell me I'm wrong."

  "I believe you."

  Flynn shrugged. "I guess you got someplace important to go. Lucky you." He signed off, lurched over to the other side of the car and sat back beside the Catholic schoolgirls.

  The train made five stops before Sarah and Michael got off at the House of Martyrs war museum in downtown Seattle. Sarah and Michael joined the crowd heading toward the war museum, as many working-class Catholics as Muslims among the visitors, as many locals paying respects as tourists seeing where their tax dollars went. Sarah held tightly to their son's hand. The breeze sent leaves skittering across the pavement, but the grounds of the museum were immaculate, swept daily, the grass neatly tended. Rakkim kept well behind them, altering his pace when need be, always keeping two or three people in his sight line. Even so, twice Michael turned around quickly, almost spotted him.

  Rakkim took a side path, paralleled Sarah and Michael as they walked toward the entrance. He kept his head down, glancing occasionally toward them, but avoided staring. Michael's instincts were too sharp; Rakkim had already started training him.

  The war museum was a modest, understated dome built beside the crumpled Space Needle, the old monument lying on its side, rusting in the weather. The exterior of the museum was surfaced with small tiles made by schoolchildren, each one inscribed with the name of a martyred soldier. New tiles were added every month, as new martyrs fell in defense of the nation. An honor guard of veterans in crisp full-dress uniforms stood at attention around the dome, hands clasped behind their backs. Veterans in wheelchairs flanked the entrances--every visitor, Catholic and Muslim, offered them blessings before entering, the veterans stoic and unresponsive as stones.