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.
CHAPTER 30
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?"
CHAPTER 31
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.
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