Heart of the Assassin

by Robert Ferrigno

  The Old One wiggled his toes in the sand. "It was her idea."

  "Lester!" called Baby. "Come on in!"

  "I told you, I don't want to," said Gravenholtz.

  Rakkim felt the wind in his face.

  "When I was a student at Oxford, I listened to professors argue whether it was a confluence of events or great men who changed the course of history," said the Old One, sketching away. "Whether Rome was brought down by overextension of the empire or the murder of Julius Caesar, whether it was slash-and-burn agriculture that collapsed the Mayan civilization or the inability of a single warrior-king to unite the cities. The sophistry of scholars." He glanced over at Rakkim. "The secret is to create the conditions for change, a process that sometimes takes decades, and then use certain men as pivot points, a fulcrum to move history." He went back to his drawing. "That's you, Rakkim. That's why you're here."

  "Was Malcolm Crews one of your pivot points?" said Rakkim. "Because if he was, you're going to have to sit in the sad chair. Turns out Crews likes being the good guy."

  "Well, I rather doubt that will last," said the Old One, "but no matter, Pastor Crews has served his primary function." His dark features were intense in the morning light, his mouth a thin slash. "Crews is a secondary player. Not easily replaced, but certainly replaceable. There's a country singer in Tupelo, Mississippi, drawing large crowds. Pretty girl, skin like cashew butter, sings gospel songs so sweetly you'd think she believed it." He watched Baby diving into the water. "Everyone's replaceable, Rikki. So what do you want?"

  "You look tired," said Rakkim. "Vulnerable, somehow."

  "Nonsense," said the Old One.

  "No, it looks good on you," said Rakkim. "Nobody lives forever, do they? I bet when you lie down at night you can hear the clock ticking. Tickety-tock, tickety-tock."

  The Old One's pen scratched away at the paper.

  "It must hurt," says Rakkim. "All those years, all that effort, and what do you have to show for it? Just money and a line of corpses stretching on forever. If Allah chose you as the Mahdi he must be rather disappointed, don't you think?"

  "Allah doesn't make mistakes," said the Old One.

  "Exactly," said Rakkim.

  Gravenholtz stayed on the sand, glaring at them.

  Baby splashed into the shallows, waxed and smooth as a pink doll, a speargun in one hand, a large fish wriggling on the barbed tip. She tossed the gun up onto the beach as a fresh wave broke over her, white water foaming around her thighs.

  Rakkim watched the fish flopping on the sand, its gills opening and closing.

  Baby stayed at the waterline, squeezed out her hair--water ran down her breasts, collected in a sparkling arc at the bottom of her belly button...the promise of the dawn.

  Rakkim turned to the Old One, who was as transfixed by her as he was. "Sending Baby and Mr. Ugly for the cross...you thinking of converting?"

  The Old One showed the drawing to Rakkim. It was Baby, of course. Baby naked in the waves, precisely rendered. Baby, slim and sensuous, her expression playful, knowing just what she was doing. "A man picks up many skills over the years...."

  "I wouldn't blame you for going Christian," said Rakkim. "Sure seems like Allah's fed up with you. Ibn-Azziz? Dead. Malcolm Crews? Born again. All you have left is the man with the ear of the president. Maybe that's Amir and maybe it isn't, but I'm talking with General Kidd tomorrow."

  The Old One tore off the sheet of paper. "Amir's dead." He released the drawing to the wind, Baby's image rolling down the beach.

  Gravenholtz started after it, stopped himself.

  "How?" Rakkim's voice broke. "How did he die?"

  "He tried to murder Kidd and the general killed him." The Old One shrugged. "I'm not surprised. Kidd is forceful, and Amir...well, it's always difficult for a son to take his father's life. Doubts creep in and slow the hand, divert the intention. Kidd evidently had no qualms killing his son."

  "You don't know Kidd."

  "No, I don't--not like you do, Rikki. The general has great affection for you, which is understandable. I feel the very same way about you, and with the traumatic events of today, I suspect the general is ready to relinquish control to you very soon now. So he can grieve, of course, perhaps make a pilgrimage home to that desolate stretch of dirt on the horn of Africa."

  "I see. You thought you had it covered both ways," said Rakkim. "No matter who won, Amir or Kidd, your man would be in place."

  "Are you my man, Rakkim?" The Old One stood up, tossed the sketchbook onto the chair. "The world is a big place, too big for even me to rule by myself. Time to decide whose side you're on."

  Rakkim's index finger inadvertently twitched, a well-honed killing reflex.

  The Old One noticed. "Do you miss your knife?"

  "I don't need a blade," said Rakkim.

  "Don't be like that, Rikki," said Baby, walking toward them, water glistening along the curves of her body. "Daddy's right. I see things in you...things you could become. You and me...there's no limit to us."

  Gravenholtz rushed to Baby, wrapped a heavy white towel around her. "This ain't right," he said to the Old One, his face flushed. "You're treating him like the fucking prodigal son. I'm the one who brought you the cross."

  "Well, Rakkim?" said the Old One.

  Rakkim backhanded the Old One, sent him sprawling.

  Gravenholtz smiled. A warthog smile, tufts of red hair sprouting from his skull.

  "Lester Gravenholtz, you settle down right now," said Baby, helping the Old One up. "Rikki, why don't you go in the water and cool off."

  Gravenholtz closed in on Rakkim.

  Rakkim backed toward the water, saw Gravenholtz slow. "Come on, Lester, what are you waiting for?"

  Gravenholtz charged.

  Rakkim dodged, drove the bottom of his foot against the side of Gravenholtz's knee. Any other man would have been lying in agony on the sand, crippled by the blow. Gravenholtz limped slightly, his smile still in place.

  They went back and forth on the beach. Rakkim was faster, much faster, but his kicks and punches barely affected Gravenholtz, who kept trying to narrow the arena. Twice Gravenholtz almost grasped him, his nails gouging Rakkim's arms. Rakkim landed a solid strike to Gravenholtz's face, snapped his head back. It should have killed him. Gravenholtz spit blood on the sand and kept advancing, circling...except whenever Rakkim backed into the water. Then Gravenholtz waited for Rakkim to come out. Rakkim glanced over at Baby.

  "It's not too late to change your mind, Rakkim," said the Old One.

  "The fuck it isn't," said Gravenholtz, blood leaking from his nose.

  Rakkim sidled into the water.

  Gravenholtz hesitated, came after him.

  Rakkim backed farther out, waves lapping against his back.

  Gravenholtz stayed put. "I'll make it quick. Just like I did for your buddy."

  Rakkim stepped back. The water was chest-high now. "You scared of a little water?" He whipped his hand across the waves, sprayed Gravenholtz's face. As the redhead rubbed his eyes, Rakkim dove, grabbed both of Gravenholtz's ankles, jerked him under, Rakkim on the bottom now, and pulled the both of them into deeper water.

  Gravenholtz bent his body, trying to get free, trying to reach him, but Rakkim just kept walking backward along the bottom, still hanging on to Gravenholtz's ankles. Rakkim had once held his breath for nine minutes.

  Rakkim tried to keep him under but Gravenholtz was paddling hard with his hands, stirring up silt, the two of them rising slowly. Rakkim let go of Gravenholtz's ankles, clawed his way up the man's bulky body, fighting for every inch, trying to hold him down. Face-to-face now, Gravenholtz snarling, bubbles pouring from his mouth...Rakkim drove his fingers deep into the redhead's eyes, deeper, scooping through the warm jelly as Gravenholtz bellowed, trying to escape; deeper, Rakkim pushing his way right into the sinus cavity, opening him wide. Water poured directly into Gravenholtz's throat now, unstoppable, flooded into his lungs as he struggled, the water pink with blood.

&n
bsp; The last of Gravenholtz's air dribbled out his nostrils. Weakened now, blinded, a sac of skin filling rapidly with water, he still managed to flail around, found Rakkim and wrapped his arms around him.

  The two of them tumbled underwater, yellow viscous fluid from Gravenholtz's ruined eyes trailing behind them as they sank toward the bottom. Gravenholtz clung to Rakkim in a cruel embrace, their faces inches apart, slowly crushing him. Rakkim tightened his chest, but felt his ribs cracking, giving way. Light-headed, Rakkim watched a school of tiny orange fish zigzag around them, curious, nibbling at the bubbles of blood that floated past. A fish scooted in, nibbled at Gravenholtz's cavernous eye sockets.

  Rakkim slammed the knuckle of his thumb again and again into Gravenholtz's temple, a killing strike that didn't kill him, but scared the fish away...and Rakkim would have laughed, but it hurt too much, and his vision was narrowing...narrowing...Terrible to die looking into Gravenholtz's face.

  Then...then Gravenholtz released him, the redhead's arms drifting free, riding the watery currents. Rakkim coughed, a smoke ring of blood...but he didn't smoke. He feebly kicked toward the surface.

  Rakkim broke through the waves, gasping, made his way to shore, crawled up onto the sand, exhausted. Breathing hurt, but not breathing hurt even more. He lay back in the morning light. Going to be...a great day in Rio.

  Baby bent over him, kissed him. She had her party dress back on. Too bad. Rakkim rolled over, got onto his hands and knees. Baby helped him up.

  "You...you knew he..." Rakkim coughed up pink water. "You knew he was too heavy to swim."

  "I saw him about piss himself in a glass-bottom boat this one time," said Baby.

  "Move away from him, Baby," said the Old One, pointing the fountain pen at Rakkim.

  "You...you going to draw my picture?" Rakkim bent over again, coughing.

  "That's not necessary, Daddy," said Baby.

  "Move away from him now," said the Old One.

  Baby moved away.

  "Very impressive, Rakkim," said the Old One. "Killing Lester with your bare hands...that's quite a feat."

  "Save the applause until...after I...kill you," said Rakkim.

  "Your friend Jenkins told ibn-Azziz this ridiculous story about you killing Darwin," said the Old One. "Doing it by yourself. I didn't believe it, of course, but seeing what you just did...well, it makes me wonder."

  "Jenkins...would have said anything to buy a little...little more time," said Rakkim.

  "Did you do it, Rikki?" said the Old One. "Did you kill Darwin?"

  "Come closer, I'll whisper in your ear," said Rakkim.

  The Old One smiled. "I'm going to miss you, Rakkim."

  "Daddy, no!"

  The Old One aimed the fountain pen. "I offered you the world and you turned it down." Thin white strings streamed out of the pen. "Remember that as you die."

  Rakkim tried to push aside the white strings but they were so sticky, wrapping around him, squeezing him even tighter than Gravenholtz. He felt his ribs splintering...tried to scream but there was no breath left in him.

  The Old One kept spraying those silky white strings...until the moment that his chest exploded. He staggered...gingerly touched the sharp tines of the titanium spear protruding from his breastbone. Looked behind him.

  Baby rested the speargun against her shoulder. "I asked you nice, Daddy."

  CHAPTER 52

  The world stopped. The Old One could see Rakkim staring up at him, the white polymer strings encasing him, and Rakkim's face was frozen in surprise, a single drop of water dripping off his earlobe, hanging suspended in space.

  The surf froze, the waves immobile, about to crash on the virtual beach. The world as a snapshot. No such thing as snapshots anymore, they were as much an illusion as this stretch of sand, but the Old One remembered snapshots, photographs taken by tourists and lovers on holiday, snapshots taken with cheap cameras. Lovers would wait days to see what shining instants had been immortalized, precious moments to be tucked away in memory albums. Here we are at Cannes, darling, here we are at Miami, at Honolulu, at Bali, at Sydney, at Capetown. Here we are, here we are, here we are. The photographs were no more permanent than the newlyweds, yellowing and cracking over time, eventually fading to dust...like the lovers themselves.

  The Old One bent over Rakkim, but he didn't react, just kept staring past him, and the Old One turned to see what had captured this new assassin's attention...and saw himself, arms flung to the sides, eyes wide, saw himself with the tip of a spear bursting through his chest in a spray of blood, each individual droplet shimmering like a ruby in the sunlight.

  He moved closer, standing an inch from his own face, but got no reaction...this other self, this impaled self as immobile as the world. Behind him he could see Baby holding a speargun, her hair caught by the breeze, another frozen moment. She looked out of breath. No...not out of breath, exhilarated. Pleased. Proud.

  The Old One walked toward her, moving quickly, his footsteps not even stirring the sand. He smacked her across the face, wanting to slap the joy out of her, but his hand...his hand passed through her as though she were just another illusion on the beach. He looked at his fingers, flexed them.

  He looked closer at her, examined the speargun. It was one of the guns they had used yesterday when they went diving off the old airliner that had crashed into the bay. Baby's idea, the expedition booked through the hotel. The dive had been interesting, the submerged fuselage crusted with barnacles, sea anemones waving in the current, fish darting through the broken windows. The dive captain had been smitten with her, of course, eager to show her everything, and she had come back to the boat with a salmon wriggling on her spear. He wondered if she knew yesterday that she was going to use the speargun today, wondered if today had been an accident or an impulse.

  No, no, of course it had not been an impulse. What was he thinking? This was no time to go soft-headed, no time...no time at all. It had taken foresight and planning to smuggle the speargun past hotel security. The dive captain had probably helped her do it, not even knowing what he was doing, accepting whatever explanation she gave him.

  The Old One looked into Baby's eyes but he couldn't see his reflection, no matter how he twisted and turned.

  He walked back to his other self, his doomed self. Put a finger on one of the droplets of blood bursting from his chest. His finger went right through it. He moved closer, looked into his own eyes. He couldn't see himself either, but he could see pain in the other's eyes. And surprise. The surprise was worse than the pain. The Old One couldn't afford to be surprised. Not like this. It showed a lack of awareness. A man could get hurt that way, and though the Old One was chosen by Allah, he was still a man. He would have to be more careful in the future. This was a lesson. He would not make this same mistake again. Yes, never again.

  The sun...the sun seemed dimmer. Twilight at the beach, not at all what he expected. Have to...have to lodge a complaint with the management. He strolled along the tideline in the growing darkness, comforted by the feel of the sand on his feet and the warmth of the water. He wished he could see Gravenholtz bobbing along the bottom but the light...was almost gone. Maybe tomorrow. He wanted to see Gravenholtz's expression in death. That would be a look of surprise, and unlike the Old One, Gravenholtz would not get the opportunity to learn from his mistake.

  Rakkim had killed Gravenholtz with his bare hands. Amazing. Too bad the boy had let his ego carry him away. Refusing the Old One's offer of a place at the table? Absurd. A fatal lack of imagination. Might even...might...even be characterized as blasphemy.

  The Old One couldn't see a thing now, but he kept walking through the shallows. Must keep walking. Walk until the sun came up if he had to. He hated the dark. Always had. No one knew. Another of his secrets. The water was colder. Something else he hated. In utter darkness, he turned toward the beach, but the water got deeper, past his knees now, and when he turned in the opposite direction it got deeper still...and colder...much colder. Shivering, he kept
on trying to find his way back, but it was so dark, and no matter what he did...

  The Old One toppled onto the sand in front of Rakkim.

  The beach at Rio blinked out, replaced by an enormous pool. Float a sailboat in that thing. Crystal-clear water. He could see Gravenholtz's body on the bottom, arms waving. No sand. No waves. No sunshine, just indirect lighting. Not that it mattered. Rakkim's eyes fluttered.

  "Just a minute," said Baby.

  Rakkim saw her bend down and pull the spear through the Old One's chest. Then she hurried over and used the sharp edge of the spear to cut away the strings from around him. He closed his eyes.

  "Don't go to sleep," said Baby.

  "Okay."

  "I mean it."

  "I thought...the speargun was fake."

  "If it was fake, I couldn't have killed Daddy, now could I?" Baby helped him sit up. "The fish was fake, but I kept the speargun just in case."

  "In case...in case of what?"

  "In case I needed it, silly." Baby patted his cheek. "You notice how whenever Daddy talked about dividing up the world, and pivot points, it was always you he was talking about and not me? When you get right down to it, Daddy just didn't respect women."

  Rakkim breathed shallowly, breathed as if he were sucking air through a straw.

  "So...what do you want to do now?" said Baby.

  "Like to...keep...breathing."

  "I mean later. Us."

  Rakkim shook his head. "No such thing as us."

  "Your loss." Baby must have had something in her eye.

  "Are you...are you really afraid of thunderstorms?"

  "Terrified." Baby wiped her eyes. "Damn you, Rikki, don't you make me miss you, or I'll kill you, I swear I will."

  "I believe you."

  "You better."

  "I want...the piece of the cross," said Rakkim.

  "Do you now?" Baby walked over to her father and nudged him onto his back. The piece of wood was suspended on a thin silver chain around his neck, tiny white flowers spattered with blood. "Didn't do Daddy much good, but if you want it, I'm going to have to get a kiss in exchange." She leaned over him, gently kissed him, her tongue tickling him, warm and sweet. She slowly broke the kiss. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"