Gravenholtz tossed the knife, chunked it deep into the teak railing an inch from Moseby’s hip. “Heckfire, I’ll give you a ride even if you’re not nice.”
Moseby bent down, lifted the stone queen off the shelf, and gently set it down on the deck. “No thanks.”
Gravenholtz spit on the deck, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “What makes you think it was a request?”
Moseby plucked a strand of seaweed off the stone queen’s shoulder, kept his attention on her. He didn’t need to look at Gravenholtz to sense him closing in.
“The Colonel wants to see you. Now. I’ll round up your crew later.”
“Tonight’s my anniversary.” Moseby picked tiny bits of sand and moss off the stone queen’s marble surface. “The Colonel will have to wait.”
Gravenholtz laughed. “You believe in God, Moseby?”
Moseby kept working. “Yes, I do.”
Gravenholtz pointed the machine pistol at Moseby’s head. “Better to believe in the Colonel, because God can’t help you now.”
Moseby gently removed a bit of grit from the stone queen’s right eye. “You didn’t come all the way here to shoot me.” He pulled tiny snails from the stone queen’s hair, the perfect spiral of their shells one of the infinite proofs of God. He flicked the snails over the side as he worked on the stone queen, his hands steady, unhurried. “You’re here because the Colonel needs me for a project of some kind. Something special. Something he thinks only I can do. I wouldn’t want to be you if anything happened to me.” He looked up at Gravenholtz. “Pick me up tomorrow morning after breakfast. If I like the Colonel’s business terms, I’ll send for my crew. If not—”
Gravenholtz ripped off a dozen rounds into the stone queen, her head shattering into a thousand pieces. “I know where you live. I’ll set my bird down in your backyard.” He beckoned and the chopper streaked toward them.
Moseby stared at the shattered stone queen. Stood up. He pulled a shard of marble from under his eye, felt blood trickle toward his lip.
Gravenholtz laughed again.
Moseby promised himself that someday—sooner rather than later—he was going to drown Gravenholtz in the man’s own blood and send him to hell still dripping. Christ had commanded his followers to turn the other cheek, to love those that cursed them, but Moseby knew his own limitations.
Chapter 2
The Old One cursed his bad luck. First the new German finance minister dies of a stroke—two years’ work putting him in place wasted—and now this. Was running into Gladwell tonight truly just a coincidence? Or had Allah abandoned him after all this time? Found him an unworthy vessel for the fulfillment of prophecy?
The Old One paced the ornate salon of his suite, feeling a faint vibration underfoot, the mighty engines of the luxury liner Star of the Sea churning west across the Pacific, rolling across the bones of monsters. Sandalwood and myrrh burned in the incense brazier, the soothing scents of his boyhood, and all the journeys since. To have come so far, and now…The last time he had been this close to success, Redbeard’s meddling niece, Sarah, and her renegade Fedayeen, Rakkim, had ruined everything. Decades of work unraveled by that overeducated whore.
At least Sarah and Rakkim’s actions against him had been deliberate, but bumping into Gladwell tonight was even more unsettling. He expected worthy adversaries, but fortune had always treated him kindly. The Old One wallowed in doubt for a moment longer, then cast it aside as a stone from his shoe. Gladwell’s presence on board was not a sign that Allah had turned against him, but was rather a lesson given to him by the Almighty. Remain vigilant, for fate can upset even the best plan. That was the teaching. The Old One was far from childhood, but not too old to humble himself before the wisdom of Allah. Bad luck, yes, but not a bad omen.
The Old One kept pacing. His suite was sparsely decorated, mandarin modern, blond wood and titanium, sleek and cool, the essence of Chinese chic. He hated it, but it fit his image as an urbane retiree, a cosmopolitan, high-tech entrepreneur. Swiss three-piece suits, handmade Thai loafers with braided gold-wire tassels. No prayer rug. No mihrab to indicate the direction of Mecca. To all intents and purposes he was a complete modern, an atheist too rich and too smart to honor Allah. When strolling through one of the public areas of the liner, and hearing the discreet call to prayer over the sound system, the Old One had perfected the wan smile of the enlightened as the faithful hurried to their devotions; his smile the same bemused expression he had seen on the faces of the British overlords as a boy when the villagers heeded the call to mosque. The British had rejected Allah then, and now it was too late for them. Alone in his cabin, the Old One prayed, with no witness save Allah. He didn’t need a mihrab to point the way to Mecca. He didn’t need a clock to tell him the time. Allah understood the necessity for stealth.
He sat on one of the sofas in the stateroom, picked up the wireless tablet he had been studying before his ill-chosen foray onto the upper deck of the liner. Better he had kept reading Sarah’s ninth-grade history paper than gone for a stroll in the salt air.
The most contentious question in American history is how the former United States of America became a moderate Islamic nation twenty years after the conquest of Baghdad. Even given the profound spiritual revival that swept across the United States after the Iraq debacle, the suddenness of the transformation was still startling. The televised image of President-elect Damon Kingsley being sworn into office with one hand on the holy Quran while the grand mufti of Seattle administered the oath was a moral triumph that even the most devout could not have predicted.
The history paper had only recently been discovered, lost among the archives of the private madrassa where Sarah had been educated. If he had found it sooner, the Old One might have given the young woman more respect, but he tended to dismiss the female intellect and it had cost him dearly in this case. Sarah had been raised by her uncle, Redbeard himself, head of state security, as fierce and wily an opponent as the Old One had ever faced. She and the orphan Rakkim had been schooled by Redbeard, Sarah in statecraft, Rakkim in the harsh arts. The Old One had concerned himself with Rakkim, but it was Sarah he should have watched.
The Old One studied his reflection in the tablet’s screen—a handsome, hawkish older gentleman who appeared to be in his seventies. A false vision. The Old One was far beyond a hundred, very far, possessed of a God-given vitality enhanced by organ transplants and the best science money could buy. He smoothed his gray hair. He had altered his appearance since fleeing Las Vegas. Had shaved his beard, dyed and restyled his white hair, added spectacles he didn’t need. His cheeks had been widened, his lips plumped, his ears tucked back. One of his doubles had been trapped outside a safe house in Thailand last summer, committing suicide rather than be captured. Even dead, the man looked more like his former self than the Old One now did.
Though the 9/11 jihadi attacks had little direct, long-term impact on the United States, the martyrdom operation induced the former regime to overextend itself in fruitless military engagements around the world. After their failed attempt to create democracy in the Islamic homeworld, the Crusaders fled, grown weary of war, eager to return to their idle pursuits. This great retreat left the West drained of capital, manpower, and, most important, bereft of will.
The Old One stared at Sarah’s words. Most historians considered the transformation of the former United States into two nations, a Muslim republic and a Christian Bible Belt, as preordained by Allah, a separation of the faithful and the faithless prior to Judgment Day. What nonsense. Barely fourteen, Sarah had seen more clearly than any of these so-called experts. Had he known how well she had learned the lessons Redbeard taught, the Old One would have killed her before she bled.
When the U.S. troops trickled home, the former regime was confronted by a prolonged economic downturn that only exacerbated the gap between rich and poor. As the recession deepened and politicians chattered, thousands died in job riots and whole cities were torched. The final straw was the
suitcase nuke attacks on New York City, Washington, D.C., and Mecca in 2015, by the Israeli Mossad, which collapsed the former society.
When martial law was lifted two years later, the economy was still unstable, the government distrusted, and the people spiritually starved. Western churches, rather than offering moral guidance, were weak and vacillating, unwilling to condemn even the most immoral behavior. Islam offered a bright light and a clear answer, and the faithful could not build mosques fast enough to satisfy the need. While no force of arms could defeat the armies of the West, it was their moral and spiritual void that ultimately vanquished them.
Sarah couldn’t have known—few even suspected—the hand of the Old One at play in the decline of the West. It had been his money, filtered through numerous fronts, that had had financed the academic think tanks and jihadi legal defense teams…all the useful idiots. It had been his money that had funded politicians and religious figures, compliant judges and radical journalists, billions of dollars in honoraria, with presidential libraries and foundations in particular targeted. That was the carrot. The Old One stroked his chin where his beard had once been. There was also the stick. Hard-line military leaders discredited. Evangelists mocked. Curious investigators framed or fired. Or worse.
The Star of the Sea shuddered slightly. This part of the Pacific was prone to rogue waves kicked up by the super-typhoons that had become so prevalent. Waves and ripples, ripples and waves. He half closed his eyes, fondly remembering the images from long ago—New Orleans flooded, the blacks huddled on their rooftops, waiting for help that never came, while breathless TV reporters spread false stories of murder and cannibalism, of babies raped and women butchered. That was a historic pivot point: the moment when America realized there was no great white father in Washington eager to soothe their woes. All it had taken was a few carefully chosen inept bureaucrats and a dozen small explosive charges placed under the levees of the Ninth Ward. When the great warming permanently submerged the city a few years later, it was almost irrelevant.
He had come so close. Three years ago, his plan to seize control of the Islamic Republic had finally seemed within his grasp. The first step of the greater plan. President Kingsley and his moderate coalition were old and tired, the nation adrift, waiting for a strong man who would lead them forward. In truth, the Old One was the man come to lead the world, the Mahdi, the twelfth imam, the Islamic messiah come to guide the world away from materialism and idolatry. The man chosen by Allah to appear at the End-Time, chosen to create a one-world caliphate under sharia law, and usher in an age of peace and piety. After the nonbelievers were put to the sword.
Then, Sarah and Rakkim had ruined everything. All the Old One’s work had been undone when that bitch’s research uncovered the truth: The Israeli Mossad wasn’t responsible for the suitcase nuke attacks twenty-five years earlier. It was the Old One.
The blood libel exposed, the Old One had fled his citadel in Las Vegas, his bank accounts and assets confiscated. The accounts they could find, anyway. The most-wanted man on the planet, that’s what the news reports had called him. The Islamic nations cried loudest for his head, those apostates in Arabia and Iran with their false Islam. Even his oldest son, Ibrahim, had questioned their survival, but then, like most men, Ibrahim had a tiny white worm in his soul, devouring his resolve. With a son like Rakkim, the Old One would have already stood astride the world, but the Old One’s bloodline had thinned. He had to make do with the sons he had.
The Old One and his inner circle had taken refuge on the Star of the Sea, ensconced on a floor of suites he had purchased when the ship launched five years ago. The liner was a perfect redoubt, always in transit, a nation unto itself, its encrypted communiqués allowing him to maintain at least tenuous contact with his operatives around the world. The vessel itself was under his command—the captain and security team offered him their complete allegiance.
He angrily tapped the tablet with a manicured finger and the screen went black.
Eleven thousand passengers on the Star of the Sea, twenty decks of luxury and excess, the largest passenger vessel on the ocean, with dozens of movie theaters, casinos, shopping malls, churches, and mosques. Eleven thousand passengers and the Old One had to encounter Ambrose Gladwell their third night out of Buenos Aires. Forty-five minutes ago, Gladwell had nearly bumped into the Old One, his eyes widening slightly as he made his apology. The Old One had touched his hat, continued on his promenade as though nothing had happened, but he knew that Gladwell’s curiosity had been piqued. It wouldn’t take long before he realized whom he had met. Leave it to that sharp-eyed bond trader to see what others had missed.
Of course, there was no direct connection between the man who had hired Gladwell fresh out of the London School of Economics and the most-wanted man in the world. The Old One had been already past middle age then, already wealthy beyond any expectation, already secretive too, never quoted, never photographed. Gladwell had been nervous during the initial interview, crossing and uncrossing his long legs as he sat before the Old One’s desk. The Old One had been called Derek Farouk then, one of the many names he had used over the long years. One of the many faces he had shown the world. The son of a British mother and an Egyptian father, that was the story. Gladwell couldn’t keep his hands off his necktie, adjusting and readjusting his Windsor knot as the Old One peered down his nose at him.
William, one of his young aides, slipped into the salon through a side door. He stopped a few paces from the Old One, lowered his eyes. “Mr. Gladwell is in the anteroom, Mahdi.”
“No one saw him enter?”
William shook his head. “The chief steward himself escorted Mr. Gladwell here. Most of the passengers still awake are at the festivities on C deck.” He inclined his head. “The communications officer said no calls or communiqués were made from any of Mr. Gladwell’s personal devices in the last hour.”
The Old One dismissed him with a wave of his hand.
Gladwell bustled into the salon as soon as the door to the anteroom was opened, his joints still limber in spite of his years. Eighty-two last July 17. He wore a herringbone smoking jacket and flannel trousers, deerskin moccasins and no socks. Recommended sailing attire, according to the brochure for the Star of the Sea.
“Mr. Gladwell, so glad you could join me,” the Old One greeted him, ignoring the infidel’s outstretched hand. “I’m Albert Mesta. I think you knew my maternal grandfather.”
“I thought you might be one of Mr. Farouk’s relatives,” Gladwell said. “Not immediately, of course, but there was something…familiar about you. I didn’t realize it until I got back to my cabin.” His smile showed yellowed teeth. “At my age, remembering where I left my spectacles is a major endeavor, let alone events that occurred over fifty years ago.” He wiped his hands on his trousers. “I used to work for your grandfather.” His blue eyes shimmered with moisture, but it wasn’t nostalgia that made him tear up. “He was a slave driver, but a genius with figures. I owe whatever success I’ve had to the lessons he taught me.”
“The odd look you gave me in the passageway aroused my interest.” The Old One indicated a purple, tufted silk divan. “It was only when I inquired about you to the chief steward that I realized it was my grandfather you were acquainted with.”
Gladwell sat on the far side of the divan. Crossed his legs, revealing the tracery of blue veins in his ankles.
The Old One concealed his disgust. He sat on the other side of the divan, wanting to give the man a good look at him. “I’ve asked William to bring us drinks. I have some forty-year-old single-malt you might appreciate.”
“Oh yes, absolutely.” Gladwell plucked at the crease in his trousers. “Mr. Farouk’s grandson. You’re a lucky man, sir. Very lucky.”
“Sometimes,” purred the Old One.
Gladwell leaned toward him. “Your grandfather…when did he die?”
“Many years ago, I’m afraid.”
“I…I didn’t hear anything about it.”
“No…no, you don’t.” Gladwell shook his head. “Still, I would have liked to have known.” He stared at the Old One. “You…you have his eyes.”
“So I’ve been told.” The Old One stopped as William entered. The boy set their drinks down on the coffee table—two crystal tumblers of scotch, each containing a single ice cube—then backed out of the room. The Old One and Gladwell clinked glasses.
Gladwell took a swallow, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Excellent.”
The Old One sipped his drink.
Gladwell glanced around the salon. “You’ve done well for yourself, sir, if you don’t mind my saying so. Your grandfather would be proud.” Another swallow. “Very proud.”
The Old One swirled his drink, enjoyed the sound of the ice cube hitting the glass. “I think Grandfather would be proud of you as well, Mr. Gladwell.”
Gladwell pinked up. “Fast on my feet, always have been. See an opportunity, seize it. When the troubles came with the Americans, well, some gnashed their teeth or dashed off to Australia, and some of us rolled up our sleeves and made a handsome profit.”
The Old One raised his glass. “Good for you, Ambrose.”
Gladwell bristled slightly at the use of his first name by a man he assumed was younger than he. Always a stickler for protocol. Another swallow of scotch and all was forgiven. “Yes, well, a businessman has to be above politics, above religion. Can’t let anything get in the way of the bottom line, that’s what I always say. I deal with Muslims as easily as I deal with Christians or Hindus. I dealt with communists, when there still were communists. I even used to do business with Jews, but that was a long time ago.” He blinked at the Old One. “Now they say the Hebrews didn’t set the suitcase nukes, supposed to be some other fellah.” He shook his head. “Man doesn’t know what to believe anymore.” He pulled at his nose. “What about you, sir? Who do you think set off those bombs? You think it was the Jews?”
Sins of the Assassin Page 2
