“No, it wasn’t the Jews, Ambrose. It was some other fellah.”
Gladwell snorted. “Truth be told, I don’t really care.”
The Old One clinked glasses with him again.
“I wish my wife was here,” said Gladwell. “All the years she spent hearing me talk about your grandfather…she would have dearly loved to meet you.”
“Dearly,” said the Old One.
“We would have been married sixty years tomorrow.” Gladwell peered into his glass. “Laura…she died three weeks ago. Just…keeled over at breakfast and that was that.” He looked up at the Old One. Tiny beads of sweat lined his forehead. “My children thought I should cancel the cruise, but it was too late to get a refund. First-class tickets…I paid thirty-five thousand Thatchers. Wasn’t about to let that money go to waste.”
“Of course not.”
“Laura would have never forgiven me.” Gladwell breathed harder. “Woman used to reuse aluminum foil until it disintegrated. Waste not, want not, that’s what she used to say.” He tugged at his collar. “I think…I think I may be allergic to your incense.”
“Sixty years of marriage,” said the Old One, “you must have been a very patient man. Or one utterly lacking in imagination.”
“Beg…beg your pardon?” Gladwell set down his glass. His hand trembled. “Imagination?”
“It’s all right, Ambrose. What you lacked in imagination, you more than made up for in clarity. Given enough time, you always made the correct judgment. Pity.”
“You…you’ll have to excuse me. I’m not feeling very well.” Gladwell tried to stand. Sat back heavily.
“No apologies necessary.” The Old One draped his arm across the back of the divan. “Just relax and have your nice little heart attack.”
The sweat beads strung across Gladwell’s upper lip shimmered, his face bright red now. “I…I don’t understand.”
“No, but you would have eventually.” The Old One finished his drink. Crunched through the ice cube. “I drove you hard, Ambrose, but look what you accomplished with your life. A spot in a first-class cabin. You should be proud.”
Gladwell’s eyes grew larger as he stared at the Old One. Larger still. He knew.
The Old One leaned back and watched Gladwell die, overwhelmed with the sweetness of the man’s recognition. So many years since the two of them had shared a drink. The world had changed, been shaken like a snow globe, and here they were, fifty years later, brought together one last time. Laura dead three weeks. The Old One had bedded her for a bit in London after sending Gladwell to tour factories in Indonesia for potential acquisition. Low-end computer chips. He didn’t remember Gladwell’s recommendation on the factories, but he remembered Laura’s creamy breasts and lightly freckled thighs. Most of all he remembered her greedy mouth overflowing with him.
Gladwell slumped against the side of the divan.
The Old One felt the throbbing engines of the Star of the Sea through the soles of his large feet, letting its power flow through him. He wiggled his toes. Pleasant to have dealt so smoothly with Gladwell, but there was still al-Faisal’s mission in Seattle to consider. Al-Faisal was capable enough, more than capable, but the mission was crucial to the Old One’s plan. Even with all the time Allah had granted him, there might not be enough years left if al-Faisal failed.
The Old One steepled his fingers. If Darwin were still alive he would have tasked him with the job. A former Fedayeen assassin, Darwin had been the Old One’s personal killer, a slim, serene fellow with lightning hands and an ugly sense of humor. Darwin would have handled the Seattle operation easily…but Darwin was dead. The Old One shifted on the purple divan, uneasy. He didn’t know who had killed Darwin, or how it could have been done, but the assassin was smoldering in the deepest pit of hell, that much was certain.
Gladwell’s jaw hung open. Gums bare. His skin so slack that it was as if his skull were collapsing in on itself. The decay of time, the toll paid by mortal flesh…The vibration underfoot stopped for an instant, as though the engines briefly hesitated, and the Old One felt goose bumps along the back of his neck. He got up quickly, disgusted. He summoned William, waited until his aide had removed the corpse.
The door to the salon clicked shut, and the Old One thought again of Darwin. Just an average-looking fellow in his late forties, lightly muscled, almost delicate, and the palest, cold blue eyes. Bland as buttermilk, that’s me, Darwin used to say. Protective coloration, because no predator ever took such delight in killing. The Old One had killed many men in his time, but there was always a rationale to it, a purpose. To Darwin, the killing itself served some deeper function, filling a void known only to himself as he stockpiled the dead. He could still see the man’s insolent smirk—Darwin might work for the Old One, but he made it clear he served neither God nor man, only death itself. No one had treated the Old One with anything less than respect in almost a hundred years. Except Darwin. And Rakkim. The Old One had offered Rakkim a position at his right hand, offered him the world…and Rakkim had turned him down. No wonder Darwin hated him.
He walked to the windows of the stateroom, restless now. Find the one who had killed Darwin and find yet another player in the great game, one the Old One had not factored into his calculations. The Old One had even considered the possibility that Rakkim had killed Darwin, but the idea was laughable. There was a Fedayeen saying: Only Allah or another assassin can kill an assassin, and Rakkim was neither.
Still…the Old One had made inquiries. Rakkim, as befitted his shadow warrior training, had disappeared, as had Sarah. In spite of all his spies, all the Old One had were rumors. They had married. Rakkim wandered the Zone, reeking of alcohol. Sarah had been spotted at a university in China. In Lagos. They had gone on the hajj, stayed too long and died of radiation sickness in Yemen. She had gone mad after the death of Redbeard. He had become a modern, with pierced ears and perfumed hair. Sarah had renounced Islam and now lived among the Jews. Rakkim had rejoined the Fedayeen, had the ear of General Kidd. One thing he was sure of, the Old One would not underestimate either of them again.
The Old One whistled and the window shields slid open, revealing the stars spilled across the night. He drank in the sight, drunk on the infinite vastness, the limitless gulf of Allah’s domain. At this very moment, Tariq al-Faisal was in Seattle, doing the Old One’s bidding. Soon, very soon, Allah willing, the Old One would begin to remake the world.
Chapter 3
Tariq al-Faisal didn’t walk like the Christian he pretended to be. It was the walk that had drawn Rakkim’s attention from a block away, long before he recognized the man. Al-Faisal in Seattle? Rakkim’s palms itched. Money, that’s what the fortune-teller outside New Orleans would have said. She’d peer up from her table on the beached Delta Queen riverboat, rub his open hand, and say, Beaucoup l’argent coming your way, child. Rakkim knew better. Seeing al-Faisal here was worth more than silver or gold. Rakkim sauntered after al-Faisal, moving with a little stutter step as though listening to music no one else could hear.
At least al-Faisal had the externals of his Catholic pose right: high-ride trousers, cuffs rolled, fingerless gloves, even the St. Paul’s Academy ear stud, which was a nice touch, but his walk kept reverting to type. He led with his chest as he stormed past the marble statue of Malcolm X on the corner, shoulders set, the gait of a Muslim fundamentalist certain of his place in the universe. A Black Robe, no less, one of the infamous enforcers of public morality. Christians, no matter their station in life, moved from their hips, gliding, heads swiveling, alert for disapproval or harassment. Kafir-walk, Rakkim’s shadow warrior instructors had called it.
Rakkim eased down the sidewalk, taking his time. You had all the time in the world when you knew what you were doing. Like al-Faisal, he pretended to be a Christian, but the pope himself would have given Rakkim communion without a second thought. Invisible as a stolen kiss, that was the shadow warrior ideal. The Fedayeen were elite warriors, totally loyal to the president, the shock
troops of the Islamic Republic—most were combat units, but there were two specialized branches, the best of the best. Shadow warriors and assassins.
Rakkim remembered practicing the kafir-glide for hours, days, weeks, remembered being jerked from sleep by his instructor, beaten if his first step was wrong. Homegrown Christians were easy enough to mimic, but Bible Belt patterns had been much more challenging, and failure had cost more than one shadow warrior his life. Rakkim had ranked first in his unit, able to pivot seamlessly between a Gulf Coast shuffle and an Appalachian hitch-along. He had lived for months in the Belt without rousing suspicion, sung hymns in a tiny church, tears rolling down his cheeks, worked on shrimp boats and done double shifts at a silicone-wafer factory outside Atlanta, guzzling beer and pigs’ feet afterward. He had retired from the Fedayeen after his initial seven-year enlistment, but the Fedayeen had never left Rakkim.
Almost thirty-three now, Rakkim was dark-eyed, lean and agile, a tiny gold crucifix bouncing at the base of his throat with every step. He flirted with the Catholic girls who passed, and they responded in kind, putting an extra wiggle in their walk for his benefit. Be a Catholic on a Saturday night, and you’ll never want to be Muslim again…that’s what they said.
Al-Faisal eyeballed a new green Lamborghini curbed in a valet parking area. Ran a finger over the perfect finish as he walked past. Pathetic. A Christian wouldn’t dare touch a vehicle with a Quranic inscription etched into the windshield. A high-ranking Black Robe like al-Faisal feared nothing. His three bodyguards were better trained—ex-Fedayeen from the look of them, and the way they slipped easily through the crowd. They maintained a shifting perimeter around al-Faisal, a rough triangulation, two ahead, on either side of the street, another trailing far behind, hoping to pick up a tail. No eye contact between them, just three moderate Muslims, seemingly part of the crowd, but the same barber had cut their hair, his distinctive scissors work easy for Rakkim to read. Details, boys, details.
It must be an important mission for al-Faisal to leave the safety of New Fallujah. A mission too important to trust to an underling. Too important to trust sat phones or Net encryption. No, just like the old days, the most important conversations could take place only where no one could listen in. So what are you here to talk about, al-Faisal? And whose ear will you be whispering in?
People filled downtown Seattle, streamed out of the office complexes—commuters heading toward the monorail, students jostling toward the sin spots of the Zone, the faithful hurrying to prayers. A crowd of contrasts: moderns and moderates in casual and business attire, the fundamentalists robed in gray, prayer beads clicking away, while the Catholics clustered together, loud and boisterous, delighting in the flesh. While 70 percent of the country was Muslim, most of them were moderate, tolerating the Christian minority. Christians ate in the same restaurants as moderates, but the Christian silverware was disposable to prevent contamination. Modern Muslims rarely went to mosque, worked in high-tech jobs, flaunted the latest styles, and might even have a Christian friend or two. Fundamentalist Muslims were the most dangerous to the nation’s stability; rabidly intolerant, they voted as a block and encouraged the worst excesses of the Black Robes.
A modern in a short dress swept past Rakkim in a wave of bright color, her soft hair floating around her shoulders, and a fat fundamentalist businessman glaring at her nearly collided with Rakkim, cursed him as a shit-eating Catholic. The businessman’s coarse gray robes billowed as he barreled off for sundown prayers. Rakkim didn’t even break stride, the man’s wallet cupped in his palm. He dropped the businessman’s money into a war-widows alms box a block later, arced the wallet into the gutter, and kept walking.
You’d think Allah hated beauty the way the Black Robes acted.
Rakkim stayed far behind al-Faisal, loose-limbed and easy like a good Catholic funboy, quietly nursing his anger. While Seattle and Southern California were bastions of moderation, even in the capital, the Black Robes enforced their dictates on the fundamentalist population. A devout Muslim woman unescorted by a brother or husband could be whipped on the streets of Seattle, and adulterers and fornicators were stoned to death in the countryside. Fundamentalist redoubts like New Fallujah and Milwaukee and Chicago were worse—governed by the most extreme sharia law.
Rakkim had last seen al-Faisal two years ago at a mass hanging in New Fallujah. Harlots and homosexuals, witches and Jews dangled from the high beams of the bridge, swinging gently over San Francisco Bay as al-Faisal harangued the crowd, called forth the blessings of God. The Golden Gate, that’s what it was called in the old days. Its new name, the Bridge of Skulls, suited it better. He flexed his right forearm again as he watched al-Faisal walk down First Avenue. Felt the Fedayeen knife tucked flat against the inside of his forearm, ready to snap forth. For those with memories, there were always scores to be settled. Odd thoughts for Rakkim. Shadow warriors preferred anonymity, killing only as a last resort, but Rakkim wasn’t a shadow warrior anymore. He was something else now, and whether it was more or less than before, he hadn’t decided.
The air tasted of smog and salt water, hung heavy with the aroma of coffee from the nearby Starbucks, of clam chowder and jerked goat kebabs from the street vendors. Shoppers coughed as they strolled along, and Rakkim felt the grit at the back of his throat too—smoke and ash from the superfires raging across Australia and China, incinerating everything in their path. News kiosks yesterday showed footage of burning kangaroos hopping wildly across a smoldering landscape, the whole sky black behind them. The antiterror blimps ringing the city caught the last of the setting sun, looked to be ablaze, and it seemed to Rakkim that the whole world was on fire.
Two brightly garbed moderns chattered past, and Rakkim inhaled the women’s fragrance, grateful for the heady scent of the latest Italian perfume—La Dolce Vita, the sweet life, at eight hundred dollars an ounce. Moderns were so optimistic. Eager consumers enamored of their shiny, pretty things, the constantly upgraded gadgets. The modern’s wealth comforted them, made them fearless as dreamers, eyes fluttering as dawn approached.
Al-Faisal threw his arm around a stranger, pretending bonhomie with a fellow Catholic, certain of his camouflage. Al-Faisal another optimist, assured that Allah had already written his triumph in the Book of Days.
Ironic that the two opposites, moderns and fundamentalists, were the only ones in the Islamic Republic certain that the future would be better, that their vision was destined to sweep away all others. The rest of the country, the silent majority of moderate Muslims and Christians…they noticed the crumbling freeways and failing energy grid, an infant mortality rate worse than Nigeria’s, and the regular outbreaks of cholera in Chicago and Denver. Let the fundamentalists and moderns trust in their hollow gods. Rakkim believed in the warmth of Sarah beside him, and the first halting steps of their son. He believed in unexpected friendships and laughter in the face of the inevitable. Optimism? A man had to close his eyes to remain an optimist, and there was no honor in that.
Optimism was for fools and children, that’s what Redbeard used to say. Pray for victory, plan for disaster. Redbeard had been Rakkim’s mentor. His tormentor. His taskmaster. His uncle in all ways but blood. Redbeard, the nation’s spymaster, lover of bone-crunching football and contraband Coca-Cola…ferocious patriot, committed moderate. Redbeard had died as peaceful a death as God granted, sitting in the back of a limo with his niece Sarah by his side. Not a day passed that Rakkim didn’t wish Redbeard were still alive. President Kingsley needed him now more than ever. Needed his strength and determination, his cool counsel when the world seemed ablaze. The nation needed Redbeard. So did Rakkim.
News reports boomed from a kiosk, a holographic display showing troop movements along the border of the Mexican empire. Rakkim slowed. A commercial for cling-free chadors crawled along the bottom of the display while tanks rolled across the desert, a red crescent emblazoned on their turrets. Rakkim pretended interest, watching the bodyguards reflected in the display. The three of the
m did a slow pivot, scanning the crowd as al-Faisal hurried on. The Black Robe still walked wrong.
Two college girls approached, moderates, their sheer pink veils only enhancing their beauty rather than masking it. Their eyes lingered on Rakkim—Catholics were forbidden fruit, their lust and volatility whispered about with fascination. Rakkim smiled back, kept walking, embarrassed at the pleasure their interest gave him. He thought of Sarah waiting for him at home, and for the millionth time was grateful for not being Catholic. Those fools so eager to confess. Who could keep up with his own sins?
Al-Faisal cut across the street, oblivious to the horns beeping around him. His bodyguards took their time, peeling off slowly.
Rakkim crossed at the signal, then stopped to buy an ice cream cone. Strawberry mango. He ambled after al-Faisal into the warren of small shops on the outskirts of the Zone, licking ice cream off his fingers.
The Zone was a moral free-fire district, a sector where vice was tolerated and the police minded their own business. Creative, sordid, corrupt, the Zone was filled with dance clubs and foreign-movie theaters, black-market electronics and love hotels. A center of dangerous fun. A safety valve. Americans were still Americans in spite of the new flag, the new regime. No streetlights in the Zone; the only illumination came from the neon signs and the dim interiors. Rakkim had lived in the Zone before he married Sarah. Had owned a nightclub, the Blue Moon. He knew the Zone, but the Zone no longer knew him.
Music throbbed from every doorway, part of the unique signature of the Zone. While most of the city was off-limits to anything other than religious chants and sermons, the Zone took pride in showing off its freedom from any restraints. Russian pop, Brazilian thump, Chinese techno, and Motown overlapped and merged in the Zone, became a dissonant heartbeat. Everyone walking down the street picked up the beat, feet moving faster, hearts racing, heads bobbing. Rat-a-tat-tat. Al-Faisal resisted, but even he was forced to give in, swinging his hands as his stride lengthened. He was going to have to ask forgiveness for such spontaneity, pray himself hoarse to atone for his inadvertent pleasure. Perhaps he would even sacrifice a white goat, slit its throat himself, then distribute the meat to the poor. There were always plenty of hungry mouths.
Sins of the Assassin Page 3
