Heart of the Assassin

CHAPTER 28

The Old One had a cold. He sat in an oceanside cabana in Miami, watching the young couple playing on the sand with their toddler, and he hated them for their smooth, healthy pinkness. He wanted to drown the three of them in the shallows, hold their heads under while they thrashed, hold them under until their mouths stopped moving.

The Old One sneezed. The worst possible time to catch something. Ibrahim would be waiting for him inside the suite, wanting to watch the festivities in the Gulf with him, but the Old One didn't want to move. He wrapped his thick terry-cloth robe around himself, pulled the hood lower. The sun beat down on the cabana as he shivered, feeling ice form in his marrow. For the first time in decades, the Old One was sick…and the sickness was a sign of the change that had befallen him.

When his personal physician had first told him that he was dying, the Old One had been stoic at first, then oddly elated, toying with his new-found mortality, the delicious friction of risk. It didn't last. He felt every passing day, every waning moment as a subtraction, a loss. After all these years to finally be this close to success, and have it taken from him…

The Old One coughed, set off a rattling in his chest. He gently touched his cheek, felt the roughness where the shotgun blast at Malcolm Crews's mansion had scorched his skin. That pimply kaffir had almost killed him, ended his life in that overheated, run-down mansion with flies buzzing against the screens and garbage strewn on the lawn. So close to death…as though Allah had taunted him, given him a reminder of the muddy end men came to. The Old One tasted mucus in his mouth, a slimy lozenge that disgusted him.

The toddler in her frilly yellow bathing suit frolicked along the tideline, splashing as the waves trickled toward her. Her hair was as yellow as her bathing suit, a mass of tight curls like a sunflower. Her whole life lay before her, all those endless possibilities, while the Old One's life was winding down. Every breath she took, every joyous coo and tumble, was an insult to him.

The Old One rubbed his arms, trying to bring the blood to the surface, to get warm. It didn't help. He had caught the cold right after the near miss at Crews's mansion. The Old One had risked death before, dozens of times, but this was different. None of those other brushes with death had frightened him. If anything they had affirmed his identity as Allah's chosen one, the Mahdi. All gone now. Catching a cold, a common cold, was just a harbinger of things to come. Worse was on the way, age and infirmity riding toward him across the sands, a pale rider urging his mount on, faster, faster, faster. The Old One felt his cells slowly breaking down, toxins building up, his luck running out.

A dozen high-altitude helicopters hovered to the south, sculpting clouds with their ion beams. Beachcombers pointed and the Old One watched too-part of the appeal of cloud sculpting was not just the skill of the pilots, but trying to figure out what was being created. Words and symbols were easy, but this was much more ambitious. A day with barely any breeze helped, but still, there was an enormous amount of clouds being put to use. The helicopters zipped about, working in tandem, faster now, the object slowly taking shape. Color was added, the seeded particles activated in various parts of the cloud, a vast black cloud with silver and red streaks…all of it in slow motion as the helicopters dipped and soared around it.

The Old One turned, hearing the Ethiopian girl turn over in the bed at the rear of the cabana. A bare breast peaked out of the sheets as she dozed, languid in the heat, beads of perspiration on her forehead. Her mouth opened slightly and he knew that were he to kiss her, she would taste like honey. He had warmed himself with her before, clung to her, let her share her heat with him…but she had not stirred him, and though soaked with sweat, his own chill had prevailed. He watched her sleep until he lost track of time, imagining himself inside her, warm and safe…forever young.

His earpiece tingled, doubtless Ibrahim eagerly awaiting the events in the Gulf. The Old One plucked it out of his ear, threw it into the corner.

He huddled in his robe, tried to take comfort in the fact that Malcolm Crews was doing well in the Belt, even better than Baby had anticipated. The Old One and she watched Crews's television show every day, critiquing his performance, gauging the reactions of the crowd, both in the audience and across the Belt. Crews knew how to speak the lingo of the Belt, not just the proper words and phrases, but more important, the emotional language, the hopes and fears of that mass of unbelievers. Crews would be crucial to the mass conversion that was coming, preparing the ground for the Old One.

Ibrahim watched Crews only when the Old One insisted. Jealous of Baby usurping his role as chief advisor, Ibrahim dismissed the idea of converting the Christians, claimed it was impossible other than through brute force. The Old One knew better. The threat of the sword worked wonders among atheists, weaklings who believed only in this day, this moment, but Christians were faithful. They had merely embraced a false faith. They had confused Jesus for God. Once shown the true face of Allah, they would become his most loyal and ferocious followers. The path to the Caliphate started in the former United States, and the Belt citizens would be his shock troops to convert the rest of the world.

The Old One fought back a cough. Yes, he had ample reason to be pleased. Things were moving rapidly now, hurried on by his own increasing desperation. Today's action in the Gulf would be a big step. Credit Ibrahim with the planning and execution of the action, as he would rightly be the first to claim.

The Old One coughed, kept coughing until there were tears in his eyes. Oh, the loss of Senator Chambers's defense appointment had been vexing, and he didn't need that pinched ascetic ibn-Azziz to tell him Rakkim was responsible. Idiot, who else could it be? The method of Chambers's undoing, parading him naked through the streets…The Old One smiled. Most men would simply have murdered Chambers, but Rakkim…the youngster loved his little jokes, and the Old One appreciated playfulness now more than ever. That was one of the reasons he had been so drawn to Baby. She was competent and creative and cold-blooded…but, even more, the girl enjoyed herself, which was more than he could say for Ibrahim, always fussing and worrying.

He closed his eyes, swallowed the bile brought up by his coughing spasm. Yes, there were many reasons to give thanks to Allah, but still…after all his efforts, all the many years, the Old One was not going to live to see the final resolution of his plans. That would fall to Ibrahim, or Baby, or someone else Allah deemed more worthy to carry the Caliphate forward. The Old One's triumph left a bitter taste.

Applause interrupted his reverie. The young family stood on the sand looking up, clapping their hands wildly.

The Old One didn't know how much time had elapsed, but the cloud sculpture was finished, at least enough of it for the beachcombers to recognize what it was: the new Brazilian luxury car, the Rio D. The black cloud car was long and sleek, with silver chrome trim, red and leather inside, green accents, a perfect simulation, and there…The Old One leaned forward, staring. The wheels of the Rio D were actually moving, going round and round over the deep blue sea. He was tempted to wake the Ethiopian girl and show her, but better she slept on. Perhaps later he would have use for her.

The Old One heard footsteps, turned and saw Ibrahim run up to the entrance to the cabana, stopping before the one-way security curtain. He wore a dark three-piece suit and lace-up shoes.

"F-F-Father."

The Old One shivered, returned his attention to the young family. The little girl was dragging a pail behind her…one of the waves caught her, filled the pail, the weight of it knocking her over. Her father pulled her into his arms, the little girl crouping up seawater.

"Father? It is nearly time."

The Old One opened the security curtain and Ibrahim scurried inside.

Ibrahim looked at the blank wallscreen. "You're not watching?"

The Old One shivered, covered it with a stretch. It would not do to show weakness in front of Ibrahim. "Go ahead."

Ibrahim rushed over, switched on the screen. He scrolled through the remote until the image of a packed ballroom came on, people dancing.

"Is the signal properly banked?" said the Old One.

"No need for security masking, Father," said Ibrahim, the screen showing a vast display of cut fruit, lobster and fresh fish, mounds of caviar and a whole suckling pig with an apple in its filthy mouth. "The signal is beamed from the Aztlan Board of Tourism channel, millions of people are watching."

"What's the name of the liner? The Yucatan Queen?"

"Yucatan Princess, Father."

"You vetted the crew of the speedboats? Made sure the registration is in order?"

"Yes, Father. I have attended to everything. Have I ever disappointed-?"

"Knockety-knock!"

The Old One turned, saw Baby standing outside the security curtain in a pale green sundress.

"Send her away, Father."

The Old One touched a button and Baby strolled inside, her bare feet bringing in sand. Her toes were painted bright pink, like the inside of a conch shell.

Baby glanced at the screen. "What are you boys up to?"

"It's none of your concern," said Ibrahim.

"Ibrahim has instituted a mission in the Gulf," said the Old One. "It's about to come to fruition."

Baby stared at the screen, saw a remote shot of the luxury liner churning across a flat blue sea, happy people on deck waving to the camera. "That's real pretty, but it doesn't seem like all that much, to me."

"I'm sure it doesn't," said Ibrahim.

The Ethiopian girl raised herself up on one elbow, rubbed her eyes.

"Go back to sleep," said the Old One, addressing her in her native tongue.

The Ethiopian girl rolled over, the sheet slipping down around her hips, already snoring.

"You don't look so good, Daddy," said Baby. "You okay?"

"I'm fine."

"Well, I got something here that's gonna make you feel a whole lot better." Baby held up a thumb drive to the Old One. "Let me turn that thing off, and I'll show-"

"Don't you dare, woman," Ibrahim said quietly.

"Wait your turn, Baby," said the Old One. "Besides, I think you're going to enjoy the show that Ibrahim has prepared for us."

"For you, Father," said Ibrahim. "My efforts are all on your behalf."

Baby dragged a chair next to the Old One, sat down beside him as the tourism channel showed people gambling in the luxury liner's casino, bent over the roulette and craps tables. She looked at Ibrahim, sniffed. "Least you could do is serve popcorn."