Heart of the Assassin

CHAPTER 29

Mustafa bin-Siq leaned against the railing of the Yucatan Princess, watching the sunset over the Gulf, the water so warm you expected the sun to sizzle as it settled in. A poetic image for an engineer who wrote poetry and painted watercolors in his spare time, which, alas, there had been little of lately. Through the deck vibrations, he felt the port engine labor slightly, then smooth out. First assistant engineer Zapato should look into that, make a few adjustments to the fuel flow…bin-Siq stopped himself, half closed his eyes. No, there would be no need for that now.

"Hey, Paulo, can I get you some coffee?"

Bin-Siq jerked. He usually had this spot on the upper deck by himself, the passengers congregating on the lower decks where the bars and discos were.

The steward shifted, the gold buttons on his white jacket catching the sunset. "Didn't mean to startle you…sir."

Juan…that was the steward's name. Juan Tesca, a young man from Sinaloa, who always had his head in a book when he wasn't working. "Not your fault. I was just thinking."

The Yucatan Princess was one of a string of small Aztlan cruise liners that regularly sailed the Mexican Gulf Coast, with stops in Tampico, Havana, St. Petersburg, New Orleans and Matamoros. When the second assistant engineer got sick in Havana, as the Old One had planned, bin-Siq had presented his credentials and been hired. For the duration of the voyage, he was Paulo Maradona, an Argentinean engineer between ships.

"Nice, huh?" said the steward, nodding at the sunset. "Private too, I like that. You hear about tomorrow?"

"No."

"Captain called off the stop at New Orleans," said the steward. "Said it was too dangerous considering the noise the Belt's making about that church bombing in Texas. Lot of the passengers were plenty pissed off. They were hoping to dive the ruins, maybe come back with a hood ornament from a Cadillac or a string of Mardi Gras beads. They're talking about demanding a refund."

"Not our problem, is it?"

"Guess not."

Bin-Siq glanced at his watch. "You probably should get back to your duties."

"So…yes or no?" said the steward.

"Yes or no what?"

"Can I get you some coffee?"

"No…no, thank you."

"I guess you don't want to be kept awake."

Bin-Siq smiled. "I intend to sleep like a baby, no matter what."

"Iron constitution, huh? Okay, I can see you want to be left alone. Adios, Paulo."

"Adios, Juan." Bin-Siq watched the young man descend the metal stairs, and thought of the cubist painting by that Frenchman, "Nude Descending a Spiral Staircase," where the kinetic movement of the nude woman was captured in one static image. The painting was, of course, un-Islamic, but he admired it nonetheless, the mechanical sensuality, so cold and austere and elegant.

Bin-Siq turned back to the sea. Engineering had in some ways been a poor career choice, but the Old One evidently had need of a marine engineer, and that was that. Not that such a thing had ever been articulated to him by the Old One; he had only met the Mahdi once, as a boy of ten, treasuring the memory of the man's even gaze resting upon him. Not a word passed between them. Twenty years later, his time to serve had arrived.

Three weeks ago he had gotten a call while on a freighter en route to Manila, a voice saying at the first port he was to leave for Havana and wait. Bin-Siq had not hesitated. There was no one to say good-bye to. He had lived a quiet life at sea, a life of solitary prayer, biding his time with his work and his books…and his watercolors. Like Juan, the steward, he too found solace in the quiet of the printed page, avoiding the clamor of the holos, and the crudeness of conversation with his fellow sailors. So he had gone to Havana and done as the voice on the phone had directed him. He had waited.

Spider lay on a lounge chair on the flat roof of his house, bare-chested, basking in the sun. Sarah sat on a chair beside him.

"Why would Moseby do such a foolish thing?" said Spider.

"He's a finder," said Sarah, shading her eyes with her hand. "He spent a few days questioning the locals in zombie country, got nowhere and decided to go into D.C. and look for the cross himself. I should have known he'd do something like that."

"It's not your fault," said Spider.

"I sent him on the mission," said Sarah.

"And he chose to go," said Spider, eyes closed, his chest and shoulders covered with silky gray hair. "Are you so all-powerful that no one can refuse your requests?"

"I wish," said Sarah.

Spider didn't react. "What's Moseby's condition?"

"Mild radiation poisoning, from what I can determine. He's taking the standard drug regime to reduce the effects, but-"

"Was there a malfunction in his rad suit?"

"No. Evidently one of the zombies gave him a map of the city with the hot spots mislabeled."

"That was to be expected." Spider sighed in the heat, his eyes still closed.

"Rakkim's going to have to go help him," said Sarah.

"You always intended to do that. Do you think me a fool?"

"Yes, but…I had hoped that Leo might have narrowed the search grid first."

Spider opened one eye, stared at her. "Tell Moseby to stay where he is. Tell him to wait. Give Leo more time. As soon as he comes back from Las Vegas-"

"You're letting him go?"

"Leo…Leo is beyond restraint. Smart as he is, he still seeks the approval of supposed wise men. The opportunity to address the International Pure Math Symposium is just too tempting. I told him he'll be disappointed, but he has to find out for himself."

"How is he getting there?"

"Oh, you know Leo." Spider tickled his hairy belly, his white skin pink now. "He hacked into the national travel database, created a fake history for himself-he'll pass through border control at the airport without a second look." He turned his face to the sun. "Mullah Cushing may have a more difficult time on his next trip abroad. Leo made some…additions to the mullah's security profile." He smiled again. "Evidently the good mullah is suspected of having a hidden pocket in his small intestine where he hides datachips for his Jewish overlords."

Sarah looked across the city. Defense blimps floated thickly around the presidential palace, the Fedayeen on high alert, but daily life went on in the capital as always. The monorail ran on time, the freeways were crowded and Temptations of a Young Muslim was still the most popular television show.

"You're not going to wait for Leo to come back, are you?" said Spider.

"We can't wait."

"Do you really want Rakkim barreling around D.C. with no idea where he's going?"

"Moseby might not be able to get a straight answer out of the zombies, but Rikki has a different way of asking questions," said Sarah. "He can get at the truth just talking and skipping rocks into a lake. I've seen him do it."

Spider rose up on one elbow. "I hope you know what you're doing."

Sarah closed her eyes. She refused to show her own doubts to Spider or anyone else.

In spite of all his spiritual preparations, there had been a moment of doubt as bin-Siq boarded the Yucatan Princess, a moment when he wondered what would have happened if he had turned and walked away, lost himself in the city, the maze of flesh…but bin-Siq had done his duty. Soon he would earn the blessings of Allah.

The sun had sunk lower when he saw the first dot on the horizon, first one then another, coming straight out of the setting sun. The lookouts on the com deck would be blinking behind their binoculars. Bin-Siq felt a delicious anticipation from the soles of his feet to the crown of his head, an effervescence, like bubbles rising through cold, clear water.

He leaned forward over the railing as the dots slowly neared, his fingers tapping on the railing in delight. Such a long time to have waited. There had been times lying in his bunk, surrounded by tons of steel and infidels, that he had almost smothered in doubt, but he had stayed true. He had remained faithful. Now…

Two speedboats…moving very fast…He squinted…could it be? Yes…bin-Siq clapped his hands in delight. The boats each towed a water-skier behind them, the tow ropes invisible…it looked as though the skiers were carried forward by wings of desire.

The Yucatan Princess made a minor course correction, and the speedboats kept pace.

In the sunset, the Gulf seemed ablaze, the two boats shooting across the flames toward the cruise liner. Down below, bin-Siq could see the tourists crowding the rail, pointing at the approaching speedboats. Their voices rose, excited, not in any way concerned-they were ten miles from land, the Belt a mere shadow in the distance. Surely this was some entertainment the company had planned for them, some small compensation for the cancellation of their New Orleans dive.

The captain's voice boomed over the loudspeakers, warning off the boats both in Spanish and in English.

One of the water-skiers waved and the crowd on deck cheered.

The captain would be on the radio now, alerting his superiors in Puerto Madero, asking for guidance.

Bin-Siq inhaled deeply, drew in the clean salt air. He felt himself growing lighter and more diaphanous by the moment. Were Juan here he could look right through him now.

The.50-caliber machine guns on the foredeck opened up, fired a warning burst near one of the boats. The crowd of tourists went silent for a moment…then cheered even louder.

The two speedboats came directly at the Yucatan Princess now, full speed. The water-skiers each unfurled the flag of the Belt, the banners snapping in the reddening glow.

The crowd lowered their voices, retreated back from the rail, hurrying inside.

The machine guns fired. Tore up the water. The crew were unused to anything other than simulations, and the speedboats zigzagged now, made themselves hard targets.

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.