Heart of the Assassin

CHAPTER 46

"You're one busy lady these days," said Anthony Colarusso, taking a lick off the remains of a triple-decker ice cream cone. "Can't turn on the TV without seeing you being interviewed by somebody."

"The president's doing a brave thing by supporting the Belt," said Sarah, sitting beside him on the park bench. "I wanted to do everything I could to help him."

It was ostensibly business as usual in Seattle, but there was an air of hurried uncertainty in the city, everyone waiting for hostilities to break out. People talked too loudly, bought things they didn't need, and argued over the smallest things. Everyone watched the sky, waiting for the air raid warnings to sound.

"Marie thinks you're also promoting your own agenda, putting yourself out there like that," said Colarusso. "I told her our Sarah would never try to influence events like that."

"Smart lady you're married to, Anthony."

"Yeah, sometimes makes me wonder why she settled for me, but then, being Catholic, it wasn't like she had a lot of better options."

"That'll be changing too," said Sarah. "If the alliance holds against Aztlan, there won't be any more room for such bigotry."

"Yeah, well, you believe what you want to. I live in the real world." Colarusso looked up at all the newly added security blimps ringing the city. "I sent Marie and the girls off to stay with Marie's sister in Wenatchee until things work themselves out. Nothing there worth bombing except apple trees. Every year her sister sends us that Aplets and Cotlets candy for Christmas. Supposed to be a healthy treat, but it sticks to my molars." He sucked at a tooth. "You and Michael are welcome to join them."

"I'm needed here."

"Me, I'm needed too. I get tempted sometimes to let people take care of themselves." Colarusso belched. "Last time I was here, I was with Rikki. You hear from him?"

"A few garbled messages. He and Moseby evidently found what they were looking for."

"Really?" Colarusso fished out his Saint Christopher medal, kissed it. "What I wouldn't give to see that. Touch it. You got no idea what that would mean to me."

"Yes, I do." Sarah fingered the crucifix around her own neck. "My mother was Catholic."

"Of course. I knew that." Ice cream dripped off the cone and onto Colarusso's hand. "Every time I think about what Rikki is bringing back…I can't hardly think straight."

"That's the idea." Sarah saw his expression, touched his arm. "I didn't mean it that way. I just meant that religious icons operate outside of rational thought."

"No offense taken," said Colarusso. "I've seen what rational thought leads to. Dumbest people I ever met were intellectuals. Present company excepted, of course."

"Of course."

"That one interview you did with what's his name…Robert Legault?" Colarusso watched her. "He seemed sweet on you, but maybe that's just me. Never met a cop who didn't have a dirty mind."

"It's just TV," said Sarah.

Legault had initiated the media campaign that had put Sarah on TV almost constantly ever since the president's speech three days ago. Legault's productions were flawless, dramatically lit, giving her a gravitas far beyond her years. He said she was the perfect advocate for reunion-smart, well-spoken, the beautiful niece of Redbeard, the head of State Security who had kept the Republic safe from terrorists during its early days. In her own right, Sarah was a free-thinking Muslim, advisor to the former president, and a historian able to put Brandt's initiative into context. Vietnam had once been divided, so had Korea, Germany, South Africa, greater Russia. All of them had reunited and grown stronger because of it.

For good or ill, the president's speech had altered the geopolitical landscape. The armed forces had been put on high alert, all leaves cancelled, but with the trade embargo between the Republic and the Belt lifted, the stock markets of both nations were up over 15 percent. The president had called Sarah twice, thanking her for her support and suggesting that she share the stage with him at a national town-hall meeting next week.

Getty, a friend and high-level government official in Atlanta, had contacted her, told her that the Belt president was hunkered down in the bomb shelter under his mansion and refusing to make decisions. Getty and other senior staffers had formed a war cabinet led by the Colonel to deal with the impending hostilities. It's a roller coaster livin' in excitin' times, isn't it? he had told her. I haven't had so much fun since Truman Capote weekend the year I graduated Duke.

A young couple approached, moderates, the woman short and rounded in a shimmering yellow chador, pregnant, the man tall and serious in a gray suit with a REUNION! button on his lapel.

"It is you," said the young man.

"I told him but he didn't believe me," said the young woman. "We're so proud of you."

Sarah pressed her fingertips together in a blessing. "We have some tough times ahead."

"We'll get through them," the young man said eagerly.

"My grandpa told us stories about when we were one country," said the young woman. "Was it really that wonderful?"

"No," Sarah and Colarusso said at the same time.

"They were trying to make it better, though," said Sarah. "Maybe soon we'll get another chance."

The young woman touched her belly. "I'm sure of it."

They watched as the couple left, the young woman turning once to wave at them. Fourth time Sarah and Colarusso had been interrupted by well-wishers since they sat down.

"Look at this," said Colarusso, ice cream dripping onto his suit. He tossed the soggy cone into a trash can, licked his fingers. "My own fault for getting a triple. They price things so the third scoop costs hardly anything, but you got to eat so fast you get a brain freeze." He wiped his hand on his pants, sat down. Took a slow look around. "Well, here's something you might not know-police and State Security busted up five planned terrorist attacks in the last forty-eight hours. Black Robes."

"I'm sure ibn-Azziz isn't pleased with the president kissing up to the Belt."

"That's what I wanted to ask you about," said Colarusso. "We can't connect ibn-Azziz to the planned attacks. Seems to be the work of individual imams acting on their own. State Security intercepted a confidential fatwa from New Fallujah ordering no Muslim to interfere in any way with the president's overture to the Belt."

"Probably disinformation. Ibn-Azziz must have wanted it to be intercepted."

"Maybe." Colarusso shrugged. "Whatever the fatwa's intention, it seems to be working. Things are quiet at the mosques. In fact, captain at State Security told me it was ibn-Azziz's people who tipped them off to the planned attacks. How fucking crazy is that?"

"It's a hudna," said Sarah. "That's what ibn-Azziz assumes the president is really up to with the Belt. That's why he doesn't want to interfere."

"A what?"

"Hudna. It's an Arabic word that means calm…or a peace treaty. A temporary cessation of hostilities, not because the war is over, but so Muslims can regroup or redirect their strength. To ibn-Azziz, our immediate enemy is Aztlan, but our long-term enemy remains the Belt."

"So we're pals until we defeat Aztlan, and then we turn on the Belt?"

"I don't know anybody who expects us to defeat Aztlan, but together we might persuade them to rein in their territorial ambitions."

"You think that's what the president is doing?"

"I don't know."

"Hudna." Colarusso shook his head. "Where I grew up we called that a stab in the back."

"It's considered a morally acceptable Muslim battle tactic," said Sarah. "At least when used against infidels."

"I'll never understand you people."

"Yes, your people are ever so superior, Anthony. Like that lovely Borgia family that just moved in down the block. The sister, Lucrezia, brought by the most marvelous-looking raspberry tart cake yesterday, you'll have to try it."

The two-seat helicopter caught the sunset as it angled across Perdue Airbase outside of Atlanta, skimmed over the trees and set down gently not far from a small private jet idling nearby. "Go!" shouted the military pilot.

Rakkim darted out of the chopper, keeping low as he ran.

"In!" barked the military aide in the gray uniform, a machine gun slung over his shoulder. He half lifted, half threw Rakkim into the open hatch of the jet, then jumped in after him, secured the door. The jet was already taxiing down the runway before Rakkim got seated.

Rakkim's belt snaked across his lap as the jet took off at a steep angle, pressing him back into his seat, the noise so high his ears hurt. The jet penetrated the reddish-orange cloud cover, still climbing, still accelerating, tiny pretzel-wheel snacks rolling down the aisle.

Rakkim had gotten lucky after he left Baby at the motel. The storm had kept most traffic off the road and he made good time. It took a dozen phone calls but he finally got through to the Colonel, who had sent a helicopter for him.

"Pilgrim!" said Malcolm Crews, grabbing Rakkim by the shoulder, so tall he had to incline his head to avoid bumping the ceiling of the plane. "Glad you could make it. I was starting to fret." He beckoned. "Come on back and sit with me in the luxury suite."

Rakkim followed him to the back of the plane, past an inner door guarded by a couple of young soldiers reading the Bible. "Where's the Colonel?"

"Sit down," said Crews, indicating a sofa that filled the small suite. "Get you a drink?"

"Just water. I was supposed to meet the Colonel."

"Water for our guest, bourbon and a splash for me, James," Crews said to the aide that had lifted Rakkim into the jet. "The Colonel's in Texas, which is where I'm heading. He said you wanted to get to Seattle. I can't help you with that, but I can drop you off in Las Vegas. The Belt's still sealed off from the Republic, but you can hop a flight home from there."

"Good enough."

The aide brought their drinks and left them alone.

Rakkim hefted the cut crystal glassware, turned it so it sparkled. "You've moved up in the world, Malcolm."

"I've been washed in the blood of the Lamb." Crews peered at him. "You look tired."

"A little."

Crews took a long swallow of bourbon. "The Colonel's disappointed you're not going to spend more time with us, help us out with this war about to start."

"I appreciate the lift. You get me to Vegas, I'll find my way home."

"Of course." Crews sprawled on the sofa, legs crossed. The Man in White, they called him, but lately Rakkim had heard him called another name: "our new Lincoln." It seemed ridiculous the first few times he heard it, but seeing him like this, close up, long arms and legs, that bony horse face and thatch of black hair…well, there was a physical resemblance. Crews bobbed his head as though reading Rakkim's thoughts. "Never know what life has in store for us, do we? A year ago you and I were at each other's throats…now here we are, couple of civilized men enjoying a drink at ten thousand feet."

The jet bumped along on turbulence, ice cubes tinkling in their glasses.

"How's the mobilization going?" said Rakkim. "The Colonel have some plan to deal with Aztlan's air superiority?"

"I'm no military man," said Crews, "but the Colonel thinks it's best to disperse the men across the whole front, then wait for the inevitable air assault and then counterattack in small, hit-and-run raids. Strike fast and retreat, wear them down. Whether or not it works…" He shrugged, took a fat, hand-rolled joint out of his jacket pocket, fired it up.

"I thought you were clean as a newborn lamb or something," said Rakkim.

"You have to learn to forgive people their trespasses, pilgrim." Crews puffed away on the joint. "Colonel got a call about an hour after you reached him." He exhaled a plume of smoke. "Baby. She didn't have nice things to say about you."

"Oh, darn."

"The Colonel called me right after talking with her-might have placed some stock in the things she had to say…and pilgrim, really, you should be ashamed of yourself, she is a married woman."

"Nothing happened."

"That's too bad. A waste of quality pussy." Crews stretched out his legs, eyes shiny, enjoying himself. "Don't worry, I set the Colonel straight. Told him Baby was working for the Old One."

"How did you know that?"

Crews offered the joint, and Rakkim declined. "I know because the two of them showed up at my place in the country a few months ago, them and Lester. Let me tell you, that redheaded bastard is everything they say about him and more. Went through my boys like shit through a goose."

"What did the Old One want?"

"Always in a hurry." Crews shook his head. "It was the Old One and Baby that helped me become the man I am today. They were the ones wanted me to talk up the Colonel in my sermons, keep the waters boiling." He took another hit off the joint. "Crazy world, ain't it. Most preachers say the nature of God is unknowable, but I'm certain of one thing at least." He leaned toward Rakkim. "God Almighty has a sense of humor."

"Yeah, and unfortunately for us, it's mostly slapstick and irony."

Crews laughed and so did Rakkim.

"I missed you, pilgrim," said Crews. "Most folks are safe as milk, but you got an edge to you."

"You going to ask me to the prom, Malcolm?"

"See, that's just what I'm talking about."

"Why did the Old One want you to support the Colonel?" said Rakkim.

"Best way to cause trouble, I suppose," said Crews. "Baby said they were bringing hard times and fever dreams to the world." Smoke trickled from his nostrils. "They said me standing by the Colonel, riling up the rest of the country, would bring the hard times on faster."

"Sounds like she had your number."

"I suspect she's got all our numbers," said Crews. "I'll admit, I was always a great believer in burning down the village to save the village, whether it needed saving or not." He took a last pull on the joint, tossed it in his mouth.

"So why are you telling me about the Old One and Baby? Why tell the Colonel?"

"It's a funny thing…" Crews smoothed his pearly white jacket. "Baby was the one who told me to dress like this…that whole Man in White thing, said it would make folks think I was part of the anointed…but it had the same effect on me. I started thinking maybe I wasn't the evil fuck I always thought I was." He clutched Rakkim's sleeve. "It's not so bad being one of the good guys, is it? Long as we can still have fun." He pulled Rakkim closer. "The Old One was right about me…he saw straight to my dark heart. I am always listening for the trumpet blast announcing Armageddon, but shit and shinola, pilgrim, as long as we're having us a war, I might as well be on the side of the angels."

The sunset poured in the window, their faces like burnished bronze.

Rakkim turned toward the window, felt the warmth on his face. The Old One favored anything that destabilized the established order, and if it didn't happen naturally, he was happy to help, whether it was nuking D.C. or poisoning the Moscow water supply. Stirring up a war between the Belt and Aztlan was just the sort of thing he would do…but there had to be more. Brandt's speech supporting the Belt…did that help or hurt the Old One's plan? He looked at Crews. "The Colonel have any idea when Aztlan's going to launch their attack?"

"He's surprised they haven't already attacked." Crews leaned closer. "I hear you went into D.C. looking for something. You find it?"

"Found it and lost it," said Rakkim.

"Isn't that always the way. Did Baby take it?"

"No. Gravenholtz did."

Crews folded his hands across his flat belly. "I'd let it go then if I were you."

"You're not me," said Rakkim.

"Send him in," said the Old One.

Gravenholtz was ushered into the Old One's holo-suite in the New Mandarin Hotel, the most modern and luxurious hotel in Seattle. He looked around, whistled, the suite an exact replica of the Doge's palazzo in Venice.

The Old One gestured and his servants left them alone. "Good to see you, Lester. I trust you had a pleasant flight. It took some doing."

"Yeah…thanks." Gravenholtz looked up at the ceiling three stories above him. "I could get used to this." He grinned his yellowed teeth at the Old One. "Except for all the statues of naked men. I don't go that route."

"What's wrong with your voice? I can hardly understand you."

Gravenholtz's eyes blazed. "My tongue," he said slowly. "Rakkim…cut…my tongue." He pulled out a crusty handkerchief, spit blood into it.

The Old One beckoned him closer. Held out his hand.

Gravenholtz pulled a small wooden case out of his jacket. "I'm making up a list of the things I want," he said carefully, trying not to slur his words. "It's one fucking long list too." He gave the box to the Old One. "You want my advice, I'd take Baby to the woodshed if I was you." He spit again into the handkerchief.

"I'm sure you would." The Old One didn't open the box. "You may leave me, Lester."

"That's it?" Gravenholtz walked out, grumbling.

The Old One climbed the thirteen steps leading to the ornate gold throne and seated himself. A perfect simulation, but nothing like the reality cube, part of the hotel wing that he had reserved, a cube three hundred feet in every direction with a gigantic pool at the center. A virtual beach. The cube alone cost $500,000 a night and worth every penny. The ultimate in Chinese technology, one of only five in the world. Anytime, anywhere at his fingertips. No special suit required, no implants, the cube instantaneously responded to the brain waves of the primary guest, but was experienced by everyone within the cube. The Old One had spent last night alone at an oasis in the desert land of his birth, where he had gone as a child with his fathers and brothers, all of them swimming in the warm water at the center of the retreat. Last night he had again felt the windblown sand against his face, felt every grain, and heard the date palms rustling as he floated on his back, the stars burning overhead-stars so sharp and clear in the night sky it was as though he were watching from Paradise itself. Such a long, long time to get from there…to here.

He hefted the box, so light it could have been a dream. Opened it at last…and took out the small piece of wood festooned with tiny white flowers, let it rest in the palm of his hand. He sighed as a warmth flowed through him like electricity. He noted the numerous striations in the ancient wood, the delicacy of the white flowers. His senses were more acute. His vision clearer. His sense of taste and smell heightened. He felt the knots in his body smooth out, the tightness in his chest leaving him. Most important of all, he felt the fear dissipate, the fear he had never acknowledged in these last few months, not once. For the first time since Massakar had told him he was dying, the Old One was certain of his destiny. He knew who he was.