Sins of the Assassin

Chapter 35

It was almost 3 a.m. when Rakkim stumbled into the mess tent, head down, the collar of his army jacket turned up against the cold, his assault rifle slung over one shoulder. He stamped his feet, used the movement to case the place. Five soldiers sat on benches facing the electric fireplace. A potbellied cook with a dirty apron leaned against the counter reading a magazine, hitchens stitched on the breast of his uniform. Ashes drifted down from the cigarette in the corner of his mouth.

“I need a couple pots of coffee and some cups for the Colonel’s guards,” said Rakkim.

The cook looked up from a well-thumbed Political Insider Quarterly. “What am I, the fucking welcome wagon?”

Rakkim shrugged. “I’m just following orders, chef.”

The cook raised an eyebrow. Pleased. Probably the first time he had ever been acknowledged by that term. He picked up a dented coffeepot from the back burner. Hefted it and handed it over. “This should be plenty for those assholes. Grab some cups off the rack.”

“Thanks.” Rakkim hooked a couple of cups with his thumb. Started to leave.

“I’m serving French toast at oh-six hundred,” the cook called after him. “I’ll save you a double order for five minutes, then it’s up for grabs.”

Rakkim took a right outside the tent, walked over the rocky ground. Good light discipline from the troops; only starlight illuminated the landscape. Plenty for Rakkim to make his way.

It had been almost two days since Rakkim had left Malcolm Crews, and the memory was still raw. He and Leo had reconned the area, hanging out in cafes and main-street shops, picking up news and rumors, trying to decode which was which. Most folks in the area thought the Colonel was opening up the coal mines again, others thought there had been a secret strike of gold or silver or diamonds, whatever their imaginations could come up with. Everyone was happy for the military presence nearby. The Colonel paid his bills immediately and in full, his men obeyed the laws and respected the women. No complaints, other than the occasional traffic jam when the rock- and earth-moving equipment inched along the local roads.

Rakkim had left Leo back at a small motel in the busiest part of the nearest town, made him promise not to call Leanne, no matter how safe it seemed. Maybe the kid would keep his word. Rakkim had other worries at the moment.

The Colonel’s base camp was two thousand feet up the mountain, a few hundred tents and outbuildings spread out along a rocky plateau, the camp reachable by at least a dozen trails and a two-lane blacktop from the small town below. At the edge of the trailhead, jeeps, trucks, and mining equipment were parked beside a skein of logging roads that led higher up the mountain. As Rakkim had figured, the major access points were well protected, armored personnel carriers and machine gun emplacements ready for any attack from the north, south, or east. The westerly approach to the camp was straight up a sheer wall.

Up ahead, Rakkim watched three irregulars standing around a heater, passing a bottle. He walked toward them carrying the cups and coffeepot, with the tired, steady cadence of soldiers everywhere, neither hurrying nor lollygagging. “Hey.”

“Hey, yourself,” said one of the irregulars, hiding the bottle under his coat.

“I’m all turned around,” said Rakkim. “Which way is the Colonel’s bivouac? I just got in from Murfreesboro and they sent me to fetch and carry and I can’t hardly see shit.”

One of the irregulars pointed. “Keep going past the outhouses, then make a left and go…maybe another hundred yards.” He spit tobacco juice. “It’s a nice clapboard house. Used to be a park ranger station.”

“Obliged.” Rakkim kept walking.

Good directions, he thought fifteen minutes later when the house came into view. He circled the Colonel’s place at a distance. Two sentries, one in front, one in back. Wide awake, from the way they carried themselves. Cold too, the icy wind howling off the mountain. He made plenty of noise as he approached, pretending to stumble, cursing, banging the heavy ceramic cups against each other.

“Who goes there?”

Rakkim stared at the barrel of the shotgun pointed at his chest. “I love you too.” He hoisted the coffeepot. “Hitchens sent this over. One of you two must have blown him or something, because I never seen that sumbitch do a favor for anybody.”

“Amen to that.” The sentry lowered the shotgun. “Had to been Meeks, ’cause I don’t get along with Hitchens a-tall.” He took a cup, waited while Rakkim filled it. Blew across the top before he drank. “Thanks.”

“I’ll hit Meeks with a cup, then come by again in a couple hours.”

The sentry toasted him, then pulled his neck deeper into his coat.

Rakkim walked slowly around to the back of the one-story house, noting the windows, the side door. The cellar door wasn’t visible from either sentry position, but the back side would be particularly blind because the rear sentry had his back turned to the wind. He clattered along toward the rear.

“Halt!”

“Jesus H., Meeks,” said Rakkim. “You want coffee or not?”

The sentry smiled in the starlight, a faint Cheshire grin.

Rakkim handed him the cup, filled it.

“Is it Christmas already?” said Meeks.

“I figure either Hitchens seen the light or maybe the Colonel told him to get off his fat ass and do something for real soldiers.”

Meeks took a swallow of coffee. Winced. “Tastes like he put pennies in the pot.”

“What did you expect? Only thing worse than Hitchens’s cooking is his coffee.”

“Ain’t seen you around before,” said Meeks.

“Let me top that off for you,” said Rakkim, filling his mug. “Stay warm.” He walked toward the side of the house.

The Colonel struggled to wake from one of his recurring dreams-he was fourteen or fifteen, wearing shorts and a flag T-shirt, standing on the sidewalk sweating as he watched the Fourth of July parade make its way down Main Street. Floats from the car dealerships draped with bunting moved slowly past. Slim Johnson, who owned both dealerships, and cheated everyone equally, tossed plastic-wrapped peppermint candies to the kids in the crowd. Probably left over from Halloween. The high school drill team followed, pretty girls in short skirts and white boots with tassels, high-stepping to the rat-a-tat-tat of the drumline. The crowd stirred and the Colonel tossed in his bed, caught in the cobwebs of time. The dream went silent, no birds, no drums, no sound at all as the main float inched forward. The Colonel’s hand flew over his heart. Veterans of the Gulf War II stood at attention on a flatbed truck, waving listlessly to the crowd…no, the crowd was gone. The crowd was always gone. It was just the Colonel standing on the sidewalk and the vets melting in the heat. The Colonel awoke with tears streaming down his grizzled cheeks. He was not alone.

“It’s all right,” said the man standing beside the bed, his face lost in the dimness.

The Colonel turned his head. Baby slept beside him, her night breath sweet as fresh hay.

“Hate to interrupt your beauty sleep, Colonel,” the man said softly, “but I thought it best this way.”

The Colonel nodded. Mississippi, that was the accent. Gulf Coast. He wondered if it was one of Moseby’s crew come to take him home. Moseby seemed the kind of man to inspire that kind of loyalty, and this fellow, he was a cool, hard customer, just the type to dive for baubles in New Orleans. “You mind if I sit up?” he asked, one hand snaking under the pillow for the pistol he kept there. Dark as dust in the bedroom, but the man saw what he was up to.

“No need for that, Colonel. I don’t mean you any harm.”

“Of course you don’t.” The Colonel kept his hands in sight. Just as well. His shoulder was stiff for the first hours after getting up. Dying was bad enough-getting Baby hurt because he wanted to play the hero was worse. “How much did you pay my guards? I’m just curious what my life is worth.”

“Your guards are tried and true, Colonel, and only God knows what your life is worth.”

“I see. My guards are steadfast but incompetent.”

The man had a nice laugh. Sincere. Confident. “That’s one possibility, sir.”

Baby rolled over in her sleep, one bare leg sliding out from the covers.

“Why don’t we go in the other room and you can finish things,” said the Colonel.

“If I wanted things finished, you’d already be dead,” said the man. “Let’s stay right here for now.” He pulled over a straight-backed chair. “May I?” He sat down.

The man wore the uniform of one of his irregulars and smelled of campfires and tobacco. He sat beside the bed, seemed utterly at ease, as though he were going to tell the Colonel a bedtime story. Who was he?

“I apologize for giving you a start, Colonel, but I wasn’t sure if the Chinese fellah was still in camp. I’ve got a business proposition and I wanted to keep things private.”

The Colonel didn’t respond, stunned at the mention of the Chinese liaison. This man’s information wasn’t perfect-Ambassador Fong had never been at the camp, had contacted him through the church in Jackson where the Colonel was a deacon-but the mere fact that he knew of a Chinese connection was unnerving. Had to be that damn chopper. Monsoon 4, state of the art, but a giveaway to someone who recognized it hurtling overhead. Word must have leaked out. The Colonel had almost refused when Fong offered the Monsoon as a sign of good faith, not wanting to obligate himself to the Chinese. Almost. He gave himself a dozen reasons not to, then he had accepted the chopper, thanked that little Chinaman, and toasted him with sour mash. The Monsoon 4 was some sweet ride, but it wasn’t a world changer. No, the world changer was at the bottom of the underground lake, waiting for Moseby to find it.

“Zachary?” Baby yawned, stretched, one strap of her pink slip sliding down her arm. “What’s going on?”

The man bowed slightly. “Sorry to disturb you, ma’am, but me and the Colonel have some talking to do. Hope you don’t mind.”

The Colonel patted Baby, as always, aroused by the warmth and electricity of her firm flesh. “It’s okay, darling. Go back to sleep.”

“You want me to make you boys some coffee?” said Baby.

“That’s all right,” said the Colonel.

“Actually, ma’am, if it’s not too much trouble…”

“No trouble at all,” cooed Baby, sliding out of bed.

The man averted his eyes as Baby put on the silk robe the Colonel had given her for their first anniversary. A gentleman. He held out his hand. “Rikki.”

The Colonel shook hands. “Zachary Smitts.” He nodded toward his uniform hanging in the corner. “You mind if I get dressed…Rikki?”

“It’s your house, sir.”

The Colonel dressed quickly. He could easily throw something through a window, send the guards running to help, but the evident ease with which this Rikki had strolled into his bedroom unnerved him. No matter what the Colonel had said, he knew his guards were not incompetent. He heard Baby bustling around in the other room, the coffeepot already sputtering.

“I can zap some biscuits if you want,” said Baby as they walked. She flicked on the gas fireplace. “I made them this afternoon.”

“That sounds fine, ma’am,” said Rakkim, sitting down at the table like he didn’t have a care or concern in the world.

The Colonel thought of pulling the flat gun from the pocket of his uniform and blowing his brains out, but the man made him curious. One of those steady types who seemed to exist in a state of utter calm. Best sniper the Colonel ever knew had the same stillness about him. The Colonel had asked him once how he was doing after his wife left him for another man. I’m serene as a head shot, sir, the man answered, then laughed. Sniper joke, he had explained, although the Colonel never saw the humor in it. He sat down across from Rikki. “You said you have a business proposition for me. Who do you represent?”

Rakkim glanced at Baby.

“Go ahead,” said the Colonel. “I don’t have any secrets from my wife.”

“I heard you were a brave man, sir, but I had no idea,” said Rakkim.

Baby laughed, trailed her fingers across Rikki’s shoulder. “I like this one, Zachary.” She shook out her hair, sleepy eyed, so beautiful it made the Colonel’s chest ache.

“I’m working for the Russians, Colonel.” Rakkim picked up his coffee cup, letting his statement sink in. “It’s pretty simple. The Chinese want what’s in your mountain. My Russian clients want it too, and I think you’d rather do business with them.” He sipped his coffee, looked at Baby. “This is delicious, ma’am, thank you very much.”

The Colonel stared at Rikki. “Why did the Russians feel the need to hire some Belt ghost to do their negotiating?”

“They didn’t want to advertise their interest by sending in one of their own,” said Rakkim. “And they have a certain trust in my ability to get into places where I’m not supposed to be.”

Baby laughed and they both turned to her for a moment.

“I’ve taken assignments from them before and I guess they liked the outcome,” continued Rakkim. “I should also correct your misapprehension, Colonel. I’m not a Belt ghost.” He added sugar to his coffee, stirred, the spoon not making a sound. “No offense, sir, but ghosts aren’t worth a wormy turd. Me, I’m a former Fedayeen shadow warrior.”

Baby put down the plate of biscuits so hard it rattled.

Rakkim broke a biscuit in half. “Ex-Fedayeen, Colonel. I’m strictly apolitical. The Belt or the republic, it’s all the same to me. The last few years I’ve been freelancing for the Russians in Africa and South America, did a little action in Malaysia too.” He slathered peach preserves onto the biscuit halves. “Good work. I enjoy it.”

“The Russians thought I’d do business with a goddamned Muslim?” said the Colonel.

“Well, I’m not much of a Muslim, and besides, it’s not really me you’re doing business with. I’m just the go-between.” Rakkim bit into the biscuit. “So you can choose to work with the Chinese, atheists who deny the very existence of God, or you can work with the Russians, who are Christians, just like you.” He licked jam off his fingers. “You ever been to Russia, Colonel?”

“No,” the Colonel said stiffly. “Can’t say I ever have.”

“Oh, you’d like it.” Rakkim spooned jam onto another biscuit. Stretched his legs out toward the fireplace. “Strong families. Plenty of kids. Crosses everywhere. There’s more churches in Moscow than there are in Atlanta. That’s no lie, sir.”

“Zachary…you always said the Fedayeen were the best soldiers you ever saw,” said Baby. She chased a crumb on the table with a moist fingertip, plopped it in her mouth. “You said if you had a division of Fedayeen you could-”

“I know what I said, Baby, but this man’s our enemy.”

“That’s pretty much a technicality, sir,” said Rakkim, wolfing down his biscuit. “And at least the Muslims believe in one God, like you, and they honor and revere Abraham and Jesus, like you. Russians are the same way. The Chinese? Sir, you go to Beijing, you’re going to see more pictures of Richard Nixon than Jesus Christ.”

Baby bent over the table, staring at Rakkim. “Zachary…he doesn’t look like an enemy.”

Rakkim stared back at her. She had that effect on men. The Colonel had seen it before. Heck, he was the same way himself.

“Oh…I almost forgot.” Rakkim rooted around in his field jacket, pulled out a pad and pen. He wrote three series of numbers on the pad. Shoved it across the table to the Colonel. “The first number is a private account at the Bank of Liechtenstein.” He picked up another biscuit, put it back down. “The second and third numbers are passwords that allow you online access to the account balance, which currently stands at one hundred seventy million Swiss francs. Approximately two hundred million Belt dollars at the current exchange rate. Consider that a down payment. A sign of my client’s seriousness. You get another…” He eyed the pile of biscuits on the plate. “…another three or four billion, depending on how useful the weapons system turns out to be. If it’s a total bust, plans for a car that runs on chocolate syrup or something, you still keep the down payment. Russians are generous people and they treat their friends accordingly.”

“Go on, Rikki, have another one,” said Baby. “I know you want it.”

Rakkim reached for the biscuits. “Been a while since I had home cooking.”

The Colonel blinked, trying to keep the numbers in focus. Two hundred million dollars as a down payment? The Chinese weren’t offering anything even close.

“I got an Ident wizard stashed nearby, real smart Jewish kid,” said Rakkim. “He’ll go over whatever you find in the mountain, see what it’s worth, and then give you and the Russians his evaluation. The weapons system won’t ever have to leave your possession until you decide to make the deal.”

“I never met a real Jew,” said Baby.

“He’s something, that’s for sure. I still don’t understand half of what he’s talking about, but he’s honest.” Rakkim turned to the Colonel. “Another thing you should consider, the Russians are willing to share the technology with you once their scientists get done with it. The Chinese may talk that shit-pardon me, ma’am-but once you turn the weaponry over to the Chinks, that’s the last you’ll see of it or them. You want parts or resupply for that fancy chopper of yours, they’re going to give you a million excuses, but you’re never going to get what you need. Once you make a deal with the Russians, it’s like you’re family. Putin-class choppers aren’t as good as the Chinese Monsoons, but you just have to put in an order, and the Russians will keep you up and running as long as you want.”

“How noble of our Russian brothers,” said the Colonel.

Rakkim shrugged, pushed his plate away. “Nobody does anything for nothing, agreed, but you have to realize, the Russians want the Belt stronger. The old USA was the only real counterbalance to the Chinese, and now that we’re all busted into a million pieces, we’re not doing anybody any good. Atlanta is useless, and that new president of yours is a total joke. Reminds me of one of those red-tailed baboons baring their ass to the world hoping to avoid trouble. Russians think you’ve got spine, Colonel. They respect that.” He slurped his coffee. “Just an opinion. You do what you want.” He stood up, nodded at Baby. “Thank you very much for your hospitality, ma’am.”

Baby yawned, her pink mouth a perfect O. “Anytime.”

“I’ll check back with you in a couple days, Colonel,” said Rakkim. “You can let me know what you decided. I promise I’ll knock first.”

“You must have a lot of faith in your charm,” said the Colonel.

“No, sir, I have a lot of faith in you. If you were going to kill me, you would have already pulled that flat gun out of your pocket and started blasting away.”

The Colonel inadvertently touched the pocket holding the gun.

“You’re still thinking things over right now,” said Rakkim. “You’ll run a check five minutes after I leave, see if that account in Liechtenstein is valid, and you’ll start wondering what you could buy with the down payment. What you could buy when you actually find something. Three or four billion dollars pays for a lot of food and equipment, health care if you want it, just any kind of expertise. It’s all for sale. You’ve already got half the state under your authority-why stop there?”

The Colonel didn’t respond. He didn’t like it when people predicted his responses, particularly when they were right. He did have someone who could check out Rakkim, him and this bank account, a contact in Columbia City, a gifted young woman with access to the best encryption technology and the brains to use it.

“It all comes down to who you want to be in bed with, the Russians or the Chinese,” said Rakkim. “Who can you really trust, people of faith or people who don’t even believe in God?” He shook hands with the Colonel, a good strong grip with nothing to prove. “It’s an honor meeting you, sir. I studied your wilderness campaigns at the Academy. Absolutely brilliant. I’m just glad the Belt didn’t have a dozen more like you.”

“How many wives do you have, Rikki?” asked Baby. “I hear Muslims have just a boatload of females willing to do all sorts of nastiness.”

“I’m not married, ma’am. I guess, unlike the Colonel, I never found the woman of my dreams.”

“Maybe you should look for a Christian girl,” teased Baby. “We know how to keep a man from thinking he needs more than one wife to make him happy.”

“Baby, please, let the man be,” said the Colonel.

“I’m just saying,” said Baby, “this man’s no more a real Muslim than Lester is.”