Sins of the Assassin

Chapter 2

The Old One cursed his bad luck. First the new German finance minister dies of a stroke-two years’ work putting him in place wasted-and now this. Was running into Gladwell tonight truly just a coincidence? Or had Allah abandoned him after all this time? Found him an unworthy vessel for the fulfillment of prophecy?

The Old One paced the ornate salon of his suite, feeling a faint vibration underfoot, the mighty engines of the luxury liner Star of the Sea churning west across the Pacific, rolling across the bones of monsters. Sandalwood and myrrh burned in the incense brazier, the soothing scents of his boyhood, and all the journeys since. To have come so far, and now…The last time he had been this close to success, Redbeard’s meddling niece, Sarah, and her renegade Fedayeen, Rakkim, had ruined everything. Decades of work unraveled by that overeducated whore.

At least Sarah and Rakkim’s actions against him had been deliberate, but bumping into Gladwell tonight was even more unsettling. He expected worthy adversaries, but fortune had always treated him kindly. The Old One wallowed in doubt for a moment longer, then cast it aside as a stone from his shoe. Gladwell’s presence on board was not a sign that Allah had turned against him, but was rather a lesson given to him by the Almighty. Remain vigilant, for fate can upset even the best plan. That was the teaching. The Old One was far from childhood, but not too old to humble himself before the wisdom of Allah. Bad luck, yes, but not a bad omen.

The Old One kept pacing. His suite was sparsely decorated, mandarin modern, blond wood and titanium, sleek and cool, the essence of Chinese chic. He hated it, but it fit his image as an urbane retiree, a cosmopolitan, high-tech entrepreneur. Swiss three-piece suits, handmade Thai loafers with braided gold-wire tassels. No prayer rug. No mihrab to indicate the direction of Mecca. To all intents and purposes he was a complete modern, an atheist too rich and too smart to honor Allah. When strolling through one of the public areas of the liner, and hearing the discreet call to prayer over the sound system, the Old One had perfected the wan smile of the enlightened as the faithful hurried to their devotions; his smile the same bemused expression he had seen on the faces of the British overlords as a boy when the villagers heeded the call to mosque. The British had rejected Allah then, and now it was too late for them. Alone in his cabin, the Old One prayed, with no witness save Allah. He didn’t need a mihrab to point the way to Mecca. He didn’t need a clock to tell him the time. Allah understood the necessity for stealth.

He sat on one of the sofas in the stateroom, picked up the wireless tablet he had been studying before his ill-chosen foray onto the upper deck of the liner. Better he had kept reading Sarah’s ninth-grade history paper than gone for a stroll in the salt air.

The most contentious question in American history is how the former United States of America became a moderate Islamic nation twenty years after the conquest of Baghdad. Even given the profound spiritual revival that swept across the United States after the Iraq debacle, the suddenness of the transformation was still startling. The televised image of President-elect Damon Kingsley being sworn into office with one hand on the holy Quran while the grand mufti of Seattle administered the oath was a moral triumph that even the most devout could not have predicted.

The history paper had only recently been discovered, lost among the archives of the private madrassa where Sarah had been educated. If he had found it sooner, the Old One might have given the young woman more respect, but he tended to dismiss the female intellect and it had cost him dearly in this case. Sarah had been raised by her uncle, Redbeard himself, head of state security, as fierce and wily an opponent as the Old One had ever faced. She and the orphan Rakkim had been schooled by Redbeard, Sarah in statecraft, Rakkim in the harsh arts. The Old One had concerned himself with Rakkim, but it was Sarah he should have watched.

The Old One studied his reflection in the tablet’s screen-a handsome, hawkish older gentleman who appeared to be in his seventies. A false vision. The Old One was far beyond a hundred, very far, possessed of a God-given vitality enhanced by organ transplants and the best science money could buy. He smoothed his gray hair. He had altered his appearance since fleeing Las Vegas. Had shaved his beard, dyed and restyled his white hair, added spectacles he didn’t need. His cheeks had been widened, his lips plumped, his ears tucked back. One of his doubles had been trapped outside a safe house in Thailand last summer, committing suicide rather than be captured. Even dead, the man looked more like his former self than the Old One now did.

Though the 9/11 jihadi attacks had little direct, long-term impact on the United States, the martyrdom operation induced the former regime to overextend itself in fruitless military engagements around the world. After their failed attempt to create democracy in the Islamic homeworld, the Crusaders fled, grown weary of war, eager to return to their idle pursuits. This great retreat left the West drained of capital, manpower, and, most important, bereft of will.

The Old One stared at Sarah’s words. Most historians considered the transformation of the former United States into two nations, a Muslim republic and a Christian Bible Belt, as preordained by Allah, a separation of the faithful and the faithless prior to Judgment Day. What nonsense. Barely fourteen, Sarah had seen more clearly than any of these so-called experts. Had he known how well she had learned the lessons Redbeard taught, the Old One would have killed her before she bled.

When the U.S. troops trickled home, the former regime was confronted by a prolonged economic downturn that only exacerbated the gap between rich and poor. As the recession deepened and politicians chattered, thousands died in job riots and whole cities were torched. The final straw was the suitcase nuke attacks on New York City, Washington, D.C., and Mecca in 2015, by the Israeli Mossad, which collapsed the former society.

When martial law was lifted two years later, the economy was still unstable, the government distrusted, and the people spiritually starved. Western churches, rather than offering moral guidance, were weak and vacillating, unwilling to condemn even the most immoral behavior. Islam offered a bright light and a clear answer, and the faithful could not build mosques fast enough to satisfy the need. While no force of arms could defeat the armies of the West, it was their moral and spiritual void that ultimately vanquished them.

Sarah couldn’t have known-few even suspected-the hand of the Old One at play in the decline of the West. It had been his money, filtered through numerous fronts, that had had financed the academic think tanks and jihadi legal defense teams…all the useful idiots. It had been his money that had funded politicians and religious figures, compliant judges and radical journalists, billions of dollars in honoraria, with presidential libraries and foundations in particular targeted. That was the carrot. The Old One stroked his chin where his beard had once been. There was also the stick. Hard-line military leaders discredited. Evangelists mocked. Curious investigators framed or fired. Or worse.

The Star of the Sea shuddered slightly. This part of the Pacific was prone to rogue waves kicked up by the super-typhoons that had become so prevalent. Waves and ripples, ripples and waves. He half closed his eyes, fondly remembering the images from long ago-New Orleans flooded, the blacks huddled on their rooftops, waiting for help that never came, while breathless TV reporters spread false stories of murder and cannibalism, of babies raped and women butchered. That was a historic pivot point: the moment when America realized there was no great white father in Washington eager to soothe their woes. All it had taken was a few carefully chosen inept bureaucrats and a dozen small explosive charges placed under the levees of the Ninth Ward. When the great warming permanently submerged the city a few years later, it was almost irrelevant.

He had come so close. Three years ago, his plan to seize control of the Islamic Republic had finally seemed within his grasp. The first step of the greater plan. President Kingsley and his moderate coalition were old and tired, the nation adrift, waiting for a strong man who would lead them forward. In truth, the Old One was the man come to lead the world, the Mahdi, the twelfth imam, the Islamic messiah come to guide the world away from materialism and idolatry. The man chosen by Allah to appear at the End-Time, chosen to create a one-world caliphate under sharia law, and usher in an age of peace and piety. After the nonbelievers were put to the sword.

Then, Sarah and Rakkim had ruined everything. All the Old One’s work had been undone when that bitch’s research uncovered the truth: The Israeli Mossad wasn’t responsible for the suitcase nuke attacks twenty-five years earlier. It was the Old One.

The blood libel exposed, the Old One had fled his citadel in Las Vegas, his bank accounts and assets confiscated. The accounts they could find, anyway. The most-wanted man on the planet, that’s what the news reports had called him. The Islamic nations cried loudest for his head, those apostates in Arabia and Iran with their false Islam. Even his oldest son, Ibrahim, had questioned their survival, but then, like most men, Ibrahim had a tiny white worm in his soul, devouring his resolve. With a son like Rakkim, the Old One would have already stood astride the world, but the Old One’s bloodline had thinned. He had to make do with the sons he had.

The Old One and his inner circle had taken refuge on the Star of the Sea, ensconced on a floor of suites he had purchased when the ship launched five years ago. The liner was a perfect redoubt, always in transit, a nation unto itself, its encrypted communiqués allowing him to maintain at least tenuous contact with his operatives around the world. The vessel itself was under his command-the captain and security team offered him their complete allegiance.

He angrily tapped the tablet with a manicured finger and the screen went black.

Eleven thousand passengers on the Star of the Sea, twenty decks of luxury and excess, the largest passenger vessel on the ocean, with dozens of movie theaters, casinos, shopping malls, churches, and mosques. Eleven thousand passengers and the Old One had to encounter Ambrose Gladwell their third night out of Buenos Aires. Forty-five minutes ago, Gladwell had nearly bumped into the Old One, his eyes widening slightly as he made his apology. The Old One had touched his hat, continued on his promenade as though nothing had happened, but he knew that Gladwell’s curiosity had been piqued. It wouldn’t take long before he realized whom he had met. Leave it to that sharp-eyed bond trader to see what others had missed.

Of course, there was no direct connection between the man who had hired Gladwell fresh out of the London School of Economics and the most-wanted man in the world. The Old One had been already past middle age then, already wealthy beyond any expectation, already secretive too, never quoted, never photographed. Gladwell had been nervous during the initial interview, crossing and uncrossing his long legs as he sat before the Old One’s desk. The Old One had been called Derek Farouk then, one of the many names he had used over the long years. One of the many faces he had shown the world. The son of a British mother and an Egyptian father, that was the story. Gladwell couldn’t keep his hands off his necktie, adjusting and readjusting his Windsor knot as the Old One peered down his nose at him.

William, one of his young aides, slipped into the salon through a side door. He stopped a few paces from the Old One, lowered his eyes. “Mr. Gladwell is in the anteroom, Mahdi.”

“No one saw him enter?”

William shook his head. “The chief steward himself escorted Mr. Gladwell here. Most of the passengers still awake are at the festivities on C deck.” He inclined his head. “The communications officer said no calls or communiqués were made from any of Mr. Gladwell’s personal devices in the last hour.”

The Old One dismissed him with a wave of his hand.

Gladwell bustled into the salon as soon as the door to the anteroom was opened, his joints still limber in spite of his years. Eighty-two last July 17. He wore a herringbone smoking jacket and flannel trousers, deerskin moccasins and no socks. Recommended sailing attire, according to the brochure for the Star of the Sea.

“Mr. Gladwell, so glad you could join me,” the Old One greeted him, ignoring the infidel’s outstretched hand. “I’m Albert Mesta. I think you knew my maternal grandfather.”

“I thought you might be one of Mr. Farouk’s relatives,” Gladwell said. “Not immediately, of course, but there was something…familiar about you. I didn’t realize it until I got back to my cabin.” His smile showed yellowed teeth. “At my age, remembering where I left my spectacles is a major endeavor, let alone events that occurred over fifty years ago.” He wiped his hands on his trousers. “I used to work for your grandfather.” His blue eyes shimmered with moisture, but it wasn’t nostalgia that made him tear up. “He was a slave driver, but a genius with figures. I owe whatever success I’ve had to the lessons he taught me.”

“The odd look you gave me in the passageway aroused my interest.” The Old One indicated a purple, tufted silk divan. “It was only when I inquired about you to the chief steward that I realized it was my grandfather you were acquainted with.”

Gladwell sat on the far side of the divan. Crossed his legs, revealing the tracery of blue veins in his ankles.

The Old One concealed his disgust. He sat on the other side of the divan, wanting to give the man a good look at him. “I’ve asked William to bring us drinks. I have some forty-year-old single-malt you might appreciate.”

“Oh yes, absolutely.” Gladwell plucked at the crease in his trousers. “Mr. Farouk’s grandson. You’re a lucky man, sir. Very lucky.”

“Sometimes,” purred the Old One.

Gladwell leaned toward him. “Your grandfather…when did he die?”

“Many years ago, I’m afraid.”

“I…I didn’t hear anything about it.”

“My grandfather believed in keeping a low profile,” said the Old One. “I don’t have to tell you that.”

“No…no, you don’t.” Gladwell shook his head. “Still, I would have liked to have known.” He stared at the Old One. “You…you have his eyes.”

“So I’ve been told.” The Old One stopped as William entered. The boy set their drinks down on the coffee table-two crystal tumblers of scotch, each containing a single ice cube-then backed out of the room. The Old One and Gladwell clinked glasses.

Gladwell took a swallow, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Excellent.”

The Old One sipped his drink.

Gladwell glanced around the salon. “You’ve done well for yourself, sir, if you don’t mind my saying so. Your grandfather would be proud.” Another swallow. “Very proud.”

The Old One swirled his drink, enjoyed the sound of the ice cube hitting the glass. “I think Grandfather would be proud of you as well, Mr. Gladwell.”

Gladwell pinked up. “Fast on my feet, always have been. See an opportunity, seize it. When the troubles came with the Americans, well, some gnashed their teeth or dashed off to Australia, and some of us rolled up our sleeves and made a handsome profit.”

The Old One raised his glass. “Good for you, Ambrose.”

Gladwell bristled slightly at the use of his first name by a man he assumed was younger than he. Always a stickler for protocol. Another swallow of scotch and all was forgiven. “Yes, well, a businessman has to be above politics, above religion. Can’t let anything get in the way of the bottom line, that’s what I always say. I deal with Muslims as easily as I deal with Christians or Hindus. I dealt with communists, when there still were communists. I even used to do business with Jews, but that was a long time ago.” He blinked at the Old One. “Now they say the Hebrews didn’t set the suitcase nukes, supposed to be some other fellah.” He shook his head. “Man doesn’t know what to believe anymore.” He pulled at his nose. “What about you, sir? Who do you think set off those bombs? You think it was the Jews?”

“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.