Sins of the Assassin

by Robert Ferrigno

  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 ki
ll 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.”

  Chapter 36

  “Don’t worry.” Anthony Colarusso switched off the police cordon around Eagleton Digital Entertainment, the electrical field crackling as it went down. “Rakkim’s fine.”

  “If he was fine he wouldn’t have gone to the doctor.” Sarah stepped over the threshold after the deputy chief of detectives. “He wouldn’t have asked for all those tests.”

  Colarusso closed the door after her. Checked the street. The Zone wasn’t busy on a Thursday afternoon, just a few well-dressed moderns on their way to the Tarantino retrospective, and a band of Catholic workmen heading into the Kitchy Koo Klub across the street. He waved a hand and the defense blinds clicked into place—Eagleton had good security in his shop, able to protect against a determined burglar or a suicide bomber in the street. But his security hadn’t protected him from al-Faisal’s knife thrust.

  Sarah pushed back her hood. She was dressed casually: jeans and sweatshirt, looking just like the college kids who frequented the Zone. Except she looked older and more tired, her hair needing a good brushing. Other than that…

  He pointed at the blackened bloodstains on the floor. “This is where it happened, obviously. I’ve been all over the crime scene, but I was hoping a fresh set of eyes—”

  “I’m worried about him, Anthony,” said Sarah.

  “He seemed perfectly healthy before he left.”

  “That’s what the medical report showed,” said Sarah. “In fact, he’s better than healthy. The Fedayeen doctor checked his current reaction times against when he graduated from the Academy. They’re faster now. The doctor said he’s never seen it before. That’s how I found out. The doctor called and wanted Rikki to come in for a retest.”

  “I’d like to get quicker reflexes as I get older.” Colarusso patted his substantial belly, his baggy gray suit spotted with dried egg yolk from breakfast. “I’m fast with a fork, but not as fast as I used to be.”

  “Don’t patronize me. Rikki wasn’t due for a checkup. He went in and asked for his DNA to be tested.”

  “So he was worried about his genetic boosters.”

  “He asked the doctor if it was possible to get cross-contamination from being cut with a Fedayeen knife. Not his own. A Fedayeen knife—”

  “I know, it’s made with the owner’s own DNA.”

  “The doctor told Rikki he was looking at things backwards—it’s all about the blood, not the blade. You can get hepatitis or plague or any number of diseases any time there’s blood, but DNA doesn’t get passed on,” said Sarah. “Rikki insisted on being tested anyway.”

  “And the tests cleared him, right?”

  Sarah nodded.

  “Rikki never mentioned his concerns to you?”

  “Does sharing his concerns seem like something Rikki would do?”

  “Well…if his leg was cut off he might ask for a Band-Aid, but that’s about it.” Colarusso spread his arms around the small shop. “I need your help. I kind of hit a dead end here.”

  “I thought the investigation had been completed. Al-Faisal and his bodyguard blew themselves up at the roadblock on I-90. Case closed.”

  “That’s State Security’s version. Me, I’m a stubborn old Catholic.”

  “I heard you’re a stubborn old Catholic who almost got himself taken into custody at the I-90 site.”

  “I found something there, something State Security missed.”

  “I didn’t hear that. What did—”

  “An ear.”

  “How nice for you.”

  “Yeah, it was,” said Colarusso, annoyed. “The shape and whorls of an ear are as good as fingerprints for making an ID. The bodyguard was exFedayeen, every hair on his head’s in the files. The ear’s not his. The surveillance footage from the shop gave us a good view of al-Faisal’s ears—”

  “So was it his ear or not?”

  Colarusso shrugged. “The ear was in pretty bad shape. Forensics said it was an unlikely match, but that was as far as they would go.”

  “What did State Security say when you told them that?”

  “I didn’t bother. I think al-Faisal is alive and well, that’s all that matters.” Colarusso handed her a thumb drive. “I’ve got all my files here. Full photo array. I wanted you to walk the scene, look around, see if you spot something I missed.” He nodded at her. “Redbeard’s niece…between the two of us, something’s got to pop.”

  Sarah slowly circled the room. Bins of electronic components, laser-etching tools, high-magnification glasses, nanocircuit boards, all of it neatly organized. One side of the room was filled with children’s toys—antique mechanical cars and airplanes, an Etch A Sketch, new handheld games, and zero-grav dioramas. She picked up a faceted Fly’s-eye viewer, looked through it. The whole room was broken into a thousand identical pieces. Colarusso waved at her, his face upside down and right-side up and all around. She put the viewer aside.

  “All I know for sure was that it would have to take something big to get al-Faisal up here,” said Colarusso. “It’s just too risky for him.”

  Sarah walked over to one of the identical nonconductive metal tables that lined the walls. “Is this Eagleton’s main work area?”

  “Yeah. How did—”

  She pointed to the floor. “More scuff marks here than by the others.” She sat down in the elevated chair, fitted her hands into the remote-control gloves Eagleton had used to manipulate minute objects—a good glove stud could tie a double-loop bowline hitch in an eyelash. She removed her hands, wiped them on her pants. “Was this the height the chair was set at?”

  “Yeah.”

  She swiveled the chair from side to side. Redbeard always said if you wanted to know what a man was thinking, check the view from his favorite spot. The facing wall was covered with images: sexy, pretty girls, sexy, pretty boys, sleek Japanese electronic gear, Italian sports cars. A publicity photo of a Russian astronaut who had died last year, hit by a tiny piece of debris while on a space walk. A postcard from a surfing beach in South Africa.

  “Had he visited South Africa recently?” said Sarah.

/>   “Not according to the State Department or Border Control. It was evidently a fantasy of his, according to the bartender at the Kitchy Koo. He was going to emigrate, surf all day, and live on coconuts.”

  “There’re no coconuts in South Africa.”

  “He didn’t surf either. I guess that’s why it was a fantasy.”

  She removed the photos and postcards. Nothing on the back. She tilted each one in the light. No bumps. No microdots. Nothing. She replaced them exactly where they had been. Then she turned to the one untouched card, a five-by-seven holographic display card placed in the upper-right-hand quadrant of the wall. Key spot, according to Redbeard. The place where the eyes wandered during a pleasurable reverie. Most men would have put up a photo of their wife or sweetheart there, maybe their kids or a sports figure. Eagleton had a pornographic image of himself with his penis jammed deep into a woman’s mouth. Eagleton’s back was arched, his head turned to the camera. Leering.

  Colarusso cleared his throat. “Yeah, that…that one’s a real prize.”

  A very expensive holo, the image amazingly crisp. Flawless. She took it down from the wall, touched the controls on the side: 360-degree view and every inch of it high-definition. So clear she could see the reflection in the young woman’s eye. She zoomed in on the reflection, hoping to see something…

  “That thing’s been checked out by experts,” said Colarusso. “Experts and nonexperts. Everybody wanted to take a peek.”

  The reflection filled the screen…a small, half-lit room, night sky visible through the window.

  Colarusso looked at the screen. “Never saw that before.”

  Sarah rotated the image, zoomed farther in, trying to see what was out the window of the room. Just lights…a line of yellow lights. Freeway…or airport runway maybe. She zoomed back out to the main image, aware of Colarusso shifting from one foot to the other beside her. She looked past Eagleton’s triumphant expression, stared at the young woman’s face. Noted a small blemish on her cheek, pushed out from the pressure of Eagleton’s penis. She touched a tab, sent the image into full motion, Eagleton grinding slowly away for the camera, holding the young woman’s head in place with both hands.