Sins of the Assassin

by Robert Ferrigno

  All Rakkim had managed was a mild concussion and three teeth reseated back into his jaw by a dentist in Boonesville who smelled of clove oil. Even Stevenson’s shekel of Tyre was gone. He rubbed his right hand, checked it again. Yeah, the crucifix branded onto his palm was definitely fading, being reabsorbed. He could barely tell what the image was anymore.

  Beautiful landscape through the windows, snowcapped mountains and blue vistas, but Rakkim wasn’t interested in sightseeing. He just wanted to be home.

  He looked over at Leo lying there, mouth open, a trickle of drool crusted along his chin. Another of Rakkim’s great successes. When they’d left, Leo was the pride of his family, a human computer, a vast step up the evolutionary ladder. At least according to Leo. Now…now he was a glorified gort, one of those lobotomized clones that Swiss billionaires kept on ice for organ transplants.

  Moseby had recovered fast, probably as much from Baby’s efforts as his Fedayeen recuperative powers. Another question Rakkim wanted to ask her someday. Moseby looked after Leo, sat beside him, praying, night and day. It couldn’t hurt. Moseby didn’t have much to say to Rakkim, too many bad memories between them maybe, but Moseby did have questions about Leo and his daughter. Not the kind of questions Rakkim would have anticipated, nothing about appropriate or inappropriate contact, of family honor violated. Moseby wanted to know if Leo was a good man. An honest man. He wanted to know if he made Leanne laugh. If he understood her when she said things like numbers were God talking to us in his own voice. He wanted to know if Leo made her happy. Then he drove off in Rakkim’s old car, drove off to join his family, giving the eye in the pyramid hanging from the rearview a spin for good luck.

  Rakkim and Leo left the next day. The Colonel had actually embraced Rakkim at the airport in Nashville. Hugged him hard, said he wished all Muslims were like him, the world would be a better place. Rakkim didn’t have the heart to tell him it wouldn’t make any difference. Probably make things worse. The Colonel never said a word about Baby the whole drive to the airport, Leo bundled in the back of the armored personnel carrier while they rode up front. Not a word. They talked about Malcolm Crews, and the likelihood of wiping out his remaining forces. They talked about Leo and what various doctors might be able to do for him. They didn’t talk about Baby. Not until Rakkim was about to walk onto the plane, pushing Leo, who sat sleeping in a wheelchair. The Colonel laid his hand on Rakkim’s shoulder.

  The Colonel tugged down his gray uniform, his posture perfect. “Young people…young women particularly…they’re easily led astray,” he said, not making eye contact.

  It would have been easy to nod his head and agree, go along, but Rakkim respected the Colonel too much for that. “I’m sure that’s true, sir, but I don’t think there’s a man or woman alive who could lead Baby anyplace she didn’t want to go.”

  The Colonel nodded. A sad smile on his face. “Yes…I always loved that about her.” He turned on his heel and stalked across the airport lounge.

  The flight from Nashville to Montreal took the plane in a looping curve out into the Atlantic and then north over Canadian airspace. Service was only once a week, and space was reserved months in advance, but the Colonel had made a phone call. Rakkim and Leo had fake Belt passport chips, and a couple of Belt bank accounts—the flight went smoothly, the plane packed with businessmen, most of them foreign nationals intent on staking their claim to the Belt’s resources.

  The Colonel said the new president had been selling concessions to the highest bidder since his inauguration, auctioning off chunks of prime real estate and mineral rights. There was even talk of turning the sunken city of New Orleans into a tourist destination. Japanese honeymooners were considered a particularly lucrative market. That’s what happens when you elect your presidents every few years, Rakkim had told him, turns politicians into shortsighted whores. You people and your president-for-life are just as bad, the Colonel had answered—what happens when Kingsley dies? The next one might be a despot, then what are you going to do?

  The train hummed along, floating above the guideway, no noise, no friction, no pollution. Sarah said Canada used to be considered the little brother of the United States, slower paced, slightly backward. Today it was a leader in applied technology and research, a pristine ecological storehouse blessed with one of the highest standards of living in the world, ironically fueled by the wealth of its oil sands and natural gas deposits. Rakkim stared out the window as a vast herd of caribou champed listlessly at the tundra.

  He kept expecting to hear Darwin’s whisper break the silence. Where’s the gratitude, Rikki? Maybe turn his head and see the assassin standing among the whirling dust motes or lying there when the bed opened up in the train cabin. He was alone, though, just he and Leo. Rakkim had sensed his presence a couple of times, thought of an enormous crab scuttling along the ocean depths…He rubbed the crucifix branded into the palm of his hand. That was real. It was fading by the day, but it was real. It had happened. Leo had asked why Rakkim was allowed into the Church of the Mists and Malcolm Crews left outside. Rakkim still didn’t have an answer.

  A bell chimed softly and a small gate in the wall lifted. Rakkim pulled a tray out of the auto-waiter, set it on the table in the compartment. Lunch was beef bourguignonne, sourdough rolls, and green salad. Full-size, heavy silverware. English china plates. Linen napkins monogrammed with the crest of the Canadian Rail System. He had ordered a vanilla milk shake in a cold-pak for Leo, in case he woke up later, and another strawberry malt for himself.

  He lifted the silver lid off the plate, inhaled the fragrant steam.

  Leo sat up. Yawned. “That smells good.” He rubbed his eyes. “Where are we?”

  Rakkim put his fork down. “Canada. Just past Calgary. Are you…really awake?”

  “What are we doing in Canada?”

  Rakkim waited for him to lie back down and drift off again.

  “What do you keep looking at me for?” Leo slid the plate of beef bourguignonne closer, picked up Rakkim’s fork. “Did you already tell me why we’re in Canada?”

  “We’re going home.”

  Leo stuck a chunk of beef into his mouth. “What if I don’t want to go home?”

  Rakkim put a hand on Leo’s arm, stopped the fork halfway. “Leo, do you have any idea what’s happened?”

  Leo shook his head. “All I know is I’m on a train in Canada and I’m really, really hungry.”

  Rakkim let Leo eat, the kid gobbling down the beef stew until it was all gone, sopping up the remains with the sourdough rolls. He left the wine and the salad untouched.

  “I’m smarter too.” Leo removed the vanilla milk shake from the cold-pak, flipped up the straw. “Smarter than anybody’s ever been, I bet.”

  “You’ve been asleep for the last three days,” said Rakkim.

  Leo gave up on the straw, spooned up the milk shake. “Processing. Not sleeping, processing. Big difference.” He chased down some errant crumbs with his pinkie, plopped them in his mouth. “Where’s the hafnium isotope?”

  “The canister? It’s gone.”

  “Not the canister, the isotope.” Leo looked back at the auto-waiter. “Can you order me some more food?”

  “It’s all gone. The canister and everything in it.”

  Leo knocked over the glass of wine. Didn’t seem to notice. “That’s bad.”

  Rakkim tossed a napkin on the spilled wine. “I know.”

  “You don’t know.” Leo blinked rapidly. “Without…without the hafnium isotope, all…all…all the information from the computer cores is useless. It would take years to refine more—”

  “It’s worse than that. Baby and Gravenholtz took the canister. Probably sold it to the Chinese. They have everything—”

  “They don’t have everything.” Leo stood up. Ran a hand through his wild hair. “I have to pee.”

  Just as Rakkim was about to knock on the door, see if Leo was okay, the kid came out. He walked over to the auto-waiter, scrolled through the menu.<
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  “What did you mean, Baby and Gravenholtz didn’t have everything?”

  “Have you had the fried chicken? I kind of got hooked on that stuff—Hey! Lay off.”

  “I asked you a question,” said Rakkim.

  Leo rubbed his arm. “You should learn to appreciate me.” He punched in his food order. The computer beeped: sorry, unavailable. Leo snorted, accessed the main control panel as his fingers flew over the touchscreen: order received. He turned to Rakkim. “I think a little respect is in order, that’s all. I mean, I did my job.”

  “I said Baby and Gravenholtz had the canister.” Rakkim picked up the fork, spun it around two fingers. “You said they didn’t have everything.” He pressed his fingers together, bent the fork in half. “So, Leo…this is the time for you to use that big brain of yours, look into my eyes, and tell me what the fuck you’re talking about.”

  “Sure.” Leo nodded. “No need to get all macho opera about…okay, okay. Gravenholtz and Baby have the isotope, which is a huge loss for us, granted, but without the data on the cores, they can’t make a hafnium bomb. The isotope might as well be cat litter.”

  “I told you, they have the cores.”

  Leo handed Rakkim the fork. “Could you straighten this out for me, please?” Leo waited. “They’ve got the cores, but they don’t have the data on the cores.” He beamed. “I changed all the critical formulations while I downloaded them. The data is so tangled up they’ll never be able to untie it.”

  The auto-waiter chimed.

  Leo jumped up, retrieved his double order of fried chicken.

  “You…encrypted the data while you were downloading it?” said Rakkim.

  “Not exactly encrypted it, quite a bit more secure than that actually, but in your terms…yes.” Leo crunched into a fried chicken leg. “I’m good. I’m even better than my dad thought.”

  “You’ve been in a coma for the last three days. That’s how good you are.”

  Leo wiped grease off his chin. “I’m not perfect. Yet.”

  Rakkim watched him eat. “So, it’s a draw. We can’t use the information in your head without the isotope, and the isotope is useless without your information.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “So, it’s a stalemate?”

  Leo gnawed at a thigh, the fried skin crackling off in chunks. “I despise a stalemate. That’s for gutless grand masters afraid to lose. It’s an insult to the game. I really wish you had been able to hang on to the isotope. No offense.”

  Rakkim glanced at his watch. He’d have to message Sarah at their next stop so she could update the president with the good news.

  “What about Mr. Moseby?” said Leo.

  “He had a rough time, but he’s going to be okay—”

  “I don’t mean that. I mean what did he think of me? Was he impressed?” He licked his fingers. A bit of chicken was stuck to the corner of his mouth. “I intend to ask for his daughter’s hand in marriage, so I hope I made a good impression.”

  “Oh, yeah. He was…just totally…overwhelmed.”

  Leo grinned, head bobbing. “I get that a lot.”

  Rakkim watched him. “Leo…are you really okay?”

  “I’m way beyond okay.” Leo belched. Reached for a chicken wing. “I heard these two guys talking back at the Colonel’s camp…they said the best aphrodisiac in the world is where you beat a raw egg into a lukewarm Coca-Cola.” He gestured with the chicken wing. “Got to be a fertile egg and a lukewarm Coke. Then you eat a raw oyster and wash it down with the egg’n’Coke and wango. They didn’t say aphrodisiac, of course. They said ‘blue-steel hard-on,’ but—”

  “Kid, the last thing you need is an aphrodisiac.”

  “I wasn’t talking about me.” Leo slid his teeth over the wing, stripped the meat away in one smooth movement. “I meant you. I’m not even at my sexual peak yet, but you, I mean you got to be over thirty years old.” He chewed with his mouth open. “Fedayeen, big deal, you’re still on the downward slope.”

  Rakkim smiled at him. “Just one raw egg in the Coke?”

  “That’s all it takes. According to these two guys.” Leo peered out the window, watched the barren landscape whip past. “I’ve been thinking about Baby. She…she was really something, wasn’t she?”

  Rakkim remembered the last time he had seen her, Baby pulling Gravenholtz into the chopper, her face lit up, triumphant.

  “I think she liked you,” said Leo. “I think maybe you kind of liked her too.” He drew an intricate geometric figure on the glass with his fingertip. “I notice things, Rikki. People think I don’t see what’s going on, but I do.”

  “Baby’s beautiful. So is a cobra. I wouldn’t want to take either of them to bed.”

  Leo shook his head, continued with his drawing, one of those multi-sided shapes that Leanne had made out of paper. “The problem isn’t that I noticed, Rikki. That problem is that she noticed too.”

  Rakkim stayed silent for a few miles, listening to the whoosh of air as the train raced on. “Leo?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What happens when the Chinese realize the data cores are useless?”

  “It might take them a while,” said Leo, making minute additions to the geometric figure he had drawn on the window.

  “But when they do?”

  Leo looked over at Rakkim. “Well…they’ll probably be annoyed at Baby and Mr. Gravenholtz.”

  “Definitely annoyed, but that won’t stop them Chinese. You’ve got the data that they need in your head. You’re the key player now.”

  “You’re just realizing that?”

  “It’s not necessarily something to be happy about. It puts you in danger.”

  “I’m not scared.”

  “Then, Leo, you’re not as smart as you think you are.”

  Chapter 45

  Gravenholtz hated Miami. He had been waiting three days to meet Fong, the Chinese ambassador to Nuevo Florida, and still no word from Baby when it was going to happen.

  Miami was hot and sticky, and everyone spoke too fast in this mixed-up language, part Spanish and part English, so that he couldn’t understand but every second or third word. Fuck ’em. He understood well enough that a redhead who burned, but didn’t tan, was at the low end of the totem pole. Even the white people were brown as coconuts, and they were the ones giving him the dirtiest looks. Hard to imagine it was once part of the US of A. Shows you what can happen if you let folks push you around. Meanwhile, Baby acted as if she were right at home, speaking the lingo as well as anyone, which was weird for a country girl born and raised in Dickson, Tennessee. He shouldn’t have been surprised. Everything about Baby turned out to be different from what he supposed. Shit, the Colonel wouldn’t have believed it, but Gravenholtz had seen the proof.

  Three days ago, Royce had set the Chinese chopper down in the middle of the Everglades, right where Baby said to, and before the blades hardly slowed, all these Asian guys with guns stepped out of the palmettos.

  Royce was about to open up with the Gatlings and blow these gooks to ground chuck when Baby patted his hand, said, Don’t worry, they’re Fong’s men. Deeks and Cunningham were relieved, but Gravenholtz was still pissed about having to caravan to the embassy, and worried about his wounds getting infected. Fuck the ambassador and his fear of creating a diplomatic incident, Gravenholtz didn’t like the idea of landing in a god-damn swamp. He scratched the blood crusted along his back and side, patted the bandage on the ear that Rikki had half sliced off. If there was a God above, which he fucking doubted, Gravenholtz prayed for another chance to go one-on-one with that guy. He’d hold himself back and make Rikki suffer—pounding out his teeth, beating his bones to jelly, leaving the vital organs for last.

  The flight from the Colonel’s base camp had been a real ass-clencher. Royce kept the chopper at treetop level, the ground a blur as Deeks puked his guts out into his boot, while Royce and Cunningham laughed their asses off, yelling, One more time! Baby swatted them for teasing
Deeks, changed the dressing on Deeks’s hand, and told him he was going to be just fine, which was bullshit, since two of Deeks’s fingers had been shot off by groundfire leaving camp. When they stopped for fuel at a little airport in Georgia, Cunningham tried to make amends, killed the gas attendant for his boots. Real nice boots too, hand-tooled and everything, but Deeks just complained the rest of the way that they were too tight. You can’t win with some folks.

  The chopper smelled like throw-up, and Royce’s and Cunningham’s cigars didn’t help, but Gravenholtz had to admit, the chopper’s avionics and stealth tech worked perfectly—they zipped right across the border into Nuevo Florida and never tripped the radar or anything else. Smooth ride until they set down in the Glades.

  Baby stepped onto the saw grass, the back of her neck shiny with sweat, told Gravenholtz to bring the canister. He was about to tell her to stay put, wait until he checked things out, when she looked back at him with that fuck-me-please look and he grabbed the canister and hopped down, showing off his muscles.

  Royce hesitated, his hands on the controls for the chopper’s machine guns, but by then the Asian guys had slung their guns and were dragging coolers of iced beer out of the weeds. Deeks and Cunningham whooped it up, jumped down—Royce slipped out of the pilot’s harness, swatted at the mosquitoes that drifted around him.

  You go ahead, I’ll be right there, Baby said, letting Gravenholtz walk ahead of her.