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.
Gravenholtz saw her out of the corner of his eye…saw her reach for something, and then she shot Royce and Deeks and Cunningham, shot them in the back of the head, bam-bam-bam, as if she were swatting flies. She put away the pistol, grabbed Gravenholtz’s hand, and kissed him.
Whoeee, she said, I’ve been wanting to get rid of those three since Alabama.
Gravenholtz stood there for a second, trying to decide what to do. Royce and Deeks and Cunningham had been with him since the border wars…proud rednecks, no weakness, no mercy, but he was in the middle of nowhere, facing down a dozen armed men. The armed men were no big deal; it was Baby beside him making happy sounds as if he was balls-deep on a rainy afternoon that sealed it. Gravenholtz held up a hand, caught the cold beer one of the Asian guys tossed him.
Nobody said a word on the ride into town, which was fine with him, because he was damn tired. And sore too where Rakkim had stuck him. Never been cut like that before, even by a Fedayeen blade. Enough to make most men doubt themselves, but Lester Gravenholtz wasn’t most men. He figured they were going to the Chinese embassy, but, nope, instead they drove up to a private entrance of the fanciest hotel Gravenholtz had ever seen. Fit-for-a-king swanky, and right on the beach. He didn’t like the change of plans, and really didn’t like the idea of him and Baby getting separate rooms, but he held his piece, said, sure, later will be greater, and gave her a wink.
He barely had time to check out the suite before there was a knock on the door, and these four doctors walked in as if they owned the joint. Indians or Arabs they were, skinny little gooks with white jackets and cases of surgical instruments. More gooks wheeled in an operating table and lights and machines with dials and hoses. Doctors seemed real impressed with him, yammering away as they examined him, touching his red hair, gently probing his wounds while he ground his teeth. He guessed stitching him up was real tricky, what with his second skin impervious to their scalpels, but they did this microsurgery thing with lasers, using the existing knife cuts from Rikki to get inside. Real smart gooks. They stitched his ear back up, then filled him full of antibiotics and probably something else, because all he did for practically the next three days was sleep.
Once, he woke up and saw Baby looking down at him, same expression she had just before she blew away Royce and Deeks and Cunningham.
A few hours ago he woke up feeling good. Supergood. Then Baby called, said get ready, because she had a surprise. He asked if they were finally going to the Chinese embassy, but she just laughed. Now here he was, walking with Baby down a marble hallway, barefoot, wearing these gauzy white pants and shirt, a fruity-ass outfit that made him almost glad Royce wasn’t here to see him.
Baby kissed him just before they came to an ornately carved door. “I’m glad I kept you,” she whispered.
Gravenholtz didn’t like the sound of that, not at all, but the doors swung open. Two men inside led them deeper into the room, young guys, dressed all in white like Gravenholtz.
Another set of doors opened and the two young guys stayed outside while Baby and Gravenholtz walked in. An older man turned away from a window overlooking the beach-they must have been forty or fifty stories up.
Baby bent down on one knee, which was the weirdest thing Gravenholtz had ever seen her do, weirder even than killing his three raiders. She tugged at Gravenholtz’s leg but he stayed standing.
“That’s all right, my dear,” said the geezer, smiling as he walked toward them. Spring in his step too, as if he was enjoying himself. “He’ll learn manners soon enough.”
Baby stood up. “Father, this is the man I’ve told you about. I’d like to present Lester Gravenholtz. Lester, this is my father.”
Gravenholtz went to shake hands, but the man’s expression made it clear that shit wasn’t happening. He had a neatly trimmed beard, smooth brown skin, and black eyes so intense Gravenholtz felt he could see clear through him. He looked around. The three of them were alone.
“You’re feeling well…Lester?”
“Full of piss and vinegar.”
“How lovely for you,” said the old man, his mouth tightening slightly. “Thank you for assisting my daughter in securing the black-ice canister. My scientists are still analyzing the contents. I expect their evaluation any moment-”
“So I guess I’m not getting my share of the money,” said Gravenholtz.
The old man cocked his head.
“I told Lester that we’d be selling the weapon to the Chinese,” said Baby.
The old man nodded. “Of course.” He sat in a plain, high-backed chair. Crossed his legs, one knee over the other. “I’m offering you something of infinitely greater value, Lester.”
“Ain’t nothing more valuable than money,” said Gravenholtz.
“Do you believe in God?” said the old man.
“Jesus H., that’s just what the Colonel asked me the first time we met.”
The old man smiled. “The Colonel worships a false god. I am servant of Allah, may his name be praised.”
Shit, oh dear. Gravenholtz should have known. All that bowing and scraping…only ones who did that other than the gooks were the towelies.
“You look in pain, Lester,” said the old man. “Should I summon a physician?”
Gravenholtz turned to Baby. “This is your father? I seen you in church, girl. I seen you take Communion.”
“You’ve seen me do a lot of things,” purred Baby.
Lester felt his skin grow warm.
“I have many daughters,” said the old man. “Hundreds. The sons I keep close, the infant daughters I spread like seeds across the earth. Raised carefully, they marry rich men, powerful men, politicians and military officers on the way up. Sometimes I aid the process…a wife dies suddenly, and a young woman is there to comfort the grieving widower, or a diplomat too busy for love finds it easier than he had imagined, and finds a bride more skilled in statecraft than himself. Yet, even with all my efforts, most of my seeds fall on barren ground, but some”-he smiled at Baby, and she lowered her eyes-“some bear fruit beyond my wildest expectations.”
“So…is that why you brought me here?” Gravenholtz said to Baby.
She burst out laughing.
The old man sighed. “No, Lester, you are not the prize of which I speak. I was referring to Baby’s marriage to the Colonel, which allowed her to bring me the weapon. You, Lester, you are…a bonus.”
Gravenholtz took in the elegant surroundings, the exquisite marble and hardwoods, the artwork…the view. Beaucoup bucks here. Plenty of power too.
“May I see your hand?” said the old man. He waited, snapped his fingers. “Your hand.”
Gravenholtz offered his hand. Reacted at the lightness of the old man’s touch, the sense of entitlement. Ownership.
“Yes, yes,” mused the old man as his hands wandered over Gravenholtz. “I didn’t want to get my hopes up, but he’s just as you said, Baby…just as the doctors confirmed.” He crooked a finger. “Closer.”
Gravenholtz did as he was told before he was even aware of the command.
The old man lightly thumped Gravenholtz’s chest…his stomach…his ribs. “Very nice.”
Gravenholtz backed away.
“Look, Baby, he’s shy,” said the old man.
“Not the last time I looked,” said Baby.
“Professor Yamato’s great experiment…in the flesh.” The old man peered at Gravenholtz. “I thought all of your kind were dead.”
“My kind…?” Gravenholtz had never spoken of his history to anyone. Would have lied had he been asked. But the old man wasn’t asking. “I’m my own kind. The others, the ones you might have heard about, they’re dead. Me, I was away at the time. Sent out on a test-drive. Solo. The others…they were made to be part of a team. Like I said, me, I’m different.”
“A solo model.” The old man clapped his hands with delight. “Lovely.” He reached out, touched the bandage on Gravenholtz’s side. Examined the tip of his finger. Showed Gravenholtz the spot of blood. The blood spread out on Gravenholtz’s white shirt too.
“That’s nothing,” said Baby. “Russian agent got lucky. He was working with the Colonel, trying to buy the weapon-”
“Doesn’t look like a bullet wound,” said the old man.
“My sheathing’s thin in places where I need to move fast.” Gravenholtz rubbed his neck.
“It doesn’t look like a bullet wound,” repeated the old man.
“Bullet wouldn’t have done shit. Guy stuck me with a knife-”
“Rikki…the Russian agent,” said Baby, “he was ex-Fedayeen.”
“Rakkim.” The old man stroked his beard. “You should have told me, Baby.”
“There wasn’t time…Father.” Baby lowered her eyes. “I was barely able to get you news of the weapon, and this Russian…this Rakkim-”
“I fought Fedayeen before and never got cut this bad,” said Gravenholtz. “He just got lucky, found a weak spot.”
The old man shook his head. “No, Lester, you got lucky.”
“Bullshit,” said Gravenholtz.
Baby prostrated herself. “What have I done, Father?”
The old man beckoned her to rise. “Rakkim is no Russian. He’s Fedayeen. Undoubtedly sent by the president to retrieve the weapon for the republic.” He gazed at Baby with what passed for affection. “You should be proud of yourself. Rakkim is…dangerous. Yet you stole the weapon right from under his nose.”
“What about me?” said Gravenholtz. “I had a little something to do with it too.”
“It’s true, Father,” said Baby.
“Do you believe in God, Lester?” said the old man.
“You already asked me that,” said Gravenholtz, balling his fists. Didn’t matter if there were machine guns behind every wall, he could crush the old man’s skull like a Concord grape before he was brought down. Break Baby’s neck too…same moment he broke his own heart. “Get it straight. I ain’t no Muslim.”
“And I believe you,” said the old man, unconcerned with the flush rising in Gravenholtz’s face, the bloodstain spreading out on his white shirt. “Let me tell you a story, Lester, a true story. Sultan Murad, the first ruler of the Ottoman Empire, was a practical man. Surrounded by mortal enemies, he had tens of thousands of soldiers, but real warriors, then as now, were in short supply. The sultan created a small group of elite fighting men, totally loyal, uniquely skilled-called the janissaries. Though, of course, the sultan was a Muslim, many of the best janissaries were dhimmis…infidels. The sultan would finish his late-night prayers, then sleep peacefully until dawn because there were Christians outside his door, weapons at the ready, eager to do his bidding.”
Gravenholtz found it hard to meet the old man’s eyes. Felt like the old man was rooting around in his skull.
“Do you understand my story, Lester?” The old man leaned forward in his chair. “Sultan Murad was a true believer, a devout Muslim, but he was also a practical man. And, Lester…I too am a practical man.”
Gravenholtz nodded. “Yeah…I get the message.”
An aide hurried in, bowed.
The old man waved him closer. Listened as the aide whispered in his ear. The old man’s expression didn’t change but his eyes hardened on Baby. He waited until the aide backed away before speaking. “It seems you and Lester were misled,” he said to Baby. “It’s Rakkim who deserves to be proud of himself at this moment, not you.”
Gravenholtz could see Baby tremble. Could see her trying to speak.
“The data cores for the isotope are useless,” the old man said quietly. “It’s only due to the skill of my acolytes that their flaws were discovered. We might have wasted weeks, months-”
“So fix them,” said Gravenholtz. “Reboot ’em or recode ’em, or whatever it is the math wizards need to do to make it work. We gave you prime goods-”
“Silence,” whispered the old man.
Gravenholtz felt his jaws snap shut.
“The data cores are ruined. My engineers have no idea how they were corrupted or how to make them function. Without the data-”
“Leo,” said Baby.
The old man glared at her.
Baby lowered her eyes. “Leo was Rikki’s companion. Jewish fellow. Practically a boy. He was the only one who had access to the data cores.” The old man nodded, eyes so bright Gravenholtz couldn’t look at him.
The Old One strolled across the anteroom barefoot after Baby and Gravenholtz left, humming a tune he hadn’t heard in a hundred years, excited as a schoolboy. He dug his toes into the carpet with every step. After so much time and so many setbacks, the Old One’s plans for the republic were finally coming to fruition, his ascension to power assured. At this precise moment, with the Old One about to spin the world again, Allah had signaled his approval through two most unexpected blessings. Not only had Baby shown up with Professor Yamato’s wondrous and terrible creation, but Sarah and Rakkim, the last of the Old One’s…vexations, were about to be delivered to him.
Sarah and Rakkim had exposed his deepest machinations, caused the Old One to flee like a common criminal. He had searched for them without success…until two weeks ago, when Sarah had been spotted at a Catholic street festival, she and a male child, and a woman believed to be her mother. They had been followed by one of the Old One’s operatives, but Sarah managed to lose him at the last minute, disappearing in a warren of abandoned buildings. No matter. The Old One’s men would pinpoint her location soon enough. Al-Faisal, his chief operative in the republic, had begged for the chance to snatch her up. Even better, now Rakkim was coming home, with his new friend, Leo, the Jew who held the secrets. All the Old One had to do was close his hand.
The Old One had little regard for superweapons-they were usually oversold by their makers, or as risky to their owners as their targets. The Old One valued tools, like this beast Gravenholtz, people whose abilities or contacts could serve his ends. Not that he would turn down such a weapon as this hafnium bomb. Yes, Baby’s sudden arrival had presented new opportunities. Glorious opportunities.
First…he would squeeze this Jew of his secrets like a ripe pomegranate, then cast him aside. He still had hopes for Rakkim, wanting one last chance to turn him. Rakkim was too unique a talent to simply discard. Under the Old One’s tutelage…anything was possible. Sarah was different, as dangerous as her husband, but indifferent to the Old One’s temptations. Blame that on Redbeard’s blood coursing through her veins-the high-minded State Security chief had blocked the Old One for years, then had the rank audacity to die peacefully. Insult to injury. Sarah was the last of Redbeard’s bloodline, she and her son. The Old One would gladly snuff them both out, but they might be useful in bending Rakkim to his will. Love enslaved more men than all the conquerors of history, a lesson the Old One had learned at great cost. He basked in the memory as sunlight poured through the one-way window, feeling the heat stir his bones.
The Old One snapped his fingers, summoned one of his courtesans, the Yemeni with the coarse black hair and a mouth that tasted like honey. He inhaled, already smelling her perfume.
Al-Faisal had actually offered to see if there was some way for the Old One to watch the president’s face while he died, every panicked twist and contortion. The Old One had declined, concerned that any such capability might jeopardize the plan, but he appreciated al-Faisal’s initiative. The Black Robe had been invaluable in the past, would be even more important in the future. Last year, al-Faisal had snapped the neck of a meddle-some police captain during noon prayers, done it so quickly that the policeman’s fellow worshippers had thought the man died of a heart attack, and al-Faisal, who was leading prayers at the time, never raised his voice. Such devotion…
The door to the anteroom swung open and the Yemeni entered, bowed low, her thick black braids flying around her shoulders.
“Flower of Allah, how lovely you are,” said the Old One.