Free Heart of the Assassin by Robert Ferrigno Page B

torn through, uprooting their land links and sending them hurtling far inland. The Cubans had shifted to solar power.
    The Old One massaged his knuckles, wondering when he would start stiffening with the infirmities that troubled other men. Rage twisted through him again, rage and frustration...and doubt. Rage and frustration were to be expected, but doubt...to question his anointing was to question Allah's judgment and that was blasphemy. The Old One inhaled deeply, let the clean salt air fill him. Whether he had three years or three minutes, he would not falter.
    Others had been rumored to be the mahdi over the course of history, sixty false prophets as predicted, the most successful of them gathering whole armies to their cause before their inevitable defeat, like that fool in the Sudan in the 1880s and Osama bin Laden a hundred years later. These imposters announced themselves with trumpets and declarations, turned themselves into targets for the infidels and then were surprised when they were destroyed. The Old One knew better. He might have hundreds of billions of euros in assets, thousands of men who would eagerly die for him, but against nations--against Christians and Jews and false Muslims--he had no choice but to use more delicate tactics: stealth, bribery, assassination--methods that required patience. The world was a vast, multilayered chessboard, and the Old One took years between moves. Perhaps he had been too patient, relying on his own false sense of immortality to achieve his aspirations.
    He had spent twenty years engineering the rise of one of his many sons to a position of prominence in the Catholic Church, having favorable articles written about this young cardinal, eliminating rivals. When the man finally ascended to the papacy as Pius XIII, it turned out that his time in the Church had changed him. His son had truly become a devout Catholic, and proceeded to do everything he could to thwart the Old One's ambitions, jailing clerics loyal to the Old One, and dramatically increasing his security. The Old One's attempts to cajole him were rejected, as were his efforts to discredit him. When all else failed he summoned Darwin. A week later, Pius XIII was found lying peacefully in his bed at the Vatican, hands neatly folded in prayer, one staring eye red with blood. Dead of an aneurysm, according to a team of coroners. Darwin never did tell him how he had accomplished the feat. Now it was too late.
    The Old One watched the stars reflected in the waves, let his gaze linger so that after a time he couldn't tell the heavens from the sea.... He whirled around, saw Baby standing just inside the doorway, a healthy young animal that had lost all fear of him. "I told you I wanted to be alone," he said quietly. "You disobeyed me."
    "Yes, I did, Daddy."
    "Where is Ibrahim?"
    "Ibrahim is a good boy." Cold eyes, almost as cold as his own. "He does what he's told."
    "Ibrahim has been by my side since he was born. I barely know you, girl."
    "Ibrahim has been in your shadow since he was born, Daddy. I see things more clearly than he does...I can be more useful to you." Baby walked out beside him, leaned against the railing. "This thing you had Lester do today...killing the Mexican oil minister, it's fine and good, and Lord knows, Lester needed to kill somebody or there'd be no living with him, but I don't really see the purpose of it."
    "I'm not used to explaining myself."
    "That's because Ibrahim's too much of a fraidy cat to ask, but I can't really help unless I know your intentions, Daddy." Baby stroked the base of her throat. "So who's getting blamed for the killing, 'cause I know it's not going to be us?"
    Us. The Old One looked past her, not wanting to be distracted. It had been a long time since he had shared more than bits and pieces of his plans with anyone, but Baby was right--even his inner circle was too intimidated by him to do more than acquiesce. By turns coquettish and crafty, she had improved his mood