Robert Ferrigno - Sins of the Assassin

“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.