"Where are we?" said Rakkim.
The Old One kicked off his shoes, rolled his pant cuffs up and waded out into the water. "Lake Neruda, in the Andes. Elevation so high and the soil so acidic that there's almost no life in it…hence its spectacular clarity."
"Fuck the travelogue," said Gravenholtz. "Is he on board or not? Because if he's not, I want to take him out."
The Old One looked at Rakkim, rolled his eyes.
Rakkim laughed.
"Are you going to let me in on the joke?" Baby stood in the doorway in a low-cut party gown. Rakkim hadn't expected to see her. "Don't worry, Rikki, I don't hold a grudge."
Rakkim ignored her, turned to the Old One. "You have the piece of the cross?"
The Old One patted his chest. "Right next to my heart." He splashed Rakkim. "Come on in, the water's fine."
Rakkim took off his boots, splashed out beside the Old One, the water numbing his feet, the gravel shifting slightly under his bare feet. He looked back at Gravenholtz glaring at him from the shore, his features brutal in the moonlight, and Rakkim couldn't tell if he was in a swimming pool in Seattle or in a lake on the other side of the world.
"Why don't you go out there and keep them company, Lester?" said Baby.
"No thanks," said Gravenholtz.
"Realistic, isn't it?" The Old One went under, came up spitting a fountain into the air. Tiny insects buzzed around them, their wings silky in the sunlight. A dragonfly landed on the Old One's outstretched hand, drying its wings before flying away. "Three-hundred-and-sixty-degree technology, every sense taken into account."
They were in bright sunshine now, the water warmer, the beach composed of smooth, flat rocks instead of gravel. Wooden cabanas and snack stands loomed behind Gravenholtz and Baby, men and women in bikinis waiting in line for cold drinks, the signs in French. "This is Cannes, on the Riviera of my youth. It doesn't exist anymore…except here." He sniffed. "You can actually smell the salt air and crisped potatoes."
"Ask him," said Gravenholtz.
"Lester, honey," drawled Baby, "shut the hell up and let Daddy handle things."
Gravenholtz kicked at the rocks, sent a couple of them scudding into the water.
Rakkim watched the ripples approach, felt them.
"I'm afraid Lester has a point," said the Old One, wading farther out, the water at his knees. "I asked you once before to honor me with your allegiance. You declined then, but I was hoping you might have changed your mind."
Rakkim watched the vendor walking down the strand selling ice cream bars to the sunbathers from a tiny icebox, an African immigrant…his features reminded Rakkim of Moseby, and for an instant he wondered if the Old One had programmed the holo display for maximum upset. He waded out to where the Old One stood.
"Leo is such an interesting young man," said the Old One. "He looks at the universe like a child presented with a new toy he can't wait to unwrap."
"You've spoken with him?"
"Don't be scared, Rakkim."
"I'm not scared."
"I think if I treat Leo right…treat him with care, I think he's going to be incredibly useful," said the Old One.
"You're not going to get the chance," said Rakkim.
"Don't threaten me, Rakkim-it demeans you." The Old One dragged a hand in the water, let it trickle through his fingers. "I could have had you killed on many occasions. You and your family. Didn't you ever wonder why I kept you safe?"
"I had all these questions when I came here," said Rakkim. "I was going to ask if Amir had signed up for your two-bit caliphate, and how the war with Aztlan fit in with your long-range plans. I really wanted to know what the puzzle was supposed to look like." He reached into the water, picked up a large rock, threw it at Gravenholtz, who tried to duck…the rock shimmered as it went right through him and clattered onto the beach. "Now…now I don't care," said Rakkim, unnerved by how real the rock had felt in his hand. "Answers would be nice, but I didn't come here for answers. I came here to kill you and Gravenholtz. That's good enough for me."
The virtual beach flickered, the scene at Cannes winking out, and Rakkim glimpsed again the Olympic-size swimming pool. Then he and the Old One were on a fine, white sand beach at dawn, the air already humid. Rakkim could see Sugarloaf Mountain and massive high-rises dotting the hills behind them. Rio.
"Why don't you wait a while to kill us? It's such a lovely morning." The Old One took off his suit jacket, tossed it onto the sand. He spread his arms, eyes half closed, his diaphanous white shirt flapping in the warm breeze off the Atlantic. "Relax, Rikki, enjoy the moment."
"Wheeeeeeee." Baby raced past them and high-stepped into the surf, completely naked, her white ass flashing in the sun as she dove in.
Rakkim looked back, saw her clothes strewn on the beach. Gravenholtz sat on the sand, knees clasped, glaring at him.
The Old One sat in a canvas lounge chair as Baby frolicked in the waves. "She's amazing…and even more beautiful than her mother." He drew on a sketchpad with a fountain pen-the breeze whipped his shirt, exposing the piece of the cross hanging around his neck on a silver chain, most of the tiny white flowers gone now. "Baby is part of the offer, Rikki," he said, not taking his eyes off her as the pen flew over the pad. "You can marry her with my blessing."
Rakkim watched Baby backstroking farther out. "What does she have to say about that?"
The Old One wiggled his toes in the sand. "It was her idea."
"Lester!" called Baby. "Come on in!"
"I told you, I don't want to," said Gravenholtz.
Rakkim felt the wind in his face.
"When I was a student at Oxford, I listened to professors argue whether it was a confluence of events or great men who changed the course of history," said the Old One, sketching away. "Whether Rome was brought down by overextension of the empire or the murder of Julius Caesar, whether it was slash-and-burn agriculture that collapsed the Mayan civilization or the inability of a single warrior-king to unite the cities. The sophistry of scholars." He glanced over at Rakkim. "The secret is to create the conditions for change, a process that sometimes takes decades, and then use certain men as pivot points, a fulcrum to move history." He went back to his drawing. "That's you, Rakkim. That's why you're here."
"Was Malcolm Crews one of your pivot points?" said Rakkim. "Because if he was, you're going to have to sit in the sad chair. Turns out Crews likes being the good guy."
"Well, I rather doubt that will last," said the Old One, "but no matter, Pastor Crews has served his primary function." His dark features were intense in the morning light, his mouth a thin slash. "Crews is a secondary player. Not easily replaced, but certainly replaceable. There's a country singer in Tupelo, Mississippi, drawing large crowds. Pretty girl, skin like cashew butter, sings gospel songs so sweetly you'd think she believed it." He watched Baby diving into the water. "Everyone's replaceable, Rikki. So what do you want?"
"You look tired," said Rakkim. "Vulnerable, somehow."
"Nonsense," said the Old One.
"No, it looks good on you," said Rakkim. "Nobody lives forever, do they? I bet when you lie down at night you can hear the clock ticking. Tickety-tock, tickety-tock."
The Old One's pen scratched away at the paper.
"It must hurt," says Rakkim. "All those years, all that effort, and what do you have to show for it? Just money and a line of corpses stretching on forever. If Allah chose you as the Mahdi he must be rather disappointed, don't you think?"
"Allah doesn't make mistakes," said the Old One.
"Exactly," said Rakkim.