Read Online Heart of the Assassin by Robert Ferrigno - Free Book Online
Authors: Robert Ferrigno
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thought, imagining his cells huffing and puffing like cartoon slaves building a pyramid, growing more fatigued by the moment, until finally..."How long?"
Massakar looked up, blinking. "Master?"
"How long do I have?"
"I...I can't--"
"Make an educated guess, Doctor. "
Massakar seemed to draw strength from being addressed by his professional title. "Three or four years, if the rate of decline continues uniformly. Less if there is a cascade effect on the major organs, which is...possible." He tugged at his lower lip. "Increasing your rejuvenation sessions to twice a month may help, but--"
"Thank you for your assessment."
Massakar fell to his knees, kissed the Old One's hand.
The Old One beckoned him to rise. "This information...it must be our secret. Not all of my subjects are as steadfast as you."
Massakar wiped his eyes. "Shall I send in the Abyssinian to dress you?"
"No, I think today...I shall dress myself." The Old One waited until Massakar backed out of the recovery room and closed the door behind him before slipping on his clothes. He took his time. Buttoning his white cotton shirt. Zipping his trousers, the gray summer wool English trousers from the cramped shop on Savile Road that smelled of pipe tobacco. Tucking in the shirt, his abdomen still firm. Slipping the titanium cuff links through the fabric with a faint sound, the click of the bezel. The silk necktie slid through his fingers as he tied a perfect Windsor knot, his thumb pressing a dimple. He pulled on his socks with their pattern of tiny clocks...ironic now. Wiggled his toes in his handmade leather shoes. Every sensation was suddenly heightened by Massakar's diagnosis. A blessing, he told himself. Allah has given me a blessing. First he gave me time. Then he gave me an ending. Yes, a great blessing.
He didn't believe that for an instant.
His reflection in the mirror showed a healthy, vigorous man in his sixties, although he was over 150. He was still almost six feet tall, his stature undiminished by the years. Smooth-shaven to allay suspicion. A strong, prominent nose. Dark eyes, alert as ever. Thin lips, a sign of cruelty, an elder in his tribe had noted long ago, but the Old One was not cruel, not at all. He was clear. He was certain. The elder was dust now, all of them dust.
The Old One stepped briskly through the door into an anteroom, and then through the private door into his suite...found Ibrahim, his eldest son and chief advisor, waiting. And Baby. The two of them glaring at each other.
Baby was twenty-three, slim and high-breasted, the poisonous flower of Southern womanhood. A daughter he had forgotten until a year ago, one of the many seeds planted across the earth, beautiful girls raised among the kaffirs in the Belt and Russia and China, raised among the faithful in Arabia and Europe. Most he never even saw, just occasionally read reports of their marriages to powerful men, and the steady stream of information they fed back to him. The power of the marital bed. Baby had shown up at his Miami compound last year without an invitation, along with a human killing machine named Lester Gravenholtz. Gravenholtz offered some unique possibilities, but it was Baby who was the true prize. No wonder Ibrahim hated her.
"Father," said Ibrahim, bowing.
"Father," said Baby, voice sultry with promise. Her dress rustled around her long legs as she bowed, her honey blond hair falling onto her bare shoulders. She wore a simple, brightly colored silk dress cut high up one thigh in the contemporary Cuban style, the spoils of one of her many shopping trips with his concubines. She looked up at him as she rose, her mouth ripe and wanton as a plum.
Ibrahim straightened, taller than the Old One, hard and stern as a knotty stick. "I told this creature that you and I had private matters to discuss."
"You're up late, child," the Old One said to Baby. "It's almost dawn."
"I was restless," drawled Baby, hazel eyes playful. She walked slowly toward him, hips
Massakar looked up, blinking. "Master?"
"How long do I have?"
"I...I can't--"
"Make an educated guess, Doctor. "
Massakar seemed to draw strength from being addressed by his professional title. "Three or four years, if the rate of decline continues uniformly. Less if there is a cascade effect on the major organs, which is...possible." He tugged at his lower lip. "Increasing your rejuvenation sessions to twice a month may help, but--"
"Thank you for your assessment."
Massakar fell to his knees, kissed the Old One's hand.
The Old One beckoned him to rise. "This information...it must be our secret. Not all of my subjects are as steadfast as you."
Massakar wiped his eyes. "Shall I send in the Abyssinian to dress you?"
"No, I think today...I shall dress myself." The Old One waited until Massakar backed out of the recovery room and closed the door behind him before slipping on his clothes. He took his time. Buttoning his white cotton shirt. Zipping his trousers, the gray summer wool English trousers from the cramped shop on Savile Road that smelled of pipe tobacco. Tucking in the shirt, his abdomen still firm. Slipping the titanium cuff links through the fabric with a faint sound, the click of the bezel. The silk necktie slid through his fingers as he tied a perfect Windsor knot, his thumb pressing a dimple. He pulled on his socks with their pattern of tiny clocks...ironic now. Wiggled his toes in his handmade leather shoes. Every sensation was suddenly heightened by Massakar's diagnosis. A blessing, he told himself. Allah has given me a blessing. First he gave me time. Then he gave me an ending. Yes, a great blessing.
He didn't believe that for an instant.
His reflection in the mirror showed a healthy, vigorous man in his sixties, although he was over 150. He was still almost six feet tall, his stature undiminished by the years. Smooth-shaven to allay suspicion. A strong, prominent nose. Dark eyes, alert as ever. Thin lips, a sign of cruelty, an elder in his tribe had noted long ago, but the Old One was not cruel, not at all. He was clear. He was certain. The elder was dust now, all of them dust.
The Old One stepped briskly through the door into an anteroom, and then through the private door into his suite...found Ibrahim, his eldest son and chief advisor, waiting. And Baby. The two of them glaring at each other.
Baby was twenty-three, slim and high-breasted, the poisonous flower of Southern womanhood. A daughter he had forgotten until a year ago, one of the many seeds planted across the earth, beautiful girls raised among the kaffirs in the Belt and Russia and China, raised among the faithful in Arabia and Europe. Most he never even saw, just occasionally read reports of their marriages to powerful men, and the steady stream of information they fed back to him. The power of the marital bed. Baby had shown up at his Miami compound last year without an invitation, along with a human killing machine named Lester Gravenholtz. Gravenholtz offered some unique possibilities, but it was Baby who was the true prize. No wonder Ibrahim hated her.
"Father," said Ibrahim, bowing.
"Father," said Baby, voice sultry with promise. Her dress rustled around her long legs as she bowed, her honey blond hair falling onto her bare shoulders. She wore a simple, brightly colored silk dress cut high up one thigh in the contemporary Cuban style, the spoils of one of her many shopping trips with his concubines. She looked up at him as she rose, her mouth ripe and wanton as a plum.
Ibrahim straightened, taller than the Old One, hard and stern as a knotty stick. "I told this creature that you and I had private matters to discuss."
"You're up late, child," the Old One said to Baby. "It's almost dawn."
"I was restless," drawled Baby, hazel eyes playful. She walked slowly toward him, hips
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