The Left Behind Collection: All 12 Books (353 page)

The fact was, Kenny was safe with Buck, and if she could maintain her sanity, that might not have to change. If only she could get word to Buck to get everyone out of there and to Petra.

Chloe felt light-headed, and hunger gnawed. “And that deal is in exchange for . . . ?”

“Taking the mark of loyalty would be a given. No way we would have any credibility otherwise. That gets you life instead of death. But what gets you the nice facility and custody of your son is information.”

“You think I’m going to flip on my people.”

“I do, and you know why? Because you’re a loving mother. You think your people wouldn’t give
you
up in a second to keep their necks out from under that blade? Give me a break.”

Albie shuddered, tooling through Abadan on his scooter, cap pulled low over his eyes. Al Basrah was no better, but this had to be what Sodom and Gomorrah had been like before God torched them. Every form of sin and debauchery was displayed right on the street. What was once the seedy side of town now was the town. Row after row of bars, fortune-telling joints, bordellos, sex shops, and clubs pandering to every persuasion and perversion teemed with drunk and high patrons. Hashish permeated the air. Cocaine and heroin deals went down in plain sight.

The GC Peacekeepers and Morale Monitors had once made a noisy bust or two weekly to keep up appearances. But with their ranks shrunk, they now concentrated on crimes against the government. Skip one of your thrice-daily bowings and scrapings before the image of Carpathia and you could be hauled off to jail. Caught without the mark of loyalty? Zero tolerance. They enjoyed playing with people’s minds and telling them they had one last chance. When a gratefully weeping soul eagerly approached the mark application site, he or she was pushed or dragged screaming to the guillotine as an example.

Bad as Abadan had become, there was a worse part of town, and it was where Mainyu Mazda and his kind plied their trade. In the open-air market, where loud haggling and swindling were the daytime sport, were makeshift dens of clapboard squares, which consisted of just walls and a locking door, no roof. A tarp in the corner could be hastily attached to corner posts in the event of rain, but otherwise, black marketers and their henchmen (one always standing guard outside) held court inside, meeting with people who wanted something, anything, and were willing to pay a lot to get it.

Albie cut the engine but stayed aboard his scooter, straddling the seat and pushing it along with his feet through the narrow alleyways. Amid the sleeping drunks were also crazy men, women of ill repute, men and women with all kinds of wares for sale. All beckoned to the leather-clad, smallish man walking the quiet scooter.

Albie looked neither right nor left, catching no one’s eye. He knew where he was going and wanted it to appear so. He couldn’t avoid a modicum of pride that his business had never sunk this low. What he had done for years was illegal, of course, and no circumstance justified it. But compared to this, he had had class. He had run an airstrip—that was his front. And his clientele had been made up as much of wealthy businessmen and pilots as it was lowlifes and crooks.

But he knew this world and its language. He needed a bad guy, someone who knew someone. Someone who had an inside track at the palace and knew where the meetings were to be held in Al Hillah. Someone who might even know where the largest ever cache of nuclear warheads was stored. Someone who, before Carpathia and his minions arrived, could get into the meeting room and bug the place, transmitting everything to a frequency accessed by only one person in the world. Only Albie and his people knew that would be Chang in Petra.

Had he more than a day to get this done, Albie might have been able to do it himself with his own contacts, people less risky, less volatile. But there were times in a man’s life when he had to weigh his options and throw the dice. And while that analogy was foreign to his new life, this was one of those times.

“Please sit at the table while the door is opened briefly, Chloe,” Jock said. The smell of the breakfasts overwhelmed her, and she sat with her back to the door.

“Right over here, Nigel, if you would.”

Jock sat facing her. He tossed her a cloth napkin and made a show of tucking his over his tie and spreading it to cover the expanse of his chest and belly. Chloe opened her napkin and laid it in her lap as Nigel set the heaping tray between them.

Nigel put a stack of pancakes in front of Jock. A pitcher of syrup. A plate of toast with butter and jelly. A large coffee cup, into which he poured steaming black coffee, and he left the pot there too. A massive plate of scrambled eggs with bacon and sausage links. He set Jock’s silver on either side of his main plate, then put knife, fork, and spoon in front of Chloe. And there she sat, only silver before her and napkin in her lap. Nigel removed the tray and left, locking the door.

Jock rubbed his hands together, grinning. “Does this look great or what? I hardly know where to begin.” He pulled each plate a little closer, then picked up his knife and fork and began manipulating the eggs into a huge first bite.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Where are my manners? Did you want to say grace? Ask a blessing? No? I will then. Thank you, Excellency, for what I am about to enjoy.”

Jock shoveled the bite of eggs into his mouth, stored it in his right cheek, followed it with half a link of sausage, and spoke with his mouth full. “Nigel must have forgot yours, eh, Chloe? Oh, that’s right. You haven’t been a cooperative prisoner yet, have you? Well, that’s your call.”

The big man sat there, knifing, forking, spooning, smacking his lips, chugging coffee, and grinning. “Sure you don’t want some? Huh? It’s good. I mean it. ’Sup to you. Otherwise, Nigel will keep an eye on you and that energy bar will be delivered to your cell, oh, I’d say about an hour, maybe two, after you’ve given up on it. And
energy
may not be the right word. It’s designed to keep you alive until we can put you to death. There’s nutrition, but not energy per se. You’ll get to love it though, look forward to it. I mean, come on, it’s not bacon and eggs, but it’s going to be your only treat.”

Albie rolled up in front of a tiny structure that appeared to be a mass of incongruously faded yellow boards wired and nailed together. The padlock was conspicuous on the door, which was guarded by a tall, thin rasp of a man Albie recognized from years before. In fact, if he wasn’t mistaken, the name was Sahib and he was Mainyu’s former brother-in-law. Former because he was the brother of the wife Mainyu had murdered. Talk about loyalty.

Albie stepped off the scooter and thrust out a hand. Sahib ignored it and squinted at him in the darkness. “Looking to sell that bike? You came to the right place.”

“No. I want to see Mainyu, Sahib.”

That provoked a double take. “Albie?”

And now the man shook his hand. He held up a finger, unlocked the door, and disappeared. Albie heard a low, intense conversation. A stranger emerged, hard and cold eyes darting before he hurried off.

Sahib came out, shutting the door behind him. “Two minutes, Albie,” he said, and made a motion indicating Mainyu was on the phone. “Fifty Nicks to guard your bike.”

“Twenty.”

“Twenty-five.”

“Deal. And if it is not as I left it, I split your skull.”

“I know, Albie. Pay in advance.”

“Ten now, fifteen later.”

“Fifteen now.”

Albie peeled off the Nicks. The negotiation, even the threats, was expected. A throat clearing from behind the door spurred Sahib to usher Albie in, but as Albie followed, he saw a small woman striding their way from a similar cubbyhole a hundred feet away. “Wait,” he said. “Sahib. Watch the bike.”

“I said I would. Oh, this is just a guest who will be joining you.”

The young woman, robed head to toe, big eyed and severe looking with a
42
on her forehead, carried a satchel. Sahib pulled her in as he slid out, locking the door.

Mainyu, illuminated by a battery-powered lamp, sat behind a flimsy wood desk, a mug of something before him, his smile exhibiting surprisingly white teeth. “Albie, my friend, how are you?” he said, reaching with both hands.

“I am well, Mainyu. But I must insist that my business with you is private.”

“As usual, of course. Please, sit.”

Albie sat in a rusted metal folding chair while the woman went around the desk and pulled a wood box from a corner and sat on it, opening her satchel. Albie looked into Mainyu’s eyes and cocked his head at the woman.

“Her?” Mainyu said dismissively. “Tattoo artist. She has neither ears nor tongue.”

The woman smiled as she removed her instruments and reached in front of Mainyu to direct the lamp more squarely toward him. He lifted his chin, and she swabbed a small area on his neck where a tattoo would even the number on both sides.

“You know what they say about my tattoos, do you not, old friend?”

Albie smiled. “Everybody knows what they say.”

“So, true or not, it is effective, no?”

“Effective. Is it true, Mainyu?”

“Of course.”

“Who was your latest victim?”

“You mean who will be?”

“Sorry?”

“Sometimes I get the tattoo in advance.”

In spite of himself, Rayford had been dozing. And as the Gulfstream rocketed toward the States, he began digging through his bags.

“What’s up, Ray?” Mac said.

“What time is it in New Babylon?”

“Coming up on ten o’clock in the evening.”

“That makes it late morning in San Diego, and still no word. Buck promised to call even if they just found out where she was. You remember the main number at the palace?”

“Never knew it. Did you?”

“Once upon a time.”

“Should be easy enough to get. But no one is still there, Ray. Need someone at Petra?”

“No. Now do you remember what David or Chang said about making these phones impossible to trace?”

“That I do remember.” He told Rayford the combination of symbols and numbers that made the satellite phones appear to be coming from anywhere.

Rayford punched in the number for an international operator. “The Global Community Palace in New Babylon, please,” he said.