Heart of the Assassin

by Robert Ferrigno

  Rakkim shifted his grip, brushed against one of the thousands of skulls that lined the railings, this one long since plucked clean by the seagulls except for a patch of long brown hair. A small skull. A woman or a child. One of the multitudes of accused sodomites and idolaters, witches and blasphemers on display for the education of the faithful. He looked over at Jenkins, saw him watching.

  "An adulteress, if I remember correctly." Jenkins's robe caught the wind, puffed up around him like a gigantic black toadstool. "A sinner, that much is certain."

  Rakkim felt the bridge shift underfoot. "Like the girls at the madrassa?"

  Jenkins looked down into the dark water below. "Duty...duty requires terrible things of us sometimes. You should know that as well as I."

  "They were children."

  Jenkins's face was pale in the moonlight. "They're already in Paradise."

  "They should be with their families."

  Jenkins cupped the skull in his hands, his knuckles red and raw. "I remember this one now. So adamant of her innocence. They all are at first, but they give that up soon enough. Not her, though. Kept going on about her husband's eagerness to trade her in for a more attractive wife and not wanting to pay alimony. She was homely, but such gentle eyes...you could see straight to her heart." He idly wrapped the strand of hair around his forefinger. "Impossible to free her, of course, his word against hers, but a few months after her execution, I had him buried alive for possession of pornography." He rubbed her hair between his spindly fingers. "Most shocking holo you could imagine...I hated to part with it." He plucked the skull free of the spike that held it on the railing. Caressed the cheekbones, then let it drop over the side, that single strand of brown hair spinning around and around until it disappeared into the darkness below.

  The bridge shuddered in the gale, salt spray drenching them. Rakkim was grateful for the wind--it cut down on the stink.

  Jenkins looked over at Rakkim. "I remember hearing that you had retired--what was it, five or six years ago?--and thinking, good for him, but here you are, another patriot sent where he doesn't belong. Hurray for God and country."

  "I'm not doing it for my country. General Kidd asked me to do a favor for him--"

  "Ah, yes, a favor...a secret mission known only to the two of you." Jenkins's eyes were sunk so deeply you couldn't see the bottom. "I wonder if anyone tells the general no."

  Jenkins was the longest-serving shadow warrior in the history of the Fedayeen. Called back from teaching at the academy, he had disappeared into New Fallujah eleven years ago...right after Rakkim's second excursion into the Belt. Most missions lasted two years or less and shadow warriors were forcibly retired after ten. Shadow warriors might be needed, but they were never fully trusted. Sooner or later, they always went native, always turned traitor. Or went mad, lost among the masks, unable to find their true face.

  "The jihadi you took the headband from...do you know his name?" asked Jenkins.

  "Tamar."

  "And where was his mission?"

  "Santa Barbara. He said he wanted to detonate himself among a crowd of picnickers on the beach."

  Jenkins nodded. "Are you still a good Muslim, Rakkim?"

  "I was never a very good Muslim. I still truthfully declare the Shahada...I believe there is but one God, and that Muhammad is His prophet, but as for the rest..."

  "Hard for a shadow warrior to keep his faith, but without faith..." Jenkins's eyes drifted off. "No God, no country, we might as well be devils." His black robe billowed around him. "Is that what you've become, Rakkim? Are you some devil sent to torment me?"

  "I'm the man sent to squeeze you. It's been a while since you checked in."

  "I send General Kidd regular transmissions--"

  "Never received," said Rakkim.

  "That's not my fault. Our satellite feeds are offline most of the time now. "Jenkins glanced up at the stars. "Thought things were supposed to be getting better."

  "It was, until a Nigerian weather satellite got rear-ended by an uncataloged chunk of debris, probably from one of the old lunar probes. Pieces of the Nigerian took out a couple Russian spy birds and so on and so on. Whole earth orbit is a demolition derby."

  The bridge rose in the storm surge, groaning, metal on metal. The line of skulls stretched the full length of the bridge, shifting as the bridge shifted. Rakkim glanced back to where the guards had taken shelter.

  "They don't come out here when the wind kicks up," said Jenkins. "Not since the north section collapsed last year. Evidently the builders never anticipated these new storms. They called it the Golden Gate in those days." He scratched the corroded railing with a fingertip, flicked it away. "It wasn't gold, of course. It was optimism." He looked at Rakkim. "You were the best student I ever had. Did I ever tell you that?"

  "You tried to wash me out of the program. Kidd overruled you."

  Jenkins shrugged. "You were gifted, but shadow warriors need to be empty inside so that the role can fill them. A void with a memory, that's the perfect shadow warrior." He squinted at Rakkim. "You were too free-spirited. I knew you'd be trouble."

  Rakkim heard the flapping of wings, looked up...saw three dead men hanging from the bridge's superstructure, twisting in the wind. Seagulls beat their wings trying to maintain a grip on the men, peck-peck-pecking, but the storm made it difficult. The biggest gull screeched in frustration, settled back down on one man's stringy neck.

  "Belt spies and saboteurs," explained Jenkins. "Guards caught them along the wharf."

  "The Belt hasn't launched an offensive operation in years," said Rakkim. "Atlanta's got their hands full just trying to hold their country together, same as us."

  "Guilty or innocent, the moral lesson remains the same," said Jenkins. "Vigilance."

  "What happened to you?" said Rakkim.

  "A little of this, a little of that--"

  Rakkim slapped him. A light slap, but so fast that Jenkins didn't see it coming.

  Jenkins stumbled backward, caught himself from falling. He rubbed his cheek. "Yes...you're different, I see that now. You're the one who keeps his soul intact, not like the rest of us." He spat at Rakkim's feet. "Good luck."

  Rakkim looked back toward the city. Searchlights lit the area around the wreckage of the old Transamerica pyramid, enormous cranes ringing the site. "The new mosque going up...biggest one I've ever seen."

  "Biggest one in the world when it's completed." Pride edged Jenkins's voice. "Dwarf anything the heretics in Arabia or Indonesia have. It will seat over three hundred thousand believers someday. A million tons of lapis lazuli for the interior alone--"

  "Where's the money coming from?"

  "I've wondered about that myself," said Jenkins.

  "The Old One?"

  "I thought he was dead."

  Rakkim looked past him.

  Jenkins thumbed his prayer beads. "Ibn-Azziz has never mentioned the Old One's name, but he keeps his own counsel more and more these days, closeted away--"

  "So, what do you know?"

  Jenkins's free hand twitched toward the knife hidden in his sleeve, but he stopped himself. Saw Rakkim waiting for him to do something stupid. "I know things are changing, that's what I know," he said, the beads flowing through his fingers in an unending stream.

  "Changing how?"

  "Did you see all the rats in the city?" said Jenkins, struggling to hold his robe down in the wind. "Millions of them. I can hear them grinding their molars in the walls at night. Getting bolder too."

  "I'm not interested in rats." Rakkim walked out along the bridge, and Jenkins hurried after him, skulls crackling underfoot. Twenty-seven thousand skulls lined the railings, supposed to be four or five times that number cobbling the bridge itself.

  "Pay attention," said Jenkins, clawing at his arm. "First, ibn-Azziz had all the dogs killed, because dogs are un-Islamic. Fine. Then a pigeon shit on his head when he was coming back from prayers, so he had all the pigeons poisoned." Waves crashed against the bridge, but Jenkins
didn't flinch. "Last year he had all the cats killed, don't ask me why. Now the city is swarming with rats and they're impossible to wipe out. Poison one and the rest learn, and pass the learning on, rat brain to rat brain."

  "Maybe it's time to come home," Rakkim said.

  "Are you here to relieve me? Is that it?" sputtered Jenkins, backing away. "I can tell you right now, you don't have what it takes to survive in this place."

  "Don't worry, I can't wait to get out of here."

  "Good, because you wouldn't last past morning prayers. Ibn-Azziz...he reads minds."

  "The last transmission you tried sending to General Kidd," said Rakkim. "What did you want to tell him?"

  "You keep thinking of the fire at the madrassa, don't you?" said Jenkins. "You're talking to me like we're old comrades, but all you see is those girls turning to smoke."

  "What do you see?" Rakkim said softly.

  "I see myself...an honorable Fedayeen doing his duty, no matter the cost."

  "Then do your duty now and tell me the message you tried to send to General Kidd."

  Jenkins flinched. "What's happened to you, Rikki?"

  "Don't worry about me. Worry about yourself."

  "You...you dare threaten me? I've penetrated ibn-Azziz's inner circle." Jenkins licked his lips. "I'm valuable...too valuable."

  Rakkim's hand darted out, tugged at Jenkins's beard. "Prove it."

  "S-Senator Chambers is working for the Grand Mullah, that's the message I sent to the General."

  "Chambers is a modern," said Rakkim. "His wife drives a car. His daughter goes to university and bares her arms to the sun. Why would he align himself with ibn-Azziz?"

  "Did I not teach you anything?" Jenkins cackled as the wind buffeted him. "It's the modern, the man without faith or future, who's the easiest to turn, the modern who hungers most for the fundamentalist's certainty. Freedom is a terrible burden, much too heavy for the weak man to bear."

  Rakkim stared into the darkness.

  Jenkins beckoned Rakkim closer. "The president...he's about to announce Chambers's appointment as secretary of defense. What do you think of that?"

  Rakkim didn't believe it, but he kept silent.

  "That's good information, isn't it?" said Jenkins. "Useful information. Oh, there have been costs...terrible costs to my staying here, but I'm performing a service--"

  "Even if Chambers is ibn-Azziz's man...someone had to suggest to the president that he be appointed defense secretary," said Rakkim. "Someone the president listened to."

  "Brandt is a weakling," said Jenkins. "The Republic deserves better."

  "He's well-liked."

  "Well-liked...a dangerous quality in a leader." Jenkins kicked a tiny skull aside, sent teeth flying. "Ibn-Azziz threw a shoe at the screen as we watched Brandt being inaugurated, called him pretty as a sodomite. Now though, he sees Brandt's weakness as a gift." The wind caught his robe, snapped it around him. "Last month, ibn-Azziz informed the president that he intends to build five hundred new mosques across the Republic, fundamentalist mosques with imams directly under his command. Practically dared him to refuse."

  Rakkim kept silent. He hadn't heard anything about it.

  "Your new president isn't the first to underestimate ibn-Azziz," said Jenkins, and Rakkim noted the your not the our. "Not the first, not the last...The former grand mullah made the same mistake. He used to tease ibn-Azziz for his youth and his asceticism, his vow of celibacy. The former grand mullah was brutal as a buzz saw, lusty and full-gutted, twice his size, but ibn-Azziz strangled him with his bare hands. I was there. I saw it with my own eyes," he said, the words dribbling out of him. "Ibn-Azziz was thirty years my junior, but he was the future, I could see that." He opened his robe, showed his protruding ribs...his lacework of scars. "I must have lost fifty pounds since that night...and I've done things, worse things than you saw tonight, but of the dozen of us who witnessed the murder, I'm the only one still alive."

  "You've done well," Rakkim said soothingly. "You've done better than anyone could have expected, but now it's time--"

  "It's the small sins that save you," counseled Jenkins, "that's how you survive when all around you are getting their heads sawed off. Ibn-Azziz hates tobacco. The Quran says nothing about it, but he hates it and that's good enough for most of them. Me, I'll sometimes smoke a cigarette before meeting with him. His nose wrinkles and he'll chastise me, sometimes...harshly, but it's a form of insurance. I don't try to be perfect. It's the perfect ones that attract suspicion. No, ibn-Azziz hates my tobacco addiction, but he knows a spy wouldn't draw attention to himself like that."

  "I'll remember."

  "Don't patronize me," sputtered Jenkins. "I know who you are. I know why you're really here." He backed up to the very end of the bridge where the concrete crumbled into the bay, and the steel beams twisted like rusty fingers.

  "Take it easy," said Rakkim, following him.

  Jenkins clung to the railing as the waves crashed. "Go...go ahead," he said, eyes wide. "Go ahead, kill me. That's why you've been sent, isn't it?" The cold spray drenched him. "I should be honored that Kidd sent an assassin--"

  "There are no assassins anymore," Rakkim said gently. "Hardly any shadow warriors either. We're more trouble than we're worth. Haven't you heard?"

  "No more assassins?" Jenkins cocked his head in disbelief.

  "None."

  "That...that's a mistake. Tell General Kidd we need men like that now more than ever."

  "You tell him."

  "You...you walk like an assassin. Do you realize that?"

  Rakkim looked into the darkness. The hills in the distance were shrouded in mist, the small towns across the bay long since abandoned.

  "Nothing to be ashamed of...I wanted to be an assassin myself," said Jenkins. "You didn't know that, did you?"

  Rakkim shook his head.

  "Over eight hundred Fedayeen in my class at the academy and only two of us accepted into the assassin program." Jenkins's laugh was raw. "I thought I was a natural-born killer, but I didn't last a week. This other fellow, though, Darwin, I heard he completed the training without any problem at all, completed it so easily he scared his superiors. Afraid he might shrug off the leash and then where would we be?" He glared at Rakkim. "You and Darwin...you have the same walk."

  "If you say so."

  "About four years ago a police patrol found the body of a man in an abandoned church," said Jenkins. "Nothing unique about that. You'd be surprised where the dead turn up, but this man...he was all slashed up, blood everywhere, a regular slaughterhouse." A gust of wind caught him, sent him close to the edge. "Police thought it was a sadist at work, some serial killer, but I knew better...because I recognized the dead man. I hadn't seen Darwin since I washed out, but you don't forget a man like him. Even in death, his face had this mocking expression, like a particularly funny joke had been played on him."

  Waves crashed against the bridge, the whole structure groaning. If Rakkim had been able to, he would have hidden Darwin's body that day, buried him under a mound of rubble in the church, anything to erase the assassin from the sight of man or God. Bleeding from a hundred cuts, Rakkim barely had the strength to walk, let alone cover the dead.

  "Somebody drove a knife through Darwin's mouth and severed his brain stem," said Jenkins. "Nasty work. I had no idea who was capable of such a thing." The dim light from the stars didn't reach his eyes. "Then tonight, I saw you strolling ahead of me...even stepping on the dead, you hardly made a sound." He lost his balance; bits of concrete crumbled into the water and he grabbed Rakkim's hand. "A predator's walk...it's subtle. I'm sure assassins aren't even aware of doing it, but shadow warriors, we notice everything, don't we?" His fingers dug into the back of Rakkim's hand. "What I...what I want to know, Rakkim...is how...how you killed an assassin?"

  Rakkim pulled him to safety.

  "Only Allah or another assassin can kill an assassin...that's what they say," hissed Jenkins, still hanging on to him. "So tell me...how di
d you do it?"

  "Let me take you home," said Rakkim.

  "Home?" Jenkins brayed. "Too late for that. Shadow warriors, the best of the best, that's what they called us. Look at me now. Look at you." Jenkins picked up a skull from the railing, ran a thumb across one of the eye sockets. "You know, there's been times...times I've doubted the existence of God." He glanced up at Rakkim and his crooked grin matched the expression on the skull "But there's never been a moment, not one single moment, when I doubted the existence of hell."

  Rakkim knew exactly what he was talking about.

  Jenkins cupped the skull behind one ear. "Go long!" He gave a little hop and passed it, a long ball back toward the city. The skull shattered on the roadway.

  Rakkim didn't move.

  "That...that's one of the things I miss the most about Seattle," Jenkins said softly. "A football game in Khomeini Stadium on a crisp autumn day, barbecued goat sandwiches...nothing better in the world. You still go to the games?"

  "Sometimes. The Stallions are having a lousy season."

  "Always next year." Jenkins's robe billowed in the wind. "What about the Zone? Do the Egyptian women still dance at the Orion Club?"

  "It's called the Python Lounge now, but yeah, the Egyptians still dance."

  "They used to darken their nipples with henna, but that...that was a long time ago."

  "It's going to be daylight soon," said Rakkim. "Let me extract you. I'll take you home."

  "Extract me? You make me sound like a rotting tooth." Jenkins shook his head. "Pity from an assassin..." He started back toward the city. "I am home."

  CHAPTER 5

  "What did you want to talk about?" said Sarah as they walked through the Catholic neighborhood, the streetlights out and never replaced.

  "Personal stuff," said Leo. "Normally I'd ask Rakkim, but...he's not here."

  "Okay...are you going to ask me?"

  "Not yet," sniffed Leo. "I'm kind of still deciding."

  People sat on their porches, smoking and talking, listening to music as Sarah and Leo strolled past. A couple of men waved to Leo. Dogs howled, or trotted along the broken sidewalks as though they belonged there. They did, at least in this sector. Muslims thought them unclean beasts, as dirty as pigs, but Christians loved their mutts. She heard laughter from inside the houses. A woman swung in a hammock, singing a modern version of an old blues melody, a paean to lost love. Christians never seemed to sleep, or worry that what they were doing was against God's law. They just lived. Anthony Colarusso, a good Catholic cop and one of Rakkim's closest friends, used to say if you were Catholic on a Saturday night, you'd never go to mosque again.