Angelina gently touched the side of his head where the hair had been singed by the pockmarked dandy’s stun gun. “We’ve missed you, Rikki.”
He smiled. “Speak for yourself.”
“We’ve all missed you.”
“How’s Sarah? Is she all right?”
Angelina embraced him, robe rustling, and he smelled the spices that clung to her, garlic and cinnamon and sweet basil, cooking smells from childhood. “Worry about yourself.”
He kissed her again, then started toward Redbeard’s office. When he looked back, she was watching him, hands clutched.
The drive from the Zone to Redbeard’s villa had taken forty-five minutes, Rakkim in the back of the ambulance the security agents were using to transport him, siren wailing. The two subordinate agents sat in the front, nursing their wounds, while Stevens, the pockmarked dandy, slouched on the bench seat across from Rakkim, flicking his stun gun off and on. The smell of ozone filled the air. He tried to smile at Rakkim, but his split lip and bloody nose made it painful. Rakkim had smiled for the both of them.
Rakkim knocked twice on the office door, waited, then let himself in. The office was as he remembered: a wood-paneled, windowless room containing a large walnut desk and chair, two computers, a phone bank knobbed with privacy guards, and a leather sofa on which no one had ever sat. Rough, goat-wool tribal prayer rugs from Afghanistan and Pakistan covered the floor, Redbeard preferring their muted natural dyes. A door on one side of the office led out to the water garden. Another led down to the bomb shelter.
No paintings were on the walls, no honoraries, no photos of Redbeard with presidents or ayatollahs. Just a map of North America and three aerial-surveillance photographs taken immediately after May 19, 2015.
Rakkim stared at the stark, black-and-white wreckage of New York City and Washington, D.C., trying to take in the miles of shattered concrete and twisted metal, but it was impossible. The photo from ground zero at Mecca was less dramatic, but equally devastating. The nuclear bombs that had been smuggled into New York and Washington, D.C., had been city busters, but Mecca had better security. The device detonated at the height of the hajj had been a suitcase nuke, a dirty bomb. Over a hundred thousand who had made the pilgrimage died later of plutonium poisoning, but the city itself was intact. The Great Mosque could clearly be seen in the photograph, surrounded by worshipers who refused to leave. Though the city remained radioactive, the faithful still came every year to fulfill their obligations. Rakkim wiped away tears, embarrassed, certain there were cameras in the room and that Redbeard was watching.
At first, the U.S. media blamed jihadis for the attacks, Muslim radicals who had never forgiven the Saudis for their rapprochement with the West. The ruse might have succeeded, but a week later, the FBI captured one of the Zionist conspirators who was truly responsible, and he led them to the others involved in the plot. Their confessions were broadcast internationally. The United States immediately withdrew the defense umbrella that had helped protect Israel since its creation, and within a month the Zionist state was overrun by a Euro-Arabic coalition. Only the offer of sanctuary by Russia saved the Zionists from extinction.
The map of North America showed the same configuration as in the textbooks Rakkim had studied in school—the Islamic Republic outlined in green, the Bible Belt in red. The red states included all of the old Confederacy, plus Oklahoma, Northern Florida, and parts of Missouri. Missouri had been a trick question on his final exam in history. The map showed Kentucky and West Virginia as red states, but they were still being contested on the ground. The Nevada Free State was white, denoting its unique and independent status. Southern California, Arizona, and New Mexico were green states politically, part of the Islamic Republic, but socially they were extensions of the Mexican Empire.
Rakkim walked to Redbeard’s desk and picked up the book left open on the desk, wondering if it was a test or a trap that Redbeard had set out for him. How the West Was Really Won: The Creation of the Islamic States of America through the Conquest of Popular Culture. The book had originally been Sarah’s Ph.D. thesis, rewritten and published for a mass audience two years ago. It became a bestseller, but her premise was so controversial that the publisher had been wise not to use Sarah’s photograph on the jacket—even today, she wasn’t recognized on the street.
Historians had debated the transformation of the former United States into an Islamic republic ever since President-elect Damon Kingsley had taken the oath of office with one hand on the Holy Qur’an. Most historians credited the will of Allah, noting that the persistent malaise post-Iraq, and the continuing threat of terrorist attacks, had left the nation ripe for a spiritual awakening. The Zionist Betrayal was the final blow, collapsing the economy and bringing on a declaration of martial law. In the midst of such chaos, the moral certainty of Islam was the perfect antidote to the empty bromides of the churches, and the corruption of the political class. After losing a disputed national election, vast numbers of disaffected Christians migrated to the Bible Belt and declared their independence. In a stroke of political brilliance, the remaining Christians, mostly Catholics, were granted almost equal citizenship with the Muslim majority in the new Islamic Republic. The nation held together.
While recognizing the spiritual dimension of the regime change, Sarah’s book had argued that the transformation had been more calculated, initiated by decades of Saudi stipends to American decision makers, and, even more important, a series of high-profile public conversions. Sarah had cited a Best Actress winner who’d shared her newfound faith during her acceptance speech at the Oscars, and a country music star praising Allah at the Grand Ole Opry, for starting a cascade effect that had led to millions of new converts within weeks. The ayatollahs had been furious at her interpretation of history, calling her book blasphemous, but Redbeard had intervened, and the fundamentalists had backed down, issuing a statement that called it “a deeply flawed work of honest intent.”
Rakkim thumbed through the pages, finally found her author’s note.
I expected neither the degree of success nor of the criticism the prepublication copies of How the West Was Really Won engendered. Traditional historians and clerics have charged that my book gave undue weight to shallow secular events and deemphasized the role of divine intervention. The attacks quickly turned personal. I have been accused of trading on my family name. Of being the cat’s-paw of my uncle, who was supposedly using me to rewrite history and undercut his political opponents. I have been accused of being a woman, and a modern woman at that, doubly unworthy to speak to issues of such importance.
To those who say that my research gives undue weight to secular interpretations of history, I say perhaps Allah, the all-knowing, chooses to unfold his plan within the mundane sphere. To my critics who charge me with nepotism and naïveté, I say that my uncle, the esteemed Redbeard, needs no cat’s-paw, nor would I allow myself to be used in such a manner. To those who accuse me of being a modern woman…I plead guilty, without excuse or apology.
Rakkim set the book back down on the desk. He loved Sarah’s ferocity, but he wasn’t sure if he agreed with her premise. He placed more trust in force of arms than movie stars and religious groupies, and the book tended to gloss over the nuclear attack and the social devastation afterward.
He stared at the photograph of New York, drawn to the gray stumps of buildings that dotted the dead city. A boneyard of dreams. His mother had been in New York that day on a business trip, though whether she had died from the bomb blast itself or the fires and panic that engulfed the city afterward, he never knew. Only four at the time, he barely remembered her. He had clearer memories of his father, mostly of the man’s anger and frustration, the temper that had gotten him killed three years after the attack, when food was still scarce and opinions were strong. They had been waiting in a soup line, his father holding his hand, telling him to quit fidgeting, damnit. A man cut ahead and his father had spoken up, the argument escalating rapidly. Rakkim wasn’t even aware
of the screwdriver shoved between his father’s ribs until he felt his father’s hand soften and slip from his grasp. He stood there, alone, while the line moved forward without him. Two year later he saw Redbeard walking down the street, and—
“Am I interrupting, boy?”
Rakkim turned at the familiar, gruff voice.
Redbeard fixed him from the middle of the office, a powerfully built man in his early sixties, his square face deeply lined, seamed to the bone. His reddish blond hair was cut short, his ears flat against his skull, and though his beard was shot with gray now, his blue eyes still burned. A tiny patch at the center of his forehead was calloused from years of prayer. He wore a gray cotton sweat suit, looking like the athlete he had been. A former college wrestler, a champion if the biographies could be believed, he retained the thick neck and aggressive intimacy of the sport. Rakkim had often seen him unnerve his political opponents by invading their personal space, an arm casually dropped around their shoulders, intimidating them by the weight of his flesh.
“Uncle.” Rakkim fell to one knee.
“Don’t call me that…and get up, you’re not fooling anyone.” Redbeard looked him over. “You appear healthy. Wasting your life evidently agrees with you.”
Rakkim stood, waiting.
“Two of my agents were limping when they escorted you inside.”
“Perhaps their shoes were too tight.”
“Stevens has a broken nose. Was his face too tight?”
“I refrained from killing them, but I couldn’t go quietly. I didn’t want to disappoint you.”
“Too late for that.”
Rakkim kept his head high, but the words stung.
Redbeard leaned forward slightly, and for an instant Rakkim actually thought he was going to apologize. “Are you about to cry, Rakkim?”
“Not if you were to tear my eyes out, Uncle.”
Redbeard laughed. Rakkim didn’t share the laughter, but Redbeard didn’t seem to mind. “You can keep your eyes.” He opened the door to the water garden. “We’ll talk in here.”
Rakkim hesitated, then stepped inside. His shirt stuck to him in the steamy interior, but Redbeard beamed in the moist air, completely comfortable in spite of his heavy clothes.
The water garden was a domed tropical enclave, a half-acre dense with rubber trees and cloying oleander, lush with bulbous creepers and pink hibiscus. Condensation ran down the glass walls, dripped from overhead as Rakkim followed Redbeard deeper into the green world. Vines and palm fronds brushed against their faces as they padded down the narrow path that wound through the garden. Lit only by moonlight and dim yellow lamps, it was a place of shadows.
Tiny, white snowflake orchids peeked from the foliage as they passed, swaying from their movements. Rock waterfalls, half-hidden misting units, and a shallow brook created a constant echo. No passive or active listening device, no laser microphone, could screen out a human voice from the ambient noise. The tungsten-dusted dome prevented satellite inspections and insulated the plants against cold fronts. The water garden was safe and serene and harmonious, the essence of Paradise to the desert dwellers to whom Allah had first revealed his truth. Redbeard supposedly spent his time here meditating, but Rakkim knew he conducted other business in the garden.
Redbeard clapped Rakkim on the shoulder, kneading the muscles up to and over the pain threshold. “Do you remember the first time I brought you here?”
“It was the day you told me I could stay. That I could live with you and Sarah.” Rakkim watched Redbeard’s face when he said her name. Redbeard didn’t react, but his fingers tightened slightly on Rakkim’s shoulders before releasing him, and Rakkim was certain now that Sarah was the reason he had been summoned here tonight. He wondered how long Redbeard had known that they were lovers. Whether he had just found out, or if he had known for months, waiting to see how their affair would progress, weighing the pros and cons of silence.
“What are you thinking about?” asked Redbeard.
“I’m remembering the day we met.”
Rakkim had been dressed as a religious student that morning, a schoolboy in a white jerkin, when he’d spotted Redbeard bustling down Pine Street. He knew from the way people scuttled out of his path that Redbeard was a man of importance, but Rakkim had held his ground, the Holy Qur’an clutched to his bosom, lips moving rapidly as he recited the verses he had memorized. Redbeard had stopped, questioned him on some point of Qur’anic law, and not getting the response he wanted, had cuffed Rakkim aside. Rakkim used the blow to pluck Redbeard’s wallet, backed away, sniffling phony tears. He almost made it into the alley before Redbeard grabbed him, shook him so hard his teeth rattled.
“See this one?” Redbeard pointed at a tiny frog perched on a blade of grass, the frog almost translucent in the pale light, its throat thrumming with every breath. “His species lives on condensation and algae. The invisible thriving on the ineffable. I treasure his kind—life at the margins of existence shows us the mercy of Allah.” He looked up at Rakkim. “That day we met, I saw a skinny thief with steady eyes, a boy who did not shrink from my grasp or beg to be released, but fought until he was exhausted.” He smiled. “You were lucky my curiosity was greater than my sense of justice.”
“I thought you were going to take me to the children’s prison. If I had known who you were, I would have been even more frightened to remain in your company.”
Redbeard watched the frog, fascinated, as though he had never seen one before.
“Then I met Angelina and I wasn’t afraid anymore.” Rakkim knelt beside him, watching the frog breathe, its green skin glistening. “I told myself that if she could survive your foul nature, so could I.”
“She spoiled you. She barely left the kitchen that first week, turning out omelets and steaks and fried potatoes—to this day, I never saw anyone eat like you.” The frog hopped away, finding refuge in the deeper grasses closer to the creek. “I told her you were a thief, but she just kept cooking, said in the eyes of Allah we were all thieves. I warned her not to get her hopes up, that I wasn’t sure you were going to be staying, but she knew that I had already decided.”
“So did I. I didn’t understand it then, but I was just what you were looking for.”
“I thought so anyway.” Redbeard raked a hand through his beard. “I never married. I had enough work, more than enough, but a son…I always thought a son would be a good thing. A son to stand beside me, a son to carry on afterwards.” In the heart of the water garden, a bird cried out, and Redbeard stood up, moving slower than Rakkim expected. “It was a vain and foolish wish.”
“Do you regret bringing me home that day?”
“What does it matter now?”
“It matters to me.”
“Regrets are for poets and women,” said Redbeard.
“It was my fault,” said Rakkim, tired of the pretense, the game, always the game, a game in which Redbeard got to make the rules. “The Super Bowl was my idea. No matter what Sarah told you, it was my idea.”
“Spare me the chivalry, Sarah has been ungovernable since she was born.” Redbeard wrinkled his brow. “What about the Super Bowl?”
Rakkim remained wary. An admission of guilt was never the last word for Redbeard, it was merely a beginning. Each thread had to be followed until all involved were snared, all named, so that new threads could be unraveled and followed in their turn. “Sarah and I were supposed to meet at the Super Bowl. Isn’t that why you brought me here?”
“I wish it was just a matter of you two disobeying me.” Redbeard seemed to lose his balance for an instant, but quickly recovered. “I need your help. Sarah…Sarah’s gone.”
CHAPTER 4
After late-evening prayers
The Wise Old One watched his aide prostrate himself against the carpet, and he couldn’t remember the boy’s name. John, that was it. Named after the prophet that the Christians called John the Baptist. The one who had announced the coming of the Jesus. John, yes, that was the name of this
youngster slowly getting to his feet. A popular name. So many aides now, so many more over the years, it was hard to remember all of them. The Old One’s birth name was Hassan Muhammad, but he hadn’t been called that in many years. The sound of his own name would be foreign to him now, even if there had been someone present who remembered it.
“Redbeard has brought in his nephew,” said the aide, his voice soft and uninflected, as though passion would hurt the Old One’s ears. So many fools who confused age with weakness.
“His name is Rakkim and he is no nephew,” chided the Old One. “He is a pawn raised by Redbeard to be a knight.”
The aide pressed himself against the carpet, a sallow intellectual with a scruff of blond beard. His white tunic and baggy trousers were supposed to imply purity, but to the Old One they revealed only a bland adherence to form. In time the boy would learn that though the Old One valued devotion, he valued intelligence even more. Devotion alone limited the ways a tool could be used.
The Old One sat on an embroidered yellow love seat, arms casually spread across the back. His beard neatly groomed, his long, thinning white hair combed straight back as in his youth, the regal elegance of a vain man whose vanity had only grown with time. He crossed his bony shanks, admiring the sharp crease in his cuffs. Many of his aides preferred robes and tunics and slippers, but he preferred suits from Barrons Ltd., and supple, black tassel loafers, a remnant of his British education. The English were a wan and bloodless race, but their tailors were still the best in the world. Today’s suit was a dark blue, double-breasted, and a custom, ivory dress shirt with a regimental tie. Windsor knot, of course, and lapis lazuli cuff links. He examined his manicure, then peered down from the dais. “How fresh is this news about Rakkim?”
Prayers for the Assassin Page 3