Prayers for the Assassin

by Robert Ferrigno

  Gold pins indicated Rakkim’s own Fedayeen operations, the ones Sarah knew about anyway. While the army had been relegated to a strictly defensive role since the treaty, the Fedayeen’s elite units mounted covert operations both at home and abroad. Gold pins were stuck in the Mormon territories of Utah and Colorado, a few more in Idaho and Montana when they had moved against Aryan Identity holdouts, more pins in Brazil and Nigeria. There were no gold pins to mark his last six years of service. No gold pins for his solitary reconnaissance insertions into the Bible Belt itself. No gold pins for Corpus Christi and Nashville, Biloxi or Atlanta. It was just as well.

  Rakkim had seen something odd on the map in her bedroom. Squinting. It was only when the angle was right that he could spot the perforation in the center of China. He had moved closer, swept his hand across the map, felt the indentation. There was a pinhole on the Yangtze River. The only hole in the map without a pin to mark it. It wasn’t a mistake or a miss. There were no pins anywhere in China. Just a single pinhole in the middle of nowhere. There had never been a military attack on China by the Islamic Republic. China, the world’s only superpower, had maintained strict neutrality during the turmoil that had followed the Zionist Betrayal. So why had Sarah marked the Yangtze?

  Rakkim slowed the car, looking for the spot…the cutoff. He had used it before, but it was hard to see in the rain. It was right after a sharp twist in the road, where his taillights would be hidden from anyone following. He crept along. There. He braked gently, then backed into the brush, branches slapping the sides of the car as he parked perpendicular to the road. Engine purring. Lights out. He rolled down the window slightly, the damp sweetness of the forest filling the interior. Rain dripped off the trees, sizzling on the hot hood of the car, and he thought of Sarah.

  He had been eighteen when things had shifted between the two of them. Excited at leaving home for the Fedayeen Military Academy, Rakkim had bent down to kiss her good-bye.

  “I’m going to marry you someday,” she had whispered, clinging to his neck. She was only thirteen, thin and gangly, but she spoke with the certainty of a woman.

  He tugged at her hair, thinking she was joking.

  She clung on to him. “You know it’s true.”

  He laughed it off, but as the years passed, he felt the attraction too. Every time he came home on leave, she was more mature, wiser, still able to get inside him with a smirk or a knowing glance. Their feelings were never acted upon, rarely even spoken of, too powerful for words. Under Redbeard’s urging, Sarah had agreed to attend mosque with the son of the Senate majority leader, the two of them going for long walks afterward, chaperoned of course. The courtship lasted four months before she put an end to it. That spring, Rakkim just back from the Bible Belt, they walked into Redbeard’s office and asked for his blessing. Rakkim was twenty-five, freshly promoted and with the offer of a staff posting in the city. Sarah had finished university. They were in love. It was time to marry.

  “Out of the question,” Redbeard had rumbled. Rakkim had argued his prospects while Sarah had assured Redbeard of the purity of their love and the propriety of their behavior. Redbeard dismissed their arguments with a wave of his hand. Then he dismissed Rakkim.

  Perhaps if Rakkim had stayed Fedayeen he could have obeyed Redbeard’s order not to see Sarah again. Already on the fast track to command, honored for his courage and initiative, he could have married, had children, and continued to serve his country. Instead, after two more lengthy missions into the Bible Belt, Rakkim resigned his commission and moved to the Zone. Every day he thought about contacting Sarah, but she acted first. A year and a half ago, a lightly veiled older woman had bumped into him outside the military museum, pressed a message chip into his hand, and hurried away.

  The next day Sarah slid beside him in the back row of a darkened movie theater. “I thought Fedayeen were bold. I kept waiting to hear from you. Were you going to let Redbeard decide your whole life—?”

  Rakkim kissed her.

  “That’s better.” Sarah stroked his face.

  They had met every week or so for the next year, sometimes in the early evening under cover of darkness, sometimes in midmorning when she didn’t have classes, but always carefully—he had conducted military raids with less planning. Their affair was dangerous and doomed to discovery, but sweeter somehow because of it. Once after a policeman recognized Rakkim and shook his hand, they had promised to end the affair. The promise was broken a week later under a crescent moon, a lovers’ smile in the night.

  “We should get married,” Rakkim had said afterward, breathless from exertion and the joy of being with her again. “We don’t need Redbeard’s permission.”

  “Of course, we do,” said Sarah, always the practical one.

  “We should stop then. A woman of your standing…what we’re doing could ruin you.”

  “I’m already ruined.” She had laughed. “Don’t worry, Redbeard will change his mind.”

  It was raining harder now. He remembered the feel of Sarah’s lips, and the taste of her, and the way she rubbed her feet against him in bed. He hadn’t expected it to last, but the abruptness of the ending still surprised him. He had arrived at the home of a vacationing friend and waited for her. Waited in vain. The next day she had called and said they couldn’t see each other anymore. Said the situation was impossible. The phone was almost too heavy for him to hold. He asked if she was sure. She was. That had been six months ago. She had contacted him three times since then; and three times she had stood him up. Now she had disappeared and—

  Rakkim heard the silver sedan’s engine before its headlights flashed through the trees.

  Eyes glinted by the side of the road. A bedraggled deer caught in the light.

  Rakkim put Redbeard’s silent-running Ford into gear as the sedan slowed to make the turn. Floored it as the sedan passed the cutoff, hitting it broadside and sending it tumbling over the edge of the embankment. He heard it crash through the underbrush and land with a crunch on top of one of the other two wrecked cars down there.

  The deer blinked, scampered away.

  Rakkim maneuvered the Ford back on the road. No lights behind or ahead. Just rain and him and his memories.

  CHAPTER 7

  Before dawn prayers

  Mullah Oxley opened his mouth so wide when he laughed that Khaled Ibn Azziz could practically see down his filthy gullet, and what he laughed at was filthier still. Oxley was seated at the head of the banquet table, surrounded by high-ranking Black Robes, with Ibn Azziz on his immediate right. A place of honor, but with an abhorrent view.

  “Smile, Khaled,” said Oxley, head of the Black Robes. “Smile. Your face is spoiling the party.”

  Ibn Azziz did as he was ordered. Tried to, anyway.

  “Look at him,” bellowed Oxley, bits of roast pigeon falling from his lips. “Fasting, as usual. To look at our emaciated brother you would think that food is an enemy.” More laughter. “I expect decorum from my ministers in public, but you are among friends here, Khaled. This is a party, a celebration of our growing power, all praise to Allah, and my chief deputy is grim as a Jew on Judgment Day.”

  The table roared with glee, the other deputies pounding their fists on the table, setting the plates and crystal goblets bouncing. The upper echelon of the Black Robes had been eating and drinking all night. It was almost dawn now, and still they continued.

  Ibn Azziz looked down the table, saw only weaklings and cowards in black silk robes, a dozen men grown fat and greedy, forgetting their mission. Only Tanner and Faisal hung their heads, embarrassed for him, their plates untouched, hands folded on their laps.

  The leadership of the religious police was infested with hypocrites, men who chose the holy order for personal gain, lovers of luxury who hid their base desires under their robes and thought no one would see. Oxley was the worst offender. His public demeanor was acceptable, but in private he was a drunkard and a pederast. Little girls, little boys, it made no difference to Oxley, as lo
ng as there was innocence to be sucked out of them. His perversions were an abomination, but even worse, he was an appeaser to the moderates, eager to make bargains with the secular authorities. Oxley was the third mullah of the religious police in the last twenty years. The last time he had taken a real risk for his faith was when he’d murdered his predecessor.

  Oxley waved off the acolytes serving them, picked up a wine bottle and poured into Ibn Azziz’s already full goblet, the red wine overflowing, staining the white tablecloth. “Drink up, Khaled. Drink, damn you.” He kept pouring, wine dripping off the table and onto Ibn Azziz’s robe. “I won’t have your pinched face mocking me.”

  Ibn Azziz slowly reached for the goblet, took the tiniest of sips. He wanted to vomit.

  Oxley slammed the wine bottle down on the table. “That’s better.” He raised his own glass, waited until the others joined him in the toast, then drained it in one long swallow. He wiped his mouth, belched, his chins jiggling. “There may be hope for you yet, my young skeleton.”

  Ibn Azziz stared straight ahead. A pale ascetic with bulging eyes, he appeared sickly, but was filled with an unnatural strength, and an even more ferocious temper. His beard was sparse, his black hair tangled around his shoulders, uncombed and unwashed, for he rarely bathed, lest his own nudity lead to impure thoughts. Mocked when he’d first joined the order, he rose swiftly up the ranks. Picked by Oxley to be his enforcer, chosen over numerous older men, Ibn Azziz was Oxley’s righteous hammer. All eyes were downcast when he entered a room now. Oxley used Ibn Azziz to cow his political enemies and his own ambitious subordinates, but he had not counted on Ibn Azziz’s purity. Ibn Azziz was celibate. He owned nothing other than two robes and a copy of the Qur’an. He could neither be bought nor tempted. He considered moderates and moderns more dangerous than Zionists, the human rot in the perfect Islamic state.

  Oxley peered at Ibn Azziz. “I don’t know why you aren’t enjoying yourself. Today’s Super Bowl was a great victory. The cameras caught our brothers whipping some moderns for their immodesty. The whole world saw our rigor.”

  “The brothers barely drew blood,” said Ibn Azziz, wine dripping off his robe.

  “Patience, Khaled.” Oxley turned to the rest of the table. “Our young brother wanted Ayatollah al-Azufa to lead the halftime prayers rather than the Ayatollah Majani.”

  Ibn Azziz knew he should remain silent, but honesty was his only indulgence. “Ayatollah al-Azufa is a warrior of God. Majani is a glib entertainer that makes even the moderns feel devout.”

  Oxley squinted, his face ruddy with drink. “Majani was my choice, as you well know.”

  The table was silent now. Oxley’s two bodyguards leaned forward slightly, hands on their daggers. They stood on each side of him, a stocky, dark-skinned Yemenite and a taller American, a former Super Bowl standout for the San Francisco Falcons.

  Oxley smacked Ibn Azziz on the shoulder, laughing, and the others joined in, glad to have the tension broken. “If I had allowed al-Azufa to lead the prayers, he would have railed against the president for a lack of piety and probably stoned to death a few adulterers for good measure. How do you think that would have looked for the cameras?”

  Oxley beamed. “Khaled will not be happy until the Super Bowl is played with the heads of sinners instead of footballs.” A patronizing pat for Ibn Azziz. “You have much to learn, young brother. Subtlety is the highest form of politics.”

  “We are charged with enforcing Allah’s law,” said Ibn Azziz, “not playing politics.”

  “It will take politics as well as Allah to rid us of Redbeard,” barked Oxley.

  Ibn Azziz lowered his head, shocked at the blasphemy.

  “That is our goal, is it not?” lectured Oxley, as the other deputies muttered their agreement. “It is Redbeard who stands in our way.”

  “Then let us unloose our whips against him.” Ibn Azziz looked around the table for support. “An hour ago, a State Security vehicle deliberately rammed a car of ours that was tracking it. Three brothers were badly injured.” He tapped the table with a fingertip. “This is no time for idleness and frivolity.”

  “Our brother is eager for battle, but in his haste he would doom us all.” Oxley waved a turkey leg at Ibn Azziz, directing him to quiet down. “We must be stealthy,” Oxley said, warming to the sound of his own voice. “Just last week, because of my personal intervention, the imam of Redbeard’s own mosque issued a fatwa condemning the immorality of popular culture, calling modern music and fashion ‘acts of social terrorism as dangerous as any threat from the Bible Belt.’ It was a huge embarrassment to Redbeard.” Oxley gnawed at the turkey leg. “See, Khaled, this is the way to victory: tiny bites. We shall nibble away at Redbeard until there is nothing left of him.”

  “Tiny bites…?” Ibn Azziz pushed his plate aside. “So, you ask us…the instruments of the Almighty, to be mice?”

  Oxley threw down the turkey leg. “Are you too good to be a mouse, Khaled? Is that why you disobeyed me?”

  The rest of the Black Robes shifted in their seats, and the bodyguards moved slightly away from Oxley.

  “Khaled came to me last Friday.” said Oxley. “He was convinced that Redbeard’s niece had run away, convinced that she had been overcome by lust, eager to join a lover—”

  “The slut didn’t show up to teach her class. My contact in the History Department said the chairman had not been previously notified. It was an opportunity for us.”

  “An opportunity?” Oxley spread his arms wide. “The bitch has female troubles and Khaled gets cramps.”

  The Black Robes howled with laugher. Even the bodyguards grinned.

  “Our brother asked me for permission to send out men to find the niece,” said Oxley, no longer smiling. “What did I tell you, Khaled?”

  “You said it was not worth the risk of bringing her to justice.”

  “I said we are winning the battle. It’s not necessary to attack Redbeard directly,” said Oxley. “Not as long as he has the president’s trust.”

  “The president is a hollow man,” said Ibn Azziz. “Without strength—”

  “You asked permission, and I told you no. What did you do then? Please, Khaled, share with the brothers how you responded to an order from your mullah.”

  Ice filled Ibn Azziz, packed his veins until no feeling was left. No pain, no pleasure, only a crystalline certainty.

  “We’re waiting, Khaled,” said Oxley.

  “I disobeyed my mullah, choosing instead to obey the dictates of Allah.”

  “You confuse the buzzing in your ears with the voice of Allah,” sneered Oxley. “You are a learned cleric, Khaled. Tell us, what is the price of disobedience?”

  Ibn Azziz stood up, bowed to Oxley, put his hands flat on the table.

  “You have been a valued servant,” said Oxley. “Clever and resolute.” He beckoned to his guards. “I will reward you with a quick and painless death for your service. May you discover the joys of the flesh in the afterlife that you rejected in this world.”

  The American bodyguard slid next to Ibn Azziz. “Don’t worry, brother,” he said softly, a big, blond killer from Wyoming, a faint twang still in his voice. “I’m gonna snap your neck so fast you’ll be rolling in perfumed virgins before you know you’re dead.”

  Ibn Azziz was watching Oxley when he heard the American bodyguard cry out. A soft cry. A baby’s cry. Oxley’s eyes widened and Ibn Azziz smiled.

  The Yemeni bodyguard eased the American to the floor, pulled the dagger out of his broad back.

  Oxley tried to stand, but he was slowed by alcohol and surprise, and Ibn Azziz was behind him now, looping a linen napkin around his neck. Tightening it. Oxley tore at the napkin, his nails digging into Ibn Azziz.

  Ibn Azziz paid no attention to Oxley’s desperate struggles. He just kept twisting the napkin. Oxley was twice his size, but soft with sin. Ibn Azziz was pure in heart, with the strength and clarity of the righteous. God will call you to account for all that you may reveal
from your souls and all that you may conceal, he recited, tightening his grip.

  Oxley gurgled, eyes bulging as he bucked wildly. His black silk robe billowed around him. Tears ran down his cheeks, dripped into his beard.

  Ibn Azziz pressed Oxley down. And Allah said…Allah said to Iblis, the Devil, “The path which leads to Me is a straight one and you have no authority over My servants except the erring one…the erring ones who follow you. Hell is the promised place for them all.”

  Oxley’s lips were purple as a ripe grape. He clawed at the tablecloth, sent dishes and glassware tumbling. His movements slowing…slowing…until he slumped forward.

  Ibn Azziz released him and Oxley fell off the chair, lay dead on the floor. Ibn Azziz wiped his hands with the napkin, tossed it aside. He looked down the length of the table. The deputies stared at their plates, trembling, except for Tanner and Faisal, who fingered their prayer beads. Slowly, with great formality, Ibn Azziz took his seat at the head of the table. The Yemeni bodyguard took his place behind him. Ibn Azziz felt surrounded by a pure white light. He was twenty-six years old. There was much work to be done and he had barely gotten started.

  CHAPTER 8

  Afternoon prayers

  The next afternoon, Rakkim sat behind Sarah’s desk at the university, looked slowly around the office, seeing what she would have seen. He smiled. Tucked into her bookcase was a photo of Sarah in an orange parka, arms raised in triumph from atop Mount Rainier. If he looked closer, he would see himself reflected in her glacier glasses, Rakkim dressed in a blue parka aiming the camera at her. Another one of Sarah’s secrets, another one of their private jokes.

  Students shuffled past the office door as he riffled Sarah’s desk, the second bell warning them they had only five minutes to get to their classes. The university was strict about tardiness, and adherence to the dress code, but they needed a bigger operations and maintenance budget. The campus was immaculate, not a scrap of trash on the grounds, but the waxed wood floors of the buildings were cracked and uneven, the classrooms cramped, the desks and chairs mismatched. The professors’ offices were no better, the furniture shoddy, the walls patched. The faculty computers were ancient, without satellite uplinks and only limited Internet access, supposedly to avoid the ubiquitous Russian viruses. Rakkim had been stunned at the neglect the first time he had walked the grounds—Fedayeen training facilities were state-of-the-art, from smart desks to holographic combat training. The university by comparison was haphazard and underfunded. The cheap lock on Sarah’s office was an insult, a lock in name only.