Prayers for the Assassin

by Robert Ferrigno

  Early this morning he had left Redbeard’s car at an underground parking garage in downtown Seattle. The summons dawn prayer sounded as he walked outside, the muezzin’s call undulating from the minaret of the main mosque—God is most great, God is most great, God is most great. I witness that there is no God but God. I witness that Muhammad is the messenger of God. I witness that Muhammad is the messenger of God. Come to prayer! Come to prayer! All across the city, the state, the nation, all across the world, the vast body of devout Muslims heard similar calls and responded as one.

  Rakkim stood there in the pink glow of daybreak, trembling with the sound, the perfect resonance. One heart. One soul. One God. He hadn’t prayed in three years, but he found himself mouthing the words of the muezzin as people hurried past him toward the mosque, businessmen in three-piece suits, teenagers in jeans, women leading children by the hand, urging them on so as not to be late. Congregational prayers were said to be twenty-seven times better than individual prayers, and greater blessings were given to those who were first inside. In a few minutes the faithful would be on their knees, facing toward the Kaaba in Mecca, a perfectly synchronized wave of submission, selfless and infinite, rolling through eternity. Rakkim watched them rush to mosque and envied them their devotion.

  For the next half hour, Rakkim took a series of buses back and forth across the Zone, hopped off in the middle of a block, and slipped into his apartment. No one knew where he lived, not even Mardi. He took a quick shower and slept for a few hours. When he awoke, he ate some cold chicken and swallowed four aspirin. Then he borrowed a stranger’s car from a long-term parking lot and drove to the university for a little breaking and entering.

  Redbeard said he had gone over the office himself Friday evening when the campus was deserted, but Rakkim had to see for himself. He also wanted to talk to Sarah’s officemate, Dr. Barrie. She would probably stop in after her 3 P.M. class. The office had originally been designed for one professor, but either for budgetary reasons, or the moral imperative to minimize private contact between students and teacher, all offices were shared.

  Rakkim checked Sarah’s desk drawers, mentally noting the items before moving them. There were plenty of yellow legal pads filled with Sarah’s notes for her classes “The USA Post-Iraq 301” and “Introduction to Forensic Popular Culture.” There were grade sheets and a thick handbook from the administration cataloging in voluminous detail the proper codes of conduct and comportment footnoted with the pertinent Qur’anic verses.

  Tacked to the bookshelf, out of direct line-of-sight of visitors, was a copy of the old Bill of Rights. He knew there had been ten of them in the old regime, ten amendments, but it was odd to see them posted like this. He wasn’t sure if Sarah was asking for trouble or just wanted to remind herself of how things had changed. The First Amendment had been gutted, according to Sarah, and the former protection of the others limited. Most people didn’t seem to mind. Rakkim had once read that burning the flag actually used to be considered free speech. The complete elimination of the Second Amendment had been more controversial. There were old-timers still bitching about that, but they had turned in their guns, just like everybody else. No guns allowed, not for private citizens. Rakkim didn’t need a gun. He was plenty dangerous as he was.

  He went through the bookcase: academic texts and biographies mostly, but the bottom shelf was devoted to Sarah’s passion, popular culture of the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries. Books on Star Wars, X-Men, The Lord of the Rings, books on detective movies and horror movies, romantic comedies and political thrillers. Computer flashloads of fifty years of TV Guide and an encyclopedia of comic books. Picture books of fashionable shoes, and street-chic clothes, muscle cars and deco jewelry, anything and everything was of interest to her ravening curiosity. Everything fits, Rakkim, was one of her favorite sayings. Everything fits—it’s up to us to see the picture in the puzzle. She did too. Sarah read the cultural tea leaves at a glance, a mixture of insight and intuition that allowed her to form conclusions before most academics had even analyzed the data.

  There were no books on China though. No downloads. He was hoping to find something to explain that pinhole in her world map, a Chinese cookbook or a travel guide to panda breeding grounds, but there was nothing. He had checked a geographical website this morning, found that the pinhole roughly corresponded to the site of the Three Gorges Dam, but he didn’t see the connection. Sarah was an expert on American history, and China had little to do with the new America. China was the global powerhouse, while the Islamic Republic was considered a technological backwater, politically fragmented, its former glory a thing of the past. So why was Sarah interested in China? Rakkim shook his head. Maybe it was just a pinprick. A mistake. Focus on the known, then allow flights of fancy, that’s what Redbeard would have advised.

  What he knew was that Sarah had disappeared from the university Friday morning. She had left after her “Pre-War American History” class, abandoning her car in the faculty parking lot. Redbeard said she was fleeing an arranged marriage, but Rakkim didn’t believe it. If that was her reason, all she would have had to do was meet Rakkim at the Super Bowl and tell him she was ready to elope. So what was the trigger?

  A pink note slid under the door.

  It was a message for Sarah from Dr. Hobbs, history, asking her to call him about the presentation to the faculty senate. Rakkim stared at the door. Sarah had missed her Friday-afternoon class, and this morning’s “Advanced Methods of Historical Research” seminar, but most of her colleagues probably still didn’t know she was gone. So why was this the first message she had gotten? He checked her desk again. No notes. Her officemate though…pink messages were strewn across her desk.

  Four messages for Dr. Barrie, all from other professors in the History Department; a change in a lunch date tomorrow, an invitation to an academic tea, a request for her notes on French-Algerian emigration patterns, and a second reminder to return a book to Dr. Phillipi. Two notes were for Sarah. One from the history department chair asking her to contact him, and another, stamped Sociology, from Marian, which said, “Did I get the day wrong? Call me.” He tucked the note from Marian into his pocket as he heard a key slip into the door. He had deliberately left it unlocked.

  “What are you doing in here?” A middle-aged woman stood in the doorway, papers clutched to her chest.

  “Dr. Barrie?” Rakkim offered his hand, which she didn’t take. “The office was unlocked, so I let myself in. I hope it’s okay. I’m waiting to interview Dr. Dougan.”

  “Are you now?” Leaving the office door wide-open, Dr. Barrie walked over and dropped her papers onto her desk, sending the remaining pink slips flying. “Well, she stood you up, young man. Welcome to the club.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “Her royal highness decided to take off on another one of her research jaunts, leaving me to pick up the slack. No prior notice, no indication of when she’ll be back.” Dr. Barrie sat heavily, pushed her glasses back with a forefinger. An overworked academic in a long-sleeved dress, her gray hair in disarray. “I have no interest in her so-called area of expertise. My focus is Muslim demographic patterns of the late twentieth century, not the popularist twaddle she promotes.”

  Rakkim smiled. “I’m not a historian.”

  “Count your lucky stars.” Dr. Barrie looked at him more closely. “What interview?”

  “I’m writing an article on Professor Dougan for the Islamic-Catholic Digest.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “We’re a small publication dedicated to better understanding within the community.”

  “Which community?” demanded Dr. Barrie.

  “Don’t ask me. The publisher got a grant, I just do the interviews.”

  “Maybe when her highness deigns to return, I’ll put in for a grant and take a sabbatical to the south of France,” Dr. Barrie said. “There are some very interesting census documents I’d love to spend a month examining, a
nd then come back and be interviewed by some nice young man.”

  Rakkim pointed at the framed photographs on her desk. “Are those your kids?”

  “My six beauties, and each one of them brought forth in pain and suffering.” Dr. Barrie crossed herself. “Good Catholics like good Muslims are not afraid to do their duty. Are you acquainted with Professor Dougan?”

  “Not really. I skimmed her book though.”

  “I don’t really have anything against her. I just think she lacks maturity. I’ve told her that a woman’s first responsibility is to marry and have children. She can pursue her profession once her children are grown. That’s what I did.” Dr. Barrie wiped her bulbous nose. “I work hard. I go to mass every day. I respect the authorities.” She straightened one of the photos, looked up at him. “Are you a moderate or a modern?”

  “I don’t really know. I just do my best.”

  “That’s an odd answer for your people.” Dr. Barrie smiled. Her teeth were large and uneven, but it was a good, honest smile. “You sound like a Catholic. We have doubts about everything.”

  “I was raised Catholic.” The lie came easily.

  “Converted, did you? I’ve contemplated it myself.” Dr. Barrie checked the doorway, waited for a chatting group of students to pass. “We’re all going to Paradise, but some of us are riding at the back of the bus, if you understand my reference.”

  “I know exactly what you mean,” said Rakkim. “I’m disappointed Professor Dougan isn’t going to make the interview. Did something just come up?”

  “She was here when I went to my nine A.M. class Friday and gone when I came back afterward. Never said a word to me about taking a leave of absence. I find that rude.”

  “Did she have any visitors that morning?”

  Dr. Barrie peered at him over her glasses.

  “I’m hoping to find her. I lose this interview, I’m in trouble with my editor.” Rakkim sat in Sarah’s chair, scooted it closer to Dr. Barrie. He glanced toward the open door, lowered his voice. “You know how it is. Even with my conversion, I have to work harder than the rest of them.” He looked sheepish. “I shouldn’t bother you with my problems.”

  Dr. Barrie squared her papers. “It’s the same everywhere. Catholics and Muslims are both people of the Book, children of Abraham, yet when it’s time to pass out the earthly rewards…” She tossed her glasses onto the desk, leaned forward, whispering now. “I tell my husband, if I was a Muslim, I would be department head, and if I was an Arab, I would be president of the university.”

  “Amen,” said Rakkim. “I was just hoping…if there’s anything you could think of that might help me find her, I’d really appreciate it.”

  Dr. Barrie rubbed her brow, finally shook her head. “I’m sorry, Dr. Dougan kept to herself. The students liked her, of course, but her colleagues found her…unacademic.”

  “Were there any students in particular she associated with?”

  “That’s not really encouraged by the administration. Not with an unmarried professor.”

  “I’m talking about something completely innocent. Coffee in the cafeteria…I heard she and Marian in the Sociology Department used to get together.”

  Dr. Barrie shook her head. “Not that I know of, but then, sociology is just more junk science, if you want my opinion. I didn’t keep track of Dr. Dougan.”

  Rakkim stood up. “Thank you anyway.” He was at the doorway when she spoke.

  “I did see Professor Dougan at the Mecca Café Friday morning.”

  Rakkim didn’t let his excitement show. “The Mecca Café?”

  “On Brooklyn Way, a few blocks off campus. A student hangout mostly, although a few instructors will grab a sandwich there. The food at the campus cafeteria is overpriced.”

  “She was there Friday?”

  “Yes, but she wasn’t talking with anyone. I was stopped at the traffic light, and I looked over and there she was, typing away on one of the computers in the rear of the café. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but now I wonder why she wasn’t using her computer here. They’re slow but they’re free.”

  Rakkim forced a shrug. “Thanks anyway. I’ll reschedule when she comes back.”

  “You might think of interviewing another history professor,” Dr. Barrie called to him. “Someone with a real academic track record.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Before midafternoon prayers

  Rakkim walked quickly from the Four Kings department store and stepped onto the Pike Street bus. From a seat at the back, he looked out through the rear window, saw no one following him. He kept watch for eight blocks anyway.

  It was a habit, this herky-jerky street ballet, doubling back, cutting through abandoned buildings and open-air markets. He rarely spotted anyone trailing him, but often enough; Redbeard’s agents, he supposed, or undercover cops trolling for trouble. Truth be told, he preferred the oblique moves. His caution had saved his life more than once during his first years in the Fedayeen, saved his squad from ambush when he was in combat. The others thought him lucky, favored by Allah, and fought to stay close to him. Rakkim didn’t have the heart to tell them that luck was not a fire, warming those around it. Luck, like the favor of Allah, was a black hole. You either fell in or you didn’t.

  After his conversation with Dr. Barrie at the university, Rakkim had driven to the Mecca Café, had a cup of coffee and some conversation with the waitress, and then drove back downtown. After parking the borrowed car, he took a side trip through the crowd at the public market before pushing through the revolving doors of the Four Kings. He had already decided to contact Spider.

  He got off the bus at First Hill, joined a swarm of glum hospital workers starting their shift at the nearby veterans’ facility. He stayed with them for a block, listening to their complaints about the hospital administrators, before heading toward the Reservoir District, slogging through the puddles that dotted the sidewalk.

  The Reservoir District was a blue-collar section of the city, mostly Catholics and lapsed Muslims, a mix of shabby houses and low-rent businesses. Bulky housewives in plastic coats hurried through the rain, while men gathered around burn barrels, arguing and passing around bottles in paper bags. Go to Mosque was spray-painted on the alley wall, Go to Fuck scrawled beside it in Magic Marker—a dangerous rejoinder, blasphemy could cost a tongue. An ancient Lexus perched on blocks in the front yard of one house, tires flat, rusting quietly in the drizzle. The sidewalks here were crumbling, the street signs stolen to confound the police or strangers.

  The bananas under the awnings of the grocery shops were soft and brown, the apples wormy. A music store blared the latest atonal thrash, the bare-chested redhead behind the counter covered in mirror tattoos. Dog shit everywhere. No matter how poor they were, it seemed every Catholic family had at least one dog, a quiet show of defiance to the Muslim majority, who considered the dog an unclean animal. No devout Muslim would enter a home that had a dog inside—you might as well expect them to kiss a pig. Rakkim stepped onto the grass to avoid a steaming-fresh pile in the middle of the sidewalk and had to agree the Muslims were right.

  Rain dripped down his collar as Rakkim stepped inside the three-chair barbershop, the outdated laser shears buzzing away. The mutt beside the door looked up at him, yipped once, then put its head back down. Shaking off the rain, he walked past the waiting customers and took a seat on the shoeshine throne at the rear of the shop. He grabbed a well-thumbed newsmagazine and put his boots up.

  “Regular or deluxe?” sniffed Elroy. He had a cold. Elroy always had a cold.

  “Why don’t you give them that special sealer treatment,” said Rakkim, glancing at a photo of the president congratulating troops home from the Quebec front. Someone had drawn horns on the president’s head. He turned the page. “The stuff with the mink oil.”

  Elroy slowly unscrewed one of his tins of paste wax. He was about twelve, small and thin, a surly kid with unruly black hair and hooded eyes. His nose was small, of course,
a real button. Rakkim heard that it had been an eagle beak before Spider had it fixed. Spider got all his kids’ noses fixed so they didn’t look anything like him. Too Semitic, too dangerous. Not that Rakkim had ever seen Spider. No one had, but that was the rumor.

  Rakkim had used Spider’s expertise five or six times in the last few years, usually to check out the bona fides of people who wanted to emigrate, making sure they weren’t setting him up, or to help with escape routes. Once Spider had hacked the municipal computer system of Boise, Idaho, and learned the disposition of the police and border patrol, even came up with a count of their night-vision goggles, including model number and condition of the batteries. Boise had been a good exit point, a regular sieve until another travel agent, a sloppy greedhead, had gotten snapped trying to ease a party of seventeen along the Snake River. Seventeen. Idiot must have thought he was leading a wagon train. Donner party was more like it. They were all executed, men, women, and children. Rakkim had seen the live feed at the Blue Moon, not reacting. Boise was finished. You couldn’t get a snail darter through there undetected now.