Yesterday he’d called Redbeard, asked him again to input Sarah’s iris scans into the transit security system. Redbeard had argued that Sarah was still in the city, and it was too late to implement the procedure now anyway. Enter her data, Rakkim had insisted—if she uses mass transport anywhere in the country, she’ll be flagged. Redbeard finally admitted that there had been a flaw in the software; a persistent Chinese worm had crashed the system and no one had been able to debug it. They were going to have to completely rebuild the security matrix. Rakkim asked how long this had been going on, but Redbeard refused to answer. Rakkim had hung up feeling the world moving in slow motion around him. Traffic lights failed for days at a time, new highways cracked at the first frost, and now one of the nation’s most sophisticated lines of defense had failed, and there was no timetable to fix it. No wonder Redbeard had brought him in to find her.
Earlier this morning, he had used the pink message slip he had found in Sarah’s office and called the Sociology Department, asked to speak to Marian. The secretary said that Professor Warriq only taught class on Fridays. Rakkim apologized, hung up, and looked up her address on the database Redbeard had given him access to. He had nothing better to do, and she seemed to be as close to a friend as Sarah had.
Rakkim drove up the winding residential streets, turned left at an elegant, blue-mosaic-tile mosque, and kept going. Marian Warriq lived in an exclusive Muslim enclave high on the hills overlooking the city, the low-slung mansions designed to take maximum advantage of the panorama. A pricey neighborhood for a sociology professor. The streets were nearly empty, the lawns lush, and the sidewalks scrubbed. No addresses on the houses. He would never have found the Warriq residence without the directions from the database. At least that still functioned.
A stocky man in a gray tunic opened the Warriq front door before Rakkim could knock. He stayed there, blocking the way, an ugly bruiser with a shaved head, a thick black beard, and the physiognomy of an anvil.
“Kindly let Mr. Epps in, Terry,” called a woman behind him.
The bodyguard bumped Rakkim as he stepped aside.
Rakkim removed his boots and walked into the living room. Professor Warriq sat on a purple, floral-print sofa, hands clasped demurely in her lap, her head covered. She was a full-faced woman in her early fifties, with dark, clear eyes, dressed in a green chador shot with gold threads. His arrival was a surprise to her, but she was a surprise to him too. Marian Warriq had been Sarah’s go-between, the woman who had brought Sarah’s initial invitation after Redbeard had banished him. Marian had been veiled that day, but he was certain it was her. Her eyes gave her away…and her eyebrows, thick and lightly hennaed in the old style. He inclined his head. “Professor. A joy to see you again.”
She lowered her eyes in acknowledgment of his hidden meaning, gestured to the sofa opposite her. “Please.”
The living room was filled with antique Italian marble statues and Czarist tapestries, a stone head from Angkor Wat, and a small bronze horse dappled with verdigris, the sculpture so lifelike he almost expected it to gallop away. Terry stood nearby, arms crossed over his broad chest.
“I appreciate you seeing me without an invitation,” said Rakkim. “You’re probably wondering how I found you. I was in Sarah’s office—”
“Sarah told me you were resourceful.” Marian watched him. “She missed our lunch engagement on Friday, and she never called to apologize, which is most unlike her, and today you show up on my doorstep. What other reason would you have to be here?” Her hands were restless now, fingering prayer beads that weren’t there. “Something’s happened to her, hasn’t it?”
“Not yet.”
Marian murmured her thanks to Allah.
“I need to find her, though.” Rakkim glanced toward her bodyguard, then back at her. “Perhaps we could talk on the veranda.”
“Of course.” Marian got control of herself, stood up. “I’ll join you shortly.”
Rakkim watched her glide out of the living room in a rustle of silk. He was still sitting there when Terry barreled over, jaw thrust forward.
“I see you and I see trouble,” said Terry.
“Relax, Terry. I don’t want to cause the professor any problems. You have my word.”
“Your word?” Terry ran a hand across his scalp. With his scarred, flat face and epicanthic folds he looked like a club boxer or one of the Mongolian Muslims who had immigrated after the transition, wanting to be part of the great experiment. He squinted suddenly, pointed at Rakkim’s left hand. “Is that Fedayeen ring of yours real?”
“As real as it gets.”
Terry looked him over. “I was regular army.”
“You look like you saw some action.”
“You might say that. I was there at Newark. Every day of it.”
Rakkim brought his right fist to his heart in salute.
Terry returned the salute. “Be careful with the lady, Fedayeen,” he growled. “I’ll hand you your head if you don’t.”
Marian breezed back into the room with a squat woman who wore a chador the same gray color as the bodyguard’s tunic. The woman was carrying a heavy silver tea set as though it were weightless. Terry flung open the doors to the veranda, stood aside as the woman in the gray chador laid the tray on a small table. The woman poured them tea and backed away, closing the doors behind her. No wasted movement.
Marian waited until Rakkim sat down. “I don’t know where Sarah is. If that’s why you came here, I’m afraid you wasted a trip.”
Rakkim smiled. “Gas is cheap. Besides, Sarah trusted you to contact me that first time. Maybe you know more than you think you do.”
Marian sipped her tea, her pinkie crooked. The cool breeze rippled her chador, but she sat so that her modesty remained perfectly intact.
It was late morning and the smog from the industrial plants in the Kent Valley was piling up, sulfurous tendrils drifting over into the city. Through the haze he could see dozens of rusting oil tankers in the Sound, supertankers fresh from the Arctic Reserve, waiting to off-load. Looming behind the ships was the aircraft carrier Osama bin Laden, the former USS Ronald Reagan, now permanently on patrol offshore. Seventeen years ago a group of terrorists, an end-times Christian sect from Brazil, had hijacked a jumbo jet and attempted to crash it into the Capitol. Only the grace of Allah, and the outdated version of Microsoft Flight Simulator that the terrorists had trained on, had prevented a disaster. The tail of the jumbo jet still protruded from the waters of the Sound, out of the shipping lane, left there as a warning to the people to remain vigilant. Rakkim turned his chair toward Mount Rainier, a craggy dormant volcano covered in ice, rosy in the light.
“Sarah used to do that same thing when we sat out here,” said Marian. “I like the city view myself. The people. The cars and trucks coming and going. The energy. I have no use for nature, but Sarah…she preferred to see the mountain, just like you.”
Rakkim imagined Sarah sitting here on a day just like today, sipping tea in this exact spot. It had been six months since he had seen her. Six months of broken promises. “Did Sarah visit you often?”
“Almost every week. We met at the university about a year and a half ago. Quite by accident. She sat down at my table in the faculty lounge, and it was as if we had known each other for years.” Marian ran her index finger around the rim of her teacup. “I knew of her, of course. How the West Was Really Won had caused a sensation on campus. You have no idea the resentment that book engendered among her colleagues.” Marian kept watching him, then breaking away eye contact, as though not wanting to stare. “It was suggested by my department chair that I avoid her, but I ignored him. To be honest, I was pleased to be in the presence of such an iconoclast. It made me feel like a bit of an outlaw myself.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“Um…two Sundays ago. A lovely day.” Marian entwined her fingers. Her nails were clipped, perfectly shaped.
When Rakkim had first infiltrated the Bible Belt,
one of the first things he’d noticed was the dirty, ragged fingernails of the women. Muslims kept their nails short and scrubbed, as required by the Qur’an, while women in the Bible Belt preferred their hands to look like talons, their nails often painted garish colors—their flag was a preferred motif, the old Stars and Stripes with a Christian cross in the field of blue.
“Is the tea not to your liking, Mr. Epps?”
Rakkim raised his cup. She looked poised, but weary in the morning light, crow’s-feet etched into the corners of her eyes. His arrival must have confirmed her worst fears for Sarah, but she was carrying on, refusing to panic. No wonder she and Sarah were friends. He leaned forward to reassure her, saw Terry react from the other side of the glass. “I think your bodyguard is looking for an excuse to break my back.”
“Terry is very protective. He and his wife take care of the house, but they also take care of me. My parents are deceased, and a spinster needs company.” Marian smoothed her chador. “As it is written, loneliness is a doorway for the devil, Mr. Epps.”
“The devil has plenty of doorways, Professor. Too many doorways and not enough locks. Loneliness is the least of our problems.”
Marian smiled, lowered her eyes. “It’s strange to be sitting here with you. We only met that once, but I feel that I know you. Sarah talked about you all the time.” Her eyes darted up. “I wish she were here now.”
“So do I.”
“We were collaborating on a book. Did she tell you that?”
Rakkim shook his head.
“Well, we were. We actually started making notes, gathering research…” Marian adjusted her head scarf, pushed an errant strand of hair back out of sight. “We were going to write about the intellectual deterioration of our society since the transition. A risky topic, but Sarah relished the prospect of further intellectual combat, and I would have been careful to credit the religious authorities for our many advantages.” Marian added another lump of sugar to her tea, the spoon clinking against the side of the cup as she stirred. “I was born a Muslim. You have no idea what it was like growing up under the old regime. The taunting, the insults…” Her mouth tightened to a thin line. “As a child, I had my hajib torn off my head more times than I can count, and after 9/11, it got worse. I’m not telling you this to elicit pity. The happiest day of my life was when we became an Islamic nation, but as a sociologist, I’m troubled by what I see.” She looked directly at him, unflinching. “We used to lead the world in science and technology. Hard to believe, isn’t it? Now, every year we have fewer graduates in engineering and mathematics. Our manufacturing plants are outdated, our farm productivity falling, and patent applications are only forty percent of what they were in the old regime.” She toyed with her teaspoon, set it down with an effort, forced her hands still. “I’m talking too much, aren’t I?”
Rakkim was thinking instead of the iris-scanning security software that didn’t function, the weather reports that were mere guesses because the satellites were out of orbit. At least no one starved in the Islamic Republic, or froze to death in winter because they couldn’t afford heating oil. The Bible Belt might have Coca-Cola and Carolina broadleaf, but it also had power brownouts and rickets, and unlike Islam, which treated almsgiving as a requirement of faith, beggars in the Bible Belt were hungry and cold.
“Rambling on is an occupational hazard for professors,” sighed Marian. “Our students hang on our every word, but they’re a captive audience.”
“What happened with this book you and Sarah were working on?”
“She changed her mind. Six months ago, out of the blue.”
“Was that when she got engaged to the son of the Saudi ambassador?”
“Who told you that?” Marian grimaced. “Her uncle tried to interest her in the petro-prince, and the prince was certainly taken with her, but you know Sarah.”
“I do.” Rakkim also knew Redbeard, which is why he wasn’t surprised that the man had lied to him. The reason for the lie made him curious. It was a clumsy lie too. Redbeard must have known Rakkim would find out the truth. Maybe Redbeard had told an unnecessary lie to distract him from a more important one. That was Redbeard’s style. “Sarah broke up with me about the same time she ended your collaboration. Maybe there’s a connection. Why did she abandon the project with you?”
Marian hesitated. “She decided to write another book. She wouldn’t tell me what it was about though. She said it was too dangerous.”
“Sarah’s already outraged half the country. Is she trying for the other half now?”
“She was frightened. When was the last time you saw Sarah scared?”
Rakkim stopped smiling.
“She was worried about me too. Taking cabs when she came by, asking me not to call her. We always left notes for each other—”
“You have no idea what the new book was about?”
“She refused to tell me.” Marian clasped her hands. The inside of her right middle finger was indented from writing with a pen. A traditionalist. “I don’t know if it will help, but one of the reasons Sarah came to visit these last months was to use my library. I have some specialized volumes. They’re my father’s books, actually. His books and journals.”
“Your father was a historian?”
“He was a geological engineer.” Marian held her head high. “My father was very bullheaded, but he was a fine engineer. He built dams and bridges and sports stadiums all over the world.”
Rakkim remembered the map in Sarah’s room, the pinhole on the Yangtze. “Did your father work in China?”
“Yes, for many years.”
“The Three Gorges Dam?”
“How did you know?” Marian didn’t expect an answer. “Three Gorges is the biggest dam in the world. My father was only part of the engineering team, and not the project chief, but he was very proud of the work he did. They started preliminary studies long before the transition, 1992, I believe, but even after it was completed, his team went back every other year to check the construction. The Yangtze is highly unpredictable, and the engineers needed to monitor the river flow.”
“So…Sarah’s new book was about China?”
“I asked her that. She said it was just a small part of the book, but she wouldn’t go into detail. I always thought she’d tell me when the time was right. Is that why she’s disappeared? Was it this book she was working on?”
Rakkim stroked his goatee. “Did you and Sarah talk much about your father? Was she curious about his work…his politics?”
“Not really. My father was a very private man. In most ways, I barely knew him. I think Sarah was more interested in his books than anything else. She was a brilliant researcher. The best historians are, you know.”
“Then, I guess I should look at your father’s library. If you don’t mind?”
“Of course, but I hope you’re not easily bored. After my father died, I went through his journals. He always kept them locked away, so I imagined they contained some dark secret, some profound insight into his soul.” Marian shook her head. “I loved my father, but I could barely get through the first volume. There were no insights, just a vast laundry list of banal observations.” She smoothed her sea green chador. “I have no idea what Sarah found so compelling in those pages, but she kept at it, week after week.”
“I’d like to see them.”
Marian didn’t seem to have heard him. “You’re just as Sarah described you. A warrior with warm eyes. She’s very much in love with you. I was envious.” Marian’s cheeks colored.
“Wait until you get to know me…you won’t be envious.”
Marian smiled. “Sarah said the house she grew up in was quiet until you showed up, and then there was noise and laughter. She said you were the only one who wasn’t afraid of Redbeard. Other than her.”
“The only way to survive Redbeard is not to be afraid of him. Not to show it, anyway.”
“You’re a survivor, I can see that.” Marian idly tapped her teacup. “I’m not much
of a survivor. I’ve never really been tested…I’ve just been lucky. There was my family, and the income, and the university. It all just rolls along. You were an orphan, living on the streets. I can’t imagine what that was like.”
“Let’s just say you learn not to linger over your food.”
“Why did you join the Fedayeen?”
“I wanted to be my own man. I couldn’t have done that if I stayed in that house.”
“But you left the Fedayeen?”
Rakkim smiled. “Maybe I didn’t like the man I had become.”
Marian didn’t return the smile. “I doubt that.”
If Rakkim had known how perceptive she was, he might have kept silent. Then again, maybe Marian didn’t need conversation to know who he was. As if they had known each other for years, that’s how Marian had described her first meeting with Sarah. It would take longer for them, but maybe someday Rakkim and Marian could be friends too.
“Do you believe that each of us has only one true love, Mr. Epps?” Marian played with the spoon again. “One person we’re meant to share our life with?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, I’m absolutely certain of it. Sarah is too.” A sudden breeze rippled Marian’s chador, and for an instant, before she held down the fabric, it looked as if she were flying. Just an instant, but the impression remained that she was not fully bound to the earth. “I found my true love when I was twenty-two. He was a computer programmer, an honorable Muslim, but my father had other suitors in mind. He would not yield, nor would I. There was a standoff in our house for several years while my love and I met surreptitiously, just as you and Sarah did. I hoped to wear my father down, but then the Zionists upended the world. My love was on holiday in Washington, D.C., when the bomb exploded. I had planned to join him there, but I backed out at the last minute.” She dabbed at her eyes. “Not a day goes by that I don’t regret that he went on holiday to that particular city, on that particular date…not a day goes by that I don’t wish that I had gone with him.”
Prayers for the Assassin Page 9