Prayers for the Assassin

by Robert Ferrigno

  “Well, then…we’ll have to pray for each other,” said Katherine, flirty as a debutante. “With two strong and passionate women like us bending his ear, God is going to have to pay attention.”

  Dry leaves whipped across the sidewalk, pirouetting in the eddy. In memory, Angelina could still see Katherine moving gracefully through the parties thrown for the new head of State Security and his lovely wife. The republic was still new, fresh with hope, promising peace and tolerance. Katherine had danced with the president, charming him with her lithe femininity, her openness and wit. Much of the political class had been outraged at her lack of deference, suspicious of her conversion, but the president had been smitten by her. Smitten by her husband as well. James Dougan was handsome and forthright, a defender of the nation, ruthless when he needed to be, charitable even when the cameras weren’t on him. They were the golden couple. The hope of a Muslim future.

  It had been a glorious time. Angelina had been hired to help care for the new baby. Sarah had been a sickly child, not a rarity in those early days, not even for the powerful. The baby had blossomed under Angelina’s care, grown fat, with a squall to match. Redbeard had been a constant guest at the villa, the gruff but doting uncle, a fierce, driven man. Angelina had to fight to keep her eyes off him. At times she felt his eyes on her too, but his eyes never lingered on her when Katherine was in the room. Who could blame him? Bright days filled with promise. Ended suddenly. James Dougan murdered. Redbeard wounded. Katherine fleeing after a hasty call to Angelina. Katherine barely controlling her hysteria and grief, begging Angelina to stay with Sarah. Begging her to tell her how much she loved her. Katherine immune from Angelina’s pleadings. Insisting that she had to go. She had a responsibility to her husband. Greater than your responsibility to your child? Angelina had demanded. Yes. The pain in Katherine’s voice…Angelina had never heard anything like it. Yes, greater even than that.

  “Maybe when this is over…when the truth is known, I can come home,” said Katherine.

  “You could have come home years ago,” said Angelina.

  “We’ve been over that many times. It wasn’t worth the risk.”

  The risk. Angelina would have risked anything to be reunited with her child, but not Katherine. She had greater priorities. As a good Muslim, Angelina understood the need for sacrifice, but Katherine was no longer a Muslim, and such a sacrifice was only justified for the greater glory of God.

  “If you hear any news about Sarah, contact me.”

  “I’ll send word immed—” Angelina heard the line go dead. She never knew when their brief conversations would end. Just that they would end abruptly. Katherine had her own timetable and no one was privy to it.

  The redheaded workman on the second floor tucked his hammer into his tool belt, stood with his hands on his hips, surveying the site. The morning sun was behind him, set his hair aglow. Three young women passed by below, and he watched them. Once, the girls would have drawn whistles and catcalls from the men on the scaffolding, but now their passing was observed, but not commented on. The tall redhead pushed back his hard hat, following the girls’ progress until they turned the corner. He looked at Angelina, noticed her watching, and grinned. She could almost see him blush.

  There was a time before the takeover…a time when Angelina had been a young girl, barely eighteen with slender ankles and high breasts. The men had worked shirtless in the heat, sweating in the summer sun, their bodies gleaming as though anointed with oil. In those days so long ago, she had hurried past such work sites, eyes downcast, and the whistles had rung in her ears…and she had not been totally displeased. Angelina clicked away on her prayer beads, silently counting off the ninety-nine names of God as she watched the tall redhead back at work.

  CHAPTER 35

  After noon prayers

  Rakkim reread the passage from Richard Warriq’s journal. He looked over at Sarah snoring softly in the afternoon light slanting through the blinds. For a moment he considered letting her sleep. For a moment he considered putting the journal back in the stack. Sleeping dogs. He walked over to the sofa bed, gently shook her awake.

  Sarah opened her eyes.

  “I think I found what we’re looking for.”

  “What do you mean we, kemo sabe?”

  “What?”

  “Old joke.” Sarah stopped in the middle of a yawn. “Are you talking about the journals?”

  Rakkim handed her the journal. “The journals are organized according to location. It made sense for you to look in the China selections for entries suggesting the location of the fourth bomb. Since you didn’t find anything, I thought I might as well start on the other ones.” He tapped the page. “This is from a business trip he made to Indonesia in the spring of 2015. The entry is dated eleven days before the Zionist attack.”

  Indonesia, May 8, 2015

  Flew in for last week to check seismic activity on the Sukarno bridge. Usual vulgarities of the Indonesian character. Found dead cockroach between bedsheets at my hotel. (Jakarta Ramada, Room 451, mini-suite, breakfast included.) Have sent e-mail complaint regarding cockroach to front desk and CCed home office in hope that future accommodations will be upgraded. Bought lunch of supposed halal meat from street vendor. Tossed skewer in gutter after one bite and rinsed mouth. Must avoid ground meat no matter the hunger. Can’t trust the Christians. Temperature 81 degrees F. for late-night prayers. Water in the ablution room of the local mosque tepid and lacking in cleanliness. Complained to imam without effect. Bad teeth on the man, chipped right incisor. Did extensive tests on suspension bridge. Had to recalibrate instruments three times due to high humidity. Local assistants dismissive of my efforts. Eye rolling. Formally certified that bridge. Advised home office to recheck every three years as prolonged shift in weather pattern and attendant heavy rains may alter necessary soil compaction. Also made point that bridge should have been constructed further downstream where deep rock anchoring more feasible. Typical pattern of taking cheapest route. Wanted to get in the record that I had better placement in worst-case scenario.

  Odd encounter at the Jakarta airport while waiting for flight to Mecca. (Air Indonesia, seat 37D, economy class.) Saw former colleague Safar Abdullah, waiting in the Islamic lounge. Safar seemed to be in some distress. Sweating profusely, face flushed, trembling. I thought at first that he had food poisoning. No surprise, considering the abysmal hygienic standards in the archipelago, but, from the ticket clutched in his hand, I saw that he was in transit from Hong Kong to San Francisco. Since there are numerous direct flights from Hong Kong to San Francisco, I can only surmise that this is yet another instance of corporate parsimony. We field engineers, in spite of our advanced education and experience, are always at the mercy of bean counters at the home office, from substandard hotel accommodations, to unrealistic per diems. I sat down beside poor Safar, expressed my concern for his health, and commiserated with him on his inability to get a direct flight home. The poor man was so surprised, he did not recognize me, looking about as though to find someplace to flee. As it was approaching midday, I offered to pray with him, but he declined, saying his recent travels had left him unclean. Indeed he was in terrible shape, with burst capillaries in his eyes, blistered skin, his beard and hair patchy. Two of his teeth had actually fallen out, although he had always taken pride in maintaining a proper appearance. He rightly seemed embarrassed to be seen in such a foul state, so I bought him a cup of sweetened tea—for which he was quite grateful. When I told him I was on my way to the Holy City, he started to cry, tears of blood running down his face as he begged me to pray for him. I made the promise and excused myself.

  An hour later I boarded my flight (#349), grateful to be on my way. Alas, even though I had specifically requested to be seated with Muslims on the connecting flight to Delhi, I was informed that such seating is only guaranteed in business class. Instead, I was placed beside a fat Indian from Bombay who proceeded to gorge himself on satay and rice balls the whole flight. Actually offered me a
taste of his fried shrimp, a deliberate insult I’m certain. May he roast in hell.

  Sarah looked up at him, nodded. “You did it.”

  Rakkim shrugged. “Hair loss, blisters…I thought radiation poisoning was a possibility.”

  “More than a possibility.” Sarah smiled, shook her head. “It wasn’t Marian’s father who was part of the Old One’s network, it was this…Safar Abdullah. The bomb was leaking. I wonder if he was the only one who escaped alive from the mission.”

  “From Warriq’s description, it seems unlikely he lasted for very long.”

  “Maybe he didn’t expect to survive,” said Sarah. “It wouldn’t be the first suicide mission done at the bidding of the Old One.” She stood up, the sheet sliding down, and she was slim and golden, thighs slightly parted, hairless as a peach. “Does the journal name the engineering firm Safar Abdullah worked for?”

  “Not that I could find. There are so many volumes—”

  “It doesn’t matter. If it was radiation sickness, he’s long dead, but we can find his family, or his friends.” Sarah was pacing, now. “Warriq wrote that they used to be colleagues. We should check Warriq’s employment history, then contact every company he worked for and see if Safar Abdullah is listed on their pension plan. Even if he’s dead, we’ll at least get a last address and a beneficiary.”

  Rakkim watched her stride around the room, clicking through her plan of attack. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “You want to run away?”

  “It’s not a dirty word. Your mother did it.” Rakkim thought Sarah was going to slap him. “Redbeard and the Old One have been playing against each other for twenty years. Maybe we should stay out of their game.”

  “Could you run away?”

  “With you? Sure.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Even if you find this fourth nuke, that doesn’t prove the Old One is responsible. Maybe Safar Abdullah was working for the Israelis.”

  “Tell that to Marian. You think the Israelis murdered her?”

  “What happened to Marian is just the beginning,” said Rakkim. “You need to be ready for that. You have to decide if it’s worth it.”

  “I’m not some ivory-tower intellectual. Not anymore.” Sarah stalked over. “I killed a man last week. I drove a chopstick through his eye. It made this moist popping sound that I’m going to remember the rest of my life. I look in the mirror and I hardly recognize myself.”

  Rakkim watched her slip into one of his clean white shirts, her legs bare. “I just want you to realize you may not get the result you’re expecting. History books get written after the war, after the dying. I’m on the outside, Sarah. I don’t care about the president or Martyrs Day or any of the rest of it.”

  “If I knew things wouldn’t get worse, I might be tempted,” Sarah said quietly, “but history is never static, there’s always a rise and fall. The fundamentalists are getting bolder, and the moderates just want it to all go away. Four professors at the university have been dismissed this year. Insufficiently Islamic.” She chewed on her pinkie, forced herself to stop. “Last week I had an encounter with a Black Robe…” She shook her head. “You can run away. I won’t.”

  “I don’t like Canada anyway.” Rakkim took a couple of cans of coffee out of the cabinet. Shook them. Popped and poured them each a hot cup. He sat in the window seat, placed her coffee on the sill. She sat beside him. “I know a hack who can run down Safar Abdullah’s work history.” He smiled. “I might have to marry one of his daughters though.”

  “I don’t share, you know that. I’m Redbeard’s niece.” Sarah sipped her coffee, one leg tucked against her chest, content to drowse in the late-afternoon sun.

  Rakkim peeked through a gap in the curtains. He had chosen this office suite, chosen this window seat. The perfect vantage spot. The glass front of the building opposite allowing him to see both sides of the street. The market must be shutting down for the day. Housewives trudged down the sidewalks, string bags bulging with produce. Two workmen argued with each other as they walked, hands waving, the collars of their jackets turned up. A kid on a blue bicycle dodged through traffic. The trick in active observation wasn’t to look for someone dangerous, but to sense things that were out of place. A parked car with the engine idling. The wrong shoes. The wrong gloves. An old woman who squared her shoulders. A man reading a newspaper who never turned the page. If you wait to see the knife, you’ll be dead, his Fedayeen instructor had taught him—better to notice the empty scabbard and live.

  This morning Rakkim had seen a long-haired modern hanging around the entrance to his building, sheltered under an overhang, shifting from one foot to the other. Probably thought himself invisible. Rakkim had been about to wake Sarah, tell her to get dressed, when a young woman had shown up, kissed the modern, the two of them clutching each other in the shadows before hurrying away.

  “Did you call Redbeard?” asked Sarah. “I hate worrying him.”

  Rakkim watched the street. “I told him.” A line of cars idled at the corner, waiting for the light to change. Blue exhaust drifted on the wind. New cars, old cars, it didn’t seem to matter—they were all rusting, paint peeling, mufflers rumbling with corrosion. “Do you want to go out and get something to eat?”

  “Don’t you have anything here?”

  “Canned tuna…bottled water…beer, artichoke hearts, apples and oranges.” A man with a gray beard crossed against the light and a horn blared. “I think I have some crackers.”

  She put her foot on his leg, squeezed him with her toes. “Let’s stay here. I’m tired. I just want to eat and read and make love.” Her eyes were playful. “I’d like to take a shower first. If you’re good, I’ll let you wash my back.”

  “What do I get to wash if I’m bad?”

  Sarah started unbuttoning the white shirt, taking her time. “Your prospective father-in-law…he won’t mind me coming with you?”

  “He won’t. You might, though.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Are you still afraid of the dark?”

  CHAPTER 36

  After noon prayers

  “Refrain from gawking, Omar,” Ibn Azziz said to his Yemeni bodyguard as they were led down the corridor by the two Fedayeen. “It makes you seem like a kaffir at mosque.”

  Stung, Omar straightened to his full height, throwing his broad shoulders back as he kept pace with the Fedayeen.

  Ibn Azziz maintained his slow, steady walk, and Omar fell back beside him. Omar’s swagger was a sign of weakness, as was the way he rested his hand on his dagger. The dagger had been in Omar’s family for three hundred years, a double-edged blade, ten inches long, made of the finest Damascus steel. Ibn Azziz had expected the unarmed Fedayeen officer who had greeted them outside the academy to ask Omar to disarm, but he had merely glanced at the weapon, smirking as he bowed to Ibn Azziz. Pig.

  His advisers had warned against visiting General Kidd at the Fedayeen training academy, the seat of his power, but Ibn Azziz had dismissed their concerns. He needed to make it clear to General Kidd that in spite of Ibn Azziz’s youth, Kidd was dealing with an equal, a spiritual warrior and master tactician. In the week since Ibn Azziz had seized power, he had disappeared dozens of Oxley’s loyalists, used his contacts in the media to sugarcoat his ascension to power, and begun a campaign against the Catholics. On this twelfth day of fasting, his breath was foul, but his heart was pure as a blowtorch.

  Two Fedayeen escorts proceeded ahead, almost ignoring Ibn Azziz. They walked with the long gait typical of Fedayeen, a pantherlike glide that was nothing like the crisp cadence of army personnel. Even their uniforms were somehow…unmilitary. Plain, light blue uniforms with dull brass buttons. No epaulets, no medals, no insignia. The Fedayeen stopped at the end of the corridor, knocked once, and threw open the door, flanking the doorway.

  Omar started through first, as was proper, but one of the Fedayeen placed a hand on his chest.

  “Just the mullah
,” said the Fedayeen.

  Omar slapped his hand aside, started to draw his dagger…and then he was on the floor. He bolted up to his feet, but Ibn Azziz waved a hand.

  “Wait outside, Omar, and keep our brother Fedayeen company,” said Ibn Azziz, affecting boredom. “I will see General Kidd privately.” He passed through the doorway, though not before noting the insolent gaze of the Fedayeen as he passed. Sooner, rather than later, General Kidd would see the wisdom of deepening the alliance with the Black Robes. He would see the value in treating Ibn Azziz as an honored ally. To seal the bargain, Ibn Azziz would ask only one thing…the eyes of these two Fedayeen.

  General Maurice Kidd looked over as Ibn Azziz entered the balcony, then turned back. Tall and lean, Kidd stood casually beside a railing, middle-aged now, his face unlined and gleaming like obsidian. A devout Muslim, fiercely loyal, he had four wives and twenty-seven children, but lived simply. His rise to power began when, a mere Fedayeen captain, he had taken command of the decimated Islamic forces at the battle of Philadelphia, leading a counterattack that stopped the rebel advance. For the last twelve years he had commanded the Fedayeen, eager to send his troops abroad in furtherance of Islam or battling the Bible Belters on their common border. Today, as always, he wore the same unadorned uniform as the other Fedayeen, with only a tiny gold crescent on each shoulder denoting his rank. “Welcome, Mullah Ibn Azziz.”

  Ibn Azziz stood beside the general. His nose wrinkled at the scene below, the faint breeze carrying the stink. The balcony overlooked a hard-packed field filled with the dirtiest men Ibn Azziz had ever seen. He had visited hermits who were better groomed, observed gravediggers more sanitary.

  “Do my men offend your delicate sensibilities, my young cleric?” asked General Kidd.