Sister Elena was panting as they climbed the stairs to Mother Superior’s office on the third floor of the nunnery. Too much time on the computer, not enough time outdoors. Katherine wasn’t winded at all. She was fifty now, long-legged and fit. The nunnery was largely self-sufficient, and she put as much time in the fields and animal pens as any of them, and while the nuns prayed for hours every day, Katherine walked the surrounding paths and hills. Her hair was still dark, her slim breasts still high…high enough, and there were nights when she tossed in her hard bed, caught between sleep and waking, nights when she thought of her husband, nights, God forgive her, when she thought of his brother, Redbeard.
Sister Elena’s knock on Mother’s door was hesitant at first, then immediately harder, as though reproaching herself for her fear, and Katherine noticed the girl’s red, raw knuckles. Elena was Mother Superior’s favorite, and as such she was ordered to do twice as much as any of the other novices, scrubbing the stone steps daily, performing the most menial and laborious kitchen duties without complaint.
“Enter,” barked Mother from inside.
“Thank you, dear,” Katherine said to Sister Elena, letting herself in. She closed the door behind her. “You work that girl too damn hard, Bernadette.”
“Good afternoon to you too, Kate.” Mother was a grim, wizened nun with strands of white hair curling free of her headpiece, looking much older than her age.
For the last twenty years, ever since her husband had been assassinated, Katherine had been sheltered at the convent. If, at any time in those twenty years, the authorities had discovered her presence, everyone in the nunnery would have been executed, their bodies mutilated, and the nunnery itself burned to the dirt. Not once in that time, even on the two occasions when Redbeard’s agents had searched the nunnery, had Katherine feared that she would be turned over. The last time—it was at least ten years ago—she had emerged from her hiding spot within the walls of the rectory with a shawl that she had knitted in the dark. Bernadette still wore it some winter evenings when they watched television together in the office, just the two of them. Bernadette, who ate almost nothing, enjoyed cooking shows, while Katherine cared only for news. They took turns.
“I just got word from Beijing,” said Bernadette, coming out from behind her desk and sitting carefully on a swaybacked sofa. Tufts of stuffing oozed out the sides in spite of the constant restitching. The office was small, the only ornamentation a large crucifix and a photograph of Pope John Paul II, the pope in office when Bernadette had entered the order. “The sisters finished their clinical work in the commuter district. Their dosimeters recorded nothing.”
“Well, so much for Beijing, and so much for Shanghai. After all these years, I think we’ll have to put our faith in Sarah now.” Katherine smiled. “And God, of course.”
Bernadette frowned. She had never enjoyed levity when it came to religion. They were cousins, and though Bernadette was twelve years older, they had always been close. When Katherine had converted to Islam and married James Dougan, all contact had ceased. Even so, when it came time to hide, Katherine had had no doubt where she would run. No doubt that she would be taken in.
“It’s a heavy burden to lay on someone so young,” said Bernadette.
“I waited twenty years to contact her,” snapped Katherine. “Do you think I would have put her at risk if I had any other options?”
Bernadette’s gaze hardened. “You should have thought of that before you converted to that barbarous faith. I never liked that husband of yours. Too handsome, if you ask me. Too ambitious.”
“The faith is not the problem, Bernadette. The problem is the faithful.”
Bernadette looked away. It was an old argument.
Twenty years. Why did you leave me? That was the first thing Sarah had tapped out, after she was convinced it really was her mother contacting her.
Sarah had been hospitalized when her father was assassinated, curled up in the ICU with acute pneumonia. Katherine was dozing in a chair beside her daughter’s oxygen tent when Redbeard called, his voice weak, called to tell her James was dead, saying a couple of his best men were on their way to the hospital.
Why did you leave me? A question without an answer. None that would satisfy Sarah. None that would satisfy Katherine either.
The night before his murder, James had held her close and whispered that if anything happened to him, anything, no matter how benign it seemed, she was to take Sarah and go into hiding. He had pressed a strand of prayer beads into her palm, said the plain wooden beads contained coded information, the keys to a secret more important than his life. The information had to be protected at all costs.
That morning in the hospital, Katherine had been forced to choose between an unknown secret and the daughter she loved. Still in shock from the news, and all too aware of her own adulterous fantasies, she had imagined that Redbeard was behind James’s murder. That it was Redbeard that James was afraid of. With only minutes to decide, she had chosen to leave Sarah behind. The good wife. The bad mother.
“We missed you at lunch,” said Bernadette. “There was lentil soup.”
Katherine fingered her prayer beads. Even with her suspicions, she couldn’t have left Sarah if Angelina hadn’t promised to look after her until Katherine returned. Twenty years and she still hadn’t returned. After the prayer beads had finally yielded their secrets, Katherine knew that Redbeard had been innocent…as innocent as she. The knowledge had come too late. Her flight had convinced the authorities that she had betrayed her husband and made her a marked woman.
“You heard about the difficulties in Newcastle?” said Bernadette.
“Early this morning I walked to the very top of the hill and I just knew something was wrong. All the stars in the sky and not one of them looked right to me.” Katherine worked her prayer beads. She was no longer Muslim, but the beads comforted her. “Just before noon I heard calls to the Newcastle police. Accusations that the local truck dealer, a Catholic, had gotten his corneal transplants from the eyes of healthy Muslim children. A mob was forming outside the dealership, egged on by women from the most conservative mosque.” Katherine looked at her cousin. “My instincts have always been acute, you know that. Not that it’s done me much good. I warned James not to go to Chicago that morning. I begged him to stay with me in the hospital until Sarah was better, but he just kissed me and hurried off, as though he was impatient to die.” She turned away, jaw firm. Even after all these years, she was still angry with him.
“The fire will burn itself out,” said Bernadette. “The madness will pass.”
Katherine took her cousin’s hand, felt her cool, dry skin, light as a bird’s wing. “I’m going away. With my glasses and dental appliance, I won’t be recognized. I doubt if anyone is even looking for me anymore. I’m ancient history, now.”
“I won’t hear of it.” Bernadette squeezed Katherine’s hand. “You’re safe here.”
Katherine shook her head. “None of us are safe anywhere.”
“‘The Lord is my shepherd,’” recited Bernadette. “It’s not just words, Kate. It’s the word of God. It’s His promise to us.”
Katherine kissed her cousin on each cheek. “I love you, Bernadette.”
Bernadette’s eyes glistened. “The world is a dark wood full of wolves…every time you leave the convent, I light candles for your safe return.”
Katherine had grown restless the last few years, taking ever more trips. Excursions to Sacramento and New Medina and Bakersfield. A secret visit to Tahoe in the Nevada Free State, where she had actually gone for a swim! Never to Seattle, though. She had been tempted to search out Sarah, observe her at a distance…but she never did. The risk was too great. Or her fear was. The best trip had been a glorious visit to Los Angeles three years ago with Bernadette. The sound of church bells had been everywhere.
“What’s so funny?” said Bernadette.
“I was remembering our trip to Hollywood, and the way you put your hands into t
he imprints of movie stars. You kept choosing the most brazen starlets. Wanton women playing wanton roles. I kept wondering what sinful thoughts you were thinking.”
Bernadette blushed. “Perhaps I was praying for their immortal souls.”
“You were having fun, Bernadette. You were like a schoolgirl.”
Bernadette looked away. The skin under her eyes was almost transparent. “It was fun.”
Katherine patted Bernadette’s hand. “I’m leaving tomorrow. There’s work to be done, and I can’t leave it all to Sarah.”
A knock and the door was thrown open. Sister Elena stood there, without being invited in. “Men! There are two men at the gate.” She was flustered. “They walked right in—”
Katherine and Bernadette were already on their feet.
“Hide,” Bernadette said to Katherine.
“Too late for that.” Katherine started for the door. “I’ll make it clear that you had no idea who I was. I’ll tell them I fooled you with my devilry. Perhaps…perhaps I can convince them.” She embraced Bernadette.
Bernadette held her tightly while they heard footsteps coming up the stairs.
“Have no fear, Bernadette. Sarah will do what we haven’t been able to.” Katherine kissed her on the cheek, turned to face those who had finally found her.
There were not two men standing in the doorway. It was a man and a boy. A short, hairy man and a scrawny, sullen boy, both of them filthy with road dust.
“My name is Spider, and this is my son Elroy,” said the man, smiling so broadly his face threatened to split. “You’re Katherine Dougan and I’m a genius.” He clasped his hands together with delight. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. We’re going to change the world.”
CHAPTER 44
Before sunset prayers
Rakkim nodded at the Welcome to Yorba Linda sign as they drove past. “Isn’t this where that old-time president was born?”
“I’m impressed,” said Sarah. “Richard Milhous Nixon, thirty-seventh president of the United States. Born January ninth, 1913; Yorba Linda, California.”
“Is he one of them carved into that mountain in South Dakota?”
“No. No.”
He could tell from her expression that she didn’t like being reminded of the mountain. Mount Rushmore, that was it. Blowing up the four faces on the mountain had been one of the first projects of the new Muslim republic. Redbeard had argued against it as a waste of time and money, but the Black Robes had insisted, calling it idolatry, and honoring kaffirs from a nation that no longer existed. In the end, Redbeard had deferred, doubtless using his acquiescence to extract concessions for his own goals. The destruction of the four faces had proven to be more trouble than anticipated, the sheer size of the monument daunting to even massive quantities of explosive. After six months of demolition, the faces still remained partially intact, grotesqueries in the wilderness.
There had been no message from Sarah’s mother on the good-wife recipe site. Just advice from devout wives on preparing their favorite dishes. Sarah had been inside the mosque for an hour, had spent most of the time praying, while Rakkim waited in the car. In spite of her disappointment, she seemed…peaceful when she came out. Ready.
Sarah checked the GPS. “Have you ever been to Sergeant Pernell’s house before?”
“Not since he moved down here. He was one of my hand-to-hand-combat instructors at the academy. We served briefly together when he rotated into one of the battle units a year later. The academy doesn’t like to keep instructors out of the field too long, and the instructors get bored with classwork.” Rakkim glanced up as a jet helicopter arced overhead, another one of the red corporate choppers. He was never going to get used to helicopters over the city. “We lost touch when I went into shadow warriors. Pernell’s a good man. Bitter, but who can blame him?”
“What do you mean?”
“He was wounded on an op in New Guinea. Land mine. Lost his legs—”
“Fedayeen have never been sent to New Guinea.”
“Tell that to Pernell. You’ll probably learn a few new words.” The GPS chirped, Right turn at next intersection. “His legs are gone and one of his arms was amputated above the elbow, but he got the best prosthetics available. Russian plastics. Chinese biochips. He can dress himself, run marathons, handle a knife better than any civilian. He’s got four wives and he keeps them all busy. He just can’t do field work anymore. Not by a long shot.”
“That’s why he’s bitter?”
Rakkim shrugged. “Who wouldn’t be?”
“Do you miss it?”
“Pernell tried teaching at the academy again,” said Rakkim, not answering. “He lasted a year before he pissed off everyone in the chain of command. Pernell was never a very astute barracks politician, and his injuries just made it worse. He was awarded an honorable discharge and mustered out with full retirement pay. The day before he moved to Yorba Linda, he stopped by the Blue Moon. Knocked out two of my bouncers just on general principles before I could take him into the office. I’d never seen him drink anything stronger than khat infusion, but that night we finished off a bottle of Polish vodka while we solved the problems of the world. I haven’t seen him since.”
They passed a mosque, a grand one in the traditional style, the dome covered with tiny lapis lazuli chips. Yorba Linda was a bastion of devout Islam, a small city of scrubbed storefronts and one-acre housing lots, home to doctors and lawyers and successful businessmen. With the highest birth rate in California, its madrassas overflowed with serious students.
“What makes you think your friend is going to be able to help us find Fatima Abdullah?” said Sarah.
“I didn’t say he was my friend.” Turn right at the stop sign. “Pernell is connected with the local cops. He trains SWAT teams in advanced tactics, gives them a heads-up on any exotic weaponry. He’ll be able to make inquiries about her where we can’t.”
“You trust him?”
“He’s Fedayeen.”
A few minutes later, after buzzing the house, they drove up and found Pernell waiting for them in the double doorway, his four wives behind him. One of the wives was burping a baby. All four were dressed in pale yellow hajibs and chadors, only the perfect ovals of their faces visible. Pernell was a tall, weathered man in his midforties, with short, dark hair, a full beard, and a cheek full of khat. Loose white slacks and a long-sleeved shirt on a warm day. He embraced Rakkim, kissed him on both cheeks, pounded him on the back with his good hand. “By the pope’s saggy tits, I missed you.”
“The only man in the world with a dozen kids who’s lonely,” said Rakkim.
“Fourteen kids. Two new sons hung like Arabians.” Pernell eyed Sarah. “Who’s this?”
“Sarah, may I present Jack Pernell. Jack this is Sarah, the woman I intend to marry.”
Pernell sized Sarah up as though he were considering a bid. “Pleasure.” He nodded, but did not touch her. “I’ll let my wives show you the house.” He grabbed Rakkim by the neck, steered him away. “Let’s go out back. The last thing I want to hear is females jabbering on about episiotomies and migraines and the best way to cook a chicken.”
Rakkim glanced over his shoulder at Sarah as Pernell led him away.
They walked around to the rear of the house, which was much larger than it appeared from the road. There were four wings, one for each of the wives and her children; the central structure was probably where Pernell held court. They crossed an expanse of manicured lawn and stood beside the Olympic-size swimming pool. A single white, inflatable swan floated across the surface in the sunlight. Sounds of children came from the house, shouts and cries, laughter too, but there was no sign of their presence on the grounds. No toys, no bicycles, no swing set. Just the swan. Pernell ran a tight crew. Children were the responsibility of the women. Or the madrassa. The older boys would receive specialized instruction from him, but it would be done far away from the house.
“You look good,” said Rakkim.
“Sure, I do.�
� Pernell led the way around the perimeter of his acre, double-timing it. “The knee servos in my legs are burning out and the replacement parts are back-ordered. I had a nasty infection that laid me up for a week. Just got out of the hospital. Other than that, I’m cocked and locked.” He glanced at Rakkim. One of his eyes was milky and unhealthy looking. “What are you doing here? Come to ask old sarge to be your best man?”
“I need some help.”
“I could have told you that years ago.” Pernell spat khat juice into the grass. “You making major your first hitch shows just how fucked-up the Fedayeen is. You retiring after your first hitch, that shows just how fucked-up you are.” Pernell shook his head. “Such a waste. The talent that Allah gave you…and you toss it away.” He shrugged. “Inshallah.”
“Nice place you got here. This consulting business of yours must be doing well.”
Pernell grabbed an orange from one of his trees, tossed it over to Rakkim, barely breaking stride. “Cops. They think carrying a gun makes them a warrior, and the answer to every situation is a flash grenade. I do what I can. These SWAT hotshots think they know it all and I’m just a creaky has-been. It usually takes me ten whole minutes to straighten them out. Even faster if I have to break somebody’s jaw, but the brass don’t like me to do that. It’s not real work, but it puts food on the table.”
Prayers for the Assassin Page 31