“Sarah?”
“She’s quite all right.”
Rakkim shifted in the hospital bed, winced. He and Sarah had been in California the last time he remembered. It had been night and…
“The thoracic surgeons are very impressed with the rapidity of your recuperation.” Another smile from the old man. “Of course, they’ve had no experience with Fedayeen.”
“How…long have I been here?”
“They wanted to medicate you for pain, but I told them you had an extremely high threshold, and beside, I’m sure you’d prefer clarity regardless.”
“How long?”
“Two days. Your body has already absorbed most of the stitches. Amazing.”
Rakkim took a deep breath. It hurt but he didn’t show it this time. “Are you my doctor?”
“That’s one way of looking at it.” The old man’s hands flopped. “My personal physicians are treating you. You couldn’t get better care anywhere on the planet, although at this point it’s just a matter of giving your body time to regain its strength.”
Rakkim’s head was pounding so loudly he could barely hear. The last thing he remembered was being frightened. Not for himself…but, for Sarah.
“What I wouldn’t pay to have your constitution,” said the old man.
“Sarah? Is she all right?”
“She didn’t get a scratch. You were shot. Twice. Do you remember that?”
Rakkim shook his head. “I was inside a fish. How can that be?”
“Maybe you’re Jonah. Or Pinocchio.”
“No…I was inside a shark.”
The old man patted his hand. “I shouldn’t take advantage of your present condition. Will you forgive me? You were shot. One bullet just grazed your side, but the other tore a hole in your lung. You lost some blood. Don’t you remember anything?”
Rakkim licked his dry lips. The old man had a faint British accent. “I’m in Las Vegas? How did I get here?”
The old man helped him to another drink. “You couldn’t very well be taken to a local hospital. All those dead policemen…” The old man shook his head. “Rather hard to explain, don’t you think?”
Dead police? Rakkim remembered now. SWAT pouring into the ride at Disneyland. Body armor. It was dark inside the shark…and there was all this smoke…and gunfire and blood splashing on his hands. “Where’s Sarah?”
“She has a room in the visitors’ wing, but she’s spent most of the last two days sitting in this very chair. I suspect that now she’s getting some rest herself.” The old man plucked at the crease in his trousers. His socks had tiny clocks on them. Black silk socks with tiny orange clocks. “Or perhaps she’s out shopping. Ah, the female of the species. What would we do without them?”
Rakkim stared at him. “Who are you?”
The door to his room opened and a nurse bustled in, a brusque woman with dark hair tucked back into a white cap. She bowed to the old man, then seemed startled to see Rakkim sitting up. “You’re awake?” She walked over, took his wrist. “Hush.” She glanced at her watch, waited, checked her watch again. “Good.” She checked his eyes, shook her head. “I don’t understand it…but, Allah be praised.”
He remembered something else about being inside the big shark. Fancy. He and Sarah had found Fancy inside the shark…and then the assassin…the assassin had killed her.
“Where do you think you’re going?” said the nurse, holding him back, surprised at his strength.
“I’d listen to her, Mr. Epps. We have to trust the professionals.” The old man stood up. “I’ll come back and visit at a better time. We have so very much to discuss.”
Rakkim was dizzy. He clung to the nurse, not sure if his memory of the assassin was a dream. Another dream. No…it was real. He had seen the assassin kill Fancy. He had seen the assassin slide his knife into her ear as though he were whispering a deep, dark secret to her.
The nurse patted his shoulder.
The last thing Rakkim remembered was lying in Sarah’s arms…lying in a sea of blood and seeing the assassin approach. Rakkim cried out and the nurse gently pressed him back into the cool white sheets.
“Welcome to the house of Allah,” said Ibn Azziz.
Angelina looked around the windowless chamber. Took in the six Black Robes in attendance. “I do not see Allah here.”
Ibn Azziz glared down at her from a high-back chair. “Do not mock me or God, woman. I am giving you a chance to atone for your sin. You have raised a whore. Perhaps it was not your doing. Perhaps you were merely following the instructions of Redbeard, but the fact is that Sarah Dougan is a whore and a blasphemer, and Allah demands that someone be held accountable.”
Angelina adjusted her head covering, grateful that she had gotten to pray this morning. “You’re thin as a dried stick, Mullah Ibn Azziz. You need a woman to fatten you up, put some meat on those bones of yours.”
Ibn Azziz glanced at his men to make certain that no one was smiling. “Your years serving Redbeard have spoiled your judgment. I need no woman for anything.”
“Then, in the name of Allah, the lord of truth, why am I here, Mullah? Why else would you have me brought before you unless you were seeking a housekeeper? Surely you weren’t seeking my counsel on matters of doctrine.”
Ibn Azziz nodded. “It is good you behave thus. I am a man inclined towards mercy when it is merited. Your insolence makes the task at hand easier.”
Angelina bowed. “It is my pleasure.”
Ibn Azziz stood up, jabbed a bony hand at her. “You will tell me where I can find the whore. You were the only mother she had. She would not have run away without telling you where she was going.”
“I love the girl as my own, but I don’t know where she is.”
“You love her, but she must not love you. To wallow in sin and leave you to explain her actions. She must think you a fool.”
Angelina watched as he stroked his wispy beard. A pathetic excuse for a beard. An even more pathetic excuse for an imam.
“I almost caught her in California a few days ago,” said Ibn Azziz. “She was in my grasp but escaped. Allah must have his reasons—”
“What do you think Redbeard will do when he finds out that you have taken me? What do you think the people will do when they find out you have desecrated a mosque?”
“I’m not afraid of Redbeard or the people. I am only afraid of God.”
“As you should be.”
“Be silent, woman!” Ibn Azziz paced the room. Thinking. Nervous as static electricity.
In all her years with Redbeard, she had never seen him as unraveled as Ibn Azziz. What was he expecting, some frightened housewife begging for mercy? An intimidated moderate with knees of jelly before the leader of the Black Robes? Angelina had been beaten before. She feared only God, and she had nothing to fear from Him.
“You will tell me where to find the whore,” said Ibn Azziz. He stood quietly now, watching her, and his nervousness was gone. “If you do not, or can not, then you will be brought before the religious court. We will charge Sarah Dougan with fornication and blasphemy in absentia. You shall be the primary witness against her.”
Angelina started to speak. Held her tongue.
Ibn Azziz seemed almost disappointed. “Make no mistake, you will testify against her. It is only a matter of how much pain you wish to endure.”
Angelina’s eyes shimmered. The man was right. They both knew it, and the pleasure it gave him was obscene. She hung her head. Asked God for courage. Looked up at Ibn Azziz. Lips quivering. “I will tell you where she is.”
Ibn Azziz sat back in his chair. He looked so young. “Speak.”
“I…I can not bear to hear my own words.” Angelina looked at the men around her. “I will not speak in front of them.”
“I will not send my guards away.”
Angelina took a deep breath. “She is…she is…” She lowered her voice, the words inaudible now.
“Speak up!”
“I love her, Mullah. The sound of my be
trayal will burn my ears for eternity.”
Ibn Azziz looked at his bodyguards. Saw them indicate that she had been searched. He beckoned to her.
Angelina took a halting step. She spoke again. The words even softer than before.
“Closer!”
Angelina was two feet away. Near enough to count his eyelashes.
“That’s close enough. I can’t bear the stink of a female.”
Angelina lowered her head. Whispered.
Ibn Azziz smacked his hand against his leg, sent his black robe fluttering.
Angelina stepped forward muttering. They were close enough now that Ibn Azziz could hear the words. She was praying. Asking God to give her strength. Asking for God’s blessing for what she was about to do.
Ibn Azziz started to shout but it was too late.
Angelina launched herself at him. Hooked one of his eyes with her forefinger, drove it deep behind the jelly and scooped it out. He screamed, struggled to escape her, but the chair held him in place, and fifty years of housework had made her hands strong. Fifty years of prayer had given her courage. The eye she had torn out flopped against her wrist as she clawed at his face, seeking the other one. The eye was like a grape. A muscat grape peeled for a pasha. Such things were done in the old days. She gasped as the knives entered her body, but the thought of Sarah made her hang on, raking his face with her nails. Such screaming from Ibn Azziz. Again and again the bodyguards stabbed her, and she felt her body shudder. She wished…she wished she had been granted the gift of seeing Sarah and Rakkim marry. To see them kiss. To hold their baby in her arms. The knives…the knives hurt, but not so badly as she feared. The pain was bearable. Above all else, Allah was merciful.
CHAPTER 51
After morning prayers
“Sorry, mister, I’m still not seeing anything.”
Rakkim stood with his arms outstretched in front of the MRI screen. “Run it again. Maximum sensitivity.”
The tech looked at Sarah. “It’s already maxed.”
“Just do it.” Sarah watched over the tech’s shoulder as the scan progressed. She turned to Rakkim, shook her head.
Rakkim let his arms drop. He should be happy. He had been certain the Old One would have implanted some sort of tracking device inside him during surgery, but the MRI body scan showed nothing. Nothing metallic. Nothing of a foreign or nonbiologic nature. Neither had Sarah’s watch registered any electronic signature. They had run a full-spectrum check with it before going to the MRI lab of the hospital. He watched Sarah pay off the tech. It wouldn’t have been hard for the Old One. Fedayeen tracking devices were as small as a poppy seed, and his wounds offered easy access for implantation. He had plenty of old scars that could have hidden the insertion point. So why had the Old One passed on the opportunity?
Sarah and Rakkim eased out the side door and into the stairwell. It had been three days since he’d woken up in the hospital and had his halting conversation with the Old One. Rakkim was dressed in some new clothes she had bought in downtown Las Vegas, ugly clothes he wouldn’t have been seen in back in Seattle—Spanish-style, black trousers with little balls running up the side seams, and a yoked Western shirt with red parrots embroidered on the chest. In a city of tourists, dress like a tourist. He still hated looking in the mirror. Her clothes were typically modern—blue leather, knee-length skirt and a short-sleeved comfort sweater that adjusted its weave depending on the ambient temperature.
“Why am I dressed like a matador?” said Rakkim.
“I thought it would cheer you up.”
“You thought it would cheer you up.”
“That too.” She squeezed his hand. “How are you really feeling?”
Rakkim started up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Sarah was right behind him. They stopped at the eighteenth landing, the top floor, both of them panting. Rakkim gave it a count of five, then started back down. When they got to the bottom, they did it again.
“That’s enough,” Sarah gasped, back at the eighteenth-floor landing. “After lunch. We can run up Mount Everest. Or swim. Swim the Pacific.”
Rakkim bent slightly forward, rested his hands on his knees. He spit into the dusty corner. There was a tiny spot of blood in it.
They walked down the stairs and out the door on the main level. Stepped out into the morning sunshine. Eighty-six degrees and no humidity. Hot-air balloons drifted in the distance, not the dull security blimps that ringed Seattle, but brightly colored balloons from which tourists could appreciate the landscape.
“I still don’t understand why we’re still alive,” said Sarah as they cut across the green lawn to the sidewalk. “Why didn’t the assassin just kill us? If Fancy had any proof of her father’s part in planting the fourth bomb, it’s gone now.”
Rakkim glanced around as they walked. He hadn’t been outside since he was shot and the open air smelled clean. Vegas was beautiful—the air crystalline, the Spring Mountains to the west set in high relief against the deep, cobalt blue sky. Rakkim had never seen such clear skies, either at home or in the Bible Belt. If anything, the Bible Belt was more polluted than the Islamic Republic, due to their dependency on coal. He looked back at the hospital, shielding his eyes. There was no way to appreciate how big it was from the inside. Open too, with plenty of glass and a lobby that faced the street. He had never seen a hospital without protective barriers around it to guard against truck bombs.
“So what does the Old One hope to gain by keeping us alive?” persisted Sarah.
“He’s keeping us alive now for the same reason he didn’t kill us before—he’s using us to find his vulnerabilities. Things he missed. Things that could implicate him.” Rakkim took in the cars and buses cruising past, hydrogen-fueled and almost silent. Voice-activated too, the steering wheel an anachronism. “If Fatima Abdullah was a threat to him before, she’s no threat now. The Old One must think there are other loose ends. Someone else who knows too much.”
“Like my mother. She’s the one he really wants to find.”
“I still don’t understand why the Old One didn’t implant a tracker.”
“Darwin didn’t need a tracker to find us in Disneyland. He did it the old-fashioned way.”
Rakkim kept silent. It was true, but he didn’t have to like it.
They walked on, both of them picking up the pace, glad to leave the hospital behind. Casinos loomed before them as they reached the edge of the Strip, a cascade of neon laser light and fanciful designs. Arabian Nights. Renaissance Italy. Star Wars. Mandarin China. Dinosaurs and musketeers. The two of them were still mostly alone on the sidewalk, tourists from the nearby hotels preferring the elevated moving sidewalks that took them from casino to casino. Tourists from the Bible Belt and the Islamic Republic, plenty of Asians and Europeans too. Even a few Dutch fundamentalists—even stricter doctrinally than the Black Robes—haranguing other Muslims for their sins.
“We should contact Redbeard, let him know we’re here,” said Sarah. “We should warn Colarusso too.”
“The last thing we want is Redbeard coming here to rescue us, and even if Darwin was telling the truth about using Colarusso’s informant, it’s too late for a call to do any good.”
“So we do nothing?”
“For now, the Old One is giving free rein. No guards. No chaperones. For the time being, we should assume that anything that’s easy to do is what the Old One wants us to do. So we don’t run the first chance we get. We don’t call Redbeard. We wait. We act on our timetable, not his.”
“You said now,” said Sarah, stopping to look at one of the storefront souvenir stands. Small plastic sci-fi robots did a preprogrammed ballet, excusing themselves in five languages as they banged into each other. “You said we do nothing now.”
“There was a busboy at the Blue Moon that I helped out once. Peter. He had ambitions, but there were…obstacles because of his bloodline.”
“He was Jewish?”
“His grandmother was. That was enough. We had a regular cust
omer who flew into the capital a couple times a year to visit family. Supervisor at the China Doll Hotel and Casino. I introduced them. Called in a favor. Peter has been working there for a couple years now. He’s already a pit boss. Peter Bowen.” Rakkim picked up a miniature Vegas skyline enclosed in clear plastic, intricately detailed, diodes flashing to mirror the laser show of the real thing. $2.99. The plastic skylines were the modern analog of the antique snow globes that Spider collected. Rakkim could still see the shattered World Trade Center on the floor of the deserted underground lair, and he wondered if Spider was safe. If he and his family had escaped the Black Robes.
“What’s wrong?” said Sarah.
Rakkim put the skyline back. “You should go on a shopping spree. Hit all the sites. Follow all the usual procedures. Somewhere along the line you should stop in at the China Doll and say hello to Peter. He told me once that the border of the Nevada Free State was a semipermeable membrane. Easy to get in, but hard to get out. Undetected, anyway, but I’m sure Peter considers that more of an opportunity than an obstacle. Tell him we want to get across the border. Let him know that there’s a very powerful local who’s got his eyes on us, so he’s going to have to factor that in. Tell him we’ll pay whatever it costs. Knowing Peter, he won’t charge us a thing. Make the offer anyway.”
“Why don’t I just offer him oral?” Sarah said brightly as she riffled through a rack of souvenir T-shirts. “It’s a beautiful day, maybe I should suggest the full gulp.”
Rakkim stared at her. “I was being patronizing?”
“Follow all the usual procedures? Peter won’t charge us, but make the offer anyway? Just a micro patronizing.”
“Look, use your own judgment in dealing with Peter. Just tell him we want to get to Seattle as soon as possible.”
“Why aren’t we going back to Southern California? We should try to locate any of Safar Abdullah’s former coworkers, see if they have any information.”
“We’re out of our element in California. The only contact I had betrayed us. No, we go home. We’ll talk with Redbeard. See if he’s willing to help. Things haven’t been going very well for him either. Maybe he’s ready to take a chance.”
Prayers for the Assassin Page 36