Prayers for the Assassin

by Robert Ferrigno

  “Why do you get to decide?”

  “Fine. You decide. Consider the assets we have in California. The access to data. Consider our familiarity with the city. The degree of back-channel communication we have with the local authorities. Consider our chances of finding people who worked with Abdullah twenty-five years ago. People who probably had nothing to do with his trip to China. Factor in that the Black Robes are on alert now. Go on, you make the call.”

  Sarah pretended to examine a T-shirt. “We’ll go to Seattle.” She slapped the T-shirt back on the rack, the hanger banging against the metal. “I just hate giving up.”

  “It’s called a strategic retreat. That’s what you do when you’re getting your asses kicked and you want to regroup and try again.”

  Sarah fluffed her hair. “I think I’m going to do that shopping we talked about. Do you want me to walk you back to the hospital?”

  “I got a card today from Darwin.” Rakkim stared at the enormous black pyramid in the distance. The Luxor. Oldest casino on the Strip. “It was on my bedstand when I woke up this morning.”

  “What did it say?”

  “‘Please convey my apologies to Miss Dougan. I was a little overheated on the flight from Disneyland. I’m sure you understand.’” Rakkim kept his eyes on the Luxor. His doctor said it was scheduled for demolition next year. “What does Darwin have to apologize for? I asked you what had happened after I passed out, and you said you barely spoke on the flight.”

  “He’s trying to upset you.”

  “It’s working.”

  “What did he mean, ‘I’m sure you understand’?” Her eyes flashed. “You see, I could ask the same kind of questions you do. That’s what he wants.” She faced him. “Darwin tried to scare me, and he did scare me, for a moment anyway. Mostly he repulsed me. The strangest thing though…when I think about the conversation now, I think Darwin made a mistake talking to me.” She waved at the brightly clad tourists on the skybridge. “Darwin kept asking me questions, pretending to know more than he does. He has no idea what we’re looking for. The Old One doesn’t trust him with the whole picture, and it bothers Darwin. He feels insulted.”

  Rakkim smiled and she smiled back at him. Eager. From the pleasure she took in her insight, Darwin must have done more than try to scare her.

  Sarah was serious again. “When you first meet Darwin, he’s so mild and amenable that it’s as if there’s no one there. He’s just so…still. Later though, when you get a really good look at him, you see that there’s this massive ego at the center of him. An ego that can never be filled, never be satisfied. Most of us are defined by an emotional interaction. You can tell who we are by who we’re responsible for. Who we care about. Who we love. Darwin, though…he’s a universe unto himself. The one and only. That’s why he seems so still, because there’s nothing but him as far as his eye can see.” She brushed her lips across Rakkim’s. “Do you want to know a secret?” She bit his earlobe. “If I were the Old One…I’d be scared of Darwin.”

  “Let’s go to your hotel,” said Rakkim. “I can go back to the hospital later.”

  “Do you think you’re well enough?”

  “I’ll just have to stay horizontal. No rough stuff.”

  Sarah showed the tip of her tongue. “Where’s the fun in that?”

  CHAPTER 52

  After evening prayers

  “Here.” Darwin shoved Rakkim a stack of black, $100 chips. “Go ahead. It doesn’t mean we’re going steady or anything.”

  “Where’s my knife?” said Rakkim. “I know you have it.”

  Darwin shook the dice. “I was going to keep it as a souvenir.”

  “I’ll give you something else to remember me by.”

  “Sir?” The stickman at the craps table straightened his black bow tie. “Bets, please.”

  Darwin plucked a single chip off Rakkim’s stack, tossed it on the pass line next to his own pink, $1,000 chip. “Now we’re on the same side.” Other than at Disneyland, this evening was the first time Rakkim had gotten a look at Darwin. He was clean-shaven, and supple as a snake. He tossed the dice. Seven.

  Cheers from the table. The stickman paid off the winning bets. The table was crowded, people pressed against the railing, laying down bets and talking loudly to one another.

  “Press it,” said Darwin, letting ride his now doubled bet and Rakkim’s. Another seven.

  Cheers! Players from other tables wandered over, drawn to the energy, squeezing in, throwing down money. Darwin beamed, resplendent in a canary-yellow cashmere sport coat and black-and-yellow-checked pants—the perfect cosmopolitan, one of the moneyed world citizens who flocked to Las Vegas for deals and contacts and high-class sin. Rakkim wasn’t sure if Darwin wanted to blend in, or if it was his true coloration.

  Rakkim’s bet had grown to $400. Darwin’s to $4,000. Another seven. The crowd roared with approval.

  “You’re my lucky charm.” Darwin put an arm around Rakkim. “I’m glad I didn’t kill you.”

  Rakkim pushed him away. “What did you want to talk about?”

  “I just thought after all the time we spent playing hide-and-seek we should have some fun.” Darwin shook the dice. The people around the table leaned forward, mouthing prayers. Two Chinese matrons bedecked in jewels screeched encouragement. “I’m disappointed you didn’t bring the little woman. She and I had quite a time while you were being cut on. She practically talked my ear off.”

  “She said you were the one doing most of the talking. I think she was bored.”

  Darwin kept rattling the dice. “You like to shoot craps?”

  “Never played.”

  “Best game in the world. Pure action. You walk past a twenty-one table, it’s all this polite banter with the dealer. People sit when they play twenty-one. They plot and practice their computer simulations for that half-percent advantage. Craps is raw aggression, hand-to-hand combat. People screaming, bumping each other, pleading with the dice. None of it does any good. No way to predict the dice. No system. No magic formula. It’s all luck, and no way to know when it’s going to end. And it does end. Once you work out the math, the longer you play twenty-one, the better your odds. Craps is the opposite—the longer you play, the more certain you are to lose. That’s part of the appeal. When you hold the dice, you’re the center of the world. All you can do is ride that hot streak. Ride it until you drop. And you always drop hard. No such thing as a soft landing in craps.”

  Rakkim yawned.

  “Sir?” The stickman tapped the green felt.

  Darwin threw the dice hard, bounced them off the far rail. Eleven. “Pay the table,” he told the stickman as the crowd applauded. He had $16,000 on the line now.

  Two expensive redheads at the far end of the table waved.

  Darwin waved back. He was average height and weight, easily overlooked except for the energy that radiated from him. Energy that he would mask when necessary, to become the common man again, harmless as a pancake. Now he was a panther, loose and easy, utterly alert. A man who would hate to be surprised. Rakkim thought of Darwin’s car rolling off the road that night in the badlands, the rage he must have felt. Seventeen werewolves slashed to pieces in the rain, and it wouldn’t have been nearly enough. There was never enough for a man like Darwin. He must have stood by the side of the road afterward, the rain sluicing him clean…he would have known Rakkim was watching.

  “What are you smiling at?” asked Darwin.

  “You.”

  Darwin’s mouth twitched, but he kept the appearance of good humor. He held out the dice to Rakkim. “Blow on them.”

  “Die.”

  Darwin rolled the dice. Snake eyes.

  The crowd groaned as the stickman wiped everyone’s bets clean.

  “You broke my heart, Rikki,” said Darwin.

  “Don’t call me that.”

  Darwin pocketed the rest of his chips, hugged Rakkim again. “Let’s get a drink.”

  “They’re still your dice, sir!” call
ed the stickman.

  Darwin walked away from the table, not looking to see if Rakkim was following. He sat at a table in the lounge, watched Rakkim approach. “You’ve got that slight limp thing down sweet,” he said as Rakkim sat across from him. “That faint wince on the right step, as if you’re trying to hide the pain. Nice touch. The old man probably buys it. I know better. You’re not recovered, but you’re close enough.” Darwin smiled at the waitress, a petite thing in a short, frilly dress, her belly bare, a golden ring in her navel. “Double bourbon. The best small label you’ve got. Same for my friend here.”

  Rakkim started to reject the offer, but stopped. “You have Mayberry Hollow? The twelve-year-old?”

  The waitress raised an eyebrow. “Yes, sir.”

  Darwin watched her wiggle off. “You impressed her.” He sat loosely in the booth, one foot up on the leather seat. The wall at his back. He could see the whole room from here. “I’ve been waiting for you to thank me for saving your life.”

  “Why?” Rakkim eased closer. “You were just following orders. That’s what you do, isn’t it?” He noted the faint tinge to Darwin’s earlobes and knew he had hit a tender spot. “Maybe I should thank the Old One. He’s the one holding the leash.”

  “There were plenty of times these last couple weeks I wanted to carve on you a bit. I’d be the first to admit that.” Darwin had light gray eyes, widely spaced, and slightly upturned at the ends. Wolf eyes. “I’ve grown fond of you. A lovely, young killer, that’s what you are. Reminds me of someone I knew a long time ago. That nonsense with the werewolves…nasty, nasty. Yeah, even if the old man hadn’t asked me to bring you here, I’d have saved you back at Disneyland. I can change the rules when I want to.” Darwin showed his teeth. “I can change them back again too. Anytime I want.”

  “What a sweet man. Can I buy you an ice-cream cone?”

  “Haven’t you wondered how SWAT knew where you were?”

  Rakkim watched him. “I figured you must have called them in so you could play hero.”

  Darwin shook his head. “It was your old Fedayeen buddy Pernell. He heard about the million-dollar bounty the Black Robes were offering and grabbed it.” He smiled. “Million for Sarah. You’re not worth a thing to Ibn Azziz.”

  Rakkim shrugged. Kept his breathing level. Darwin was telling the truth.

  The waitress reappeared, set their drinks in front of them and left.

  Darwin picked up his glass, examined the color. Sipped. Smacked his lips. “You know your bourbon. I guess you picked that up in the Bible Belt. Never been there myself, but I hear parts of it are pretty enough.” He savored another sip. “I already dealt with Pernell. That’s what you should really thank me for. That was a pure favor to you.”

  Rakkim cupped his glass. “I didn’t need you to take care of Pernell.”

  “What are friends for?”

  Rakkim let the bourbon slide down his throat in a warm rush. “Must have been a real challenge, killing a cripple.”

  “No such thing as a crippled Fedayeen.” Darwin watched Rakkim over the rim of the glass.

  “Pernell must have gotten word that you got away. Probably heard about all the dead men left behind too. He was holed up in a local police station. Surrounded by badges. So there’s the challenge you were wondering about.” Darwin stuck a forefinger in the last of the drink, sucked it. “I told him you sent your regards before I killed him. Knew you’d want it that way.” He leaned forward, pointed to the wall screen behind the bar. “Look what happened to your favorite mullah.”

  Mullah Ibn Azziz was being interviewed by a reporter from the state news agency. Ibn Azziz’s face was heavily bandaged, one eye completely covered as he railed about terrorists and how only the hand of Allah had saved him from the Zionist devils.

  “Kind of an improvement,” said Darwin.

  Rakkim spotted Lucas walking past the row of slot machines, silently cursed his bad luck. There must be a tobacco exporters convention in the city, “Did you do that to Ibn Azziz?” he asked Darwin.

  “Don’t insult me.” Darwin banged his glass on the table for a refill. “If I had gotten the call, he wouldn’t be showing off his wounds.” He leaned forward, the skin stretched taut across his face as though what was inside could barely be contained. “I’d take him down at his mosque. I’d take him down in the middle of Friday prayers, right in front of the faithful. I’d shove a pork chop in his mouth and scamper off, and that would be that. I’ve told the old man, all he has to do is say the word—”

  “Dave!” Lucas strode over, grinning.

  Rakkim stayed seated. Not much chance that Lucas wouldn’t notice him—not with his eyes. Lucas was a tobacco grower now, but had been a sniper in the civil war, had killed twenty-seven Islamic soldiers during the house-to-house battle for Nashville. He was still the best shot in Gage County, Georgia, a maker of cornhusk dolls in his spare time.

  “Dave, I can’t believe it.” Lucas clapped him on the shoulder, sat down beside him, a fleshy good ol’ boy in a badly cut blue suit. “I’m in town for the China Expo. What are you doing here?”

  “Just…taking in the sights.”

  Lucas glanced at Darwin, then back at Rakkim, then tugged at Rakkim’s goatee. “What’s with the chin whiskers? You look like a billy goat or one of the towel heads around here.” His laughed tapered off. “Oh, no. Don’t tell me that.”

  “Lucas—”

  “Christ o’dear, you’re one of them.” Lucas stood up, knocked the chair over. “They always tell us, watch out for spies, don’t trust strangers…”

  “I guess the joke’s on you, peckerwood,” said Darwin.

  “I’m sorry,” Rakkim said, before Lucas could swing on Darwin.

  “They tell us to watch for strangers, but you weren’t no stranger,” said Lucas, still trying to make sense of it. “First time I met you, it was like you were kin.” The bags under his eyes had gotten puffier in the four years since Rakkim had seen him. “You sat on my sofa and drank my whiskey. We went hunting together, fishing together…My niece…Jesus, my niece is still on me, asking when you’re coming back.”

  “I wish I had a violin, so I could properly accompany this tale of woe,” said Darwin.

  Lucas stared down at Darwin. “Hey, shit-fer-brains, are you a spy too?”

  Rakkim could see tiny flecks of light in Darwin’s eyes. “No, Lucas, he’s the guy who’s going to kill me someday.”

  “Yeah?” said Lucas. “That true, mister?”

  “It’s a possibility.” Darwin’s right hand flexed ever so slightly.

  “Well, sooner rather than later.” Lucas turned to Rakkim. Unsure what to do now. He wanted to say something. To keep things going. To unleash his hurt and betrayal. Darwin would be happy to help him. To goad him into more trouble than Lucas could imagine.

  “Good-bye, Lucas,” said Rakkim.

  “Don’t leave, peckerwood,” said Darwin, affecting a mock-Southern drawl.

  “Good-bye,” said Rakkim.

  Lucas stalked away.

  “Here.” Darwin palmed Rakkim’s knife over to him. He must have been waiting for the opportunity to gut Lucas with Rakkim’s own blade. “You spoil all my fun.”

  Rakkim tucked the knife away. “You haven’t seen anything yet.”

  The waitress brought fresh drinks.

  Rakkim took a swallow. The last time he had tasted Mayberry Hollow, he was in Lucas’s living room watching old football games. Lucas had years of Georgia football, all the way back before the war. The Georgia Bulldogs—leave it to the rebels to pick a dog as a mascot. There had been some good times with Lucas. The man knew how to tell a joke, and he laughed hardest when the joke was on him. Not this time, though.

  Darwin sipped his whiskey. “What have you got on the old man?” He tapped his glass with a fingernail. “Must be something special, because you and the girl got him spooked.”

  “Hasn’t he told you?” Rakkim tilted back in his chair. Darwin had good control, but from this
angle Rakkim could track minute changes in the assassin’s respiration by watching the tiny hairs in his nose. “Golly, I wonder what that means.”

  Darwin slid his index finger along the rim of his glass. “I don’t need to know everything that goes on in the old man’s head.”

  “Still, a man with your specialty…” Rakkim shook the glass so that the ice rattled. “It has to sting.”

  Darwin’s mouth smiled. “Sometimes.” He cocked his head, listening, then glared at Rakkim. “We’ll have to continue the foreplay some other time, Rikki. The old man wants to talk with you. Chop-chop.”

  CHAPTER 53

  After sunset prayers

  “I love this time of the evening,” said the Old One, resting his hands on the railing. “The wind dies down and there’s this brief moment of stillness before the thermals bring the cool desert air rushing down from the mountains.”

  Rakkim surveyed the city spread out before them, a vast neon sea glittering in the night. They were alone atop the penthouse on the ninetieth floor of the International Trust Services building. Dozens of bright hot-air balloons drifted against the mountains, catching the last of the light. The Old One was younger than he expected; somewhere in his seventies, a distinguished Arab with a groomed white beard and a face like a hawk. Hint of a British accent. Dark blue suit, collarless linen shirt. A man comfortable with authority.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you when you’re fully awake. I remember getting a report that Redbeard had adopted some homeless urchin, and wondering what he was up to.” The Old One inclined his head toward Rakkim. “I quickly realized Redbeard’s wisdom. He and I aren’t that different. We each seek allies, instruments to carry out our will. People we can mold and shape. Most of all we seek a successor to carry on our work. I chose to have sons to carry on my legacy. Redbeard chose you.”