Rakkim pointed toward Mardi’s regular booth in the back. He couldn’t see her, but he knew she was there. “Bring us a couple, will you?”
Mardi looked up from her paperwork as he approached, blond and brassy. She had lost weight.
“Don’t be mad.”
“Why would I be mad?” Rakkim sat down opposite her. Sat so he could see and be seen from the front of the club. “All I can do is try to save your life.”
“I was gone for almost two weeks. I thought I would go nuts.”
“You brought Enrique with you.”
“I had to have something to do.” Mardi looked around, annoyed. “Who told you that? What, you get to scamper around the countryside with the Muslim princess, and I’m supposed to hide out by myself?”
Rakkim laughed. “Scamper?” He shook his head. “You probably don’t have to worry about Darwin coming around, not anymore.” People were slowly filling the club, moderns with bright clothes and etched hair. The call to evening prayer undulated through the streets, faint as a buoy tolling in fog, warning sailors from the rocks. “I heard Enrique got promoted from busboy to waiter when you got back.”
Mardi beamed, shook back her hair. She had gotten some sun, and a thin, gold bracelet on her left wrist, and she would have needed her back oiled while she was away. She had a beautiful back, lean and finely muscled, two dimples at the base of her spine. “It was a very good vacation.”
Albert delivered a couple of fruit slushies, lingered for a moment, then walked away.
“I missed you,” said Mardi. “Hey, I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I was just being polite.”
“I’m not embarrassed and you’re not polite.”
“It’s happened, hasn’t it?” said Mardi.
“What?”
“You’ve got a mission. I used to see the same look on Tariq when he got word. I’d glance over at him and he would be so…calm, so utterly poised, that I knew he was readying himself. Getting ready for whatever fate had in store for him. No fears. No regrets—”
“Building strong the ship of death.”
“Yes, that’s exactly what Tariq used to say. There was no room for me on that ship, no room for anyone.” Mardi watched him with those cool blue eyes. Sometimes when they had made love, there would be an instant when her eyes would tender up. It wasn’t anything he did, it was something she allowed to happen. Letting go of the memory of her husband, or maybe it was feeling his presence in Rakkim. That Fedayeen self-assurance, like a scent you all give off, she had said. “You got yourself another mission.”
“Yeah, I did.”
Mardi pushed her drink around the table, but didn’t pick it up. “I only met Sarah that one time, and I didn’t much like what I saw, but Rakkim…right now I feel sorry for her.”
“This is a lovely spot, Thomas.”
“You’re the only one who calls me that anymore,” said Redbeard. “I like it.”
Katherine trailed her hand in the tiny waterfall at the center of his garden, the very heart, just the two of them. “I always wanted a water garden.”
“I remember,” said Redbeard.
“I love the sight and sound and smell of it. The way it teems with life.” Katherine lifted up her arms; let water run down her bare arms, the late-afternoon light turning her skin coppery. “Birds and frogs and lizards and fish. Moss underfoot, leaves brushing against your face. Like making love to the earth.”
“I never thought of it quite that way.”
“Close to God, is that better?” Katherine smiled, watched a leaf spin wildly in the current, caught in a minor eddy. “You did a good job with Sarah.”
“Angelina did a good job.”
“No…there’s a lot of you in her. She’s a fighter.”
“Like her mother.”
“Yes, like me.”
Neither of them mentioned James. He was many fine things, but James was not a fighter. Not like Redbeard. Or Katherine. “Do you ever wonder?” he started. “Do you ever—”
“Yes, I do.”
Redbeard nodded, reluctant to continue. It was good enough sitting here in his favorite spot, just the two of them. As he had dreamed about forever.
“I could never have betrayed James,” said Katherine. “Neither could you. I tried not to look at you. I thought that would help.”
“I thought you didn’t like me,” said Redbeard. “I didn’t realize until you came home yesterday…I didn’t know how you felt.”
“That’s why we were so awkward and nervous around each other, misreading every innocent comment. Our minds were guilty. We were lovers in our imaginations, adulterers without ever touching.” Katherine scooped a rusty Coca-Cola bottle cap out of the water, held it up dripping. “It seems like only yesterday.”
“It’s too late, Katherine.”
“I know that.”
“He was my brother. I loved him. I felt so…dirty with the thoughts I had. I used to worry that he could see into my mind. Then, when he died…I used to…I used to think…” Redbeard was crying, his big frame lurching from trying to hold it back. “I used to think that maybe I had done it. That the reason I didn’t see the assassination coming, the reason I didn’t react quicker…maybe I wanted—”
“Shhhhh.” Katherine was half his size but seemed larger as she pressed his face against her. “You were shot three times and you still managed to bring down his killer. If you wanted James dead, there were easier ways to do it.”
“I was supposed to protect him,” Redbeard croaked.
“We do what we can and leave the rest to God.”
“I’m sorry, Katherine. I wish…I wish we had time.”
Katherine flipped the bottle cap to him. “There must be others where this came from. Have we got time enough for that, Thomas?”
Sarah’s horse sneezed, and she spurred it forward, hanging on tight. Horses made her nervous. “I just want you to know what you could be getting yourself into.”
“Let me tell you a secret,” said Jill Stanton, their horses side by side as they trotted through the outskirts of a neighbor’s ranch. “I’ve been out of the public eye for fifteen years, but when you’ve been famous, really famous, you can get away with almost anything. Rape, drugs, theft…even murder sometimes.” Green grasshoppers flew around them as the horses barreled through the brush. “After the Oscars next week, I’ll be interviewed on every network. I’ll lead every special report. You watch me, honey, I’ll be the best innocent victim you ever saw. Don’t worry about me.”
Sarah barely had control of her horse. She had approached Jill’s neighbor earlier, rented a horse, then had him call Jill for her. Rakkim had checked the area, hadn’t found any lurkers, but he was cautious, as always.
“You’re holding the reins too close,” said Jill. “Give the horse room or you’ll spook her.”
Sarah loosened the reins. She was itchy and sweaty and couldn’t wait to get off. “I can’t tell you what’s going to happen that night…it’s going to be very big though.”
“I wouldn’t want to know. I’m the innocent victim, remember?”
“Jill, this is important. Everything is going to change.”
Jill laughed, and her face in the setting sun showed every crease and wrinkle. “If I had a dollar for every time I heard that…”
CHAPTER 61
After sundown prayers
“Idolatry!” Ibn Azziz shrieked to the tens of thousands milling in front of Crown Prince Auditorium. Most of them were moderns and moderates, here to cheer the movie stars inside on Oscar night, the movie stars shown on the three-story-high screens outside the auditorium. Thousands though were hard-core supporters of Mullah Ibn Azziz, bused in from mosques all over the country. “This is a celebration of idolatry!”
“Idolatry!” responded his supporters: women in black burkas clacking smooth stones together, men in jellabas, flogging themselves with chains. They surged around Ibn Azziz’s bodyguards trying to touch him, seeking his blessing. “Idolatry!�
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The moderates and moderns in the crowd roared whenever their favorite stars appeared on camera, but their voices were drowned by the rage and intensity of Ibn Azziz’s supporters. A police line five deep surrounded the entrance to the auditorium, a phalanx of uniforms staring straight ahead through their face shields. Dozens of helicopters circled overhead, searchlights playing across the crowd. The Academy Awards were always televised from Los Angeles, but this year, on the twenty-fifth anniversary of the founding of the Islamic Republic, the president had decided to host the event from the capital. To not only show the whole world the tolerant face of Islam, but also lend his political support to one of the republic’s largest economic drivers.
The rage of the fundamentalists was largely manufactured by Ibn Azziz for political gain. As usual, most of the nominated films told uplifting stories of good Muslims overcoming temptation through moral strength. Flesh or Faith, considered a shoo-in for Best Picture, was the tale of a beautiful Muslim girl from a poor family engaged to marry a rich Catholic who owns the home they rent. At the final hour, a visit from an angel turns the girl back to the true faith and leaves the groom alone and humiliated at the altar. Miracles Inc., another highly acclaimed film, used state-of-the-art computer imagery to suggest the holographic wonders and delights of heaven itself. Like all Hollywood creations, the production values were flawless, the acting mesmerizing, the message trumpeting modest devotion. Rather than assuaging Ibn Azziz, Hollywood’s piety was seen as a threat, the cleric declaring that time in movie theaters would be better spent in mosques.
“To hell with these immoral images! To hell with the false gods of Hollywood!” shouted Ibn Azziz for the cameras as he was bumped and jostled. His face was still swollen and scratched from Angelina’s fingernails, his ruined eye a ragged hole in his skull. “Tonight we show the world that Muslims will not abide such sacrilege in the capital itself!”
The crowd of fundamentalists moved forward, chanting, the crashing of stone on stone providing a potent beat. A tremor ran through the line of uniforms, the rows of armored police squaring up.
Rakkim and Stevens easily passed through the first three checkpoints, but they hit trouble at an unexpected one deep within the amphitheater. Two presidential Secret Service agents refused to accept Rakkim’s credentials without further confirmation. A potentially disastrous delay. He and Stevens should have had a half hour to get into position, but the top box-office actress in the world had thrown a fit at Jill Stanton’s career retrospective bumping up against her own musical number. The star, who had a marginal voice in spite of all the audio engineers, had insisted the retrospective be moved ahead a segment so Jill’s superior talents wouldn’t overshadow her. They had no more than fifteen minutes to get into the main control room.
Rakkim held out his credentials. “Check my ID. Do an iris scan to confirm my identity. I’m cleared. Redbeard himself signed off.”
The agent with the sandy hair shook his head. “I didn’t clear you.”
The bald one had moved into perfect position, back a few paces, hand on his pistol.
“Stevens, you can pass,” said sandy hair. “Mr. Epps, wait here for my supervisor.”
Stevens stood his ground. “You two shouldn’t even be here. Interior of the amphitheater is State Security’s responsibility. You don’t have jurisdiction.”
“We don’t have to explain anything to you,” said sandy hair.
“The president requires at least six possible exit routes, fellas,” said the bald one. “We have to secure each and every one of them.”
The live-feed screen at the checkpoint showed the mass of fundamentalists stopped three feet away from the police line. Chains were flying, faces contorted as the hard core shouted for the police to join them.
“Give me your cell,” said Rakkim. “You can talk to Redbeard himself.”
“Fuck Redbeard,” said sandy hair.
“Come on, Marx,” said the bald one, still keeping a watchful eye. “What can it hurt?”
“Is Redbeard the fucking president, Beason?” said Marx. “No, he’s not. Do we work for the fucking president? Yes, we do.” He looked at Stevens. “You going or staying?”
“Go ahead, I’ll catch up with you when their supervisor shows up.” Rakkim tugged at Stevens’s jacket as though straightening it, passed him the digital download.
“Are you sure you have enough men deployed, Chief?” Redbeard said into the limo’s phone.
“As I told you—”
“I know what you told me, I also know what I’m seeing on TV, and it looks to me like you don’t have enough men.” Redbeard could feel Sarah’s tension as she sat beside him, watching the chaos in front of the auditorium.
“I guess I could call in the overflow—”
“I thought you would have already done so. I gave you intel yesterday that Ibn Azziz was going to make trouble.” Redbeard slammed down the phone, looked at Colarusso. “Your boss is an ass.”
“Never had a boss who wasn’t,” Colarusso said from the jump seat facing them.
Anthony Jr.’s voice came over the intercom from the driver’s seat. “Anything I can do?”
“Stay put,” both Redbeard and Colarusso said at the same time.
Colarusso shrugged. “The kid hears there’s trouble, he wants to be first in line.”
“Proactive…I like that,” said Redbeard. “With proper training, there’s no limit to how far he could go.” Redbeard looked out the smoked windows. “Hate to see a young man with such obvious talent get shunted into the Fedayeen.”
“Maybe we could talk about that,” said Colarusso. “After this business is over.”
Redbeard let the offer linger as he watched the street. They were part of a long line of identical limos strung along the back streets behind the auditorium. Limos reserved for second-tier celebrities and minor industry honchos. The stars’ limos were in the parking garage under the auditorium. A lousy place to be if you had to make a hasty exit. Redbeard had two doubles at the event. One in a secure VIP lounge inside the auditorium. Another in a command limo with Redbeard’s regular driver.
Redbeard picked up the phone again, punched in a nontraceable number. Luc picked it up on the first ring. Crowd noise on the other end as Luc squeezed through, making his way toward Ibn Azziz. “Do it,” said Redbeard, clicking off. He settled back into the plush seat. Smiled.
“I’m going to walk the area,” said Colarusso. “I know the uniform working traffic control for this sector. I’ll bring him some coffee.”
“It was a pleasure seeing you again, Detective,” said Redbeard.
Colarusso got out, leaned over, poked his head inside. “My boy is a good driver, you don’t have anything to worry about.”
“Inshallah,” said Redbeard.
“Yeah, whatever,” said Colarusso, the door closing with a heavy thunk.
Their gray limo was like all the others in line, only it was fully armored, the glass bulletproof and bomb resistant, the air recirculated in case of tear gas or worse. The armor was important but the anonymity was better. If one’s enemies know where you are, no matter how well protected you are, you can be gotten. Better to be a chameleon than a turtle. The limo was as safe a place as there was around the auditorium—he was still glad he had insisted that Katherine not join them. Someone needed to have a copy of the download in case things went bad. That’s what he had told her anyway. He had told Sarah the same thing, ordered her to stay away, to go into hiding until things were clearer. She had kissed him, told him she loved him…and then said she was a grown woman who had survived two months on her own, two months with a Fedayeen assassin trailing her. She could handle a night at the Oscars.
Stevens hurried down the hall. One of the monitors set into the wall showed that skinny young actress accepting her Best Supporting Actress award, her voice high-pitched and with the hint of a lisp. He walked even faster. His new boots were a little stiff, but they were French. Well worth a few pinched toes. A rig
ht at the next split in the corridor, deeper into the labyrinth. Never should have left Rakkim back there. He touched the download in his pocket. He didn’t know what it was, but he knew what to do with it. Redbeard had said if either of them were caught with it, they would be executed, then offered him a chance to say no. He smoothed his pencil mustache. If Redbeard said to dive into a blast furnace, Stevens might ask for a cold drink first, but he would jump. He and Rakkim were supposed to take over the control room and lock it down. The download went into the preview bay of the central control panel. Redbeard had put a mock-up on the computer, run Stevens and Rakkim through the drill a few times. It was a simple procedure. When the preprogrammed career highlight reel started, one of them would switch the main feed to preview mode and the download would play. A trained chimp could do it. So why was Stevens’s heart pounding?
It must have killed Rakkim to get paired with him. Fedayeen thought they were God’s gift. Now look at him, stuck back there with those Secret Service yobs. In spite of his height, when he’d turned eighteen, Stevens had been accepted in the Fedayeen…but a broken ankle the first week of training had sidelined him. He got another chance after the ankle healed, but he came down with hypothermia during winter maneuvers and that was that. The only luck he had was bad luck. Except when it came to women. Stevens touched his nose. It had healed nicely, with just the faintest sign of the break. Stevens had insisted on that, against the wishes of his plastic surgeon. Women loved a man with a broken nose. He wished Rakkim were with him. Not that he needed him. To show him.
Kerenski and Faisal were outside the control room window, natty in their dress blazers.
“Redbeard wants the two of you shifted out front to reinforce the cops,” said Stevens. “Report to the watch commander, but maintain your autonomy.”
“Who’s minding the store back here?” said Faisal.
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