Prayers for the Assassin

by Robert Ferrigno

  Stevens glanced into the control room; saw a half dozen people hunched over their consoles. Two young women, one a modern with blue-tipped hair. Very cute. “I am.”

  “You’re welcome to it.” Kerenski nodded at the wall screen where the skinny actress was droning on with her acceptance speech. “This is one boring assignment.”

  “Doorman…isn’t that a little below your pay grade?” said Faisal.

  “Redbeard didn’t like the way I looked at his niece.” Stevens grinned, ran a fingernail along the curve of his sideburns. “Or maybe he didn’t like the way she looked at me.” His expression hardened. “Key combo?”

  Faisal hesitated. “Three nine nine.”

  “Go on,” said Stevens. “I’ll expect an action report a half hour after the broadcast.” He watched them double-time it down the corridor until they disappeared from sight. Turned and saw the cute modern in the control room watching him. He waved at her through the bulletproof glass and she went back to work, cheeks coloring. Another glance down the corridor. Still no Rakkim. His loss. The glory would all be Stevens’s.

  It had been an honor to be selected by Redbeard for a secret assignment, but to be the one to initiate the action…Stevens unconsciously stiffened to attention. He had dreamed of doing brave deeds for as long as he could remember. A childhood playing Arabs and Crusaders, Stevens always taking the part of the outnumbered Arabs making a last, desperate stand against the desecraters of the holy places. He smiled at the memory. To put his life on the line for his country was a blessing he had received many times since joining State Security, but this was different. He could tell from the tone of Redbeard’s voice. The way his hand had shaken slightly as he’d laid it on Stevens’s shoulder. Whatever Allah required of him, Stevens was eager to meet his destiny. A final check for Rakkim, and Stevens stepped to the door, punched in three nine nine.

  Heads lifted from their consoles, and quickly returned to work. Except for the cute girl who had been watching him before, lingering…and a man standing behind the consoles, hands clasped behind his back. Producer. Better get that settled. ASAP.

  “I’m Stevens,” he said, shaking hands with the producer. “I’m taking over the room. Order of Redbeard, director of State Security.

  The producer trembled. “Is there a problem?” He checked the screen showing the crowd of Black Robes milling around, bullhorns booming. “Surely we’re not in any danger?”

  Stevens moved to the preview bay, slipped the download in. “Lock in the override. I’ll be running the preview in a few minutes.”

  “But, that’s…that’s my job,” said the producer. “Just tell me what you want me to do.”

  Stevens could see the cute girl watching him; saw the pulse in her throat throbbing. “I want you to get your people out of here. You can stay. You and the modern with the blue hair. I’ll need you to run things. You can do that, can’t you?”

  “Yes…of course. We’ll go with a straight three-camera—”

  “Just tell the rest of them to go to the nearest staff lounge.” Stevens waited until the others left, the door locking into place. The modern with the blue hair kept glancing over at him as she pretended to work. She had a great smile. He leaned close to the producer. “The girl…what’s her name?”

  “I really don’t know. I was called in at the last minute when the regular producer got sick.” The man looked as if he was about to cry. “We’re not in any danger, are we?”

  “Relax, you’re in good hands here,” said Stevens. “What’s your name?”

  “Darwin.”

  Stevens sat down at the preview bay, kept his eyes on the live shot. The skinny actress seemed to be winding down. Just a few more minutes until Jill Stanton’s career retrospective. “Okay, Darwin, you just do your job and I’ll do mine.”

  CHAPTER 62

  After sundown prayers

  “Call your supervisor.” Rakkim stepped forward. “Call him.”

  Beason centered the pistol on Rakkim’s chest. “I will shoot you, Mr. Epps.”

  Marx, the sandy-haired Secret Service agent, whipped out a pair of clear jelly-cuffs from his belt. “You’re under arrest.”

  Beason pressed a finger to his earpiece, listening. “Hang on…”

  Rakkim put his hands out, inched back just enough so that when Marx went to slip on the cuffs, he momentarily blocked Beason’s line of fire. Rakkim twisted the cuffs away, slapped them around Marx’s throat. He kept the agent in front of him.

  “What are you doing?” said Beason, trying to get a clear shot.

  “Drop your weapon.” Rakkim hung on to the back of Marx’s jacket, using him as a shield and preventing him from reaching the gun in his shoulder rig.

  Marx wasn’t interested in his gun though. He clawed at the cuffs locking around his throat. Made from a viscous memory-polymer, the cuffs tightened automatically around the wrists of a suspect, stopping just short of pain. Around the neck they strangled.

  “Let him go, Mr. Epps!” said Beason, the gun wobbling now. “We’re leaving anyway.”

  Marx’s eyes bulged as he tore at the cuffs, his knees buckling.

  Beason placed his pistol on the floor.

  Rakkim pinched the release point, peeled the cuffs away. They left a deep red line around Marx’s neck. Rakkim passed him over to his partner.

  Beason struggled to hold him up, Marx gasping, trying to suck in air. “You didn’t have to do that,” he called after Rakkim. “We’re shifting to Quadrant B. Now, how am I supposed to explain the ligature around his neck?”

  “Don’t worry,” said Redbeard. “Rakkim can take care of himself.”

  “I know.” Sarah didn’t sound convinced.

  The TV in the limo showed Ibn Azziz making his way toward the police line to join his followers. Spotlights raced across the crowd as he urged them on.

  Redbeard leaned forward slightly. Any moment now…

  Ibn Azziz jerked, his face suddenly slack as the camera zoomed in. He clutched at his stomach, bent slightly forward. Those around him turned, stepped back, even his bodyguards, as Ibn Azziz lost control of his bowels. The cameras caught him in the white glare, shoes spattered with his own excrement, robes soaked. The newscaster on the voice-over giggled, and the crowd started laughing too. The police line rocked with jeers, and even some of the fundamentalists joined in as the image of Ibn Azziz loomed over the auditorium, mouth working like a hooked fish as he emptied himself. For an instant Luc was caught by the cameras…smiling.

  Redbeard’s laugh boomed within the limo.

  The broadcast was in the middle of a car commercial when Rakkim reached the control room…and saw Darwin inside, giving a jaunty wave from the other side of the glass.

  Comprehension like a strobe light. Darwin. A girl with blue-tipped hair working the control panel, sobbing as she called in camera shots, her back toward…toward the table behind her. Stevens sitting in a chair placed atop the table. Silvery tape across his mouth. Arms and legs taped to the chair. A wire around his neck, connected to the boom in the ceiling. Plenty of slack in the wire. But not enough to reach the floor. Enough slack to snap his neck. Full-glide casters on the chair. A sneeze could send it over the edge.

  “Door’s open.” Darwin grinned, one hand on the back of the chair, rolling it back and forth. “Come on in, Rikki. The water’s fine.”

  Redbeard watched the commercial for the new Ford Pilgrim, thinking of the cars of his youth—the land-yacht Lincoln his proud father had rolled home in one day, his mother’s minivan that smelled of spilled Coke, and the greatest car in history, the Mustang convertible he’d driven in college. He had been a wild Catholic boy in those days, in love with speed and the wind howling around him. That was before his conversion. Before his brother married Katherine. Redbeard felt a great weariness permeating him. It wasn’t his memories bearing down upon his chest. It was the other thing. That which the doctors had been helpless against, their faces long, eyes averted.

  The television cu
t back to the action inside the auditorium, movie stars chatting among themselves, one eye cocked for the camera.

  Sarah checked her watch, but didn’t say anything.

  Too late for second-guessing. Redbeard focused on Sarah instead. She looked so much like her mother. If he and Katherine had been the ones to marry, would they have had a daughter who looked like her? Probably not. Better Redbeard didn’t pass on his ugly genes. Still…he couldn’t help wondering.

  “What is it, Uncle?”

  “I was just thinking how beautiful you look.”

  Sarah furrowed her brow. “A compliment from you? Are you sick?”

  Redbeard eased back into his seat. “Never felt better.” He thought of Katherine again. He had thought of little else since she’d taken off her burka disguise last week. All the time lost. All the things he could have done, should have done. When he’d told Katherine of his regrets, she had pressed a finger against his lips, said, what makes you think it was all up to you? She was right. Which made the regret so fresh that he felt the ache. The burning. No, not now. Not yet. Redbeard breathed deep. Inhaled the warm leather memory of that Mustang convertible. He had done the right thing. They had done the right thing. Katherine was his brother’s wife. There was honor in love denied.

  Sarah grabbed his hand. “Here’s the head of the Academy. They’re about to start Jill’s introduction.”

  Redbeard wasn’t interested. He had already seen the download. Now the rest of the world could see it. Let Malik bin-Hassan choke on the truth. The Wise Old One. Horseshit. Redbeard looked out the window as the pain in his chest twisted, sharper now. Insistent. He had spent too much of his life thinking about Hassan Muhammed. It had been necessary, absolutely necessary, but the man wasn’t worth another instant of his attention. Allah would deal with the old fraud in his own good time. “Sarah?”

  Sarah turned away from the television.

  Redbeard tried to speak but the pain was too intense.

  “Uncle?”

  “Do you…still want to marry Rakkim?” Redbeard asked.

  She looked surprised, lowered her eyes for an instant, but only for an instant. “Yes.”

  Redbeard nodded. All pain was bearable when Paradise was at hand. “I would like that too.”

  “We have your blessing?”

  Redbeard drank her in. Her face sparkled. Stars flickered around her. Oxygen deprivation. So this is what dying is like. A galaxy of love and Sarah at the center of it.

  “Uncle? Do we have your blessing?”

  “Mine and your mother’s. With both our hearts. With both our souls.” Redbeard smiled. It seemed as if he had been waiting all his life to say those words. Our hearts. Our souls. His vision was narrowing. He could no longer see Sarah, but he felt her kiss his hand. Felt her hold it against her soft, warm cheek.

  “Grandma, what a big knife you have,” said Darwin.

  Rakkim laughed. It was a good line. No one but another Fedayeen would have seen the knife tucked up against the inside of his forearm.

  Darwin shoved the chair, stopped it just short of the edge. His eyes never left Rakkim.

  “Camera five, tighten up,” whispered the girl with blue hair into her throat mike. “Camera one, prepare to go wide.”

  “Who’s the asshole in the chair?” asked Rakkim.

  “He’s the asshole who’s going to die if you don’t put away the blade.” Darwin grabbed Stevens’s ear, twisted. “When a man’s neck gets snapped, he ejaculates like a fountain. It’s a real floor show.” Stevens bit his lips shut as Darwin kept twisting. “You ask me, God’s a fucking maniac.”

  “God’s not the only one.” Rakkim held his palm out, the knife perfectly balanced in the center. A drop of blood oozed around the tip. It was a doable throw, but Darwin was fast and if he missed…He flicked his wrist and the knife stuck in the door behind Darwin.

  Darwin seemed disappointed. “I looked at the download your buddy here brought. No wonder the old man was upset.”

  The girl with blue hair sniffed as she worked the board. “Camera two. Camera eight. Pan the first row, camera four.”

  “You ready, Karla?” said Darwin.

  Rakkim cocked his head. “You’re going to run it?”

  “Soon as they start the retrospective.” Darwin spun the chair across the table, the wire tugging at Stevens’s throat. “Just wish we had some buttered popcorn.”

  Rakkim moved closer.

  “I kept asking myself, why does the old man want Rakkim so badly when he’s got me? What’s he up to?” Darwin shrugged. One of the casters on the chair squeaked; Stevens was wild-eyed. “If I wanted to be kept in the dark, I would have stayed in the Fedayeen.” Thunderous applause from the monitors all around them, eight different camera angles, and live feeds from remotes all over the world. Movies, the universal language. “You ever get bored with it all, Rakkim? You ever ask yourself, what’s the point?”

  “Never. My life is sunshine and kitty cats.”

  Darwin patted Stevens’s hand. “Look at this…” He broke one of Stevens’s fingers, and Stevens lunged against his restraints, screams muffled by the tape across his mouth. “There was a time when that snapping sound would have given me a happy tingle.” Darwin broke another finger. “Now, it doesn’t mean a thing.”

  Rakkim inched closer. Stevens had fainted.

  “I had a good time with a handsome policeman a few weeks ago…but it didn’t last.” Darwin toyed with his own knife. “It never lasts.”

  “Maybe you should kill yourself,” said Rakkim. “Put yourself out of your misery.”

  “You’re the most fun I’ve had in a long time—that’s why I let you live.” Darwin lightly outlined Stevens’s eyes with the tip of his knife. A beadwork of red goggles. “I saw you at the embassy party…did you know I was in the balcony? The old man said I should stop you. Take you down right there.” The knife traced Stevens’s mouth. Blood reddened his lips. “The Swiss have lousy security. It’s as if they don’t care, or maybe they’re just arrogant. That happens when you win for a thousand years. I saw you down below and I thought, why not let things play out a little longer? Let the old man wonder what I’m up to for a change.”

  “Cuing the download,” said Karla.

  Rakkim took a small step perfectly timed to the rhythm of her voice. Darwin missed it.

  “Craps players, that’s what we are. None of that card-counting drudgery for us. A man could go crazy playing it smart.” Darwin whipped the chair, flung Stevens around. “A couple of go-for-broke boys, that’s what we are, and it’s going to get good and messy after the world gets a look at the download. We’re going to throw the bones, Rikki, and not care how they land.”

  “Jill Stanton began her career playing a cheerleader in the little-seen Eyes of Texas, but within five years she was the most recognized face in the world.” The retrospective had started, the Oscars’ website address crawling across the screen, inviting viewers to log on to download the proceedings. If Spider had done his job…“During the old regime’s last days, it was Jill Stanton’s courageous stand at another Academy Awards presentation—”

  Rakkim heard Richard Aaron Goldberg’s voice.

  “I bet the old man just spilled his tea in his lap.” Darwin frowned. “Get back.”

  Rakkim didn’t move. He just needed another step. “I bet there was a time, not too long ago either…I bet there was a time when I couldn’t have gotten this close.”

  “Oh, you’re not nearly close enough.” Darwin pushed the chair to the edge of the table, Stevens’s head flopping. “Stand down, Rikki. You wouldn’t want me to forget my manners. You’ve seen what I can do. If I wasn’t on my best behavior, I would have butchered the whole crew and put their heads in the window like jack-o’-lanterns for you.”

  Karla sobbed, covered her mouth.

  “R We Having Fun Yet, Darwin?” Rakkim waited for him to blink.

  Darwin smiled. “I don’t like repeating myself.”

  “You repea
t yourself all the time. That’s your problem. It’s all the same for you. Just death and more death. No wonder you’re bored.”

  “You’re not maintaining pupil consistency. It doesn’t matter if they’re slightly dilated or not, what matters is consistency. It’s the change in size that denotes a lie.”

  Banks of monitors showed the crowd outside the auditorium growing silent as they stared up at the JumboTron.

  “I’d love to talk some more with you, but I’ve got plans for the evening,” said Darwin. “You’ll have plenty of time to come after me when all this settles down, but here’s the good part. Next time you’re going to have a sliver of doubt about me. Now, I’m a monster, but next time you’re going to remember me as Darwin, who did some outlandish things, but let you live—”

  “Outlandish? Is that what you call it?”

  Live video feeds flashed on mobs forming in Chicago and Denver…Oscar parties turned ugly…cars burning, horns blaring…

  “Look what we’ve done. Isn’t it beautiful?” said Darwin. “I could have killed you but I didn’t. I could have killed Jeri Lynn and the kiddies, but I didn’t. Knowing that about me, it’s going to change things between us. Deepen them.”

  “Why don’t you stay?” Looking into Darwin’s eyes was like falling forever into darkness, but Rakkim didn’t turn away. “Stay and we’ll find out.”

  Darwin shook his head. “I don’t want to rush it. This is the best time I’ve had in years. Come on, admit it, you’re enjoying yourself too. Say hello to the little woman for me. Tell her I can’t wait to see her again.”

  “My name is Richard Aaron Goldberg. My team and I are part of a secret unit of the Mossad.” Clapping. “Better. I particularly liked the sweat bead. Now, do it again.”

  …wobbly footage of looting in Rio and Lagos, rage accelerating…a newsman hit by a brick in the middle of a live remote…the Eiffel Tower obscured by smoke.

  “Don’t go,” said Rakkim. “Stick around. What are you worried about?”