“Why, you silly. I’m worried about you.” Darwin shoved Stevens off the table.
Rakkim dove for the chair, caught it just before the wire around Stevens’s neck snapped taut. He glanced behind him, but Darwin was gone. Rakkim carefully set the chair on the floor. Stevens had the same raw ligature mark on him as the Secret Service agent.
…the crowd outside the auditorium tore at each other now, wailing at the night sky and the dying stars…
Other limos were peeling out of line, racing down the streets. Some with their lights off in their haste, leaving their clients milling around on the sidewalk.
“Stay put, Anthony,” said Sarah. Tears ran down her cheeks, but her voice was firm.
“I’m not going anywhere until Rakkim shows up, don’t worry,” said Anthony.
Sarah arranged Redbeard’s hands in his lap so that it looked as if he were praying. She wiped her eyes. Impossible to believe he was dead. The TV cut to the Oscars’ host standing nervously onstage. He made a joke but there was no laughter. A camera caught the audience bolting for the exits, then cut back to the host. Jill was there too, weeping, her hands outstretched—it was as good a performance as Sarah had ever seen her give, just the right mix of shock and confusion.
Pounding on the roof of the limo and Sarah jumped. Colarusso. She rolled the window partway down.
“Get out of here while you can,” said Colarusso.
“Rakkim’s not here yet. Why don’t you get in?”
Colarusso shook his head. “I got to help out the uniforms. Command structure is barely holding together.”
“Pop, get in,” said Anthony Jr.
“Duty calls and all that shit, Junior.” Colarusso pounded the roof again for good luck and then walked across the street.
The TV went blank, then cut to a news anchor blabbering about how their broadcast had been hijacked by Zionists. Even he looked as if he didn’t believe it.
Sarah’s cell rang. “Rakkim?”
“We did it,” said Spider, voice cracking. “The Oscars’ website got seven million hits before it crashed, but by then it was too late. Every hit transferred a worm back, sent the download on to everyone in their address book. A chain-letter bomb hot off the grid. Gotta go!”
Sarah shut the cell. Rested her head against Redbeard’s shoulder.
Satellite feeds hijacked the broadcast now. Riots in Chicago and Mandellaville, roads snarled in Paris and Baghdad and Delhi, streets littered with glass and bodies, mosques burning. Complete curfew called in San Francisco, Mayor Miyoki railing against treasonous Hollywood Jews, the Castro District imam calling for jihad.
Ten minutes later, the security lock on the doors beeped and Rakkim slid into the backseat. “Get us out of here, Anthony.” He kissed Sarah. “Redbeard, I hope…” His voice trailed off.
Sarah took his hand as they pulled into traffic.
Through the windows of the limo, they could see the glow from the fires burning all over the capital.
EPILOGUE
Nine months after the Oscars
Allah is great.
Rakkim emptied his mind as he stood within the mosque, putting the world behind him. He faced the qibla, pointing toward Mecca, his attention on Allah. He brought his hands to his ears, palms forward, thumbs behind his earlobes. Speaking in Arabic, he recited his salat, the ritual prayer.
Allah is great.
I bear witness that there are none worthy of worship except Allah.
I bear witness that Muhammad is the Messenger of Allah.
I seek refuge in Allah from Satan, the accursed
In the name of Allah, the infinitely Compassionate and Merciful,
Praise be to Allah, Lord of all the worlds.
At the end of his devotions he sat back on his haunches, hands on his knees. To complete the prayer he looked over his right shoulder and acknowledged the angel recording his good deeds, then looked over his left at the angel recording his bad deeds.
Now was the time for personal prayers, but Rakkim had none.
The worshipers at the Sword of the Prophet Grand Mosque stirred as Ibn Azziz started to speak, a whisper of anticipation that echoed off the spotless mosaic interior. Over twenty thousand believers packed in, eager to hear his sermon. Rakkim had arrived hours early to get a spot, passing through security and a series of patdowns. Rakkim had been coming to hear Ibn Azziz every day since he’d arrived. He knew the strengths and failings of the one-eyed cleric’s bodyguards and had picked out at least a dozen operatives of the Black Robes salted among the faithful. Rakkim sat within the vast throng, aware of Ibn Azziz’s exhortations, but focused more on the man’s intonation, his facial expressions, his abrupt gestures. He was a powerful speaker, his intensity palpable, and the crowds were even larger now than when he had first arrived, hard-liners streaming into the city by the thousands, heeding his call.
Rakkim had been attending prayers at the Grand Mosque for thirteen days. The day before yesterday, he had spotted Darwin among the devout. Rakkim had offered up no personal prayers to Allah, but Allah had answered his heart’s desire anyway.
The world had shuddered in the months after the Academy Awards, changed in ways that none of them could have foreseen. There had been riots in a hundred cities around the globe, but infinitely more disruptive had been the quiet questions in a billion minds as they watched the download over and over: If the Zionist attack had been a lie…what else was a lie?
At first, the community of Islamic nations had joined President Kingsley in denouncing the interrogation-rehearsal download as a Zionist hoax or a plan by the Bible Belt to threaten the legitimacy of the government in Seattle. Experts were trotted out to explain how such digital manipulations were easily done, and news commentators offered their own sage advice. Talk-show comedians mocked the idea that Lorne Macmillan, the FBI agent who had broken the Zionist plot, would have been part of such a deception. They might even have held the day. The experts might have swayed public opinion. Except that ten days after the broadcast, the Chinese government broke the news of what they had found in a cave near Yichange, along the banks of the Yangtze River.
Carried live around the world, the news conference showed the fourth nuclear bomb surrounded by men in protective gear. Traffic on the freeways slowed, then stopped, as people were riveted to their video cells. Found thirty-seven miles north of the Three Gorges Dam, far enough away that it was never within the security perimeter, the fourth bomb was much more powerful than the ones that had devastated New York and Washington, D.C. It wasn’t just the bomb that proved the truth of the download; the bodies of the three men dead of radiation poisoning were found in the cave. DNA and forensic tests established that all three were known Muslim terrorists with prior arrest records. Not a Jew among them. Two had spent time at Guantánamo and been released by court order. The third was Essam Muhammed, the ringleader, a former student at MIT, a physicist arrested at a minor demonstration years before he died.
Hassan Muhammed, the Wise Old One, disappeared from his Las Vegas redoubt a few days before Interpol arrived. Billions of his assets had been confiscated around the world, but investigators felt they had only scratched the surface. The Muslim nations were as outraged as anyone else, demanding that he be called to account for the desecration of Mecca with a dirty bomb, calling on all Muslims to aid in the search for him. Though there was a worldwide arrest warrant, the Old One remained free, rumored to be in Switzerland, Kuala Lumpur, Pakistan. A hundred places and no place at all.
Someday Rakkim hoped to meet him again. Ask him if he still enjoyed the sunset. Ask if the view was still as grand from where he stood as it had been from the ninetieth floor? Rakkim had other business though, matters that required his immediate attention.
“Islam makes demands upon us,” shouted Ibn Azziz, arms flailing. “As adult males we are instructed to prepare ourselves for conquest, so that the strictures of Islam are obeyed in every country in the world. Every country!”
Strung out on ei
ther side of him, Ibn Azziz’s bodyguards glared at the crowd, looking for any sign of evil intent. A neon sign perhaps. Or a hand raised, seeking permission to assassinate their mullah. The entrances and exits were heavily guarded too, but like most weaklings, Ibn Azziz confused sheer numbers with skill. Two of his bodyguards were ex-Fedayeen, quiet men and formidable fighters certainly, but they were only two.
Rakkim half closed his eyes and thought of sweeter things. His wife, Sarah, was pregnant, swelling in her fifth month. His wife. Blessings on Redbeard…wherever he was. Katherine a doting grandmother. She and Spider…Benjamin, had lunch regularly, a most unlikely friendship. Colarusso remained a detective, had turned down a promotion, saying the country needed good cops more than another mediocre paper pusher. He was right, as usual. Anthony Jr. had rejected his appointment to Fedayeen, had instead taken a posting with State Security…working under the acting director, Stevens. Rakkim stifled a smile. Though they might still work together, he and Stevens still didn’t like each other.
Perhaps the greatest blessing was the health of President Kingsley. Reported near death for years, he had been reenergized. Initially fooled by his advisers about the integrity of the rehearsal confession, he had accepted the truth…and dismissed his advisers. Acting quickly, Kingsley granted the nation’s Christian minority expanded rights and rescinded the hated religious tax upon them, thus saving the country from disintegrating into a thousand warring fiefs. He had even granted amnesty to the Jews, a courageous move that brought the hard-liners into open revolt. General Kidd and the Fedayeen had stood beside the president in the hour of need, and the Black Robes and their supporters had retreated to strongholds in San Francisco, St. Louis, and Cleveland. While the internal battles were far from settled, Kingsley’s greatest triumph had been the avoidance of open warfare with the Bible Belt. For years Kingsley had maintained a backdoor channel with the president of the Bible Belt, and their relationship had prevented hotheads on both sides from initiating a conflagration. Through his own contacts in the Bible Belt, Rakkim had done his small part to continue the dialogue between the two nations.
“Only those who know nothing of Islam—and I include especially the Arabic appeasers who dwell in our holiest cities—say the Muslims seek peace,” said Ibn Azziz, his voice hoarse and cracking. “Those who say this are fools or worse.”
The faithful in the mosque nodded in agreement. Darwin knelt near one of the far exits, hands clasped.
Even knowing the growing danger Ibn Azziz presented, Sarah had been angry with Rakkim when he’d left to go to San Francisco. She said his place was with her and with the baby. He told her he would be back in time to see their child born. He gave her his promise. She was still angry. He didn’t blame her.
“Should we Muslims sit back until we are devoured by the unbelievers?” demanded Ibn Azziz. “I say, put them to the sword and scatter their bones! I say, whatever good exists is thanks to the sword! Compromise with unbelievers is a defeat for righteousness! The sword is the key to Paradise!”
The believers sprung to their feet, roaring, “God is great, God is great, God is great,” louder and louder until it seemed the dome of the mosque itself would shatter. As their voices faded, Ibn Azziz blessed them and disappeared into the back of the mosque. The crowd squeezed through the exits into the streets. Darwin took his time. Rakkim kept him in sight, following at a distance, making no effort to close the gap between them.
The crowd thinned out over the next half mile, dissipating into the maze of side streets. A rain was falling, a cold drizzle that soaked the robes of the faithful, forcing them to walk with their heads down. Not Darwin. Not Rakkim. Twice Darwin looked behind him, but Rakkim always kept a cluster of other believers in front of him, screening him from sight.
Darwin turned south off Union Street, continued on a twisting path deeper into the underbelly of the city, the apartment buildings decayed, many of them crumbled into bricks and rebar. Rakkim had followed Darwin into the sector after spotting him that first time, followed him and lost him. Not today. This time he saw Darwin dart into an abandoned church. Rakkim circled the church, the hood of his robe low around his face. He expected Darwin to slip out and continue on his way, but glimpsed him instead through a broken stained-glass window, Darwin climbing the stairs to the second floor of the church, taking the steps two at a time. Rakkim hurried to a side entrance before Darwin achieved the high ground and the greater visibility it offered.
The church was quiet and cool inside. Bright pieces of broken glass on the floor and ripped hymnals. A wooden crucifix splintered. The pews chopped up for kindling. An old fire pit where the pulpit had been. Empty cans and bottles. Obscene graffiti on the walls. Rakkim moved silently across the room toward the stairs. He heard creaking above as Darwin walked across the floor.
Far away, he heard an ancient streetcar rumble down Union Street, a tourist attraction for a city that no longer had tourists. Rakkim checked his watch. Fifteen minutes later another streetcar clattered down Union, this time the conductor giving a few rings of his bell. Fifteen minutes after that, Rakkim moved quickly up the stairs in time with the passing streetcar. His knife was part of his hand.
At the top of the stairs, Rakkim suddenly jerked back and Darwin’s knife stabbed from the doorway, pierced the air where Rakkim should have been. Darwin kept coming, and Rakkim was off-balance, almost falling down the stairs. He regained his footing as Darwin vaulted toward him, Rakkim retreating.
“Where are you going?” said Darwin, knife twitching side to side like a divining rod. “What a surprise it was to see you at the Grand Mosque. I almost waved.”
Rakkim felt out of breath, his chest tight. He forced himself to relax his grip on his knife.
“Are you okay, Rakkim? You want to take a break? Have some tea?”
Rakkim shrugged off his robe, the two of them circling each other. “What are you doing in San Francisco?”
“Same thing you are. Getting ready to kill Ibn Azziz.”
Stained glass crunched under Rakkim’s feet. Saints or prophets…he didn’t look. Rakkim kept his eyes on Darwin. “The Old One take you back? Forgive and forget?”
“The old man doesn’t do either. He didn’t send me—” Darwin’s knife flicked forward, and Rakkim pivoted, slashed at him. “I came here on my own.”
They each took a step back. Noticed that they had identical cuts along their chests. Bowed.
“Blood to blood,” whispered Darwin.
“Blade to blade,” Rakkim returned the salute.
“I recognized you the moment I first saw you,” said Darwin. “I knew what you were.”
Rakkim didn’t answer.
They moved across the church, stepping carefully, knives writing their names on flesh. They cut each other a dozen times. Not deep. Scratches mostly, but this was not a training exercise. Not a game. They were going for the killing cut. An artery. A tendon. A skull stab. Darwin’s eyes stayed calm, his steps smooth, but Rakkim was no longer the only one out of breath.
Darwin half crouched, blinking away blood from a slash across his eyebrow. He switched the knife into his other hand.
Rakkim kicked aside a rat carcass. “I know who you are, too, Darwin. I know how you think.”
“I feel sorry for you then, Rikki. I wouldn’t—” Darwin launched an attack that cut Rakkim across the right arm, but the flurry left him momentarily open, and Rakkim drove his blade into Darwin’s thigh. Darwin circled, ignoring the wound. “Knowing how I think…I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.”
Rakkim advanced on him. “You don’t care who wins or loses. Fundamentalists…moderates, Catholics and Jews, they’re all the same to you. You just want to kill somebody…”
“Somebody important. Hard to kill. Like Ibn Azziz. Like you. The challenge, that’s what it’s all about. The only sin is not living up to our true nature. You know that, Rikki.”
“I told you not to call me that.”
Their knives darted back and fort
h, a sharp whisper in the church as they circled, mirroring each other’s moves. Their blades rarely touched, it was all feint and counterattack. Darwin bled from a dozen cuts on his hands and arms and face, none of them deep enough to slow him. Rakkim had been cut too, and Darwin was learning his rhythm, anticipated him more often, waiting for the killing opportunity.
“I was trained to snuff out great men. Generals and ayatollahs, popes and princes.” Darwin shook his head. “I’ve squandered my talents since leaving the Fedayeen, but you…you made me reexamine things.”
Rakkim closed in, forcing the battle. He had to. Time favored Darwin.
“After I kill you, I’ll kill Ibn Azziz.” Darwin backed up almost to a fallen statue of Jesus with his head broken off. “After I kill him…I’ll kill the president. Maybe I’ll even kill the old man. Would you like—?” He stumbled against the statue and Rakkim lunged. The stumble was faked though, and Darwin’s blade slid into him and back out again.
Rakkim clutched his side, gasping.
“Ouch.” Darwin laughed. “Do you know your Bible? Jesus got stabbed in the exact same place by a Roman centurion. Poor Jesus. Poor Rikki. Does it hurt?”
Rakkim felt blood leaking through his fingers.
“Don’t die on me.” Darwin spread his arms wide. “Not yet.”
Rakkim laughed. Took his hand away from his side. Letting the blood flow.
“What’s so funny?” said Darwin.
“You think you’re this world shaker, this history maker…” Rakkim hung to an overturned pew. “You’re nobody. You’ll sink without a trace.”
Darwin bobbed gently, a cork upon the waves.
“Who’s going to weep for you, Darwin?”
“It doesn’t matter. I won’t be listening.”
Prayers for the Assassin Page 45