Heart of the Assassin

CHAPTER 9

Rakkim was hurrying home when he spotted Sarah and Michael getting on the monorail at Fremont, both of them dressed as modern Muslims, which made no sense. He had to run to catch up, just managed to slide through the door of the Catholics-only car behind them. He didn't even have time to sit down before the monorail left, the elevated train shooting rapidly across the capital. The Catholics-only car was half full at midmorning, service workers and young mothers, mostly, a few old people staring out the windows as they gnawed on fibrous vitamin bars.

He settled back in the hard plastic bench, kept one hand half over his face, as though deep in thought, watching Sarah and Michael through the smoked glass between the cars. The Muslim cars were more luxurious, the seats padded, the air lightly perfumed with the scent of vanilla, verses from the Quran inscribed on the walls in gold script. Only fundamentalist cars were legally forbidden to nonbelievers, with a Black Robe posted on the platform to make sure no infidels tried to enter. Even so, Catholics chose to be among their own kind. Sarah stared straight ahead, head high, but Michael gawked from side to side, even peered at Rakkim for a moment before being distracted by the fat man sitting opposite him tapping away on his handheld.

Rakkim still didn't understand why she was dressed as a modern, her forearms bare, her gauzy dress barely covering her knees. Moderns drew attention. Better to go out as a moderate Muslim-there were more moderates than any other group, and a head scarf and modest dress engendered anonymity. Fundamentalist attire offered near-total invisibility, faces and bodies completely obscured, but a fundamentalist woman on her own could be stopped by any passing Black Robe, asked to show written permission from a male family member. Better to go out as a moderate, or a Catholic, with their rugged, working-class clothes and practical shoes. Catholics dressed for flight. Sarah knew all this…so why was she dressed like a modern?

Sarah leaned over, said something to Michael, and the boy smiled. Rakkim ached to be with them. He had only been gone a couple weeks, but it seemed longer, and never more so than when he saw the two of them together, realized how self-contained they were. How little they seemed to need him.

It had been three days since he slipped out of New Fallujah, winding his way beyond the control of the Black Robes. He had changed clothes at a rest stop in Northern California, emerged as a Catholic day laborer and gotten onto a crowded bus to Seattle, standing for most of the trip as the bus stopped at every town along the way.

He should have contacted General Kidd as soon as he got off the bus at Seattle's downtown produce market, should have briefed Kidd on what he had learned in the fundamentalist stronghold; that was the protocol, but Rakkim had headed home instead, desperate to see Sarah and Michael, more shaken than he wanted to admit by what he had seen back in New Fallujah. He closed his eyes and saw the burning madrassa, heard the screams, fresh innocents flickering like candles. If a shadow warrior like Jenkins could lose his way and find a home on the Bridge of Skulls…what hope was there for Rakkim?

A shout from the other side of the car, an old woman pointing out the window. One of the large freeway overpasses below had collapsed, crushed cars scattered across the roadway. He turned, saw Michael with his face pressed against the glass as the monorail moved past the destruction.

"Might help if they actually put some cement in the concrete," muttered a man across the aisle, a skinny twenty-something in worn jeans and a Starbucks giveaway nylon jacket. "'Course, that would cost money." He held out a bright red can of Jihad Cola to Rakkim.

Rakkim didn't react.

The young man got up from his seat and sat down next to Rakkim. He offered the can of cola again, his cuticles rimmed with grease, his knuckles raw. "It's mostly vodka. Made it myself from potato peelings." He toasted Rakkim. "I'm Eddie Flynn."

Two schoolgirls nearby giggled, turned away, whispering.

Rakkim looked out the windows, watched the city pass by. "What's the occasion?"

"My big brother's just enlisted. Airborne Rangers." Flynn sucked at the cola can. "Now I've got the bedroom to myself. No more arguing over the holo or having to hurry through my shower before we run out of hot water." He clutched the can. "Aren't you going to tell me how proud I should be?"

"No."

"That's good, because I ain't proud. Stupid bastard'll probably get shipped out to the Arizona front to bake his balls. Mexicans don't get him, the scorpions will. I told him not to do it…" Flynn wiped his nose, smeared snot across the back of his hand. "I said it ain't our country. If the Muslims want to fight the Mexicans, let them."

"Keep your voice down," said Rakkim.

"I got good grades, but you see me at university?" said Flynn. "No, I'm on my way to some shit job, just like you." He stared at his scuffed work boots. "School counselor told me if I wanted to convert, she could get me into the technical college." He looked up at Rakkim. "I told her to kiss my Catholic ass."

"Hail Mary, full of grace." Rakkim placed his fist against his chest, thumb curled inside, the sign of the Saint George rowdies, and the young man repeated the motion.

"I was good in chemistry," Flynn said, slurring his words. He took a swallow from the can of vodka, offered it again. "Try this and tell me I'm wrong."

"I believe you."

Flynn shrugged. "I guess you got someplace important to go. Lucky you." He signed off, lurched over to the other side of the car and sat back beside the Catholic schoolgirls.

The train made five stops before Sarah and Michael got off at the House of Martyrs war museum in downtown Seattle. Sarah and Michael joined the crowd heading toward the war museum, as many working-class Catholics as Muslims among the visitors, as many locals paying respects as tourists seeing where their tax dollars went. Sarah held tightly to their son's hand. The breeze sent leaves skittering across the pavement, but the grounds of the museum were immaculate, swept daily, the grass neatly tended. Rakkim kept well behind them, altering his pace when need be, always keeping two or three people in his sight line. Even so, twice Michael turned around quickly, almost spotted him.

Rakkim took a side path, paralleled Sarah and Michael as they walked toward the entrance. He kept his head down, glancing occasionally toward them, but avoided staring. Michael's instincts were too sharp; Rakkim had already started training him.

The war museum was a modest, understated dome built beside the crumpled Space Needle, the old monument lying on its side, rusting in the weather. The exterior of the museum was surfaced with small tiles made by schoolchildren, each one inscribed with the name of a martyred soldier. New tiles were added every month, as new martyrs fell in defense of the nation. An honor guard of veterans in crisp full-dress uniforms stood at attention around the dome, hands clasped behind their backs. Veterans in wheelchairs flanked the entrances-every visitor, Catholic and Muslim, offered them blessings before entering, the veterans stoic and unresponsive as stones.

Rakkim noticed a tall, well-dressed modern man wave to Sarah, walk toward her. Rakkim increased his pace to intercept him. Michael, noticing the modern too, tugged at Sarah, but she kept walking.

The modern strode through the crowd and it parted, made way for the handsome man with the commanding air. Rakkim recognized him now-Robert Legault, the weekend newsreader for the national news show…and a former suitor of Sarah's, one of several Redbeard, her uncle and guardian, had selected for her approval. She had rejected Legault, rejected them all, rejected Redbeard's authority and his connections and married Rakkim. From what Rakkim knew, Sarah and Legault had never seen each other since their three chaperoned dates ten years earlier.

Rakkim stayed back, stayed in the crowd…watching.

Legault opened his arms as he approached Sarah and she nodded, pressed her palms together in greeting. Legault went to pat Michael on the head and Michael twisted away, didn't let him touch him.

Rakkim saw Sarah and Legault walk across the lawn together while Michael went ahead, turning around every few steps to check on them. They stopped on a rise above the war museum. He watched Sarah and Legault talk for ten minutes, until Michael tugged on Sarah's hand, and Legault bowed low, the gallant modern, and left the way he had come.

Sarah and Michael started toward the museum.

"Sarah!"

She turned, and both she and Michael ran toward him, the wind whipping her long brown hair; she stopped short as people stared.

Michael pulled at Rakkim's hands.

"Where did you come from?" said Sarah, closer now, barely able to contain herself. "I missed you." She touched his cheeks. "We'll have to flush out the collagen when we go home-I want to see your real face again."

"You don't like the new me? Some wives might prefer-"

"I prefer you."

Rakkim picked up Michael, reached out with his other hand to draw Sarah to him, squeezed her close. He buried his face in her hair, the three of them wrapped up while the crowd broke around them, clucking their disapproval. Leave it to a modern to marry a Catholic; probably did it to torment her poor parents. Rakkim clutched them even tighter.

"New Fallujah was that bad?" Sarah whispered in his ear.

Rakkim held her, unable to speak.

Women in black burqas walked past, cursed them, their voices muffled, calling Sarah a whore who would roast in hell along with her bastard.

Sarah gently disengaged from him, took Michael's hand, the three of them strolling toward the entrance of the war museum.

"Did I see you talking with someone?" said Rakkim. "I was pretty far away…"

"Yes." Sarah touched her hair. "You'll never guess who I ran into. Robert Legault."

"He still doing the weather?"

"No, he's actually at the network now. Senior producer."

"I didn't like him," said Michael.

"I hope you gave Robert my regards," said Rakkim.

"Yes…of course."

Rakkim offered his blessing to the veterans stationed beside the entrance, while Sarah covered her head with a scarf she took from her purse and pushed down her sleeves.

The tone inside the war museum was hushed and respectful, the only sound the shuffle of feet across the marble floor and the buzz of soft voices. A baby cried and was quickly comforted. Taking photographs inside the House of Martyrs was forbidden. This was sacred ground, open to all, regardless of religion. The museum was never closed, never empty. Sarah said in the old days, before the transition, the graveyards for the nation's war dead had been overgrown and untended. Military parades had played to empty streets, or worse, the color guard had faced catcalls from those whose freedom had been paid for with others' blood. A terrible time for heroes.

"St. Louis, Kansas City, Youngstown," said Michael, pointing out the Midwest cities on the holographic battle display. Michael knew every one of them, could recount the names of the commanders and the outcome. The images scrolled past as they watched. Chicago, still smoldering. Detroit's auto works gutted. Denver. The St. Louis arch collapsed. Newark, the deepest penetration into the Islamic states by the Christian armies. Newark, fought for block by block, until Islamic reinforcements, most of them still in high school, had finally stopped the Belt advance. Bloody Newark. As many times as he had seen it, the scenes still made Rakkim tear up.

As always, there was a crowd around the display at the very center of the museum, the true heart of the memorial. The three of them waited their turn, hearing a steady murmur of "Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar," over and over until they finally stood before the marble stand holding up a simple Arabic edition of the Quran. No bulletproof plastic or nitrogen-rich bubble was necessary to protect it. The book had been recovered from the ruins of Washington, D.C., found surrounded by broken glass and twisted girders, the holy relic untouched by the atomic blast, the cover pristine, its pages shiny and white.

Rakkim lowered his eyes. He kept seeing Sarah and Robert Legault…how the breeze caught her dress, the hem grazing Legault's leg.

They stayed a few moments, then moved on from the Quran, passed a group of men in traditional garb praying before a mural of the triumph of Newark, the turning point of the war. They stopped in front of a large photo taken at the armistice between the two nations, President Kingsley and the Belt president, Andrew Fullerton, shaking hands, both of them looking exhausted.

"I bet they were glad," whispered Michael.

Rakkim played with Michael's hair. "Everyone was glad."

Above the photo of the two presidents were two aerial shots of Washington, D.C. One photo portrayed a majestic city, filled with cars, monuments gleaming in the sun. The other photo, taken a day after the dirty bomb exploded, was one long expanse of rubble and twisted metal, the great monuments fallen, streets bubbled from the intense heat.

Rakkim hated both images, the one because it showed the glory that had been lost, the other because it immortalized the extent of the destruction. The Zionist betrayal, that's what the nuke attack on the capital had been called, the Israeli Mossad blamed for decapitating the previous regime. A lie. The great lie. The Jews weren't responsible, it was the Old One. Sarah had proved that. She had a mind that could follow the twists and turns of that evil bastard, a mind attuned to deception. Rakkim looked over at her, but, though she had seen them a thousand times, the photos of D.C. had her full attention.

"Can we go see the Defense of Detroit exhibit?" said Michael.

Sarah didn't move.

"Sarah?"

Sarah stayed looking up at the ruins, then finally wiped her eyes and walked away from the dead city, walking so quickly that Rakkim and Michael had to hurry to catch up.