Heart of the Assassin

CHAPTER 24

Mullah Jenkins saw one of ibn-Azziz's bodyguards slouched in the shadows at the south checkpoint leading out of the city, the man cleaning his fingernails with the tip of his knife while the regular patrol checked IDs. If it wasn't for Jenkins's enhanced night vision, he would have never spotted the man. The wind kicked up, a storm coming in fast. He turned into an alley and started running, his black robes flapping around him like bat wings. A member of ibn-Azziz's personal retinue at the south checkpoint, another one at the eastern checkpoint. Had to be a reason and Jenkins didn't like the answer he'd gotten.

He raced down the alley. Should have left with Rakkim when he had the chance. Should have left on his own long before then. He would have liked to convince himself that he stayed because he thought he had more work to do for General Kidd, but that wasn't it. He hadn't left that night because he was afraid Rakkim would kill him as soon as they were off the bridge. He could see it in Rakkim's eyes, a barely restrained moral outrage, a mixture of disappointment and disgust from his former pupil. Almost as great as the disgust Jenkins felt toward himself. He should have taken the risk and left with Rakkim. Even if Rakkim had killed him, that was better than falling into the hands of ibn-Azziz.

Something had gone wrong. Something to draw suspicion to him. Had he been too merciful? Yes…yes, the schoolgirls, the damn schoolgirls. He should have refused Rakkim's demand. Burned them all. Now, look at him, running for his life because Rakkim had a soft heart. The killer with a soft heart. Jenkins tried to laugh but couldn't summon the humor, his laughter as dried and atrophied as ibn-Azziz's mercy.

With late-night prayers finished, the streets were nearly deserted. No place to hide. His apartment was a death trap. He had an emergency refuge, a small room in an abandoned building near the old marina, but it was better to escape the city now, any way he could.

He forced himself to slow, head high, robe billowing around him, as befitting a cleric of his station. Ibn-Azziz had no reason to believe that Jenkins was aware of the danger he was in. The order to pick him up had probably been sent out only to the guards at the checkpoints. If that failed to snag him, a more general order would be sent out at first light, his image shown at every mosque during dawn prayers. Then no refuge would be safe. Nor would anyone risk angering ibn-Azziz to help him. All these years in New Fallujah, and there was no one he could call his friend, no one who would shelter him. The price of being a shadow warrior was that intimacy was a threat. You built your life on a construct of deceit, a house of lies that collapsed with the slightest pressure.

A door opened in the alley, and two men stepped out.

Jenkins froze, heart pounding.

The two men looked at him, fell to their knees. "Mercy…we ask mercy."

Jenkins saw that one of them had a lit cigarette in his hand. Doubtless they had slipped out of their lodgings to smoke in secret.

The man tossed his cigarette to the pavement, crushed it underfoot. The other stayed on his knees, head bowed.

Jenkins let them simmer in their sin for a few moments. Mercy too quickly given would be suspicious. He watched as they trembled before him, waiting for his decision.

"I know your names," Jenkins lied. "See that you double your donations at mosque tomorrow morning."

The man who had tossed his cigarette attempted to kiss the hem of Jenkins's robe.

Jenkins kicked, knocked him backward. He heard the door to the alley slam, drew the hood of his robe tight around his face. As he was about to leave the alley, he heard a car approach and Jenkins shrank back, hugged the wall. A dark green car with two Black Robe enforcers inside drove past, though whether they were looking for him or for sinners, he wasn't sure.

He waited until the car's taillights disappeared before crossing the street. He headed toward the Bridge of Skulls. There was a small boat dock under the bridge, a dock available only to the Black Robes patrol units-the boats used to cruise the bay, looking for lights on after curfew or to intercept smugglers bringing in contraband. The storm would keep boats docked, and the guards huddled in their shacks. Taking one of the boats across the bay to safety would be dangerous in this weather, but the very risk made it less likely that ibn-Azziz would have the area under surveillance.

A long walk from here to the Bridge of Skulls, particularly if he stayed in the alleys and avoided the main streets. It could easily be dawn before he got there. He hurried on.

He started up one of the steep stairways toward the crest of the hill, taking the steps two at a time, holding up the edge of his robe so he didn't trip and split his skull. In the distance the new mosque loomed over the city; still only half completed, it dominated the skyline. The largest mosque in the world, seating three hundred thousand worshipers-ibn-Azziz said it would draw pilgrims from across the planet. Rakkim had wanted to know where the money to build it was coming from, which had gotten Jenkins thinking. Perhaps it had been his own discreet inquiries this last week that had roused ibn-Azziz's suspicions.

Not that he had found out anything concrete. Just that no government was involved, all donations came through individual foundations. What was most interesting to Jenkins was that the idea of the gigantic mosque didn't seem to emanate from ibn-Azziz, whose own ascetic nature rejected ostentation and grandeur. Persons unknown had presented the design for the mosque to him, suggesting that such a grand structure would not only honor Allah, but also shift the attention of the Muslim world from the decadent Arabian Peninsula to the pure Islam of New Fallujah.

A rat scurried across the steps and into the underbrush on the hillside. Jenkins slowed his pace slightly, his knees aching. The wind kept rising, swirling dead leaves around his ankles. The surrounding buildings were dark, although he sometimes heard the sound of a muffled radio from one of the apartments.

It started raining, not too heavy yet, but the slick steps were even more treacherous. He quickened his pace anyway.

More than the sheer enormity of the money donated for the mosque, it was the method of seducing ibn-Azziz that made him think the Old One might have been responsible. Money was irrelevant to ibn-Azziz, even faintly sordid. He was equally immune to love. At one time Jenkins thought ibn-Azziz craved power, but that wasn't the case. Power was simply a means by which ibn-Azziz brought people to Allah. Someone, though, had found his weakness.

Building the largest mosque in the world would have carried the taint of pride, but building the mosque to turn all eyes to the true Islam…that was precisely the kind of subtle vanity to which ibn-Azziz was susceptible. Such targeted temptation was a mark of the Old One, and setting up a spiritual counterweight to his enemies in the Middle East was a bonus. Jenkins had planned on sending another message to General Kidd, telling him of his suspicions about the Old One, but now such plans seemed as foolish as his decision to stay here.

Jenkins reached the top of the stairs, stopped to glance up and down the street before continuing. He was going to have to hurry to get to the boat dock before dawn prayers. The streets would be teeming with believers, his picture everywhere after that. He hung on to the railing. Placed a hand on his heart, trying to establish some sort of feedback link to slow himself down before his chest exploded. All the years here, all the close calls…yet here he was, panicked as a woman. One should get braver as one got older…there was less to lose. Why fear man taking what Allah would take soon enough? Easy to say when one believed in Allah. Paradise awaited the faithful. The problem was…he no longer believed.

The rain came down in sheets now, soaking through his robes. Thunder fumbled through the canyons of downtown. Jenkins looked around, walked calmly across the street, head high, then dashed through the alley. The rain was good for him, limiting visibility, making the city even darker. He ran on, drawing on the reserves of his energy, using his fear to fuel him, block after block, the boat ramp closer with every step.

Jenkins had been as good a Muslim as any when he first came to New Fallujah. Though the brutality of this brand of Islam had startled him at first, he had quickly risen in the leadership. Adaptability was the highest virtue of the shadow warriors, and he took pride in his ability to shed his personal morality for the greater good of the Fedayeen. "The grand atrocity," he had called it, but his years of cooperating with that atrocity had ground his soul down to a fine gray dust, and with it his belief in Allah. After all the heads he had added to the Bridge of Skulls, the slightest breeze would have been enough to blow away his soul, and there was always a storm brewing in this dead city.

He splashed through the puddles, blinking back the rain. His black robe was a leaden weight around him, and he was soaked to the skin, freezing, but he pressed on, legs pumping. Faster. Faster. It amazed him that his belief in the Fedayeen had outlasted his belief in Allah, but now…even that was fading. What had Rakkim said? I don't give a fuck about my country. I'm here because of General Kidd. Thunder crashed, momentarily deafening him. The young man would learn.

He huddled in the alley across from the street leading down to the boat ramp. He listened but there was no way to hear anything over the thunder and rain. No cars on the street. No lights in the windows. Bits of brightly colored paper swirled in the water streaming down the gutters-a birthday party somewhere, gaudy wrappings and bows…a sin among many sins, so many sins he could no longer keep track of them. He watched until the shiny bits of paper disappeared, then walked quickly across the street, into the shelter of the low buildings.

At the end of the alley, he saw the boats bobbing wildly against the dock. Suicide to try to navigate across the bay in this weather, madness to think he could reach the other side…Jenkins threw off his heavy black robe and started running. He could hardly wait to try.

He burst out of the alley, slid down the grassy slope toward the docks. As his feet touched the slats of the wooden dock, he saw movement out of the corner of his eye.

"What's your hurry, Mullah Jenkins?" cooed ibn-Azziz, the cleric bareheaded in the downpour, surrounded by bodyguards.

"There you are," said Jenkins, bowing. "I hoped to find you here."

"Hope is a honeyed word, is it not?" Ibn-Azziz turned to his retainers. "Our good mullah finds sweetness in our meeting."

The bodyguards fanned out around Jenkins.

Ibn-Azziz tapped his fingertips together. "What else do you hope, Mullah Jenkins?"

Jenkins took a step back, saw that his path was blocked by more of ibn-Azziz's men. Lightning cracked directly overhead. Jenkins jumped as did the bodyguards, but ibn-Azziz didn't flinch.

"You are shy, I understand." Ibn-Azziz waved his bodyguards back. "Is that better?"

Jenkins moved closer to the Grand Mullah, barely feeling the rain anymore.

"Good," said ibn-Azziz, a black-robed skeleton in the raging storm. "So obedient, Mullah Jenkins, I hardly recognize you."

Jenkins spread his arms wide, felt his Fedayeen knife against the inside of his forearm. "All your patience has finally paid off. You have tamed my defiant spirit."

"All blessings be to Allah, not my unworthy self." Ibn-Azziz cocked his head, water dripping off his nose. "Do you have something for me, Mullah Jenkins?" he mocked. "You look like a man with a surprise clutched to his heart."

Jenkins blinked the rain from his eyes, almost close enough now. The boats banged against the dock, louder and louder, the wind rising.

Ibn-Azziz cupped his ear. "I can't hear you." He beckoned. "Come closer, and share your wisdom."

Jenkins flicked the knife into his hand as he thrust forward, but ibn-Azziz was fast, so very fast, the blade slicing through the whirling black robe, but leaving ibn-Azziz untouched.

Ibn-Azziz danced out of reach as his bodyguards closed in on Jenkins.

Jenkins cut down one of the bodyguards, then another, trying to break through, but there were too many of them. He kept moving, looking for an opening, a way out. He carved another bodyguard with a flick of his wrist, wishing again that he had gone back to Seattle with Rakkim. He would have liked to see the Egyptian girls dance in the Zone one more time. He fought on. Behind him, he could hear ibn-Azziz praying, screeching away as thunder rolled across the city.

A hot stone rested inside Lieutenant Miguel Ortiz's belly. Getting hotter too as he led his men into the outskirts of Corpus Christi, their shadows enormous in the dawn light. They moved like devils through the underbrush, brown crickets fluttering before them as they crept silently toward the white church, crawling now, close enough that Ortiz could hear them singing, greeting the morning with hosannas.

This was not the first time Ortiz and his eight-man team had infiltrated the Belt. That's what Unit X commandos did. Just last month they had taken out a nest of pirates near Galveston, men who used speedboats to intercept Aztlan pleasure yachts cruising peacefully in the Gulf. Looters and rapists and murderers of innocent Mexicans. Texans with grudges were more dangerous than a swarm of fire ants. It had been a pleasure to creep up on the pirate hideout at dawn, the team's inflatables far down the beach. Sergeant Romo had taken out their single sentry, but it had been Ortiz himself who kicked open the door to the nest, firing his machine gun in short, accurate bursts. They had not left a single pirate alive. The team had sung folk songs on the way back to the mother ship. Today, though…he didn't imagine there would be singing.

As if hearing his thoughts, the congregation inside the church seemed to raise their voices, the very walls vibrating with the sound of their singing. Up from the grave, He arose… Ortiz knew the hymn. His grandmother sang it on Easter. It was more beautiful in Spanish. There were still plenty of people back home who went to church, prayed the rosary, but most young people worshiped the old religion, the ancient gods of Aztlan. So many gods…it was hard for Ortiz to keep track of them all.

Sergeant Romo looked at him and Ortiz gave a hand signal, watched as Romo took three men and circled around the church.

Ortiz was doing a terrible thing. The people inside the church were not pirates, or Lone Star rampagers who attacked peaceful Mexican fishing villages. They were innocent. Which would do them no good at all. He rested his cheek in the sand, still cool from the evening, and wondered if he really was going to do this thing.

A family raced up the steps to the church, a father, mother and two children in their Sunday best, hurrying, and Ortiz wished their car had broken down, wished a water main had burst and flooded the streets, wished for anything that would have delayed them five minutes. The door to the church opened, the hymn booming louder for a moment-He arose a victor from the dark domain-before it closed after the family.

Ortiz was aware of the rest of his men waiting for him to give the order. He nodded his head and the three men scuttled forward, placed their satchel charges and incendiaries around the walls, then quickly backed out. Sergeant Romo came around from the other side, placed a charge in front of the door, set the motion trigger.

The men had been quiet during the insertion, quietly checking and rechecking their gear. No boasts or jokes or talk of what they would do when they got home. They attended to business and avoided looking at him. He didn't blame them.

Sergeant Romo's men rejoined them, breathing hard, eager to get back to the boats.

The thin man had come to him two days ago. Ortiz had been drinking in a tavern when a man sat beside him, a thin man who spoke accented Spanish and drew the Unit X sign in the moisture on the bar. The man wiped away the sign, then said he had a mission for Ortiz and his team. Ortiz listened, demanded to know who the man really was. Said Tenochtitlan did not order the murder of women and children.

The Belt murders our oil minister, Miguel, and you expect us to do nothing? The man ordered another round of drinks for them. Are you not a patriot?

Ortiz had left the drink untouched on the bar, but he didn't walk away. Ortiz told the man he was a patriot, but not a butcher.

The man watched him in the mirror over the bar. Said authorization had already been sent. Do your duty, Miguel.

Yesterday the base commandant had called Ortiz in, said he had gotten orders, and transport would be provided to Ortiz and his team. The commandant didn't ask where they were going or what their mission was-he was used to Unit X operating on their own.

Ortiz raised a fist to Sergeant Romo and the team scurried back through the underbrush in twos, heading toward their rally point in the pine woods beyond the town. Ortiz was the last to leave, racing through the morning, casting aside all field discipline, scared that he would be left behind with what he had done.

The charges detonated as he reached the trees, a rapid sequence of explosions, the fireball rising into the sky. Ortiz stumbled forward, almost fell. He blinked back tears, and ordered his men forward to the boats.