Heart of the Assassin

CHAPTER 48

"A three-day war," said Robert Legault, wearing a natty sports coat for the midmorning TV audience. "So tell me, Sarah, speaking as a historian, and a member of the president's inner circle, has there ever been a victory so sudden, so complete, so…transformational, as our victory over Aztlan?"

Sarah didn't snicker at "the president's inner circle" hyperbole. She had learned that much since Legault had spotlighted her in his news reports, her and Amir, "the new fresh faces of the Republic." It was necessary. She had no regrets.

"Sarah? Is our victory unique?"

Sarah thought of Thermopylae, Saratoga, Gettysburg, the outflanking of the Maginot Line in World War II and the encirclement of Baghdad in Gulf War II, but that wasn't the answer Legault wanted, and it wasn't the answer she wanted to give either. "No, Robert, the last seventy-two hours have been quite unique. In a three-day period, a unit of Fedayeen computer wizards destroyed the Aztlan air armada, and the combined ground forces of the Belt and Republic collapsed the Aztlan army. I think it's safe to say that God has smiled on both our nations."

"Inshallah, ladies and gentlemen, there you have it," Legault smiled into the camera, "the nation's premier historian has spoken." The camera lights blinked red and he turned to her. "Wonderful as usual, Sarah."

"I think I'm done for the day, Robert. I don't remember the last time I slept."

"I don't think anyone in the city has slept since the victory," said Legault, looking buoyant as ever. "Even the fundamentalists are dancing in the streets…although I wouldn't call that dancing." He patted her hand. "You are going to the embassy party tonight?"

"I had forgotten."

"You have to go, Sarah. I'm doing a live shot outside, and interviewing everyone. You don't want to lose your momentum with the public."

Sarah would rather be home with Rakkim and Michael, but Rakkim was still stranded in Las Vegas, unable to get a flight out. Maybe tomorrow, he had said. "I'll be there."

"That's the spirit," said Legault. "For God and country, eh?"

We must talk. Late-night prayers. Tonight. Abu Michael. Rakkim wiped out the message to General Kidd. He still didn't trust the Fedayeen com system and he had business to take care of tonight anyway. If that didn't work out, no reason to stand Kidd up. Instead Rakkim recorded a longer message outlining his concerns about Amir, and affirming his own respect and love for the general. Set it to be transmitted tomorrow at 9 A.M. Then he recorded another one for Sarah and another for Michael. Said his good-byes. A Fedayeen tradition before every mission, in expectation of death.

Rakkim walked out of the Blue Moon Club, the sidewalks of the Zone drifting with confetti and streamers from the three-day victory party. He had arrived in Seattle last night, decided to sleep in his old room at the Blue Moon instead of going home. He didn't want to see Sarah yet. When he did, he knew he'd have to tell her the truth about what had happened between him and Baby, how close he had come…no, he couldn't allow himself to be distracted. Not now. If he survived the next twenty-four hours, there would be time enough for the truth.

Two men sitting on the curb eyed him as he passed, bleary-eyed moderns, their fine clothes filthy.

Mardi, his former partner at the club, had contacts at all the luxury hotels-the Old One could easily blend into a city like Seattle, but a man like Gravenholtz stood out no matter where he was. The redhead had been spotted at the New Mandarin, the finest, most modern hotel in Seattle. The Old One would have to be there too. With the piece of the cross that Moseby had died for.

Tonight Rakkim was going to pay them a visit.

General Kidd bent over, rested his palms on his knees, out of breath, his gasps echoing across the training arena.

Amir saluted him with his knife, high black cheekbones gleaming, his tunic spattered with blood. "Well done, Father."

General Kidd nodded, straightened up, feeling the blood ooze from more than a dozen light slashes along his arms and legs. "I…I shall comfort myself…with the knowledge that humiliation…humiliation is good for the soul."

In truth their combat practice had been more evenly matched than Kidd let on. Amir was quicker, more agile, but he was reckless in his attacks, leaving himself vulnerable. Amir had delivered three times as many cuts, but Kidd protected his vitals better, his own blade penetrating Amir's defenses to inflict two potentially killing wounds.

Amir wiped blood from the cut along his femoral artery, flung it onto the sand of the arena. Another inch deeper, he would have bled out in seconds. "I know, I know."

"I didn't say anything."

"You didn't have to," said Amir.

"You rely on your speed too much," said Kidd, as he always did. "A young man's vanity. An old man learns to absorb pain and wait for an opportunity."

"I'll remember," said Amir.

Kidd nodded.

"I always say that, don't I?"

Kidd nodded again.

The arena was attached to the family compound, a spartan sixty-by-eighty foot structure of mud-colored brick, the floor a treacherous expanse of sand and boulders designed to trip the unwary or the inattentive. Cool and quiet, it smelled of sandalwood and dry earth, the lighting controlled by panels in the roof. Kidd and his sons fought in everything from noon glare to pitch darkness. Often the women and younger children were allowed to watch, but today it was just the two of them.

Amir wiped his shaved head and checked his wounds, avoiding Kidd's gaze. His expression remained focused, his movements smooth, but Kidd knew him too well. Under that grim calm, Amir was uneasy.

They hadn't trained together in months-their busy schedules and obligations provided an easy explanation, but in truth, the growing tension between them had made the intimacies of training awkward. Today, when Amir had requested a session, Kidd had eagerly agreed, hoping to reestablish their bond, or at the least forget their differences. He had missed their time in the arena as much as his son. They were never so close as when they fought, knives flicking out, attack and retreat, twisting this way and then another, their breath the only sound in the stillness. Afterward they would sit side by side, basking in their own heat…content.

Amir offered cool water and Kidd drank, passed the bottle back. He sprawled on a bench, kneading the kink at the back of his neck, the result of a sudden maneuver to avoid a carotid slash. Amir paced, restless, toying with his knife. He turned his face up to the sun coming through the skylights and stayed there, immobile now, his muscles almost sculptural, his lips oddly delicate…with a different father he might have been an artist.

Looking at his son, Kidd had to fight not to show his pleasure. The boy had developed into a true warrior-resolute, daring and devout. A little temperamental, too easily misled by his passions, but he got that from his mother. Launching the technical team that had cracked the Aztlan code, funding it without Kidd's knowledge, had been a breach of discipline, but Allah had smiled on the boy's boldness and brought victory to them all. Given time…given time Amir might develop the caution and calculation required in such perilous times. Perhaps someday he would become the leader the Fedayeen needed.

Amir saw Kidd watching him and bowed.

Kidd inclined his head. Sooner or later, he would have to relinquish command of the Fedayeen. Rakkim had resisted Kidd's offer to name him as his successor…and Rakkim had been right that passing over Amir would have profound consequences. The problem was that Rakkim was ready now to assume command, but Amir was not. Were something to happen to Kidd…He looked around the arena, took in the long rows of empty bleachers, remembering happier times.

He had started training Amir in this very place when he was three years old, a chubby little boy with big feet and quick hands, but he had showed promise early, defeating his older brothers, insisting on using edged weapons years before any of them, and with the scars to match his ambition. Amir was over six foot four now, handsome and graceful as a cat. A few more years…if Kidd could hang on for a few more years, perhaps Amir would be ready and he would not have to prevail upon Rakkim to do his duty.

Amir stared back at him.

"What's wrong?" said Kidd.

"I…have done things, Father."

"All is forgiven," said Kidd. "As I told you, I would never have attempted cracking the Aztlan command code. You took the risk, you deserve-"

"It wasn't my idea," said Amir.

"Whose idea was it?" Kidd said quietly.

"The Mahdi," said Amir. "It…it was the Mahdi's idea, and all glory to him and to God for it. It was necessary to hide his role in our triumph. Soon it will not be."

Kidd saw Amir's lips move…he knew what he was saying, but he couldn't hear the words-there was a roaring in his ears so loud that all sound was canceled out.

Amir seemed in pain. "Father…I beg you…"

Kidd finally realized what the sound was. It was his heart pounding, thrashing around in his chest as though trying to break free.

"Father, let me take you to the Mahdi. I know…I know when you get to meet him that you will recognize that he is truly the one we have been waiting for."

"He's here?" said Kidd. "He's in the city?"

"He's come to claim that which Allah has promised."

Kidd laughed.

"Please, Father, you must…you must declare your allegiance to the Mahdi."

"Or what, my son?"

Amir locked eyes with him.

"Or what?" said Kidd.

"Or step aside, Father, relinquish command and let me do my duty." Amir didn't blink, seemed to grow even taller. "With the backing of the Fedayeen the Mahdi will be able to assume power, directing President Brandt until the time is ripe to reveal himself." His dark eyes bulged slightly. "The kaffirs in the Belt will learn soon enough the price for reconciliation. Convert or die."

"Why?"

"Why what, Father?"

"Why would this Mahdi of yours need the support of the Fedayeen if he has Allah on his side?" said Kidd.

Amir started to speak, went silent.

"Ask yourself that, Amir. Think, boy."

Amir lifted his jaw. "Too late for such word games."

"Your Mahdi is a perversion of Islam," said Kidd. "He's the lord of lies, not the lord of the earth. I've rejected that fraud's entreaties for twenty years-"

"Enough, Father." Amir slowly shook his head. "Enough."

Kidd felt a weariness descend over him, the leaden weight of shame…and worse. He saw Amir again as a small boy, covered in the dust of the arena, refusing to submit against an older brother twice his size, fighting on until he was knocked senseless and carried to bed. Too late for that now.

"You can still go back to the motherland, Father," pleaded Amir. "I won't let anyone raise a hand against you. Take your wives and your glory, and bask in the sun."

"You've dishonored yourself," said Kidd. "I'm placing you under arrest."

Amir went into a fighting crouch, knife held close to his body.

"Amir…don't do this."

Amir eased toward him, not making a sound on the hard-packed sand.

Kidd barely avoided Amir's sudden attack, dodged and twisted away. Amir kept coming. Kidd's own movements were feints, not meant to draw blood as much to keep Amir off balance. Their bare feet kicked up sand as they circled each other, knives flashing in the sun, back and forth. Amir jerked forward, leaped aside at the last moment and opened a long cut in Kidd's side. Kidd didn't make a sound. Another round of attack and counterattack, both of them breathing hard now. Amir cut him twice more, a third time, shallow wounds but painful. Kidd's own actions remained purely defensive.

"You can still stop," said Kidd. "It's not too late."

"Is there time to be forgiven, Father?" snarled Amir. His blade snaked out, drew blood. "Still time to receive your blessing?" Another strike. Another. Fresh blood trickled down Kidd's body, soaked his tunic. Amir's eyes glistened with tears. "Is there time for that? Or have you already given your blessing to Rakkim?"

Kidd danced out of reach, taking advantage of the shifting topography of the arena floor.

"He's back, Father, did you know that? We're all here now…you and I, Rakkim, the Mahdi." Amir circled, darted in, his shoulders loose and relaxed, a hunting posture that Kidd had taught him.

Kidd still hadn't launched an attack, hadn't touched him with his blade.

Amir moved fast, so fast, shifting his feet to come in from the side…there was an instant he left himself open, but Kidd couldn't bring himself to strike, and took yet another cut across his chest as he retreated across the arena. He pretended to limp slightly, favoring his right leg.

Amir's face dripped with sweat, droplets shimmering on his eyebrows like pearls. A beautiful boy…the most beautiful of all his many sons, so serious, always so serious, always in a hurry, as though worried that everything he had been given, everything he had achieved, would be snatched away from him at any moment.

Just under the main skylight, Kidd backed into a shallow depression, his right leg seeming to give way, and Amir moved in with a high thrust, knife hand arcing down from above his head. It was what Kidd had hoped for, the attack leaving him open for a brief moment, but Amir was too fast…His blade should have struck Kidd at the juncture of shoulder and neck, an instantaneous killing blow, but at the last instant Amir hesitated and Kidd drove his knife between his son's ribs and into his heart.

Amir gasped. That was all. Just a single, surprised gasp, his eyes wide.

Kidd lowered him to the sand, his hand still clutching the knife, warm blood running across his fingers. He knelt beside him, feeling Amir's heartbeat through the hilt…fading…fading.

"F-Father?"

Kidd caressed his face.

"I…I couldn't…"

"I should…" Tears ran down Kidd's cheeks, splashed onto Amir's lips. "I should have known."

Amir sighed, his eyes drifting shut.

General Kidd sang softly as his son died in his arms, offering Amir his blessing, calling him by his childhood nickname as he rocked him back and forth. A cloud slid across the sun, throwing the arena in shadow as Kidd begged Allah's mercy for a boy who had been led off the path to Paradise, a noble warrior betrayed by a false prophet.