Prayers for the assassin

CHAPTER 30

“I should be going with you,” said Redbeard.

“I need you here, Thomas,” said his brother. James tucked the latest progress reports into his gym bag, trying not to hurry. “I need you to look after Katherine and Sarah.”

“The best way to protect them is to keep you safe,” protested Redbeard, wanting to shake him, to make him understand. “Chicago is dangerous-”

“Every place is dangerous.” James added a wireless handheld, allergy pills, and his well-worn copy of the Holy Qur’an. The sun was bright through the bulletproof windows of Redbeard’s second-floor study, the villa’s undulating expanse of lawn impossibly green. James zipped the gym bag.

In the blue, nylon athletic suit, James looked just as he had at the Beijing Olympics, the gold medal around his neck as he declared his new faith to the cameras. One of the first of the high-profile converts, James’s hair was a mane of reddish blond, his goatee still downy as a youth’s. He was so handsome Redbeard had a hard time believing they were brothers. Redbeard was bulkier and more heavily muscled, a college wrestler, his full beard coarse. An ugly duckling, but James had never treated him that way, and Redbeard loved him all the more for it.

Redbeard stood with one hand in his pocket, fingering his prayer beads, the clicking of the amber beads muted. There was something he needed to remember, something nagging at him. He fingered the beads faster, trying to recall what it was.

“Don’t look so sad, little brother,” said James. “It makes you look like one of the pinch-faces in the Bible Belt.” James smiled. “You haven’t gotten that old-time religion, have you, Thomas?”

Redbeard grimaced. He didn’t have his brother’s sense of humor. Or his charm either. Few did. James Dougan was director of State Security, but he was as much of a politician as an intelligence chief, a moderate Muslim, devout, yet practical. In the chaos following the Zionist attacks, James had been the new Islamic president’s choice to head the agency. The fundamentalists had been opposed, but James had disarmed them with his wit, his popularity, and his adroit handling of the media. When those failed, Redbeard, his second-in-command, had been eager to step in. Redbeard had an eye for detail, the ferocity of a Kodiak bear, and was willing to lie to God himself if necessary.

Now, two years after the cease-fire that had ended the civil war, they should have been celebrating their success. State Security had stymied major terrorist attacks and forced the remnants of the Christian underground to flee to the Bible Belt. Civil liberties had been curtailed, but after the chaos that had marked the transition from the former regime, complaints were few. Except from the fundamentalists. The right-wing clerics had called for James’s ouster for his refusal to stone unbelievers, denouncing the brothers as converts in name only, soft on doctrine, soft on sin.

Redbeard wanted to strike back, but James said the government might not survive such internal dissension. Besides, it was better to save their ammunition for when the hour was truly perilous. Timing, Thomas, he had said, this is the lesson you must learn, then turned away any resentment Redbeard might have felt in being so schooled by taking off the watch around his wrist, their father’s watch, and giving it to him. Redbeard had protested, but James had kissed him on both cheeks and told him that no man had been so blessed as he, to be given such a loyal brother.

“You’re staring at your watch, Thomas. We still have a few minutes, don’t we?”

Redbeard nodded, unable to speak. The numbers on the clockface were familiar…the hands in position, but try as he might, he couldn’t tell the time.

“Senator Simpson assures me he has the votes to defeat the hard-liners’ latest amendment,” said James. “Fine work. You’ve kept the Black Robes so busy fighting among themselves that they haven’t been able to rally support.”

“We’ve got other problems. One of my operatives in San Francisco has gone silent. One of my best men.” Redbeard hesitated. “He’s noticed some…disturbing activity in his sector. What with Ramadan approaching, I’m concerned.”

James moved closer, moved so quickly that he seemed to cross the office instantaneously, an old Sufi trick that Redbeard had never mastered. “Mormons? Or dead-enders?”

Redbeard shook his head “That’s what bothers me. The activity doesn’t seem connected to any group we’ve dealt with before. It’s a totally unfamiliar signature. My man said he had to dig in, and I haven’t heard from him since. It’s been three days. He was worried when last we spoke. He was frightened, and this is not someone who frightens easily.”

“Operatives are always worried, and the good ones are always frightened.” James was smiling again, but Redbeard knew him too well to believe it. James plucked at his mustache, serious now. “Do you have a name? A target?”

Redbeard shook his head. “My man wasn’t even sure there is a threat. He just said he felt there were too many coincidences. Accidental deaths and disappearances, people suddenly deciding to retire or relocate, and none of the traditional players seem to benefit from these events. It’s as unsettling as an empty chair at a dinner party-not what’s seen, but what’s not seen that gives one pause. I wish I had more to tell you.”

James nodded, distracted.

Redbeard stared at his brother. “What’s going on?”

The intercom on the desk crackled. “Director? We’re finishing the check on your car.”

James crossed to the window. Through the one-way glass he noted the armored limousine parked out front. One of his security men slid along the undercarriage, his uniform streaked with road grime. Another slowly walked a German shepherd around the vehicle.

Redbeard joined his brother. “You knew we had a new player in the game.”

James rested his hands on the windowsill. “He’s not new, he’s been in the game a long time. A very long time.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? Look at me, James.”

James turned to him. “I only had suspicions, but I have proof now, Thomas, proof enough, but I can’t act. Not yet. This is a time for caution. When I come back from Chicago, we can move against him then.”

“Director, your car is ready,” crackled the intercom.

“Check it again,” Redbeard barked at the intercom, not taking his eyes off his brother. They stood side by side at the window, as the dog handler made another slow circuit. A buzzing was in Redbeard’s head, as though his skull were filled with wasps. If he could only remember…“Who is our enemy, James?”

“We’ll talk when I get back. Trust me, I’ll tell you everything I know.”

Redbeard bit his lips shut. “As you wish, Director.”

“I had to keep my own counsel on this, even from you. I just…I thought we had more time.” James squeezed Redbeard’s massive shoulder. “You’ll understand my reticence when I show you the information I’ve gathered. We’ll have to tread lightly.”

“Stay here, then. We can get started-”

James shook his head. “I’m meeting the president in Chicago. I have to talk to him in person.” He looked in pain. “I’m sorry, Thomas.”

“I’ll ride with you to the airport.”

James picked up his gym bag. “I need you to go to the hospital and wait with Katherine.”

“I thought Sarah was being released today.”

“Damn pneumonia’s resistant…she’s had a relapse. The doctors want to keep her a few more days. The hospital is secure, but Katherine could use a friendly face.”

Redbeard smiled awkwardly. “Since when does Katherine consider me good company?”

“Take care of them for me, Thomas.” James touched the intercom. “I’m leaving now.” He keyed a number on his cell. “Go.” Through the window, he watched as his double strode out the front door of the villa and into the limo, his face half hidden in a burnoose.

The brothers stood beside each other, watching the limo accelerate down the winding driveway. Watched the gate swing up as it approached. Even after the limo was lost in the distance, the two of them stood at the window, half-expecting to see a flash of orange light, and the rumble of an explosion.

“The delivery van is waiting at the loading dock,” Redbeard said at last. “My bodyguard, Miller, will drive you to the airport.”

James slung the gym bag over his shoulder, eager now.

There was a light rap on the door, then two more.

Redbeard checked the peephole before unlocking the door.

Miller stepped inside rather than waiting in the doorway, and Redbeard knew. Miller brushed past him. “Let me help you, Director,” he said, his right arm reaching for something in his spotless white deliveryman’s jacket.

James rummaged around the couch. “I left my reading glasses somewhere.”

Redbeard tried to move, but his body was filled with concrete.

The room echoed with gunshots, and the sound seemed to break Redbeard free of his immobility. He grappled with the bodyguard. More gunshots, the sound muffled now, the gun pressed against him. Miller, who had been with them from the beginning, sneered up at him. Redbeard could see that the man’s eyes had been snipped out, replaced by images of James’s body lying in state under the Capitol dome. Sarah was holding on to the casket, but where was Katherine?

“My master sends greetings to you both,” said Miller. Another gunshot, but Redbeard had a grip on the man’s wrist and the bullet went wide, hit the wall. Miller tried to wrench free, fired again, and Redbeard felt the heat, his clothes smoldering from the muzzle blast. Redbeard broke the man’s wrist. Heard the gun hit the carpet.

Redbeard had his hands around Miller’s throat now. Redbeard had weak knees, it had cost him a national wrestling championship, but he had strong hands. Miller kicked and struggled, but Redbeard ignored the pain, ignored the blood oozing from his wounds as he slowly crushed the man’s windpipe.

“Thomas,” James called. “Don’t kill him. You will need what he can tell you.”

Redbeard watched the photos fade in the bodyguard’s eyes. The man’s arms were at his side now, twitching, but Redbeard kept squeezing.

“Thomas,” James gasped.

Redbeard threw Miller to the floor.

Someone was beating on the door to the office.

Redbeard cradled James in his arms. His brother’s running suit smelled of smoke, and the blue nylon was singed smooth where the bullets had entered. No blood, though. Not a drop. “Don’t move,” said Redbeard. “You’re going to be all right.”

James patted Redbeard’s cheek. “Ah, Thomas…who would have ever suspected you of being an optimist?”

Redbeard was slumped over his desk, weeping, when Angelina finally shook him awake. He clung to her, pressed his face into her flesh while she stroked his hair. “I couldn’t save him. I couldn’t save my own brother.”

“Let me help you to bed,” said Angelina. “You have fever.”

“I’m afraid to sleep.”

“Shhhh.” Angelina helped him up.

“If I couldn’t even save my brother, how can I save my country?”

Angelina braced herself against him as they walked. He was like this more and more lately, delirious, racked with nightmares and riven by doubt.

“If James were here, he would have known what to do. James had allies…James had friends. You…you’re the only one I can trust.” He staggered against her and Angelina almost fell. “Rakkim…I was counting on him and he joins the Fedayeen.”

“You drove him away,” said Angelina.

“I should have died that day, not James.”

“Are you God? Then do not question that which He has brought about.”

Redbeard broke free of her. Was she his wife to speak like that to him? He shuffled forward, head bowed, so weary his very bones ached. He had barely slept these last weeks, and when he did, he found no peace. It was too much for one man. Angelina was right, he had driven Rakkim away. Had driven Sarah away too. His brother’s only child and the son he had never had. Gone. Angelina was right. She was always right.

He staggered down the hallway and into his bedroom. Left the lights off. The darkness cool on his smoldering skin. He shrugged off his robe and left it in a heap on the floor. The mattress groaned under him like the beams of a sailing ship. Just a chance to close his eyes, that’s all he wanted. No sleep. No dreams. Just to close his eyes for a moment.

It was so hard to maintain the impression of strength. To appear resolute and confident at all times. Redbeard kicked off the sheets, sweating. The world seized on the first hint of weakness. His so-called allies would turn on him in an instant. The Old One was waiting. Always he was waiting. Where did such patience come from? It wasn’t faith that kept the Old One in the shadows, it was devilry. Yet…such devilry was succeeding. The president was sick. Redbeard had seen the private medical records. When the president died…

The bedroom door opened. Angelina sat on the bed, laid a cool cloth across his forehead.

Redbeard covered his nakedness with the sheet. “I don’t need babying-”

Angelina slapped his hand away as he tried to remove the cloth. “If the fever isn’t broken by noon prayers, I’m calling your doctor.”

Redbeard waved her away. He waited until the door closed behind her, started to toss aside the damp cloth, then thought better of it. The coolness of it felt good. He would rest his eyes. He would give himself time to recover his strength. Sleep was the answer. Sleep the balm to the thoughts boiling in his brain. If only James were here. Twenty-five years dead and gone. Redbeard’s head lolled against the pillow, pulled the darkness closer. The Old One preoccupied his waking moments, but at times like this, drifting deeper, he thought of James…and Katherine. Both gone.

Katherine…the name he never spoke aloud. The face he saw when he closed his eyes. Forgive me, Brother, for the thoughts I had. The desires I harbored. He had hidden such thoughts from his brother, but Katherine had sensed them. Must have sensed them. To abandon her daughter…to flee without a word after hearing of James’s death. She was a rare woman to hold her husband’s honor so dear. Forgive me, James.