Prayers for the assassin

CHAPTER 36

“Refrain from gawking, Omar,” Ibn Azziz said to his Yemeni bodyguard as they were led down the corridor by the two Fedayeen. “It makes you seem like a kaffir at mosque.”

Stung, Omar straightened to his full height, throwing his broad shoulders back as he kept pace with the Fedayeen.

Ibn Azziz maintained his slow, steady walk, and Omar fell back beside him. Omar’s swagger was a sign of weakness, as was the way he rested his hand on his dagger. The dagger had been in Omar’s family for three hundred years, a double-edged blade, ten inches long, made of the finest Damascus steel. Ibn Azziz had expected the unarmed Fedayeen officer who had greeted them outside the academy to ask Omar to disarm, but he had merely glanced at the weapon, smirking as he bowed to Ibn Azziz. Pig.

His advisers had warned against visiting General Kidd at the Fedayeen training academy, the seat of his power, but Ibn Azziz had dismissed their concerns. He needed to make it clear to General Kidd that in spite of Ibn Azziz’s youth, Kidd was dealing with an equal, a spiritual warrior and master tactician. In the week since Ibn Azziz had seized power, he had disappeared dozens of Oxley’s loyalists, used his contacts in the media to sugarcoat his ascension to power, and begun a campaign against the Catholics. On this twelfth day of fasting, his breath was foul, but his heart was pure as a blowtorch.

Two Fedayeen escorts proceeded ahead, almost ignoring Ibn Azziz. They walked with the long gait typical of Fedayeen, a pantherlike glide that was nothing like the crisp cadence of army personnel. Even their uniforms were somehow…unmilitary. Plain, light blue uniforms with dull brass buttons. No epaulets, no medals, no insignia. The Fedayeen stopped at the end of the corridor, knocked once, and threw open the door, flanking the doorway.

Omar started through first, as was proper, but one of the Fedayeen placed a hand on his chest.

“Just the mullah,” said the Fedayeen.

Omar slapped his hand aside, started to draw his dagger…and then he was on the floor. He bolted up to his feet, but Ibn Azziz waved a hand.

“Wait outside, Omar, and keep our brother Fedayeen company,” said Ibn Azziz, affecting boredom. “I will see General Kidd privately.” He passed through the doorway, though not before noting the insolent gaze of the Fedayeen as he passed. Sooner, rather than later, General Kidd would see the wisdom of deepening the alliance with the Black Robes. He would see the value in treating Ibn Azziz as an honored ally. To seal the bargain, Ibn Azziz would ask only one thing…the eyes of these two Fedayeen.

General Maurice Kidd looked over as Ibn Azziz entered the balcony, then turned back. Tall and lean, Kidd stood casually beside a railing, middle-aged now, his face unlined and gleaming like obsidian. A devout Muslim, fiercely loyal, he had four wives and twenty-seven children, but lived simply. His rise to power began when, a mere Fedayeen captain, he had taken command of the decimated Islamic forces at the battle of Philadelphia, leading a counterattack that stopped the rebel advance. For the last twelve years he had commanded the Fedayeen, eager to send his troops abroad in furtherance of Islam or battling the Bible Belters on their common border. Today, as always, he wore the same unadorned uniform as the other Fedayeen, with only a tiny gold crescent on each shoulder denoting his rank. “Welcome, Mullah Ibn Azziz.”

Ibn Azziz stood beside the general. His nose wrinkled at the scene below, the faint breeze carrying the stink. The balcony overlooked a hard-packed field filled with the dirtiest men Ibn Azziz had ever seen. He had visited hermits who were better groomed, observed gravediggers more sanitary.

“Do my men offend your delicate sensibilities, my young cleric?” asked General Kidd.

Ibn Azziz had not seen the general look over at him. “I find myself wondering how your men perform their devotions in such a state,” he said evenly.

“These recruits have been in the field for three months. Three months of sleeping outside in the sun and rain and snow, and never for more than an hour or two at a time. Three months without a bath or a hot meal or a change of clothes. Three months of hand-to-hand combat and cat and mouse, of hiding under brush and brambles, three months of pain and fear. We started out with four hundred select recruits. One hundred twenty-seven made it through.” General Kidd gazed at Ibn Azziz. “When my men have time to make their prayers, they do so with the assurance that Allah sees past their soiled exterior to the radiance within.”

“Yes…well, I shall be happy to give them my blessing.”

General Kidd stared at him with dark, liquid eyes.

Ibn Azziz offered his prayers to the men below, who ignored him. He watched as they sprawled on the ground, tearing into rations with their dirty hands, laughing and swearing. A raucous mob. “The reason I’m here-”

“My condolences on the death of Mullah Oxley,” said General Kidd. “A most untimely event. He was a great friend of the Fedayeen.”

“The Black Robes continue to support the Fedayeen, the most faithful of warriors. You are truly the thorny rose of Islam.”

“A sudden heart attack…did Oxley truly get no warning?”

“It was as if Allah swept him up to Paradise.”

“Oxley had a prodigious appetite. Perhaps there is a lesson there.” The general smiled at Ibn Azziz, and his teeth were stark white. “You are thin as a wire, Ibn Azziz. Evidently Paradise is going to have to wait for you.”

“My passion is not for food, dear general,” said Ibn Azziz, annoyed. “My passion is for Allah, and for the purity of our nation. That’s what I wanted to talk with you about.” He moved closer. “We are under attack from all sides. Jews, gypsies, atheists, Bible Belters…and most dangerous of all, the moderns and Catholics who live among us, the moral rot within.”

General Kidd watched his men. He seemed barely aware of Ibn Azziz.

“I have taken steps against the Catholics-”

“I know. Monasteries burned, houses of worship vandalized…some say you are overreaching. A particularly risky course from one so recently elevated to leadership.”

“Moral offenses are within the purview of the Black Robes,” said Ibn Azziz, unable to take the rough edge from his tone. “Catholics eat swine. They drown themselves in alcohol. They keep dogs in their homes so when they walk among us we must brush against the hairs of the beasts.” Spit flew from his mouth as he warmed to the subject. “Catholics don’t shave under their arms, or their pubic regions like good Muslims, so their sweat collects in these places with the most revolting stench. The nation would be better off without them.”

“The Black Robes have jurisdiction over fundamentalist Muslims-”

“True Muslims,” hissed Ibn Azziz.

“The nation can ill afford further dividing its people.” General Kidd adjusted his immaculate blue uniform. “Come with me, you’ll learn something.” He started down the stairs that led from the balcony, and Ibn Azziz was compelled to accompany him. The exhausted Fedayeen got hastily to their feet, brushing off their filthy rags. They were scrawny as ravening wolves, sunburned, scratched and bloody, eyes swollen, their beards matted. “Look around you, Mullah Ibn Azziz, before you start burning churches. Many of those men were Catholics before converting.”

“False conversions, as you well know,” said Ibn Azziz, tagging along beside him as the general waded into the crowd. Ibn Azziz did his best not to touch any of them. “Conversions made only to be accepted in the Fedayeen.”

General Kidd embraced one of the Fedayeen, the man wild-eyed, lips cracked, ferocious in his gratitude. The general’s spotless uniform was dirty when they separated. He kissed another man on the cheek, had his hand kissed by others as they clustered around him, looking for his approval, his acknowledgment, croaking out his name. He moved deeper into the mass of recruits, nodding, patting them on the back-his uniform was filthy now, smeared with mud and blood, studded with burrs.

“We must be on guard against such falsifiers of faith,” insisted Ibn Azziz.

“I do not have the ability to look within their souls. Nor do I care to look.” General Kidd lightly tugged at the torn earlobe of one of his Fedayeen, turned to Ibn Azziz. “Besides, is it not Redbeard’s job to keep the nation safe from its own citizens? That is a matter for State Security, not Fedayeen.”

“Indeed.” Ibn Azziz bowed his head, clutched his robe tightly around himself. Not a hint of his joy was revealed. The general had fallen into his trap. “The question I pose to you, General, is whether Redbeard is doing his job.”

The general took a morsel of food from the crusted hands of one of the recruits, thanked him for it, and put it in his mouth. “We have had no major terrorist attacks in three years.” He smacked his lips, smiled broadly at his men. “Terrorist cells are regularly broken up, and the guilty executed. It would seem State Security is functioning admirably.”

“Redbeard’s niece is a whore and an apostate. Bad enough she wrote a book that minimized the will of Allah in the founding of our nation, now she has run away from her home. She lives free from the restraints of faith and tradition, a mockery to the ideals of pious womanhood. How can we trust Redbeard to guard our nation, when he can’t even guard his niece from sin?”

General Kidd saluted his troops. The recruits returned the salute, shouting his name, their voices cracking, a deafening, horrible sound. You would have thought it was the chanting of angels by the look on General Kidd’s face.

“I need your help to find the slut,” said Ibn Azziz. “You have men skilled in the shadow arts. It will be no great effort for them-”

“I don’t send my men to chase women.” The general beamed at his recruits. “Tell your Black Robes to get off their flabby asses if you want to find her so badly.”

Ibn Azziz wanted to grab him, wanted to shake him until he realized the opportunity they had been given…but, the general was too soiled to touch. “General? Please, General? We must talk privately.”

General Kidd led them out of the crowd and back up the steps. Ibn Azziz was going to have to spend hours in the baths. He was going to have to burn his robe. The filth would never be cleansed.

General Kidd waved to the recruits from the balcony, his face streaked with dirt. Their shouts were even louder now.

“You may not see the connection between Redbeard’s private and his official failings, but others will,” promised Ibn Azziz. “I have friends at the state television networks who would be only too glad to help. Do not be fooled by my youth, General. As you did in Philadelphia, I too know how to seize the initiative. This is an opportunity for both the Fedayeen and the Black Robes. Surely you can see that?”

General Kidd finally looked at him and Ibn Azziz shivered.

Ibn Azziz piously folded his hands in front of him, angry with himself for showing weakness. The body was treacherous. The body was an open door to the devil. “We have a mutuality of interest, that is all that I am saying. I have been told that there was a certain…understanding between the Black Robes and Fedayeen high command. A recognition that Redbeard has outlived his usefulness.”

General Kidd turned back to his cheering recruits. “Any understanding that existed was between me and Oxley. If you can bring him back from the dead, we will have something to talk about.”

Ibn Azziz turned on his heel, fuming. Omar, his bodyguard, was beside him again.

The Fedayeen stayed beside the door to the balcony, leaving them unescorted. Another insult. Their voices echoed down the corridor, garrulous as Jews’.

Let them laugh. Ibn Azziz had been mocked before, but the dead no longer laughed. His head pounded, though from the effects of his fast or his anger he could not tell. Regardless of the general’s lack of cooperation, Redbeard’s niece would be found. No matter what it took. No matter what it cost. The whore would be brought in, shown in all her debased squalor on television, perhaps even made to confess her uncle’s role in her fall into sin. Yes. Help from the Fedayeen would have been a blessing, but Ibn Azziz had learned not to rely on anyone but himself…and Allah.

Ibn Azziz felt excitement course through him. The niece was said to be obstinate, but there were men in his employ skilled in the arts of persuasion. Given enough time, they could get the niece to confess to anything.

At great cost, Ibn Azziz had purchased a photograph of the niece and distributed it to every Black Robe in the country. The photo was several years old, taken on campus while she hurried to class, but her features were clear, as was the supple harlotry of her limbs. Word had come that Redbeard had enlisted his orphan to help him find his niece…Rakkim Epps. Another Fedayeen renegade. The photo of him was equally out-of-date, but his face showed the serene insolence that marked so many of the Fedayeen. Perhaps when Ibn Azziz was finished with Redbeard, he would start working on the transformation of the warrior elite.

He pushed past Omar, threw wide the doors to the outside. The wind buffeted them, sent his robes flapping. There had been good news this morning. A nest of Zionist vipers discovered. He had intended to invite General Kidd to the festivities. His loss. Ibn Azziz held his head high, barely aware of the cold. Last night he had dreamed for the third time of the city transformed. The streets of the capital like sheets of beaten copper, the gutters running red with blood. White doves flew overhead, a vast flock of doves, their wings beating like thunder. Ibn Azziz had awakened, weeping with joy.