Prayers for the assassin

CHAPTER 44

Rakkim nodded at the Welcome to Yorba Linda sign as they drove past. “Isn’t this where that old-time president was born?”

“I’m impressed,” said Sarah. “Richard Milhous Nixon, thirty-seventh president of the United States. Born January ninth, 1913; Yorba Linda, California.”

“Is he one of them carved into that mountain in South Dakota?”

“No. No.”

He could tell from her expression that she didn’t like being reminded of the mountain. Mount Rushmore, that was it. Blowing up the four faces on the mountain had been one of the first projects of the new Muslim republic. Redbeard had argued against it as a waste of time and money, but the Black Robes had insisted, calling it idolatry, and honoring kaffirs from a nation that no longer existed. In the end, Redbeard had deferred, doubtless using his acquiescence to extract concessions for his own goals. The destruction of the four faces had proven to be more trouble than anticipated, the sheer size of the monument daunting to even massive quantities of explosive. After six months of demolition, the faces still remained partially intact, grotesqueries in the wilderness.

There had been no message from Sarah’s mother on the good-wife recipe site. Just advice from devout wives on preparing their favorite dishes. Sarah had been inside the mosque for an hour, had spent most of the time praying, while Rakkim waited in the car. In spite of her disappointment, she seemed…peaceful when she came out. Ready.

Sarah checked the GPS. “Have you ever been to Sergeant Pernell’s house before?”

“Not since he moved down here. He was one of my hand-to-hand-combat instructors at the academy. We served briefly together when he rotated into one of the battle units a year later. The academy doesn’t like to keep instructors out of the field too long, and the instructors get bored with classwork.” Rakkim glanced up as a jet helicopter arced overhead, another one of the red corporate choppers. He was never going to get used to helicopters over the city. “We lost touch when I went into shadow warriors. Pernell’s a good man. Bitter, but who can blame him?”

“What do you mean?”

“He was wounded on an op in New Guinea. Land mine. Lost his legs-”

“Fedayeen have never been sent to New Guinea.”

“Tell that to Pernell. You’ll probably learn a few new words.” The GPS chirped, Right turn at next intersection. “His legs are gone and one of his arms was amputated above the elbow, but he got the best prosthetics available. Russian plastics. Chinese biochips. He can dress himself, run marathons, handle a knife better than any civilian. He’s got four wives and he keeps them all busy. He just can’t do field work anymore. Not by a long shot.”

“That’s why he’s bitter?”

Rakkim shrugged. “Who wouldn’t be?”

“Do you miss it?”

“Pernell tried teaching at the academy again,” said Rakkim, not answering. “He lasted a year before he pissed off everyone in the chain of command. Pernell was never a very astute barracks politician, and his injuries just made it worse. He was awarded an honorable discharge and mustered out with full retirement pay. The day before he moved to Yorba Linda, he stopped by the Blue Moon. Knocked out two of my bouncers just on general principles before I could take him into the office. I’d never seen him drink anything stronger than khat infusion, but that night we finished off a bottle of Polish vodka while we solved the problems of the world. I haven’t seen him since.”

They passed a mosque, a grand one in the traditional style, the dome covered with tiny lapis lazuli chips. Yorba Linda was a bastion of devout Islam, a small city of scrubbed storefronts and one-acre housing lots, home to doctors and lawyers and successful businessmen. With the highest birth rate in California, its madrassas overflowed with serious students.

“What makes you think your friend is going to be able to help us find Fatima Abdullah?” said Sarah.

“I didn’t say he was my friend.” Turn right at the stop sign. “Pernell is connected with the local cops. He trains SWAT teams in advanced tactics, gives them a heads-up on any exotic weaponry. He’ll be able to make inquiries about her where we can’t.”

“You trust him?”

“He’s Fedayeen.”

A few minutes later, after buzzing the house, they drove up and found Pernell waiting for them in the double doorway, his four wives behind him. One of the wives was burping a baby. All four were dressed in pale yellow hajibs and chadors, only the perfect ovals of their faces visible. Pernell was a tall, weathered man in his midforties, with short, dark hair, a full beard, and a cheek full of khat. Loose white slacks and a long-sleeved shirt on a warm day. He embraced Rakkim, kissed him on both cheeks, pounded him on the back with his good hand. “By the pope’s saggy tits, I missed you.”

“The only man in the world with a dozen kids who’s lonely,” said Rakkim.

“Fourteen kids. Two new sons hung like Arabians.” Pernell eyed Sarah. “Who’s this?”

“Sarah, may I present Jack Pernell. Jack this is Sarah, the woman I intend to marry.”

Pernell sized Sarah up as though he were considering a bid. “Pleasure.” He nodded, but did not touch her. “I’ll let my wives show you the house.” He grabbed Rakkim by the neck, steered him away. “Let’s go out back. The last thing I want to hear is females jabbering on about episiotomies and migraines and the best way to cook a chicken.”

Rakkim glanced over his shoulder at Sarah as Pernell led him away.

They walked around to the rear of the house, which was much larger than it appeared from the road. There were four wings, one for each of the wives and her children; the central structure was probably where Pernell held court. They crossed an expanse of manicured lawn and stood beside the Olympic-size swimming pool. A single white, inflatable swan floated across the surface in the sunlight. Sounds of children came from the house, shouts and cries, laughter too, but there was no sign of their presence on the grounds. No toys, no bicycles, no swing set. Just the swan. Pernell ran a tight crew. Children were the responsibility of the women. Or the madrassa. The older boys would receive specialized instruction from him, but it would be done far away from the house.

“You look good,” said Rakkim.

“Sure, I do.” Pernell led the way around the perimeter of his acre, double-timing it. “The knee servos in my legs are burning out and the replacement parts are back-ordered. I had a nasty infection that laid me up for a week. Just got out of the hospital. Other than that, I’m cocked and locked.” He glanced at Rakkim. One of his eyes was milky and unhealthy looking. “What are you doing here? Come to ask old sarge to be your best man?”

“I need some help.”

“I could have told you that years ago.” Pernell spat khat juice into the grass. “You making major your first hitch shows just how fucked-up the Fedayeen is. You retiring after your first hitch, that shows just how fucked-up you are.” Pernell shook his head. “Such a waste. The talent that Allah gave you…and you toss it away.” He shrugged. “Inshallah.”

“Nice place you got here. This consulting business of yours must be doing well.”

Pernell grabbed an orange from one of his trees, tossed it over to Rakkim, barely breaking stride. “Cops. They think carrying a gun makes them a warrior, and the answer to every situation is a flash grenade. I do what I can. These SWAT hotshots think they know it all and I’m just a creaky has-been. It usually takes me ten whole minutes to straighten them out. Even faster if I have to break somebody’s jaw, but the brass don’t like me to do that. It’s not real work, but it puts food on the table.”

Rakkim peeled the orange, put the peels in his pocket.

Pernell glanced at him, kept walking. “You look fucked out. That little gal must be putting you through your paces.”

Rakkim fed a slice of orange into his mouth.

A grasshopper jumped in front of Pernell, and he nailed it with a wad of khat juice. “You’re a damn fool to wait until now to start settling down. You should have two or three wives at least by now. Don’t go in for any of that one-wife foolishness. You been around Catholics too much, if you think that way.”

The orange was sweet and juicy. “One at a time is plenty.”

“That’s a mistake. One wife thinks she owns you. You have two or three or four, they all know they can be replaced with a quick I divorce thee. Three times and it’s back on the street. Good Muslim woman knows that, knows her only hope is to keep the man of the house pleased. Allah allowed us four wives for a reason.”

“Thanks for the advice.”

“Not that you’ll take it. You were always a hardhead. That’s okay, you’ll find out. That little gal of yours looks fun, but she’s got brains. I could see that just from the way she stood. Woman with brains, that’s just asking for trouble.”

Rakkim chewed the last of the orange, juice running down his chin. “I like trouble.”

“Come talk to me in a few years and tell me if you still like it.” Pernell raked a hand through his beard. They walked in silence until they made it back to the swimming pool. Pernell eased himself into a deck chair, the tiny scars across his face flaring. “I could use a partner in the consulting business. I’m making good money, but with the right partner I could expand. PDs fall all over themselves for ex-Fedayeen.”

Rakkim sat beside him.

“Time for you to sell that den of iniquity of yours and go into an honest trade.”

Rakkim watched the inflatable swan drift across the pool. “Where’s the fun in that?”

“There’s no fun in anything,” Pernell said softly. He bucked up as two of his wives and Sarah came out of the back door carrying cups and tea and pastries. He waited as the wives set down the refreshments, poured tea for the both of them, then backed away, bowing. Sarah stayed. Pernell dropped five sugar cubes into his teacup. “I told Rakkim he should plan on marrying a quartet. He seems to think you’re as much as he could handle.”

“I am as much as he can handle.”

Pernell banged the spoon against the cup as he stirred. “Don’t be spreading that modern slop around my wives.” His smile didn’t even attempt to be convincing. “I’m serious.”

“A husband like you makes women happy to be part of a quartet. It means they each only have to spend a fourth of their time pretending.” Sarah smiled at Pernell. “I’m serious.”

Pernell looked at Rakkim. “Yeah, you’re going to have trouble with this one.”

Rakkim watched Sarah as she walked back to the house. “I’m counting on it.”

Pernell noisily sipped his tea. “What kind of help do you need?”

“I’m looking for a rent-wife. Short-termer-”

Pernell cackled.

“Not for me. Her name is Fatima Abdullah. Last aka was Fancy Andrews.” Rakkim showed him her picture on his phone, printed out a copy for him. “This mug shot is five years old. She was busted in Little Vatican for stealing a customer’s wallet. Had another bust the year before for heroin possession.”

“Little Vatican is full of violators. What do you expect, though? Catholics.”

“I was hoping one of your contacts in Vice could give me a lead on where to find her.”

Pernell pushed a lip out at the photo. “Five years since her last bust? Five weeks is a long time living that life. She could be anywhere. She could be dead.”

“I know.” Rakkim leaned forward. “All charges were dropped on that last one. Administrative adjudication. Which means she paid the arresting officer off, one way or the other. I’m thinking she might have been picked up a few times since then and the paperwork never got filed.”

“That’s been known to happen from time to time.” Pernell sipped his tea. “What do you want with her?”

“Her father is looking for her.” The lie came easily. Smoothly. “He’s dying and no longer cares about the shame she’s brought to the family. I owe him a favor.”

“So there’s no money in it?”

“I’m happy to pay you for your time and expertise.”

“Like you’d pay a rent-wife?”

“I don’t want to fight, Jack. I just want to find the girl.”

Pernell clapped him on the shoulder. Hard. “I haven’t had a good fight in a long time. I’m probably outclassed trying to pick one with you.”

“I know better. You’re the man who taught me how to fight dirty.”

“I’m the man who taught you there’s no such thing as dirty fighting. There’s just fighting.”

They shared a smile in recognition of the truth. The only truth.

“You weren’t the best recruit I had,” said Pernell, staring at the swimming pool. “There were a couple better. Hector Cinque…he had the fastest hands I ever saw. He’s dead now. Shot through the throat five years ago during an extraction outside of Mombasa.”

“I heard the diplomat they pulled in didn’t even have anything useful.”

Pernell shook his head. “I didn’t know that. Typical front-office op. Emir Zingarelli…you ever work with him? No? He was faster than you too. Not as fast as Cinque, but fast.” A mosquito buzzed around Pernell, landed on his prosthetic hand. “Zingarelli’s dead too. Helicopter went down off the coast of Texas. Might have been a peckerwood missile…might have been some asshole in maintenance didn’t tighten the right bolt.” The mosquito buzzed away and Rakkim pinched it between his thumb and forefinger. “Cinque and Zingarelli both dead, and here we sit, a couple of heroes baking our brains in the sun. Funny, isn’t it?”

Rakkim watched him.

“There were times these last few years I hated all of you with your two good arms and two good legs. All of you who still had missions ahead of you. Sometimes…sometimes I wish I hadn’t had body armor on when I stepped on that land mine. That titanium weave saved my life.” Pernell wiped his milky eye. It wasn’t a tear. Pernell had probably never cried in his life. He waited for Rakkim to say something, finally nodded. “Thanks for not telling me how lucky I am. Thanks for not telling me Allah must have a plan for me.”

“If Allah has a plan, He’s not sharing it with us.”