Prayers for the assassin

CHAPTER 50

The four men grabbed Angelina on the way out of the mosque. Big men who lifted her by the elbows and carried her quickly to a waiting black car. She cried out, her toes dragging across the parking lot. Others saw her. Heard her. Women she had prayed alongside of for twenty years, but they all pretended not to see or hear. Except for Delia Mubarak, who called her name. Delia, who looked around for support, but was smacked by her husband, led away by the hand like a naughty child. The men hustled Angelina into the backseat of the car, one on either side of her. The other two got in front. Doors slammed, heavy as the gates to hell.

“When Redbeard finds out what you’ve done, I wouldn’t be you for all the gold in Switzerland,” said Angelina.

The men remained silent. Stared straight ahead.

“So Ibn Azziz thought he needed four men to bring in a little old lady. You must be very proud to fetch for such a mighty lord.”

The man to her right cursed her, but the driver ordered him quiet.

Angelina fingered her prayer beads. They could stay silent all they wanted now, she had learned what she wanted. It had been Ibn Azziz who’d ordered her capture. She listened to the clicking of her prayer beads, fingers flying, comforted by the names of God.

Rakkim slowly opened his eyes. It took an effort. Too much light coming in through the curtains. His eyes closed again, heavy-lidded. No. No.

“Good job.” An old man sat beside the bed, legs crossed at the knee. Dapper old gent in a pale green three-piece suit. White hair. White beard, lightly perfumed. Light brown skin…the color of Rakkim’s own face. “Don’t doze off again. Stick around.”

Rakkim struggled awake. The back of the bed moved silently to a more upright position.

“Better?” said the old man. “I was getting bored watching you sleep.” He smiled. Such small teeth. “You looked like you were dreaming.”

Rakkim licked his dry lips. Maybe this was a dream? He sipped cool water from the glass the old man held to his lips. “Where…am I?” His voice was as cracked as his lips.

“Las Vegas.”

“Sarah?”

“She’s quite all right.”

Rakkim shifted in the hospital bed, winced. He and Sarah had been in California the last time he remembered. It had been night and…

“The thoracic surgeons are very impressed with the rapidity of your recuperation.” Another smile from the old man. “Of course, they’ve had no experience with Fedayeen.”

“How…long have I been here?”

“They wanted to medicate you for pain, but I told them you had an extremely high threshold, and beside, I’m sure you’d prefer clarity regardless.”

“How long?”

“Two days. Your body has already absorbed most of the stitches. Amazing.”

Rakkim took a deep breath. It hurt but he didn’t show it this time. “Are you my doctor?”

“That’s one way of looking at it.” The old man’s hands flopped. “My personal physicians are treating you. You couldn’t get better care anywhere on the planet, although at this point it’s just a matter of giving your body time to regain its strength.”

Rakkim’s head was pounding so loudly he could barely hear. The last thing he remembered was being frightened. Not for himself…but, for Sarah.

“What I wouldn’t pay to have your constitution,” said the old man.

“Sarah? Is she all right?”

“She didn’t get a scratch. You were shot. Twice. Do you remember that?”

Rakkim shook his head. “I was inside a fish. How can that be?”

“Maybe you’re Jonah. Or Pinocchio.”

“No…I was inside a shark.”

The old man patted his hand. “I shouldn’t take advantage of your present condition. Will you forgive me? You were shot. One bullet just grazed your side, but the other tore a hole in your lung. You lost some blood. Don’t you remember anything?”

Rakkim licked his dry lips. The old man had a faint British accent. “I’m in Las Vegas? How did I get here?”

The old man helped him to another drink. “You couldn’t very well be taken to a local hospital. All those dead policemen…” The old man shook his head. “Rather hard to explain, don’t you think?”

Dead police? Rakkim remembered now. SWAT pouring into the ride at Disneyland. Body armor. It was dark inside the shark…and there was all this smoke…and gunfire and blood splashing on his hands. “Where’s Sarah?”

“She has a room in the visitors’ wing, but she’s spent most of the last two days sitting in this very chair. I suspect that now she’s getting some rest herself.” The old man plucked at the crease in his trousers. His socks had tiny clocks on them. Black silk socks with tiny orange clocks. “Or perhaps she’s out shopping. Ah, the female of the species. What would we do without them?”

Rakkim stared at him. “Who are you?”

The door to his room opened and a nurse bustled in, a brusque woman with dark hair tucked back into a white cap. She bowed to the old man, then seemed startled to see Rakkim sitting up. “You’re awake?” She walked over, took his wrist. “Hush.” She glanced at her watch, waited, checked her watch again. “Good.” She checked his eyes, shook her head. “I don’t understand it…but, Allah be praised.”

He remembered something else about being inside the big shark. Fancy. He and Sarah had found Fancy inside the shark…and then the assassin…the assassin had killed her.

“Where do you think you’re going?” said the nurse, holding him back, surprised at his strength.

“I’d listen to her, Mr. Epps. We have to trust the professionals.” The old man stood up. “I’ll come back and visit at a better time. We have so very much to discuss.”

Rakkim was dizzy. He clung to the nurse, not sure if his memory of the assassin was a dream. Another dream. No…it was real. He had seen the assassin kill Fancy. He had seen the assassin slide his knife into her ear as though he were whispering a deep, dark secret to her.

The nurse patted his shoulder.

The last thing Rakkim remembered was lying in Sarah’s arms…lying in a sea of blood and seeing the assassin approach. Rakkim cried out and the nurse gently pressed him back into the cool white sheets.

“Welcome to the house of Allah,” said Ibn Azziz.

Angelina looked around the windowless chamber. Took in the six Black Robes in attendance. “I do not see Allah here.”

Ibn Azziz glared down at her from a high-back chair. “Do not mock me or God, woman. I am giving you a chance to atone for your sin. You have raised a whore. Perhaps it was not your doing. Perhaps you were merely following the instructions of Redbeard, but the fact is that Sarah Dougan is a whore and a blasphemer, and Allah demands that someone be held accountable.”

Angelina adjusted her head covering, grateful that she had gotten to pray this morning. “You’re thin as a dried stick, Mullah Ibn Azziz. You need a woman to fatten you up, put some meat on those bones of yours.”

Ibn Azziz glanced at his men to make certain that no one was smiling. “Your years serving Redbeard have spoiled your judgment. I need no woman for anything.”

“Then, in the name of Allah, the lord of truth, why am I here, Mullah? Why else would you have me brought before you unless you were seeking a housekeeper? Surely you weren’t seeking my counsel on matters of doctrine.”

Ibn Azziz nodded. “It is good you behave thus. I am a man inclined towards mercy when it is merited. Your insolence makes the task at hand easier.”

Angelina bowed. “It is my pleasure.”

Ibn Azziz stood up, jabbed a bony hand at her. “You will tell me where I can find the whore. You were the only mother she had. She would not have run away without telling you where she was going.”

“I love the girl as my own, but I don’t know where she is.”

“You love her, but she must not love you. To wallow in sin and leave you to explain her actions. She must think you a fool.”

Angelina watched as he stroked his wispy beard. A pathetic excuse for a beard. An even more pathetic excuse for an imam.

“I almost caught her in California a few days ago,” said Ibn Azziz. “She was in my grasp but escaped. Allah must have his reasons-”

“What do you think Redbeard will do when he finds out that you have taken me? What do you think the people will do when they find out you have desecrated a mosque?”

“I’m not afraid of Redbeard or the people. I am only afraid of God.”

“As you should be.”

“Be silent, woman!” Ibn Azziz paced the room. Thinking. Nervous as static electricity.

In all her years with Redbeard, she had never seen him as unraveled as Ibn Azziz. What was he expecting, some frightened housewife begging for mercy? An intimidated moderate with knees of jelly before the leader of the Black Robes? Angelina had been beaten before. She feared only God, and she had nothing to fear from Him.

“You will tell me where to find the whore,” said Ibn Azziz. He stood quietly now, watching her, and his nervousness was gone. “If you do not, or can not, then you will be brought before the religious court. We will charge Sarah Dougan with fornication and blasphemy in absentia. You shall be the primary witness against her.”

Angelina started to speak. Held her tongue.

Ibn Azziz seemed almost disappointed. “Make no mistake, you will testify against her. It is only a matter of how much pain you wish to endure.”

Angelina’s eyes shimmered. The man was right. They both knew it, and the pleasure it gave him was obscene. She hung her head. Asked God for courage. Looked up at Ibn Azziz. Lips quivering. “I will tell you where she is.”

Ibn Azziz sat back in his chair. He looked so young. “Speak.”

“I…I can not bear to hear my own words.” Angelina looked at the men around her. “I will not speak in front of them.”

“I will not send my guards away.”

Angelina took a deep breath. “She is…she is…” She lowered her voice, the words inaudible now.

“Speak up!”

“I love her, Mullah. The sound of my betrayal will burn my ears for eternity.”

Ibn Azziz looked at his bodyguards. Saw them indicate that she had been searched. He beckoned to her.

Angelina took a halting step. She spoke again. The words even softer than before.

“Closer!”

Angelina was two feet away. Near enough to count his eyelashes.

“That’s close enough. I can’t bear the stink of a female.”

Angelina lowered her head. Whispered.

Ibn Azziz smacked his hand against his leg, sent his black robe fluttering.

Angelina stepped forward muttering. They were close enough now that Ibn Azziz could hear the words. She was praying. Asking God to give her strength. Asking for God’s blessing for what she was about to do.

Ibn Azziz started to shout but it was too late.

Angelina launched herself at him. Hooked one of his eyes with her forefinger, drove it deep behind the jelly and scooped it out. He screamed, struggled to escape her, but the chair held him in place, and fifty years of housework had made her hands strong. Fifty years of prayer had given her courage. The eye she had torn out flopped against her wrist as she clawed at his face, seeking the other one. The eye was like a grape. A muscat grape peeled for a pasha. Such things were done in the old days. She gasped as the knives entered her body, but the thought of Sarah made her hang on, raking his face with her nails. Such screaming from Ibn Azziz. Again and again the bodyguards stabbed her, and she felt her body shudder. She wished…she wished she had been granted the gift of seeing Sarah and Rakkim marry. To see them kiss. To hold their baby in her arms. The knives…the knives hurt, but not so badly as she feared. The pain was bearable. Above all else, Allah was merciful.