Prayers for the assassin

CHAPTER 57

“Ambassador, may I present Sarah Dougan and her escort, Rakkim Epps,” said Soliman bin-Saud.

Ambassador Kuhn nodded to Sarah, then Rakkim. “Welcome to our tiny bit of Switzerland.” He was a short, round man with an upward-curling, waxed mustache and watery blue eyes. An ornate red jacket with gold piping and full-cut black trousers gave him the appearance of an overfed bird. He gave a wan smile to bin-Saud. “A pleasure to see you, Soliman. Pity your esteemed father could not join us.”

Bin-Saud plucked a canapé from a tray offered by a liveried waiter, nibbled at foie gras wrapped in rose petals. Bin-Saud was a handsome Arab with a perfumed, square-cut beard, dark eyes, and lips that were too soft. “Matters of state called. I’m sure you understand.” He took another canapé from the hovering waiter, offered it to Sarah, holding it just above her lips. “You must try it, darling.”

Sarah took one from the tray. “Ummm, it is good. Rakkim?”

Rakkim waved the waiter away.

“Forgive my guest’s impertinence, Ambassador,” said bin-Saud. “Mr. Epps is Fedayeen, and as you know, they are creatures of simple pleasures.”

“Oh, my, yes, fearsome beasts from what I’ve heard.” The ambassador studied Rakkim. “Can you really kill a man with one finger?”

Rakkim reached out too quickly for the ambassador to react, twisted the left tip of his mustache. “There, that’s better.”

The ambassador stepped back, eyes wide. “Come…come with me, Soliman. You really should sample the hummingbird in aspic.” Kuhn nodded to Sarah and Rakkim. “Please enjoy yourselves.”

Sarah watched the ambassador and Soliman make their way across the room. The ambassador glanced back once, hurried on. She pretended she hadn’t enjoyed what Rakkim had done.

The party was crowded with perhaps three hundred guests, laughing and eating and drinking, ambassadors and diplomatic staff from almost every embassy in the capital of Seattle. Nigerians and East Africans in a blaze of color, Brazilians and Argentineans in Western formal attire, Swedes and Norwegians, and Australians, some Sarah recognized from past events she had attended with Redbeard, but plenty of new faces. Though they had no formal diplomatic relations, there was even a representative from the Bible Belt, an older man with a mane of gray hair, wearing a black frock coat like a country preacher.

“Soliman looked happy to see you tonight,” said Rakkim. “You don’t meet many Saudis who kiss ladies on the hand. And so elegant. How many pounds of emeralds do you think were sewn into the hem of his robe?”

A waiter offered alcoholic and nonalcoholic champagne. Sarah opted for non. He didn’t.

“Soliman did me a favor inviting us to come here tonight,” said Sarah, sipping her drink. The bubbles tickled. “When his father finds out, he’ll get in trouble, because his father thinks the Swiss are libertines. Besides, would you rather we went to Redbeard for help?”

“I just don’t like him.”

“That’s okay, he doesn’t like you either.”

Bin-Saud’s father was right about the Swiss: they were libertines. Decadent and agnostic and rich beyond counting. Strictly neutral for the last six hundred years, they dealt with every government regardless of politics or religion, and they made money from them all. The Swiss had no allies, no enemies-they only had clients. A string quartet played Mozart, making sure that no one’s sensibilities would be offended. The party featured trays of crab and prawns and caviar for the Chinese and Russians and South Americans, trays of halal delicacies for the faithful. Everyone got to partake of the euphoria generators in the air-conditioning, the microscopic mist of neurotransmitters and pheromones, a boon to relaxation and feelings of intimacy.

Sarah felt a little lightheaded. Her bare shoulders tingled and she could feel every inch of the body-hugging formal dress she had bought today in the modern district. She wished she and Rakkim were someplace alone. “What is it, Rikki?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re restless.”

Rakkim exchanged glasses with a passing waiter, used the opportunity to scan the room. “I feel like we’re being watched.”

“I’m sure we are being watched. That’s why people come to embassy parties: to look at other people and try to figure out what they’re really up to.”

“I don’t mean like that.”

“Well…we won’t stay long then.” Sarah felt the Chinese medallion tucked into a pocket of the gown. “Rakkim…when you promised Fancy’s girlfriend that you would kill Darwin, you were just saying that, weren’t you?”

Rakkim nodded as he took in the room.

“You were just making sure she would give us the medallion?”

“I’ve already told you that,” said Rakkim.

Sarah stared at him and couldn’t decide if he was telling the truth. “Dance with me.”

“Living dangerously, are we?”

“No.” Sarah took him by the hand, led him through the crowd. “I spotted the Chinese ambassador dancing with one of his concubines. The old letch has been giving me the eye since I was fourteen.”

A tray of tiny curried eels passed by at eye level, and Rakkim wished he could join them curled on their beds of ice.

Anthony Colarusso sat at the kitchen table in his boxers, slathering peanut butter onto white bread and wishing that Marie had stocked up before she’d left. The knife banged against the glass sides of the jar. Almost out. He had been living on peanut butter sandwiches and takeout ever since she and the kids had gone into hiding. The bread tore under his rough handling and he shook his head. Should have heated the peanut butter in the microwave, but he was no cook.

“Toast the bread, Pop, you won’t have that problem.”

Colarusso jumped up, knocked the chair over.

Anthony Jr. stood in the doorway from the cellar, laughing.

Colarusso ran to him, smacked him a couple times while the kid pretended to be hurt. “Trying to give me a heart attack, you little shit?”

Anthony Jr. put him in a bear hug, lifted him off the ground. Colarusso outweighed his son by eighty pounds, but the kid swung him around as if the beefy detective were one of those ballet dancers with the short skirts.

“Put me down!” Colarusso stood there in his polka-dot boxers, hands on his hips. “How did you get past Ames and Frank?” He picked his police-issue off the counter, thumbed the safety as he peeked out the kitchen window. “They’re supposed to be watching the place.”

“Come on, Pop, I’ve been sneaking in and out of this house since I was twelve. Couple of uniforms aren’t going to spot me.” Anthony Jr. sat at the table, ran a finger around the rim of the peanut butter jar, and put it in his mouth. “Couple of uniforms aren’t going to spot the guy who came to our front door either. Even if they do, they’re not going to stop him.”

Colarusso stayed standing. “You’re supposed to be with your mother and sisters.”

“Eight days with Cousin Charlotte was like eighty years in purgatory. She’s even a worse cook than Mom, and all she does all day is knit sweaters for dolls.” Anthony Jr. dipped into the peanut butter again. “They’re safe, don’t worry. A Christmas card once a year isn’t much of a connection to follow. Besides, this guy at the door, it was you he wanted.”

Colarusso hefted the pistol. “Well, I’m here if he wants to come knocking again.”

Anthony Jr. looked up at him. “I’m here too, Pop.”

“You’ve been taking dance lessons, Ambassador,” purred Sarah.

“No, but I have lost a little weight,” said Lao, the Chinese ambassador, dipping her, using the occasion to lightly bump bellies. A short, round, middle-aged man in traditional garb, silk slippers on his feet. A player almost since the changeover, Lao was a deadly trade negotiator for one of the two current superpowers. Only the Russian ambassador carried as much heft in the capital, and he had been called back to Moscow. “I believe it’s changed my center of gravity for the better.”

“Yes, I can definitely tell.”

“I was a bit surprised to see you here tonight with Soliman.” The mascara didn’t make Lao’s eyes any less piercing. “A nice boy, but I thought you had sent him on his way.”

Sarah smiled. “We’re just good friends.”

“Of course, you are.” Lao nodded toward where Rakkim hung on the periphery. “I see Redbeard sent along a bodyguard. It’s really not necessary. One of the many delights of the Swiss embassy parties is the minimal need for security. We all have an interest in maintaining a place for civilized pleasures without the petty concerns of state.”

“I’ll remember that next time, Ambassador, but you know my uncle. Nothing is more dangerous than a place of safety.”

“Does he insist you take your bodyguard to your soft, warm bed?” Lao laughed at his wit, eyes glittering. “Forgive me, Sarah. Chinese women are bold, and I forget the sensibilities of Islamic women.”

“Eighteen years in the capital and you forget?” Sarah gently chided him. “You’re a naughty boy, Ambassador.”

“Getting more naughty every year,” said Lao, spinning her faster. The light caught the sheen of sweat on his forehead. He smelled like lilacs. He slipped a fan out of a voluminous sleeve, waved it rapidly. “I do believe that Ambassador Kuhn has turned up the euphoria mist. I feel positively giddy.”

Sarah was grateful for the break in the music and strolled over to a quiet corner of the ballroom. “I have a favor to ask.”

Lao’s flirtatiousness was gone.

“I have a piece of jewelry I want to show you. A medallion from your own country. A small-town piece honoring the yearly plum festival.” Sarah laid the medallion in his hand.

Lao looked it over, shrugged. “It’s of no value. No apparent value.”

“I’m trying to find out what village it came from.”

Lao slipped the fan back into his sleeve, showed her a hard smile. “I’m a city boy.”

“I’d like you to keep the medallion,” Sarah said, closer now. “When you find out the village it came from, I think you should have the authorities start a search. There’s something in the vicinity of the village…something of great interest to all of us.”

Lao waved the fan, covering his mouth. “What exactly am I looking for?”

Sarah closed his hand around the medallion. “Radiation.”