Prayers for the assassin

CHAPTER 61

“Idolatry!” Ibn Azziz shrieked to the tens of thousands milling in front of Crown Prince Auditorium. Most of them were moderns and moderates, here to cheer the movie stars inside on Oscar night, the movie stars shown on the three-story-high screens outside the auditorium. Thousands though were hard-core supporters of Mullah Ibn Azziz, bused in from mosques all over the country. “This is a celebration of idolatry!”

“Idolatry!” responded his supporters: women in black burkas clacking smooth stones together, men in jellabas, flogging themselves with chains. They surged around Ibn Azziz’s bodyguards trying to touch him, seeking his blessing. “Idolatry!”

The moderates and moderns in the crowd roared whenever their favorite stars appeared on camera, but their voices were drowned by the rage and intensity of Ibn Azziz’s supporters. A police line five deep surrounded the entrance to the auditorium, a phalanx of uniforms staring straight ahead through their face shields. Dozens of helicopters circled overhead, searchlights playing across the crowd. The Academy Awards were always televised from Los Angeles, but this year, on the twenty-fifth anniversary of the founding of the Islamic Republic, the president had decided to host the event from the capital. To not only show the whole world the tolerant face of Islam, but also lend his political support to one of the republic’s largest economic drivers.

The rage of the fundamentalists was largely manufactured by Ibn Azziz for political gain. As usual, most of the nominated films told uplifting stories of good Muslims overcoming temptation through moral strength. Flesh or Faith, considered a shoo-in for Best Picture, was the tale of a beautiful Muslim girl from a poor family engaged to marry a rich Catholic who owns the home they rent. At the final hour, a visit from an angel turns the girl back to the true faith and leaves the groom alone and humiliated at the altar. Miracles Inc., another highly acclaimed film, used state-of-the-art computer imagery to suggest the holographic wonders and delights of heaven itself. Like all Hollywood creations, the production values were flawless, the acting mesmerizing, the message trumpeting modest devotion. Rather than assuaging Ibn Azziz, Hollywood’s piety was seen as a threat, the cleric declaring that time in movie theaters would be better spent in mosques.

“To hell with these immoral images! To hell with the false gods of Hollywood!” shouted Ibn Azziz for the cameras as he was bumped and jostled. His face was still swollen and scratched from Angelina’s fingernails, his ruined eye a ragged hole in his skull. “Tonight we show the world that Muslims will not abide such sacrilege in the capital itself!”

The crowd of fundamentalists moved forward, chanting, the crashing of stone on stone providing a potent beat. A tremor ran through the line of uniforms, the rows of armored police squaring up.

Rakkim and Stevens easily passed through the first three checkpoints, but they hit trouble at an unexpected one deep within the amphitheater. Two presidential Secret Service agents refused to accept Rakkim’s credentials without further confirmation. A potentially disastrous delay. He and Stevens should have had a half hour to get into position, but the top box-office actress in the world had thrown a fit at Jill Stanton’s career retrospective bumping up against her own musical number. The star, who had a marginal voice in spite of all the audio engineers, had insisted the retrospective be moved ahead a segment so Jill’s superior talents wouldn’t overshadow her. They had no more than fifteen minutes to get into the main control room.

Rakkim held out his credentials. “Check my ID. Do an iris scan to confirm my identity. I’m cleared. Redbeard himself signed off.”

The agent with the sandy hair shook his head. “I didn’t clear you.”

The bald one had moved into perfect position, back a few paces, hand on his pistol.

“Stevens, you can pass,” said sandy hair. “Mr. Epps, wait here for my supervisor.”

Stevens stood his ground. “You two shouldn’t even be here. Interior of the amphitheater is State Security’s responsibility. You don’t have jurisdiction.”

“We don’t have to explain anything to you,” said sandy hair.

“The president requires at least six possible exit routes, fellas,” said the bald one. “We have to secure each and every one of them.”

The live-feed screen at the checkpoint showed the mass of fundamentalists stopped three feet away from the police line. Chains were flying, faces contorted as the hard core shouted for the police to join them.

“Give me your cell,” said Rakkim. “You can talk to Redbeard himself.”

“Fuck Redbeard,” said sandy hair.

“Come on, Marx,” said the bald one, still keeping a watchful eye. “What can it hurt?”

“Is Redbeard the fucking president, Beason?” said Marx. “No, he’s not. Do we work for the fucking president? Yes, we do.” He looked at Stevens. “You going or staying?”

“Go ahead, I’ll catch up with you when their supervisor shows up.” Rakkim tugged at Stevens’s jacket as though straightening it, passed him the digital download.

“Are you sure you have enough men deployed, Chief?” Redbeard said into the limo’s phone.

“As I told you-”

“I know what you told me, I also know what I’m seeing on TV, and it looks to me like you don’t have enough men.” Redbeard could feel Sarah’s tension as she sat beside him, watching the chaos in front of the auditorium.

“I guess I could call in the overflow-”

“I thought you would have already done so. I gave you intel yesterday that Ibn Azziz was going to make trouble.” Redbeard slammed down the phone, looked at Colarusso. “Your boss is an ass.”

“Never had a boss who wasn’t,” Colarusso said from the jump seat facing them.

Anthony Jr.’s voice came over the intercom from the driver’s seat. “Anything I can do?”

“Stay put,” both Redbeard and Colarusso said at the same time.

Colarusso shrugged. “The kid hears there’s trouble, he wants to be first in line.”

“Proactive…I like that,” said Redbeard. “With proper training, there’s no limit to how far he could go.” Redbeard looked out the smoked windows. “Hate to see a young man with such obvious talent get shunted into the Fedayeen.”

“Maybe we could talk about that,” said Colarusso. “After this business is over.”

Redbeard let the offer linger as he watched the street. They were part of a long line of identical limos strung along the back streets behind the auditorium. Limos reserved for second-tier celebrities and minor industry honchos. The stars’ limos were in the parking garage under the auditorium. A lousy place to be if you had to make a hasty exit. Redbeard had two doubles at the event. One in a secure VIP lounge inside the auditorium. Another in a command limo with Redbeard’s regular driver.

Redbeard picked up the phone again, punched in a nontraceable number. Luc picked it up on the first ring. Crowd noise on the other end as Luc squeezed through, making his way toward Ibn Azziz. “Do it,” said Redbeard, clicking off. He settled back into the plush seat. Smiled.

“I’m going to walk the area,” said Colarusso. “I know the uniform working traffic control for this sector. I’ll bring him some coffee.”

“It was a pleasure seeing you again, Detective,” said Redbeard.

Colarusso got out, leaned over, poked his head inside. “My boy is a good driver, you don’t have anything to worry about.”

“Inshallah,” said Redbeard.

“Yeah, whatever,” said Colarusso, the door closing with a heavy thunk.

Their gray limo was like all the others in line, only it was fully armored, the glass bulletproof and bomb resistant, the air recirculated in case of tear gas or worse. The armor was important but the anonymity was better. If one’s enemies know where you are, no matter how well protected you are, you can be gotten. Better to be a chameleon than a turtle. The limo was as safe a place as there was around the auditorium-he was still glad he had insisted that Katherine not join them. Someone needed to have a copy of the download in case things went bad. That’s what he had told her anyway. He had told Sarah the same thing, ordered her to stay away, to go into hiding until things were clearer. She had kissed him, told him she loved him…and then said she was a grown woman who had survived two months on her own, two months with a Fedayeen assassin trailing her. She could handle a night at the Oscars.

Stevens hurried down the hall. One of the monitors set into the wall showed that skinny young actress accepting her Best Supporting Actress award, her voice high-pitched and with the hint of a lisp. He walked even faster. His new boots were a little stiff, but they were French. Well worth a few pinched toes. A right at the next split in the corridor, deeper into the labyrinth. Never should have left Rakkim back there. He touched the download in his pocket. He didn’t know what it was, but he knew what to do with it. Redbeard had said if either of them were caught with it, they would be executed, then offered him a chance to say no. He smoothed his pencil mustache. If Redbeard said to dive into a blast furnace, Stevens might ask for a cold drink first, but he would jump. He and Rakkim were supposed to take over the control room and lock it down. The download went into the preview bay of the central control panel. Redbeard had put a mock-up on the computer, run Stevens and Rakkim through the drill a few times. It was a simple procedure. When the preprogrammed career highlight reel started, one of them would switch the main feed to preview mode and the download would play. A trained chimp could do it. So why was Stevens’s heart pounding?

It must have killed Rakkim to get paired with him. Fedayeen thought they were God’s gift. Now look at him, stuck back there with those Secret Service yobs. In spite of his height, when he’d turned eighteen, Stevens had been accepted in the Fedayeen…but a broken ankle the first week of training had sidelined him. He got another chance after the ankle healed, but he came down with hypothermia during winter maneuvers and that was that. The only luck he had was bad luck. Except when it came to women. Stevens touched his nose. It had healed nicely, with just the faintest sign of the break. Stevens had insisted on that, against the wishes of his plastic surgeon. Women loved a man with a broken nose. He wished Rakkim were with him. Not that he needed him. To show him.

Kerenski and Faisal were outside the control room window, natty in their dress blazers.

“Redbeard wants the two of you shifted out front to reinforce the cops,” said Stevens. “Report to the watch commander, but maintain your autonomy.”

“Who’s minding the store back here?” said Faisal.

Stevens glanced into the control room; saw a half dozen people hunched over their consoles. Two young women, one a modern with blue-tipped hair. Very cute. “I am.”

“You’re welcome to it.” Kerenski nodded at the wall screen where the skinny actress was droning on with her acceptance speech. “This is one boring assignment.”

“Doorman…isn’t that a little below your pay grade?” said Faisal.

“Redbeard didn’t like the way I looked at his niece.” Stevens grinned, ran a fingernail along the curve of his sideburns. “Or maybe he didn’t like the way she looked at me.” His expression hardened. “Key combo?”

Faisal hesitated. “Three nine nine.”

“Go on,” said Stevens. “I’ll expect an action report a half hour after the broadcast.” He watched them double-time it down the corridor until they disappeared from sight. Turned and saw the cute modern in the control room watching him. He waved at her through the bulletproof glass and she went back to work, cheeks coloring. Another glance down the corridor. Still no Rakkim. His loss. The glory would all be Stevens’s.

It had been an honor to be selected by Redbeard for a secret assignment, but to be the one to initiate the action…Stevens unconsciously stiffened to attention. He had dreamed of doing brave deeds for as long as he could remember. A childhood playing Arabs and Crusaders, Stevens always taking the part of the outnumbered Arabs making a last, desperate stand against the desecraters of the holy places. He smiled at the memory. To put his life on the line for his country was a blessing he had received many times since joining State Security, but this was different. He could tell from the tone of Redbeard’s voice. The way his hand had shaken slightly as he’d laid it on Stevens’s shoulder. Whatever Allah required of him, Stevens was eager to meet his destiny. A final check for Rakkim, and Stevens stepped to the door, punched in three nine nine.

Heads lifted from their consoles, and quickly returned to work. Except for the cute girl who had been watching him before, lingering…and a man standing behind the consoles, hands clasped behind his back. Producer. Better get that settled. ASAP.

“I’m Stevens,” he said, shaking hands with the producer. “I’m taking over the room. Order of Redbeard, director of State Security.

The producer trembled. “Is there a problem?” He checked the screen showing the crowd of Black Robes milling around, bullhorns booming. “Surely we’re not in any danger?”

Stevens moved to the preview bay, slipped the download in. “Lock in the override. I’ll be running the preview in a few minutes.”

“But, that’s…that’s my job,” said the producer. “Just tell me what you want me to do.”

Stevens could see the cute girl watching him; saw the pulse in her throat throbbing. “I want you to get your people out of here. You can stay. You and the modern with the blue hair. I’ll need you to run things. You can do that, can’t you?”

“Yes…of course. We’ll go with a straight three-camera-”

“Just tell the rest of them to go to the nearest staff lounge.” Stevens waited until the others left, the door locking into place. The modern with the blue hair kept glancing over at him as she pretended to work. She had a great smile. He leaned close to the producer. “The girl…what’s her name?”

“I really don’t know. I was called in at the last minute when the regular producer got sick.” The man looked as if he was about to cry. “We’re not in any danger, are we?”

“Relax, you’re in good hands here,” said Stevens. “What’s your name?”

“Darwin.”

Stevens sat down at the preview bay, kept his eyes on the live shot. The skinny actress seemed to be winding down. Just a few more minutes until Jill Stanton’s career retrospective. “Okay, Darwin, you just do your job and I’ll do mine.”