Prayers for the assassin

CHAPTER 4

The Wise Old One watched his aide prostrate himself against the carpet, and he couldn’t remember the boy’s name. John, that was it. Named after the prophet that the Christians called John the Baptist. The one who had announced the coming of the Jesus. John, yes, that was the name of this youngster slowly getting to his feet. A popular name. So many aides now, so many more over the years, it was hard to remember all of them. The Old One’s birth name was Hassan Muhammad, but he hadn’t been called that in many years. The sound of his own name would be foreign to him now, even if there had been someone present who remembered it.

“Redbeard has brought in his nephew,” said the aide, his voice soft and uninflected, as though passion would hurt the Old One’s ears. So many fools who confused age with weakness.

“His name is Rakkim and he is no nephew,” chided the Old One. “He is a pawn raised by Redbeard to be a knight.”

The aide pressed himself against the carpet, a sallow intellectual with a scruff of blond beard. His white tunic and baggy trousers were supposed to imply purity, but to the Old One they revealed only a bland adherence to form. In time the boy would learn that though the Old One valued devotion, he valued intelligence even more. Devotion alone limited the ways a tool could be used.

The Old One sat on an embroidered yellow love seat, arms casually spread across the back. His beard neatly groomed, his long, thinning white hair combed straight back as in his youth, the regal elegance of a vain man whose vanity had only grown with time. He crossed his bony shanks, admiring the sharp crease in his cuffs. Many of his aides preferred robes and tunics and slippers, but he preferred suits from Barrons Ltd., and supple, black tassel loafers, a remnant of his British education. The English were a wan and bloodless race, but their tailors were still the best in the world. Today’s suit was a dark blue, double-breasted, and a custom, ivory dress shirt with a regimental tie. Windsor knot, of course, and lapis lazuli cuff links. He examined his manicure, then peered down from the dais. “How fresh is this news about Rakkim?”

“We believe he is still at Redbeard’s villa,” said the aide, still on his belly.

“You believe?”

“Yes…yes, Mahdi.”

Mahdi. His aides had called him that more often lately. The Mahdi was the awaited one, the enlightened one written of in the scriptures. A messianic figure prophesied to appear at the end of time, when Muslims were most in peril. Destined to unite the believers, the Mahdi would lead them to a great victory over the infidels and usher in an era of peace and justice. A one-world caliphate. The first time the Old One had been called Mahdi, he had been annoyed, feeling it was presumptuous, and there had been others thought to be the enlightened one, bumblers like Osama, who had not lived up to the calling. Now…the Old One decided that he would leave his naming, as all things, to Allah.

“In deepest secrecy, Redbeard sent a mission into the outskirts of the city earlier tonight,” hurried the aide. “Our brothers followed them, but it was a ruse. While we gave chase, a trio of Redbeard’s agents stole into the Zone and brought Rakkim to the villa in an ambulance, sirens howling. Redbeard often has ambulances visit, so that we never know his true medical condition.”

The Old One rolled his eyes. He did not need this wispy-bearded youth to muddle through Redbeard’s strategy for him.

“The deception failed,” said the aide.

“The deception didn’t fail, otherwise you would know whether Rakkim was still at the villa,” corrected the Old One. “Who alerted you that Rakkim had been picked up?”

“We…we got a phone call from one of our sympathizers in the Zone.” The aide’s lower lip quivered. “It…it took some time for the call to be made, and for the information to be forwarded.”

“So we got lucky.” The Old One smiled. “Don’t look so frightened, I’ve been lucky all my life, thanks be to Allah.” He admired his reflection in the shine of his right shoe. “Still, don’t you think we should have had a brother watching Rakkim, rather than depend on the beneficence of God?”

“We did not consider that Redbeard might reach out to him. The two of them have had no contact for years. Rakkim is a renegade who makes no attempt at concealment. He goes about his business-”

“How would you know what his business was? Rakkim was schooled in deception by Redbeard himself.” The Old One waved the aide away, watched him back out the door of the penthouse. The Old One plucked a speck of lint off his trousers. “Well, now we know.”

“Yes, Father, now we know,” said his chief counselor-Ibrahim, his oldest son. Oldest surviving son. A tall, slender Arab with a short beard; his skin was darker than his father’s, but he was dressed like his father in Western business attire. Fifty-three years old, with a high forehead and dark, hooded eyes, he could have been an academic. In fact, Ibrahim held doctorates in mathematics and international finance, but he had personally killed five people, one a younger sibling with a habit of bragging to blue-eyed rent-wives when he had too much to drink.

“When the girl Sarah disappeared, I hoped she had truly left on sabbatical, but if Redbeard has called in Rakkim, she didn’t disappear, she escaped. From Redbeard and from us.” The Old One sighed. “You were right, my son. We should have acted sooner. I should have grabbed her up as soon as we learned of this new book she was writing.”

“It is done, Father. Inshallah.”

“I should have taken her, just as you advised. Now she is gone and we are vulnerable.”

“Knowing the truth is one thing, but proving it is another,” said Ibrahim. “If the girl had evidence, the book would have already been written, and the world turned against us. Yet here we are, alive and well-we just have to find her, and the threat will be ended.”

The Old One tapped his lip with a forefinger, pleased with his son’s spirited response. Over the long years he had groomed four of his sons as potential successors-two had been killed doing the great work, another had proven to be a moral traitor. Only Ibrahim was left. There were younger sons, most of them promising, but none of them capable of assuming the task he had set for himself. He thought of all the things he had done to reach this point, all that he had given up, given up gladly to be sure, but when he had started on this path, he had never dreamed that he might not complete the mission himself.

“Father?”

“Finding Redbeard’s niece is only part of our task. As important as she is, the evidence she seeks is even more valuable. We find that, and we end the threat once and for all.”

“What if there’s no evidence to be found? After all this time, surely it would have already been presented.”

“Perhaps the time was not right before.” The Old One smoothed his necktie, his stomach churning. His digestion had been foul this whole last year as he readied the final stages of his plan. “Twenty years of planning, and now, to be so close…” His face darkened and he tasted bile at the back of his throat. “Twenty years and this bitch jeopardizes everything.”

“We’ll find her, Father.”

“Your confidence is laudable. Tell me, though, Ibrahim, do you have even a hint of where the girl might have gone?”

“The girl…she is extremely cautious.”

The Old One fixed his son with a stare that had withered lesser men.

Ibrahim inclined his head. “I have no idea where she is, Father.”

The Old One looked past his son. They didn’t know where Sarah had gone, or even how much she really knew. All they had was a disturbing record of the books she had accessed from the university library, and a single faint impression left on a notepad, a working title for her next book, The Zionist Betrayal? That question mark had made all the difference.

A brother working as a janitor in the History Department had found the notepad and brought it directly to him. More luck. Without that scrap of paper…The Old One felt his stomach lurch again. The brother who found the notepad didn’t know what the faint impression meant, but the Old One had him executed anyway. He remembered the brother’s willing compliance, praising the Old One even as he bent his head for the blade. The Old One felt a flutter of anger at the memory, the waste of it, and his anger made him feel young, young enough to blow up the world for the chance to remake it in his own image. Blow it up again. If he could have killed the book by killing the girl, he would have strangled her himself.

“Redbeard is no better off than we are, Father. He can’t find her either. If Rakkim were to have an accident leaving the villa, we will be the only ones looking for her.”

The Old One glared at him. “No accidents. Not only do I doubt your men capable of murdering Rakkim, but any simpleton could see that we need him alive.”

Ibrahim moistened his lips.

“Redbeard thought enough of Rakkim to use him as his bloodhound,” explained the Old One. “Well, we shall use him too. I just pray he is as skillful as Redbeard thinks he is.” He stood up and walked to the panoramic window behind him. “Join me.”

Ibrahim quickly complied, standing a half step behind him.

Spread out below them, the lights of the Las Vegas Strip pulsed with light: blue and green and red strobes on the hotel marquees, arcs of incandescent color, and spotlights bouncing off the sky in a prayer to the gods of greed. The Old One’s redoubt was on the top ten floors of the ninety-story high-rise dubbed Colossus by the newspapers, but the name on the deed was the International Trust Services building. Banks and brokerages dominated the floors below, insurance and health care conglomerates, these great marbled institutions grown fat on interest and usury, the very ravening heart of the beast. The Old One never grew tired of the view.

Caught between the Islamic States of America and the Bible Belt, Las Vegas was a geopolitical anomaly, an independent and neutral territory that functioned as a broker between the two nations. With a population of over 14 million and still growing, Las Vegas was the information and financial hub of the continent, beyond doctrine or politics, a useful evil. It suited the Old One’s needs perfectly. With no allegiance to any nation or government, faithful only to his divine mission, the Old One had been ensconced in Colossus for the last twenty years, invisible to his enemies, able to operate with impunity. He had overseen the construction of the building, placing numerous safeguards inside the walls and floors and ceilings. It had been his private joke to lease the lower floors to the very moneylenders that were anathema to honorable Muslims. It was camouflage and a sweet irony; a perpetual reminder of the lengths required to fulfill his destiny.

“We must keep track of Rakkim,” said the Old One. His right index finger directed the play of colored lights on the Strip as though conducting a symphony, as though the city itself were under his dominion. “He’ll lead us to the girl, and once we have the girl…well, then, Allah willing, we’ll find out where the idea for this book came from. She didn’t come up with this on her own.”

“I’ll put a team of our most reliable brothers on Rakkim,” Ibrahim assured him. “If he eats a piece of rye toast, and a crumb falls from his lips, you’ll know of it. “

“If a crumb fell from his lips, it would be because he knew he was being watched.” The Old One followed a helicopter that soared silently over the great black pyramid of the Luxor hotel, tiny blue lights flickering on its fuselage. Helicopters had seemed like dragonflies in his youth, before he knew of their rocketry. They seemed like dragonflies again. “No, I will contact our friend, instead. He is more suitable for the task at hand.”

Ibrahim winced. “Darwin can’t be trusted.”

“Of course he can’t. The best always have their own agenda.”

“He is a demon, Father.”

“Yes, he is. A demon, a devil, a djinn…but, Darwin is the only one who can shadow Rakkim. When Rakkim finds the girl, Darwin will be watching. If they locate the evidence they seek, Darwin will be there too.” The Old One flicked his fingers at his son. “Now go, I will spare you the ordeal and speak with him myself.”

Ibrahim quickly backed away and closed the doors behind him.

Cars made their way slowly through the crowded streets below. The Old One imagined horns blaring, but the thick glass was soundproof. He thought of this boy Rakkim, this street rat grown to manhood now, Redbeard’s own creation. He wished he knew more about him. He had read Rakkim’s file, of course, but was unsure of how much to believe. Fedayeen files were top secret and notoriously unreliable, used for disinformation purposes as often as not. He wasn’t even sure of the boy’s real name. Redbeard valued him, that’s all that was important.

Redbeard and his older brother, James, had been thorns in the Old One’s side since the very founding of the Islamic Republic. James Dougan had been the first director of State Security, Redbeard his second-in-command. James had been the charismatic head of the agency, but Redbeard had provided the steel. At the chosen moment, the Old One had attempted to assassinate both of them, leaving his own mole, the number three man at the agency, to take charge. The attack had been only partially successful. James had died, but Redbeard, though shot several times, had clung to life, fighting off death as though hell awaited him. Stitched together like a stuffed bear, Redbeard had immediately assumed control of State Security.

Within days, Redbeard had ordered the execution of dozens of his own agents, the first of whom was the Old One’s mole. Over a hundred police and Fedayeen had also been executed, and even Black Robes had disappeared and never been seen again. Most of them were innocent of anything but the most tangential involvement in the attack, but forty-three of the dead were the Old One’s loyal followers. Two of his most trusted aides had been captured, men who had served him for decades. Had they not immediately committed suicide, the Old One himself might have been taken.

Redbeard’s brutality had set the Old One’s plans back years, and now the niece was threatening everything he had worked for. Truly there was something in that family, some dark seed sent by the devil himself to thwart his noble intentions. After the niece was brought down, incinerated with this new book of hers, then the Old One would send Darwin after Redbeard and put an end to them, once and for all.

The smile faded as he reminded himself of the task at hand. He was not looking forward to speaking with Darwin, but it was necessary. Phone conversation with the man was not dangerous, it was repugnant. The sour taste was back in his mouth. Getting prissy in your old age, he told himself. How many times have you welcomed one beast or another into your home? Pigs and monkeys have you dined with, and treated so graciously that none guessed your true thoughts. How many times have you ventured into the abyss itself, when it suited your reasons? Talk to the man, give him your orders, and listen to that laugh of his. Then wash yourself.

Yes, yes, yes. Enough. Doubts weaken the body and the soul, and the Old One could not afford a diminution in either. He watched the wind turbines along the mountains in the distance, the lights from the Strip a mere distraction now, feeling the peace of the infinite descend upon him like a kiss. The hardy nomads of the land of his birth believed that Allah had already written the book of life. Thus prayer to them was an obligation, but they harbored no illusions that God was influenced by their beseechings. He watched the power turbines spin in the cold desert air and thought of Redbeard, who had stymied him for so long. Matching him move for move. Now it was Redbeard’s turn to twist in the wind, at the mercy of fate and fearing for the safety of his niece. In this one thing only, Redbeard and the Old One were in complete agreement: they both wished fervently that Rakkim would find her.