Sins of the Assassin

Chapter 3

Tariq al-Faisal didn’t walk like the Christian he pretended to be. It was the walk that had drawn Rakkim’s attention from a block away, long before he recognized the man. Al-Faisal in Seattle? Rakkim’s palms itched. Money, that’s what the fortune-teller outside New Orleans would have said. She’d peer up from her table on the beached Delta Queen riverboat, rub his open hand, and say, Beaucoup l’argent coming your way, child. Rakkim knew better. Seeing al-Faisal here was worth more than silver or gold. Rakkim sauntered after al-Faisal, moving with a little stutter step as though listening to music no one else could hear.

At least al-Faisal had the externals of his Catholic pose right: high-ride trousers, cuffs rolled, fingerless gloves, even the St. Paul’s Academy ear stud, which was a nice touch, but his walk kept reverting to type. He led with his chest as he stormed past the marble statue of Malcolm X on the corner, shoulders set, the gait of a Muslim fundamentalist certain of his place in the universe. A Black Robe, no less, one of the infamous enforcers of public morality. Christians, no matter their station in life, moved from their hips, gliding, heads swiveling, alert for disapproval or harassment. Kafir-walk, Rakkim’s shadow warrior instructors had called it.

Rakkim eased down the sidewalk, taking his time. You had all the time in the world when you knew what you were doing. Like al-Faisal, he pretended to be a Christian, but the pope himself would have given Rakkim communion without a second thought. Invisible as a stolen kiss, that was the shadow warrior ideal. The Fedayeen were elite warriors, totally loyal to the president, the shock troops of the Islamic Republic-most were combat units, but there were two specialized branches, the best of the best. Shadow warriors and assassins.

Rakkim remembered practicing the kafir-glide for hours, days, weeks, remembered being jerked from sleep by his instructor, beaten if his first step was wrong. Homegrown Christians were easy enough to mimic, but Bible Belt patterns had been much more challenging, and failure had cost more than one shadow warrior his life. Rakkim had ranked first in his unit, able to pivot seamlessly between a Gulf Coast shuffle and an Appalachian hitch-along. He had lived for months in the Belt without rousing suspicion, sung hymns in a tiny church, tears rolling down his cheeks, worked on shrimp boats and done double shifts at a silicone-wafer factory outside Atlanta, guzzling beer and pigs’ feet afterward. He had retired from the Fedayeen after his initial seven-year enlistment, but the Fedayeen had never left Rakkim.

Almost thirty-three now, Rakkim was dark-eyed, lean and agile, a tiny gold crucifix bouncing at the base of his throat with every step. He flirted with the Catholic girls who passed, and they responded in kind, putting an extra wiggle in their walk for his benefit. Be a Catholic on a Saturday night, and you’ll never want to be Muslim again…that’s what they said.

Al-Faisal eyeballed a new green Lamborghini curbed in a valet parking area. Ran a finger over the perfect finish as he walked past. Pathetic. A Christian wouldn’t dare touch a vehicle with a Quranic inscription etched into the windshield. A high-ranking Black Robe like al-Faisal feared nothing. His three bodyguards were better trained-ex-Fedayeen from the look of them, and the way they slipped easily through the crowd. They maintained a shifting perimeter around al-Faisal, a rough triangulation, two ahead, on either side of the street, another trailing far behind, hoping to pick up a tail. No eye contact between them, just three moderate Muslims, seemingly part of the crowd, but the same barber had cut their hair, his distinctive scissors work easy for Rakkim to read. Details, boys, details.

It must be an important mission for al-Faisal to leave the safety of New Fallujah. A mission too important to trust to an underling. Too important to trust sat phones or Net encryption. No, just like the old days, the most important conversations could take place only where no one could listen in. So what are you here to talk about, al-Faisal? And whose ear will you be whispering in?

People filled downtown Seattle, streamed out of the office complexes-commuters heading toward the monorail, students jostling toward the sin spots of the Zone, the faithful hurrying to prayers. A crowd of contrasts: moderns and moderates in casual and business attire, the fundamentalists robed in gray, prayer beads clicking away, while the Catholics clustered together, loud and boisterous, delighting in the flesh. While 70 percent of the country was Muslim, most of them were moderate, tolerating the Christian minority. Christians ate in the same restaurants as moderates, but the Christian silverware was disposable to prevent contamination. Modern Muslims rarely went to mosque, worked in high-tech jobs, flaunted the latest styles, and might even have a Christian friend or two. Fundamentalist Muslims were the most dangerous to the nation’s stability; rabidly intolerant, they voted as a block and encouraged the worst excesses of the Black Robes.

A modern in a short dress swept past Rakkim in a wave of bright color, her soft hair floating around her shoulders, and a fat fundamentalist businessman glaring at her nearly collided with Rakkim, cursed him as a shit-eating Catholic. The businessman’s coarse gray robes billowed as he barreled off for sundown prayers. Rakkim didn’t even break stride, the man’s wallet cupped in his palm. He dropped the businessman’s money into a war-widows alms box a block later, arced the wallet into the gutter, and kept walking.

You’d think Allah hated beauty the way the Black Robes acted.

Rakkim stayed far behind al-Faisal, loose-limbed and easy like a good Catholic funboy, quietly nursing his anger. While Seattle and Southern California were bastions of moderation, even in the capital, the Black Robes enforced their dictates on the fundamentalist population. A devout Muslim woman unescorted by a brother or husband could be whipped on the streets of Seattle, and adulterers and fornicators were stoned to death in the countryside. Fundamentalist redoubts like New Fallujah and Milwaukee and Chicago were worse-governed by the most extreme sharia law.

Rakkim had last seen al-Faisal two years ago at a mass hanging in New Fallujah. Harlots and homosexuals, witches and Jews dangled from the high beams of the bridge, swinging gently over San Francisco Bay as al-Faisal harangued the crowd, called forth the blessings of God. The Golden Gate, that’s what it was called in the old days. Its new name, the Bridge of Skulls, suited it better. He flexed his right forearm again as he watched al-Faisal walk down First Avenue. Felt the Fedayeen knife tucked flat against the inside of his forearm, ready to snap forth. For those with memories, there were always scores to be settled. Odd thoughts for Rakkim. Shadow warriors preferred anonymity, killing only as a last resort, but Rakkim wasn’t a shadow warrior anymore. He was something else now, and whether it was more or less than before, he hadn’t decided.

The air tasted of smog and salt water, hung heavy with the aroma of coffee from the nearby Starbucks, of clam chowder and jerked goat kebabs from the street vendors. Shoppers coughed as they strolled along, and Rakkim felt the grit at the back of his throat too-smoke and ash from the superfires raging across Australia and China, incinerating everything in their path. News kiosks yesterday showed footage of burning kangaroos hopping wildly across a smoldering landscape, the whole sky black behind them. The antiterror blimps ringing the city caught the last of the setting sun, looked to be ablaze, and it seemed to Rakkim that the whole world was on fire.

Two brightly garbed moderns chattered past, and Rakkim inhaled the women’s fragrance, grateful for the heady scent of the latest Italian perfume- La Dolce Vita, the sweet life, at eight hundred dollars an ounce. Moderns were so optimistic. Eager consumers enamored of their shiny, pretty things, the constantly upgraded gadgets. The modern’s wealth comforted them, made them fearless as dreamers, eyes fluttering as dawn approached.

Al-Faisal threw his arm around a stranger, pretending bonhomie with a fellow Catholic, certain of his camouflage. Al-Faisal another optimist, assured that Allah had already written his triumph in the Book of Days.

Ironic that the two opposites, moderns and fundamentalists, were the only ones in the Islamic Republic certain that the future would be better, that their vision was destined to sweep away all others. The rest of the country, the silent majority of moderate Muslims and Christians…they noticed the crumbling freeways and failing energy grid, an infant mortality rate worse than Nigeria’s, and the regular outbreaks of cholera in Chicago and Denver. Let the fundamentalists and moderns trust in their hollow gods. Rakkim believed in the warmth of Sarah beside him, and the first halting steps of their son. He believed in unexpected friendships and laughter in the face of the inevitable. Optimism? A man had to close his eyes to remain an optimist, and there was no honor in that.

Optimism was for fools and children, that’s what Redbeard used to say. Pray for victory, plan for disaster. Redbeard had been Rakkim’s mentor. His tormentor. His taskmaster. His uncle in all ways but blood. Redbeard, the nation’s spymaster, lover of bone-crunching football and contraband Coca-Cola…ferocious patriot, committed moderate. Redbeard had died as peaceful a death as God granted, sitting in the back of a limo with his niece Sarah by his side. Not a day passed that Rakkim didn’t wish Redbeard were still alive. President Kingsley needed him now more than ever. Needed his strength and determination, his cool counsel when the world seemed ablaze. The nation needed Redbeard. So did Rakkim.

News reports boomed from a kiosk, a holographic display showing troop movements along the border of the Mexican empire. Rakkim slowed. A commercial for cling-free chadors crawled along the bottom of the display while tanks rolled across the desert, a red crescent emblazoned on their turrets. Rakkim pretended interest, watching the bodyguards reflected in the display. The three of them did a slow pivot, scanning the crowd as al-Faisal hurried on. The Black Robe still walked wrong.

Two college girls approached, moderates, their sheer pink veils only enhancing their beauty rather than masking it. Their eyes lingered on Rakkim-Catholics were forbidden fruit, their lust and volatility whispered about with fascination. Rakkim smiled back, kept walking, embarrassed at the pleasure their interest gave him. He thought of Sarah waiting for him at home, and for the millionth time was grateful for not being Catholic. Those fools so eager to confess. Who could keep up with his own sins?

Al-Faisal cut across the street, oblivious to the horns beeping around him. His bodyguards took their time, peeling off slowly.

Rakkim crossed at the signal, then stopped to buy an ice cream cone. Strawberry mango. He ambled after al-Faisal into the warren of small shops on the outskirts of the Zone, licking ice cream off his fingers.

The Zone was a moral free-fire district, a sector where vice was tolerated and the police minded their own business. Creative, sordid, corrupt, the Zone was filled with dance clubs and foreign-movie theaters, black-market electronics and love hotels. A center of dangerous fun. A safety valve. Americans were still Americans in spite of the new flag, the new regime. No streetlights in the Zone; the only illumination came from the neon signs and the dim interiors. Rakkim had lived in the Zone before he married Sarah. Had owned a nightclub, the Blue Moon. He knew the Zone, but the Zone no longer knew him.

Music throbbed from every doorway, part of the unique signature of the Zone. While most of the city was off-limits to anything other than religious chants and sermons, the Zone took pride in showing off its freedom from any restraints. Russian pop, Brazilian thump, Chinese techno, and Motown overlapped and merged in the Zone, became a dissonant heartbeat. Everyone walking down the street picked up the beat, feet moving faster, hearts racing, heads bobbing. Rat-a-tat-tat. Al-Faisal resisted, but even he was forced to give in, swinging his hands as his stride lengthened. He was going to have to ask forgiveness for such spontaneity, pray himself hoarse to atone for his inadvertent pleasure. Perhaps he would even sacrifice a white goat, slit its throat himself, then distribute the meat to the poor. There were always plenty of hungry mouths.

Al-Faisal stumbled on a patch of blackened sidewalk, the concrete cracked and uneven. A suicide bomber had blown himself up on this spot on Easter Sunday a year ago. The bomber had been trying to get into the Kitchy Koo Klub but the place was packed; he had to settle for taking out forty-three people waiting outside. A costly ticket to Paradise. It had been a bad spring in the capital, with suicide bombers targeting the Zone, the death toll in the hundreds. Officially, Bible Belt zealots had been blamed, but the grand mullah of the Black Robes in New Fallujah had been responsible. The president himself visited the Zone after the worst attack, cameras rolling, declaring the nation would not be intimidated. He also quietly ordered a Fedayeen commando team to infiltrate New Fallujah and blow up the grand mullah’s personal mosque. The suicide attacks in the capital stopped immediately.

Al-Faisal turned abruptly and Rakkim thought for a moment that he had been spotted, but the cleric turned back, ducked quickly into a tiny storefront, Eagleton Digital Entertainment. That was a surprise. A long-term resident of the Zone, Eagleton was a staunch modern, a Web hacker and freethinker. The tech wizard had spent many afternoons drinking khat tea at the Blue Moon, getting a pleasant buzz on. So what business did ibn-Azziz’s emissary have with him?

Rakkim turned into the next alley, lost himself in the darkness. A glance back to the street, and he free-climbed the vertical brick wall, using just his fingertips and the toes of his boots, swiftly working his way up to the roof of the building next door. From this position he could see if al-Faisal left by the front or back door of the store. Either way, he would follow. Later he would have a chat with Eagleton.

Rakkim waited. Watched as the bodyguards took positions nearby, pretending to window-shop. The trailing bodyguard stood in the doorway of the Crocodile Club listening to music, ignoring the three-hundred-pound bouncer who told him either to come in or move on. The bouncer took a closer look at the man and retreated inside the club.

Rakkim perched in the shadows, noted how the bodyguards carried themselves. He caught his breath, feeling the vibration of the transceiver implanted in his right earlobe. Two long, three short jolts. An emergency signal from Sarah. Three shorts was a call to meet her at the Presidential Palace. Two short meant at home. One short at their safe house south of Khomeini stadium. He waited for the repeal call that would validate the signal. There it was. He hesitated, hating to back off from al-Faisal. No, he should go. He clambered down the wall, slid down the last ten feet. Pulled out his cell. Maybe Colarusso could tail al-Faisal. It wasn’t a police matter, but Rakkim trusted Colarusso more than State Security. He took a look behind him as the phone beeped, saw al-Faisal hurry from the shop, going against the traffic flow now. The cleric patted his right pocket, reassuring himself. He had gotten more than information from Eagleton.

“What’s up, Rikki?” said Colarusso, the detective’s voice gruff.

“Later.” Rakkim slipped the phone away. Checked his watch. If Sarah was at the Presidential Palace, she couldn’t be in any immediate danger. Not likely, anyway. He walked after al-Faisal, slowed as he passed the storefront. The windows were one-way glass. LED CLOSED sign. He had intended to talk to Eagleton after following al-Faisal, but now…something had changed hands in the store, something important enough to draw al-Faisal out of New Fallujah. He reached for the door, saw blood on the knob.

Down the street, al-Faisal increased his pace. Whatever he had gotten from Eagleton made haste his primary concern. Two of his bodyguards fell in beside him, flanked him. The third led the way, breaking a path through the partygoers with his scowl and his shoulders.

Rakkim walked after them, keeping to the edges of the street, where he could make faster progress.

The taller of the bodyguards whirled around.

Rakkim shuffled along, hands waving, muttering to himself like another of the human gin blossoms that frequented the Zone, sloppy from bootleg alcohol. He sagged against a lamppost, pretending to breathe hard, sneaked a look toward al-Faisal.

The tall bodyguard stared right at him. Not taking his eyes away, he said something. The other flanking bodyguard stopped while the third bodyguard in front grabbed al-Faisal by the wrist and dragged him down a side street. The flankers followed slowly as Rakkim hurried to catch up, slipping through the crowd with barely any contact.

This side street must have been picked as their rally point beforehand. Narrow as an alley, its few shops closed for the night. A powerful German sedan waited at the end of the street, idling behind a yellow construction barrier that kept out other traffic. The black sedan was a common vehicle in the capital, easily lost among the evening traffic.

Al-Faisal was halfway to the car by the time Rakkim started down the narrow street. The two tailing bodyguards calmly took positions on either side. Their arms hung loose, knives glinting in the dim light. Like all Fedayeen they were trained to be ambidextrous. The one on Rakkim’s right kept his blade in his left hand, the one on his left held his knife in his right. That way they covered maximum space. Rakkim raised his own knife in a mocking salute. They didn’t react, which spoke well for them. He might have learned something from seeing how they handled their blades.

“What’s your hurry?” Rakkim called to al-Faisal. He had no idea where his own sudden good humor came from. “Stay and watch the fun, al-Faisal. I’m all alone.”

Al-Faisal stopped. Shook off his bodyguard. He seemed calm.

“That’s better.” Rakkim smiled broader. The two bodyguards slightly repositioned themselves, but he ignored them. “The last time I saw you it was Eid al-Fitr, two years ago. You were on the Bridge of Skulls.” He strolled closer. “There was a boy…maybe eight years old. He had broken his Ramadan fast. Ate an orange. Not a whole orange. Just one section.” He could see al-Faisal’s eyes narrow. “You remember the boy?”

“I remember a blasphemer,” said al-Faisal.

“You gave him three hundred lashes.” Rakkim rocked slightly forward. “The boy died after the seventy-third stroke of the whip. Must have been quite a…” Rakkim raced toward al-Faisal, his knife flicking out toward the two bodyguards as he sped past them. “…disappointment to you.”

Al-Faisal’s third bodyguard shoved him into the sedan. Dove in after him as the driver screeched away.

Rakkim grabbed for the door handle. Missed. He watched al-Faisal’s annoyed face pressed against the glass of the back window until the car turned a corner. Rakkim walked back to the two bodyguards.

One of the bodyguards lay curled on the pavement. The tall one stood unmoving, still planted in the direction Rakkim had come from.

Rakkim circled him. The bodyguard was in his late thirties, built strong, with dirty blond hair and a scar meandering along one cheek. Sweat rolled down his face. Rakkim marveled at the effort it must have taken not to move. To tense all of his muscles. All of his being. Rakkim had stabbed the two bodyguards in the upper abdomen as he passed. Stabbed them deep in exactly the same spot. The fourteenth ganglia, a cluster of critical nerves just above the solar plexus. Instantaneous death. Except in very rare instances, when the victim stayed perfectly still. So still that the nerve impulses still managed to make the leap across the cut tissue, the familiar pathways in service for a few moments longer.

The tall bodyguard blinked furiously, sweat glistening along his eyebrows. Fear bloomed in his eyes, but he kept that in check. His tongue moistened his lips. “How?”

Rakkim stayed silent. The bodyguards were combat Fedayeen, some of the best fighters in the world. Only one in a thousand qualified for Fedayeen-that was both a motto and the truth-but only one Fedayeen in a thousand qualified to be a shadow warrior or an assassin. Rakkim’s attack had been fast, too fast for the bodyguards to defend against, but that wasn’t the answer to the tall bodyguard’s question. Rakkim had always been fast, even for a shadow warrior, but it was knowing precisely where to strike that he couldn’t explain. Knowledge of the killing ganglia, the training required to deal the fatal blow…that was reserved exclusively for assassins. Rakkim hadn’t even been aware of what he was doing until he was past the two bodyguards. He had acted instinctively.

A spot of blood appeared on the bodyguard’s shirt. A tiny spot…but growing. The bodyguard twitched. Impossible to hold still enough. Even if he could, there was no fixing the man.

Rakkim thought of asking him where al-Faisal had gone but didn’t. The man wouldn’t tell, and Rakkim wouldn’t insult him by asking. The bodyguard might not have done the terrible things that al-Faisal had done, but he had facilitated evil, protected evil. He had chosen. Fedayeen swore an oath to defend the president and the nation. When the grand mullah had declared the president an apostate three years ago, the great majority of Fedayeen held fast to their vows, but many had resigned, aligning themselves with the Black Robes. No, the bodyguard had made his decision. He alone was responsible.

The tall bodyguard’s bright blue eyes were wide now. Hairs in his nostrils waved with every breath. He clamped his jaw tight.

Rakkim held the bodyguard’s gaze. He raised his knife in salute and this time he meant it. “Salaam alaikum. Go with God, Fedayeen.”

Eyelids fluttering, the tall bodyguard exhaled slowly, weary now, as though settling down for a rest after a long race. He sank to the pavement, already dead.

Rakkim hurried toward the Presidential Palace.