Sins of the Assassin

Chapter 6

Rakkim and General Kidd washed their hands and feet with clean sand as the muezzin called the faithful to dawn prayer from the minaret. The light brown sand was imported from the general’s Somali homeland, its fine grit an accepted way to wash in that arid place. Swathed in white robes, they quickly filed into the mosque with the other men, the only sound their bare feet shuffling on the cool slate.

It had been almost three years since Rakkim had been to mosque with Kidd, and he missed it. Missed sharing meals with Kidd’s family afterward, missed seeing Kidd as a father in a more intimate setting. His own father murdered when he was nine, Rakkim had learned from Kidd’s stern but loving treatment of his children, his patient guidance, and patterned his own behavior accordingly. Choosing to remain in hiding after the death of Redbeard, he and Kidd had continued to meet privately, maintaining their friendship and Rakkim’s back-channel contacts with the Fedayeen. Now though, leaving soon on this mission into the Belt, Rakkim had wanted to pray with him, for perhaps the last time.

Rakkim rested on his haunches inside the mosque, eyes half closed, listening to the imam’s sermon, and the sound of the man’s voice might as well have been the crash of waves in the distance. He sat in the tiny mosque, packed so close that he could hear the rustle of Kidd’s white djellabah beside him, inhale the faint sandalwood oil Kidd rubbed into his anthracite black skin. The only white man in the mosque, Rakkim was half a head shorter than the others, Somalis mostly, with a scattering of Ethiopians and Nigerians, all of them Fedayeen, retired or active-duty. Like Kidd, the older men had journeyed to the former United States when the Civil War broke out almost thirty years ago, men who had left their homes and families behind, risking everything for the chance to conquer new lands for Allah. Fierce fighters, they had died by the hundreds, by the thousands, most of them buried in haste, without proper treatment, their graves unmarked. Still they had come, heeding the call. Rakkim, aware of his own faith only by its absence, felt honored to be among them.

As a newly minted major in the army of the Islamic Republic, Kidd had led a brigade of African volunteers at Newark, Bloody Newark, or the second Gettysburg, as later historians called it. Kidd knew nothing of Gettysburg, he only knew that the standing order never to retreat was madness. To fight to the last man only meant there would be too many warriors in Paradise and not enough on the ground, where they were needed. Hopelessly outnumbered, Kidd had led a controlled retreat, gathering American Muslims with him as they drew the rebels from the Belt deeper into parts of the city still standing, high-rise neighborhoods where the rebel tanks had trouble maneuvering. On the fifth day of the battle, Kidd took control of all the Islamic forces and counterattacked, outflanking the rebels and halting their advance.

Rakkim’s eyes were on the imam, but he saw only the footage from the war museum, video of Newark burning, the flames like a tidal wave. The battle raged for three more days, the city wreathed with oily smoke, the streets clogged with the dead. Newark was the deepest penetration into the Muslim republic by the rebels, and while not a victory for either side, it was Kidd who staved off a Muslim defeat and stymied the rebels’ plan to head into Pennsylvania and Ohio, splitting the republic. A cease-fire was declared a week later, a cease-fire that had held ever since. Given a battlefield promotion by order of President Kingsley, after the armistice Kidd had created the Fedayeen, a small, elite force of genetically enhanced holy warriors.

The army had fifty times the men under arms as the Fedayeen, but they were poorly led, poorly equipped, and poorly trained, garrison soldiers strung along the border, ill suited for combat. Redbeard had told Rakkim that the army’s weakness was no accident. The Fedayeen remained outside the military chain of command, a praetorian guard operating without any oversight, answering only to General Kidd and the president. The calculation had worked well for many years, but the rise of the Black Robes had created fissures in the ranks of the Fedayeen, testing the loyalties of even the most devout. Three months ago, an entire company of Fedayeen, eighty fighters, had defected, taking their heavy weapons with them to a Black Robes’ stronghold outside of Dearborn, Michigan.

The imam leaned against the pulpit, white-haired and bent as a stick, his voice echoing, every sound magnified in the stillness, as the faithful nodded in agreement. Unlike the lavish grand mosques scattered across the city, this little mosque in the Fremont district was plain and unadorned, solid as the worshippers themselves. The floors were gray slate, the walls immaculate white plaster, the dome of beaten copper. The mihrab on the east wall, an ancient, wooden crescent indicating the direction of Mecca, had been brought over from Kidd’s boyhood village outside Kismaayo. Rakkim felt comfortable here among the old warriors and their many sons, more comfortable than in any other mosque. While the fundamentalist clerics bellowed demands from the pulpit, this Somali imam’s sermon stressed traditional values of piety, simplicity, and duty, urging the faithful to avoid the gaudy distractions of the modern world. Study the Quran, the imam repeated, exhorting the brothers to care for their families as Allah cared for them, “in this way shall you find peace in this world, and reward in the next.”

Peace in this world. The faithful pressed their foreheads to the floor. Allahu Akbar. God is great. Fine thoughts from the imam, but even in this holy place, Rakkim felt no comfort. He had spent his life mouthing the words, declaring his belief in one god, and Muhammad as his last prophet, but he was a Muslim in name only. Like most of the country, going along to get along. The difference was that Rakkim envied the faithful their piety. Their joy in submission. Their peace. All of it out of reach to him, a drowning man forever carried beyond the shore. Until he had killed Darwin.

Strange to think that only when facing evil incarnate had Rakkim felt the presence of God. Darwin, the Old One’s personal assassin, should have killed Rakkim when he had the chance. Instead he had toyed with Rakkim, gone blade to blade with him in an abandoned church, laughing as he cut his signature into Rakkim’s flesh again and again, both their blood flung about like holy water. Sarah’s going to be all alone after I kill you, Rikki. Nothing better than fucking a new widow. Best pussy in the world. Darwin’s face was pale and slack, but his eyes burned in the twilight. Maybe I’ll leave your cock under the pillow for her. Rakkim remembered the sound of his own labored breathing as he moved across the floor, stained glass crunching underfoot as he held eye contact with Darwin, and Darwin…seemingly fresh and free, almost dapper, knife in his long, slender hands, gracefully directing Rakkim’s movements like a symphony conductor. You’re not tired, are you, Rikki? We’re just getting started. This is just foreplay. Wait until you see what I’ve got planned for you. Then, as Rakkim teetered, bleeding from a hundred cuts, he had felt soft wings brush his cheek, angel wings, and strength rushed into him as he flung his knife. Darwin staggered back, stood pinned against a wood pillar, Rakkim’s blade driven deep into his mouth. Darwin’s soft, full lips twitched, trying to speak, as shocked as Rakkim. Not so bad to die, that’s what Rakkim had thought as he collapsed onto the floor of the church…not as long as that devil precedes me to hell. Angel wings…the delirium of a dying man, that’s what he told himself as he drifted off. Then he felt the angel’s touch again, and lost all doubt, blinded by tears as those downy wings enfolded him, lifted him up from the well of death. While Darwin died, Rakkim lived. Granted the gift of life. And the burden.

Sitting on his heels, hands resting on his knees, Rakkim spoke in unison with the faithful, entreating Allah’s blessing. He turned his head to the right, toward the angel recording his good deeds. Then turned his head toward the left, toward the angel on his shoulder recording his bad deeds. “Assalaamu Alaikum wa Rahmatullah.” Peace and blessings of Allah be upon you. Rakkim stood with the other men, gently embraced Kidd. “May Allah receive our prayers.”

Rakkim walked quickly to the door. After that time in the abandoned church, after killing Darwin, he had never again felt the presence of Allah. Never. God had slipped away from him like sand through his fingers. Slipped away while Rakkim lay for days where he had fallen, his body slowly healing itself. No matter. That one touch, that glimpse of the infinite, had left its mark. So much for miracles. Rakkim was on his own now. A new creature. Each step a first step. These thoughts had troubled him, but lately…lately he had taken a perverse pleasure in his situation. Never had he felt so free. So limitless in his reach.

Kidd walked beside Rakkim as they strode the narrow streets toward the family compound, the apartments already noisy, the air rich with the smell of frying bananas and corn cakes. The Fremont district was almost exclusively Somali, a conservative enclave with tribal mores and extremely heavy security. Kidd was safe here. So was Rakkim. Six of Kidd’s sons, all Fedayeen, walked behind them at a respectful distance.

“The mosque did not collapse upon us,” said Kidd.

“Allah must have been busy with more important things,” said Rakkim.

Kidd smiled for just an instant. “It’s been a long time since you’ve joined me for prayers. Are you all right, Abu Michael?”

Abu Michael. Kidd honored him with the name when they were together. A Somali man lost his given name when he became a father, took on the name of his firstborn. Abu Michael-father of Michael. Kidd told him once that in his grandfather’s time, a man whose first child was female would often have the child killed, so as not to bear the shame of being given a woman’s name. Strange days then…strange days now. Abu Michael. He was not on his own. A new creature? Where did such thoughts come from? He had a wife and a son, duties and responsibilities and all the joys that went with them. Father of Michael. Yes, that was worth hanging on to. Like all shadow warriors, Rakkim had gone by many names, but Abu Michael was his favorite. If he was ever in the presence of Allah again, what would God call him?

Kidd peered at him, his eyes deep-set over high cheekbones. Light gleamed on his shaved skull as he waited for an answer. “Abu Michael?”

“Never better,” said Rakkim.

Amir, one of Kidd’s thirty-seven sons, dodged a knife stroke from one of his many brothers, slid under the man’s blade, and jabbed his brother in the heart. The two brothers bowed to each other, the loser retreating to the edge of the training room, blood trickling from a dozen minor wounds on his legs and torso. Their veiled mothers, sisters and wives, sprawled on pillows along the opposite side of the room, eating sweets and gossiping.

Amir beckoned to the last of his brothers calmly waiting his turn, the last of his five opponents, and the man trotted out to join him, his bare feet kicking up sand. A light rain started up, beating on the metal roof. Harder now.

“Amir is skilled,” said Rakkim. “The news reports did not exaggerate.”

“The Lion of Boulder?” Kidd shrugged. “He is twenty-five. A young warrior should not listen to the praise of those who sleep in warm beds every night.”

Kidd’s youngest wife secretly waved to him, using only her fingertips. It was as seductive a move as Rakkim had ever seen.

“You should have more wives, Abu Michael.”

“One is plenty.”

“The Quran allows at least four, and for good reason.” Kidd leaned closer. “A man with one camel is at the mercy of the camel. A man with a string of camels…”

“Interesting analogy. I’ll try that on Sarah tonight and let you know what she says.”

Amir and his brother faced each other, saluted with their knives, and went into a defensive crouch. Amir immediately started to circle his brother, keeping his knife tucked in close. As tall as his father but even more muscular, he had a natural quickness, an innate sense of where he was and where he needed to be in any confrontation.

Seventeen of Kidd’s older sons had passed the rigorous Fedayeen training-five had been killed in action, the rest acquitted themselves admirably, but none more than Amir. A junior officer in the strike force, he was already a veteran of campaigns in Panama and the Congo. Two months ago, he had received a field promotion for defeating a Mormon advance into Colorado. Heavily outnumbered, Amir took charge of his troops when four higher-ranking officers were killed, his bold tactics annihilating the enemies’ top mountain battalion outside Boulder. His handsome, scarred profile was on every news show for the next week, and a dozen senators offered their daughters in marriage.

“Two of my best shadow warriors lost, a long-term operative on the ground missing…” Kidd watched his sons fight as he passed Rakkim a thumb-load with the encrypted file on the Colonel. “I pray you’ll have better luck.”

“You’ve got a mole, sidi,” said Rakkim, using the North African term of respect.

“No more than a half-dozen people knew about the operation,” said Kidd. “They’ve all been tested, complete workup. Nothing.”

Rakkim watched Amir move in on his brother. “Test them again.”

Kidd nodded. “Redbeard would be proud of you.”

Rakkim bowed at the honor. Redbeard had taken him in off the street, had raised him and trained him, taught him always to look for the hidden agenda, the knife behind the handshake. Rakkim had learned the lessons too well.

“Sad state of affairs when I can no longer trust my own.” Kidd rubbed the raised scar along the edge of his jaw. “I’ll set up a dummy mission back to the Belt. Some covert op that will take weeks to plan. Hopefully our mole, if there is a mole, will be distracted.”

“Initiate a smaller op too,” said Rakkim. “No more than two men, strictly outside the normal chain of command. Tell them to be ready to leave at a moment’s notice and then let them wait.”

“A feint behind the feint…Very good.” Kidd nodded. “You should have never retired. I had hoped you might replace me someday.”

“You have too many sons for me to replace you,” said Rakkim.

“It is not a matter of blood, Abu Michael,” said Kidd.

Amir leapt high. His hand darted out as he twisted in the air, knife flicking across his brother’s jugular. It was a forbidden sparring move, the chance of a mortal blow too easy, but Amir’s cut barely sliced the skin.

“Amir may be a worthy successor when my time comes,” said Kidd as Amir approached. “A fearless fighter with an aptitude for command, but he needs to control his temper. He was a most difficult child, always demanding his own way.” He shook his head. “No matter how hard I beat him, he did not cry. Did not change his behavior either.”

“Redbeard used to say the same thing about me.”

Amir bowed before his father. “General.”

Kidd nodded.

Amir acknowledged Rakkim with his upraised knife. A deep scar ran from under his left eye to the side of his mouth. “I have exhausted my brothers,” he said, slightly out of breath. “Care to play?”

“Thanks for the invite,” said Rakkim, “but you’re too good for me.”

Amir’s eyes went flat. “Am I a child to be told fairy tales?”

“Amir,” growled Kidd.

Amir stepped closer still, towering over Rakkim. “Am I not worthy of your attention?”

Rakkim stayed loose. “More than worthy.”

Sweat gleamed on Amir’s muscled torso. He gripped the knife tighter. A mistake.

Rakkim caught the knife as it came at him, plucked it from Amir’s grip. Offered it back to him, handle first. “A fine blade, Amir, worthy of its owner. Thank you for letting me see it.” He bowed.

Stunned, Amir slowly took back his knife, bowed to his father, and left.

“I apologize for my son,” said Kidd, watching Amir cross the training room.

“Amir meant me no harm, sidi, he just wanted to teach me some manners.”

“Instead you taught him. A dangerous lesson for the teacher, Abu Michael.” Kidd clicked his prayer beads, running them quickly through his fingers, round and round, still watching Amir stalk away. “If you come back from your trip, you must show me how you snatched the blade from him. I’ve never seen such a thing.”

“If I come back?”

“I’ll walk you out of the neighborhood,” said Kidd.

It was raining harder now. Kidd inhaled the fragrance of the open air, his stride lengthening so that Rakkim had to double-time to keep up. “When I was a boy, growing up outside of Mogadishu…it didn’t rain for a year and a half. Not a drop. Not a cloud in the sky. So dry I could taste dust in my dreams.” Kidd raised his face to the sky, the downpour running down his cheeks. “I’ve been in this country thirty-five years…and I still treasure the smell of rain.”

Rakkim put up the hood of his robe.

Moisture glistened on Kidd’s eyelashes and cropped beard as they walked through the alley. “Redbeard and I were never friends. We were both too hardheaded, too eager to get the president’s support for our fiefdoms, but we respected each other. The worst time between us was when you joined the Fedayeen. I don’t think he ever forgave me.”

Rakkim stopped. “It wasn’t your idea, it was mine.”

“All Redbeard knew was that his dreams for you were over. You were never going to become State Security. You chose another life. A life without him. He couldn’t hate you, so he did the next best thing. He hated me.”

Rakkim splashed through a puddle. “I didn’t know.”

“I considered Redbeard’s actions weak and petty…the mark of a man with too few children.” Kidd’s skin gleamed in the rain. “Until you left the Fedayeen. Then I knew how he felt. Even with all my sons, I knew exactly how bitter and resentful he felt, how wounded that you had chosen another path.”

Rakkim held his head high, listening to the click-click-click of Kidd’s prayer beads.

“I told myself Allah had other plans for you,” said Kidd.

Rakkim looked around, wary now, but they were the only ones out in the downpour.

“Do you think I made a mistake?” said Kidd. “Disbanding the assassin unit…” His prayer beads clicked away. “They were dangerous to our enemies, but just as dangerous to us. I thought by subsuming the assassin training into all our units, we could have benefit of their killing skills without endangering the souls of our warriors. The assassin trade…it’s corrosive to even the spiritually strong.” He gripped Rakkim’s wrist, squeezed. “You know that better than I do, Abu Michael. You saw what Darwin became. Whatever was in him that caused him to be selected for assassins in the first place, whatever moral vacuum made him excel at the killing craft, it perverted him. Destroyed him.” He looked into Rakkim’s eyes. “I have no idea how you defeated him. Allah must have been beside you that day.”

Rakkim looked back into Kidd’s deep, dark eyes.

Kidd released him. “Yes…yes, that is the only explanation.” He blinked in the storm. “Still…I find myself wondering if I acted too hastily. If I had a master assassin at my call, I could just send him into the Belt, tell him to kill the Colonel and everyone else connected to this devil’s dig. Instead, my son…I must send you.” He embraced Rakkim, kissed him on both cheeks. “Salaam alaikum.”

“Alaikum salaam,” said Rakkim, but it was too late. Kidd had turned his back on him and was walking rapidly away.