Robert Ferrigno - Heart of the Assassin

"They weren't his brothers," Rakkim said. "Not anymore. The Mormons are his brothers now. A man lives in the territories long enough, and after a while, he isn't pretending. He might as well get baptized."

"Without loyalty all the training in the world is useless. Worse than useless," said Kidd. "That's why the president shut down the shadow warrior program. I argued against it, but he ignored my counsel. All Fedayeen now are combat Fedayeen, with guidelines and boundaries and a chain of command."

"Then the president should have sent one of them to New Fallujah."

"The president doesn't know anything about your mission." Kidd squeezed his hand lightly, released him. "What about you, Abu Michael? When you were on your missions in the Belt, did you ever lose your way?"

Rakkim hesitated. Nodded. "The Belt is so seductive it's easy to forget where you belong. That's why I retired. It hurts to be lost. You go native because it's better to be wrong than to be lost."

"Yet you go on missions for me," Kidd said gently.

"I have a family now. They help me find my way back."

Kidd looked at the empty chair where Amir had been sitting.

"Sidi, we can't let Chambers become secretary of defense," said Rakkim. "Not until we know if he's working for ibn-Azziz."

"Ten days until the full moon…not much time to prove something like that," said Kidd. "Asking State Security for help is futile-they're slow and inept and porous. If Redbeard were alive, he'd have a complete dossier on Chambers, every phone call, every financial transaction, every prostitute he had visited." He held up his empty glass to the waitress. "Redbeard wouldn't have needed ten days to find out…but your mentor is in Paradise, probably teaching Allah a thing or two about keeping tabs on His angels."

"I didn't think you liked him."

"He didn't like me. Blamed me for you joining the Fedayeen instead of State Security."

"You had nothing to do with it."

"Well, Redbeard always looked for the invisible hand at play-" Kidd stopped as the waitress set down fresh drinks, waited until she left. "State Security requires a different mind-set than Fedayeen, you know that better than I do. Redbeard was deceptive even when he didn't need to be, always pitting people against each other, but I respected him. In the early days it was just he and I and President Kingsley. Hard times, dangerous times, but we were young and had high hopes…such high hopes it was almost a sin." He looked at Rakkim, his eyes warming. "He would have been proud of you."

"What…what if we get proof that Chambers is working for ibn-Azziz?" said Rakkim.

"Drink up."

Rakkim touched glasses with Kidd. "What do we do?"

Kidd swirled his drink, ice cubes clinking. "Why, we'll pray for guidance, as good Muslims would."

"We'll have to do better than that," said Rakkim.

Jenkins shivered, pulled his heavy black robe around him.

Ibn-Azziz's personal apartment was an unheated stone cell deep beneath Alcatraz Island, a windowless room under the former prison where particularly troublesome prisoners had been housed a hundred years earlier. The walls were slick with moisture, mold sprouting in the crevices. The Grand Mullah could have lived in luxury, could have spent his nights in a sumptuous high-rise, cozy and warm. The dimly lit punishment cell suited him better.

"Are you cold, Imam Jenkins?" Ibn-Azziz lay on the rough stone bunk, wearing only a loincloth. His ribs protruded, his hair thinning and lifeless. He was twenty-six and looked forty years older. "Shall I have one of my men bring you a fur coat?"

Jenkins stood in the doorway, his frosty breath lingering in the air. "I'm fine."

"Perhaps some hot cocoa?"

"Yes, that would be wonderful," said Jenkins, playing along. "Marshmallows of course, and a plate of those chocolate chip cookies the Grand Mullah is renowned for."

"Indeed." Ibn-Azziz peered up at him. "I've gotten some troubling news." His voice was thin and reedy, but his eyes were hot coals. "Perhaps you could enlighten me."

Jenkins tasted fear. It seemed he was scared more and more lately. He should have gone with Rakkim, should have left when he had the chance. "I'll do my best."

"Your best…yes, I can always count on you to do your best." Ibn-Azziz nodded and one of his guards closed the iron door to the cell, the rusted hinges squeaking. Just the two of them now. As many times as he had been in here with ibn-Azziz, every time the door shut, Jenkins felt as though he were being buried alive. Ibn-Azziz sat up, flipped open a hand-viewer. "Come." He patted the bench next to him. "Sit beside me."

Jenkins sat. Ibn-Azziz smelled like wet newspapers.

The screen blinked on. A street scene, men shuffling forward in the dawn light, heads down. One of ibn-Azziz's long, yellow nails tapped the screen, freezing the image. Not a clear picture, but it was Rakkim, dressed as a laborer, his face partially obscured, streaked with grime. "This man…do you recognize him?"

Jenkins took his time, remembering what had happened to the last man ibn-Azziz believed to be a spy. The man had taken a week to die, howling the whole time. An innocent man…framed by Jenkins to cover his own tracks. "No."

"Take a good look."

Jenkins had been completely scanned before entering the cell. Even without a blade he might be able to kill ibn-Azziz… might. His fighting skills had atrophied, and anyway, there was no way to escape the guards outside. "I don't know him."

"He's Fedayeen," said ibn-Azziz. "Does that jog your memory?"

Jenkins shook his head. "I left the brotherhood a long time ago. If this one is truly Fedayeen-"

"If?" hissed ibn-Azziz.

"Who said this man is Fedayeen?" Jenkins said evenly.

"Our new perimeter cams picked him out of the crowd a week ago. Matched him from a database," said ibn-Azziz. "The picture is poor and he's altered his appearance from his days at the academy, but it's him. The old system wouldn't have matched him, but the new one uses more data points for comparison."

"I didn't know we had such capability."

"The upgraded system is only at a few locations. It's very expensive."

"Praise be to our mysterious benefactor." Jenkins shifted his weight. There was no comfortable position on the stone bunk. "What's the Fedayeen's name?"

"Rakkim Epps."

"Is he in custody?"

"No." A cockroach crawled across ibn-Azziz's leg but he ignored it. "The fools working perimeter security were slow to react, and by the time they realized they had a match, Epps had disappeared." He plucked the cockroach from his leg, brought it close to his face, the roach's legs wiggling wildly. "To make matters worse, they attempted to hide their failure, pretending the system had malfunctioned." He set the roach down gently on the floor, watched it scurry away. "I wanted to discuss their punishment with you."

"Of course."

"First, though, I wanted to talk with you about another matter." Ibn-Azziz looked up as the roach squeezed through a crack in the stone floor. "Four nights ago, a madrassa in the Polk district burned to the ground. Most of the girls, dressed for sleep, chose to die rather than have their immodesty displayed in front of men not of their own family. These righteous females burned bright and pure, but some of them…some chose to run away, half naked into the night." He stared at Jenkins and the air in the cell grew even colder. "Pray, tell me, imam, why you gave those whores absolution from their sin?"

Rakkim stood by the bedroom window, listening to the late-night call to prayer echoing across the rooftops of this Catholic neighborhood. Sometimes he heard the call and wished he were devout, wished he could lose himself in his faith, trusting in Allah to set things right, to reward the just and punish the wicked. Tonight, though, all he could think of was walking out of prayers in New Fallujah and seeing flames from the madrassa, a greasy glow over the buildings, burning its way into his heart. He heard Sarah get up, but didn't turn from the window.