Robert Ferrigno - Heart of the Assassin

A long walk from here to the Bridge of Skulls, particularly if he stayed in the alleys and avoided the main streets. It could easily be dawn before he got there. He hurried on.

He started up one of the steep stairways toward the crest of the hill, taking the steps two at a time, holding up the edge of his robe so he didn't trip and split his skull. In the distance the new mosque loomed over the city; still only half completed, it dominated the skyline. The largest mosque in the world, seating three hundred thousand worshipers-ibn-Azziz said it would draw pilgrims from across the planet. Rakkim had wanted to know where the money to build it was coming from, which had gotten Jenkins thinking. Perhaps it had been his own discreet inquiries this last week that had roused ibn-Azziz's suspicions.

Not that he had found out anything concrete. Just that no government was involved, all donations came through individual foundations. What was most interesting to Jenkins was that the idea of the gigantic mosque didn't seem to emanate from ibn-Azziz, whose own ascetic nature rejected ostentation and grandeur. Persons unknown had presented the design for the mosque to him, suggesting that such a grand structure would not only honor Allah, but also shift the attention of the Muslim world from the decadent Arabian Peninsula to the pure Islam of New Fallujah.

A rat scurried across the steps and into the underbrush on the hillside. Jenkins slowed his pace slightly, his knees aching. The wind kept rising, swirling dead leaves around his ankles. The surrounding buildings were dark, although he sometimes heard the sound of a muffled radio from one of the apartments.

It started raining, not too heavy yet, but the slick steps were even more treacherous. He quickened his pace anyway.

More than the sheer enormity of the money donated for the mosque, it was the method of seducing ibn-Azziz that made him think the Old One might have been responsible. Money was irrelevant to ibn-Azziz, even faintly sordid. He was equally immune to love. At one time Jenkins thought ibn-Azziz craved power, but that wasn't the case. Power was simply a means by which ibn-Azziz brought people to Allah. Someone, though, had found his weakness.

Building the largest mosque in the world would have carried the taint of pride, but building the mosque to turn all eyes to the true Islam…that was precisely the kind of subtle vanity to which ibn-Azziz was susceptible. Such targeted temptation was a mark of the Old One, and setting up a spiritual counterweight to his enemies in the Middle East was a bonus. Jenkins had planned on sending another message to General Kidd, telling him of his suspicions about the Old One, but now such plans seemed as foolish as his decision to stay here.

Jenkins reached the top of the stairs, stopped to glance up and down the street before continuing. He was going to have to hurry to get to the boat dock before dawn prayers. The streets would be teeming with believers, his picture everywhere after that. He hung on to the railing. Placed a hand on his heart, trying to establish some sort of feedback link to slow himself down before his chest exploded. All the years here, all the close calls…yet here he was, panicked as a woman. One should get braver as one got older…there was less to lose. Why fear man taking what Allah would take soon enough? Easy to say when one believed in Allah. Paradise awaited the faithful. The problem was…he no longer believed.

The rain came down in sheets now, soaking through his robes. Thunder fumbled through the canyons of downtown. Jenkins looked around, walked calmly across the street, head high, then dashed through the alley. The rain was good for him, limiting visibility, making the city even darker. He ran on, drawing on the reserves of his energy, using his fear to fuel him, block after block, the boat ramp closer with every step.

Jenkins had been as good a Muslim as any when he first came to New Fallujah. Though the brutality of this brand of Islam had startled him at first, he had quickly risen in the leadership. Adaptability was the highest virtue of the shadow warriors, and he took pride in his ability to shed his personal morality for the greater good of the Fedayeen. "The grand atrocity," he had called it, but his years of cooperating with that atrocity had ground his soul down to a fine gray dust, and with it his belief in Allah. After all the heads he had added to the Bridge of Skulls, the slightest breeze would have been enough to blow away his soul, and there was always a storm brewing in this dead city.

He splashed through the puddles, blinking back the rain. His black robe was a leaden weight around him, and he was soaked to the skin, freezing, but he pressed on, legs pumping. Faster. Faster. It amazed him that his belief in the Fedayeen had outlasted his belief in Allah, but now…even that was fading. What had Rakkim said? I don't give a fuck about my country. I'm here because of General Kidd. Thunder crashed, momentarily deafening him. The young man would learn.

He huddled in the alley across from the street leading down to the boat ramp. He listened but there was no way to hear anything over the thunder and rain. No cars on the street. No lights in the windows. Bits of brightly colored paper swirled in the water streaming down the gutters-a birthday party somewhere, gaudy wrappings and bows…a sin among many sins, so many sins he could no longer keep track of them. He watched until the shiny bits of paper disappeared, then walked quickly across the street, into the shelter of the low buildings.

At the end of the alley, he saw the boats bobbing wildly against the dock. Suicide to try to navigate across the bay in this weather, madness to think he could reach the other side…Jenkins threw off his heavy black robe and started running. He could hardly wait to try.

He burst out of the alley, slid down the grassy slope toward the docks. As his feet touched the slats of the wooden dock, he saw movement out of the corner of his eye.

"What's your hurry, Mullah Jenkins?" cooed ibn-Azziz, the cleric bareheaded in the downpour, surrounded by bodyguards.

"There you are," said Jenkins, bowing. "I hoped to find you here."

"Hope is a honeyed word, is it not?" Ibn-Azziz turned to his retainers. "Our good mullah finds sweetness in our meeting."

The bodyguards fanned out around Jenkins.

Ibn-Azziz tapped his fingertips together. "What else do you hope, Mullah Jenkins?"

Jenkins took a step back, saw that his path was blocked by more of ibn-Azziz's men. Lightning cracked directly overhead. Jenkins jumped as did the bodyguards, but ibn-Azziz didn't flinch.

"You are shy, I understand." Ibn-Azziz waved his bodyguards back. "Is that better?"

Jenkins moved closer to the Grand Mullah, barely feeling the rain anymore.

"Good," said ibn-Azziz, a black-robed skeleton in the raging storm. "So obedient, Mullah Jenkins, I hardly recognize you."

Jenkins spread his arms wide, felt his Fedayeen knife against the inside of his forearm. "All your patience has finally paid off. You have tamed my defiant spirit."

"All blessings be to Allah, not my unworthy self." Ibn-Azziz cocked his head, water dripping off his nose. "Do you have something for me, Mullah Jenkins?" he mocked. "You look like a man with a surprise clutched to his heart."

Jenkins blinked the rain from his eyes, almost close enough now. The boats banged against the dock, louder and louder, the wind rising.

Ibn-Azziz cupped his ear. "I can't hear you." He beckoned. "Come closer, and share your wisdom."

Jenkins flicked the knife into his hand as he thrust forward, but ibn-Azziz was fast, so very fast, the blade slicing through the whirling black robe, but leaving ibn-Azziz untouched.

Ibn-Azziz danced out of reach as his bodyguards closed in on Jenkins.