Robert Ferrigno - Prayers for the assassin

Rakkim half closed his eyes and thought of sweeter things. His wife, Sarah, was pregnant, swelling in her fifth month. His wife. Blessings on Redbeard…wherever he was. Katherine a doting grandmother. She and Spider…Benjamin, had lunch regularly, a most unlikely friendship. Colarusso remained a detective, had turned down a promotion, saying the country needed good cops more than another mediocre paper pusher. He was right, as usual. Anthony Jr. had rejected his appointment to Fedayeen, had instead taken a posting with State Security…working under the acting director, Stevens. Rakkim stifled a smile. Though they might still work together, he and Stevens still didn’t like each other.

Perhaps the greatest blessing was the health of President Kingsley. Reported near death for years, he had been reenergized. Initially fooled by his advisers about the integrity of the rehearsal confession, he had accepted the truth…and dismissed his advisers. Acting quickly, Kingsley granted the nation’s Christian minority expanded rights and rescinded the hated religious tax upon them, thus saving the country from disintegrating into a thousand warring fiefs. He had even granted amnesty to the Jews, a courageous move that brought the hard-liners into open revolt. General Kidd and the Fedayeen had stood beside the president in the hour of need, and the Black Robes and their supporters had retreated to strongholds in San Francisco, St. Louis, and Cleveland. While the internal battles were far from settled, Kingsley’s greatest triumph had been the avoidance of open warfare with the Bible Belt. For years Kingsley had maintained a backdoor channel with the president of the Bible Belt, and their relationship had prevented hotheads on both sides from initiating a conflagration. Through his own contacts in the Bible Belt, Rakkim had done his small part to continue the dialogue between the two nations.

“Only those who know nothing of Islam-and I include especially the Arabic appeasers who dwell in our holiest cities-say the Muslims seek peace,” said Ibn Azziz, his voice hoarse and cracking. “Those who say this are fools or worse.”

The faithful in the mosque nodded in agreement. Darwin knelt near one of the far exits, hands clasped.

Even knowing the growing danger Ibn Azziz presented, Sarah had been angry with Rakkim when he’d left to go to San Francisco. She said his place was with her and with the baby. He told her he would be back in time to see their child born. He gave her his promise. She was still angry. He didn’t blame her.

“Should we Muslims sit back until we are devoured by the unbelievers?” demanded Ibn Azziz. “I say, put them to the sword and scatter their bones! I say, whatever good exists is thanks to the sword! Compromise with unbelievers is a defeat for righteousness! The sword is the key to Paradise!”

The believers sprung to their feet, roaring, “God is great, God is great, God is great,” louder and louder until it seemed the dome of the mosque itself would shatter. As their voices faded, Ibn Azziz blessed them and disappeared into the back of the mosque. The crowd squeezed through the exits into the streets. Darwin took his time. Rakkim kept him in sight, following at a distance, making no effort to close the gap between them.

The crowd thinned out over the next half mile, dissipating into the maze of side streets. A rain was falling, a cold drizzle that soaked the robes of the faithful, forcing them to walk with their heads down. Not Darwin. Not Rakkim. Twice Darwin looked behind him, but Rakkim always kept a cluster of other believers in front of him, screening him from sight.

Darwin turned south off Union Street, continued on a twisting path deeper into the underbelly of the city, the apartment buildings decayed, many of them crumbled into bricks and rebar. Rakkim had followed Darwin into the sector after spotting him that first time, followed him and lost him. Not today. This time he saw Darwin dart into an abandoned church. Rakkim circled the church, the hood of his robe low around his face. He expected Darwin to slip out and continue on his way, but glimpsed him instead through a broken stained-glass window, Darwin climbing the stairs to the second floor of the church, taking the steps two at a time. Rakkim hurried to a side entrance before Darwin achieved the high ground and the greater visibility it offered.

The church was quiet and cool inside. Bright pieces of broken glass on the floor and ripped hymnals. A wooden crucifix splintered. The pews chopped up for kindling. An old fire pit where the pulpit had been. Empty cans and bottles. Obscene graffiti on the walls. Rakkim moved silently across the room toward the stairs. He heard creaking above as Darwin walked across the floor.

Far away, he heard an ancient streetcar rumble down Union Street, a tourist attraction for a city that no longer had tourists. Rakkim checked his watch. Fifteen minutes later another streetcar clattered down Union, this time the conductor giving a few rings of his bell. Fifteen minutes after that, Rakkim moved quickly up the stairs in time with the passing streetcar. His knife was part of his hand.

At the top of the stairs, Rakkim suddenly jerked back and Darwin’s knife stabbed from the doorway, pierced the air where Rakkim should have been. Darwin kept coming, and Rakkim was off-balance, almost falling down the stairs. He regained his footing as Darwin vaulted toward him, Rakkim retreating.

“Where are you going?” said Darwin, knife twitching side to side like a divining rod. “What a surprise it was to see you at the Grand Mosque. I almost waved.”

Rakkim felt out of breath, his chest tight. He forced himself to relax his grip on his knife.

“Are you okay, Rakkim? You want to take a break? Have some tea?”

Rakkim shrugged off his robe, the two of them circling each other. “What are you doing in San Francisco?”

“Same thing you are. Getting ready to kill Ibn Azziz.”

Stained glass crunched under Rakkim’s feet. Saints or prophets…he didn’t look. Rakkim kept his eyes on Darwin. “The Old One take you back? Forgive and forget?”

“The old man doesn’t do either. He didn’t send me-” Darwin’s knife flicked forward, and Rakkim pivoted, slashed at him. “I came here on my own.”

They each took a step back. Noticed that they had identical cuts along their chests. Bowed.

“Blood to blood,” whispered Darwin.

“Blade to blade,” Rakkim returned the salute.

“I recognized you the moment I first saw you,” said Darwin. “I knew what you were.”

Rakkim didn’t answer.

They moved across the church, stepping carefully, knives writing their names on flesh. They cut each other a dozen times. Not deep. Scratches mostly, but this was not a training exercise. Not a game. They were going for the killing cut. An artery. A tendon. A skull stab. Darwin’s eyes stayed calm, his steps smooth, but Rakkim was no longer the only one out of breath.

Darwin half crouched, blinking away blood from a slash across his eyebrow. He switched the knife into his other hand.

Rakkim kicked aside a rat carcass. “I know who you are, too, Darwin. I know how you think.”

“I feel sorry for you then, Rikki. I wouldn’t-” Darwin launched an attack that cut Rakkim across the right arm, but the flurry left him momentarily open, and Rakkim drove his blade into Darwin’s thigh. Darwin circled, ignoring the wound. “Knowing how I think…I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.”

Rakkim advanced on him. “You don’t care who wins or loses. Fundamentalists…moderates, Catholics and Jews, they’re all the same to you. You just want to kill somebody…”

“Somebody important. Hard to kill. Like Ibn Azziz. Like you. The challenge, that’s what it’s all about. The only sin is not living up to our true nature. You know that, Rikki.”