Robert Ferrigno - Prayers for the assassin

“We should get married,” Rakkim had said afterward, breathless from exertion and the joy of being with her again. “We don’t need Redbeard’s permission.”

“Of course, we do,” said Sarah, always the practical one.

“We should stop then. A woman of your standing…what we’re doing could ruin you.”

“I’m already ruined.” She had laughed. “Don’t worry, Redbeard will change his mind.”

It was raining harder now. He remembered the feel of Sarah’s lips, and the taste of her, and the way she rubbed her feet against him in bed. He hadn’t expected it to last, but the abruptness of the ending still surprised him. He had arrived at the home of a vacationing friend and waited for her. Waited in vain. The next day she had called and said they couldn’t see each other anymore. Said the situation was impossible. The phone was almost too heavy for him to hold. He asked if she was sure. She was. That had been six months ago. She had contacted him three times since then; and three times she had stood him up. Now she had disappeared and-

Rakkim heard the silver sedan’s engine before its headlights flashed through the trees.

Eyes glinted by the side of the road. A bedraggled deer caught in the light.

Rakkim put Redbeard’s silent-running Ford into gear as the sedan slowed to make the turn. Floored it as the sedan passed the cutoff, hitting it broadside and sending it tumbling over the edge of the embankment. He heard it crash through the underbrush and land with a crunch on top of one of the other two wrecked cars down there.

The deer blinked, scampered away.

Rakkim maneuvered the Ford back on the road. No lights behind or ahead. Just rain and him and his memories.

Mullah Oxley opened his mouth so wide when he laughed that Khaled Ibn Azziz could practically see down his filthy gullet, and what he laughed at was filthier still. Oxley was seated at the head of the banquet table, surrounded by high-ranking Black Robes, with Ibn Azziz on his immediate right. A place of honor, but with an abhorrent view.

“Smile, Khaled,” said Oxley, head of the Black Robes. “Smile. Your face is spoiling the party.”

Ibn Azziz did as he was ordered. Tried to, anyway.

“Look at him,” bellowed Oxley, bits of roast pigeon falling from his lips. “Fasting, as usual. To look at our emaciated brother you would think that food is an enemy.” More laughter. “I expect decorum from my ministers in public, but you are among friends here, Khaled. This is a party, a celebration of our growing power, all praise to Allah, and my chief deputy is grim as a Jew on Judgment Day.”

The table roared with glee, the other deputies pounding their fists on the table, setting the plates and crystal goblets bouncing. The upper echelon of the Black Robes had been eating and drinking all night. It was almost dawn now, and still they continued.

Ibn Azziz looked down the table, saw only weaklings and cowards in black silk robes, a dozen men grown fat and greedy, forgetting their mission. Only Tanner and Faisal hung their heads, embarrassed for him, their plates untouched, hands folded on their laps.

The leadership of the religious police was infested with hypocrites, men who chose the holy order for personal gain, lovers of luxury who hid their base desires under their robes and thought no one would see. Oxley was the worst offender. His public demeanor was acceptable, but in private he was a drunkard and a pederast. Little girls, little boys, it made no difference to Oxley, as long as there was innocence to be sucked out of them. His perversions were an abomination, but even worse, he was an appeaser to the moderates, eager to make bargains with the secular authorities. Oxley was the third mullah of the religious police in the last twenty years. The last time he had taken a real risk for his faith was when he’d murdered his predecessor.

Oxley waved off the acolytes serving them, picked up a wine bottle and poured into Ibn Azziz’s already full goblet, the red wine overflowing, staining the white tablecloth. “Drink up, Khaled. Drink, damn you.” He kept pouring, wine dripping off the table and onto Ibn Azziz’s robe. “I won’t have your pinched face mocking me.”

Ibn Azziz slowly reached for the goblet, took the tiniest of sips. He wanted to vomit.

Oxley slammed the wine bottle down on the table. “That’s better.” He raised his own glass, waited until the others joined him in the toast, then drained it in one long swallow. He wiped his mouth, belched, his chins jiggling. “There may be hope for you yet, my young skeleton.”

Ibn Azziz stared straight ahead. A pale ascetic with bulging eyes, he appeared sickly, but was filled with an unnatural strength, and an even more ferocious temper. His beard was sparse, his black hair tangled around his shoulders, uncombed and unwashed, for he rarely bathed, lest his own nudity lead to impure thoughts. Mocked when he’d first joined the order, he rose swiftly up the ranks. Picked by Oxley to be his enforcer, chosen over numerous older men, Ibn Azziz was Oxley’s righteous hammer. All eyes were downcast when he entered a room now. Oxley used Ibn Azziz to cow his political enemies and his own ambitious subordinates, but he had not counted on Ibn Azziz’s purity. Ibn Azziz was celibate. He owned nothing other than two robes and a copy of the Qur’an. He could neither be bought nor tempted. He considered moderates and moderns more dangerous than Zionists, the human rot in the perfect Islamic state.

Oxley peered at Ibn Azziz. “I don’t know why you aren’t enjoying yourself. Today’s Super Bowl was a great victory. The cameras caught our brothers whipping some moderns for their immodesty. The whole world saw our rigor.”

“The brothers barely drew blood,” said Ibn Azziz, wine dripping off his robe.

“Patience, Khaled.” Oxley turned to the rest of the table. “Our young brother wanted Ayatollah al-Azufa to lead the halftime prayers rather than the Ayatollah Majani.”

Ibn Azziz knew he should remain silent, but honesty was his only indulgence. “Ayatollah al-Azufa is a warrior of God. Majani is a glib entertainer that makes even the moderns feel devout.”

Oxley squinted, his face ruddy with drink. “Majani was my choice, as you well know.”

The table was silent now. Oxley’s two bodyguards leaned forward slightly, hands on their daggers. They stood on each side of him, a stocky, dark-skinned Yemenite and a taller American, a former Super Bowl standout for the San Francisco Falcons.

Oxley smacked Ibn Azziz on the shoulder, laughing, and the others joined in, glad to have the tension broken. “If I had allowed al-Azufa to lead the prayers, he would have railed against the president for a lack of piety and probably stoned to death a few adulterers for good measure. How do you think that would have looked for the cameras?”

Oxley beamed. “Khaled will not be happy until the Super Bowl is played with the heads of sinners instead of footballs.” A patronizing pat for Ibn Azziz. “You have much to learn, young brother. Subtlety is the highest form of politics.”

“We are charged with enforcing Allah’s law,” said Ibn Azziz, “not playing politics.”

“It will take politics as well as Allah to rid us of Redbeard,” barked Oxley.

Ibn Azziz lowered his head, shocked at the blasphemy.

“That is our goal, is it not?” lectured Oxley, as the other deputies muttered their agreement. “It is Redbeard who stands in our way.”

“Then let us unloose our whips against him.” Ibn Azziz looked around the table for support. “An hour ago, a State Security vehicle deliberately rammed a car of ours that was tracking it. Three brothers were badly injured.” He tapped the table with a fingertip. “This is no time for idleness and frivolity.”