Robert Ferrigno - Prayers for the assassin

“Our brother is eager for battle, but in his haste he would doom us all.” Oxley waved a turkey leg at Ibn Azziz, directing him to quiet down. “We must be stealthy,” Oxley said, warming to the sound of his own voice. “Just last week, because of my personal intervention, the imam of Redbeard’s own mosque issued a fatwa condemning the immorality of popular culture, calling modern music and fashion ‘acts of social terrorism as dangerous as any threat from the Bible Belt.’ It was a huge embarrassment to Redbeard.” Oxley gnawed at the turkey leg. “See, Khaled, this is the way to victory: tiny bites. We shall nibble away at Redbeard until there is nothing left of him.”

“Tiny bites…?” Ibn Azziz pushed his plate aside. “So, you ask us…the instruments of the Almighty, to be mice?”

Oxley threw down the turkey leg. “Are you too good to be a mouse, Khaled? Is that why you disobeyed me?”

The rest of the Black Robes shifted in their seats, and the bodyguards moved slightly away from Oxley.

“Khaled came to me last Friday.” said Oxley. “He was convinced that Redbeard’s niece had run away, convinced that she had been overcome by lust, eager to join a lover-”

“The slut didn’t show up to teach her class. My contact in the History Department said the chairman had not been previously notified. It was an opportunity for us.”

“An opportunity?” Oxley spread his arms wide. “The bitch has female troubles and Khaled gets cramps.”

The Black Robes howled with laugher. Even the bodyguards grinned.

“Our brother asked me for permission to send out men to find the niece,” said Oxley, no longer smiling. “What did I tell you, Khaled?”

“You said it was not worth the risk of bringing her to justice.”

“I said we are winning the battle. It’s not necessary to attack Redbeard directly,” said Oxley. “Not as long as he has the president’s trust.”

“The president is a hollow man,” said Ibn Azziz. “Without strength-”

“You asked permission, and I told you no. What did you do then? Please, Khaled, share with the brothers how you responded to an order from your mullah.”

Ice filled Ibn Azziz, packed his veins until no feeling was left. No pain, no pleasure, only a crystalline certainty.

“We’re waiting, Khaled,” said Oxley.

“I disobeyed my mullah, choosing instead to obey the dictates of Allah.”

“You confuse the buzzing in your ears with the voice of Allah,” sneered Oxley. “You are a learned cleric, Khaled. Tell us, what is the price of disobedience?”

Ibn Azziz stood up, bowed to Oxley, put his hands flat on the table.

“You have been a valued servant,” said Oxley. “Clever and resolute.” He beckoned to his guards. “I will reward you with a quick and painless death for your service. May you discover the joys of the flesh in the afterlife that you rejected in this world.”

The American bodyguard slid next to Ibn Azziz. “Don’t worry, brother,” he said softly, a big, blond killer from Wyoming, a faint twang still in his voice. “I’m gonna snap your neck so fast you’ll be rolling in perfumed virgins before you know you’re dead.”

Ibn Azziz was watching Oxley when he heard the American bodyguard cry out. A soft cry. A baby’s cry. Oxley’s eyes widened and Ibn Azziz smiled.

The Yemeni bodyguard eased the American to the floor, pulled the dagger out of his broad back.

Oxley tried to stand, but he was slowed by alcohol and surprise, and Ibn Azziz was behind him now, looping a linen napkin around his neck. Tightening it. Oxley tore at the napkin, his nails digging into Ibn Azziz.

Ibn Azziz paid no attention to Oxley’s desperate struggles. He just kept twisting the napkin. Oxley was twice his size, but soft with sin. Ibn Azziz was pure in heart, with the strength and clarity of the righteous. God will call you to account for all that you may reveal from your souls and all that you may conceal, he recited, tightening his grip.

Oxley gurgled, eyes bulging as he bucked wildly. His black silk robe billowed around him. Tears ran down his cheeks, dripped into his beard.

Ibn Azziz pressed Oxley down. And Allah said…Allah said to Iblis, the Devil, “The path which leads to Me is a straight one and you have no authority over My servants except the erring one…the erring ones who follow you. Hell is the promised place for them all.”

Oxley’s lips were purple as a ripe grape. He clawed at the tablecloth, sent dishes and glassware tumbling. His movements slowing…slowing…until he slumped forward.

Ibn Azziz released him and Oxley fell off the chair, lay dead on the floor. Ibn Azziz wiped his hands with the napkin, tossed it aside. He looked down the length of the table. The deputies stared at their plates, trembling, except for Tanner and Faisal, who fingered their prayer beads. Slowly, with great formality, Ibn Azziz took his seat at the head of the table. The Yemeni bodyguard took his place behind him. Ibn Azziz felt surrounded by a pure white light. He was twenty-six years old. There was much work to be done and he had barely gotten started.

The next afternoon, Rakkim sat behind Sarah’s desk at the university, looked slowly around the office, seeing what she would have seen. He smiled. Tucked into her bookcase was a photo of Sarah in an orange parka, arms raised in triumph from atop Mount Rainier. If he looked closer, he would see himself reflected in her glacier glasses, Rakkim dressed in a blue parka aiming the camera at her. Another one of Sarah’s secrets, another one of their private jokes.

Students shuffled past the office door as he riffled Sarah’s desk, the second bell warning them they had only five minutes to get to their classes. The university was strict about tardiness, and adherence to the dress code, but they needed a bigger operations and maintenance budget. The campus was immaculate, not a scrap of trash on the grounds, but the waxed wood floors of the buildings were cracked and uneven, the classrooms cramped, the desks and chairs mismatched. The professors’ offices were no better, the furniture shoddy, the walls patched. The faculty computers were ancient, without satellite uplinks and only limited Internet access, supposedly to avoid the ubiquitous Russian viruses. Rakkim had been stunned at the neglect the first time he had walked the grounds-Fedayeen training facilities were state-of-the-art, from smart desks to holographic combat training. The university by comparison was haphazard and underfunded. The cheap lock on Sarah’s office was an insult, a lock in name only.

Early this morning he had left Redbeard’s car at an underground parking garage in downtown Seattle. The summons dawn prayer sounded as he walked outside, the muezzin’s call undulating from the minaret of the main mosque-God is most great, God is most great, God is most great. I witness that there is no God but God. I witness that Muhammad is the messenger of God. I witness that Muhammad is the messenger of God. Come to prayer! Come to prayer! All across the city, the state, the nation, all across the world, the vast body of devout Muslims heard similar calls and responded as one.

Rakkim stood there in the pink glow of daybreak, trembling with the sound, the perfect resonance. One heart. One soul. One God. He hadn’t prayed in three years, but he found himself mouthing the words of the muezzin as people hurried past him toward the mosque, businessmen in three-piece suits, teenagers in jeans, women leading children by the hand, urging them on so as not to be late. Congregational prayers were said to be twenty-seven times better than individual prayers, and greater blessings were given to those who were first inside. In a few minutes the faithful would be on their knees, facing toward the Kaaba in Mecca, a perfectly synchronized wave of submission, selfless and infinite, rolling through eternity. Rakkim watched them rush to mosque and envied them their devotion.