Robert Ferrigno - Prayers for the assassin

The Old One had hoped his airy dismissal of Oxley’s murder would be a cue for Ibrahim to leave, but he stayed where he was, hands clasped behind his back-a posture he had picked up from his days at the London School of Economics. Ibrahim was clearly disturbed, but the Old One detected something more. A failure on the part of the Old One was an opportunity for Ibrahim. The burden of an eldest son. The frustration of a chief adviser whose counsel had not been headed. “Speak, Ibrahim.”

“Father…Mahdi…it took us years to secure Oxley’s cooperation, even longer for Oxley to ingratiate himself with the Fedayeen commander. How can he be replaced?”

“Brother Oxley dwells now in paradise, it is Ibn Azziz we must concern ourselves with.”

“Can you not task Darwin with killing Ibn Azziz?” pleaded Ibrahim. “Surely you can orchestrate a more compliant successor to Oxley than this wild child.”

“Darwin is engaged in more pressing matters,” said the Old One, enjoying Ibrahim’s distress. “Don’t worry, all men are alike, lost in a maze of needs and desires. Seducing Oxley called for certain…inducements, seducing Ibn Azziz will merely require different methods. Our challenge will be to discern those methods and then implement them.”

“But the time, Father, we have no time-”

The Old One jabbed a hand at his son, the tubes thrashing. “Don’t speak to me of time.”

Ibrahim lowered his eyes for a moment, but no longer. Three years ago Ibrahim had argued against selecting Ibn Azziz for the upper echelon of the Black Robes. Ibrahim was smart enough not to bring it up now. Smart enough to know he didn’t need to.

The three doctors in the room might as well have been deaf. They paid attention only to the devices they monitored, making minute adjustments as required.

“Take heart. Oxley was docile…but overcautious,” said the Old One. “Ibn Azziz is hot-tempered and harder to control, but when we bring him to heel, he will be infinitely more useful than his predecessor.”

“As you say, Mahdi,” murmured Ibrahim. His dark eyes lingered on the tubes running into the Old One, but his expression remained unreadable.

“Ibn Azziz’s ascetic nature might even appeal more to the Fedayeen commander than Oxley’s excesses,” said the Old One. “General Kidd is devout. Even with the grand ayatollah’s blessing of Oxley, he found the man distasteful. No, my son, in years to come, you shall see that the ascension of Ibn Azziz was a manifestation of the will of Allah, the all-knowing, with whom all things are possible.”

Ibrahim held his open hands high, offered his blessing.

“Now go, consult with our brothers among the Black Robes. Find the way into the heart of Ibn Azziz, that we may act accordingly.”

Ibrahim backed slowly out of the restoration room.

The Old One lay back on the table. Would that it were so simple. Oxley’s murder was a disaster, just as Ibrahim had said. Oxley was profane and corrupt, but a master politician, able to insinuate himself into the halls of Congress, giving their allies the cover of his religiosity, and condemning enemies from every mosque. Now he was dead. The Old One had underestimated Ibn Azziz, thinking him merely another of the fiery young clerics attracted to the Black Robes. Not anticipating Ibn Azziz’s boldness was a failure on his part. He had been distracted these last few months, but that was no excuse.

A doctor checked the Old One’s cuticles, then made a notation in his chart.

The Old One hated the sight of his feet and hands on the examination table. Steroids and genetic infusions kept him vital, organ transplants kept pace with the passing years, but his extremities were beyond treatment. Reedy and translucent, his hands and feet allowed a glimpse of his true age, gave hope to those looking for infirmity. He glanced toward the door. Ibrahim was restless. The Old One took a risk in ceding a measure of power to him. Without a degree of autonomy, Ibrahim’s sizable talents would be denied to the Old One, but too much power would ignite the boy’s ambition. That was why the Old One kept his own network of spies, both in Las Vegas, and in the Islamic Republic. The Old One needed to know what was happening and needed to know it first. Ibrahim would bear closer scrutiny in the weeks ahead.

The Old One flexed his fingers, made a fist. He might minimize the consequences of Oxley’s murder to Ibrahim, but not to himself. Losing Oxley’s influence over Congress was bad enough, jeopardizing the relationship with the Fedayeen was infinitely worse. General Kidd had been repelled by Oxley’s excesses, but the Old One’s covert intercession with Kidd’s imam had slowly overcome his disgust. It had taken years, but when the moment of truth came, General Kidd would send his troops to serve the Mahdi rather than the president.

The army remained loyal to the president, but that was surmountable-though far fewer in number, the Fedayeen were infinitely superior militarily. In a confrontation, the army would quickly capitulate. The problem was that Oxley was the only direct contact between General Kidd and the Old One. His death shook a shaky alliance. If the Fedayeen held back when called upon, if General Kidd harbored any doubts…there would be no way the Old One’s plan could succeed.

A doctor leaned over the Old One. “Your new kidneys are still functioning perfectly. No sign of rejection, thanks be to Allah.”

The Old One ignored him. He was on his fourth set of kidneys. The doctors always emphasized the miraculous over the science, hoping to gain his favor with their flattery.

It was because of the Fedayeen that the Old One hadn’t sent Darwin to kill Ibn Azziz. The Black Robes would spread the tale of Oxley’s unfortunate heart attack, but General Kidd would find out the truth soon enough. Assassinating Ibn Azziz would cause too much turmoil among the Black Robes and diminish their authority. They might lose General Kidd’s support altogether.

The Old One felt his cheeks and fingertips tingling, part of his vast reawakening that signaled the end of his weekly treatment. His vision seemed more acute, his hearing sharper, and there was a fullness in his private parts too, a hunger beyond flesh. He slowly sat up, rubbed his hands together as though he might give off sparks.

It would take time to turn Ibn Azziz, to bend him, but the Old One had no doubt that the young zealot would align himself with him. The Old One was chosen by Allah for this historical mission, the restoration of the caliphate. If Ibn Azziz was truly led of God, he would see that. The youngster just needed guidance. First though, Darwin needed to find the girl. Find her and follow her. A cancer was at the heart of the Old One’s plan, and only Darwin had the knife sharp enough to cut it out without causing harm. First find the girl, then the Old One would contact Ibn Azziz. If that didn’t work, if the boy refused to accept his dominion, the Old One would reach out to General Kidd directly.

The Old One tore the tubes from his arms, flung them aside, blood dripping onto that pure white floor as he slid off the table.

Rakkim eased out the side door of the Blue Moon, right behind a noisy foursome of oil workers fresh from the offshore rigs, the riggers drunk, staggering as they elbowed their way through the crowd outside. The wind off the Sound made him shiver, but the riggers were in jeans and T-shirts with the sleeves rolled, flashing their muscles to the moderns, who gave them room. Rakkim stayed with the riggers, close enough to smell the petroleum in their shaggy hair, then peeled off into one of the Zone’s cobblestone alleys.

He had stopped at the Blue Moon after spending a fruitless afternoon in Marian’s library. He and Mardi had had dinner and she’d given him his share of the week’s receipts, the part that they didn’t report to the tax authorities. She went on about some incredible bourbon the new salesman had let her sample, then asked him again if he could help the grocer and his family escape to Canada. He told her again it would be spring. Maybe when he found Sarah, he would take them all to Canada. Winter or no winter, he would find a way.