Robert Ferrigno - Prayers for the assassin

“Maybe when this is over…when the truth is known, I can come home,” said Katherine.

“You could have come home years ago,” said Angelina.

“We’ve been over that many times. It wasn’t worth the risk.”

The risk. Angelina would have risked anything to be reunited with her child, but not Katherine. She had greater priorities. As a good Muslim, Angelina understood the need for sacrifice, but Katherine was no longer a Muslim, and such a sacrifice was only justified for the greater glory of God.

“If you hear any news about Sarah, contact me.”

“I’ll send word immed-” Angelina heard the line go dead. She never knew when their brief conversations would end. Just that they would end abruptly. Katherine had her own timetable and no one was privy to it.

The redheaded workman on the second floor tucked his hammer into his tool belt, stood with his hands on his hips, surveying the site. The morning sun was behind him, set his hair aglow. Three young women passed by below, and he watched them. Once, the girls would have drawn whistles and catcalls from the men on the scaffolding, but now their passing was observed, but not commented on. The tall redhead pushed back his hard hat, following the girls’ progress until they turned the corner. He looked at Angelina, noticed her watching, and grinned. She could almost see him blush.

There was a time before the takeover…a time when Angelina had been a young girl, barely eighteen with slender ankles and high breasts. The men had worked shirtless in the heat, sweating in the summer sun, their bodies gleaming as though anointed with oil. In those days so long ago, she had hurried past such work sites, eyes downcast, and the whistles had rung in her ears…and she had not been totally displeased. Angelina clicked away on her prayer beads, silently counting off the ninety-nine names of God as she watched the tall redhead back at work.

Rakkim reread the passage from Richard Warriq’s journal. He looked over at Sarah snoring softly in the afternoon light slanting through the blinds. For a moment he considered letting her sleep. For a moment he considered putting the journal back in the stack. Sleeping dogs. He walked over to the sofa bed, gently shook her awake.

Sarah opened her eyes.

“I think I found what we’re looking for.”

“What do you mean we, kemo sabe?”

“What?”

“Old joke.” Sarah stopped in the middle of a yawn. “Are you talking about the journals?”

Rakkim handed her the journal. “The journals are organized according to location. It made sense for you to look in the China selections for entries suggesting the location of the fourth bomb. Since you didn’t find anything, I thought I might as well start on the other ones.” He tapped the page. “This is from a business trip he made to Indonesia in the spring of 2015. The entry is dated eleven days before the Zionist attack.”

Indonesia, May 8, 2015

Flew in for last week to check seismic activity on the Sukarno bridge. Usual vulgarities of the Indonesian character. Found dead cockroach between bedsheets at my hotel. (Jakarta Ramada, Room 451, mini-suite, breakfast included.) Have sent e-mail complaint regarding cockroach to front desk and CCed home office in hope that future accommodations will be upgraded. Bought lunch of supposed halal meat from street vendor. Tossed skewer in gutter after one bite and rinsed mouth. Must avoid ground meat no matter the hunger. Can’t trust the Christians. Temperature 81 degrees F. for late-night prayers. Water in the ablution room of the local mosque tepid and lacking in cleanliness. Complained to imam without effect. Bad teeth on the man, chipped right incisor. Did extensive tests on suspension bridge. Had to recalibrate instruments three times due to high humidity. Local assistants dismissive of my efforts. Eye rolling. Formally certified that bridge. Advised home office to recheck every three years as prolonged shift in weather pattern and attendant heavy rains may alter necessary soil compaction. Also made point that bridge should have been constructed further downstream where deep rock anchoring more feasible. Typical pattern of taking cheapest route. Wanted to get in the record that I had better placement in worst-case scenario.

Odd encounter at the Jakarta airport while waiting for flight to Mecca. (Air Indonesia, seat 37D, economy class.) Saw former colleague Safar Abdullah, waiting in the Islamic lounge. Safar seemed to be in some distress. Sweating profusely, face flushed, trembling. I thought at first that he had food poisoning. No surprise, considering the abysmal hygienic standards in the archipelago, but, from the ticket clutched in his hand, I saw that he was in transit from Hong Kong to San Francisco. Since there are numerous direct flights from Hong Kong to San Francisco, I can only surmise that this is yet another instance of corporate parsimony. We field engineers, in spite of our advanced education and experience, are always at the mercy of bean counters at the home office, from substandard hotel accommodations, to unrealistic per diems. I sat down beside poor Safar, expressed my concern for his health, and commiserated with him on his inability to get a direct flight home. The poor man was so surprised, he did not recognize me, looking about as though to find someplace to flee. As it was approaching midday, I offered to pray with him, but he declined, saying his recent travels had left him unclean. Indeed he was in terrible shape, with burst capillaries in his eyes, blistered skin, his beard and hair patchy. Two of his teeth had actually fallen out, although he had always taken pride in maintaining a proper appearance. He rightly seemed embarrassed to be seen in such a foul state, so I bought him a cup of sweetened tea-for which he was quite grateful. When I told him I was on my way to the Holy City, he started to cry, tears of blood running down his face as he begged me to pray for him. I made the promise and excused myself.

An hour later I boarded my flight (#349), grateful to be on my way. Alas, even though I had specifically requested to be seated with Muslims on the connecting flight to Delhi, I was informed that such seating is only guaranteed in business class. Instead, I was placed beside a fat Indian from Bombay who proceeded to gorge himself on satay and rice balls the whole flight. Actually offered me a taste of his fried shrimp, a deliberate insult I’m certain. May he roast in hell.

Sarah looked up at him, nodded. “You did it.”

Rakkim shrugged. “Hair loss, blisters…I thought radiation poisoning was a possibility.”

“More than a possibility.” Sarah smiled, shook her head. “It wasn’t Marian’s father who was part of the Old One’s network, it was this…Safar Abdullah. The bomb was leaking. I wonder if he was the only one who escaped alive from the mission.”

“From Warriq’s description, it seems unlikely he lasted for very long.”

“Maybe he didn’t expect to survive,” said Sarah. “It wouldn’t be the first suicide mission done at the bidding of the Old One.” She stood up, the sheet sliding down, and she was slim and golden, thighs slightly parted, hairless as a peach. “Does the journal name the engineering firm Safar Abdullah worked for?”

“Not that I could find. There are so many volumes-”

“It doesn’t matter. If it was radiation sickness, he’s long dead, but we can find his family, or his friends.” Sarah was pacing, now. “Warriq wrote that they used to be colleagues. We should check Warriq’s employment history, then contact every company he worked for and see if Safar Abdullah is listed on their pension plan. Even if he’s dead, we’ll at least get a last address and a beneficiary.”