Robert Ferrigno - Prayers for the assassin

Rakkim walked to Redbeard’s desk and picked up the book left open on the desk, wondering if it was a test or a trap that Redbeard had set out for him. How the West Was Really Won: The Creation of the Islamic States of America through the Conquest of Popular Culture. The book had originally been Sarah’s Ph.D. thesis, rewritten and published for a mass audience two years ago. It became a bestseller, but her premise was so controversial that the publisher had been wise not to use Sarah’s photograph on the jacket-even today, she wasn’t recognized on the street.

Historians had debated the transformation of the former United States into an Islamic republic ever since President-elect Damon Kingsley had taken the oath of office with one hand on the Holy Qur’an. Most historians credited the will of Allah, noting that the persistent malaise post-Iraq, and the continuing threat of terrorist attacks, had left the nation ripe for a spiritual awakening. The Zionist Betrayal was the final blow, collapsing the economy and bringing on a declaration of martial law. In the midst of such chaos, the moral certainty of Islam was the perfect antidote to the empty bromides of the churches, and the corruption of the political class. After losing a disputed national election, vast numbers of disaffected Christians migrated to the Bible Belt and declared their independence. In a stroke of political brilliance, the remaining Christians, mostly Catholics, were granted almost equal citizenship with the Muslim majority in the new Islamic Republic. The nation held together.

While recognizing the spiritual dimension of the regime change, Sarah’s book had argued that the transformation had been more calculated, initiated by decades of Saudi stipends to American decision makers, and, even more important, a series of high-profile public conversions. Sarah had cited a Best Actress winner who’d shared her newfound faith during her acceptance speech at the Oscars, and a country music star praising Allah at the Grand Ole Opry, for starting a cascade effect that had led to millions of new converts within weeks. The ayatollahs had been furious at her interpretation of history, calling her book blasphemous, but Redbeard had intervened, and the fundamentalists had backed down, issuing a statement that called it “a deeply flawed work of honest intent.”

Rakkim thumbed through the pages, finally found her author’s note.

I expected neither the degree of success nor of the criticism the prepublication copies of How the West Was Really Won engendered. Traditional historians and clerics have charged that my book gave undue weight to shallow secular events and deemphasized the role of divine intervention. The attacks quickly turned personal. I have been accused of trading on my family name. Of being the cat’s-paw of my uncle, who was supposedly using me to rewrite history and undercut his political opponents. I have been accused of being a woman, and a modern woman at that, doubly unworthy to speak to issues of such importance.

To those who say that my research gives undue weight to secular interpretations of history, I say perhaps Allah, the all-knowing, chooses to unfold his plan within the mundane sphere. To my critics who charge me with nepotism and naïveté, I say that my uncle, the esteemed Redbeard, needs no cat’s-paw, nor would I allow myself to be used in such a manner. To those who accuse me of being a modern woman…I plead guilty, without excuse or apology.

Rakkim set the book back down on the desk. He loved Sarah’s ferocity, but he wasn’t sure if he agreed with her premise. He placed more trust in force of arms than movie stars and religious groupies, and the book tended to gloss over the nuclear attack and the social devastation afterward.

He stared at the photograph of New York, drawn to the gray stumps of buildings that dotted the dead city. A boneyard of dreams. His mother had been in New York that day on a business trip, though whether she had died from the bomb blast itself or the fires and panic that engulfed the city afterward, he never knew. Only four at the time, he barely remembered her. He had clearer memories of his father, mostly of the man’s anger and frustration, the temper that had gotten him killed three years after the attack, when food was still scarce and opinions were strong. They had been waiting in a soup line, his father holding his hand, telling him to quit fidgeting, damnit. A man cut ahead and his father had spoken up, the argument escalating rapidly. Rakkim wasn’t even aware of the screwdriver shoved between his father’s ribs until he felt his father’s hand soften and slip from his grasp. He stood there, alone, while the line moved forward without him. Two year later he saw Redbeard walking down the street, and-

“Am I interrupting, boy?”

Rakkim turned at the familiar, gruff voice.

Redbeard fixed him from the middle of the office, a powerfully built man in his early sixties, his square face deeply lined, seamed to the bone. His reddish blond hair was cut short, his ears flat against his skull, and though his beard was shot with gray now, his blue eyes still burned. A tiny patch at the center of his forehead was calloused from years of prayer. He wore a gray cotton sweat suit, looking like the athlete he had been. A former college wrestler, a champion if the biographies could be believed, he retained the thick neck and aggressive intimacy of the sport. Rakkim had often seen him unnerve his political opponents by invading their personal space, an arm casually dropped around their shoulders, intimidating them by the weight of his flesh.

“Uncle.” Rakkim fell to one knee.

“Don’t call me that…and get up, you’re not fooling anyone.” Redbeard looked him over. “You appear healthy. Wasting your life evidently agrees with you.”

Rakkim stood, waiting.

“Two of my agents were limping when they escorted you inside.”

“Perhaps their shoes were too tight.”

“Stevens has a broken nose. Was his face too tight?”

“I refrained from killing them, but I couldn’t go quietly. I didn’t want to disappoint you.”

“Too late for that.”

Rakkim kept his head high, but the words stung.

Redbeard leaned forward slightly, and for an instant Rakkim actually thought he was going to apologize. “Are you about to cry, Rakkim?”

“Not if you were to tear my eyes out, Uncle.”

Redbeard laughed. Rakkim didn’t share the laughter, but Redbeard didn’t seem to mind. “You can keep your eyes.” He opened the door to the water garden. “We’ll talk in here.”

Rakkim hesitated, then stepped inside. His shirt stuck to him in the steamy interior, but Redbeard beamed in the moist air, completely comfortable in spite of his heavy clothes.

The water garden was a domed tropical enclave, a half-acre dense with rubber trees and cloying oleander, lush with bulbous creepers and pink hibiscus. Condensation ran down the glass walls, dripped from overhead as Rakkim followed Redbeard deeper into the green world. Vines and palm fronds brushed against their faces as they padded down the narrow path that wound through the garden. Lit only by moonlight and dim yellow lamps, it was a place of shadows.

Tiny, white snowflake orchids peeked from the foliage as they passed, swaying from their movements. Rock waterfalls, half-hidden misting units, and a shallow brook created a constant echo. No passive or active listening device, no laser microphone, could screen out a human voice from the ambient noise. The tungsten-dusted dome prevented satellite inspections and insulated the plants against cold fronts. The water garden was safe and serene and harmonious, the essence of Paradise to the desert dwellers to whom Allah had first revealed his truth. Redbeard supposedly spent his time here meditating, but Rakkim knew he conducted other business in the garden.