Robert Ferrigno - Prayers for the assassin

The Old One rolled his eyes. He did not need this wispy-bearded youth to muddle through Redbeard’s strategy for him.

“The deception failed,” said the aide.

“The deception didn’t fail, otherwise you would know whether Rakkim was still at the villa,” corrected the Old One. “Who alerted you that Rakkim had been picked up?”

“We…we got a phone call from one of our sympathizers in the Zone.” The aide’s lower lip quivered. “It…it took some time for the call to be made, and for the information to be forwarded.”

“So we got lucky.” The Old One smiled. “Don’t look so frightened, I’ve been lucky all my life, thanks be to Allah.” He admired his reflection in the shine of his right shoe. “Still, don’t you think we should have had a brother watching Rakkim, rather than depend on the beneficence of God?”

“We did not consider that Redbeard might reach out to him. The two of them have had no contact for years. Rakkim is a renegade who makes no attempt at concealment. He goes about his business-”

“How would you know what his business was? Rakkim was schooled in deception by Redbeard himself.” The Old One waved the aide away, watched him back out the door of the penthouse. The Old One plucked a speck of lint off his trousers. “Well, now we know.”

“Yes, Father, now we know,” said his chief counselor-Ibrahim, his oldest son. Oldest surviving son. A tall, slender Arab with a short beard; his skin was darker than his father’s, but he was dressed like his father in Western business attire. Fifty-three years old, with a high forehead and dark, hooded eyes, he could have been an academic. In fact, Ibrahim held doctorates in mathematics and international finance, but he had personally killed five people, one a younger sibling with a habit of bragging to blue-eyed rent-wives when he had too much to drink.

“When the girl Sarah disappeared, I hoped she had truly left on sabbatical, but if Redbeard has called in Rakkim, she didn’t disappear, she escaped. From Redbeard and from us.” The Old One sighed. “You were right, my son. We should have acted sooner. I should have grabbed her up as soon as we learned of this new book she was writing.”

“It is done, Father. Inshallah.”

“I should have taken her, just as you advised. Now she is gone and we are vulnerable.”

“Knowing the truth is one thing, but proving it is another,” said Ibrahim. “If the girl had evidence, the book would have already been written, and the world turned against us. Yet here we are, alive and well-we just have to find her, and the threat will be ended.”

The Old One tapped his lip with a forefinger, pleased with his son’s spirited response. Over the long years he had groomed four of his sons as potential successors-two had been killed doing the great work, another had proven to be a moral traitor. Only Ibrahim was left. There were younger sons, most of them promising, but none of them capable of assuming the task he had set for himself. He thought of all the things he had done to reach this point, all that he had given up, given up gladly to be sure, but when he had started on this path, he had never dreamed that he might not complete the mission himself.

“Father?”

“Finding Redbeard’s niece is only part of our task. As important as she is, the evidence she seeks is even more valuable. We find that, and we end the threat once and for all.”

“What if there’s no evidence to be found? After all this time, surely it would have already been presented.”

“Perhaps the time was not right before.” The Old One smoothed his necktie, his stomach churning. His digestion had been foul this whole last year as he readied the final stages of his plan. “Twenty years of planning, and now, to be so close…” His face darkened and he tasted bile at the back of his throat. “Twenty years and this bitch jeopardizes everything.”

“We’ll find her, Father.”

“Your confidence is laudable. Tell me, though, Ibrahim, do you have even a hint of where the girl might have gone?”

“The girl…she is extremely cautious.”

The Old One fixed his son with a stare that had withered lesser men.

Ibrahim inclined his head. “I have no idea where she is, Father.”

The Old One looked past his son. They didn’t know where Sarah had gone, or even how much she really knew. All they had was a disturbing record of the books she had accessed from the university library, and a single faint impression left on a notepad, a working title for her next book, The Zionist Betrayal? That question mark had made all the difference.

A brother working as a janitor in the History Department had found the notepad and brought it directly to him. More luck. Without that scrap of paper…The Old One felt his stomach lurch again. The brother who found the notepad didn’t know what the faint impression meant, but the Old One had him executed anyway. He remembered the brother’s willing compliance, praising the Old One even as he bent his head for the blade. The Old One felt a flutter of anger at the memory, the waste of it, and his anger made him feel young, young enough to blow up the world for the chance to remake it in his own image. Blow it up again. If he could have killed the book by killing the girl, he would have strangled her himself.

“Redbeard is no better off than we are, Father. He can’t find her either. If Rakkim were to have an accident leaving the villa, we will be the only ones looking for her.”

The Old One glared at him. “No accidents. Not only do I doubt your men capable of murdering Rakkim, but any simpleton could see that we need him alive.”

Ibrahim moistened his lips.

“Redbeard thought enough of Rakkim to use him as his bloodhound,” explained the Old One. “Well, we shall use him too. I just pray he is as skillful as Redbeard thinks he is.” He stood up and walked to the panoramic window behind him. “Join me.”

Ibrahim quickly complied, standing a half step behind him.

Spread out below them, the lights of the Las Vegas Strip pulsed with light: blue and green and red strobes on the hotel marquees, arcs of incandescent color, and spotlights bouncing off the sky in a prayer to the gods of greed. The Old One’s redoubt was on the top ten floors of the ninety-story high-rise dubbed Colossus by the newspapers, but the name on the deed was the International Trust Services building. Banks and brokerages dominated the floors below, insurance and health care conglomerates, these great marbled institutions grown fat on interest and usury, the very ravening heart of the beast. The Old One never grew tired of the view.

Caught between the Islamic States of America and the Bible Belt, Las Vegas was a geopolitical anomaly, an independent and neutral territory that functioned as a broker between the two nations. With a population of over 14 million and still growing, Las Vegas was the information and financial hub of the continent, beyond doctrine or politics, a useful evil. It suited the Old One’s needs perfectly. With no allegiance to any nation or government, faithful only to his divine mission, the Old One had been ensconced in Colossus for the last twenty years, invisible to his enemies, able to operate with impunity. He had overseen the construction of the building, placing numerous safeguards inside the walls and floors and ceilings. It had been his private joke to lease the lower floors to the very moneylenders that were anathema to honorable Muslims. It was camouflage and a sweet irony; a perpetual reminder of the lengths required to fulfill his destiny.

“We must keep track of Rakkim,” said the Old One. His right index finger directed the play of colored lights on the Strip as though conducting a symphony, as though the city itself were under his dominion. “He’ll lead us to the girl, and once we have the girl…well, then, Allah willing, we’ll find out where the idea for this book came from. She didn’t come up with this on her own.”