Robert Ferrigno - Prayers for the assassin

“Dave!” Lucas strode over, grinning.

Rakkim stayed seated. Not much chance that Lucas wouldn’t notice him-not with his eyes. Lucas was a tobacco grower now, but had been a sniper in the civil war, had killed twenty-seven Islamic soldiers during the house-to-house battle for Nashville. He was still the best shot in Gage County, Georgia, a maker of cornhusk dolls in his spare time.

“Dave, I can’t believe it.” Lucas clapped him on the shoulder, sat down beside him, a fleshy good ol’ boy in a badly cut blue suit. “I’m in town for the China Expo. What are you doing here?”

“Just…taking in the sights.”

Lucas glanced at Darwin, then back at Rakkim, then tugged at Rakkim’s goatee. “What’s with the chin whiskers? You look like a billy goat or one of the towel heads around here.” His laughed tapered off. “Oh, no. Don’t tell me that.”

“Lucas-”

“Christ o’dear, you’re one of them.” Lucas stood up, knocked the chair over. “They always tell us, watch out for spies, don’t trust strangers…”

“I guess the joke’s on you, peckerwood,” said Darwin.

“I’m sorry,” Rakkim said, before Lucas could swing on Darwin.

“They tell us to watch for strangers, but you weren’t no stranger,” said Lucas, still trying to make sense of it. “First time I met you, it was like you were kin.” The bags under his eyes had gotten puffier in the four years since Rakkim had seen him. “You sat on my sofa and drank my whiskey. We went hunting together, fishing together…My niece…Jesus, my niece is still on me, asking when you’re coming back.”

“I wish I had a violin, so I could properly accompany this tale of woe,” said Darwin.

Lucas stared down at Darwin. “Hey, shit-fer-brains, are you a spy too?”

Rakkim could see tiny flecks of light in Darwin’s eyes. “No, Lucas, he’s the guy who’s going to kill me someday.”

“Yeah?” said Lucas. “That true, mister?”

“It’s a possibility.” Darwin’s right hand flexed ever so slightly.

“Well, sooner rather than later.” Lucas turned to Rakkim. Unsure what to do now. He wanted to say something. To keep things going. To unleash his hurt and betrayal. Darwin would be happy to help him. To goad him into more trouble than Lucas could imagine.

“Good-bye, Lucas,” said Rakkim.

“Don’t leave, peckerwood,” said Darwin, affecting a mock-Southern drawl.

“Good-bye,” said Rakkim.

Lucas stalked away.

“Here.” Darwin palmed Rakkim’s knife over to him. He must have been waiting for the opportunity to gut Lucas with Rakkim’s own blade. “You spoil all my fun.”

Rakkim tucked the knife away. “You haven’t seen anything yet.”

The waitress brought fresh drinks.

Rakkim took a swallow. The last time he had tasted Mayberry Hollow, he was in Lucas’s living room watching old football games. Lucas had years of Georgia football, all the way back before the war. The Georgia Bulldogs-leave it to the rebels to pick a dog as a mascot. There had been some good times with Lucas. The man knew how to tell a joke, and he laughed hardest when the joke was on him. Not this time, though.

Darwin sipped his whiskey. “What have you got on the old man?” He tapped his glass with a fingernail. “Must be something special, because you and the girl got him spooked.”

“Hasn’t he told you?” Rakkim tilted back in his chair. Darwin had good control, but from this angle Rakkim could track minute changes in the assassin’s respiration by watching the tiny hairs in his nose. “Golly, I wonder what that means.”

Darwin slid his index finger along the rim of his glass. “I don’t need to know everything that goes on in the old man’s head.”

“Still, a man with your specialty…” Rakkim shook the glass so that the ice rattled. “It has to sting.”

Darwin’s mouth smiled. “Sometimes.” He cocked his head, listening, then glared at Rakkim. “We’ll have to continue the foreplay some other time, Rikki. The old man wants to talk with you. Chop-chop.”

“I love this time of the evening,” said the Old One, resting his hands on the railing. “The wind dies down and there’s this brief moment of stillness before the thermals bring the cool desert air rushing down from the mountains.”

Rakkim surveyed the city spread out before them, a vast neon sea glittering in the night. They were alone atop the penthouse on the ninetieth floor of the International Trust Services building. Dozens of bright hot-air balloons drifted against the mountains, catching the last of the light. The Old One was younger than he expected; somewhere in his seventies, a distinguished Arab with a groomed white beard and a face like a hawk. Hint of a British accent. Dark blue suit, collarless linen shirt. A man comfortable with authority.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you when you’re fully awake. I remember getting a report that Redbeard had adopted some homeless urchin, and wondering what he was up to.” The Old One inclined his head toward Rakkim. “I quickly realized Redbeard’s wisdom. He and I aren’t that different. We each seek allies, instruments to carry out our will. People we can mold and shape. Most of all we seek a successor to carry on our work. I chose to have sons to carry on my legacy. Redbeard chose you.”

“I hope your sons worked out better for you than I did for Redbeard.”

“You’re much too modest.”

Rakkim caught the slight change in intonation. The faint whiff of regret. “Your sons must have been quite a disappointment.”

The Old One adjusted his cuffs. “Fortunately I have many sons.”

“You’re going to need every one of them.”

The Old One didn’t acknowledge the threat. “Do you believe in God, Rakkim? One who takes an active interest in the world? One who rewards submission and obedience?”

“I think God has better things to do.”

“I used to say the same thing when I was young. At least I hoped He had better things to do. That way He wouldn’t notice what I was doing.” The Old One folded his hands. “You haven’t lost your faith, you merely misplaced it. God has plans for you. That’s why you’re here right now. Why you didn’t die when the police shot you. Why I had Darwin bring you here, and why I had your wounds tended. We are both chosen by God to do great things-a burden and a blessing.” He peered at Rakkim with those deep-set eyes. “Some think me a devil and some think me the Mahdi, but I am a Muslim. As are you. We are brothers. We should not make war on each other.”

Rakkim moved closer. “It’s a little late for that.”

The Old One was against the railing. Exposed to the night with only the stars above and the concrete far below. “Yes…it wouldn’t take much effort to toss me over the side.”

“Hardly any effort at all. Maybe you should have invited Darwin to join us.”

“Darwin has never been allowed up here.” The wind was picking up now, and the Old One faced into it. “Besides, you’re smart enough to know what would happen to Sarah if a single hair on my head was disturbed.”

“Yeah, but even so…it is a temptation.”

The Old One didn’t react. “Darwin told me he returned your knife. Quite a blade. They say the only thing more deadly than a naked Fedayeen is a naked Fedayeen with a knife, but then, I’ve always felt the Fedayeen were overrated. That image of the invincible holy warrior was necessary in the early days, but in spite of the training and those genetic cocktails, you’re still only human. Of course, I’m speaking of the Fedayeen assigned to the strike battalions. A coup in Ghana? Muslims massacred in Rio? Russian Spetznats airlifted into Quebec? Send in the Fedayeen!” He wagged a finger at Rakkim. “You, though, you’re a horse of a different color. You and Darwin.”