Robert Ferrigno - Prayers for the assassin

Sarah danced for Rakkim beside the light fountain in the mall, and a couple of Chinese college girls loaded with jewelry mirrored her moves, the three of them dancing for each other while Rakkim stood transfixed. The Chinese girls finished with bows to Sarah, and she responded with a deep curtsy.

Sarah took Rakkim’s hand as they strolled on, so happy she was buoyant.

“Strange to see college girls wearing old-fashioned jewelry,” said Rakkim. “I thought the Chinese directed all their energy to the future.”

“Retro-chic is all over the runways of Shanghai and Milan. Nigerian divas decked in safari outfits, French software designers dressed as peasants, fake mud and all. It’s an attempt to reclaim one’s heritage at a time when individualism is under attack.” Sarah squeezed his hand. “I was writing a paper on the subject before…” She turned around, watched the two Chinese students slip through the crowds.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m not sure. Nothing. There was something…but, I don’t remember what it was.” Sarah shook her head. “Just trying to put the pieces together.”

Wrist alarms buzzed around them, alerting the faithful that they had fifteen minutes before afternoon prayers. No one dashed for the exits; no one made the slightest attempt to interrupt what he or she was doing. In the Islamic Republic, Muslims would have responded or had the alarms turned off, not wanting to advertise their lack of piety.

Sarah tensed. “There’s Desolation Row.”

“Relax. Peter has done this before.”

Sarah hesitated. “Do you believe the Old One? I know you’re sick of talking about it, but why would he admit to faking the Zionist attacks, admit to a fourth bomb, and then lie about what happened to it? Why not just lie about everything?”

“The most effective lie is ninety-nine percent true. If we believe the fourth bomb is really at the bottom of the South China Sea, why keep looking? Why not just sign up for the caliphate and do whatever he says? No, we have to act as if he’s lying and go forward.”

“What if he’s telling the truth?”

Rakkim kissed her. “Then the joke’s on us.”

Sarah ducked into Desolation Row. The chicest of the chic, deliberately transgressive, the mannequins hollow-eyed and gaunt, bare brick walls, stark lighting. The clothes themselves were flimsy and dull, flattering only the most perfect and youthful figure. No prices. The place was packed-mostly Asians and L.A. Catholics, plus a few blond Europeans. She wandered the aisles, fingering the merchandise with the distant show-me expression affected by those to whom price was irrelevant. He went back outside. Checked the reflections in the windows.

In a few minutes, Sarah would go into changing room 9. Instead of slipping into something from Desolation Row, she would change into the casual clothes they had brought. Rakkim would show up a few minutes later, loudly complaining. When she called him in to help her, the two of them would slip through a false panel in the changing room and into the maintenance corridor. Peter would be there. Fifteen minutes later they would be lifting off in one of the hot-air tourist balloons. Only this one would go off course, drifting into the Islamic Republic. Peter said it happened all the time. Wind currents were unpredictable, part of the charm of the balloons. A car would be waiting for them when they came down, gassed up and legally licensed, its GPS unit programmed to show every back road in the country.

“Rakkim?” Sarah’s eyes were wide. “I want to show you something.” She led him back into the store. “There’s a woman beside the shoe display. An older Chinese woman shopping with her granddaughter.”

Rakkim pretended to examine a blouse. “She’s had some good cosmetic surgery. They tucked up the epicanthic fold, but maintained her ethnic integrity. She looks disgusted by the merchandise, but judging by the diamond studs in her ear, she can afford-”

“Look at her pendant.”

“Nice. Plain, but nice.”

“That’s all you see?”

Rakkim moved some ugly tops around. “It’s a small, copper pendant with Chinese writing on it. Looks old. What am I missing?”

“I’m not sure.” Sarah kissed him. “Go wait for me outside.”

“What about Peter?”

Sarah gave him a little push. “Now, go, let me shop in peace.”

Rakkim heard other women laughing as he stalked out. He found a coffee bar. Men were sprawled on small metal chairs, packages on their laps, looking dazed and exhausted. He ordered a double espresso. Ten minutes later…

“Rakkim!” Sarah beckoned from Desolation Row. “I need you to help me decide.”

Rakkim walked into the store. The Chinese woman stood at the counter with her granddaughter, the counter overflowing with clothes. He followed Sarah inside changing room 9, tossed the bags into a corner.

Sarah closed the door behind him. They quickly changed clothes. Slid back the panel.

Peter stood with his arms folded. Another man and woman beside him. Body doubles. “Glad you could make it.”

Sarah and Rakkim stepped into the corridor. The man and woman quickly put on their former outfits, then slipped into the changing room.

Peter replaced the panel, locked it. He spoke into his cell, and a moment later bio-emergency sirens went off all around them. In the crush to the exits, anyone monitoring the mall security cameras would be fooled by their body doubles.

Peter led them down the passageway.

“It was too easy,” said Rakkim.

“Would you prefer we got caught?” said Sarah.

Rakkim watched other tourist balloons drifting far below, massive orbs stenciled with adverts, iridescent in the sunset. Peter had taken their own balloon to a higher altitude, letting the eastern airstream push them toward the California border. Rakkim shivered, pulled the hood of his heavy jacket tighter. Maybe he was just uneasy being up here in the sky, transitory as a dust mote, completely vulnerable. One handheld missile from below…

“You should be used to getting away,” said Sarah, sitting cross-legged on a heated cushion. “Disappearing…that’s one of your specialties, isn’t it?”

Rakkim followed the nearest balloon, caught by the thermals, rising slowly. “Yeah, and keeping track of things, planning every detail…that’s the Old One’s specialty.”

Sarah tapped away on the cell she had borrowed from Peter. Latest model from China. Full data bank access. Untraceable.

If Rakkim squinted, he could make out the skyscraper where the Old One had offered him the world last week.

Peter broke away from the trusted guests he had invited along for cover. He sidled over, nodded at the Las Vegas skyline in the distance. “Nice view, eh?”

“Any word from our body doubles?” said Rakkim.

“They’re driving south toward Arizona,” said Peter, still looking toward the city. “Sarah’s double said they’ve had a succession of trailing vehicles, all makes and models. They never get too close and peel off after five or ten miles and are replaced by another. Somebody knows what they’re doing.”

“Good,” said Rakkim. “That’s good.”

“Thank you, Peter,” said Sarah, not looking up from the cell screen.

“Casino management is all about the incursion of debt and the repayment of same.” Peter glanced at Rakkim. “I owed Rakkim.”

“Note the past tense,” said Rakkim.

Peter smiled. “I’m going to own the place the next time you two visit.” The breeze barely moved his lustered hair. “I have a car across the border tracking our progress. It’ll be waiting for you when we touch down. I’ll call in our location to the authorities after you leave. Even doing the legal limit, you should be in Seattle in two days.” He bowed to Sarah, ambled back to the pair on the other side of the balloon.