Robert Ferrigno - Prayers for the assassin

Colarusso stayed standing. “You’re supposed to be with your mother and sisters.”

“Eight days with Cousin Charlotte was like eighty years in purgatory. She’s even a worse cook than Mom, and all she does all day is knit sweaters for dolls.” Anthony Jr. dipped into the peanut butter again. “They’re safe, don’t worry. A Christmas card once a year isn’t much of a connection to follow. Besides, this guy at the door, it was you he wanted.”

Colarusso hefted the pistol. “Well, I’m here if he wants to come knocking again.”

Anthony Jr. looked up at him. “I’m here too, Pop.”

“You’ve been taking dance lessons, Ambassador,” purred Sarah.

“No, but I have lost a little weight,” said Lao, the Chinese ambassador, dipping her, using the occasion to lightly bump bellies. A short, round, middle-aged man in traditional garb, silk slippers on his feet. A player almost since the changeover, Lao was a deadly trade negotiator for one of the two current superpowers. Only the Russian ambassador carried as much heft in the capital, and he had been called back to Moscow. “I believe it’s changed my center of gravity for the better.”

“Yes, I can definitely tell.”

“I was a bit surprised to see you here tonight with Soliman.” The mascara didn’t make Lao’s eyes any less piercing. “A nice boy, but I thought you had sent him on his way.”

Sarah smiled. “We’re just good friends.”

“Of course, you are.” Lao nodded toward where Rakkim hung on the periphery. “I see Redbeard sent along a bodyguard. It’s really not necessary. One of the many delights of the Swiss embassy parties is the minimal need for security. We all have an interest in maintaining a place for civilized pleasures without the petty concerns of state.”

“I’ll remember that next time, Ambassador, but you know my uncle. Nothing is more dangerous than a place of safety.”

“Does he insist you take your bodyguard to your soft, warm bed?” Lao laughed at his wit, eyes glittering. “Forgive me, Sarah. Chinese women are bold, and I forget the sensibilities of Islamic women.”

“Eighteen years in the capital and you forget?” Sarah gently chided him. “You’re a naughty boy, Ambassador.”

“Getting more naughty every year,” said Lao, spinning her faster. The light caught the sheen of sweat on his forehead. He smelled like lilacs. He slipped a fan out of a voluminous sleeve, waved it rapidly. “I do believe that Ambassador Kuhn has turned up the euphoria mist. I feel positively giddy.”

Sarah was grateful for the break in the music and strolled over to a quiet corner of the ballroom. “I have a favor to ask.”

Lao’s flirtatiousness was gone.

“I have a piece of jewelry I want to show you. A medallion from your own country. A small-town piece honoring the yearly plum festival.” Sarah laid the medallion in his hand.

Lao looked it over, shrugged. “It’s of no value. No apparent value.”

“I’m trying to find out what village it came from.”

Lao slipped the fan back into his sleeve, showed her a hard smile. “I’m a city boy.”

“I’d like you to keep the medallion,” Sarah said, closer now. “When you find out the village it came from, I think you should have the authorities start a search. There’s something in the vicinity of the village…something of great interest to all of us.”

Lao waved the fan, covering his mouth. “What exactly am I looking for?”

Sarah closed his hand around the medallion. “Radiation.”

Rakkim woke up, rolled into a fighting stance.

Sarah closed the door behind her, swept into the room wearing a dark blue chador. “I didn’t want to wake you when I left.” She looked proud of herself for slipping out so quietly. She deserved to be.

They had taken a circuitous route back to the warehouse after the embassy affair. Rakkim was still certain that they had been watched at the party, but he was just as certain that they hadn’t been followed. Still exhilarated by the euphoria mist, they had made love for hours, tearing at each other, more interested in friction and heat than intimacy. She had dozed off afterward, but he had lain awake thinking of Mardi. She had disappeared from the Blue Moon two weeks ago, just as he had told her to do. Her cell was not in service, which was smart. She had done everything right. He hoped it was enough. Tired now, the bed warm and Sarah curled beside him, he had fallen asleep as the call to dawn prayers had echoed down the cobblestones. And dreamed of Mardi and Darwin nuzzling and sharing drinks at the Blue Moon while Rakkim struggled to make himself heard.

“You look so happy,” said Rakkim. “Did you call the Chinese embassy?”

“Ambassador Lao is unavailable, which isn’t surprising. Even if they recognize where the medallion came from, it will take a while to search the area.” Sarah took off her head scarf, tossed aside her robe. She had a sheer slip on underneath, her nipples puckering the silk. “That’s not why I’m happy. I went to mosque and accessed the Devout Homemaker site. My mother left me a message.” Her cheeks flushed as she sat on the bed. “We’re meeting her this afternoon. She wants you there too.” Sarah played with the sheets. “I can hardly wait. I mean, I’m afraid too, but…it’s been so long.”

“Where are we supposed to meet her?”

Sarah lay beside him and cocked her leg across him. “I don’t know…but you do.” She kissed him, her face cold from being outside. “My mother must have found out that we’re together. Remind your companion to put his best foot forward. Must be code. She wanted to make sure I wasn’t a poacher.” Sarah’s head was on the pillow beside him as she slid her hand under the sheets. “Do you know what that means?”

Rakkim felt as if he had stepped off the edge of the world. “I think so.”

Ibn Azziz lay back as the hypodermic needle penetrated the infected abscess under his ruined left eye. The pain was incandescent. He felt warm fluid draining down his cheek, smelled the stink of rotting tissue, and for the thousandth time he silently cursed Redbeard’s housekeeper for what she had done to him. His hands clenched, but not a sound escaped his lips.

The doctor started trimming away the dead flesh around the raw socket. The last thing that eye had seen before the old hag had clawed it to jelly was her determined face as his bodyguards stabbed her again and again. He wished he hadn’t given her body back. He should have heaved her into the sewer or left her in a cornfield for the ravens to pick at. He had been merciful to one who didn’t deserve mercy. Never again. Ibn Azziz had been in touch with the ayatollahs in San Francisco and Denver, two of the most devout cities in the country. They were ready to follow his commands at a moment’s notice.

His good eye blinked rapidly, uncontrollably, tearing as the doctor began to drain another abscess, a deeper pocket under his nostrils that went almost to the bone. The pain rolled through him like a great tide pulled from the sea by the moon. If there was one great gift Allah had given Ibn Azziz, it was the ability to bear suffering. It wasn’t that he didn’t feel the pain, it was that he knew pain was a road to Paradise. Ibn Azziz hissed as the doctor applied antiseptic, lips fluttering with ecstasy.

Rakkim pushed open the door to the barbershop, held it open for Sarah. He had walked past the storefront five minutes earlier, glanced inside to make sure that Elroy was in back.

“Haircut?” said one of the barbers, looking up from his magazine.

Rakkim jabbed a thumb toward the shoeshine stand. “Need to put my best foot forward.”