Robert Ferrigno - Sins of the Assassin

The imam leaned against the pulpit, white-haired and bent as a stick, his voice echoing, every sound magnified in the stillness, as the faithful nodded in agreement. Unlike the lavish grand mosques scattered across the city, this little mosque in the Fremont district was plain and unadorned, solid as the worshippers themselves. The floors were gray slate, the walls immaculate white plaster, the dome of beaten copper. The mihrab on the east wall, an ancient, wooden crescent indicating the direction of Mecca, had been brought over from Kidd’s boyhood village outside Kismaayo. Rakkim felt comfortable here among the old warriors and their many sons, more comfortable than in any other mosque. While the fundamentalist clerics bellowed demands from the pulpit, this Somali imam’s sermon stressed traditional values of piety, simplicity, and duty, urging the faithful to avoid the gaudy distractions of the modern world. Study the Quran, the imam repeated, exhorting the brothers to care for their families as Allah cared for them, “in this way shall you find peace in this world, and reward in the next.”

Peace in this world. The faithful pressed their foreheads to the floor. Allahu Akbar. God is great. Fine thoughts from the imam, but even in this holy place, Rakkim felt no comfort. He had spent his life mouthing the words, declaring his belief in one god, and Muhammad as his last prophet, but he was a Muslim in name only. Like most of the country, going along to get along. The difference was that Rakkim envied the faithful their piety. Their joy in submission. Their peace. All of it out of reach to him, a drowning man forever carried beyond the shore. Until he had killed Darwin.

Strange to think that only when facing evil incarnate had Rakkim felt the presence of God. Darwin, the Old One’s personal assassin, should have killed Rakkim when he had the chance. Instead he had toyed with Rakkim, gone blade to blade with him in an abandoned church, laughing as he cut his signature into Rakkim’s flesh again and again, both their blood flung about like holy water. Sarah’s going to be all alone after I kill you, Rikki. Nothing better than fucking a new widow. Best pussy in the world. Darwin’s face was pale and slack, but his eyes burned in the twilight. Maybe I’ll leave your cock under the pillow for her. Rakkim remembered the sound of his own labored breathing as he moved across the floor, stained glass crunching underfoot as he held eye contact with Darwin, and Darwin…seemingly fresh and free, almost dapper, knife in his long, slender hands, gracefully directing Rakkim’s movements like a symphony conductor. You’re not tired, are you, Rikki? We’re just getting started. This is just foreplay. Wait until you see what I’ve got planned for you. Then, as Rakkim teetered, bleeding from a hundred cuts, he had felt soft wings brush his cheek, angel wings, and strength rushed into him as he flung his knife. Darwin staggered back, stood pinned against a wood pillar, Rakkim’s blade driven deep into his mouth. Darwin’s soft, full lips twitched, trying to speak, as shocked as Rakkim. Not so bad to die, that’s what Rakkim had thought as he collapsed onto the floor of the church…not as long as that devil precedes me to hell. Angel wings…the delirium of a dying man, that’s what he told himself as he drifted off. Then he felt the angel’s touch again, and lost all doubt, blinded by tears as those downy wings enfolded him, lifted him up from the well of death. While Darwin died, Rakkim lived. Granted the gift of life. And the burden.

Sitting on his heels, hands resting on his knees, Rakkim spoke in unison with the faithful, entreating Allah’s blessing. He turned his head to the right, toward the angel recording his good deeds. Then turned his head toward the left, toward the angel on his shoulder recording his bad deeds. “Assalaamu Alaikum wa Rahmatullah.” Peace and blessings of Allah be upon you. Rakkim stood with the other men, gently embraced Kidd. “May Allah receive our prayers.”

Rakkim walked quickly to the door. After that time in the abandoned church, after killing Darwin, he had never again felt the presence of Allah. Never. God had slipped away from him like sand through his fingers. Slipped away while Rakkim lay for days where he had fallen, his body slowly healing itself. No matter. That one touch, that glimpse of the infinite, had left its mark. So much for miracles. Rakkim was on his own now. A new creature. Each step a first step. These thoughts had troubled him, but lately…lately he had taken a perverse pleasure in his situation. Never had he felt so free. So limitless in his reach.

Kidd walked beside Rakkim as they strode the narrow streets toward the family compound, the apartments already noisy, the air rich with the smell of frying bananas and corn cakes. The Fremont district was almost exclusively Somali, a conservative enclave with tribal mores and extremely heavy security. Kidd was safe here. So was Rakkim. Six of Kidd’s sons, all Fedayeen, walked behind them at a respectful distance.

“The mosque did not collapse upon us,” said Kidd.

“Allah must have been busy with more important things,” said Rakkim.

Kidd smiled for just an instant. “It’s been a long time since you’ve joined me for prayers. Are you all right, Abu Michael?”

Abu Michael. Kidd honored him with the name when they were together. A Somali man lost his given name when he became a father, took on the name of his firstborn. Abu Michael-father of Michael. Kidd told him once that in his grandfather’s time, a man whose first child was female would often have the child killed, so as not to bear the shame of being given a woman’s name. Strange days then…strange days now. Abu Michael. He was not on his own. A new creature? Where did such thoughts come from? He had a wife and a son, duties and responsibilities and all the joys that went with them. Father of Michael. Yes, that was worth hanging on to. Like all shadow warriors, Rakkim had gone by many names, but Abu Michael was his favorite. If he was ever in the presence of Allah again, what would God call him?

Kidd peered at him, his eyes deep-set over high cheekbones. Light gleamed on his shaved skull as he waited for an answer. “Abu Michael?”

“Never better,” said Rakkim.

Amir, one of Kidd’s thirty-seven sons, dodged a knife stroke from one of his many brothers, slid under the man’s blade, and jabbed his brother in the heart. The two brothers bowed to each other, the loser retreating to the edge of the training room, blood trickling from a dozen minor wounds on his legs and torso. Their veiled mothers, sisters and wives, sprawled on pillows along the opposite side of the room, eating sweets and gossiping.

Amir beckoned to the last of his brothers calmly waiting his turn, the last of his five opponents, and the man trotted out to join him, his bare feet kicking up sand. A light rain started up, beating on the metal roof. Harder now.

“Amir is skilled,” said Rakkim. “The news reports did not exaggerate.”

“The Lion of Boulder?” Kidd shrugged. “He is twenty-five. A young warrior should not listen to the praise of those who sleep in warm beds every night.”

Kidd’s youngest wife secretly waved to him, using only her fingertips. It was as seductive a move as Rakkim had ever seen.

“You should have more wives, Abu Michael.”

“One is plenty.”

“The Quran allows at least four, and for good reason.” Kidd leaned closer. “A man with one camel is at the mercy of the camel. A man with a string of camels…”

“Interesting analogy. I’ll try that on Sarah tonight and let you know what she says.”

Amir and his brother faced each other, saluted with their knives, and went into a defensive crouch. Amir immediately started to circle his brother, keeping his knife tucked in close. As tall as his father but even more muscular, he had a natural quickness, an innate sense of where he was and where he needed to be in any confrontation.