Robert Ferrigno - Sins of the Assassin

Gladwell’s jaw hung open. Gums bare. His skin so slack that it was as if his skull were collapsing in on itself. The decay of time, the toll paid by mortal flesh…The vibration underfoot stopped for an instant, as though the engines briefly hesitated, and the Old One felt goose bumps along the back of his neck. He got up quickly, disgusted. He summoned William, waited until his aide had removed the corpse.

The door to the salon clicked shut, and the Old One thought again of Darwin. Just an average-looking fellow in his late forties, lightly muscled, almost delicate, and the palest, cold blue eyes. Bland as buttermilk, that’s me, Darwin used to say. Protective coloration, because no predator ever took such delight in killing. The Old One had killed many men in his time, but there was always a rationale to it, a purpose. To Darwin, the killing itself served some deeper function, filling a void known only to himself as he stockpiled the dead. He could still see the man’s insolent smirk-Darwin might work for the Old One, but he made it clear he served neither God nor man, only death itself. No one had treated the Old One with anything less than respect in almost a hundred years. Except Darwin. And Rakkim. The Old One had offered Rakkim a position at his right hand, offered him the world…and Rakkim had turned him down. No wonder Darwin hated him.

He walked to the windows of the stateroom, restless now. Find the one who had killed Darwin and find yet another player in the great game, one the Old One had not factored into his calculations. The Old One had even considered the possibility that Rakkim had killed Darwin, but the idea was laughable. There was a Fedayeen saying: Only Allah or another assassin can kill an assassin, and Rakkim was neither.

Still…the Old One had made inquiries. Rakkim, as befitted his shadow warrior training, had disappeared, as had Sarah. In spite of all his spies, all the Old One had were rumors. They had married. Rakkim wandered the Zone, reeking of alcohol. Sarah had been spotted at a university in China. In Lagos. They had gone on the hajj, stayed too long and died of radiation sickness in Yemen. She had gone mad after the death of Redbeard. He had become a modern, with pierced ears and perfumed hair. Sarah had renounced Islam and now lived among the Jews. Rakkim had rejoined the Fedayeen, had the ear of General Kidd. One thing he was sure of, the Old One would not underestimate either of them again.

The Old One whistled and the window shields slid open, revealing the stars spilled across the night. He drank in the sight, drunk on the infinite vastness, the limitless gulf of Allah’s domain. At this very moment, Tariq al-Faisal was in Seattle, doing the Old One’s bidding. Soon, very soon, Allah willing, the Old One would begin to remake the world.

Tariq al-Faisal didn’t walk like the Christian he pretended to be. It was the walk that had drawn Rakkim’s attention from a block away, long before he recognized the man. Al-Faisal in Seattle? Rakkim’s palms itched. Money, that’s what the fortune-teller outside New Orleans would have said. She’d peer up from her table on the beached Delta Queen riverboat, rub his open hand, and say, Beaucoup l’argent coming your way, child. Rakkim knew better. Seeing al-Faisal here was worth more than silver or gold. Rakkim sauntered after al-Faisal, moving with a little stutter step as though listening to music no one else could hear.

At least al-Faisal had the externals of his Catholic pose right: high-ride trousers, cuffs rolled, fingerless gloves, even the St. Paul’s Academy ear stud, which was a nice touch, but his walk kept reverting to type. He led with his chest as he stormed past the marble statue of Malcolm X on the corner, shoulders set, the gait of a Muslim fundamentalist certain of his place in the universe. A Black Robe, no less, one of the infamous enforcers of public morality. Christians, no matter their station in life, moved from their hips, gliding, heads swiveling, alert for disapproval or harassment. Kafir-walk, Rakkim’s shadow warrior instructors had called it.

Rakkim eased down the sidewalk, taking his time. You had all the time in the world when you knew what you were doing. Like al-Faisal, he pretended to be a Christian, but the pope himself would have given Rakkim communion without a second thought. Invisible as a stolen kiss, that was the shadow warrior ideal. The Fedayeen were elite warriors, totally loyal to the president, the shock troops of the Islamic Republic-most were combat units, but there were two specialized branches, the best of the best. Shadow warriors and assassins.

Rakkim remembered practicing the kafir-glide for hours, days, weeks, remembered being jerked from sleep by his instructor, beaten if his first step was wrong. Homegrown Christians were easy enough to mimic, but Bible Belt patterns had been much more challenging, and failure had cost more than one shadow warrior his life. Rakkim had ranked first in his unit, able to pivot seamlessly between a Gulf Coast shuffle and an Appalachian hitch-along. He had lived for months in the Belt without rousing suspicion, sung hymns in a tiny church, tears rolling down his cheeks, worked on shrimp boats and done double shifts at a silicone-wafer factory outside Atlanta, guzzling beer and pigs’ feet afterward. He had retired from the Fedayeen after his initial seven-year enlistment, but the Fedayeen had never left Rakkim.

Almost thirty-three now, Rakkim was dark-eyed, lean and agile, a tiny gold crucifix bouncing at the base of his throat with every step. He flirted with the Catholic girls who passed, and they responded in kind, putting an extra wiggle in their walk for his benefit. Be a Catholic on a Saturday night, and you’ll never want to be Muslim again…that’s what they said.

Al-Faisal eyeballed a new green Lamborghini curbed in a valet parking area. Ran a finger over the perfect finish as he walked past. Pathetic. A Christian wouldn’t dare touch a vehicle with a Quranic inscription etched into the windshield. A high-ranking Black Robe like al-Faisal feared nothing. His three bodyguards were better trained-ex-Fedayeen from the look of them, and the way they slipped easily through the crowd. They maintained a shifting perimeter around al-Faisal, a rough triangulation, two ahead, on either side of the street, another trailing far behind, hoping to pick up a tail. No eye contact between them, just three moderate Muslims, seemingly part of the crowd, but the same barber had cut their hair, his distinctive scissors work easy for Rakkim to read. Details, boys, details.

It must be an important mission for al-Faisal to leave the safety of New Fallujah. A mission too important to trust to an underling. Too important to trust sat phones or Net encryption. No, just like the old days, the most important conversations could take place only where no one could listen in. So what are you here to talk about, al-Faisal? And whose ear will you be whispering in?

People filled downtown Seattle, streamed out of the office complexes-commuters heading toward the monorail, students jostling toward the sin spots of the Zone, the faithful hurrying to prayers. A crowd of contrasts: moderns and moderates in casual and business attire, the fundamentalists robed in gray, prayer beads clicking away, while the Catholics clustered together, loud and boisterous, delighting in the flesh. While 70 percent of the country was Muslim, most of them were moderate, tolerating the Christian minority. Christians ate in the same restaurants as moderates, but the Christian silverware was disposable to prevent contamination. Modern Muslims rarely went to mosque, worked in high-tech jobs, flaunted the latest styles, and might even have a Christian friend or two. Fundamentalist Muslims were the most dangerous to the nation’s stability; rabidly intolerant, they voted as a block and encouraged the worst excesses of the Black Robes.