Heart of the Assassin

by Robert Ferrigno

  "I understand completely," said the Old One. "You're reevaluating your comments. Perfectly understandable. It does hurt, does it not? Not so much the physical pain, but a man like you...it's the sense of helplessness that truly stings." He watched Gravenholtz flop about on the floor, sweat dotting his forehead. "A man such as you, serene in your brutality...yet here you are." He bent down on one knee, gently dabbed Gravenholtz's forehead with his handkerchief and tossed it aside. "I could just as easily have one of my servants wipe and diaper your ass and you couldn't do anything about it. Not. A. Thing."

  Gravenholtz tried to bite at the strings, but couldn't reach. "Get...me...out of here."

  "Patience, Lester. Patience and humility and obedience are the lessons I have to teach you. Obedience most of all." The Old One tossed the pen to Baby. "Go ahead, my dear."

  Baby bent down, lightly circled the inside of Gravenholtz's left nostril with the tip of the pen as he tried in vain to squirm away.

  "My daughter finds you entertaining, Lester. Amusing even, but she's dutiful and obedient above all else. Would you like to see what would happen if I ask her to shoot the snare string into your nasal passages?"

  "No."

  "Shhh, Lester," said Baby as she eased the pen deeper into Gravenholtz's nostril. "Don't you fret now," she cooed, pushing it in still deeper as he struggled, bound like a mummy.

  "No!" said Gravenholtz, rolling against Baby. "Please. Please."

  "I think we've gotten Lester's attention," said the Old One. He watched as Baby slowly slid the pen free. The Old One chuckled, seeing her disappointment. The girl raised his spirits. He looked toward the geometric sculpture. "Yusef, come here."

  A few moments later one of his aides entered the room, bowing, a slender young man in white shorts and shirt. He fell to his knees, pressed his forehead against the carpet, and the Old One thought again of the Iranian girl he had married so many years ago. He could remember everything about her from the downy hair at the base of her spine to her long toes...but he could no longer remember her name.

  "How may I serve you, Mahdi?" said Yusef, his forehead still pressed against the carpet.

  "Rise," said the Old One.

  Yusef stood up, his eyes downcast as the Old One approached. He smiled as the Old One whispered in his ear. "Thank you, Mahdi."

  After Yusef hurried away, the Old One walked back and stood over Gravenholtz. "It's important for you to learn your true place in the firmament, Lester. Important for you to appreciate exactly what your value is."

  "Got it," gasped Gravenholtz.

  Baby moved closer, gently stepped on his earlobe.

  "I said I got it," shouted Gravenholtz as she ground his earlobe against the glass floor.

  "I had a Fedayeen assassin named Darwin in my employ for many years." The Old One peered at the hotel they were passing over, a pink Moorish monstrosity with battlement walls and high turrets. Sand sharks floated over the swimming pool. Sea anemones waved from the tennis courts in a mosaic of bright colors. "Darwin was troublesome in his own way, very independent, with a mocking tone of voice that annoyed me greatly." He watched as a hammerhead shark slid along the bottom, restless, stirring up sand. "Yet, I tolerated Darwin's many indiscretions because he was so wonderful at what he did. It took my medical staff hours to determine the eleven spots on your body vulnerable to attack, the intersections where your subcutaneous plates need room to move. Darwin would have known in seconds, just from watching you walk. He'd have filleted you without even breathing hard." The hammerhead turned, circling closer. "A master assassin, that's who Darwin was, a perfect killing--" The hammerhead turned and shot upward with a powerful kick of its tail section, black eyes glaring at the Old One as it slammed full speed against the glass.

  Gravenholtz screamed.

  Baby lost her balance, laughed as her yellow sundress swirled around her.

  The Old One's knees buckled, but he kept his footing as the hammerhead glided off into deeper water. "Are you feeling all right, Lester? Would you like something to calm yourself? A saucer of warm milk, perhaps?"

  "No."

  "Stout fellow." The Old One glanced at Baby. "I wish you could have met Darwin, my dear. I think he would have been quite a match for you."

  "Where's this Darwin you're so fucking in love with?" said Gravenholtz. "He's so good, why do you need me?"

  "Darwin is dead," said the Old One.

  "So I guess he's not such hot shit after all," said Gravenholtz.

  "That's one explanation." The Old One beckoned to Baby. "Turn his head, my dear. I prefer not to touch him." He waited until Baby had forced Gravenholtz's head down, so he could look into the water. "Do you see him, Lester?"

  Gravenholtz craned his neck. Jerked back.

  Baby leaned closer.

  Yusef, the Old One's young aide, sank slowly through the blue-green water, a weight belt around his waist. He bowed his head toward the Old One, trailing bubbles as he drifted down toward the pink hotel.

  "Don't let yourself be burdened with thought, Lester," said the Old One, watching the young aide scattering fish in his descent. "No thoughts, no ego, no freelancing. Obedience is everything."

  "Fuck," said Gravenholtz, watching the bubbles leak out of Yusef's mouth, each one smaller than the one before. "Fuck the duck."

  "Baby and I will be doing a lot of traveling in the days ahead," the Old One said to Gravenholtz. "If you promise to be a good boy, we'll take you along with us."

  "We're going to have us a grand time," said Baby. "Visiting some old friends and making new ones. Come on, Lester, don't be a stick in the mud."

  Yusef's head flopped back as he plummeted through the blue water.

  Gravenholtz turned away from the glass. He stared at Baby. "Hey, you know me, I'm always up for a party."

  CHAPTER 11

  Rakkim saw General Kidd and his son Amir at one of the outside tables of the Kit Kat Klub, the two men lounging in the late-afternoon sun, their long legs outstretched. The crowds that thronged the Zone gave them room, dropping their voices as they passed. A native-born Somali in his sixties, black as an anvil, Kidd commanded the Fedayeen, though his plain blue uniform was without rank, insignia or medals. Powerfully built, his cropped hair shot with gray, he radiated a dangerous calm. Amir was even taller, lean as a panther, his shaved head emphasizing his natural severity--he watched the crowd with undisguised contempt. As Kidd sipped his drink, he spotted Rakkim approaching and stood up.

  "Salaamu 'alaikum, sidi," said Rakkim, using the North African term of respect. He embraced General Kidd, saw Amir's jaw tighten.

  "Abu Michael," said General Kidd, kissing Rakkim on both cheeks. Abu Michael, father of Michael, a Somali honorific reserved for friends and honored guests. "Peace be upon you."

  Rakkim nodded at Amir. "Salaamu 'alaikum." Amir returned the nod but not the blessing. Rakkim pretended not to notice.

  "Sit," said Kidd, gesturing to an empty chair at their sidewalk table. "Make room, Amir."

  Recorded music blared from inside the club, all bass and grind, some South African thump band popular on underground radio stations and joints in the Zone. Officially called the Christian Quarter, the Zone was a seedy section of the capital lined with nightclubs and game stores and unlicensed tech shops, a place of alcohol, music and dancing, where the cops were paid off and the Black Robes ignored. Loud and dirty, the Zone was a cultural safety valve, untamed, innovative and off the books, a moral free-fire area open to everyone--Christian and Muslim. After he retired from the Fedayeen, and before he married Sarah, Rakkim had lived here. He looked right at home in his casual, moderate attire: lightweight trousers and a soft wool checkerboard sweater in red and black, the sleeves concealing the Fedayeen knife adhered to his inner forearm.

  "Your vacation went well?" Kidd tapped his index finger on the small static generator disguised as a cigarette lighter on the table. Between the ambient noise and the static generator, their conversation couldn't be monitored.

 
; "Well enough," said Rakkim, noting how Kidd avoided specifics in Amir's presence.

  A waitress appeared to take Rakkim's order, a busty young Catholic, her red hair in a corona of braids.

  "Small khat infusion, please," said Rakkim, mirroring the general's own beverage, a sweetened concoction brewed from the leaves of a North African plant known for its stimulating and euphoric properties. As always, Amir drank only water. Fundamentalist Muslims considered khat an abomination, no better than alcohol, but Kidd was a traditionalist, a moderate who trusted Allah to judge what was right and wrong, not some pinched cleric with a soiled bag of his own sins hidden from view.

  The waitress punched in Rakkim's request on her handslate, returned a few minutes later with his drink, touching his wrist as she set it down.

  Kidd raised his glass, toasted him, but Amir made no move to join in. There had been bad blood between the two young men since Rakkim had inadvertently humiliated Amir a year ago--he had refused to spar with Amir, and when the younger man persisted, his knife thrust an inch from Rakkim's face, Rakkim had disarmed him, done it so easily that it surprised the both of them. Rakkim had attempted to mollify Amir's anger on several occasions without success, and Amir's subsequent rise to power had made the shame of his defeat even more acute.

  The call to prayer echoed from the nearby Al-Zawahiri mosque, the muezzin's voice clear and undulating. Come to prayer! Come to God!

  Amir glared at the people walking past, fun-seekers either oblivious to the call to prayer, or ignoring it. He caught the eye of a man in a gold and blue Christ the King High School jacket, the man so unnerved by Amir's expression that he stumbled over a crack in the sidewalk, hurried on. Amir had been acclaimed as the "Lion of Durango" for his exploits against the Mormons, and had personally safeguarded then-Senator Brandt and his family after the death of President Kingsley. Only twenty-six years old, Amir commanded the elite Fedayeen strike force defending the capital, and was expected to assume leadership of the Fedayeen when his father retired. It hadn't improved his disposition.

  "I don't think Amir likes your choice of a meeting spot, sidi," said Rakkim.

  Amir wrinkled his nose. "It stinks of vice and depravity."

  Rakkim sniffed. "I think that's perfume."

  "Are you mocking me?" Amir said softly.

  "Fedayeen should feel free to announce their presence in any part of the city, Amir." Kidd eyed two young women swaying past, moderns with loose hair and university charm bracelets jingling with every step. "Did not the Prophet himself, all blessings upon him, embrace the range of delights this world had to offer without fear of being tainted?"

  Amir started to stand. "Father...this is blasphemy," he sputtered.

  Kidd gently pushed him back down. "If so, then Allah will take his vengeance upon me, and you need not concern yourself."

  Amir spread his huge hands out on the table as though waiting for the earth to open up under them.

  "Have you heard about our difficulty on the Southwest border?" Kidd said to Rakkim.

  "Aztlan?" said Rakkim.

  Kidd nodded. "A squadron of their attack jets entered our airspace three days ago..."

  Rakkim inadvertently glanced toward the sky.

  "...the worst part," said Kidd, "was that they were over our territory for twenty minutes before they were picked up on our screens. We're not sure if they're utilizing some advanced stealth technology...or just our own incompetence."

  "Or the Jews may have sabotaged our system," said Amir. "One way or the other, I'll get to the bottom of it."

  "The president has appointed Amir to find out the cause of the breakdown," explained Kidd, his face devoid of emotion. "He's been given full command authority."

  "Congratulations." Rakkim looked at Kidd. "You must be proud, sidi."

  Amir stood up, bowed to his father. "I have a meeting with the president." He gave a curt nod to Rakkim and walked quickly away. People on the sidewalk moved out of his path.

  Kidd downed his khat infusion, banged the glass down. "Now tell me, Abu Michael, what did you find out from our brother in New Fallujah?"

  For the next ten minutes they talked, and when their glasses were refilled they kept talking, wiping their lips with the backs of their hands, laughing at things that weren't funny until the waitress walked away. Kidd dragged Rakkim's chair closer, the two of them bent over the table, so close that their faces almost touched.

  "Senator Chambers working for ibn-Azziz? It makes no sense," said General Kidd. "The great liberal a pawn of the Black Robes?" He shook his head. "I don't believe it. Chambers's wife is a Christian."

  "Which is why Chambers would be the last person we would suspect," said Rakkim. "There is a logic to it." A couple of moderns walked past, young businessmen, smooth and confident, and Rakkim thought about Robert Legault with Sarah this afternoon, the way they matched their pace across the grass....

  "Rakkim?" said Kidd. "I said, is Jenkins sure about Senator Chambers?"

  Rakkim shrugged. "He told me the president is going to name Senator Chambers to be secretary of defense. Have you heard anything--?"

  Kidd dropped his glass. Caught it before it hit the table. "Chambers...the senator is going to be appointed secretary of defense on the next full moon. The announcement won't be made for another few days." The planes of his cheekbones seemed even sharper as he leaned over the table. "Does Jenkins think the president is involved?"

  "No. Ibn-Azziz considers the president an accommodating dupe, a man who's achieved his station by virtue of a good haircut and a bright smile."

  Kidd's dark eyes betrayed no emotion. "Yes...one could see how he could form such an opinion."

  "Jenkins...I know you've been comrades since the Great War," said Rakkim, "but I think he's lost his way."

  "Lost his way? What is that, some shadow warrior mumbo-jumbo?" Kidd covered Rakkim's hand with his own, and it was as if they were in a private bubble, where the sights and sounds of the Zone were muted. "Jenkins's information is true or false. Jenkins is either a traitor or he's not."

  "It's not that simple."

  "It is that simple," said Kidd. "Six months ago, a shadow warrior operating in the Mormon territories lost his way and lured the tenth brigade into an LDS trap outside of Elko. Two thousand combat Fedayeen were annihilated. His brother warriors--"

  "They weren't his brothers," Rakkim said. "Not anymore. The Mormons are his brothers now. A man lives in the territories long enough, and after a while, he isn't pretending. He might as well get baptized."

  "Without loyalty all the training in the world is useless. Worse than useless," said Kidd. "That's why the president shut down the shadow warrior program. I argued against it, but he ignored my counsel. All Fedayeen now are combat Fedayeen, with guidelines and boundaries and a chain of command."

  "Then the president should have sent one of them to New Fallujah."

  "The president doesn't know anything about your mission." Kidd squeezed his hand lightly, released him. "What about you, Abu Michael? When you were on your missions in the Belt, did you ever lose your way?"

  Rakkim hesitated. Nodded. "The Belt is so seductive it's easy to forget where you belong. That's why I retired. It hurts to be lost. You go native because it's better to be wrong than to be lost."

  "Yet you go on missions for me," Kidd said gently.

  "I have a family now. They help me find my way back."

  Kidd looked at the empty chair where Amir had been sitting.

  "Sidi, we can't let Chambers become secretary of defense," said Rakkim. "Not until we know if he's working for ibn-Azziz."

  "Ten days until the full moon...not much time to prove something like that," said Kidd. "Asking State Security for help is futile--they're slow and inept and porous. If Redbeard were alive, he'd have a complete dossier on Chambers, every phone call, every financial transaction, every prostitute he had visited." He held up his empty glass to the waitress. "Redbeard wouldn't have needed ten days to find out...but your mentor
is in Paradise, probably teaching Allah a thing or two about keeping tabs on His angels."

  "I didn't think you liked him."

  "He didn't like me. Blamed me for you joining the Fedayeen instead of State Security."

  "You had nothing to do with it."

  "Well, Redbeard always looked for the invisible hand at play--" Kidd stopped as the waitress set down fresh drinks, waited until she left. "State Security requires a different mind-set than Fedayeen, you know that better than I do. Redbeard was deceptive even when he didn't need to be, always pitting people against each other, but I respected him. In the early days it was just he and I and President Kingsley. Hard times, dangerous times, but we were young and had high hopes...such high hopes it was almost a sin." He looked at Rakkim, his eyes warming. "He would have been proud of you."

  "What...what if we get proof that Chambers is working for ibn-Azziz?" said Rakkim.

  "Drink up."

  Rakkim touched glasses with Kidd. "What do we do?"

  Kidd swirled his drink, ice cubes clinking. "Why, we'll pray for guidance, as good Muslims would."

  "We'll have to do better than that," said Rakkim.

  CHAPTER 12

  Jenkins shivered, pulled his heavy black robe around him.

  Ibn-Azziz's personal apartment was an unheated stone cell deep beneath Alcatraz Island, a windowless room under the former prison where particularly troublesome prisoners had been housed a hundred years earlier. The walls were slick with moisture, mold sprouting in the crevices. The Grand Mullah could have lived in luxury, could have spent his nights in a sumptuous high-rise, cozy and warm. The dimly lit punishment cell suited him better.

  "Are you cold, Imam Jenkins?" Ibn-Azziz lay on the rough stone bunk, wearing only a loincloth. His ribs protruded, his hair thinning and lifeless. He was twenty-six and looked forty years older. "Shall I have one of my men bring you a fur coat?"

  Jenkins stood in the doorway, his frosty breath lingering in the air. "I'm fine."