"Perhaps some hot cocoa?"
"Yes, that would be wonderful," said Jenkins, playing along. "Marshmallows of course, and a plate of those chocolate chip cookies the Grand Mullah is renowned for."
"Indeed." Ibn-Azziz peered up at him. "I've gotten some troubling news." His voice was thin and reedy, but his eyes were hot coals. "Perhaps you could enlighten me."
Jenkins tasted fear. It seemed he was scared more and more lately. He should have gone with Rakkim, should have left when he had the chance. "I'll do my best."
"Your best...yes, I can always count on you to do your best." Ibn-Azziz nodded and one of his guards closed the iron door to the cell, the rusted hinges squeaking. Just the two of them now. As many times as he had been in here with ibn-Azziz, every time the door shut, Jenkins felt as though he were being buried alive. Ibn-Azziz sat up, flipped open a hand-viewer. "Come." He patted the bench next to him. "Sit beside me."
Jenkins sat. Ibn-Azziz smelled like wet newspapers.
The screen blinked on. A street scene, men shuffling forward in the dawn light, heads down. One of ibn-Azziz's long, yellow nails tapped the screen, freezing the image. Not a clear picture, but it was Rakkim, dressed as a laborer, his face partially obscured, streaked with grime. "This man...do you recognize him?"
Jenkins took his time, remembering what had happened to the last man ibn-Azziz believed to be a spy. The man had taken a week to die, howling the whole time. An innocent man...framed by Jenkins to cover his own tracks. "No."
"Take a good look."
Jenkins had been completely scanned before entering the cell. Even without a blade he might be able to kill ibn-Azziz...might. His fighting skills had atrophied, and anyway, there was no way to escape the guards outside. "I don't know him."
"He's Fedayeen," said ibn-Azziz. "Does that jog your memory?"
Jenkins shook his head. "I left the brotherhood a long time ago. If this one is truly Fedayeen--"
"If?" hissed ibn-Azziz.
"Who said this man is Fedayeen?" Jenkins said evenly.
"Our new perimeter cams picked him out of the crowd a week ago. Matched him from a database," said ibn-Azziz. "The picture is poor and he's altered his appearance from his days at the academy, but it's him. The old system wouldn't have matched him, but the new one uses more data points for comparison."
"I didn't know we had such capability."
"The upgraded system is only at a few locations. It's very expensive."
"Praise be to our mysterious benefactor." Jenkins shifted his weight. There was no comfortable position on the stone bunk. "What's the Fedayeen's name?"
"Rakkim Epps."
"Is he in custody?"
"No." A cockroach crawled across ibn-Azziz's leg but he ignored it. "The fools working perimeter security were slow to react, and by the time they realized they had a match, Epps had disappeared." He plucked the cockroach from his leg, brought it close to his face, the roach's legs wiggling wildly. "To make matters worse, they attempted to hide their failure, pretending the system had malfunctioned." He set the roach down gently on the floor, watched it scurry away. "I wanted to discuss their punishment with you."
"Of course."
"First, though, I wanted to talk with you about another matter." Ibn-Azziz looked up as the roach squeezed through a crack in the stone floor. "Four nights ago, a madrassa in the Polk district burned to the ground. Most of the girls, dressed for sleep, chose to die rather than have their immodesty displayed in front of men not of their own family. These righteous females burned bright and pure, but some of them...some chose to run away, half naked into the night." He stared at Jenkins and the air in the cell grew even colder. "Pray, tell me, imam, why you gave those whores absolution from their sin?"
Rakkim stood by the bedroom window, listening to the late-night call to prayer echoing across the rooftops of this Catholic neighborhood. Sometimes he heard the call and wished he were devout, wished he could lose himself in his faith, trusting in Allah to set things right, to reward the just and punish the wicked. Tonight, though, all he could think of was walking out of prayers in New Fallujah and seeing flames from the madrassa, a greasy glow over the buildings, burning its way into his heart. He heard Sarah get up, but didn't turn from the window.
"What's wrong?" Sarah pressed her hand against his chest. "Talk to me."
Rakkim looked at her standing there, naked in the moonlight. Her breasts were fuller now than before Michael was born, heavier. He was even more drawn to her ripeness.
"Did...did something happen between you and General Kidd?"
"You lied to me this afternoon."
Sarah didn't answer. Didn't compound the lie with another one. A small blessing...or just her knowing when to stay silent until she found out how much he knew.
"I was watching you this afternoon at the war museum," said Rakkim. "You didn't bump into Robert Legault by accident. You were there to meet him."
Sarah barely hesitated. "That's true."
"You lied to me."
"I was postponing telling you the truth."
Rakkim stared out the window. "Do you love him?"
"What? Love him? Rakkim...I've been in love with you since we were children."
"I know our history," Rakkim said. "I also know you lied about meeting an old boyfriend."
"Robert was never my boyfriend. He was suitable."
"And I wasn't."
"Redbeard was my uncle and my guardian; it was his responsibility to find me a suitable husband. You...you were a street urchin he brought home and trained to follow in his footsteps. He loved you, but--"
"That wasn't love."
"He loved you, Rikki. He loved you enough to treat you like his son. Loved you enough that he wanted you to take charge of State Security. His plans for you didn't include marrying his niece...but I didn't care. I stood up to him. I risked everything to..." Sarah shook him, the two of them so close that their naked bodies grazed. "Do you think I would bring Michael along if I was contemplating doing something immoral?"
"I don't know."
"Rikki, after all this time...don't you trust me?"
Rakkim looked into her eyes.
"Rikki...you have to answer."
"What were you doing there with him?" Rakkim ran his fingers through her hair, her neck soft under his touch. "It's a simple question. I'm sure there's a simple answer."
"You're not going to like it." Sarah took a deep breath. "Robert wants to do a three-hour TV special on Redbeard's life...not just a biography, but his effect on the nation, the difference that he made. Robert wants us to participate fully."
Rakkim shook his head. "You might as well send the Old One an invitation."
"Do you think he needs an invitation?"
"What's really going on, Sarah?"
"It's cold out here. Come back to bed and we'll talk about it."
"I can think better out here."
Sarah laughed. "God hates a coward, Rikki."
"God hates a fool too."
Sarah led him back to bed, the sheets still warm. She rested her head on his chest. "Aren't you tired of hiding from the Old One? Michael needs to start school."
"He's learning plenty. Between the two of us--"
"It's not just about us. We've always thought bigger than that."
"You have. Not me."
She sat up, the sheet falling away, and Rakkim couldn't take his eyes off her. "We have to get involved, Rikki. It was different when Kingsley was president, we had access, and Kingsley paid attention. Brandt, though...he's not listening to us, and according to what you found out in New Fallujah, the people he is listening to are determined to take the country back to the dark ages." She kissed him. "We can't afford to hide anymore."
Rakkim stroked her flank. "Why now?"
"What do you--?"
"Why does Legault want to do a special on Redbeard now? Why not last year or next year?"
Sarah shook out her hair. "Because I suggested it to him."
&nb
sp; "That's what I thought."
"I'll take that as a compliment." Sarah slid on top of him. Her mother's tiny crucifix hung from a chain around her neck, bounced between her breasts as she rocked. "Five years of marriage and you're still jealous." She reached back, gripped him. "I feel like a newlywed."
Rakkim groaned. "You're a Catholic girl at heart."
"Well?" said ibn-Azziz. "Why did you absolve those schoolgirls from their sin?"
"At first I was content to let them burn," said Jenkins.
"Yet you changed your mind." Ibn-Azziz scratched his arms, gouged the flesh with his yellow nails, lips curling with pleasure. "So...my dear mullah, why did you disgrace yourself with mercy?"
"Mercy?" Jenkins's cackle echoed off the stone walls. "I spared the girls' lives, but it was only for the greater glory of Allah. Have you not noticed how often our jihadis fail in their attacks, killed before they can detonate their suicide belts?" He leaned closer to ibn-Azziz. "But who would stop a schoolgirl from entering a movie theater or a crowded mall? Such an innocent could go anywhere unchallenged. If there was mercy in my actions that night, then it was the mercy of allowing their death to mean something, rather than simply die for modesty."
Ibn-Azziz narrowed his eyes. "Modesty is a great virtue."
"Not so great as the smiting of our enemies."
"True." Blood trickled down the inside of ibn-Azziz's arms. "This idea...was it yours?"
Jenkins shook his head. "I wish that I could take the credit, but that would be a lie." Ibn-Azziz was trying to trap him. One of the police or another black robe had seen him talking with Rakkim at the fire--in the darkness, they hadn't recognized Rakkim as the man in the surveillance footage, but ibn-Azziz's suspicions had been aroused.
"Who deserves my gratitude?" said ibn-Azziz. "I am most generous, as you know."
"A man approached me after the girls had fled the burning madrassa," said Jenkins, "a jihadi on his way to paradise. He suggested that the girls, having already forfeited their souls, be given a chance to redeem themselves."
Ibn-Azziz tugged at his wispy beard.
"Schoolgirl jihadis, the youngest angels," said Jenkins. "We should wait, though, give them a couple more years, so their will becomes resolute...and so they can carry more explosives."
"Who was this jihadi who gave you such an idea?" said ibn-Azziz. "Tell me his name."
"He said his name was Tamar and he was on his way to Santa Barbara to send some Catholics to hell."
"Pity," said ibn-Azziz, immobile in the faint light, so emaciated that it looked like his body was collapsing in on him. "I would have liked to have met this man. Given him my blessing on his journey."
"I asked him to stay, but he was eager for his divine reward," said Jenkins, sensing that ibn-Azziz was still waiting for him to make a mistake. "He did allow me to take him to the Bridge of Skulls. He said it was his favorite place in the city, a monument to our triumph over perversity. He and I walked to the very end and prayed together."
Ibn-Azziz nodded. "Yes...you were observed with this jihadi by the guards at the bridge." He dipped a fingertip in his blood, added a tiny red fingerprint to the hundreds of other red marks on the wall. "It was a stormy night, they said. The bridge bucking and heaving so much that they were afraid to set foot on it. Yet...you did."
"Have you not told me that those who love God have nothing to fear?"
"Inshallah," said ibn-Azziz.
"Inshallah," said Jenkins.
"Now then," said ibn-Azziz, showing his teeth, "what shall we do with the two men who let Rakkim Epps through the security cordon? The two who tried to cover up their incompetence."
"The Bridge of Skulls is hungry," said Jenkins, a chill starting up his spine. "We should feed it."
"Shall I accord you the honor?"
Jenkins inclined his head. "You are too kind."
CHAPTER 13
"I'm confused," Hussein said to Amir, as they sat cross-legged in the tree-shaded garden at the rear of Hussein's villa, the surrounding walls dotted with electronic chaff generators to prevent eavesdropping. A stocky white man with a pugnacious jaw and short gray hair, Hussein had lost his left arm in battle, the sleeve of his Fedayeen uniform folded back to his shoulder. Orange and yellow koi glided in the pond beside them, Hussein trailing the fingertips of his right hand in the water. "Your father sends Rakkim into New Fallujah and he tells you nothing. Yesterday, Rakkim gives your father an after-mission report and again, your father tells you nothing. So illuminate me, O Lion of Durango...is Rakkim General Kidd's spawn, or are you?"
"I don't need my father," said Amir, keeping his temper in check, refusing to take the bait. "I'll find out myself what Rakkim told him."
"Oh really?" said Hussein. "Will you ask the birds in the trees? Or perhaps..." He jerked his hand from the pond, clutching a dappled koi. Held it out to Amir. "Ask him. He's old and wise. Go ahead, ask him. No?" He kissed the wriggling fish on the lips and returned it to the water. "Don't make promises you can't keep."
"Then you tell me," demanded Amir. "What was Rakkim doing in New Fallujah?"
"I don't know either." Hussein wiped his hand, then leaned over the holographic display between them--thousands of red-plumed Roman Legionnaires caught between the two flanks of the Carthaginian cavalry, swords flailing as the horsemen attacked. "But I'm sure Rakkim wasn't there to go to mosque."
Known for his harsh criticism, Hussein had been one of the great tacticians of the civil war, a Fedayeen commander second in skill only to his father. While General Kidd had found renown on the northern front, defeating the Belt forces in New Jersey, Pennsylvania and Ohio, Hussein had attacked the Belt from the west, driving the rebels out of New Mexico and Colorado, taking the fight into Texas and Oklahoma.
Hussein pointed at the holographic display. "As the Carthaginians charged through the trapped Romans, their enemy was so tightly packed together that Hannibal instructed his men to simply cut the hamstrings of the Romans and keep advancing--that way they could slaughter the crippled Legionnaires at their leisure once the battle was won." He looked at Amir. "The ultimate objective takes precedence over any individual player. You must not let yourself be distracted."
Amir nodded.
"Are you not troubled by your father keeping Rakkim's mission a secret from you?" Hussein waved a hand over the military reenactment of the Battle of Cannae, the soldiers dissolving into fine gray powder, the topography shifting from the trampled banks of the Aufidus River to a barren, gray landscape. Fedayeen armored strike troops were spread out, waiting to be deployed against the small city in the distance. Another wave of Hussein's hand and the holographic display changed to the dusty flatlands surrounding Amarillo, the heavy infantry of the Texas volunteers arrayed against the tanks of the Fedayeen Third Army. "It's almost as if he doesn't trust you."
"My father is teaching me the lessons of leadership," said Amir. "Trust no one more than is absolutely necessary. His caution is a compliment."
"Ah. A compliment." Hussein tugged down the jacket of his blue uniform. "How foolish of me not to recognize the accolade. You must be flattered."
"What is your point?"
"You need to see what is in front of your nose." Hussein curled two fingers and the Texas volunteers shifted into position along the western edge of the city. Drone surveillance aircraft drifted overhead, diaphanous as dragonflies. "Your father's not going to join us, you know that," he said, waving up antiaircraft batteries around the core of the city. "When the time comes, you're going to have to kill him."
Amir stiffened. "No."
"I remember your father in the early days. He looked like a king, moved like a king. None of us had the benefit of genetic boosters; we achieved what we did on strength and courage...and faith. We burned with belief and our faith sustained us more than food or drink. Your father should have acknowledged the Old One long ago. He had his chance twenty years ago, but turned it down. I suspect he will turn down the opportunity again. Blind loyalty, t
he Somali curse...it's going to be the death of him yet."
"I won't raise a hand against my father," said Amir. "Better the Old One asks me to kill Rakkim. I would, gladly."
"You might have some trouble with that, from what I've heard."
Amir felt his face grow hot. "Say the word and I will lay his head before you."
"An empty promise, I'm afraid. The Old One wants Rakkim left unharmed. It is your father who stands in our way." Hussein finger-flicked the Fedayeen forces into existence, spread them out into a pincer nearly circling the city, deliberately allowing an avenue of retreat toward the east. He kept his eyes on the display, making fine adjustments with his thumb and forefinger. "The question, Amir...the question is do you love your father more than your own salvation? At the end of days you will have to choose."
Amir remembered riding on his father's back as a child, feeling as though he were astride the world.
Hussein glanced up. "Don't trouble yourself. When the moment comes, you will act as Allah wills it." He nodded at the elaborate hologram. "The Fedayeen numbered five thousand arrayed against approximately twelve thousand Belt irregulars, tired and hungry men, but dug in and fighting on their own territory. So tell me, youngster, what would you do if you commanded these Fedayeen?"
Amir studied the hologram. Amarillo was a minor battle in Hussein's dash across Texas. He remembered studying it briefly at the academy...something about Hussein splitting his main force and sending the bulk of his men south toward San Antonio, a decision contrary to established military doctrine.
"What would you do?" demanded Hussein. "You don't have the luxury of time, so a siege or long bombardment is out of the question. The tanks are needed to support the attack on San Antonio, and you can't bypass the city and leave your forces subject to attack from the rear. What do you do, Amir?"
Amir leaned over the display, zooming in. The faces of the Fedayeen troops were in high relief, the sand on the treads of the Saladin tanks clearly evident. He gestured with his right hand and the city opened up, every major street revealed, every collapsed building and shattered overpass. "The enemy line is heavily reinforced...but static. Once it's cracked...or flanked, the city will be exposed and vulnerable to a blitzkrieg attack."
Heart of the Assassin Page 10
