Heart of the Assassin

by Robert Ferrigno

  Rakkim wanted to wipe his hand. "Hi, Ron, how are you?"

  Wallis's expression revealed his desire to correct Rakkim, suggest Rakkim use his academic title, but he decided against it. "I'm fine, Mr....?"

  "Epps. Rakkim Epps. I wish I had more time to talk, but--"

  "Epps? Not short for Epstein, I hope." Wallis seemed pleased with himself. "Just kidding. Not that there would be a problem. I have nothing against Hebrews."

  "I'm relieved."

  "I take a certain pride in judging people on their own merits, regardless of--"

  "Ron, I wish I had more time to talk with you, but I really need to speak with Sarah."

  "I understand completely." Wallis pinched a deeper dimple into his green bow tie. "These academic affairs can be a little daunting to the...uninitiated."

  "Daunted is exactly how I feel, Ron."

  "Buck up," said Wallis. "No one here is any better than you, remember that. We just have certain intellectual credentials...areas of expertise." He gave a curt bow. "Remind Sarah my door is always open."

  Rakkim started toward Sarah.

  Sarah excused herself from the group of young women, put her hand on his arm. "Did Dr. Wallis tell you his door was always open?"

  "Always open to you," said Rakkim. "I don't have the intellectual credentials."

  "Poor baby," said Sarah, leading him to the group. "Ladies, this is my husband, Rakkim. Rakkim, this is Emily, sociology, Carmella, Chinese history, and Satrice, American history."

  Rakkim bowed.

  The young women returned the bow, glanced over at Sarah as though for approval. Though they were only ten years or so younger than Sarah, they deferred to her as though she were the queen of the Nile.

  "If you'll excuse me, ladies," said Sarah, "I want to pay my respects to Professor Hoffman." She trailed a hand across Rakkim's arm as she left.

  "One-note Hoffman?" said Satrice.

  "Be nice," said Emily.

  Rakkim and the three women exchanged nods, looked around, saw both chaperones glaring at them from their elevated chairs. "I should probably go--"

  "Don't mind those two vultures," said Satrice, a short, stocky woman drinking Jihad Cola straight from the bottle.

  "Satrice," warned Emily.

  "Chill out," said Satrice.

  "Are you cold?" asked Rakkim. "I could get you a wrap."

  Satrice had a beautiful laugh, warm and without a hint of mockery. "It's old time slang. 'Chill out'...it means relax."

  "Satrice did her dissertation on twentieth-century American colloquialisms," said Carmella.

  "True dat," said Satrice.

  Carmella glanced at the chaperones, lowered her eyes. "I...I should mingle."

  They watched her leave. "Finger-lickin' good," said Satrice.

  Rakkim looked at her.

  "It means she's chicken," said Satrice. "Ah...easily scared."

  "It's so amazing to meet your wife," Emily said to Rakkim. "I was in high school when How the West Was Really Won first came out. It changed my life. I immediately knew I wanted to be a historian."

  "They removed it from my school library," said Satrice, "flagged it as a corrupter of morals." Her eyes sparkled. "We passed around our copy from girl to girl until it almost fell apart. We memorized whole chapters."

  "Is it a little...intimidating to be married to someone so brave?" asked Emily.

  "Sometimes," said Rakkim. "Sarah likes making trouble. It's one of the reasons I love her."

  The two young women blushed. Satrice covered her reaction by taking a swig of cola, a smear of her bright red lipstick rimming the neck of the bottle.

  How the West Was Really Won was the mainstream edition of Sarah's doctoral thesis, which theorized that while there were many factors in the shift of the USA from a secular nation to a moderate Muslim republic, the pivotal events took place in popular culture. Traditionalists were outraged, arguing that the book was sacrilegious for minimizing the role of prophecy and violent jihad. Without the intercession of her uncle, Redbeard, the book would have been burned and Sarah forbidden to ever publish again. As it was, the book became a best-seller that no one read in public.

  "'Though the jihadi attacks had little direct, long-term impact on the United States, the true importance of the 9/11 martyrdom was that it induced the former regime to overextend itself in fruitless military engagements around the world,'" said Satrice, reciting the prologue to Sarah's book from memory. "'The political and economic consequences of this U.S. response were profound and long-lasting. After their failed attempt to create democracy in the Islamic homeworld, the Crusaders fled, grown weary of war, eager to return to their idle pursuits. This great retreat left the West no safer than before, but instead drained it of capital, manpower and, most important, will.

  "'When the U.S. troops trickled home from their wars of conquest, the former regime was confronted by a prolonged economic downturn, and a jobless recovery that only exacerbated the gap between rich and poor,'" continued Emily, as Satrice mouthed the words along with her. "'Even the election in 2008 of a multiracial president named after the grandson of the Prophet (Peace Be Upon Him) could not prevent a cruel, godless capitalism from sending jobs overseas, where labor costs were cheaper, leaving millions at home unemployed, and embittered. Unlike in education in Muslim nations, God was not allowed to be spoken of in American schools, and the children and adults could draw no moral sustenance from a permissive culture that celebrated immorality and materialism.'"

  People nearby stopped to listen, but Satrice and Emily paid them no mind.

  "'After the end of martial law, a new generation of pragmatic, modern American Muslim leaders stressed the importance of transforming the popular culture, as a means of affecting the larger population,'" said Satrice. "'Thanks to the generous funding of the Kingdom, a twenty-four-hour Islamic television network offered programming geared to a young, non-Muslim American audience. This network featured innovative graphics, videos, and interviews with entertainers and sports stars who had converted to the true faith."

  "'The most important of these conversions was the public embrace of Islam by Jill Stanton at the Academy Awards, February seventh, 2013,'" continued Emily, the pulse at the base of her throat visible. "'Jill Stanton gave her declaration of faith as she received the Academy Award for Best Actress. Her declaration coincided with her announcement of marriage to Mukumbe Otan, a devout Muslim, and center for the world champion Los Angeles Lakers. Within days, Shania X, the most popular country music recording star in the world, made her declaration of faith at the Grand Ole Opry. A week later, three major movie stars declared their submission to the faith, followed by the entire ensemble cast of a top-rated television series. These high-profile conversions created a cascade effect, and within months, thousands, then tens of thousands, then hundreds of thousands of young people were crowding the mosques and studying the holy Quran."

  "'The public declarations of Jill Stanton and Shania X were the tipping point for the spiritual renewal that eventually led to the creation of the Islamic States of America,'" the young women said, reciting the words together. "'The marriage of Jill Stanton and Mukumbe Otan, white and black, spoke to the transforming power of Islam over racism, the deepest wound of the West, which all their churches and technology could not stanch. Millions looked at them and wondered, if Islam could soothe the ache of racism, could it not feed the restless hunger of America's dispossessed? The answer was yes. Despite the nobility of our cause, violent jihad alone could never defeat the West. It was the "flowering rose" at the heart of Islam that gave us victory.'"

  The two young women wiped their eyes. Several people nearby quietly applauded.

  "I...we didn't mean to embarrass you," said Satrice.

  "I'm not embarrassed," said Rakkim. "I'm proud of her."

  "It was a pleasure to meet you...Rakkim," said Emily.

  "Later, dude," said Satrice.

  Rakkim saw Sarah seated beside a white-haired man in a shabby blue
suit. She waved.

  "El Presidente, por favor, this is a time for patience," said Hector Morales, secretary of state for the Aztlan empire.

  "Why are you sweating, Hector?" Presidente Argusto turned to Morales. "Has the Belt president agreed to turn over this hillbilly colonel, or must I take matters into my own hands?"

  "Excellency," Morales purred, "this situation presents a serious challenge to President Raynaud. The Colonel is beloved by the people of the Bible Belt--"

  "Enough." Argusto strolled to the window of his office. Through the armored glass he could see all of Tenochtitlan spread out before him, the moon gleaming across the capital. High-rises and office towers soared across the downtown area, airy confections of extruded polymers, connected by sky bridges and aerial trams. The lush gardens and ten-lane streets far below gave a feeling of imperial dignity. Dominating the city was the victory pyramid, sheathed in polished limestone brighter than the moon, an enormous structure three times the size of the Aztec pyramid of the sun. His pyramid. Half the world's supply of concrete and steel had gone into its five-year construction, along with lesser pyramids scattered across Aztlan. His enemies had accused him of bankrupting the nation, but Argusto's vision of melding the past with the present had prevailed. And silenced his enemies.

  "I am just suggesting you be patient, Excellency."

  "I have been patient. As you asked, Hector. I had our technicians recheck their findings. As you asked. I have even given you time to consult with the Belt president. As you asked." He stared at the triptych mural, a mosaic twenty stories high spread across three buildings: a long line of captured enemies being led into ancient Tenochtitlan while the crowd cheered and threw flowers to their own victorious warriors. "At the economic summit Tuesday, we shall formally demand that the Belt turn over to us this rogue warlord."

  "Such a public demand will create a firestorm in the Belt, Excellency. They are a people filled with pride."

  "Then they will swallow their pride as we were once forced to do." Argusto didn't deign to look at the diplomat, preferring to stare out at the mountains beyond the city. "Leave me, Hector. Go debate someone."

  It had taken days for Argusto's technical wizards to track a coded message sent from the oil minister's limo. A message sent by his brother-in-law's killer. A message sent to a warlord in the Belt. This man, this colonel, must be brought to justice, taken to Tenochtitlan and questioned as to the reasons for his actions. Then the man's heart would be torn out, offered to the gods in expiation of his sins. It must happen soon too, already Argusto sensed a certain...lack of respect among his enemies, domestic and foreign, a delight in noting his troubles.

  Last night the Chinese ambassador had shamelessly flattered him at the state dinner, regaling the table with Argusto's many accomplishments, said the only comparable figure in history was Alexander the Great--and here the ambassador smirked--a military genius who without airpower had somehow conquered the known world. Argusto had nodded at the barbed compliment, raised a glass to toast the ambassador and said if Alexander had Aztlan's airpower, the ambassador would be speaking Greek and his rectum would be inflamed from doing his diplomatic duties. The silence had been delicious.

  In the darkness beyond the mountains, Argusto saw a falling star streak across the sky. He didn't make a wish. A falling star was a failed star, a cinder burning in the atmosphere, and Argusto had no interest in failure.

  CHAPTER 19

  Gravenholtz stood just inside Crews's office, breathing hard, eyes wide. Blood spread across his white dress shirt, ran down his jacket, but he seemed unfazed, the gunshots from Crews's men unable to penetrate the flexible armor under his skin. Ferocious-looking wounds, painful too, but not life threatening.

  Crews looked at C.P. flopped on the floor, then over at the Old One. "What...what are you doing this for?"

  "Those boys of yours..." The Old One's checkerboard jacket seemed to shimmer in the light from the fireplace. "Murderous scum and toothless morons. Not at all the right image for what you're about to become, Mr. Crews."

  "About to become?" said Crews.

  "You've come a long way in the last six months," said the Old One. "Top-rated gospel show on TV, invitations to preach at the capital...are you satisfied?"

  "No."

  "Of course not," said the Old One. "One thing I've learned in a very long life, Mr. Crews, is that there's never enough."

  "How about you tell Gravenholtz to put C.P. down?" said Crews. "Not like he's going anywhere."

  "You're fond of him, aren't you?" said the Old One. "I could see that immediately."

  "Well, I don't know about fond," said Crews. "C.P.'s been with me a long time."

  "Very good," said the Old One. "I appreciate loyalty. Please, put him down, Lester."

  Gravenholtz dropped C.P. onto the floor, then wandered over to the desk and picked up a spool of masking tape. He tore off a strip of tape and started pinning down the flap of skin on his scalp.

  C.P. slowly rolled onto his hands and knees, gasping.

  "Lester," said the Old One, "if you wouldn't mind, bring Mr. Crews one of those pistols."

  "Why?" said Gravenholtz.

  "Savor the mystery, Lester," said the Old One.

  Baby started giggling.

  "Do I amuse you, Baby?" said the Old One.

  Baby nodded, still giggling.

  "Mr. Crews, do you have any idea how long it's been since I've made anyone laugh?" The Old One beamed. "Let me tell you, it's a rare pleasure."

  Gravenholtz handed Crews a revolver.

  "Now, Mr. Crews," said the Old One, "if it's not too much to ask, I'd like you to shoot your old buddy C.P. in the head."

  Crews hefted the pistol. "How about I blow your brains out?"

  "Always a possibility, but I have faith in you, Mr. Crews," said the Old One. "A man of your ambition, your vision...there's no way you'll throw away this opportunity."

  Baby saw the pen in the Old One's hand. The same silver fountain pen he had used to spray Gravenholtz, cocooning him in aerosol polymer. The Old One might have faith but he was no fool.

  C.P. looked up at Crews. "Jesus, Malcolm...what are you thinking? Kill these people--" He grunted as Gravenholtz kicked him.

  The Old One turned toward the doorway.

  A man leaned against the jamb, a gangly fellow, his shirt soaked with blood. One arm dangled useless, but he propped a sawed-off shotgun against his hip with his good arm. His shattered jaw gave him an obscene grin, his face swollen like a pumpkin.

  "Sit down, Deekins," said Crews, "take a load off before you hurt somebody."

  The man in the doorway tried to speak, but his mouth wouldn't work. The shotgun wobbled in his grip as he tried to center it.

  "Lester?" The Old One wagged a finger. "You said they were all dead."

  Baby moved out of the line of fire.

  "Do it, Deekins," said C.P., still sprawled on the floor. "Fuck you waitin' for?"

  The man in the doorway fired as Gravenholtz stepped toward him, caught him in the chest; got off another shot before Gravenholtz snatched the shotgun from him.

  Gravenholtz beat the man over the head with the shotgun, beat him onto the floor, flailing away at him even after his skull cracked.

  "You can stop now, Lester," said the Old One.

  Gravenholtz hit Deekins again. Threw the shotgun down.

  "You never did tell me what you got planned for me," Crews said to the Old One, his voice calm. "This thing I'm supposed to become."

  "That's the spirit," said the Old One.

  "Daddy?" Baby crossed over to him, gingerly touched his cheek. "You got shot."

  The Old One looked at the blood on her fingertips. Scowled at Gravenholtz.

  "Just a scratch," said Gravenholtz. "What? That supposed to be my fault?"

  "Yes, Lester, actually it is," said the Old One, as Baby dabbed at his cheek with a handkerchief. "Open a window, Mr. Crews, it's too warm in here." He waited until Crews complied. "Things are about t
o change, both in the Belt and in the Republic. I'm offering you a chance to be a part of those changes."

  "I'm no Muslim, in case you haven't got the word," said Crews. "I'm born again."

  "You're no more of a Christian than I am," said the Old One.

  "I'm not going to argue." Crews checked the pistol, made sure it was loaded. "Did you really nuke New York and Washington, D.C.?"

  "Whatever I've done, I'm certain that God will forgive me," said the Old One. "As I'm sure God will forgive you."

  "Mister, you're a lot more optimistic than I am," said Crews.

  The Old One pointed at C.P. "Time to make a decision, Mr. Crews."

  "These changes coming down the road," said Crews, scratching his chin with the muzzle of the pistol, "what exactly kind of a part am I going to have?"

  "M-Malcolm?" wailed C.P.

  "Don't you get it?" Baby said to Crews, stamping her feet. "We're bringing hard times to the Belt. Hard times to the Republic too. Nightmares and fever dreams, just the way you like it--don't pretend you don't, Malcolm Crews. Look at me! We're not here because you're some holy joe motherfucker patting babies and organizing fried chicken socials. I picked you because you smell smoke and reach for the gasoline, and my daddy and me, we're bringing hellfire to town."

  Crews's eyes reflected the flames from the fireplace.

  "Look at him, Daddy, his pecker's hard. Didn't I tell you?"

  "She did, Mr. Crews. Indeed she did."

  Crews tapped the side of his thigh with the pistol, expressionless.

  "You been waiting for the end times, haven't you, Malcolm?" Baby spun slowly in the center of the room, her skirt fluttering out as she turned round and round like a wind-up ballerina on a music box. "Well, here it is, right in front of your nose. Boil, boil, trouble and toil..."

  "I'm sure you remember your Bible, Mr. Crews," said the Old One. "John the Baptist was given the honor of announcing the coming of Jesus. It was he who first proclaimed him the Messiah."