“Oh.” Rakkim covered his embarrassment. “Fine.”
What no one had considered until too late was that the prevalence of highly accurate spy satellites had maintained a semblance of world peace for the last twenty-five years. Once the Russians could no longer read the date on the fifty-yuan coin in the Chinese president’s pocket, they had to act accordingly. So did everyone else.
Sarah went back to the large map, circling Tennessee with the laser pointer. “In the last few years, our best estimates are that the Colonel has quadrupled the territory under his control, and increased his army to at least twenty thousand men. A few months ago the Tennessee governor ceded Knoxville to him to avoid a confrontation.”
“Too bad we don’t have somebody like the Colonel as joint chief,” said Rakkim. “The Mormons would be hunkered down in Salt Lake instead of giving the mayor of Denver night tremors.”
The Bible Belt was less a nation than a conglomeration of armed individuals with a common enemy: the Islamic Republic. The central government had little offensive capability, but woe unto the attacker foolish enough to invade. The South was a wasp’s nest, and every bandit and warlord carried a sting. Unlike the Islamic Republic, where private citizens were forbidden to own guns, in the Bible Belt everyone carried weapons. In spite of the danger, Rakkim had been comfortable in the South—there was an ease to life there, a strange sweetness to the days and nights. The Belt was poor, even poorer than the Islamic Republic, but there was the bracing certainty that no despot would have a chance against an armed citizenry. The Colonel might be a monster to his enemies, domestic and foreign, but were he to brutalize his own people, he would not long survive. The Islamic Republic was by nature more autocratic; only President Kingsley’s moderation ensured the limited freedoms that citizens of the Bible Belt considered their God-given right.
“The Colonel’s up to s-s-something,” said Spider, teeth chattering. Leader of an underground network of Jewish tech-geeks, sought by the Black Robes for twenty years, Spider had risked his life to save Sarah and Rakkim in the past. He raked a hand through his tangled beard. “I missed it, but S-Sarah…Sarah put the data together.”
“I got lucky,” said Sarah. “One of our people in-country sent a report about increased heavy truck traffic in the Great Smokies, well beyond any construction projects we were aware of. So I did some checking.” She highlighted Thunderhead Mountain in southeastern Tennessee. “The trucks are going here. The Colonel’s also moved in troops. Not masses of them, and he’s moving them in slowly. He doesn’t want to draw attention.” She looked at Rakkim. “I wondered why.”
“The Colonel is excavating a region below the summit of the mountain.” Spider coughed into a handkerchief, idly checked the results, and tucked it back into his pocket. “At least a half-dozen test tunnels have been drilled. We thought at first that he was mining coal, or high-grade minerals, but that wouldn’t explain the presence of his troops or his secretive actions.” His mouth set. “We just got an indication that he’s looking for something else.”
The map whirled, brought up the Gulf Coast.
“Two days ago the Colonel brought a finder named John Moseby to the site,” said Sarah.
“Man and his crew worked New Orleans,” said Spider. “Very good, from all reports.”
“A beads-and-booze looter?” Rakkim laughed. “The Colonel must be desperate.”
“Moseby’s not a typical looter,” Sarah said carefully. “As I said, he’s a finder. Lost, missing, he’ll bring it back, no matter the risk.”
Rakkim watched her. She was trying to tell him something. The presidential office might be secure from outside surveillance, but that didn’t mean the president didn’t have cameras and laser microphones of his own installed.
“What’s the Colonel looking for?” said Rakkim.
Sarah glanced at Spider, then back at Rakkim. “This mountain…it may have been a repository for certain weapon systems of the old regime.”
“Black ice?” Rakkim shook his head. They had called him off al-Faisal for this? Black ice was what the military called the covert programs from the previous regime. Off-the-books projects funded on a scale no current government could match, projects worked on by a scientific elite whose expertise could only be guessed at. The Holy Grail of advanced weaponry. “Bullshit.”
“The old regime had so many black-ice programs under way that even the leadership didn’t know about all of them,” said Sarah. “Not all of them were accounted—”
“I’ve heard those stories my whole life,” said Rakkim. “Mind-control lasers. Antipersonnel nanobots. Prototypes stashed down mineshafts, hidden under lakes, locked away in abandoned missile silos as the old regime collapsed. Thirty years and nobody has found anything. And not because we haven’t looked. They’re just stories, Sarah. If the Colonel wants to dig up a mountain, let him. It’ll keep him out of trouble.”
Sarah grabbed his wrist, turned it so the veins showed. “Those cellular injections you got as a Fedayeen recruit, where do you think they came from? Those injections that made you quicker and stronger, that gave you superior vision and hearing, and amped up your rate of healing.” Her fingers dug into his wrist. “Did you ever wonder where the research for those DNA boosters came from? Did you? It was a black-ice project from the old Americans. The chief scientist was a good Muslim. He died bringing us what he could.” She let him go, her face white, surprised by her own anger. “Black ice is real.”
Rakkim kept his voice level. “Do you have any evidence that weapons were stashed in the mountain?”
“Any evidence would be somewhere in the wreckage of the Pentagon.” Spider sat down with a sigh. “Th-th-that’s a six-point-five-million-square-foot haystack. Thirty-four acres of radioactive files and fried computer drives. If we don’t know exactly where to look, even the best hot suit in the world isn’t going to protect somebody sent to find out what’s in the mountain.”
“So, the answer is no,” said Rakkim.
“B-based on the resources the Colonel’s committed to the excavation”—Spider’s head lolled on the back of the chair—“one would conclude that he, at least, is convinced there’s something very valuable in the mountain.”
“The Colonel is virulently anti-Muslim,” said Sarah. “We can’t take the chance—”
“He was a patriot last time I was there,” said Rakkim, “not a hater.”
“He’s a hater now,” said Sarah.
“Why me?” said Rakkim, still suspicious. Sarah was holding something back. “Doesn’t the president trust General Kidd anymore?”
“The president trusts the general with his life,” said Sarah.
“Then why doesn’t the general send one of his shadow warriors to do the job?” said Rakkim. “It’s been over three years since I’ve been in the Belt. Why not send someone with fresh insights, fresh contacts?”
“They did.” Sarah’s lower lip quivered. “They did, Rikki.”
“Two-two months ago…” Spider stuttered; a tic jerked the skin under his right eye. “Two m-m-months ago the general sent one of his best shadow warriors to find out what was going on…” Spider tried to speak, gave up.
“A week later, the man failed to report,” said Sarah, her emotions under control again. “So the general sent another warrior. Same result. Nothing. No contact at all.”
“It’s a particularly in-insular region, as I’m sure you know,” Spider said.
“General Kidd will brief you whenever you want,” said Sarah.
Rakkim walked over to her. Rested his hands on her hips. Looked into her eyes. Waited until her breathing steadied. He embraced her, tilted his head so none of the security cameras could read his lips. Pretended to kiss her ear. Whispered, “Why me?”
Sarah rested her head on his chest. Reached up and drew him closer, her hands cupping his face. They were wrapped in each other’s arms, safe from cameras and microphones. She kissed him, whispered, “Because…the man the Colonel called on to help with
the excavation…John Moseby…you know him. He’s a shadow warrior suspected of going rogue eight years ago. You cleared his name. You confirmed his death in action. John Moseby’s real name is John Santee.”
They swayed in the middle of the room while Spider averted his eyes, the map of the Belt blinking over them.
Chapter 5
Rakkim braked as traffic slowed up ahead. Emergency flares fizzed in the darkness, sending out sparks. A semitruck had overturned, spilled its cargo of fresh corn across the freeway. Sarah craned her neck as they passed, ears of corn crunching under their tires, pop pop pop. The driver of the semi leaned against the overturned truck, a young guy, blood running down his forehead as he argued with a policeman. Probably going too fast and lost control after hitting a particularly deep pothole. The winter had been hard, the roadbed lousy to begin with, and the repair crews were way behind schedule.
Sarah moved beside him. “I’m glad you’re careful.”
Rakkim glanced at her.
Sarah laughed. “You know what I mean.”
It was just after 2 a.m., light traffic, rain misting in from the Sound. They had barely spoken after leaving the Presidential Palace—Sarah may have suggested him for the mission, but that didn’t mean she had to like it. She stayed close, while he maintained security protocols—checking the rearviews, taking a different route and different vehicle each time they traveled, always checking the car for bugs and tracers. Like Redbeard used to say, trust but verify.
Rakkim and Sarah had never been directly connected to the events of three years ago, the unmasking of the Old One as the initiator of the suitcase nuke attacks on New York City, D.C., and Mecca. The official version credited Redbeard for the intelligence breakthrough, but the Old One knew better and he was the only one who mattered. Not that anyone had heard from him. There were rumors that he was dead, murdered by his acolytes or one of the Arab regimes, exposed as another fake messiah. Rumors that he was in exile in the mountains of Pakistan or rendered silent by the infirmities of age, his dream of restoring the caliphate abandoned.
Rakkim and Sarah didn’t believe a word of it. Sarah because she was smart enough to appreciate the Old One’s cunning, his incredible patience. Rakkim because he knew the Old One would never abandon his dream…and even more, because Rakkim knew the seduction of hiding in plain sight. The singular pleasure of blending into the background, of setting the table in the house of the enemy and watching him eat dinner. Rakkim had looked into the Old One’s eyes, recognized that special delight in floating among the rest of the world, superior and untouchable, there but not there. So Rakkim and Sarah stayed invisible too, unmentioned and unnoticed, just a rumor now themselves. Sarah had quit the history faculty at the university and spent her days privately advising the president and raising their son. A few months ago she started work on a new book. Not done causing trouble? he had asked her. Never, she had answered.
“Any idea what kind of weapon the Colonel’s looking for?” said Rakkim.
“Not at this point. Spider’s still doing what he can with his own sources…his own methods.”
“I still want to know what al-Faisal’s doing.”
“Let State Security handle it,” she said. “That’s their job.”
He veered toward the shoulder, trying to avoid misaligned sections of freeway. Even with its heavy-duty suspension, their car shook running over the rough pavement. He thought of John Santee, the renegade shadow warrior who now called himself John Moseby. What had it taken for Moseby to throw in with the Colonel? Moseby was a man who wanted only a smooth ride…no more hide-and-seek, no more enemies and knives at the throat. Did he even know what kind of bumpy road he was accelerating down now?
Fedayeen forever, that’s what they told you at the Academy, and it was true enough for the combat units. Not so for shadow warriors and assassins.
The part they didn’t tell you, the dirty little secret, was that given time, shadow warriors always went rogue. To survive, shadow warriors had to walk, talk, and think like the enemy. Ultimately, they became the enemy. Before that happened, they were pulled out of the Belt and given a post closer to home. Promoted with honors. Asked to teach at the Academy. Moseby had gone native sooner than anyone expected, with all his Fedayeen knowledge and training intact. Rakkim had been sent in to find him and kill him. A mission for an assassin, but given to Rakkim instead. They said no one knew the Belt like he did. He’d found Moseby, all right, but let him live. Came back with a lie. A year later Rakkim retired and took up residence in the Zone. He became part owner of the Blue Moon, wallowing in sin. It didn’t help. It took Sarah to save him from himself.
If shadow warriors always turned renegade, assassins always slipped their leash, became drunk with blood, killing without direction or restraint. No such thing as a retired assassin. Darwin had lasted longer than any of his breed before the order to terminate him was given. They’d sent three master assassins to do the job. The commander of the assassins found their three heads sitting on his desk the next morning, their mouths smeared with red lipstick, cheeks rouged like kewpie dolls, rhinestones stuck in their jellied eyes. Then Darwin stepped out of the shadows…the horror show was left on the security cameras for all to admire.
A coyote blinked in the headlights as it tore at something by the side of the road. They were getting bolder every year, coming in closer to the city from the surrounding forests.
Sarah turned her head, watched the coyote as it got back to work.
“Tired?” said Rakkim.
Sarah lowered the window, the sound of rain filling the car. Wind blew her hair, and the smell of her was clean and electric. “A little.”
“Why don’t you sleep in tomorrow? Let me take care of things.”
Sarah rested her hand on his leg. “You have enough to do…before you leave.”
“I’ll be fine.” He glanced over at her, then back at the road. After all they had been through, he could still see the little girl in her—she was four the first time they met, Rakkim nine, a streetwise orphan Redbeard brought home after Rakkim picked his pocket. The two of them had grown up together in Redbeard’s fortified villa, played and fought, swam and argued, and when Rakkim had left at eighteen, Sarah had seen him to the door. She was thirteen, thin and gangly, but she had kissed him, and spoke with the certainty of a woman. I’m going to marry you someday, Rikki. He had laughed but she was serious. Smarter than he was then…smarter than he was now.
“What are you thinking?” said Sarah.
“Nothing…just, sometimes I wish we had a simpler life.”
“I don’t,” said Sarah.
“I know.”
Illuminated by floodlights, the Grand Saladin mosque loomed ahead, the largest fundamentalist mosque in the city, a delicate, turquoise blue domed structure built with Saudi money and the labor of the faithful. The side of the mosque facing the freeway was adorned by an eighty-foot mosaic of a hook-nosed Jew with cloven hooves carrying a nuclear bomb into a New York City cityscape. Ugliest thing Rakkim had ever seen. The mosaic itself formed from Quranic script, neatly sidestepping the prohibition against depictions of the human form. Although in this case the human was debatable. The mosaic had been ordered bricked over after the revelation of the truth behind the atomic attacks. Last month the Supreme Court finally ruled that the mosaic was protected religious speech. The grand unveiling had drawn a crowd of over 200,000 and was broadcast around the country.
Exposing the Old One’s responsibility for the suitcase nuke attacks had exonerated the Israeli Mossad, and by extension, all the Jews. Within a year, well-funded scholars published articles challenging the evidence against the Old One, and once again, politicians again blamed Zionists for the ills of the world, claiming that even the crafty Redbeard had been taken in. Six months ago, the top-rated late-night comedian made a joke about the attacks, blaming mermaids and leprechauns. There was silence…then wild applause. The international police agencies still searched for the Old One, but the av
erage citizen in the Islamic Republic wasn’t even sure he existed.
Rakkim turned away from the mosque. It had been Sarah who first suspected the Old One’s role in the attacks, Sarah who persisted in spite of the danger, Sarah who insisted they had a responsibility to history. Rakkim didn’t care about history. He had wanted to simply slip out of the country, move to Canada or Brazil and start a new life. Sarah said he could leave anytime he wanted. Made him feel like a coward for even suggesting it. He saw the floodlit mosque in his rearviews. “You ever wonder if it was worth it?”
“No.”
“All the people who died so we could prove the Old One—”
“I said no. That filthy mural is just a setback, a minor—”
“I thought we had changed the world.” Rakkim drove faster, the edges of the freeway overgrown with weeds, the asphalt crumbling. “The truth will set you free? What a joke.”
“You don’t have to go,” said Sarah. “General Kidd wanted to send in another shadow warrior team, three of them—”
“I said I’d do it.”
“If you feel it’s not worth it, just say so,” Sarah said gently. “No one would blame you.”
“You would.”
She stroked his arm. “No…I wouldn’t.”
He glanced at her. She was telling the truth. “Nah, I could use a vacation. Besides, after two years of marriage, I’m getting a little tired of your cooking.”
“Oh, really?”
“Southern food can’t be beat. Something as simple as grits and eggs, sunny-side up…it’s the bacon grease they fry the eggs in that makes all the difference.”
“Sounds yummy. Perhaps when you come back you could bring home a hawg.”
“Sure. We could put a leash on him, tell the neighbors he was a pit bull.”
“Dogs are filthy animals, pets fit only for Christians. We’d have to tell the neighbors we converted to Catholicism.” Sarah crossed herself, mumbled something in Latin.
Sins of the Assassin Page 5
