“Amir is skilled,” said Rakkim. “The news reports did not exaggerate.”
“The Lion of Boulder?” Kidd shrugged. “He is twenty-five. A young warrior should not listen to the praise of those who sleep in warm beds every night.”
Kidd’s youngest wife secretly waved to him, using only her fingertips. It was as seductive a move as Rakkim had ever seen.
“You should have more wives, Abu Michael.”
“One is plenty.”
“The Quran allows at least four, and for good reason.” Kidd leaned closer. “A man with one camel is at the mercy of the camel. A man with a string of camels…”
“Interesting analogy. I’ll try that on Sarah tonight and let you know what she says.”
Amir and his brother faced each other, saluted with their knives, and went into a defensive crouch. Amir immediately started to circle his brother, keeping his knife tucked in close. As tall as his father but even more muscular, he had a natural quickness, an innate sense of where he was and where he needed to be in any confrontation.
Seventeen of Kidd’s older sons had passed the rigorous Fedayeen training—five had been killed in action, the rest acquitted themselves admirably, but none more than Amir. A junior officer in the strike force, he was already a veteran of campaigns in Panama and the Congo. Two months ago, he had received a field promotion for defeating a Mormon advance into Colorado. Heavily outnumbered, Amir took charge of his troops when four higher-ranking officers were killed, his bold tactics annihilating the enemies’ top mountain battalion outside Boulder. His handsome, scarred profile was on every news show for the next week, and a dozen senators offered their daughters in marriage.
“Two of my best shadow warriors lost, a long-term operative on the ground missing…” Kidd watched his sons fight as he passed Rakkim a thumb-load with the encrypted file on the Colonel. “I pray you’ll have better luck.”
“You’ve got a mole, sidi,” said Rakkim, using the North African term of respect.
“No more than a half-dozen people knew about the operation,” said Kidd. “They’ve all been tested, complete workup. Nothing.”
Rakkim watched Amir move in on his brother. “Test them again.”
Kidd nodded. “Redbeard would be proud of you.”
Rakkim bowed at the honor. Redbeard had taken him in off the street, had raised him and trained him, taught him always to look for the hidden agenda, the knife behind the handshake. Rakkim had learned the lessons too well.
“Sad state of affairs when I can no longer trust my own.” Kidd rubbed the raised scar along the edge of his jaw. “I’ll set up a dummy mission back to the Belt. Some covert op that will take weeks to plan. Hopefully our mole, if there is a mole, will be distracted.”
“Initiate a smaller op too,” said Rakkim. “No more than two men, strictly outside the normal chain of command. Tell them to be ready to leave at a moment’s notice and then let them wait.”
“A feint behind the feint…Very good.” Kidd nodded. “You should have never retired. I had hoped you might replace me someday.”
“You have too many sons for me to replace you,” said Rakkim.
“It is not a matter of blood, Abu Michael,” said Kidd.
Amir leapt high. His hand darted out as he twisted in the air, knife flicking across his brother’s jugular. It was a forbidden sparring move, the chance of a mortal blow too easy, but Amir’s cut barely sliced the skin.
“Amir may be a worthy successor when my time comes,” said Kidd as Amir approached. “A fearless fighter with an aptitude for command, but he needs to control his temper. He was a most difficult child, always demanding his own way.” He shook his head. “No matter how hard I beat him, he did not cry. Did not change his behavior either.”
“Redbeard used to say the same thing about me.”
Amir bowed before his father. “General.”
Kidd nodded.
Amir acknowledged Rakkim with his upraised knife. A deep scar ran from under his left eye to the side of his mouth. “I have exhausted my brothers,” he said, slightly out of breath. “Care to play?”
“Thanks for the invite,” said Rakkim, “but you’re too good for me.”
Amir’s eyes went flat. “Am I a child to be told fairy tales?”
“Amir,” growled Kidd.
Amir stepped closer still, towering over Rakkim. “Am I not worthy of your attention?”
Rakkim stayed loose. “More than worthy.”
Sweat gleamed on Amir’s muscled torso. He gripped the knife tighter. A mistake.
Rakkim caught the knife as it came at him, plucked it from Amir’s grip. Offered it back to him, handle first. “A fine blade, Amir, worthy of its owner. Thank you for letting me see it.” He bowed.
Stunned, Amir slowly took back his knife, bowed to his father, and left.
“I apologize for my son,” said Kidd, watching Amir cross the training room.
“Amir meant me no harm, sidi, he just wanted to teach me some manners.”
“Instead you taught him. A dangerous lesson for the teacher, Abu Michael.” Kidd clicked his prayer beads, running them quickly through his fingers, round and round, still watching Amir stalk away. “If you come back from your trip, you must show me how you snatched the blade from him. I’ve never seen such a thing.”
“If I come back?”
“I’ll walk you out of the neighborhood,” said Kidd.
It was raining harder now. Kidd inhaled the fragrance of the open air, his stride lengthening so that Rakkim had to double-time to keep up. “When I was a boy, growing up outside of Mogadishu…it didn’t rain for a year and a half. Not a drop. Not a cloud in the sky. So dry I could taste dust in my dreams.” Kidd raised his face to the sky, the downpour running down his cheeks. “I’ve been in this country thirty-five years…and I still treasure the smell of rain.”
Rakkim put up the hood of his robe.
Moisture glistened on Kidd’s eyelashes and cropped beard as they walked through the alley. “Redbeard and I were never friends. We were both too hardheaded, too eager to get the president’s support for our fiefdoms, but we respected each other. The worst time between us was when you joined the Fedayeen. I don’t think he ever forgave me.”
Rakkim stopped. “It wasn’t your idea, it was mine.”
“All Redbeard knew was that his dreams for you were over. You were never going to become State Security. You chose another life. A life without him. He couldn’t hate you, so he did the next best thing. He hated me.”
Rakkim splashed through a puddle. “I didn’t know.”
“I considered Redbeard’s actions weak and petty…the mark of a man with too few children.” Kidd’s skin gleamed in the rain. “Until you left the Fedayeen. Then I knew how he felt. Even with all my sons, I knew exactly how bitter and resentful he felt, how wounded that you had chosen another path.”
Rakkim held his head high, listening to the click-click-click of Kidd’s prayer beads.
“I told myself Allah had other plans for you,” said Kidd.
Rakkim looked around, wary now, but they were the only ones out in the downpour.
“Do you think I made a mistake?” said Kidd. “Disbanding the assassin unit…” His prayer beads clicked away. “They were dangerous to our enemies, but just as dangerous to us. I thought by subsuming the assassin training into all our units, we could have benefit of their killing skills without endangering the souls of our warriors. The assassin trade…it’s corrosive to even the spiritually strong.” He gripped Rakkim’s wrist, squeezed. “You know that better than I do, Abu Michael. You saw what Darwin became. Whatever was in him that caused him to be selected for assassins in the first place, whatever moral vacuum made him excel at the killing craft, it perverted him. Destroyed him.” He looked into Rakkim’s eyes. “I have no idea how you defeated him. Allah must have been beside you that day.”
Rakkim looked back into Kidd’s deep, dark eyes.
Kidd released him. “Yes…yes, th
at is the only explanation.” He blinked in the storm. “Still…I find myself wondering if I acted too hastily. If I had a master assassin at my call, I could just send him into the Belt, tell him to kill the Colonel and everyone else connected to this devil’s dig. Instead, my son…I must send you.” He embraced Rakkim, kissed him on both cheeks. “Salaam alaikum.”
“Alaikum salaam,” said Rakkim, but it was too late. Kidd had turned his back on him and was walking rapidly away.
Chapter 7
Who knew that I-90 was the road to Paradise? Daniel Wilson tried to smile, but he couldn’t, pressing down on the floorboard as though that would slow the car down.
“Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar,” repeated bin-Salaam, one of his brother’s many bodyguards, as he hunched over the steering wheel. Bin-Salaam, a glum, beefy zealot missing an ear. “Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar,” he continued, the words flowing together as he wove the car through morning traffic. God is great, God is great, God is great.
Wilson just nodded, turned around. Far behind, but closing fast, three State Security vehicles chased them, sirens blaring. The other cars on the road moved toward the shoulders.
Bin-Salaam accelerated.
Wilson stared at the detonator wired to his index finger and started to shake. He loved his brother Terry. Tariq al-Faisal, he corrected himself. No, he would always be Terry to him. His older brother. The good brother, that’s what his parents called him, and Wilson had to agree. No one outside the family knew that Terry had become a Black Robe. While his older brother now sat at the right hand of Grand Mullah ibn-Azziz himself, Wilson attended mosque intermittently, couldn’t keep a job…or a wife. Delia had left him a year ago, gone to live with some Catholic in Los Angeles, flaunting her body in that moral sewer. His mother wept when he finally told her of his shame. His father couldn’t look at him. He glanced at bin-Salaam, then back to the road. A failure in every sense, Wilson had been given one last chance to redeem himself. Terry had knocked on his apartment door two nights ago, beardless as a bricklayer. Terry had kissed him on the cheek, said, Gather your things, brother, I have a great gift for you.
“The apostates are getting closer,” said bin-Salaam. “Expect a roadblock soon…and aerosol flypaper to take you alive.”
Wilson rubbed his own newly shaven jaw. It itched. He patted the device in his jacket pocket. Some construct of wires and chips Terry had given him, a decoy to assure their pursuers that Wilson was the one they sought.
Don’t worry, dear brother, Terry had said. No one challenges a great triumph. State Security will fight among themselves to claim credit for bringing down the great Tariq al-Faisal. He had inclined his head toward Wilson as though his acknowledgment were a pearl of great price. You will be laughing in Paradise at their folly, laughing as you frolic with your virgins. He had smiled then, a smile that Wilson remembered from their youth, Terry beckoning the neighborhood simpleton to pet a vicious dog.
Wilson glanced behind him again.
“Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar,” mumbled bin-Salaam.
It had taken two days for Terry to convince him. Two days in which Wilson had barely slept, barely eaten, just prayed and listened to Terry tell him over and over what had to be done. You’re the only one who can fool them, my brother, the only one. Wilson should be happy, Terry kept saying. Dry your tears, little brother, you have a chance to bring honor to our parents, and joy to Allah—what more could you ask?
“They are very close,” said bin-Salaam. “Send us to Paradise.”
They have tests, Wilson had told Terry. They will know I am not you. Terry told him not to worry; it had all been taken care of. Bin Salaam had taken hairs from Wilson’s brush and a pen with his fingerprints and given them to a high-ranking brother in the police department. They were evidence now, part of the investigation into the murder of a purveyor of black-market electronics. Trust me, brother, Terry assured him, the apostates will believe. Just do your duty. Terry had called State Security’s hotline himself, tipped them that the Black Robe they were interested in was fleeing east on I-90 in a late-model gray mufti sedan.
“It is time.” Bin-Salaam nodded at the roadblock up ahead, State Security fanned out around it. A foam truck laid down a wall of adhesive bubbles. “Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar.”
Duty…duty…duty. Wilson trembled in the passenger’s seat, teeth chattering. “Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar…”
Wilson tore at the tape around his index finger, careful not to trip the detonator. Finally certain of what to do, more certain now than he had ever been before.
Bin-Salaam reached over—“Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar”—wrapped his massive paw around Wilson’s hand—“Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar”—and squeezed.
For the briefest of instants, Wilson’s ears rang from the force of one hundred pounds of C-6 explosives detonating around him. It sounded like the screaming of the damned.
“What, you’re not hungry?” Deputy Chief of Detectives Anthony Colarusso held his fork an inch from his mouth, spaghetti dangling onto his plate.
“I like watching you eat,” said Rakkim. “It restores my faith in our animal origins.”
“Doesn’t take a leap of faith, just open your eyes, troop, we’re all beasts of the field here.” Colarusso slurped his pasta, a single strand whipping up into his mouth, spraying red sauce onto the napkin tucked into the neck of his white dress shirt. “Sorry about that.”
Rakkim wiped sauce off his hand. “No harm done.”
Colarusso hunched over the table, a thickset, middle-aged lawman with a bad haircut and a misbuttoned shirt. One of Rakkim’s oldest friends, one of the few who knew what Rakkim and Sarah had done to expose the Old One. One of the few who had helped. He guzzled red wine from his coffee cup. A good Catholic, Colarusso had the best arrest record in the department ten years in a row, but his professional rise had topped out because of his refusal to convert. After the Old One fled and the history books were rewritten, Colarusso leapfrogged to deputy chief. Without giving up his crucifix. Now he recruited from the old neighborhood, fought bureaucratic battles, and oversaw major busts.
Rakkim and Colarusso sat alongside each other, their backs to the wall of the private cop joint located in the basement of St. Ignatius. Ancient music rolled from the sound system: Sinatra, Tony Bennett, Aretha Franklin. Real time-warp stuff, barely audible over the din in the room, gossip and arguments and the clatter of silverware. Father Joe tended bar in his clerical garb, while Father Alberto cooked, a mug of wine always within reach.
Rakkim had been awarded many medals for service to his country, but he was as proud of his standing invitation to this bar as any citation. It had been three years since Colarusso first brought him here. Words had been exchanged that night, jabs and insults, but Rakkim had kept his cool, and even prior to his promotion, Colarusso commanded respect. Three years later, Rakkim was still the only Muslim allowed in, but Father Joe no longer threw out Rakkim’s glass when he got up to leave, smashing it into the trash.
“State Security didn’t take kindly to me muscling into their investigation.” Colarusso twirled spaghetti around his fork. “I told them al-Faisal might be their turf, but when that Black Robe prick kills one of my locals, that’s when Homicide gets involved.” The ball of pasta grew larger as he wound the fork round and round. “We agreed to disagree.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me yet. All I’ve done so far is keep your name out of it.” Colarusso slid the fork into his mouth, chewed. “Those two John Does…coroner said he’d never seen anybody killed like that. Acted like it was something special.”
“I got lucky,” said Rakkim.
“Sure you did.” Colarusso passed Rakkim his handheld. “Here’s something else the coroner thought was odd. Eagleton died from having his neck snapped, but that kind of thing doesn’t usually lead to much blood loss.”
Rakkim stared at the crime scen
e images on the screen of the handheld, Eagleton curled up on the floor, blood from his nostrils staining his shirt.
“No other signs of trauma, just the ligature marks around his neck…” Another strand of pasta whipped through Colarusso’s lips. “Doc seemed to think whoever killed Eagleton must have played with him a while before breaking his neck.”
“Al-Faisal wasn’t in there very long…” Rakkim zoomed in on the back of Eagleton’s neck. Saw two precisely spaced indentations.
“Yeah, I noticed that too.” Colarusso wiped his mouth. “Haven’t seen marks like that since I was a rookie. Looks like the Black Robes got themselves a Bombay strangler.”
Rakkim nodded. Bombay strangler was an old cop term, partially racist, partially just ignorant. The best stranglers were trained in North Africa, that’s what he had heard, anyway. He had never met one, only knew their handiwork. Al-Faisal being a strangler explained his calmness when he saw Rakkim following him.
“So, what I’m wondering, Rikki, is what was it that al-Faisal picked up from Eagleton that was so important that even a strangler needed bodyguards?”
“I find out I’ll let you know.” Rakkim gave him back the handheld. “How’s Anthony Junior doing?”
“You know how he’s doing.” Colarusso rolled up the cuffs of his shirt, his thick forearms knotted with muscle. “Don’t pretend you don’t get reports from your Fedayeen buddies.”
“I heard he didn’t get accepted into the shadow warrior program.”
“Just as well, if you want my opinion.” Colarusso picked up a hot sausage link with his fingers, bit the end off. “He was disappointed, but the idea of Junior being sent into the Belt armed with only his dick don’t sit well with me.”
“He’ll have his blade.”
Colarusso belched. “He’d still be all by his lonesome. Just the way you shadow warriors like it.” He slowly masticated the hunk of meat, waiting in vain for an answer. “Only one in a thousand makes it into Fedayeen, and only one in a thousand of those completes shadow warrior training. That’s so, isn’t it?”
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