Heart of the Assassin (11 page)

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."

"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."

"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."

"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, the 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."

"Where would you make your assault?"

Amir examined the hologram, noting the access routes into the city, and the choke points where any Belt counterattack would bog down. A koi leaped out of the pond, landed with a splash, but Amir didn't react. He tapped a finger in the northeast quadrant where a new freeway system offered eight lanes into the heart of the city. "Here."

"Easy to get in," said Hussein, "but what happens when they slam the door after you?"

"My tanks would make short work--"

"Your tanks will sacrifice their mobility once they leave the main streets."

Amir reconsidered the problem. "This old irrigation canal is undefended. We can attack from the north as a diversion, then send the tank force up the canal and cut the city in half. Before they can shift their heavy weaponry we'll wipe them out."

"What if the enemy has mined the canal?"

"I'd send a reconnaissance team."

"If they were spotted, your element of surprise would be lost."

Amir slid a hand across his shaved head. "I'd take the chance."

Hussein patted his shoulder. "Boldness is a virtue in a warrior," he said, blue eyes flashing, "but in this case, your attack would have stalled. The canal
was
mined. The Belt commander was very good, well-schooled and disciplined."

There were some in the Fedayeen who thought that Hussein should have been appointed supreme commander of the Fedayeen, but Kidd's defense of Newark had galvanized the nation and, even more important, Kidd had the support of President Kingsley. Politically more astute, Kidd was gracious in victory, personally guaranteeing that captured rebels were humanely treated. By contrast, Hussein torched whole cities, poisoning water sources and showing no mercy. When Hussein was severely injured during the assault on Dallas, Kidd appointed his adjutant to take over the Third Army. The adjutant, unwilling to use the brutalities employed by Hussein, gave ground to the Texans' relentless counterattacks, retreating back to the border. Three months later, when Hussein was released from the hospital, the war was over.

Left with one arm, two prosthetic legs and the nation's highest military decoration, Hussein challenged the adjutant to a death match. In the chill of November, the two of them circled each other in the outdoor combat ring at the academy, went round and round, knives flashing as they waited for an opening. It was over within the first minute; Hussein eviscerated the adjutant, left him staring at his guts steaming on the sand.

There had been some grumbling at the manner of death, the adjutant deemed worthy of a heart strike rather than being gutted like a fish, but Kidd had stood quietly from the gallery, acknowledged Hussein as the victor and declared that Allah had spoken. Hussein served another ten years before retiring to his estate on Vashon, one of the small islands just offshore from Seattle. From time to time he tutored the best and brightest from the academy, schooling them in his own slashing techniques of attack and counterattack. Amir had been coming to his home for seven years now, ever since his first term at the academy. Amir's success against the Mormons last year was considered an adaptation of Hussein's feint and strike maneuvers against the Belt forces. It was only in the last year that Amir realized his education was secondary to his recruitment.

"How...how did you take Amarillo?" said Amir.

Hussein beckoned and his youngest wife appeared from the house bearing tea and sweet cakes, stuffed dates and dried apricots.

Amir watched her pour tea for them, head bowed, a soft smile on her face. Such tiny hands, and such long, slender fingers. She backed away and out of sight.

Hussein sipped his tea. "Do you find her lovely?"

"If she is lovely, it is for the glory of Allah and her husband," said Amir.

"A diplomatic answer." Hussein popped a date into his mouth. "There are times you are too much like your father."

"I respect you, Hussein," Amir said quietly, "but you should be careful not to underestimate me. I'm the only person who has the ear of both my father
and
the president. The Old One recognizes my value. You should do the same."

Hussein set his teacup down.

"Now tell me, how
did
you take the city?"

Hussein picked among the dried apricots. "I called for a meeting with the Belt commander. Offered to meet him on his own turf. Accompanied only by two officers, I approached the city in an open vehicle, passed through their lines staring straight ahead." He pointed at the display. "We met there...at a lovely Catholic church. I'm sure the commander intended to unnerve me, but I was raised Catholic, did you know that?"

"No...I didn't."

"I was a good Irish Catholic with a bleeding crucifix tattooed on my left bicep," said Hussein. "I had it lasered off when I converted to the truth faith, but you could still see it...then Allah in his mercy chose to have it blown away with a rocket blast." He lifted the empty sleeve, let it drop. "A blessing. Now I can enter Paradise unsullied."

Amir watched the blue fabric ripple in the breeze. "Is that why you never had a prosthetic arm attached?"

"Seemed like the least I could do to show my gratitude." Hussein slowly chewed the apricot. "The rebels live-casted my meeting with their commander--Major Tom Muzilla, a tough old Texan with a wad of chaw in his cheek. We talked football and old movies and the way things used to be. The way things might be again, if politicians got their heads out of their asses and realized we were all Americans. He said he was in no hurry to fight with us, but if it was a battle we wanted, we best be prepared to die." Hussein looked at Amir. "I said I'd think about it. Said I was going to go back and pray for guidance. He said, 'Sir, take as much time as you need,' and we shook hands. His hands were rough as cactus, but it was a good, solid handshake."

Amir remembered his father's hands holding the glass of khat infusion this afternoon. When he was a child he felt he could curl up and go to sleep in the palm of his father's hand, sleep forever in safety and peace.

Hussein pointed to a spot near the eastern edge of the city, "That's the main natural gas delivery system. Guarded like it was Fort Knox. But here..." He tapped a point closer to the center. "And here, and here." More taps. "These are the primary intersections where all that gas feeds into the city...and those spots weren't guarded at all." He narrowed his eyes. "While most of Amarillo was watching their commander and me talk, I activated a squad I had sent into the city a couple of weeks earlier, and these men blew the gas feeds with incendiaries. Within ten minutes the whole city was ablaze, the streets filled with people on fire." He chewed, grinding away at the apricot, turning it to paste. "You could hear the screams from a mile away. Their security perimeter collapsed, volunteers throwing down their weapons in their haste to flee." He spit the apricot pit into the display, the hologram shimmering for an instant before regaining its structure. "Next morning the smoldering city smelled like bad barbecue, and we headed toward San Antonio to join up with the rest of our force."

"I...I never read anything about that," said Amir.

"It wasn't something that President Kingsley was proud of," said Hussein. "To be honest, it wasn't something I was proud of either. That Belt commander...he and I, we could have been friends if he wasn't an infidel dog." He glared at Amir. "You may have the ear of this coward they call the president, but never forget who put you in position to whisper your soothing words into his ear." He swept the holographic city into oblivion with a wave of his hand. "The secret of victory is to find the point of maximum vulnerability and then
strike.
No matter your feelings. No matter how much you respect the enemy. So when the moment comes for your father to choose sides, you best be ready to do what is required of you. If that means you have to kill him, then do it. Afterwards you can shed salty tears at his funeral like a good son."