Twenty-five years later
The second half of the Super Bowl began right after midday prayers. The
fans in Khomeini Stadium had performed their ablutions by rote, awkwardly
prostrating themselves, heels splayed, foreheads not even touching the
ground. Only the security guard in the upper walkway had made his
devotions with the proper respect. An older man, his face a mass of scar
tissue, he had moved smoothly and precisely, fingers together, toes
forward, pointing toward Mecca. The guard noticed Rakkim Epps watching
him, stiffened, then spotted the Fedayeen ring on his finger and bowed,
offered him a blessing, and Rakkim, who had not prayed in over three
years, returned the blessing with the same sincerity. Not one in a
thousand would have recognized the plain titanium band, but the guard was
one of the early converts, the hard core who had risked everything and
expected nothing other than Paradise in return. He wondered if the guard
still thought the war had been worth it.
Rakkim looked past the guard as the faithful hurried back to their seats.
Still no sign of Sarah. A few aisles over, he spotted Anthony Jr. making
his way up the steps. The new orange Bedouins jacket he was wearing must
have cost his father a week’s salary. Anthony Sr. was too easy on him. It
was always the way; the toughest cops were soft at the center.
From his vantage point, Rakkim could see domes and minarets dotting the
surrounding hills, and the Space Needle lying crumpled in the distance, a
military museum now. Downtown was a cluster of glass skyscrapers and
residential high-rises topped with satellite dishes. To the south loomed
the new Capitol, twice as large as the old one in Washington, D.C., and
beside it the Grand Caliph Mosque, its blue-green mosaics gleaming. In the
stands below, he saw the faithful stowing their disposable prayer rugs
into the seat backs, and the Catholics pretending not to notice. He could
see everything but Sarah. Another broken promise. The last chance she
would get to play him for a fool. Which was just what he had told himself
the last time she’d stood him up.
Thirty years old, average height, a little heavier than when he’d left the
Fedayeen, but still lean and wiry. Rakkim’s dark hair was cropped, his
mustache and goatee trimmed, his features angular, almost Moorish, an
advantage since the transition. Black skullcap. He turned up his collar
against the Seattle damp, the wind off the Sound carrying the smell of
dead fish from the oil spill last week. He felt the knife in his pocket, a
carbon-polymer blade that wouldn’t set off a metal detector, the same hard
plastic in the toes of his boots.
Music blared as the cheerleaders strutted down the sidelines – all men,
of course – knees high, swords flashing overhead. The Bedouins and the
Warlords surged onto the field, and the crowd leaped up, cheering. Rakkim
took one more look around for Sarah. He saw the security guard. Something
had caught his attention. Rakkim followed the man’s line of sight and
started moving, hurrying now, taking the steps two at a time. He timed
it perfectly, caught Anthony Jr. as he reached the deserted top level. There
was an emergency exit here, a surveillance blind spot not on any of the
public schematics – the kid was a lousy thief, but knowing about the exit
said something for his planning.
“What are you doing, Rakkim?” Anthony Jr. squirmed, a muscular teenager
in a hooded sweatshirt, all elbows and wounded pride. “Don’t touch me.”
“Bad boy.” Rakkim rapped him on the nose with the wallet the kid had
lifted. Anthony Jr. hadn’t even felt Rakkim take it, patting his shirt to
make sure it was gone. Rakkim rapped him again, harder. “If the cops
arrest you, it’s your father who’s disgraced. The Black Robes snatch you,
you’ll lose a hand.”
Anthony Jr. had his father’s pugnacious jaw. “I want my money.”
Rakkim grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and threw him toward the
exit. When Rakkim turned around, the security guard with the ruined face
was already there. Rakkim held out the wallet. “The young brother found
this and didn’t know where to return it. Perhaps you could turn it in for
him.”
“I saw him find the wallet. It had fallen into a merchant’s pocket.”
“The young brother must have good eyes to have seen it there,” said
Rakkim.
The security guard’s face creased with amusement, and for that instant he
was handsome again. He took the wallet. “Go with God, Fedayeen.”
“What other choice do we have?” Rakkim started back to his VIP box.
Anthony Colarusso Sr. didn’t look up as Rakkim sat beside him. “I wondered
if you were coming back.” He guided yet another hot dog with everything on
it into his mouth, relish and chopped onions falling into his lap.
“Somebody has to be here to Heimlich you.”
Colarusso took another bite of his hot dog. He was a stocky, middle-aged
detective with droopy eyes and a thunderous gut, piccalilli dripping from
his hairy knuckles. The VIP sections in the stadium were reserved for
local politicos, corporate sponsors, and upper-echelon military officers,
with Fedayeen given preferential seating. A mere local cop, and a Catholic
besides, Colarusso would never have gotten into restricted seating if he
hadn’t been Rakkim’s guest.
The Bedouins’ quarterback took the snap, backpedaling, the football cocked
against his ear. He double-pumped, then let fly to his favorite receiver,
a blur with hands the size of palm fronds. The pass floated against the
clouds, and the receiver ran flat out, leaving his coverage behind. The
ball grazed his outstretched fingertips, but he hung on, just as one of
his cleats caught the turf and sent him face-first into grass. The ball
dribbled free.
Boos echoed across the stadium. Rakkim looked back toward the mezzanine
again. Still no sign of Sarah. He sat down. She wasn’t coming. Not today,
or any other day. He punched the empty seat in front of him, almost
snapped it off its moorings.
“Didn’t know you were such a Bedouins’ fan, troop,” said Colarusso.
“Yeah … they’re breaking my heart.”
The receiver lay crumpled on the grass as the groans of the Bedouins’ fans
echoed across the stadium. Rakkim even heard a few curses. A scrawny Black
Robe in a nearby fundamentalist section glanced around, a deputy of the
religious police with a tight black turban, his untrimmed beard a coarse
bramble. The deputy shifted in his seat, robe rippling, trying to locate
the offender. He reminded Rakkim of an enraged squid. The deputy’s eyes
narrowed at Colarusso and his mustard-stained gray suit.
“I think that eunuch’s in love with you, Anthony.”
Colarusso swiped at his mouth with a napkin. “Keep your voice down.”
“It’s a free country … isn’t it, Officer?”
It still was. Most of the population was Muslim, but most of them were
moderates and the even more secular moderns, counted among the faithful,
but without the fervor of the fundamentalists. Though the hard-liners were
a minority, their ruthless energy assured them political power far out of
proportion to their numbers. Congress tried to placate them through
increased budgets for mosques and religious schools, but the ayatollahs
and their enforcers of public virtue, the Black Robes, were not satisfied.
The receiver slowly got up, blood pouring down his face. The stadium
screen showed him coughing out a pink mist to thunderous applause.
“I remember when football helmets came with face guards,” said Colarusso.
“Where’s the honor in that?” said Rakkim. “A hard hit wouldn’t even draw
blood.”
“Yeah, well … blood wasn’t the point in the old days.”
The deputy glared now at the moderates in the bleachers, young
professionals in skirts and jeans, women and men seated together. The
Black Robes had authority only over fundamentalists, but lately they had
begun hectoring Catholics on the street, hurling stones at moderns for
public displays of affection. Fundamentalists who left the fold were
considered apostates – they risked disfigurement or death in the rural
areas, and even in the more cosmopolitan cities their families ostracized
them.
The Super Bowl blimp drifted above the stadium. Emblazoned on the airship
was the flag of the Islamic States of America, identical to the banner of
the old regime, except for the gold crescent replacing the stars. Rakkim
followed the progress of the blimp as it slowly banked in the afternoon
sun. In spite of the Black Robes, the sight of the flag still brought a
lump to his throat.
“Look who’s here,” said Colarusso, pointing to a lavish VIP box filled
with national politicians and movie stars and ayatollahs. “That’s your old
CO, isn’t it?”
General Kidd, the Fedayeen commander, saluted the network camera and the
home audience. An immigrant from Somalia, he was resplendent in his plain
blue dress uniform, his expression stoic. Beside him was Mullah Oxley, the
head of the Black Robes, his fingers bejeweled, his robe silk, his beard a
nest of oily curls. A total swank motherfucker. They made an incongruous
and unsettling couple. When Rakkim had retired three years ago, General
Kidd would never have sat next to Oxley, or any politician save the
president. The Fedayeen were independent, answerable only to their own
leadership and the needs of the nation. Three years ago anyway.
“The general looks like a real whip-cracker to me.” Colarusso put down the
hot dog. “On my best day, young and hung, I wouldn’t have lasted five
minutes in your old outfit.”
The Fedayeen were the elite troops of the Islamic Republic, used mostly on
small unit, covert operations against the Bible Belt. The breakaway states
of the old Confederacy had a sizable arsenal of nukes, and only the
balance of terror kept the two nations from all-out war. Instead there was
a constant, low-level conflict of probes and feints, deadly combat without
quarter or complaint.
“Best of the best,” continued Colarusso. “Heck, they wouldn’t even let me
in the door.”
“What do you want, Anthony?”
Colarusso fidgeted. “Anthony Jr. wants to apply to the Fedayeen. He’s
nineteen, and all he talks about is the Fedayeen, and that killer-elite
strut. He’s at the gym now, working on his skills, instead of watching the
game with his buddies. The boy is committed.”
Rakkim stared at Colarusso. “Tell him to join the army. Even better, tell
him to learn a trade. The country needs ironworkers more than it needs
Fedayeen.”
Colarusso flicked crumbs off his necktie. “My wife wanted me to ask you to
put in a word for him. He’s planning to convert, but a recommendation from
you …”
“The standard enlistment is eight years. Thirty percent of those who make
it through basic training don’t survive long enough to re-up. Does Marie
know that?”
“She knows what having a son in the Fedayeen will do for us,” said
Colarusso. “You’ve seen our daughters. They’re not raving beauties, but if
Anthony Jr. gets accepted, the girls won’t have to settle for Catholic
suitors, they’ll have their pick of the litter.”
General Kidd’s face on the stadium screen loomed over the end zones. “Do
your boy a favor. Tell Marie I don’t have that kind of clout anymore.”
“Decorated Fedayeen officer, retired with full honors … no way she buys
that story.”
“Then tell her the truth. Say that you asked and I refused.”
Colarusso looked relieved. “Thanks. I had to try, but thanks.”
“You should keep an eye on Anthony Jr. Make sure he doesn’t have too much
free time.”
“He’s a good kid, he’s just got big dreams.” Colarusso sipped his Jihad
Cola, winced. “Just ain’t the Super Bowl without a cold beer. Real beer.”
“Gentlemen?” A doughy software entrepreneur seated in an adjacent
corporate box leaned over. “If I may, I have a flask of vodka-infused
fruit juice.”
Colarusso belched, ignored him.
“Sir?” The entrepreneur showed Rakkim the neck of the flask, half pulling
it from the inside pocket of his bright green jersey.
Rakkim waved him away. The entrepreneur was one of those moderns who
wanted it both ways, wearing a sports jersey and khakis, but sporting an
Arafat kaffiyeh to please the fundamentalists. Probably bought an
instructional video to show him how to drape the checked head scarf, and
still couldn’t get it right.
The Warlords had lined up on the Bedouins’ eighteen-yard line, players
pawing at the turf, when the Bedouins called a time-out.
Rakkim stood up, stretched, took another look toward the mezzanine for
Sarah. A last look. She wasn’t there. Maybe her uncle had requested her
presence at the last minute. Maybe her car had broken down on the way to
the game, and she didn’t want to call him, afraid her calls were
monitored. Hey, maybe she had called him, but there were sunspots and
the call didn’t go through. Why not? It could happen. In an idiot’s universe.
The Warlords quarterback went into his count. Rakkim looked away from the
field, saw a couple of the deputy’s morality police barging into one of
the segregated sections. The Black Robes whipped their long, flexible
canes across the backs of three women seated there, sending them
sprawling, herding them up the aisles, the women covering themselves even
as they tried to avoid the blows.
Rakkim was on his feet, shouting at the Black Robes, but the sound of his
rage was lost in the crowd noise as the Warlords quarterback drove through
the line for a touchdown. Rakkim was too far away to help the women, and
even if he were closer, there was nothing he could do. An arrest for
interfering with the religious authority was a serious offense. The women
themselves would testify against him, would do it eagerly.
“Ugly business,” said Colarusso, standing beside him.
No telling what the women’s crime had been. They could have shown too much
ankle, or their head scarves might have slipped. Perhaps they were
laughing too loudly. Rakkim sat down, still shaking with anger as the
Black Robes swung their canes. This was the first time he had been at an
internationally televised event where the Black Robes had so freely used
their flails. Usually they were more concerned about appearances, but
today they didn’t seem to care. They were almost inviting the cameras.
The deputy a few rows ahead of Rakkim had also noticed the actions of his
fellow Black Robes, the cleric’s fingers wriggling with delight, keeping
time to the lash. Rakkim stared at him so intently that the man must have
felt the weight of his gaze and looked over at Rakkim. He inclined his
head in acknowledgment, but Rakkim didn’t respond, and the deputy turned
away, touched his turban as if for protection.
“Risky behavior, troop.” Colarusso rooted in his ear. “No sense making an
enemy.”
“Too late now.”
Colarusso examined his finger. “Always a choice.”
Rakkim watched the Black Robe. “Yeah, and I already made it.”
(Continues…)
Excerpted from Prayers for the Assassin
by Robert Ferrigno
Copyright © 2006 by Robert Ferrigno.
Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Scribner
Copyright © 2006
Robert Ferrigno
All right reserved.
ISBN: 0-7432-7289-7
