Rakkim cupped his glass. “I didn’t need you to take care of Pernell.”
“What are friends for?”
Rakkim let the bourbon slide down his throat in a warm rush. “Must have been a real challenge, killing a cripple.”
“No such thing as a crippled Fedayeen.” Darwin watched Rakkim over the rim of the glass.
“Pernell must have gotten word that you got away. Probably heard about all the dead men left behind too. He was holed up in a local police station. Surrounded by badges. So there’s the challenge you were wondering about.” Darwin stuck a forefinger in the last of the drink, sucked it. “I told him you sent your regards before I killed him. Knew you’d want it that way.” He leaned forward, pointed to the wall screen behind the bar. “Look what happened to your favorite mullah.”
Mullah Ibn Azziz was being interviewed by a reporter from the state news agency. Ibn Azziz’s face was heavily bandaged, one eye completely covered as he railed about terrorists and how only the hand of Allah had saved him from the Zionist devils.
“Kind of an improvement,” said Darwin.
Rakkim spotted Lucas walking past the row of slot machines, silently cursed his bad luck. There must be a tobacco exporters convention in the city, “Did you do that to Ibn Azziz?” he asked Darwin.
“Don’t insult me.” Darwin banged his glass on the table for a refill. “If I had gotten the call, he wouldn’t be showing off his wounds.” He leaned forward, the skin stretched taut across his face as though what was inside could barely be contained. “I’d take him down at his mosque. I’d take him down in the middle of Friday prayers, right in front of the faithful. I’d shove a pork chop in his mouth and scamper off, and that would be that. I’ve told the old man, all he has to do is say the word-”
“Dave!” Lucas strode over, grinning.
Rakkim stayed seated. Not much chance that Lucas wouldn’t notice him-not with his eyes. Lucas was a tobacco grower now, but had been a sniper in the civil war, had killed twenty-seven Islamic soldiers during the house-to-house battle for Nashville. He was still the best shot in Gage County, Georgia, a maker of cornhusk dolls in his spare time.
“Dave, I can’t believe it.” Lucas clapped him on the shoulder, sat down beside him, a fleshy good ol’ boy in a badly cut blue suit. “I’m in town for the China Expo. What are you doing here?”
“Just…taking in the sights.”
Lucas glanced at Darwin, then back at Rakkim, then tugged at Rakkim’s goatee. “What’s with the chin whiskers? You look like a billy goat or one of the towel heads around here.” His laughed tapered off. “Oh, no. Don’t tell me that.”
“Lucas-”
“Christ o’dear, you’re one of them.” Lucas stood up, knocked the chair over. “They always tell us, watch out for spies, don’t trust strangers…”
“I guess the joke’s on you, peckerwood,” said Darwin.
“I’m sorry,” Rakkim said, before Lucas could swing on Darwin.
“They tell us to watch for strangers, but you weren’t no stranger,” said Lucas, still trying to make sense of it. “First time I met you, it was like you were kin.” The bags under his eyes had gotten puffier in the four years since Rakkim had seen him. “You sat on my sofa and drank my whiskey. We went hunting together, fishing together…My niece…Jesus, my niece is still on me, asking when you’re coming back.”
“I wish I had a violin, so I could properly accompany this tale of woe,” said Darwin.
Lucas stared down at Darwin. “Hey, shit-fer-brains, are you a spy too?”
Rakkim could see tiny flecks of light in Darwin’s eyes. “No, Lucas, he’s the guy who’s going to kill me someday.”
“Yeah?” said Lucas. “That true, mister?”
“It’s a possibility.” Darwin’s right hand flexed ever so slightly.
“Well, sooner rather than later.” Lucas turned to Rakkim. Unsure what to do now. He wanted to say something. To keep things going. To unleash his hurt and betrayal. Darwin would be happy to help him. To goad him into more trouble than Lucas could imagine.
“Good-bye, Lucas,” said Rakkim.
“Don’t leave, peckerwood,” said Darwin, affecting a mock-Southern drawl.
“Good-bye,” said Rakkim.
Lucas stalked away.
“Here.” Darwin palmed Rakkim’s knife over to him. He must have been waiting for the opportunity to gut Lucas with Rakkim’s own blade. “You spoil all my fun.”
Rakkim tucked the knife away. “You haven’t seen anything yet.”
The waitress brought fresh drinks.
Rakkim took a swallow. The last time he had tasted Mayberry Hollow, he was in Lucas’s living room watching old football games. Lucas had years of Georgia football, all the way back before the war. The Georgia Bulldogs-leave it to the rebels to pick a dog as a mascot. There had been some good times with Lucas. The man knew how to tell a joke, and he laughed hardest when the joke was on him. Not this time, though.
Darwin sipped his whiskey. “What have you got on the old man?” He tapped his glass with a fingernail. “Must be something special, because you and the girl got him spooked.”
“Hasn’t he told you?” Rakkim tilted back in his chair. Darwin had good control, but from this angle Rakkim could track minute changes in the assassin’s respiration by watching the tiny hairs in his nose. “Golly, I wonder what that means.”
Darwin slid his index finger along the rim of his glass. “I don’t need to know everything that goes on in the old man’s head.”
“Still, a man with your specialty…” Rakkim shook the glass so that the ice rattled. “It has to sting.”
Darwin’s mouth smiled. “Sometimes.” He cocked his head, listening, then glared at Rakkim. “We’ll have to continue the foreplay some other time, Rikki. The old man wants to talk with you. Chop-chop.”
CHAPTER 53
“I love this time of the evening,” said the Old One, resting his hands on the railing. “The wind dies down and there’s this brief moment of stillness before the thermals bring the cool desert air rushing down from the mountains.”
Rakkim surveyed the city spread out before them, a vast neon sea glittering in the night. They were alone atop the penthouse on the ninetieth floor of the International Trust Services building. Dozens of bright hot-air balloons drifted against the mountains, catching the last of the light. The Old One was younger than he expected; somewhere in his seventies, a distinguished Arab with a groomed white beard and a face like a hawk. Hint of a British accent. Dark blue suit, collarless linen shirt. A man comfortable with authority.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you when you’re fully awake. I remember getting a report that Redbeard had adopted some homeless urchin, and wondering what he was up to.” The Old One inclined his head toward Rakkim. “I quickly realized Redbeard’s wisdom. He and I aren’t that different. We each seek allies, instruments to carry out our will. People we can mold and shape. Most of all we seek a successor to carry on our work. I chose to have sons to carry on my legacy. Redbeard chose you.”
“I hope your sons worked out better for you than I did for Redbeard.”
“You’re much too modest.”
Rakkim caught the slight change in intonation. The faint whiff of regret. “Your sons must have been quite a disappointment.”
The Old One adjusted his cuffs. “Fortunately I have many sons.”
“You’re going to need every one of them.”
The Old One didn’t acknowledge the threat. “Do you believe in God, Rakkim? One who takes an active interest in the world? One who rewards submission and obedience?”
“I think God has better things to do.”
“I used to say the same thing when I was young. At least I hoped He had better things to do. That way He wouldn’t notice what I was doing.” The Old One folded his hands. “You haven’t lost your faith, you merely misplaced it. God has plans for you. That’s why you’re here right now. Why you didn’t die when the police shot you. Why I had Darwin bring you here, and why I had your wounds tended. We are both chosen by God to do great things-a burden and a blessing.” He peered at Rakkim with those deep-set eyes. “Some think me a devil and some think me the Mahdi, but I am a Muslim. As are you. We are brothers. We should not make war on each other.”