You’d think Allah hated beauty the way the Black Robes acted.
Rakkim stayed far behind al-Faisal, loose-limbed and easy like a good Catholic funboy, quietly nursing his anger. While Seattle and Southern California were bastions of moderation, even in the capital, the Black Robes enforced their dictates on the fundamentalist population. A devout Muslim woman unescorted by a brother or husband could be whipped on the streets of Seattle, and adulterers and fornicators were stoned to death in the countryside. Fundamentalist redoubts like New Fallujah and Milwaukee and Chicago were worse-governed by the most extreme sharia law.
Rakkim had last seen al-Faisal two years ago at a mass hanging in New Fallujah. Harlots and homosexuals, witches and Jews dangled from the high beams of the bridge, swinging gently over San Francisco Bay as al-Faisal harangued the crowd, called forth the blessings of God. The Golden Gate, that’s what it was called in the old days. Its new name, the Bridge of Skulls, suited it better. He flexed his right forearm again as he watched al-Faisal walk down First Avenue. Felt the Fedayeen knife tucked flat against the inside of his forearm, ready to snap forth. For those with memories, there were always scores to be settled. Odd thoughts for Rakkim. Shadow warriors preferred anonymity, killing only as a last resort, but Rakkim wasn’t a shadow warrior anymore. He was something else now, and whether it was more or less than before, he hadn’t decided.
The air tasted of smog and salt water, hung heavy with the aroma of coffee from the nearby Starbucks, of clam chowder and jerked goat kebabs from the street vendors. Shoppers coughed as they strolled along, and Rakkim felt the grit at the back of his throat too-smoke and ash from the superfires raging across Australia and China, incinerating everything in their path. News kiosks yesterday showed footage of burning kangaroos hopping wildly across a smoldering landscape, the whole sky black behind them. The antiterror blimps ringing the city caught the last of the setting sun, looked to be ablaze, and it seemed to Rakkim that the whole world was on fire.
Two brightly garbed moderns chattered past, and Rakkim inhaled the women’s fragrance, grateful for the heady scent of the latest Italian perfume- La Dolce Vita, the sweet life, at eight hundred dollars an ounce. Moderns were so optimistic. Eager consumers enamored of their shiny, pretty things, the constantly upgraded gadgets. The modern’s wealth comforted them, made them fearless as dreamers, eyes fluttering as dawn approached.
Al-Faisal threw his arm around a stranger, pretending bonhomie with a fellow Catholic, certain of his camouflage. Al-Faisal another optimist, assured that Allah had already written his triumph in the Book of Days.
Ironic that the two opposites, moderns and fundamentalists, were the only ones in the Islamic Republic certain that the future would be better, that their vision was destined to sweep away all others. The rest of the country, the silent majority of moderate Muslims and Christians…they noticed the crumbling freeways and failing energy grid, an infant mortality rate worse than Nigeria’s, and the regular outbreaks of cholera in Chicago and Denver. Let the fundamentalists and moderns trust in their hollow gods. Rakkim believed in the warmth of Sarah beside him, and the first halting steps of their son. He believed in unexpected friendships and laughter in the face of the inevitable. Optimism? A man had to close his eyes to remain an optimist, and there was no honor in that.
Optimism was for fools and children, that’s what Redbeard used to say. Pray for victory, plan for disaster. Redbeard had been Rakkim’s mentor. His tormentor. His taskmaster. His uncle in all ways but blood. Redbeard, the nation’s spymaster, lover of bone-crunching football and contraband Coca-Cola…ferocious patriot, committed moderate. Redbeard had died as peaceful a death as God granted, sitting in the back of a limo with his niece Sarah by his side. Not a day passed that Rakkim didn’t wish Redbeard were still alive. President Kingsley needed him now more than ever. Needed his strength and determination, his cool counsel when the world seemed ablaze. The nation needed Redbeard. So did Rakkim.
News reports boomed from a kiosk, a holographic display showing troop movements along the border of the Mexican empire. Rakkim slowed. A commercial for cling-free chadors crawled along the bottom of the display while tanks rolled across the desert, a red crescent emblazoned on their turrets. Rakkim pretended interest, watching the bodyguards reflected in the display. The three of them did a slow pivot, scanning the crowd as al-Faisal hurried on. The Black Robe still walked wrong.
Two college girls approached, moderates, their sheer pink veils only enhancing their beauty rather than masking it. Their eyes lingered on Rakkim-Catholics were forbidden fruit, their lust and volatility whispered about with fascination. Rakkim smiled back, kept walking, embarrassed at the pleasure their interest gave him. He thought of Sarah waiting for him at home, and for the millionth time was grateful for not being Catholic. Those fools so eager to confess. Who could keep up with his own sins?
Al-Faisal cut across the street, oblivious to the horns beeping around him. His bodyguards took their time, peeling off slowly.
Rakkim crossed at the signal, then stopped to buy an ice cream cone. Strawberry mango. He ambled after al-Faisal into the warren of small shops on the outskirts of the Zone, licking ice cream off his fingers.
The Zone was a moral free-fire district, a sector where vice was tolerated and the police minded their own business. Creative, sordid, corrupt, the Zone was filled with dance clubs and foreign-movie theaters, black-market electronics and love hotels. A center of dangerous fun. A safety valve. Americans were still Americans in spite of the new flag, the new regime. No streetlights in the Zone; the only illumination came from the neon signs and the dim interiors. Rakkim had lived in the Zone before he married Sarah. Had owned a nightclub, the Blue Moon. He knew the Zone, but the Zone no longer knew him.
Music throbbed from every doorway, part of the unique signature of the Zone. While most of the city was off-limits to anything other than religious chants and sermons, the Zone took pride in showing off its freedom from any restraints. Russian pop, Brazilian thump, Chinese techno, and Motown overlapped and merged in the Zone, became a dissonant heartbeat. Everyone walking down the street picked up the beat, feet moving faster, hearts racing, heads bobbing. Rat-a-tat-tat. Al-Faisal resisted, but even he was forced to give in, swinging his hands as his stride lengthened. He was going to have to ask forgiveness for such spontaneity, pray himself hoarse to atone for his inadvertent pleasure. Perhaps he would even sacrifice a white goat, slit its throat himself, then distribute the meat to the poor. There were always plenty of hungry mouths.
Al-Faisal stumbled on a patch of blackened sidewalk, the concrete cracked and uneven. A suicide bomber had blown himself up on this spot on Easter Sunday a year ago. The bomber had been trying to get into the Kitchy Koo Klub but the place was packed; he had to settle for taking out forty-three people waiting outside. A costly ticket to Paradise. It had been a bad spring in the capital, with suicide bombers targeting the Zone, the death toll in the hundreds. Officially, Bible Belt zealots had been blamed, but the grand mullah of the Black Robes in New Fallujah had been responsible. The president himself visited the Zone after the worst attack, cameras rolling, declaring the nation would not be intimidated. He also quietly ordered a Fedayeen commando team to infiltrate New Fallujah and blow up the grand mullah’s personal mosque. The suicide attacks in the capital stopped immediately.