“It’s my fault,” Sarah said softly. “If I had gotten through to President Kingsley ten minutes sooner-”

“You did better than any of us.”

“That day at the apartment,” said Sarah, “Leo asked if I needed help…and I told him I could handle it. He asked me…and I turned him down. Bright as he is, bright as I knew he was…I turned him down.”

“…in the name of Allah, the merciful, I do solemnly swear,” intoned Peter Brandt.

“I didn’t want help,” Sarah said angrily. “I’m Redbeard’s niece, I didn’t need any help. Now…now the president’s dead.”

The grand ayatollah closed the Quran, bowed before President Brandt as the senators and representatives jumped to their feet, shouting, “Assalaamu Alaikum!”

“And now there’s a new president. You make mistakes, people die, you move forward. Perfect people accomplish nothing.” Rakkim noted the fundamentalist legislators glowering at the podium, Black Robes not even bothering to hide their hate. “We’re lucky Brandt was next in line. A solid moderate, just like Kingsley.”

The gigantic screen behind the podium filled with a close-up of Brandt’s handsome face framed by his tousled, sandy hair. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he acknowledged Kingsley’s widow.

General Kidd and Amir stood with their hands folded in front of them as the politicians applauded wildly, and everyone else seemed smaller and dirtier by comparison.

“Brandt’s flexible too, and well traveled,” said Sarah. “We’re going to need that.”

“You trying to convince yourself?” said Rakkim.

Sarah fingered her mother’s small, gold cross as the new president basked in the applause. She had been wearing the crucifix under her blouse since the funeral three days ago, had wept when Rakkim presented it to her. He kept waiting for her to take it off.

“I’ve read the dossier on him,” said Sarah. “He’s the best we could have hoped for. The Old One wanted chaos and insurrection, but he didn’t get it. We won. He lost.”

Rakkim stayed silent.

Brandt walked down from the podium, kissed his wife, drawing a gasp from the Black Robes, who fled up the aisles and out of the hall. Brandt continued his progress through the hall, gracefully accepting the prayers of the most powerful legislators. He looked as if he was enjoying every moment of it, his easy manner reassuring the country, the people desperately wanting a smooth succession.

“Camelot,” murmured Sarah.

“You think this is Camelot?” said Rakkim. “What, am I supposed to wear a suit of armor and joust?”

“It’s a historical allusion…” Sarah squeezed his hand. “Never mind.”

Amir must have felt Rakkim’s eyes on him, turned and found Rakkim in the gallery. He pressed his palms together in greeting. Rakkim returned the salutation. Amir had performed nobly during the rioting after the president’s death-directing Fedayeen units to secure vital facilities, initiating contacts between his father and various foreign governments, and personally protecting Brandt and his family. Kidd had promoted him to his senior staff; Amir now the heir apparent. Rakkim had called to congratulate him, their bad blood of weeks ago forgotten.

Rakkim watched as the president approached General Kidd. The president embraced Kidd warmly, kissed him on both cheeks, but Rakkim knew the general well enough to see that Kidd was keeping his distance.

The president stepped over to Amir, kissed him also, kissed him even more eagerly, then whispered in his ear. They broke the embrace, the president and Amir smiling into the cameras, side by side, the new guard, the hope and future of the republic.

Applause thundered across the hall, louder than ever, the sound rolling and echoing off the marble, building on itself like a storm growing in power and intensity. Hardened politicians wept with joy, sensing this opportunity, this last great chance for the nation to regain its former grandeur.

“Allahu Akbar!” shouted Rakkim, his voice lost in the roar. “Allahu Akbar!”

Sarah stood beside him, beating her hands together as loudly as he did, eager to believe, swept up by the moment and the glorious possibilities ahead. God was indeed great.

Acknowledgments

I would like to thank my daughter, Dani, for coming up with the title for this book, after myself and a team of highly trained professionals tapped out.

Others to whom I am indebted include: Carolyn Reidy for being in my corner and having the good sense to tell me the fight wasn’t over yet; Colin Harrison, my editor, for his encouragement and keen instincts for what I was trying to accomplish; Karen Thompson, editorial assistant to Colin, for a very smart first read of the manuscript; Karen Richardson and Steve Boldt, for their alert and insightful copyediting; Susan Moldow, my publisher, for her courage and creativity; and Mary Evans, my agent, for her steadfastness, brains, and good cheer.

I would also like to credit Rhino Records’ set of Southern gospel CDs, and a stack of rare bluegrass and country 45s from my pal Carl Waluconis, which together formed the soundtrack by which Sins of the Assassin was written.

Thanks to Calvary Presbyterian Church, a Holy Ghost tabernacle full of sweat and miracles-forty years later and I can still feel the floor shake.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

ROBERT FERRIGNO is the author of ten previous novels, including Prayers for the Assassin, The Wake-Up, Scavenger Hunt, Flinch, and the bestselling The Horse Latitudes. He lives with his family in the Pacific Northwest.