“I’d listen to her, Mr. Epps. We have to trust the professionals.” The old man stood up. “I’ll come back and visit at a better time. We have so very much to discuss.”

Rakkim was dizzy. He clung to the nurse, not sure if his memory of the assassin was a dream. Another dream. No…it was real. He had seen the assassin kill Fancy. He had seen the assassin slide his knife into her ear as though he were whispering a deep, dark secret to her.

The nurse patted his shoulder.

The last thing Rakkim remembered was lying in Sarah’s arms…lying in a sea of blood and seeing the assassin approach. Rakkim cried out and the nurse gently pressed him back into the cool white sheets.

“Welcome to the house of Allah,” said Ibn Azziz.

Angelina looked around the windowless chamber. Took in the six Black Robes in attendance. “I do not see Allah here.”

Ibn Azziz glared down at her from a high-back chair. “Do not mock me or God, woman. I am giving you a chance to atone for your sin. You have raised a whore. Perhaps it was not your doing. Perhaps you were merely following the instructions of Redbeard, but the fact is that Sarah Dougan is a whore and a blasphemer, and Allah demands that someone be held accountable.”

Angelina adjusted her head covering, grateful that she had gotten to pray this morning. “You’re thin as a dried stick, Mullah Ibn Azziz. You need a woman to fatten you up, put some meat on those bones of yours.”

Ibn Azziz glanced at his men to make certain that no one was smiling. “Your years serving Redbeard have spoiled your judgment. I need no woman for anything.”

“Then, in the name of Allah, the lord of truth, why am I here, Mullah? Why else would you have me brought before you unless you were seeking a housekeeper? Surely you weren’t seeking my counsel on matters of doctrine.”

Ibn Azziz nodded. “It is good you behave thus. I am a man inclined towards mercy when it is merited. Your insolence makes the task at hand easier.”

Angelina bowed. “It is my pleasure.”

Ibn Azziz stood up, jabbed a bony hand at her. “You will tell me where I can find the whore. You were the only mother she had. She would not have run away without telling you where she was going.”

“I love the girl as my own, but I don’t know where she is.”

“You love her, but she must not love you. To wallow in sin and leave you to explain her actions. She must think you a fool.”

Angelina watched as he stroked his wispy beard. A pathetic excuse for a beard. An even more pathetic excuse for an imam.

“I almost caught her in California a few days ago,” said Ibn Azziz. “She was in my grasp but escaped. Allah must have his reasons-”

“What do you think Redbeard will do when he finds out that you have taken me? What do you think the people will do when they find out you have desecrated a mosque?”

“I’m not afraid of Redbeard or the people. I am only afraid of God.”

“As you should be.”

“Be silent, woman!” Ibn Azziz paced the room. Thinking. Nervous as static electricity.

In all her years with Redbeard, she had never seen him as unraveled as Ibn Azziz. What was he expecting, some frightened housewife begging for mercy? An intimidated moderate with knees of jelly before the leader of the Black Robes? Angelina had been beaten before. She feared only God, and she had nothing to fear from Him.

“You will tell me where to find the whore,” said Ibn Azziz. He stood quietly now, watching her, and his nervousness was gone. “If you do not, or can not, then you will be brought before the religious court. We will charge Sarah Dougan with fornication and blasphemy in absentia. You shall be the primary witness against her.”

Angelina started to speak. Held her tongue.

Ibn Azziz seemed almost disappointed. “Make no mistake, you will testify against her. It is only a matter of how much pain you wish to endure.”

Angelina’s eyes shimmered. The man was right. They both knew it, and the pleasure it gave him was obscene. She hung her head. Asked God for courage. Looked up at Ibn Azziz. Lips quivering. “I will tell you where she is.”

Ibn Azziz sat back in his chair. He looked so young. “Speak.”

“I…I can not bear to hear my own words.” Angelina looked at the men around her. “I will not speak in front of them.”

“I will not send my guards away.”

Angelina took a deep breath. “She is…she is…” She lowered her voice, the words inaudible now.

“Speak up!”

“I love her, Mullah. The sound of my betrayal will burn my ears for eternity.”

Ibn Azziz looked at his bodyguards. Saw them indicate that she had been searched. He beckoned to her.

Angelina took a halting step. She spoke again. The words even softer than before.

“Closer!”

Angelina was two feet away. Near enough to count his eyelashes.

“That’s close enough. I can’t bear the stink of a female.”

Angelina lowered her head. Whispered.

Ibn Azziz smacked his hand against his leg, sent his black robe fluttering.

Angelina stepped forward muttering. They were close enough now that Ibn Azziz could hear the words. She was praying. Asking God to give her strength. Asking for God’s blessing for what she was about to do.

Ibn Azziz started to shout but it was too late.

Angelina launched herself at him. Hooked one of his eyes with her forefinger, drove it deep behind the jelly and scooped it out. He screamed, struggled to escape her, but the chair held him in place, and fifty years of housework had made her hands strong. Fifty years of prayer had given her courage. The eye she had torn out flopped against her wrist as she clawed at his face, seeking the other one. The eye was like a grape. A muscat grape peeled for a pasha. Such things were done in the old days. She gasped as the knives entered her body, but the thought of Sarah made her hang on, raking his face with her nails. Such screaming from Ibn Azziz. Again and again the bodyguards stabbed her, and she felt her body shudder. She wished…she wished she had been granted the gift of seeing Sarah and Rakkim marry. To see them kiss. To hold their baby in her arms. The knives…the knives hurt, but not so badly as she feared. The pain was bearable. Above all else, Allah was merciful.

CHAPTER 51

“Sorry, mister, I’m still not seeing anything.”

Rakkim stood with his arms outstretched in front of the MRI screen. “Run it again. Maximum sensitivity.”

The tech looked at Sarah. “It’s already maxed.”

“Just do it.” Sarah watched over the tech’s shoulder as the scan progressed. She turned to Rakkim, shook her head.

Rakkim let his arms drop. He should be happy. He had been certain the Old One would have implanted some sort of tracking device inside him during surgery, but the MRI body scan showed nothing. Nothing metallic. Nothing of a foreign or nonbiologic nature. Neither had Sarah’s watch registered any electronic signature. They had run a full-spectrum check with it before going to the MRI lab of the hospital. He watched Sarah pay off the tech. It wouldn’t have been hard for the Old One. Fedayeen tracking devices were as small as a poppy seed, and his wounds offered easy access for implantation. He had plenty of old scars that could have hidden the insertion point. So why had the Old One passed on the opportunity?

Sarah and Rakkim eased out the side door and into the stairwell. It had been three days since he’d woken up in the hospital and had his halting conversation with the Old One. Rakkim was dressed in some new clothes she had bought in downtown Las Vegas, ugly clothes he wouldn’t have been seen in back in Seattle-Spanish-style, black trousers with little balls running up the side seams, and a yoked Western shirt with red parrots embroidered on the chest. In a city of tourists, dress like a tourist. He still hated looking in the mirror. Her clothes were typically modern-blue leather, knee-length skirt and a short-sleeved comfort sweater that adjusted its weave depending on the ambient temperature.