Starless Sky (first chapter; excerpt)

“Daddy, I want you to read me a story like you used to,” said Lainey, looking up at her father with hopeful, wide brown eyes as she grabbed his hand and tottered down one of the White House’s carefully groomed corridors.

Charles Maynard smiled down at his daughter, letting her lead him to the North patio. A pair of Secret Service agents followed as the President sat in a cushioned garden chair, and Lainey crawled into his lap, a picture book in her other hand.

“Once upon a time,” said Maynard, opening the pages to Cinderella, “there was a beautiful girl living in her stepmother’s house, and her stepmother was very cruel. Her name was Cinderella, and she was made to do all the chores, while her two ugly stepsisters, agh!”

“No, Daddy,” said Lainey, tugging at the page, “that’s not what it says.” But Maynard didn’t answer. Suddenly, blood began to pour down his face as his skull caved in, and Lainey screamed, grabbing her father, and in the split-second following the shot and the blood, red, red blood, everywhere, and the sound of the pop, pop as the bullet made impact on human flesh and Maynard’s murmured sigh, the Secret Service burst out on all sides and covered the President, tackling him to the floor even as his body went limp, shooting in the direction of the unknown assassin, who shot back, pop, pop, missing the agents. Maynard’s blue eyes went wide, and then rolled back into his head. He tried to speak, but the agents beside him shushed him. Where is Lainey?

* * *

Natalie bent down to pick up after her dog, ignoring a toddler’s stare from across the street. Oh, Snoopy, what did you eat? “It” was green and slimy. She shook her head in distaste before disposing of the waste in a plastic bag, which she threw carelessly into a dumpster—and missed. She looked ten times each way at the crosswalk before crossing, even though it was a red light, and hurried Snoopy on, even though it wasn’t cold and there was no traffic.

Sirens blasted somewhere in the distance. They had been blaring for the past ten minutes now, cause enough for Natalie to pull out her iPod for some calming solo piano. What’s happened? She tried to think, but was distracted by the dog’s incessant pulling on the leash.She skipped lightly up the front steps to a large yellow house, rang the doorbell three times, even though it was her house and her daughter wasn’t home, then pulled out the key and stepped inside.

The phone was ringing before she hit the threshold, an annoying buzz perfectly calibrated to irritate her sensitive auditory nerves, or so she thought. Natalie unclipped Snoopy, who then ran wildly through the kitchen, tracking dirt everywhere, and picked up the phone, practically grabbing it from the wall mount.

“Natalie Schultz,” she chirped, cradling the phone in the nook between her shoulder and neck.

“Special Agent,” a familiar male voice said.

“I do have a name, you know.”

“Get down to the White House. Now. The President and his daughter were just assassinated.” The Director of the FBI hung up, and Natalie put on her coat, even though she’d just taken it off.

“Bye, Snoopy, you be a good dog,” she said, patted him on the head, grabbed her gun from the table along with a bag of Doritos, scribbled a note for her daughter explaining her absence, and rushed out the door, gently closing it behind her.

* * *

As soon as Natalie walked into the White House, her partner thrust a piece of paper—papyrus, it seemed—into her face, and she had to stop and slow down so she could focus on the letters. Natalie adjusted her glasses and took the letter from Casie, holding it up to the light.

America, you have forgotten your god! You have forsaken your people! You have forbidden men from being righteous! Open your eyes, and see. The blindfold will be removed.

Charles Maynard was the epitome of American society, that is to say, of gluttony, arrogance, and other such immoral plagues which besiege your damnable nation. As such, therefore, it is only natural that he should be the first to die.

This is a warning, to those of you with any sense, those with ears to hear and eyes to see, they will heed the trumpet call of Gabriel and turn their eyes to the Way, and fall repentant before Allah. Those who do not are contemptible, unfit to live, and will find their eternal destiny in hell.

Tahira Ali

Casie leaning over Natalie shuddered, but Natalie only gripped the letter tighter. Natalie now knew why the Director had wanted her here—she was the agent leading a five-hundred man task force to locate and apprehend Tahira Ali. Even here, on a bulletin board in the hall, there hung a copy of the wanted poster hung on walls, with the bold caption FBI TEN MOST WANTED FUGITIVE heading them. Natalie remembered the face with perfect clarity, but it was the woman’s eyes that always struck her—grey and with an enigmatic sort of depth.

“Tahira Ali? I’m not sure I want in on this case,” said Casie, rubbing her hands together, casting anxious looks over her shoulder. “But of course, my opinion doesn’t matter. Not when you’re around.”

“Why does no one tell me anything until I’m already at the crime scene?” Natalie complained. “You do it too.”

Casie tossed her blonde hair over her shoulder and stuck her nose in the air. “I don’t know; people don’t like you? Here, put these on,” she said and handed Natalie a pair of gloves. “The scene is rather messy. You don’t want to be touching anything.”

“I know. Hey Casie, did you know that Maltese dogs don’t shed because they have human hair instead of animal fur?” Natalie asked as the two women navigated a crowd of personnel. Voices rose from all directions, people shouting orders, demanding items, people pressed in all around them, with badges identifying them as White House staff, Secret Service, FBI, CIA, military, and a few others. “Maybe I should have thought about that before getting Snoopy—he sheds everywhere, and poor Sofia can never stop sneezing.”

“Will you shut up?” Casie said, throwing her hands in the air. “Ugh! The President of the effing United States is dead!”

Natalie was silent for a moment, absentmindedly pushing a stray piece of hair behind her ear, then, “So? Where was he shot? Are you going to brief me or what?”

“Maynard walked out on the patio; someone shot him; he’s dead. Patio’s that way,” Casie said.

The body lay sprawled like a randomly thrown card, Maynard’s glassy eyes staring up at the infinite skies, lying in a lukewarm pool of his own blood. Casie turned away. The body was still warm, though cooling fast. The white noise of background conversations was quieter from outside, although no less than a dozen Secret Service personnel stood out on the patio, bearing identical anxious looks.

* * * * *

The Bethasfah sunset was not nearly as stunning in depth and gradient as the Mutalistan one, but the colors were deep and beautiful nevertheless. Scarlet red to blood red, and mandarin orange to dull ochre, uranium yellow to daisy yellow, and the brilliant white of the disc, a crescent visible above the fading horizon line.

The sun was nearly gone, a few last rays struggling over the deep, dark waters of the tensing ocean, when the rotors of helicopter could be heard in the distance. A young girl with long black hair rushed to the landing pad to greet it, and when the helicopter landed, only she saw the assassin step onto the island.

“A cup of chai,” the murderer growled, and the girl ran off to get it.

* * * * *

“Preliminary thoughts,” said Director Robert Edwards, a short, stocky man with a tie too long for his torso. He was the only man in the situation room standing—everyone else was seated, some against the wall. But Edwards could never sit; otherwise no one would be able to see the wild bush on his head or the crazed flapping of his excited hands. Fortunately, everyone could always hear his foghorn voice. “Agent Schultz, do you think this was a conspiracy or simply a crazed thrill seeker with a grudge?”

“Well, sir,” said Natalie, sitting on the other end of the table, a pen in her hand, “considering the missive we received from Tahira Ali, and Ali’s known connections to Al Qaeda and Usama bin Ladin, I think we ought to consider an international conspiracy. Despite the fact that President Maynard has been fairly popular, with a very high approval rate these past few months, there are always those willing to strike out against America and the things we stand for. And there is certainly no better symbol for all of America’s people than her president.”

“Why though? Why does Tahira Ali want Charles Maynard dead?” Edwards began to pace the cramped front of the room, his shadow darkening a row of screens tuned to various news stations and websites, all muted.

“It’s in the letter, sir,” said Natalie, looking down at the floor. The table had been removed to allow for more people. She began to roll the pen between her fingers, concentrating hard. “Tahira Ali specifically said that America is a sinful country and Charles Maynard represented that sin. Ali also notes that he will be ‘the first to die’.”

The scholars in the room who hadn’t already dutifully highlighted the phrase. “The more pressing questions,” Casie said from her seat next to Natalie, “are will we be able to find Tahira Ali? Will we be able to apprehend her? Where is she? And who is she planning to kill next?”

“It’s on the website,” Natalie said, the same way she might have said, “I got a new skirt.”

“What website?” Edwards growled, whirling to face Natalie.

“This one right here,” Natalie said cheerfully, pointing to a screen displaying a website in Arabic script.

“Well?” Edwards asked, arching an eyebrow. “Anyone care to translate what this goddamned thing says?”

“No need to swear,” Natalie said. “It’s in Farsi, the Persian language spoken in Iran and parts of Afghanistan. Farsi is an Indo-European tongue closely related to English; however, it is written—”

“Ease off the lecture, Schultz,” said Edwards, pacing again.

“It’s a message from an Al Qaeda operative codenamed Abdelmumet, or ‘Servant to the Destroyer’, promising death to the entire Department of Homeland Security. It says ‘There shall be no safety or refuge in their homeland, for we shall transform it into a wasteland. They will run and cower in fear, but the Destroyer’s hand will find them and they will perish.’ Then there is a passage congratulating Tahira Ali.”

“Have any of our official translators looked at this?” Edwards asked.

“Me,” Natalie said with a hurt look.

“How credible is the threat?” Everyone turned to see the woman who had spoken. She closed the door behind her. It was Abigail McKinley, the former Vice-President. She had just been sworn in a few hours before.

“I don’t know yet,” Edwards snapped, his feet pounding furiously on the floor. “Schultz how credible is the threat against Homeland Security?”

Natalie swallowed thoughtfully, the pressure on the pen increasing. “Very credible, sir. They’ve just assassinated the President of the United States, the man with more security around him than the whole Pentagon.”

“I suggest we get to work,” said McKinley, and she turned gracefully to leave the room, a flood of analysts and agents and military personnel practically stampeding to escape Robert Edwards. When they were gone, only Natalie and Edwards remained, and Natalie stood, ready to leave, the pen whirling at a faster pace.

“Goddammit!” Edwards shouted, whirling and kicking the wall. The pressure on the pen in Natalie’s hand crushed it and the red ink slowly flowed out as Natalie ran from the room.