Assassination in Al Qahira

by James Boschert

  Every dark shadow that was scattered across the quay hid one of Panhsj’s men, who had silently moved into place. They waited for the command to attack.

  At Fayoum, earlier on, the chaos resulting from the panic and disruption of the assault by the Hashishini had finally been brought under control by Malek. The fire which had threatened to engulf the entire house had been beaten out, although it had caused extensive damage. They had dealt with the dead in Muslim way, but because of the urgency of their situation only hasty prayers were muttered over the corpses as they were interred in the garden.

  A sense of fearful urgency had permeated everywhere and everyone. They now knew the intentions of the enemy, but he still did not have a name or a face.

  The one assassin who had escaped from Talon had not been found, which was worrisome, but now everyone was alert and no one went about the compound alone.

  Khalidah had recovered from the blow to her head and wore a linen bandage under her scarf. She had been dazed but aware, and the children, who were surprisingly calm, had tended to her with great care. They had been most supportive despite their fears. All the same, Talon noticed that Jasmine had a small fit of shivers in her mother’s arms, and Kazim put his arms around Panhsj while Talon was binding up his friend’s arm. “You will live, my friend, but we must get a physician to sew it up soon. For now we will bind it up well,” Talon told Panhsj, who nodded with a grim smile, then patted the young boy on the head.

  “It is good. Do not be afraid, young master. We will win this war,” he said for the benefit of Kazim, who was on the verge of tears.

  They discovered the dead sentries in the corner of the walled area, right at the back of the compound, their throats slit. This explained the manner of entry, but it did not answer the question of the identity of the person or people who had sent the assassins. They still did not have enough information about the man known as Al Muntaqim. That was obviously not his proper name but no one could think of whom it might be. It had been a shaken group who discussed the nature of the danger they now faced.

  They had been forced to reassess their position and what they needed to do next.

  Talon and Max were adamant that they should leave as soon as they could. Both had been in a siege before, and neither wanted to face the kind of odds that they knew were on their way to destroy them. An idea occurred to Talon during the discussion, but he was hesitant to put it forward. Eventually he decided that it was worth talking about.

  “Why do we not take their ship which is still moored at Beneade and sail off in that?”

  There was utter silence while everyone in the room stared at him as though he had just lost his mind. But there was another surprise to come. Khaldun, who had joined them in the room, his frail frame seated on a cushion, had heard and with a chuckle he weighed in on his side.

  “We have not enough animals to transport us safely out of trouble and no time to escape into the desert, where we would be easily overtaken. Suleiman might be right! Although he sounds mad, there is a ship and we should at least see if we can take it. Then we have a means of transport,” he said with raised eyebrows as though to say, “Has anyone a better idea?”

  “How do you propose to take the boat?” Max asked skeptically. The question was on everyone’s mind.

  “I intend to walk onto the boat and take it off them…with your help,” Talon replied with a tense grin.

  “You know that if this mad plan of yours works, we cannot go north as we will run straight into Al Muntaqim. You told me the assassin said there were two galleys coming,” Panhsj said slowly.

  “You are right. I had forgotten that,” Talon muttered.

  “If we go south there are places where Lord Abbas was known and respected. We could ask for shelter there.” Malek looked at Khalidah for guidance.

  “You are right, he has…there are relatives of mine in the city of Aswan. There is a cousin of my Grandmother’s side of the family who might be disposed to protect me,” Khalidah said, a little doubtfully.

  “How many of us are there?” Talon asked.

  “There are about forty men and women and children altogether,” Malek said automatically.

  “How many soldiers from that number do we have?” Max asked.

  “Twenty, as of the last count, but we lost some tonight,” Malek said.

  “A large boat could take us all. How large would the crew of this ship be?” Talon asked.

  It was a question that hung in the air, but it was as though everyone had decided at the same time that this was the only course of action, and they had to make it happen or die in the attempt.

  Hurried preparations had followed to leave within the hour. Some of the servants, particularly the women, wailed and wrung their hands at the thought of abandoning most of their possessions to looters, but Khalidah took firm charge and told the majority of the servants to go back to their houses in the villages and lie low until she came back. Allah willing, it would not be long. This left her with a smaller group of single girls and one old woman who elected to stay with her and take her chances.

  “The land needs people to till it and maintain it. Whoever is coming might destroy the house and the compound, but they will see no value in destroying crops that they will want for their own. They might even spare the house,” she told the weeping servants who were leaving to rejoin their villages.

  She did not add that she was sick with fear for them, but she hoped that they would be spared, if only to work in the fields. Talon doubted Al Muntaqim would spare the house. When angry and frustrated, men were destructive. An hour after midnight they had abandoned the house and compound. The parting had been painful; no one was sure they would ever see the servants or the buildings again.

  The plan was for Malek to provide a diversion and make the enemy think a much larger party had fled into the desert by taking some men and heading west, skirting the lake Birket el Querun to the south, then riding over the low but steep hills of the Wadi Moih. Malek took this role upon himself because he had men with him from this region that knew the desert like the back of their hands and could find the most obscure paths over the surrounding hills, even in the dark.

  “We will leave a clear trail for Al Muntaqim to follow, but gradually we will cover our tracks more carefully, and then hopefully we will disappear,” he told them.

  “I would like to come with you, Malek,” Max volunteered.

  Malek shook his head, but smiled. “Allah’s blessings be upon you, my friend. It will be easier for me and my men to go alone. Besides, I will feel better if the three of you are there to protect my Lady and the children.”

  Max bowed his head, accepting the fact unwillingly, but Panhsj gripped his good arm. “Malek is right, Max. I have heard of your prowess in battle and we might well find ourselves in the middle of a bad fight for the boat. He is going to play the fox, while we have to be the wolves tonight.”

  * * * * *

  “They are still waiting for the killers to come back,” Panhsj whispered in Talon’s ear.

  The three stood not far from the sad bundle of rags that had formerly been one of the syce boys who had volunteered as scout and now lay inert on the open ground. They now knew the reason they had not been warned. They could not move the body without being noticed, so it still lay in the middle of the dirt road.

  “You are right,” Talon whispered, “and I must show myself and pretend that I am the only one of the three that made it back.” His heart was beating fast, for he had no idea if the men on the galley were aware of the turn of events. He was sure they would have sailed had they known.

  Panhsj stared at him with a blank look. Talon felt he had to spell it out.

  “One got away, remember? But I wounded him, badly. I do not think he has made it back or the boat would be gone, and it is time for me to move lest he get here first.”

  “Go with Allah. We will be right behind you,” Panhsj said.

  “Make sure our friend does not arrive while I am w
alking to the boat,” Talon whispered back, his mouth dry.

  He moved out of the shadows and began to limp towards the quay. The cloth on his leg was covered in someone else’s blood. He reached the quay and began to stagger along the crude wooden planks, moving in and out of the large bales of flax and other debris that cluttered the wooden platform. He was within thirty feet of the ship before anyone noticed him and gave a shout. A heavyset man with a bald head leaned over the side of the galley and called out to him. The man was standing almost level with the planks of the quay. It would be easy for Talon to step down a short pace and be on the center deck of the boat. He kept his face concealed from view but he grunted as though in pain and staggered towards where the man stood looking at him.

  “Were you successful?” the man asked in a loud voice.

  Talon grunted and nodded and kept coming, he held his leg, which looked as though the cloth was saturated with his own blood.

  He was by now abreast of the large man, who raised his lamp to get a better look at him. There was a sharp intake of breath. “You are wounded. Where are the others?” the man said in a loud voice, offering him a helping hand as he stood at the cut away part of the boat’s side, where the gangway rested.

  “Dead,” Talon grunted in a muffled voice.

  He limped across the board and almost fell into the man’s thick arms. The man gave an exclamation of surprise which turned to a gasp of agony as Talon’s slim knife drove into his chest. The man fell back, holding his chest with both hands and stared down at himself in shock, then slowly toppled backwards with a crash onto the deck.

  At this moment the quay became alive with men brandishing swords and spears who seemed to appear from nowhere. They screamed like devils as they charged across the remaining feet of the quay towards the side of the ship. Panhsj and Max led the charge. Both were yelling and waving their swords ferociously over their heads. Panhsj, carrying a small round shield, his sword held high, leapt across the gunwale of the boat to land right in the middle of the confused group of crewmen who were still staring in disbelief at their leader who lay dying at their feet.

  Panhsj and Max dispatched three of the crew within seconds. The others were quick to throw up their arms, screaming for mercy, dropping their weapons. It was over very quickly, much to the disappointment of the Fayoum men who now swarmed over the upper deck of the ship, disarming the remaining sailors and hustling them towards the back of the ship where Talon and Max now waited, leaning on the rail.

  “Who is your captain?” Talon asked.

  The men pointed in silence at the heavyset man dead in the waist of the ship.

  Panhsj, who had emerged from the large rear cabin, climbed the stairs to join them. “It is safe to bring my Lady and the children,” he said, and waved his arm holding the horn lamp slowly back and forth looking towards the darkness surrounding the fort.

  “We must hurry,’ Talon urged. “We need to be gone by dawn and that is only an hour away.” Already there was a grey light in the east and objects were becoming visible that had been undistinguishable moments ago.

  A small group of armed men hurried along the quay escorting Khalidah, the children, and helping Khaldun along, followed closely by the servants carrying huge bundles on their backs.

  They were hustled aboard and taken straight into the cabin. Max supervised the casting off and had the ship pushed out into the river using long oars. Panhsj addressed the crew members still clustered uneasily in the waist.

  “You will work for us or I shall throw you to the crocodiles, just as we are going to do with your former captain!” he threatened. They knew he meant it.

  “We wish to go south, so hurry and get to your duties,” he ordered.

  The terrified crew needed no further persuasion and jumped to get the furled sails down from the long booms that were suspended from the two masts; next they steered the drifting boat out into the middle of the river.

  A loud murmur was heard from below decks and Talon realized that it must come from the slaves who rowed the ship. He heard the crack of a whip and his suspicions were confirmed; a drum started beating a rhythm in the depths of the vessel as oars began to rise and fall. Soon the slim craft was moving swiftly out into the river and the bank faded into the darkness.

  At Panhsj’s command they headed directly out towards the other side of the river. He did not want any curious people to see which direction they would finally take. They could see lights from torches moving towards the quay as the inhabitants came to investigate the disturbance, but by this time they were well away from any danger from the shore.

  “Remember what will happen to you if there is any treachery,” Panhsj called down at the crew. His words were punctuated by splashes as the dead were dumped unceremoniously overboard.

  After a while, when there was nothing to be seen of the river bank or the torches flickering near Beneade, he ordered the fearful steersmen to turn the ship upstream. The sailors hastily attended to the sails, hauling them around to catch the wind. They flapped, then bellied full and began to drive the boat silently up river. The oars rose and fell in unison to the soft beating of the drum. The creaking of the wood locks and splashing of oars, coupled with the hiss of water under the bow, were the only sounds from the ship as they sped south.

  * * * * *

  Al Muntaqim stood at the rear of the galley staring moodily at the river bank passing by and reflected upon the turn of fate that had driven him from Cairo. The return of the messenger whom he had dispatched to the sultan with the information about Abbas had forced him to think carefully about his future. The man had been close to death with the wound he had sustained while fleeing the cavalry, but he had, to his credit, managed to elude them and make his way unobserved to the palace.

  It had been fortunate that he had done so, because Al Muntaqim had been making preparations to meet the division of men that were on their way from Alexandria. He had had to abandon the idea of going to meet them and go ahead with his coup. There was no time left; they could not be in Cairo in time to thwart the sultan and his army, not when he was racing back aware of a plot. He had sent a messenger to order them to return to barracks and to await his orders. They had only known that Bahir had called upon them, as he, Al Muntaqim, had been careful to conceal his own identity within the plot.

  While he had no evidence that he might have been implicated, he did not want to find himself in a dungeon having to explain his way out of trouble. He preferred to have at least some distance between himself and the sultan, should their plot have been discovered. The messenger had died rather suddenly after his report had been made.

  He had taken a small retinue and quietly headed for the port, where he always maintained a galley ready to go. This was one of three he possessed that from time to time preyed upon shipping in the seaways between Cyprus and North Africa. It had become a good source of revenue that did not have to be accounted for and provided more rowers for his galleys as the worn out slaves died off. One of the others was by now docked at Beneade, while the third was still in the middle sea looking for easy targets upon which to pounce.

  This time he would be sailing south. He wanted to take care of some business before he either disappeared or returned to the sultan with a good story.

  The Poet was on his own, having fled to Alexandria with the intention of taking ship to Al Andalusia where he hoped to vanish. Al Muntaqim would have liked to have silenced him but there had not been time. He knew the sultan could move very swiftly when he had a mind to, so he had hastened to leave the city, feeling a sense of relief when he saw its distant citadel and minarets receding into the darkness behind the swiftly moving galley.

  The thump of the galley drum, the calls of the sailors and the creak of oars in their locks drew his attention back to the boat in which he was now traveling. He wrinkled his nose at the stench that wafted back with the slight change of wind from the waist of the boat. Years of soldiering and sailing had never accustomed him to the shee
r filth and rot that came from the area where the slave rowers sat chained to their seats, laboring in the suffocating heat.

  Two ragged and starved men to each oar, they moved with machine-like precision, back and forth, the oars rising and falling in perfect unison to the beat of the goat skin drum being pounded by another slave who sat near the main mast. An overseer with a long whip ensured that the slaves did not falter. The sail was set to catch the wind so that the combination of the two means of propulsion made the slim, predatory boat appear to fly up river, leaving feluccas and other cargo boats quickly in its wake as it sped towards its destination. It had now been almost a week since the disappearance of the woman and her children and the execution of Bahir. But during that week Al Muntaqim had been busy.

  He had finally made contact with the Hashishini, and not before time, either, he told himself. Their message had been: “We will work with you to kill the sultan. He is an abomination and should be sent to his maker for judgment, but if there is other work, then you shall pay in gold.”

  Al Muntaqim could afford to wait. If he could not confront the sultan directly, then he would allow the assassins to do the work and then assume power for himself in the ensuing chaos that would result. The man’s brothers and nephews would be too busy squabbling over the spoils to notice a well-organized coup taking place right under their noses.

  He had warily approached the place where the killer sect had told him to meet them in a remote corner of the city. Once seated facing these slim, hard men, their faces almost completely covered except for their dark, watchful eyes, Al Muntaqim, who was afraid of very little, had a moment of doubt. His body guards would be no match for these people if there were treachery in the air, he reflected. No one offered tea or coffee.

  He was used to issuing orders and having them obeyed by men who were for the most part subservient and often groveling. These men, almost indistinguishable from one another in their form of dress, clearly did not feel they needed to treat him with respect.