“This morning, when I awoke, I found this lying beside me.” He set it on my lap and drew back the covering.
With horror and fascination, I lifted the crescent dagger. The knife looked identical to the others I had seen—the arc that straightened as it narrowed toward the tip, the squiggly, storm-like Damascene steel, even the lotus blossom symbol cast in the handle’s crown.
The grinning blade seemed to conjure up the face of death itself.
“You think your houseboy, Rashid…?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “It doesn’t really matter. The fact is these Assassins have issued me a warning.”
“But…why threaten you?”
“I assume because I was so close to Borzoo. He must have known something they feared he might have shared.”
I contemplated the dagger and its golden lotus crown. “Karakov told us the professor never published his findings at the castle.”
“It’s true,” Woolsey said. “Borzoo told me many stories about the Ismailis and the Hashishin, but he claimed he never found anything in the excavations at Alamut. He never wrote or spoke of it, to anyone as far as I know.”
“Maybe they left a dagger on his pillow,” I said.
“They may not have needed to.” Woolsey paused a moment, stroking his moustache. “I always wondered... His family, his work, his life was in Tehran. He took the position here soon after completing the excavations. Bukhara, Uzbekistan—a waterhole in the desert! It seems clear to me now they must have forced him to leave Iran.”
“To keep him quiet,” I said.
“With his family in Iran as collateral.”
“So why kill him now?” I asked.
Woolsey continued pacing. “I’m not entirely sure. But I think they must have found out about his meeting with your brother.”
I watched as he walked back and retook his seat.
“The Hashishin was a secret society, built around a ritual of spiritual initiation. The rites have long been rumored to have included some trance-inducing herb. The very name Hashishin is derived from the Arabic word ‘hashish.’ Accounts by Marco Polo and western crusaders describe a hidden Garden of Paradise and drugged devotees. The mystical garden was said to offer a foretaste of the afterlife, the paradise that awaited the Assassin upon the completion of his mission.”
The Persians and their gardens again. In this world, but out of it—literally. “Hash is basically cannabis resin,” I said. “You’d be more likely to drown in a hot tub than try to murder somebody.”
“Agreed. That’s why most of these stories have been dismissed as fabrications—attempts by Christians to explain away the Assassins’ fanatical devotion. Or rumors spread by their Sunni enemies to denigrate their daunting fearlessness. After all, neither the crusaders nor the Seljuks ever managed to conquer the castle. How could they have known what went on behind its walls?”
Woolsey slapped his knees and again rose to his feet, unable to contain his excitement. “But your tale of the soma plant brings all this into question!
“Originally, the Arabic word hashish referred to herbaceous plants in general, especially their succulent or edible parts. Could it be possible the sacred haoma plant of ancient Persia had never been entirely lost? No one would have been in a better position to rediscover it than the brilliant Hasan-i Sabbah. His mountain fortress at Alamut was a great center of Islamic learning, visited by scholars, astronomers, alchemists, historians, scientists, and Sufi mystics. The Old Man lived as an ascetic there for thirty-five years until his death, never once coming down from the rock, all the while ensconced in one of the greatest libraries known to the medieval world.”
The pacing Englishman came to a stop and gripped the wings of his chair. “What if Borzoo found the same lotus seeds in the ruins of Alamut that your Russian friend found buried in that ancient Aryan temple?”
“There’d be one crucial difference,” I said. “The seeds Borzoo found might still be viable.”
“And the Hashishin could again revive the rite that emboldened their legendary forebears.”
We both fell silent for a moment. Woolsey’s account seemed to fill in many blanks, but it still left crucial questions unanswered. What exactly had Dan discussed with Baghestani? Where had he gotten the seeds he showed to Vladimir Karakov? From Alamut—or somewhere else? Why were the Assassins hunting him down? And why had they murdered the professor?
“Because Borzoo failed to heed their warning,” Woolsey suggested when I put the question to him. “They must have found out he told your brother what he knew.”
“If that’s true,” I said, “they’ll probably want to silence Dan as well.”
“They will do whatever they have to do to keep the lotus secret. Secrecy and deception are the hallmarks of the Hashishin, derived from the Muslim doctrine of taqiyya. They call it the ‘Holy Deception.’ Taqiyya gives Shi’a Muslims religious dispensation to conceal and deceive in the service of their faith.”
I wondered if there was a Catholic equivalent; it would have come in handy with the grammar school nuns.
“Everyone seems to want to keep it a secret,” I said. “Maya with her silencer. The ‘housemaid’ in Rome. And now the Iranians—by killing off the archaeologist who rediscovered their seeds.”
Woolsey nodded agreement. “What good is a drug that inspires bold action if your enemy employs it as well? Audacity is what gives the Hashashin their intimidating mystique.”
“I thought Sharia law forbids drinking and drugs? How could this Ayatollah in Qum condone it?”
“He couldn’t,” Woolsey said. “Not publicly, anyway. The Assassins’ daring demonstrates the power of their faith. But that faith, that sense of certainty, may intensify with soma. The transcendent experience provided by the drink may be seen as validation of their radical beliefs. They are soldiers fighting in the service of their God, who offers them a taste of the afterlife. There are in fact Koranic verses that describe just such a drink. In Paradise, where rivers of milk, honey, water and wine flow beneath the gardens, the righteous sip a ‘pure drink,’ sealed with musk, that cleanses them spiritually from forgetfulness of Allah, drawing them closer to Him. ‘You will recognize in their faces the brightness of bliss.’”
I thought of Vanitar’s intensity that night he chased me in Rome. He did seem in a state of bliss—not the bliss of mindlessness, but that of pure conviction.
“No fear. No doubt. How do you stop a man like that?”
Woolsey shook his head despairingly. “All men harbor fears and doubts. We struggle to overcome them. Fanaticism springs from the effort to deny them.”
Once again we fell silent. The parrot clucked, rocking on its bar. Woolsey eyed it broodingly. “Nothing is true,” he said. “Everything is permitted.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Supposedly Hasan-i Sabbah’s last words, uttered on his deathbed. Though Borzoo remained rather skeptical.”
“I’m with the professor. Hardly sound like the words of a true believer.”
“I wonder,” Woolsey said. “Perhaps the Old Man grew disillusioned in the end. He’d failed to overturn the existing order. In fact, he never held a single city. His dream of an Islamic utopia ultimately came to naught.”
Nothing is true. Everything is permitted. “Final decree of the devil,” I said.
“I’m loathe to admit it, but it brings to mind the final words of Jesus on the cross. ‘My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?’”
I’d always thought that last cry only proved that Christ was human. “His moment of doubt,” I said.
“Indeed. Just as the old devil came to doubt the power of fear, it seems that Christ himself came to doubt the power of love.”
I stared at the steaming samovar. The dagger lay beside it. “Maybe the Old Man was right: Nothing is true.”
Woolsey’s eyes drifted to his murdered friend’s chess set. Their game had been abandoned in the midst of battle, like a pause to cart off the dead. “I r
efuse to believe that,” he said. “I’ll cast my lot with love any day. I’d be willing to die for it.”
I thought of the dagger held at my throat, of Borzoo knifed in the street. “Dying is easy,” I said. “Maybe the tougher question is...would you be willing to kill for it?”
Woolsey strolled to the window and pulled the curtain aside. “If these devils count the game worth the candle, then certainly we must as well.”
I rose from my chair and stepped up beside him. The sunlight prompted a squint. On the crowded street below, shoppers stopped to peruse the stalls hung with jewelry and carpets, a gang of jubilant children raced past, and an Uzbek clad in a multi-colored coat promenaded among the throng like a sultan.
“Do you see the men who followed us?”
“No,” Woolsey said. “But I feel them.”
I knew exactly what he meant. Concealed inside the shiny apple, the worm was gnawing away.
“I have to find my brother and Phoebe,” I said. “I haven’t a clue where to look.”
Woolsey continued to gaze at the street. “I wish I could help you,” he said.
Outside, the azan, the call to prayer of the muezzin, resounded hauntingly over the rooftops.
“Do you pray?” Woolsey asked.
“I used to,” I said.
“Perhaps you remember the 23rd Psalm?”
Oddly enough, I did, in part. “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me...” I paused, waiting for more to come. “I will dwell in the House of the Lord forever…” I glanced at the Englishman. “That’s about all I remember.”
“It’s all you need to remember.”
We listened as the muezzin’s crooning continued. It was coming from the tall minaret in the distance, set amid sea-colored domes.
“The Kalon minaret,” Woolsey said. “They call it the Tower of Death. The last emirs of Bukhara had criminals thrown from its summit.”
“Long way to fall,” I said.
“Indeed, over forty-five meters. Nine centuries ago the tower was a beacon to caravans crossing the desert at night. Even Genghis Khan was impressed. When he sacked the city in the year 1220, it was the only structure he left stan—”
Woolsey stopped, slowly turned, lowered himself to the sill.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Alamut,” he said. “It was the Mongols who finally destroyed that, too. Slaughtered the Hashishin and burnt the castle to the ground.”
I looked at him, waiting.
Woolsey stood up. “Tamerlane!”
He looked at the stack of mandala pages. “Borzoo was trying to solve a final problem with his manuscript. I think your brother may have given him the answer.” He charged past the startled parrot, crossing the room to his desk. “I’ve got to hurry to his office before the Iranians get their hands on it.”
“I think you’re too late,” I said. “I went by his office this morning: there was no computer or laptop there.”
“They may have taken his laptop, but Borzoo wrote his manuscript longhand, in Persian. It’s hidden in a compartment under the chessboard table.” Woolsey grabbed a shoulder bag from the back of his chair and emptied it onto his desk.
“Let me go with you,” I said.
“Too risky,” he said, eyes darting in thought. “And it won’t be safe for you here. I’ll try to make them follow me out front; there’s a route I can take to lose them. Wait a bit ‘til after I’ve gone, then quietly slip out the back—you can exit across the courtyard, just past the trash containers.”
He jotted down an address and a name. “Head left out the door, then right at the corner. Six blocks up you’ll find this travel agency. The woman there knows me. Here.” He pulled out a thick roll of Uzbek cash, peeled off a bunch of bills and jammed them into my hand. “Buy us two tickets for the night train to Samarkand. Then meet me in one hour at the Kalon minaret. If you wait in the gallery at the top, you’ll be able to see if I’m being followed. Don’t come down unless you’re certain I’m alone. I’ll explain everything to you there.” He looped the empty satchel over his shoulder and headed for the door.
I called after him. “What about my friend? I can’t leave here without her.”
Woolsey wheeled in the doorway. “If I’m right,” he said, “she’s on her way to Samarkand and Tamerlane’s tomb!”
With that the door shut and the Englishman was gone.
56.
A Not-so-tall Tail
GOD SAVE OUR GRACIOUS QUEEN. The whistling parrot rocked in his Kasbah, eyeing me as if I were the prisoner.
I walked to the window and drew the curtains shut, then peeked out, watching for Woolsey. The Kalon minaret? Samarkand? I wondered if he’d even make it as far as Baghestani’s office. And if he did, and found the professor’s manuscript, I wondered how it could possibly help me track down Phoebe and Dan.
Tamerlane’s tomb? What was that about? How could a grave be connected to the lotus?
Whatever it was, it was all I had to go on. I was more convinced than ever that Dan was in terrible danger. No doubt Phoebe, too. To calm myself I parroted the parrot’s British anthem, only the words that came were those of “My Country, ‘Tis of Thee,” the more familiar and reassuring American version of the tune. Land where my fathers died, land of the pilgrims’ pride—
Woolsey appeared. He strolled off down the street at a leisurely pace, weaving through the crowd in his herringbone jacket, a tall, pale Englishman among the swarthy mob. The Iranians could tail him easily, if that was what they wanted. But from my lofty vantage I could spot no stalking shadows, and I began to wonder if maybe they only lived in Woolsey’s head—ghost-mummies spun from the turning of the worm, cut loose by that dagger on his pillow.
Then I suddenly realized that whoever was out there could be lying in wait for me.
I released the curtain and turned inside. Woolsey’s deadly souvenir gleamed beside the samovar. I stepped before it and stared down at its copper-gold reflection, a crescent moon grinning through the kettle’s steamy mist.
With barely a thought I swept the knife up and slipped it into my bag.
Then I went to the telephone that sat on Woolsey’s desk, an ancient rotary dialer with a heavy, cradled handset. On the underside of my left forearm I’d written a number in ink. I dialed the digits and waited.
“How is she?” I asked when Faraj answered.
“Doctor say she should recover. But there is damage to her spleen. They need to make the cut wider, so to go in and repair. We are waiting for the operating room.” Faraj lowered his voice to a whisper. “They are asking many questions, Jack. About the stab wound and the cutting. Who she is. Who I am. I am doing my best, but—”
“Hang in there, Faraj. Stay with her. I’m going to call someone to help, I’ll get back to you late—”
“You find the professor?”
“Yes. I mean, no. I’m heading out now to meet a colleague of his at the big minaret—I’ll call you later and explain everything. Please just make sure Oriana’s okay.”
“Don’t worry, my friend. She is very strong, and very beautiful. I have promised I will stay with her until she is well, even longer if she likes, and that she will live a long life, Insha’Allah.”
“Yeah, Insha’Allah. Thank you for all your help, Faraj.” I asked for the name of the hospital, then said goodbye and hung up.
I couldn’t help but smile.
I pulled out Harry Grant’s business card and dialed his cell phone number. Harry didn’t answer, so I left a message with the name of the hospital, telling him Oriana had been wounded and was about to go into surgery, that he’d better send someone quick to straighten things out. I said there was an exiled Iranian Sufi friend staying by her side, adding, “I don’t want to make you jealous, Harry, but I think the guy’s falling in love!”
IF THERE WAS ANYONE actually tailing me, they were doing one hell of a job. From the moment I entered the street behind Woolsey’
s place to the time I reached the travel agency, I never spotted anyone remotely suspicious.
The Englishman had apparently drawn them off. I wondered if he’d be able to shake them.
I bought the train tickets from the lady inside who, though she spoke only a very limited English, lit up when I said the name “Conrad Woolsey.”
“No for Mr. Borzoo?” she asked in surprise.
She hadn’t yet gotten word of his murder. “No,” I said. “Just one for me and one for the professor.”
“Going to see tomb again?”
Now I was surprised. “Yes...actually. At least, I think that’s where we’re going.”
She seemed pleased. I wondered just how often Baghestani had made the trip.
Before stepping outside, I carefully scanned the street. A young woman ambled by with a toddler in tow, a T-shirted boy bicycled past, and across the way, by the open door of a tobacco shop, an old man sat smoking on a wicker chair.
These four were the only humans visible on the street. I headed for the Kalon minaret.
The travel agent’s directions to the tower had been vague, but I got the general gist of it, and soon enough, as I entered a broader thoroughfare, I spotted the minaret above the rooftops.
The afternoon sun was low in the sky and the street was half-cast in shadow. Though devoid of cars, the pavement teemed with the citizenry of Bukhara, a veritable rush hour of foot traffic. Many congregated along a row of food stalls where blue smoke rose through slanting light, and stewpots simmered over fire-blackened bricks. I kept glancing behind me, scanning for stalkers, but no one held my eye for very long. Each person seemed preoccupied with his own separate troubles, lone sailors in a sea of anonymity.
Having not had a bite in what seemed like days, the scent of the street vendors’ smoking kabobs snared me like a Mongol’s lasso. I paid for a shashlik skewer of lamb and scarfed down the chewy meat like a mastiff. Then I paid for a bottle of flat, warm Coke and sipped it as I strolled on toward the tower. The twenty minutes remaining until my rendezvous with Woolsey seemed more than enough time for me to reach it.
The Assassin Lotus Page 23
