Whirlwind

by James Clavell

  “Good. You did very well today. Thank you.” He went to the safe and took a bundle of used dollars off the stacks there. He saw Suliman’s face light up. “Here’s a bonus for you and your men.”

  “Thank you, thank you, Excellency, God protect you! The man Armstrong may be considered dead.” Very gratefully, Suliman bowed again and left.

  Now that he was alone Hashemi unlocked a drawer and poured himself a whisky. A thousand dollars is a fortune to Suliman and his three men, but a wise investment, he thought contentedly. Oh, yes. Glad I decided about Robert. Robert knows too much, suspects too much—wasn’t it he who named my teams? “Group Four teams must be used for good and not evil, Hashemi,” he had said in that know-all voice of his. “I just caution you, their power could be heady and backfire on you. Remember the Old Man of the Mountains. Eh?”

  Hashemi had laughed to cover his shock that Armstrong had read his most secret heart. “What have al-Sabbah and his assassins to do with me? We’re living in the twentieth century and I’m not a religious fanatic. More important, Robert, I don’t have a Castle Alamut!”

  “There’s still hashish—and better.”

  “I don’t want addicts or assassins, just men I can trust.”

  Assassin was derived from hashshashin, they who take hashish. Legend told that in the eleventh century at Alamut—Hasan ibn al-Sabbah’s impregnable fortress in the mountains near Qazvin—he had had secret gardens made just like the Gardens of Paradise described in the Koran, where wine and honey flowed from fountains and beautiful, compliant maidens lay. Here hashish-drugged devotees would be secretly introduced and given a foretaste of the promised, eternal, and erotic bliss that awaited them in Paradise after death. Then, in a day or two or three, the “Blessed One” would be brought “back to earth,” to be guaranteed quick passage back—in return for absolute obedience to his will.

  From Alamut, Hasan ibn al-Sabbah’s fanatical band of simple-minded, hashish-taking zealots—the Assassins—terrorized Persia, soon to reach into most of the Middle East. This continued for almost two centuries. Until 1256. Then a grandson of Genghiz Khan. Hulugu Khan, came down into Persia and set his hordes against Alamut, tore it stone by stone from its mountain peaks, and stamped the Assassins into the dust.

  Hashemi’s lips were in a thin line. Ah, Robert, how did you pierce the veil to see my secret plan: to modernize al-Sabbah’s idea, so easy to do now that the Shah has gone and the land’s in ferment. So easy with psychedelic drugs, hallucinogens, and a never-ending pool of simple-minded zealots already imbued with the wish for martyrdom, who just have to be guided and pointed in the right direction—to remove whomever I choose. Like Janan and Talbot. Like you!

  But what carrion I have to deal with for the greater glory of my fief. How can people be so cruel? How can they openly enjoy such wanton cruelty, like cutting off that man’s genitals, like contemplating hurting a child? Is it just because they’re of the Middle East, live in the Middle East, and belong nowhere else? How terrible that they can’t learn from us, can’t benefit from our ancient civilization. The Empire of Cyrus and Darius must come to pass again, by God—in that the Shah was right. My assassins will lead the way, even to Jerusalem.

  He sipped his whisky, very pleased with his day’s work. It tasted very good. He preferred it without ice.

  THURSDAY

  March 1

  IN THE VILLAGE NEAR THE NORTH BORDER: 5:30 A.M. In the light of false dawn, Erikki pulled on his boots. Now on with his flight jacket, the soft, well-worn leather rustling, knife out of the scabbard and into his sleeve. He eased the hut door open. The village was sleeping under its snow coverlet. No guards that he could see. The chopper’s lean-to was also quiet but he knew she would still be too well guarded to try. Various times during the day and night he had experimented. Each time the cabin and cockpit guards had just smiled at him, alert and polite. No way he could fight through the three of them and take off. His only chance by foot, and he had been planning it ever since he had had the confrontation with Sheik Bayazid the day before yesterday.

  His senses reached out into the darkness. The stars were hidden by thin clouds. Now! Surefooted he slid out of the door and along the line of huts, making for the trees, and then he was enmeshed in the net that seemed to appear out of the sky and he was fighting for his life.

  Four tribesmen were on the ends of the net used for trapping and curbing wild goats. Skillfully they wound it around him, tighter and tighter, and though he bellowed with rage and his immense strength ripped some of the ropes asunder, soon he was helplessly thrashing in the snow. For a moment he lay there panting, then again tried to break his bonds, the feeling of impotence making him howl. But the more he fought the ropes, the more they seemed to knot tighter. Finally he stopped fighting and lay back, trying to catch his breath, and looked around. He was surrounded. All the village was awake, dressed, and armed. Obviously they had been waiting for him. Never had he seen or felt so much hatred.

  It took five men to lift him and half carry, half drag him into the meeting hut and throw him roughly on the dirt floor in front of the Sheik Bayazid who sat cross-legged on skins in his place of honor near the fire. The hut was large, smoke blackened, and filled with tribesmen.

  “So,” the Sheik said. “So you dare to disobey me?”

  Erikki lay still, gathering his strength. What was there to say?

  “In the night one of my men came back from the Khan.” Bayazid was shaking with fury. “Yesterday afternoon, on the Khan’s orders, my messenger’s throat was cut against all the laws of chivalry! What do you say to that? His throat cut like a dog! Like a dog!”

  “I… I can’t believe the Khan would do that,” Erikki said helplessly. “I can’t believe it.”

  “In all the Names of God, his throat was cut. He’s dead and we’re dishonored. All of us, me! Disgraced, because of you!”

  “The Khan’s a devil. I’m sorry but I’m no—”

  “We treated with the Khan honorably, and you honorably, you were spoils of war won from the Khan’s enemies and ours, you’re married to his daughter and he’s rich with more bags of gold than a goat has hairs. What’s 10 million rials to him? A piece of goat’s shit. Worse, he’s taken away our honor. God’s death on him!”

  A murmur went through those who watched and waited, not understanding the English but hearing the jagged barbs of anger.

  Again the hissing venom: “Insha’Allah! Now we release you as you want, on foot, and then we will hunt you. We will not kill you with bullets, nor will you see the sunset, and your head will be a Khan’s gift.” The Sheik repeated the punishment in his own tongue and waved his hand. Men surged forward.

  “Wait, wait!” Erikki shouted as his fear thrust an idea at him.

  “You wish to beg for mercy?” Bayazid said contemptuously. “I thought you were a man—that’s why I didn’t order your throat cut while you sleep.”

  “Not mercy, vengeance!” Then Erikki roared, “Vengeance!” There was an astonished silence. “For you and for me! Don’t you deserve vengeance for such dishonor?”

  The younger man hesitated. “What trickery is this?”

  “I can help you regain your honor—I alone. Let us sack the palace of the Khan and both be revenged on him,” Erikki prayed to his ancient gods to make his tongue golden.

  “Are you mad?”

  “The Khan is my enemy more than yours, why else would he disgrace both of us if not to infuriate you against me? I know the palace. I can get you and fifteen armed men into the forecourt in a split second an—”

  “Madness,” the Sheik scoffed. “Should we throw our lives away like hashish-infected fools? The Khan has too many guards.”

  “Fifty-three on call within the walls, no more than four or five on duty at any one time. Are your fighters so weak they can’t deal with fifty-three? We have surprise on our side. A sudden commando attack from the sky, a relentless charge to avenge your honor—I could get you in and out the same way in minutes. Abdol
lah Khan’s sick, very sick, guards won’t be prepared, nor the household. I know the way in, where he sleeps, everything…”

  Erikki heard his voice pick up excitement, knowing it could be done: the violent flare over the walls and sudden touchdown, jumping out, leading the way up the steps and in, up the staircase onto the landing, down the corridor, knocking aside Ahmed and whoever stood in the way, into the Khan’s room, then stepping aside for Bayazid and his men to do what they wanted, somehow getting to the north wing and Azadeh and saving her, and if she was not there or hurt, then killing and killing, the Khan, guards, these men, everyone.

  His plan possessed him now. “Wouldn’t your name last a thousand years because of your daring? Sheik Bayazid, he who dared to humble, to challenge the Khan of all the Gorgons inside his lair for a matter of honor? Wouldn’t minstrels sing songs about you forever at the campfires of all the Kurds? Isn’t that what Saladin the Kurd would do?”

  He saw the eyes in the firelight glowing differently now, saw Bayazid hesitate, the silence growing, heard him talk softly to his people—then one man laughed and called out something that others echoed and then, with one voice, they roared approval.

  Willing hands cut him loose. Men fought viciously for the privilege of being on the raid. Erikki’s fingers trembled as he pressed Engine Start. The first of the jets exploded into life.

  IN THE PALACE OF THE KHAN: 6:35 A.M. Hakim came out of sleep violently. His bodyguard near the door was startled. “What is it, Highness?”

  “Nothing, nothing, Ishtar, I was… I was just dreaming.” Now that he was wide awake, Hakim lay back and stretched luxuriously, eager for the new day. “Bring me coffee. After my bath, breakfast here—and ask my sister to join me.”

  “Yes, Highness, at once.”

  His bodyguard left him. Again he stretched his taut body. Dawn was murky. The room ornate and vast and drafty and chilly but the bedroom of the Khan. In the huge fireplace a fire burned brightly fed by the guard through the night, no one else allowed in, the guard chosen by him personally from the fifty-three within the palace, pending a decision about their future. Where to find those to be trusted, he asked himself, then got out of bed, wrapping the warm brocade dressing gown tighter—one of a half a hundred that he had found in the wardrobe—faced Mecca and the open Koran in the ornately tiled niche, knelt, and said the first prayer of the day. When he had finished he stayed there, his eyes on the ancient Koran, immense, bejeweled, hand-calligraphed, and without price, the Gorgon Khan’s Koran—his Koran. So much to thank God for, he thought, so much still to learn, so much still to do—but a wonderful beginning already made.

  Not long after midnight yesterday, before all the assembled family in the house, he had taken the carved emerald and gold ring—symbol of the ancient khanate—from the index finger of his father’s right hand and put it on his own. He had had to fight the ring over a roll of fat and close his nostrils to the stink of death that hung in the room. His excitement had overcome his revulsion, and now he was truly Khan. Then all the family present knelt and kissed his ringed hand, swearing allegiance, Azadeh proudly first, next Aysha trembling and frightened, then the others, Najoud and Mahmud outwardly abject, secretly blessing God for the reprieve.

  Then downstairs in the Great Room with Azadeh standing behind him, Ahmed and the bodyguards also swore allegiance—the rest of the far-flung family would come later, along with other tribal leaders, personal and household staff and servants. At once he had given orders for the funeral and then he allowed his eyes to see Najoud. “So.”

  “Highness,” Najoud said unctuously, “with all our hearts, before God, we congratulate you, and swear to serve you to the limits of our power.”

  “Thank you, Najoud,” he had said. “Thank you. Ahmed, what was the Khan’s sentence decreed on my sister and her family before he died?” Tension in the Great Room was sudden.

  “Banishment, penniless to the wastelands north of Meshed, Highness, under guard—at once.”

  “I regret, Najoud, you and all your family will leave at dawn as decreed.”

  He remembered how her face had gone ashen and Mahmud’s ashen and she had stammered, “But, Highness, now you are Khan, your word is our law. I did not expect…you’re Khan now.”

  “But the Khan, our father, gave the order when he was the law, Najoud. It is not correct to overrule him.”

  “But you’re the law now,” Najoud had said with a sickly smile. “You do what’s right.”

  “With God’s help I will certainly try, Najoud. But I can’t overrule my father on his deathbed.”

  “But, Highness…” Najoud had come closer. “Please, may…may we discuss this in private?”

  “Better here before the family, Najoud. What did you want to say?”

  She had hesitated and come even closer and he felt Ahmed tense and saw his knife hand ready, and the hair on his neck stiffened. “Just because Ahmed says that the Khan gave such an order doesn’t mean that it…does it?” Najoud had tried to whisper but her words echoed off the walls.

  Breath sighed out of Ahmed’s lips. “May God burn me forever if I lied.”

  “I know you didn’t, Ahmed,” Hakim had said sadly. “Wasn’t I there when the Khan decided? I was there, Najoud, so was Her Highness, my sister, I regret th—”

  “But you can be merciful!!!” Najoud had cried out. “Please, please be merciful!”

  “Oh, but I am, Najoud. I forgive you. But the punishment was for lying in the Name of God,” he had said gravely, “not punishment for lying about my sister and me, causing us years of grief, losing us our father’s love. Of course we forgive you that, don’t we, Azadeh?”

  “Yes, yes, that is forgiven.”

  “That is forgiven openly. But lying in the Name of God? The Khan made a decree. I cannot go against it.”

  Mahmud burst out over her pleadings, “I knew nothing about this, Highness, nothing, I swear before God, I believed her lies. I divorce her formally for being a traitor to you, I never knew anything about her lies!”

  In the Great Room everyone watched them both grovel, some loathing them, some despising them for failing when they had had the power. “At dawn, Mahmud, you are banished, you and your family,” he had said so sadly, “penniless, under guard…pending my pleasure. As to divorce it is forbidden in my house. If you wish to do that north of Meshed… Insha’Allah. You are still banished there, pending my pleasure…”

  Oh, you were perfect, Hakim, he told himself delightedly, for of course everyone knew this was your first test. You were perfect! Never once did you gloat openly or reveal your true purpose, never once did you raise your voice, keeping calm and gentle and grave as though you really were sad with your father’s sentence but, rightly, unable to overrule it. And the benign, sweet promise of “pending my pleasure”? My pleasure’s that you’re all banished forever and if I hear one tiny threat of a plot, I will snuff you all out as quickly as an old candle. By God and the Prophet, on whose Name be praised, I’ll make the ghost of my father proud of this Khan of all the Gorgons—may he be in hell for believing such wanton lies of an evil old hag.

  So much to thank God for, he thought, mesmerized by the firelight flickering in the Koran’s jewels. Didn’t all the years of banishment teach you secretiveness, deception, and patience? Now you’ve your power to cement, Azerbaijan to defend, a world to conquer, wives to find, sons to breed, and a lineage to begin. May Najoud and her whelps rot!

  At dawn he had “regretfully” gone with Ahmed to witness their departure. Wistfully he had insisted that none of the rest of the family see them off. “Why increase their sorrow and mine?” There, on his exact instructions, he had watched Ahmed and guards tear through their mountains of bags, removing anything of value until there was but one suitcase each for them and their three children who watched, petrified.

  “Your jewelry, woman,” Ahmed had said.

  “You’ve taken everything, everything…please, Hakim… Highness, please…” Najoud sobbed. Her
special jewel satchel, secreted in a pocket of her suitcase, had already been added to the pile of valuables. Abruptly Ahmed reached out and ripped off her pendant and tore the neck of her dress open. A dozen necklaces weighed her down, diamonds, rubies, emeralds, and sapphires.

  “Where did you get these?” Hakim had said, astonished.

  “They’re…they’re my…my mother’s and mine I bought over the ye—” Najoud stopped as Ahmed’s knife came out. “All right…all right…” Frantically she pulled the necklaces over her head, unfastened the rest, and gave them to him. “Now you have everyth—”

  “Your rings!”

  “But, Highness, leave me someth—” She screamed as Ahmed impatiently grabbed a finger to cut it off with the ring still on it, but she pulled away, tore the rings off and also the bracelets secreted up her sleeve, howling with grief, and threw them on the floor. “Now you’ve everything…”

  “Now pick them up and hand them to His Highness, on your knees!” Ahmed hissed, and when she did not obey instantly, he grabbed her by the hair and shoved her face on the floor, and now she was groveling and obeying.

  Ah, that was a feast, Hakim thought, reliving every second of their humiliation. After they’re dead, God will burn them.

  He made another obeisance, put God away until next prayer at noon, and jumped up, brimming with energy. A maid was on her knees pouring the coffee, and he saw the fear in her eyes and was very pleased. The moment he became Khan, he had known it was vital to work quickly to take over the reins of power. Yesterday morning he had inspected the palace. The kitchen was not clean enough for him, so he had had the chef beaten senseless and put outside the walls, then promoted the second chef in his place with dire warnings. Four guards were banished for oversleeping, two maids whipped for slovenliness. “But, Hakim, my darling,” Azadeh had said when they were alone, “surely there was no need to beat them?”