by Gar Wilson
Encizo quickly slammed a boot into the table, sending it skidding into the path of three terrorists. The trio staggered away from the table while the other two attacked.
The Cuban grabbed a chair and swung it into the nearest opponent, blocking a knife thrust. He shoved forcibly, driving two chair legs into the terrorist's chest. The Arab stumbled and Encizo's leg lashed out, driving a foot into the man's groin.
The terrorist grasped his damaged testicles in one hand and fell to his knees. Encizo brought the chair crashing down on his opponent's head, cracking the Arab's skull. The Cuban saw the blur of another attacker out of the corner of his eye. He pivoted and slashed the chair into the second terrorist before the man could strike with his poison dagger.
Encizo swung the chair again, but the Arab suddenly launched a powerful roundhouse kick at the Phoenix fighter. The terrorist's boot struck the chair hard, ripping it from Encizo's grasp. The Cuban saw the next kick coming and managed to avoid the Arab's slashing foot.
The Phoenix pro recognized the terrorist's fighting style — savate, a form of French kick boxing. The terrorist attempted a wild knife slash, a feint followed by another kick aimed at Encizo's groin.
The trick did not fool the Cuban. He dodged the false dagger stroke and caught his opponent's attacking leg at the ankle. Encizo twisted hard, throwing the Arab off balance. The man tumbled to the floor. He screamed violently as he rolled into the nearest wall. The terrorist rose to his knees and stared at his own knife. It was lodged deeply in his chest. The fanatic slumped to the floor and died.
David McCarter had seized the floor lamp by its long metal stem. He swung the heavy brass base from the floor and thrust it into the stomach of a charging terrorist. The blow lifted the man off his feet and propelled him backward into another Arab killer.
Given a second to breathe, the Briton discarded the lamp and yanked his Browning Hi-Power from its shoulder holster. He snapped off the safety catch as two knife-wielding terrorists charged at him.
McCarter shot the closest attacker in the face. A 9mm hollowpoint slug split the bridge of the Arab's nose and sizzled through his brain, turning his skull into a gory mess.
The second terrorist pounced on McCarter. Only the Briton's combat-honed reflexes saved him from a poison-dagger thrust. The pair clutched wrists, negating the terrorist's knife and McCarter's Browning.
McCarter did not waste time. He stomped a boot heel into the terrorist's instep and butted his forehead into the other man's face. Before his startled adversary could recover, McCarter raised his arms and pivoted, pulling the Arab with him.
Standing back to back with the terrorist, McCarter bent and hurled the startled Arab over his head. The man crashed to the floor, landing hard on his belly. There was no time to be sporting. McCarter promptly shot the scum in the back of the skull.
Rachel Stern opened her purse and reached for a .38 Smith & Wesson snub-nosed revolver as the last terrorist attacked. She sidestepped a knife thrust and kicked the side of the man's knee. His leg buckled, but he still managed to slash a backhand stroke at Rachel.
The pretty Israeli raised her purse to block the knife blade. Then she rammed a knee into the man's gut. He doubled up with a grunt, but the fanatical fury in his eyes warned he still had plenty of fight left.
Encizo stepped forward and delivered a solid uppercut to the Arab's jaw. He followed with a powerful left jab. The killer was driven backward by the impact of the punches.
The terrorist shook his head to try and clear it. Flecks of blood flew from his nose and mouth. With a snarl, he set himself to attack. McCarter swung his Browning at the fanatic. Rachel pulled the .38 revolver from her purse and Encizo drew his Walther PPK. All three opened fire. Bullets tore into the terrorist's chest and sent him hurtling across the room. His corpse hit the wall and slid to the floor in a lifeless heap.
"Well," McCarter said as he holstered his pistol. "I'd say we've found enough bloody proof to suggest we're on the right track."
10
Phoenix Force met in a conference room at Mossad Headquarters. Encizo and McCarter told the others about the incident at the Arab Quarter as Colonel Katzenelenbogen examined the bruss— shirts — and amulet.
"It's a symbol that looks vaguely familiar, but I'm not certain where I've seen it before," Katz said. "These terrorists certainly put a lot of stock in mystical symbols. We found a crude star-shaped tattoo on several of the dead terrorists. Most of the tattoos were located on the inner thigh or the hip. They weren't just decorations."
"Skin amulets?" Encizo said.
"Why not?" Yakov replied. "They could never misplace a tattoo as our departed friend did with this."
Katz tossed the brass amulet onto the table. McCarter glanced at it and shrugged. "Not much of a good-luck charm," he said. "Fellow's dead."
"Did you guys find anything else?" Gary Manning asked as he sipped a cup of black coffee.
"Not much," Encizo answered. "Both of the terrorists had hash pipes in their rooms."
"The autopsies revealed that all of the slain terrorists were using a great deal of drugs," Katz said. "Besides hashish, there were also traces of synthetic heroin and various types of uppers, downers."
"The two dead terrorists we checked out both appeared to be religious," Encizo added. "One guy had a bookcase full of Muslim literature. The Koran and some other books including one called the Master of the Ages."
"The Lord of All Ages?" Katz inquired.
"That's it," McCarter said. "Is it important?"
"Well, the Ismailis believe that the Lord of All Ages is a mystical representative of Allah," Katz explained. "The Ismailis are followers of Ismail, one of the seven Imams who succeeded Mohammed the Prophet. This gets a bit confusing because Ismail had a son who was also named Mohammed and the Lord of All Ages is suppose to be his mystical ally."
"Sort of like a Catholic saint?" Encizo inquired.
"More like a cross between a saint and the Pope," Katz corrected. "The Lord of All Ages is a living being on earth."
"Wait a minute," Manning said, "I've heard of the Ismailis. Isn't the Aga Khan associated with them?"
"That's right," McCarter declared. "And one of the Aga Khan's ancestors was an ally to the British during the Afghan War. He was the head of a sect called the Khojas."
"But there was another sect that started more than eight hundred years ago with a far more sinister reputation than the Khojas," Katz stated. "The Hashishin — better known as the Assassins."
"Assassins?" Manning asked.
"The word assassin comes from Hashishin, which means "drugger." The cult was started by a Persian named Hassan. Hassan made enemies of a sultan and a vizier, who managed to convince the Shah to expel Hassan from the country.
"While in exile," Yakov continued, "Hassan formed the secret society in Egypt that came to be known as the Assassins. Raised as an Ismaili, Hassan was familiar with the mysticism associated with the religion. He had also been a student of the brilliant Imam Muwafig and trained in the Shia arts of influencing people. According to legend, Hassan got his first followers when he was on board a ship sailing to north Africa. During a bad storm, Hassan told the passengers and crew that he could change the weather and save them if they swore allegiance to him."
"I would have told him to go to hell," McCarter said.
"Most of the people on the ship did exactly that," Katz confirmed. "But after the storm ceased, two of the passengers believed Hassan had indeed displayed divine powers and they followed him off the vessel at the end of the journey."
"How did Hassan build an organization like that from only two followers?" Ohara inquired.
"He attracted young Ismailis and convinced them he was a prophet of Allah," Katz answered. "He not only manipulated his followers verbally and with drugs, he actually took them to paradise as well."
"What?" Encizo asked.
"Hassan found a beautiful tranquil valley near Cairo," Katz explained. "Hassan drugged his initiates and t
ransported them to the valley, where they awoke surrounded by flowers and rivers of milk and wine. Beautiful women danced for them and provided sexual pleasures."
"Sounds like Paradise to me," McCarter commented.
"That's why Hassan's followers believed they were in heaven," Katz said. "Naturally, they drugged the initiates again and returned them to Hassan. He told them they had seen paradise and the only way to achieve it for eternity was to follow his word."
"Incredible," Manning remarked.
"Hassan's people followed his every command," Katz said. "They were totally fearless. In fact, they welcomed death. To die in the service of their prophet meant they would certainly go to paradise forever.
"Hassan knew how to use zealots," Katz continued. "He sent them out to infiltrate cities and palaces, disguised as merchants, priests and beggars. They formed a sophisticated intelligence network. Assassins even penetrated the courts of sultans and shieks, becoming trusted advisors to Arab royalty. Then Hassan took on clients who would pay handsomely to have certain individuals killed."
"Who hired the Assassins?" Ohara asked.
"The crusaders were their biggest client," Katz answered. "The Europeans were getting the hell kicked out of them by the Islamic forces when they tried to lay claim to the Holy Land. So they hired the Assassins to kill Muslim rulers and generals.
"The Assassins were a fearsome power in the Middle East for more than two hundred years," the Israeli said. "And the organization extended across the entire Islamic empire. There were branches of the cult in Syria, India, Afghanistan and the Pamir Mountains, which border China and Russia."
"What happened to them?" Manning inquired.
"After Hassan's death," Katz said, "a series of successors followed as leaders of the secret society. None of them were as clever as the cult's founder. Bad management caused many mistakes. Sultan Salad in had dozens of Assassins killed in retaliation for an unsuccessful attempt on his life. The society was also spread too thin to keep the chain of command intact. It eventually broke up, but it never truly vanished."
"And you think we're dealing with the Assassins now?" Encizo asked. "That seems pretty farfetched, Katz."
"Someone has revised the Order of the Assassins," Katz declared. "Everything supports it. Poison daggers are the traditional weapon of the Assassins. The terrorists' behavior is identical to that of the Assassins of old."
"If you're correct about this," Manning began, "how could they infiltrate a Jewish intelligence organization like Mossad. Doesn't one have to be Jewish to join Mossad or the Sheruth Modiin?"
"That's correct," Katz confirmed. "But that doesn't mean they can't be infiltrated by non-Jewish agents. The Assassins had little in common with Sunni Muslims, yet they successfully infiltrated the palaces of sultans and caliphs. An Arab agent could easily pass as a Jew. It could be done. I'm convinced it has been done."
"I suggest we do a bit of research," Ohara said. "If the emblem on their shirts and the star tattoos are indeed Assassin symbols, it would confirm your theory."
"Good idea, Keio," the Israeli agreed. "How's the security for the prime minister?"
"Good," Manning answered, "He has plenty of protection, but any system can be beaten. Keio and I suggested that he be transferred from the Straus Health Centre to a military hospital in Nablus, but he refused."
"Did he give a reason?" Katz asked.
"The prime minister has pretty much recovered from the effects of the heart attack," the Canadian said. "The doctors still want him to rest for a while, but he intends to go back to work in a couple days."
"He'd probably be safer to just stay put," Encizo commented.
"Well," Manning gestured helplessly, "the worse news is the fact the prime minister wants to hold a press conference in the hospital rose garden tomorrow morning."
"Jesus," McCarter groaned. "He'll be a sitting target for the bastards."
"He seems to think the conference is important enough to take that risk," Manning said. "And the prime minister is a very stubborn man."
"I know," Katz said. "The prime minister is an old acquaintance. Perhaps I should talk to him."
"Good luck," the Canadian remarked.
"Well," McCarter sighed. "What next?"
"The terrorists obviously have a branch here in Tel Aviv," Katz said. "You and Rafael can continue to check that angle."
"The Tel Aviv police might be able to help," Encizo commented. "If they can tell us where to find any local dope dealers. We might be able to lean on a couple pushers to get some information about the terrorists' hashish connection. Could lead to bigger fish."
"Worth a try," Katz said.
"If it can wait until tomorrow," the Cuban said, "I'd like to see Rachel home."
"Girl chasing on the job?" Manning said, grinning. "That's not like you, Rafael."
"Girl chasing at any time is just like him," McCarter laughed.
"Just make certain you and Lieutenant Stern are back here by seven o'clock tomorrow morning," Katz said to Encizo with a wink.
11
"Are you a true believer, Ali?" Hassan asked the nervous youth who stood before the cult leader.
"I am, master," the boy replied. His voice was firm, but his body trembled as he spoke.
Ali was only fifteen years old, scrawny, illiterate and naive. He wore a pair of crudely patched trousers and a threadbare shirt, the only clothes he owned after selling all his worldly possessions to make an adequate contribution to the Order.
"Your faith is flawed, Ali," Hassan told the youth. "I can see that in your soul. You are not without fear of death."
"I believe in Allah, the one true God," Ali answered, hoping this would please Hassan.
"Your faith is weak, Ali," the cult leader sighed. "You speak of Allah, but you do not believe in Him strongly enough. You doubt my word and you doubt paradise in the next world."
"Master, I..." Ali began lamely.
"You shall lose your fear of death, weak one," Hassan stated. "You will discover the great truth. I shall send you to paradise."
Jemal, Hassan's manservant, stepped from behind his master's throne and raised his arm. He held an old .45-caliber Webley revolver. Ali's eyes bulged and his mouth fell open when he saw the gun pointed at his chest. Jemal squeezed the trigger.
The roar of the revolver filled the room. The orange muzzle-flash illuminated the horror-struck features of the youth as the bullet crashed into his flesh. Ali's feet left the carpeted floor. He fell heavily, a scarlet stain creeping across the front of his shirt.
* * *
"Why did you kill that boy?" Colonel Fawzi demanded when he met with Hassan an hour later in the cult leader's secret chambers.
"I see you've been watching the closed-circuit television again," Hassan remarked. "Are you really that bored here, Colonel?"
"Did you kill him just to impress your followers with your godlike power over them?" Fawzi sneered.
"Really, Colonel," Hassan sighed. "How I operate my organization is not of your concern."
"It is if I have reason to believe you've gone totally mad," the terrorist colonel said bluntly. "You wouldn't be the first so-called prophet who began to believe his own propaganda."
"What an absurd accusation," Hassan chuckled. "Very well. To ease your mind about my sanity, I'll explain what you saw."
Hassan strolled to his sofa and sprawled across it. "You did not witness an execution, Colonel."
"It looked like murder to me," Fawzi told him.
"Don't pretend to be a moralist, Colonel," Hassan smiled. "Your United Arab Front has been responsible for many murders in the past."
"That has nothing to do with what I saw today," Fawzi insisted. "Your slave killed that boy..."
"Your eyes deceived you, Colonel," Hassan said. "Things are not always as they seem. The boy was shot in the chest, but he is not dead."
"Please explain," Fawzi urged.
"The bullet was made of wax. It contained a powerful tranquilizer in liq
uid form, dyed red for effect. The force of the .45-caliber slug knocked the boy over and no doubt stunned and startled him. A tiny needle, no thicker than a strand of wire, was inside the wax to insure that enough of the drug would enter the boy's bloodstream through the puncture in his skin. The boy was merely sedated, although he appeared to have been killed right before the eyes of spectators, including yourself."
"Ingenius," Fawzi admitted. "But for what purpose?"
"To send him to paradise," Hassan answered. "Ali has been taken to a remote area, where he will awake to find himself in a lovely garden with music, wine and charming female companions."
"No wonder those poor devils follow you," Fawzi said, unable to conceal his grudging respect for the cult leader's cunning or his contempt for the man's actions. "You've even made a falsehood of death."
"Truth is relative," Hassan said, shrugging.
"Not entirely," the colonel replied. "You won't be able to resurrect the men you sent to take care of Katzenelenbogen and his imported team of commandos."
"That is unfortunate," Hassan said. "I don't know what went wrong at the airport or later at that construction site."
"Both ambushes failed because your men were pitted against professionals," Fawzi answered. "You should spend more time instructing your people how to fight instead of concentrating on this religious charade."
"But that's essential to the success of my organization," Hassan told him. "My Assassins are absolutely obedient, totally fearless..."
"And incompetent," Fawzi snapped. "Your Assassins are drug addicts. That imbecile Mehmet Ali Agca had probably been smoking opium before he tried to assassinate the Pope. No wonder the idiot failed. He even held his gun in an absurd overhead position to try to shoot over the crowd."
"None of my people will be taken alive," Hassan stated. "True, we underestimated these foreigners, but they're not important."
"Your spy among the Israelis seems to think otherwise," Fawzi commented. "He says that damned one-armed Jew is something of a legend, an expert at finding his enemies and destroying them."
