Cold Judgment

by Don Pendleton

  They found the footpath Bolan and Kasm had taken from the LZ to their confrontation at the mountain spring, and followed it for half a mile or so before the leader took them up another wooded hillside, branches whipping in their faces, snagging at their clothing as they climbed. The hones negotiated the terrain easily, as if they had pursued the course a hundred times before, but Bolan found it rugged going, and his contact had the worst of it, face pallid as they galloped on a path that seemed invisible to human eyes. A drooping branch ripped off his keffiyeh at one point, but a member of the tail crew caught it, spurring up the slope to catch Kasm and hand it back, all mocking smiles. The Arab clutched it tightly in his fist, refusing to release the saddle horn or reins to put it on again.

  Time blurred. They might have ridden through the forest for an hour or a day, but Bolan's watch informed him that it was, in fact, two hours from their starting point until they cleared the tree line, perched atop the ridge that overlooked a narrow, winding road. This thoroughfare had not been paved; and ruts etched deep by wagon wheels were visible from where they sat. A few klicks farther on, the road spilled out into a verdant, cultivated valley flanked by stony peaks on every side. From Bolan's vantage point, he picked out orchards, vineyards, scattered hovels — and he knew that they had found the source of food for tenants of the Eagle's Nest.

  The fortress of his enemies was not yet visible, but Bolan had his hands full at the moment, as the leader of his escort started down the final slope at a near full gallop. Bolan had to stand in his stirrups and lean back across the heaving flanks. Behind him, bitter exhortations from the Syrian told him that his guide was hanging in, however tenuously, and he gave the Arab points for courage. Once on level ground, the leader slowed his pace, and Kasm let his pent-up breath escape, allowed himself to breathe again.

  It took the better part of three more hours to traverse the valley at a combination trot and walk that gave their mounts an opportunity to rest. True dusk was falling now, exaggerated by the line of rugged western peaks that screened the setting sun. They passed small groups of peasant farmers, homeward bound from labor in the fields and orchards, but the men on foot refused to meet his gaze. Instead, they kept their eyes downcast, heads lowered, as if death might be the consequence of a direct glance at the riders filing past.

  And, Bolan thought, it just might be.

  For all his mental preparation, Bolan's first view of the castle took him by surprise. The orchards had obscured his view for most of forty minutes, and the fortress was before them when they cleared the trees, its battlements carved out of living rock, rising a hundred feet or more above the valley floor. A human fly would be hard-pressed to climb the walls; the passage of perhaps a thousand years since their erection had, apparently, done nothing to erode their strength or offer handholds to potential prowlers. He could pick out tiny figures pacing off their beats on the parapets, a squad of sentries on patrol.

  The single, narrow road to Alamut climbed steeply from the valley's floor, although the grade seemed modest in comparison with some of the uncharted tracks that they had followed in their journey from the highway. A few more moments brought them to the looming gates, which had already opened to receive them.

  Halting, Bolan's escort formed a line across the open gate. The leader stared at Bolan, confident, not bothering to train his weapon on the tall American. Instead, he thrust out an open hand, snapping orders that were dutifully translated by Kasm.

  "He wants your pistol now."

  Bolan's show of stubbornness had served its purpose, and he drew the Makarov, delivered it butt-first and saw it tucked away inside the gunner's caftan. Satisfied, the horsemen turned in tight formation and trotted through the gate. Mack Bolan felt the short hairs rising on his neck as they passed inside, the portals tightly closed and barred behind them.

  They were in the center of a courtyard, roughly three times the size of a football field, surrounded by sixty-foot walls. In addition to height, Bolan saw that the walls were about twenty feet thick at their base, with apartments for sentries and storerooms for weapons or food that were chiseled out of the stone. At the near end, the courtyard was L-shaped, retreating toward stables that housed as many as twenty-five horses. At the far end, the earth had been paved for a heliport.

  Frowning, he knew that Hafez had been right on the mark. When supplies came to Alamut, they would most likely be coming by air. With a heliport right in the courtyard, a drop was superfluous; anyone welcome could touch down in style, bearing gifts for the Old Man or coming to bargain for one more atrocity.

  Bolan dismounted on cue from the chief of their escorts, and other Ismailis were waiting to handle the horses, conveying them back to the stable for rubdowns and oats. Bolan followed their guide, with Kasm at his heels, as they moved toward the heart of the keep.

  Stony towers thrust up from the earth in the midst of the courtyard, abutting the peak of which they were a part. Bolan guessed that the rooms of the castle might wander for miles underground, hand-carved chambers immune to the light of the sun. Windows facing the courtyard were well above ground, so that hard-core defenders could fight on, in spite of a breach in the great outer wall.

  There were guards on the door, submachine guns and scimitars mingling the old and the new, East and West, but they passed through, unchallenged. Inside, Bolan thought that he might have stepped into a fantasy: tapestries covered the walls, scenes of battle and triumph handwoven by artists in centuries past. Polished marble was smooth underfoot, and the numerous wall-mounted lamps had the look of real gold. Bolan noted the lamps were electric, their cables concealed by the various tapestries. That meant a power plant somewhere inside, an addition the builders had never imagined, and where there was power there also was weakness, a pressure point ready for use in a crisis.

  He stopped himself short of disabling the plant in his mind. He was getting ahead of himself, allowing his mind to roam free when he needed to focus on the task at hand. They were passing more sentries, who were decked out in turbans and vests with fine stitchery and holding their Uzis like pros. He had counted thirty-three gunners so far — thirty-five with the two who were stashing the jeep — and he guessed that he might not have seen one in four of the cultists on hand. They were facing an army, unarmed, and he still had to meet the CO.

  Double doors twice the height of a man whispered open, and Bolan fell in behind their guide, noting the handwoven carpets that muffled their footsteps. The receiving room may have been fifty feet square, but the mirrored walls amplified spatial dimensions, creating an agoraphobe's nightmare. Glancing off to either side, the soldier saw himself in triplicate, quadruplicate, his image dwindled and repeated to infinity. Above them, crystal chandeliers lit up the room like starbursts.

  At the center of the chamber, mounted on a dais, stood the Old Man of the Mountain's throne. It was not occupied at present; rather, as they stopped before the elevated platform, Bolan's escort kneeling, he observed a slender, turbaned man emerging from behind the massive chair. He stood beside it for a moment, scrutinizing Bolan, studying this infidel who did not kneel and finally sat down.

  The Old Man had a timeless face, like weathered parchment, wisps of iron-gray hair still visible beneath his turban. He wore flawless silk, with handmade sandals on his feet, his throat and hands adorned with gold. The left side of his nose was pierced, a ruby winking from the outside of his nostril like an errant drop of blood.

  "I bid you welcome, Mr. Harrigan," he said in perfect English.

  "Thank you." Conscious of his limitations, Bolan made no effort to affect an Irish accent. If he fumbled it, a misplaced burr could get him killed, and it was easier to justify the absence of an accent than to fake a realistic one.

  "You have something for me?"

  The Old Man's eyes were fastened on the satchel that Bolan carried. Bolan passed it to his escort, waiting while the gunner fairly crept toward the throne on hands and knees. Sheikh al-Jebal spent several seconds studying the cont
ents of the bag, then set it on the floor beside his chair.

  "A small down payment," Bolan said, before the Old Man had an opportunity to speak. "I like to think of it as an investment in the future."

  "Ah." The Old Man's face was deadpan, but there was a glimmer in his eyes. "I will look forward to our conversation on the subject. First, however, I believe that you and your companion might enjoy some small refreshment, possibly a bath and change of clothes, before we meet again. A banquet has been readied for tonight, in honor of our guests. You will enjoy it more, I think, once you have washed away the dust of travel."

  "Thank you, very much."

  "Amal will show you to your rooms. If any comfort has been overlooked, please be so kind as to inform him of the oversight at once."

  "I will."

  The Executioner had turned to leave, but he was halted by the Old Man's voice.

  "One thing, before you leave us, Mr. Harrigan."

  "Yes?"

  "We were expecting three. Perhaps you can explain why there are only two of you?"

  "I can, indeed. My other baby-sitter had a hungry eye. He got a bit too cozy with your money, and I was forced to blow his brains out."

  "I appreciate your candor… and your interest in my property."

  "No worries. If you think about it, I was looking out for Number One. What kind of idiot would I be, showing up without the full amount that we agreed?"

  "A dead one, Mr. Harrigan."

  "Precisely. I intend to go on living for a while, yet. I've got things to do."

  The Old Man smiled. "Enjoy your rest. Amal will call for you when it is time."

  "I'm looking forward to it," Bolan told him, meaning every word.

  He was inside, and if appearances were trusted, he had passed the first inspection by his enemy. Before he started celebrating, though, there was a great deal more to be accomplished.

  And so precious little time.

  7

  Kasm and Bolan were assigned to separate suites, which were luxury incarnate; Persian rugs and tapestries, elaborate hand-carved furniture, a massive bed that would accommodate four bodies easily.

  It took a moment for the Executioner to realize that he was in a suite of rooms devoid of windows. Shrugging off a twinge of claustrophobia, he took the information in, assimilated it and realized that he was somewhere on the cliff side of the castle. He could not observe the courtyard, could not leave his room by means of any exit other than the door. On impulse, Bolan tried it, found it open. He might not be trusted, but the Old Man of the Mountain did not fear him, either.

  And why should he?

  Bolan was unarmed, surrounded by a private army that might easily exceed one hundred soldiers. He could not escape, and empty-handed, he could do no crucial damage to their operation. Friend or foe, he had been neutralized, effectively and simply.

  They had bargained, though, without the homer.

  Smaller than a pocket calculator, the device emitted silent signals that would span a distance of 150 miles. It relied on a battery — its life was limited — and it could not broadcast through walls of solid stone. But Bolan was not ready to employ his secret ace. Not yet. He had to get a feel for the Ismaili operation, first, discover what the Old Man had in mind for Northern Ireland and as many other targets as he could unveil. He had to do it all within a day, and plant the homer somewhere in the courtyard, where it would be safe and unobserved before the air strike. On the side, it would be helpful if the Executioner could find a way to save himself and his companion from the rain of hellfire that Grimaldi and his backup would release on cue.

  Kasm would not be counting on the air strike. He had already made it clear that he would not cooperate with the Israelis. Bolan felt a momentary pang of guilt at the deception, but it vanished swiftly. Countless lives were hanging in the balance, and he would use every means available to neutralize the threat of the Assassins. If Hafez Kasm felt betrayed and wound up hating Bolan as a consequence, it was a burden he could live with. In the meantime, there was work to do.

  But first, the bath their host had promised. Situated in one corner of a smaller, barren room, the shower was a primitive contraption, with its pipes exposed. Its spray was steaming hot, however, as the Executioner discovered when he stood beneath the nozzle, grimacing in momentary pain. His skin was lobster red when he emerged to find a steam cloud overhead, the sweat of condensation leaving wet tracks on the hand-hewn walls. He found a towel and dried himself, examining the single closet of his suite for some alternative to putting on the sweaty uniform again.

  A dozen caftans were arranged on wooden hangers, and he chose the first in line. Leather sandals were supplied in several sizes, and he found a pair that fit him well enough. The robe was loose enough to hide a weapon, but the Executioner had nothing to conceal.

  Except the homer.

  He couldn't afford to have his only means of contact with the outside world discovered by the enemy. Without the miniature transmitter, he was isolated, absolutely on his own, and its discovery would irredeemably destroy his cover. Bryan Harrigan had come to deal, and he would have no use for homing devices or other electronic gadgetry. Just as the transmitter was his lifeline, the cover was his life, and he couldn't part with either at the moment.

  Bolan studied his surroundings, passing on the obvious — the bed, the closet — searching for a place where the transmitter would be safe from prying eyes. He finally chose a tapestry that hung beside the bed, concealing more electric wires, and clipped the homer to the rich material. It scarcely weighed an ounce, and did not cause a wrinkle in the fabric; as well it was thin enough to let the tapestry hang flat against the wall, without a telltale bulge.

  When he was satisfied with his selection of a hiding place, the Executioner stretched out across the king-size bed, relaxing with an effort. He didn't feel the need for sleep, but he would not resist it. There was nothing more that he could do before his scheduled dinner with Sheikh al-Jebal, and he had learned to take advantage of the opportunities for rest as they arose.

  In fact, his mind was too alert for sleep to come, the crucial questions keeping his nerves on edge. Would there be time to plant the homer? Would he be allowed outside? If he succeeded, could he find an exit from the Eagle's Nest before the doomsday numbers ran out?

  It was a relatively simple mission, in conception. Bolan merely had to find the home of the Assassins, mark it for the air strike and withdraw. His chance encounter by a mountain spring had made the first part easy… as it might have made the other parts impossible.

  The soldier closed his eyes, deliberately made his mind a blank. It was a talent he had acquired in Vietnam, permitting him to let accumulated tensions melt away and leave him totally relaxed. His problems would be waiting for him when he chose to surface; in the meantime, he needed rest, and in his quiet state he might surprise himself with some solutions.

  He was wakened forty minutes later by a knocking at his door.

  "Come in."

  Amal, the leader of his escort from the highway, entered with Hafez Kasm on his heels. The slender Syrian was also wearing a caftan, had sandals on his feet and a turban coiled atop his head. He seemed to mesh with their surroundings, but there was a nervous quality about him that betrayed the fact that he was an outsider. As Bolan rose, he hoped the Arab's agitation would not be apparent to Amal or to their host.

  Amal was speaking now, and Bolan waited for Kasm to translate.

  "We are summoned to the banquet chamber."

  "Good. I was about to ring room service for a snack."

  They trailed Amal through corridors of stone, electric bulbs in wire cages overhead providing illumination. Bolan realized immediately that the fortress, with its tunnels through the mountainside, was more extensive than he had at first imagined. Twice, they passed by stairways chiseled out of rock, one leading to a level overhead, the other leading downward. To the dungeons? Storerooms? Bolan made a mental note to check it out, if possible, before he c
alled in the air strike.

  The banquet chamber was a hundred feet in length and half as wide, with vaulted ceilings and a floor of polished granite. Two men occupied the room. Amal led the newcomers to the single table, which was situated at the far end of the room, their footsteps ringing hollowly as they closed the gap.

  Sheikh al-Jebal was seated at the place of honor, at the middle of the banquet table, and watched their approach without the vestige of a smile. Beside him, on his right, a younger Arab with a mustache and goatee made no attempt to mask his frank suspicion of the new arrivals. The man was dressed less sumptuously than his master, but his restless hands were bright with gold and diamonds.

  Bolan stood his ground while Amal bowed deeply before the Old Man of the Mountain. Kasm, accustomed to the Eastern forms of courtesy, compromised with a simple bow from the waist. The sheikh's companion studied Bolan closely, and the Executioner returned his gaze, unflinching, reading hidden fear and overt cruelty in the other's soul.

  "I trust you have refreshed yourselves?"

  "I'm feeling better by the minute."

  "Excellent." The sheikh turned to introduce his aide. "Tahir Arrani, my right hand. Our guest is Bryan Harrigan, an Irishman in need of some assistance."

  "You are Irish? From your voice, I would have guessed American."

  "It took a while to lose the accent," Bolan told him, smiling thinly. "It was either that or lose my head. The walls have ears, you know? These days, I get around much easier."

  "So we have heard." Arrani's smile was cold, reptilian. "You were involved with Lord Mountbatten's execution, I believe?"

  "Let's say I know who was, and let it go at that. I didn't come this far to talk about old times."

  "Be seated, please." The chief of the Assassins gestured grandly to a pair of straight-backed chairs positioned on his left. When they were seated, Arrani raised a silver bell and struck it sharply with his knife blade, which produced a single, mellow tone.