"To hear is to obey."
"Arrani."
"Yes, Your Highness?"
"Do not speak of this to Mr. Harrigan or his companion. If your intuition proves correct, I will have questions of my own for him to answer. If you are mistaken, I will have no shadows cast upon our hospitality."
"As you desire, my lord."
Alone once more, the master of the Eagle's Nest considered all that he had heard, the suppositions and suspicions that had moved Arrani to request permission for an expedition to the world outside. He hoped his second-in-command was wrong, for varied reasons. A mistake would keep Arrani in his place, for one thing, and an error in judgment would be infinitely preferable to the infiltration of his stronghold by an agent of his enemies. He did not fear the man called Harrigan, but where one spy slipped through, another might someday succeed in circumventing the security of Alamut. The isolated and impenetrable fortress was his strength, his trump card, and it would not do for infidels to learn that there were loopholes in his personal defenses.
Abdel al-Sabbah had waited much too long, worked much too hard, to gain the title of Sheikh al-Jebal. No traitor from the West could stop him now; no overly ambitious member of his entourage could dazzle him with words of «wisdom» and provoke a rash response to manufactured crises. If the man called Harrigan was shown to be a spy, he would be dealt with as the Hashshashin had dealt with enemies for centuries untold. If he was who he claimed to be, their business would proceed without disturbance, and the Irishman would never know how close his brush with agonizing death had been.
Whichever way Arrani's search for evidence might end, the master of the Eagle's Nest was ready to respond with swift, decisive action. He would not be made a fool by the infidels, nor would his course of action be dictated by presumptuous subordinates.
He was the voice of Allah, and his word was law.
* * *
Hafez Kasm was uneasy. Even in the absence of a wristwatch, he was painfully aware of passing time. He thought that hours must have passed since Mike Belasko left to make his tour with the Old Man of the Mountain and the ferret named Arrani. Should they have returned by now? Or was he merely growing paranoid, the product of confinement under stress?
No, he was certain of it; Belasko should have finished with his tour of the castle long ago. Or had he? In his personal anxiety, Kasm had thought his contact would immediately summon him upon returning, or at least drop by his sleeping chamber to describe what he had seen. But what if Belasko had returned directly to his suite? Was it not logical? He might need rest, an opportunity to think in peace and solitude before he hatched a battle plan.
If so, should not he permit him to enjoy his privacy? What did he have to offer, other than the information on an exit through the stables?
Startled by his own astounding ignorance, the slender Arab sat bolt upright on his bed. Of course! The exit. Belasko must be told at once, in case the information might affect his final plan. And if the American had retreated to his room, Hafez would find him there; he would apologize for the intrusion, recount his findings and depart.
Relieved by his decision, conscious of the rumbling in his stomach now that breakfast lay some hours behind them, the Syrian crossed the room and hesitated, listening at the door. There were no sounds outside, which could mean anything, so he went through the humiliating ritual of peeking through a crack at first, then checking out the corridor, like a child about to cross the street. He was alone, from all appearances, with no one to observe him as he closed the door behind him and moved silently along the corridor.
Two other suites, whose doors were closed, stood between his own and Belasko's. He passed each door with hurried strides, afraid that one of the Assassins might suddenly emerge from the room to take him by surprise. He stood now before Belasko's door, almost afraid to knock in case the sound drew attention from the minions of their host. Embarrassed by his reticence, which smacked of fear, Kasm rapped lightly on the panel.
Nothing.
Again, this time a little louder, just in case the American was drowsing.
No response.
He knew the door would not be locked. His own — and so, by inference, the others, had no inside latching mechanisms. Tenants of the Old Man's guest wing could be locked up in their rooms, but they could never lock themselves inside. If someone wanted them, at noon or midnight, they would be available to anyone who held the key.
He slipped inside, calling out, knowing there would be no answer. Kasm checked the small connecting bathroom to satisfy himself that no one else was lurking in the shadows, waiting for his comrade to return. He was, incontrovertibly, alone.
What now? He could retrace his steps and wait for Belasko in his own room, or he could remain exactly where he was. There were advantages and disadvantages to both ideas. If the American should go looking for him on completion of his tour, the empty suite of rooms might cause him some alarm. In contrast, if the American was suspected, even broken in the dungeons, the Assassins would come looking for him in his own room, first, allowing him a momentary respite from the fire.
On balance, Kasm felt safer where he was, and so he settled into an uncomfortable wooden chair, prepared to wait. His mind was racing with alternative reactions, to be implemented if his worst suspicions bore fruit. The stable exit was his best hope for an escape, but if the Assassins came for him, he would be forced to pass them in the corridor. Unarmed, his hopes of taking out a crack Ismaili squad were nil; his only hope for ultimate survival lay in stealth, and even then, his options would be limited.
His enemy would have the numbers on their side, and they were all familiar with the tunnels of the Eagle's Nest, while he had managed to explore one section of a single corridor. It still might be enough, however, if Kasm could find a hiding place and let the manhunt pass him by. If he could reach the stable exit, then the courtyard…
And again, the vision came of marksmen on the parapets, their automatic weapons spitting flame directly in his face. With a disguise, he might just have a chance, but there was still the gate, the valley just beyond.
Depressed, he shook his head to clear away the morbid thoughts. Before he panicked, he would hear what Belasko had to say about their situation. There was still a chance his contact had discovered something, possibly another exit from the castle, which would see them through the coming hours, alive and relatively whole.
He still was not precisely sure what Belasko meant to do about their enemies, and the uncertainty did not increase his confidence. What was the man's plan? Did he have a plan? Their entry to the castle, with the American posing as an Irish terrorist, had been completely unexpected, a surprise to all concerned.
He was not convinced, by any means, that they could manage an escape, but Belasko might have something in the nature of a plan. If not, their efforts and their sacrifice would all have been in vain, and the Assassins would continue as before, a living disgrace to the people of Syria.
If things went badly for them, he might reach Sheikh al-Jebal before they killed him. It would only take a moment, time enough to lock his hands around the Old Man's throat and squeeze…
But that would be a last resort. He had not come this far to throw his life away on suicidal gestures. First, he had to speak with Mike Belasko, find out what the tall American had seen and done this day. From there, they would be better able to devise a plan.
And some time later, even as his mind continued grappling with the problems that surrounded him, Kasm slept.
11
"You are refreshed by your experience?"
"I wouldn't say refreshed, exactly."
If the truth was known, he felt a good deal closer to exhaustion. Reluctantly he pushed all thoughts of willing flesh aside and concentrated on Sheikh al-Jebal. The old man was alone, the first time Bolan had observed him without his shadow, Arrani, and the Executioner experienced a mixture of suspicion and relief. Where was Arrani? What was he doing? Was the sheikh less difficult to deal
with on his own?
"I think perhaps you understand the workings of our garden of delights."
"I'd say it works just fine."
"Indeed. The great majority of my disciples have been drawn from simple peasant stock. They lust for greatness, heroism, even death in battle if it grants them one bright, shining moment in the sun. You understand?"
"I've met the type."
"Of course, there are the normal fears to overcome, and Allah offers us a blueprint in His holy scripture. As the fields of Paradise have been described in the Koran, so I have recreated them on Earth. A simple 'vision, easily arranged, and my disciples wake to the assurance of their heavenly reward. Their fears are washed away."
"It beats a pep talk on the night before a raid, I'll give you that. But can your shooters follow orders?"
"You are well aware of our successes in the recent past or you would not be here."
"That's true, but spraying lead around a crowded room is rather different from the job we have in mind. Our project would require precision accuracy and split-second timing."
"Perhaps you would like to observe how my warriors are trained?"
Bolan swallowed the new urge to smile. Any training with weapons would be conducted outside, in the courtyard or valley below. One more chance with the homer.
"Yes, I would." Bolan hoped he did not sound too eager. "But I should get cleaned up a little, before…"
"As you say. It is noon, now." He saw that the old man did not wear a watch. "Shall we say, in two hours?"
"That's fine."
"Food and drink will be brought to your chamber."
"Thanks, again. Now, regarding our business…"
"Tonight. We have time."
"As you say."
Bolan was escorted back to his room by a sentry who carried an Uzi and scimitar, one of the crack palace guards. They were shorter than average height, these disciples of death, but their bodies were trim and athletic, their weapons borne effectively, lacking the posture and show displayed by amateurs playing soldier. The high-dive, that morning, had shown him the cultists had no fear of death, and he knew that fanatics died harder than most.
At his door, Bolan's escort turned back and was gone in an instant, devoured by the tunnels. He waited a moment more, thought of proceeding to meet with Hafez and decided to shower first. Food was expected, and he must be there when it arrived if he wished to avoid stirring up more suspicion. He thought of Arrani, again wondered where the sheikh's right hand had gone. He opened the door…
And he froze.
For a heartbeat, the soldier believed that he had been betrayed, marked for death by the sheikh or Arrani. Why else would a turbaned Assassin be waiting inside his room, crouching to spring from a chair near the door?
A heartbeat, and then he relaxed, as he saw that the man was not crouching, but dozing, chin on his chest. It was not an Assassin at all, but Hafez, wearing robes and a turban that the sheikh had provided. Before he could reach out and touch the slim Arab, Hafez sprang awake, the embarrassment bright in his cheeks.
"I apologize."
"No need. You been waiting long?"
"I do not believe so. Half an hour, perhaps."
"I got sidetracked awhile." Avoiding the prurient details, he filled in Hafez on his trip to the garden, the cliff diver, all that the Old Man had told him. He thought he detected the ghost of a smile on the Syrian's face when the garden was mentioned, and then it was gone, as his contact absorbed every word.
"You saw no other way of escape from the garden?"
"No time," Bolan answered. "There must be another way, possibly several, but we could be dead by the time we came up with an exit."
"Indeed. I have found one… as far as the courtyard, at least."
"Lay it out."
Kasm cocked a thumb over his shoulder, eastward. "The corridor runs for a distance without deviation. This morning, no guards were on duty that I could observe. At the end of the tunnel, a door opens into the stables. This door, like the tunnel itself, was unguarded."
"How far?"
The Arab thought about it for a moment. "Possibly 350 meters."
Bolan frowned. "That works out to a long, straight run, with the Ismailis on our heels."
Kasm had thought it through. "The corridor is lighted by electric bulbs," he said. "The cable runs along the ceiling, and it is exposed. If it was cut or broken, somehow…"
Bolan's frown became a cautious smile. "It might work — and I emphasize the 'might. Before we start escaping, though, we have to do the job we came for."
It was now Hafez Kasm's turn to frown. "We have no weapons," he reminded Bolan, "and we are outnumbered. I see nothing left to do."
"I came to blow their house down," Bolan answered, "and I mean to do exactly that."
"But how?"
The Executioner was running out of options. He had managed to conceal the grim specifics of his mission from the Syrian to this point, but the time had come to lay his cards on the table. He could only guess the man's reaction, knew he might resist, but Bolan would be braced for anything, prepared to take decisive action if it sadly came to that.
He found the homer, in its place behind the tapestry, and showed it to Kasm. "We're not as isolated as we seem," he said.
"What is it?"
"A transmitter, miniaturized and designed to emit a directional beacon for tracking. In this case, an air strike."
"An air strike?" the Syrian echoed. A long moment passed before full understanding was clear in his eyes. "The Israelis!"
"No choice. They're in range, and they're capable. Washington won't lift a finger without provocation. The French and Italians are too busy counting their dead."
"I was told the Israelis would not be involved."
"Not by me."
"By my contacts, then."
Bolan could feel for the guy, but the numbers were falling, and he had no time to play watchdog or wet nurse. "You're all they had left," he said gruffly. "Last chance. You might just be the last chance for Syria, too."
Kasm thought about that for a moment, his mind mulling over the limited options. Aborting their mission meant further attacks by the Old Man's disciples, on unknown targets. If the raids were directed at Israel again — and they would be, in time — a reaction was certain. Without an identified target, the strike force might unleash its fire on Damascus or some other kill zone selected at random. If war should result, the Israelis were ready, the Syrians poorly prepared.
"Could I stop you?" Kasm asked at last.
Bolan held him with eyes that were stony. "I doubt that. I hope you won't try."
"I am, how do you say it, between a rock and a hard-on."
"A hard place" the soldier corrected him, grinning in spite of himself. "I'm sorry."
"No matter. You speak the truth. As long as Sheikh al-Jebal rules in this valley, my country will never be safe from her enemies. So, tell me what must be done."
Bolan opened his mouth, but the words never came. In their place came a knock at the door.
* * *
She had not brought the knife with her. It would be foolish to attack the stranger in his room when it was known to all that she had volunteered to take him food and drink. She would not make a move against him now, did not intend to speak if she was given any choice. She had concealed a note beneath the goblet. He could not miss it when he drank.
She had not spoken English since she joined the Old Man's harem, had not written it for months before that, but she thought the note would serve. Her language was deliberately ambiguous, enticing. She had offered nothing, but expressed a personal desire to meet him privately. He would inevitably draw his own conclusions, and if he reported her — a circumstance she regarded as improbable — the worst she could be charged with was excessive physical attraction toward a handsome man. She might be whipped, but if the guest was an important one — as he appeared to be — her zeal in seeing to his happiness might even be rewarded.
&
nbsp; If he kept the rendezvous, she would kill him. It would be easy when his pants were down, his mind on sex instead of raw survival. She would take him then, leave no trace of herself, and if the unsigned note was found — if he did not destroy it, as requested — there would still be no connection for the sheikh to draw.
The door was opened at her knock, and she was thankful that she had not planned to kill him in his room, for he was not alone. The man who occupied a chair behind the low-slung coffee table was a stranger, but she knew that he was not Ismaili. There was nothing of the holy warrior in his eyes, his bearing; if she had been asked to name his chief emotion at the moment, Shari would have called it trepidation, even fear. Disciples of Sheikh al-Jebal had no fear left inside, as they had no compassion, pity, love for anything outside their sect.
She held the silver platter out, an explanation of her presence in itself. The tall man, her intended target, stood aside and pointed toward the coffee table, where his slim companion sat. He recognized her from the garden, there could be no doubt of that, and she had seen the spark within his eyes that signaled interest. He was only human, after all. The flesh was weak, and it would kill him in the end.
She set the tray down, bending at the waist, allowing him an unobstructed view of her behind through flimsy harem trousers. Turning to face him as she took her leave, she bowed — a bit of cleavage couldn't hurt — and when he thanked her, there was more than simple gratitude behind his words.
With the door closed firmly at her back, she hurried down the empty corridor, not anxious to be present if he found the note at once. Another summons to his room was not a part of Shan's plan. He would obey the note's instructions, or he would report her to the sheikh; there was no third alternative.
And when they met again, she meant to be prepared. The man who came to Alamut to purchase death for others would have found his own, instead. It was poetic justice, and she was delighted, finally, to have some goal beyond the passive role of eyes and ears inside the Old Man's harem.
Cold Judgment Page 10
