Assassins - Ian Watson & Andy West

by Ian Watson

  He seated himself on the sun-warmed surface of a level piece of weathered stone, unfolding a cloth containing goat’s cheese and olives, dark bread and fruit. Memories of childhood lingered as he dangled his legs over a long drop. Minerals in the cool mountain water from his flask made it an elixir his tongue still welcomed daily, even now, although it was over a year since his return from the oppressive airs and tasteless warm water of Cairo. Tasteless at best in fact, often tainted.

  Even within that year, Hakim had risen significantly, as though Allah was smoothing his way. Having reacquainted himself with the local Nizari Ismaili community and made himself useful to them, he also submerged himself in purification and prayer and religious studies. From a comrade and learner, he’d risen quickly to the role of teacher, for he had a powerful intellect and consequently powerful insights of his own, which traits Ismailis never stifled but directed upwards in their hierarchy.

  Of course, his adoption of the name Hakim had intrigued the Nizaris who’d known his parents and himself as an orphan.

  “The murderous Franks erased my lineage!” Hakim had declared. “For this reason I prefer to be called only by the name which signifies Doctor, and modestly serve the whole community. I have no other family. In choosing this name I also pay homage to our sixteenth Imam, the ilustrious caliph of Cairo, al-Hakim bi-Amrillah, who struck such a blow to the Franks by destroying their main church in Jerusalem, where Christians falsely claim Isa ibn Maryam was buried after his supposed crucifixion.”

  “In that case, Hakim,” said one grizzled elder, “beware of the Sons of Grace, the Druzes. Since our neighbours here in the Jebel Bahra actually worship the sixteenth Imam, they might kill you as an impostor!”

  Hakim hadn’t known this, for the one people more secretive than his own Ismailis were the Druze. Yet neither did he care; they too would one day be reaped by plague.

  Hakim had settled as near as he could to the great stone stronghold of al-Kahf, the seat of Abu Muhammad who guided the Syrian Nizari community. Soon he came across another newcomer to the area who was residing in the castle itself, Sinan, a skilful young man who like himself did occasional work as a physician. Sinan behaved as one of the people, yet many men made subtle obeisance to this Sinan, even men of rank, from which Hakim realised that all was not as it first seemed.

  Taking an inspired gamble, he had made every effort to befriend Sinan, suspending his own doctoring and instead making all his medical knowledge available to the mysterious young man. One day, Hakim had told himself, this gamble would pay off.

  Sinan was a man with piercing eyes, with swift yet subtle judgement, with patient yet boundless ambition, a man filled with God’s light, a man from whom it was not wise to hide anything. Yet in the narrow field of medicine Hakim was now second to none, having incorporated Arwe’s deep insights into the framework of advanced Islamic science.

  It seemed that Sinan’s purpose was to gain popularity in the community, in the scattered mountain villages and the virtually impregnable Ismaili castles, the qa’lats of Kahf and Masyaf, Rusafa, Maniqa, Qabat and the rest. Hakim greatly aided Sinan in this goal, to the point where some believed the younger man could actually perform miracles. So eventually there was great gratitude, and mutual revelation too.

  On a night flavoured by fermented goat’s milk and honey, a night warmed and ruddily lit by embers in the small hearth of Hakim’s simple cottage, the two men of vision exchanged their hopes and plans for the triumph of the Ismaili faith and the greater glory of God.

  “Blessed Abu Muhammad has been an excellent guide for our community here in Jebel Bahra these last forty years,” explained Sinan. “We have no wish for his soul to follow its appointed course to Allah, though this must surely happen in due time as Allah wishes.” He hesitated momentarily and his eyes scanned Hakim’s face. “And also I’m not sent here by the Master of Alamut, but by Hasan his son, who before long will be ascendant. So timing is… delicate. Until Hasan rises to his inheritance, until he is the true hand of power, I have no real authority.”

  Hakim appreciated Sinan’s delicate position. The two young candidates for power intended to usher in a new cycle of leadership, no doubt one of spiritual revelation, with Sinan leading the flock in Syria and subject only to the holy word of Hasan in Alamut. But if Abu Muhammad should die before Sinan’s sponsor gained the leadership in Alamut… the succession in Syria could be disputed.

  “As you know,” said Hakim, “I support you without reservation.”

  They clasped hands in fealty and friendship across the rough boards of the table, then

  Sinan refilled their shallow bowls that served as cups, smiling a knowing smile.

  “Good Hakim, you are wise indeed to aid me, where others would have flaunted such astounding ability. For I see that some high ambition burns within you, though this thing is not to lead men or become their gate to Allah. Also you are devout and unflinching, so your goal must be exceptionally difficult to achieve or by now you would already hold the fruits of success in your hand. So I will help you, if I can, for surely you toil towards something invaluable for our faith, something that will make our Ismaili brotherhood shine still greater before God?”

  Hakim was amazed that Sinan had guessed so closely.

  “Not only shine,” breathed Hakim. “Triumph! Over all our enemies.”

  That was the proudest hour of Hakim’s life. He revealed his grand vision of plague as a scimitar to fell the enemies of Allah, the enemies of the Ismailis, expounding all its glorious detail and holding nothing back. Sinan was at first spellbound, but then sceptical, subjecting Hakim to sharp questions. Yet when Hakim described how far he’d progressed in Ethiopia, the unique knowledge gleaned from Arwe and then synthesised with the written experience of past civilisations, finally Sinan was amazed. As a man of high vision himself, Sinan perceived the power of the concept, and his own medical knowledge helped him grasp Hakim’s proposed methods.

  “It can be done!” gasped Sinan. “We can capture the jinnee of plague in a bottle, and release it within the heart of our enemies. Its fire will utterly consume them! Hakim, my own place and purpose is here. But I will help you, I swear it. Have faith!”

  A movement caught Hakim’s eye: off to his right an eagle was rising on pillar of air. Minutely adjusting its wings, it hovered just below the level of Hakim’s improvised seat, intent on a patch of ground far below. The feathers on its back ruffled and strained upwards, as though the very air desired to pull the bird further up. Then, perhaps catching sight of him, the noble hunter wheeled away, disappearing behind a large bluff.

  Hakim’s own rise must ultimately lead to the eagle’s nest of Alamut in Persia. That could be a year away or more, yet surely Allah desired to pull him up! He restarted his climb to qa’lat al-Kahf, though his legs ached much more than he remembered when he was a boy herding goats.

  Qazvin, Iran: May

  Abigail breezed along the streets of Qazvin in a haze of sunlight and traffic fumes and euphoria. She was free! Free of Terry, free of Jack’s arrogant intrusions, out of her father’s range too. Even Walid’s sudden death now seemed distant, unreal. The Eagle’s Nest was tantalisingly close, perched in the mountains beyond the town.

  The pieces of the medieval puzzle churned at the back of her mind while a powerful potion made her feet light and her thoughts soar, as well as painting a silly grin across her features. Ignoring a warning voice that bleated this is too soon, Abigail was seriously contemplating romance. She savoured the name, Kamal al-Mustafa Abu al-Bashir. How exotic!

  They’d come here to Iran via Cairo, where Kamal had some business to attend to. But in six days there he’d only been absent for two mornings and one evening. The rest of the time he’d swept her through a kaleidoscopic tour: colourful bazaars, the majestic Nile, fancy restaurants offering the best of local cuisine, Cairo’s medieval walls, and of course museums. Not to mention an obligatory visit by taxi to the pyramids, including a short amble on the backs of two
snooty camels led by raggy young boys. Abigail had giggled during that ride, and when Kamal called out to her, “What is amusing you?” she’d exclaimed, “Kamal’s camel! I’m on it!”

  All the time, like the support of a magic carpet, was Kamal’s courtesy and gleaming smile, his self-assurance in any circumstance and his seemingly inexhaustible knowledge of Islamic history. Abigail felt a little unworldly beside him, most unusual for her! She’d tried out her own humble smattering of Arabic with only patchy success, although Kamal graciously pronounced himself impressed by her effort.

  And too, thought Abigail as colour came to her cheeks, there was Kamal’s maleness. For a businessman turned academic he had a trim figure with hard muscle. His manner was unapologetically firm with pushy stall-tenders or lax waiters. His clean yet musky scents pulled at her. Behind intelligent eyes something powerful and animal lurked, something she might want to see unleashed upon herself!

  Excitement coursed through Abigail. Yet Kamal remained the perfect gentleman. So much so, she’d worried he wasn’t interested in her! It was then of course, that she realised she was very much interested in him.

  Now, just this morning, as he’d dropped her off in the center of Qazvin, she’d pecked him on the cheek, quite without thought as it happened, but an answering warm touch on her arm and a sparkle in his eyes stilled her worries. He was interested, but traditional; she needed to give him permission, perhaps assure him that the age-gap didn’t bother her.

  With difficulty, she forced her thoughts back down to earth. Noisy traffic threaded through a jumble of architecture ancient and modern. A low concrete barrier topped by steel railings bounded a park. The concrete crawled with Arabic graffiti in cherry red and green, too stylised for Abigail to pick out words. Inside the park young couples strolled or sat on the grass, some holding hands. The women’s headscarves were almost off their heads. It seemed that the conservatives didn’t have everything their own way. One couple kissed, and Abigail found her silly grin reasserting itself. She tried to banish it by taking a swig of water, then checked that her own headscarf was firmly in place.

  Only a minute or two later, Abigail located the small museum at the edge of the park, which Kamal recommended the day before. “Rather a hole in the wall kind of place,” he had said, frowning as he wondered whether he’d picked the right figure of speech, “but worth a look.”

  There were indeed just three small and somewhat shabby rooms, none with windows. Artefacts from right across Qazvin’s long history were displayed in dimly lit cabinets: part of a gilded chariot wheel from the city’s glory days as capital of the ancient Persian empire, a rusted Mongol sword, fine plates from the Saffavid era, a highly decorated musket.

  Disconcertingly the young female assistant, who seemed to have sole charge, followed Abigail to each exhibit. She was slight and wore a full burkha in black, only her brown eyes visible to Abigail. Wide and unfocussed, those eyes roved restlessly from side to side. Having determined that her only visitor of the moment spoke English, the girl occasionally offered hushed comments that seemed speculative at best.

  “This musket, gift from famous Sultan, never fired,” came a whisper through the dark cloth where a mouth should be. “It is said… who fires it first… will die himself!”

  In the third room, Abigail came across a scale-model of Alamut. Or at least a model of what people decades ago thought Alamut might have looked like; the battlements were covered in dust and paint was peeling from the sheer walls. Only a trace of green remained in the fake grass at the foot of the model’s mountain slopes. A faded wall-panel gave a brief history of the Nizaris in several languages.

  “Evil men,” hissed the assistant. “Unholy. Their assassins… they could pass unseen through locked doors. Their masters made dangerous poisons… no I mean, hmm, potions. Gaining power over disease… perhaps even power over death. Holding many… hmm, spellbound… many who would harm them otherwise.”

  Abigail smiled, revising the girl’s age downwards in her mind. Though her English was pretty good. “Surely that’s just myth. Shouldn’t a museum stick to the facts?” she chided gently.

  The girl’s eyes rolled.

  “Allah used the Mongols to… hmm, erase these bad men. The only force on Earth strong enough! Nizaris were heretics. Yet they held a power. Their power was a fact.”

  The girl was clearly dotty, not to mention in the wrong job. She’d probably do well on the stage, though she’d need to shed that burkha.

  On a shelf by the model were a couple of cracked terracotta storage jars and a line of small bottles, apparently uncovered quite recently at Alamut.

  “May I touch?” asked Abigail. But the strange young assistant had slipped away, perhaps back to her post near the door.

  Abigail picked up one of the bottles. The glass was thick, with a faint tinge of green. Around the neck were patches of some black substance. She couldn’t be sure, but it looked like hardened black wax, perhaps the remains of a seal around the stopper. What would they want to store so meticulously?

  An intense “Take care!” followed her out from the lair of the young woman who tended ancient artefacts, as Abigail emerged into dazzling sun and honking horns.

  Along the road she visited a small store to grab some chocolate before continuing on her way. Abigail always felt guilty consuming a whole bar, no matter how hard she tried not to be. This didn’t stop her eating it, yet she certainly wouldn’t be telling Kamal about the habit. Neither had she mentioned her constant email contact with Paul Summers, or indeed anything more about the journalist. An undercurrent of guilt niggled her for this too, though some instinct kept her silent. Kamal is so formal, so manly, she reasoned with herself; he might get jealous. It’d certainly be hard to disguise the fact that poor Paul clearly mooned after her.

  She smiled again, this time smugly. With half a bar already working its magic and the ecstasy of another half to go, she considered it absolutely essential for a woman to have a queue of male interest.

  She consulted her crumpled tourist map for the next target, a historic area where books and prints and antiques were sold, at greatly inflated prices according to Kamal. She went by way of the famous Imamzadeh Hossein, a mausoleum, a divine work of 16th century architecture, added to in the 19th century. Yet it wasn’t the building that moved Abigail, but the multitude of memorials to martyrs from the Iran-Iraq war arranged in neat rows beside it. Set into the headstone of each was a faded photograph; a whole harvest of young male faces reaped by the ambition of Saddam Hussein and the pussy-footing of the West.

  As she proceeded down the funerary aisles in horrid fascination, Walid came to mind, sweeping away the last of her buoyant mood and bringing a flood of tears. Then she recalled what he’d said about the Islamic Resurrection. Would the bodies of all these martyred men one day rise in ghostly ranks? All leeched of colour by time, as the merciless Middle-Eastern sun was slowly erasing the hues and definition from their captured images too. Rise to rejoin their souls, up past the gleaming blue tile-work of the great dome, its apex pointing to heaven?

  Abigail banished her imaginings, drying her eyes with a tissue and taking another swig of water. Unfortunately, the chocolate was all gone. She doubted the Islamic Resurrection as much as the Christian one, but more importantly for her right now it didn’t seem to provide a plausible context for the words death swells and overflows that Safiyya had written. The highly modified Nizari concept of Resurrection was even less likely to supply an explanation.

  A connection with plague did seem strong but was wholly circumstantial. Even if Safiyya had woven in the big event of her time, she would surely have remained within traditional forms. So what core Nizari symbolism had death swelling and overflowing, and what special vision to judge did the teacher of many lessons, the Imam, have within this context?

  The words of the fragment had stumped Kamal as much as they had Walid. His interest in her medieval mystery had been intense since they’d reached Cairo, perhaps the ir
resistible pull of an academic challenge, as with herself. Nevertheless, she’d fed him only fractions of her knowledge so far, just one drop of intellectual nectar at a time. She wasn’t sure why. Oh come off it girl, you’re teasing him on! Maybe she did need all her womanly wiles to capture a prize like Kamal but, soon enough, she thought as a warm feeling rushed up inside her, the busy bee that was Kamal might have sweeter nectar to sip at.

  A while later, in a market street, small doors became entrances to enticing caves filled with brass and silver and polished wood, gilded manuscripts and antique prints. People drifted idly. Vendors tried to snare her with their calls. Vehicles nosed their way through, their tyres just inches from the goods heaped up to right and left. Old books were on offer in a minority of the many tiny establishments.

  An hour later, Abigail had just one prize to show for an intensive search; according to the vendor’s broken English a volume of early medieval love poetry from across the Islamic world, itself published in Arabic in the 1890s, a more innocent time perhaps. She thought it would be fun for Kamal to translate some of the verses for her. Despite this minor triumph, real prizes eluded her. It wasn’t easy searching for works in languages one scarcely knew. She’d found just three books on the Ismailis, one of them in English, another with dramatic illustrations suggesting it was as much a novel as a history. All seemed standard fare.

  Yet fate threw her a final chance. The last shop on the street, at the shabbier end, was entirely a bookshop. Oddly relieved, it dawned on her how she was determined to show Kamal that she could pursue her goals independently, even out here. If there was going to be romance, she preferred to start from a position of relative equality!