by Ted Bell
Bin Wazir got to his feet, furiously wiping his mouth with his napkin, which he then threw to the floor. “If they touch me, they’re dead,” he said, flecks of spittle at the corners of his mouth. And with that he gripped the edge of the table and upended it, sending all the china and silverware flying, and a large snifter full of brandy into Alex Hawke’s lap.
Hawke looked at the enraged man evenly and, trying to keep his voice down, said, “I would say the odds of your getting past the Nell’s admissions committee at this point are decidedly slim, Mr. bin Wazir.”
This brought forth a great deal of chuckling from the surrounding tables. For a moment, Hawke thought the man might actually go for his jugular but he wisely decided to simply turn on his heel and storm out of the Grill Room, pushing and shoving all and sundry out of his path.
The waiters already had the table back in place and were bringing a fresh coffee service and liqueurs. After apologizing profusely to the staff and the other diners, Brick turned to Alex and said, “I’m sorry to have dragged you into this nightmare, Alex. Really, I am.”
“Good God,” Pendleton said, “I’m the one who should be apologizing. The whole mess is on me. I’ll go find the hotel manager and see if I can’t clean it up somehow.”
“I’m the one who invited Hawke, remember?” Kelly said, as Pendleton got up from the table.
“Don’t be ridiculous, old Brick. You either, Sonny. Most fun I’ve had in months.”
Half an hour later, having laughed the whole thing off over a few stiff whiskies courtesy of Duckworth at the bar, Hawke and Kelly went outside, looking for the ambassador’s driver. A few taxis stood waiting in Carlos Place, but the embassy car was not there.
“Where in the world’s my car?” Brick asked one of the doormen.
“Gentleman came flying out about half hour ago, sir. Quite upset he was, too. Before I could stop him, he climbed into the back of your car, said something to your driver, and off they went. Thought it was a bit odd, but—”
“Unbelievable,” Brick said. “Lunacy.”
“He pulled a gun on him, Brick,” Hawke whispered. “It’s the only answer.”
“Shall I call a cab for you gentlemen?”
“We’ll find one, thank you,” Hawke said. It was still spitting rain but he needed a little fresh air.
“I’ve got to call my DSS guys, Alex,” Kelly said as the two men turned into Mount Street. “I think this guy is seriously dangerous.”
“Here. Use my mobile.”
They hadn’t traveled more than halfway up the empty block when a giant black man leaped out of the shadows from behind them. He grabbed a stunned Kelly by the collar of his jacket and ripped the cell phone out of his hand. Brick whirled, his fist already cocked, and threw a vicious roundhouse punch. It was deflected and a head-butt from the giant sent a stunned Kelly sprawling to the pavement. Then the monstrous fellow turned his brutal attentions on Hawke.
“I would say we could go somewhere and discuss this like gentlemen,” Hawke said, “But you’ve made the stupid mistake of attacking a friend of mine.”
The thug grunted and made a move towards Hawke. Alex was set, and he stepped inside it. He chopped the flat edge of his right hand across the man’s throat and drove the compressed fingers of his left hand up under the sternum. A shockwave rippled up both of Hawke’s arms. He might as well have attacked the statue of Roosevelt in nearby Grosvenor Square.
There was iron in the man’s bones.
His efforts earned him no more than a grunt from the great box-like man and suddenly he was in a deathly embrace, the huge black arms enfolding him, lifting him. He could feel a hot pain as his ribs were compressed by the two human bands of iron encircling him. His arms pinioned and on fire, his entire upper body useless, Hawke’s racing mind surveyed his enemy’s anatomy, ticking off the possible vulnerabilities in milliseconds.
Kidneys? Groin? No. He was locked in a death vise which gave his own knees and feet no good angle. He felt the air going out of him. A familiar blackness laced with red was encroaching upon his conscious mind. He’d been in this place many times and knew automatically that he was out of time. It would be a near thing. He felt hot snorts from the giant’s nostrils as the man added crushing pressure, preparatory to killing him. Very hot breath against his face? Where? On his forehead. Yes. In a single, violent motion, Hawke whipped his head back, then forward, smashing the top of his skull against the man’s nose. There was a satisfying crunch of small bones and Hawke’s face was instantly drenched in a spray of the man’s hot blood.
The iron grip eased momentarily, and Alex collapsed to the pavement. Shaking his head, panting through clenched teeth, and trying to clear out the black veil, Hawke got to his hands and knees. He was nothing but a furious animal now, unthinking and bent on terrible vengeance. He was getting to his feet, eyeing his adversary through mists of pain, when the vicious blow of steel-capped shoe caught his ribcage, splintering three ribs and propelling Alex Hawke into the gutter.
“Ar kill you,” the giant said, speaking for the first time, his own voice garbled with blood and pain. Alex lifted his head and looked up at the towering figure with the blood pouring from his smashed nose. He struggled to rise, breathing deeply, summoning reserves of strength he knew had to be there. Kelly still wasn’t moving. He lay against a lamppost at a grotesque angle. Unconscious, one could only hope.
“On the contrary,” Hawke said through gritted teeth, “I read my horoscope this morning. Today’s going to be the best day of my life.”
Hawke staggered to his feet, ignoring the searing fire in his right side, and charged from a low crouch. He stayed low, feinting left and right before diving, and, then, lunging to his full extent, he hurled himself with all the force left in him directly at the man’s knees. Ligaments tore, cartilage ripped, and the giant bellowed in rage. But he did not go down. His face a mask of bloody fury, his coal eyes suffused with a red glow, he stooped and swung a great looping blow at Hawke’s head.
But Alex managed to scramble and roll away and was on his feet again, dodging and feinting, lunging forward to deliver slashing body blows with the edges of his hands, then springing back desperate for another opening. That’s when he saw the giant reach into the folds of his robe and withdraw a heavy flat blade from his waistband. Holding the hilt in two hands, the enraged monster advanced towards Alex, swinging his whistling sword like a scythe.
The first thrust flicked Hawke’s ribs, drawing blood. The next one Alex almost dodged, but he was a second late. The flat of the blade caught his left temple squarely. He staggered, willing himself to stay on his feet despite the roaring sound of blood pounding inside his head. The giant advanced, the blade poised above him, clearly meaning to split Hawke in half. Alex had other ideas. He managed to get his right hand up just as the stubby machete descended.
Six long weeks worth of recuperation later, Tippu Tip was released from St. Thomas’s Hospital. He had suffered a broken nose, a crushed sternum, a splintered clavicle, three fractured fingers, and two broken legs. In addition, his right ear had been torn off, but had been, somewhat successfully, reattached.
And Alex Hawke never did get round to sending him a get-well card.
Chapter Seventeen
The Emirate
THERE WERE A HUNDRED EYES IN THE ROCKY PASS, AND BIN Wazir could feel every one of them. His frozen caravan approached, then finally staggered to a halt at the outer walls of the fortress. The ancient white stone walls, some thirty feet thick, rose to a height of over sixty. Attila had taken this fortress once and was the only one who’d lived to tell the tale.
The White Palace.
Within minutes, the four sumo giants had unlashed and removed the ebony chaise from between the exhausted beasts. As bin Wazir was being lowered to the ground, Tippu went forward to the heavily armed sentries to announce their arrival. Such an announcement of the obvious was ridiculous but customary. When one visited the Emir, one adhered to custom.
; The penalties for noncompliance were severe. Eyes gouged out, the living burial, the swift loss of hands and feet—these were only a few of the Emir’s ways of keeping order and control within the walls of his fortress and among the ranks of agents and sleepers flung to every corner of the earth. The cage was reserved for more serious breeches of decorum.
Snay bin Wazir would enter the gates in a simple black lacquer chair. It wouldn’t do for the Emir to see his elegant ebony sedan, or even the magnificent robes of snow leopard that bin Wazir now removed to reveal a simple black burnoose. The Emir knew of bin Wazir’s sumptuous and exotic tastes, but it would be the height of suicidal stupidity to remind him.
There was a grinding of steel on steel as the massive gates began retracting within the walls. The blizzard had abated somewhat and bin Wazir raised his eyes to the top of the wall, looking up at the sentries looking down at him. They knew who he was but it didn’t stop them from training their weapons on him. This was the Emir’s standard welcoming committee. Heavily armed men, largely unseen, would be watching every move he made until his caravan was once more outside these walls and the gates closed behind him.
But now they were standing inside one of the most closely guarded, highly fortified, and impenetrable places on earth. The vast white marble and stone complex, regularly swept clean of snow, contained a warren of small roads and paths leading to the various buildings, homes, shops, and military facilities within its walls.
And, buried deep beneath the fortress, a labyrinth of massive, bombproof bunkers. The deepest was said to be impervious to all but a direct nuclear blast.
The four sumos and Tippu Tip were subjected to a total body search. The Japanese had been forewarned and remained sublimely indifferent to what would normally be an intolerable degradation. The Pasha’s five men would be led to a garrison where they would be fed and housed for the night. The Pasha would meet alone with the Emir in the residence. A small sleeping chamber would then be provided for him until, hopefully, his party departed at dawn with their heads intact.
The camel drivers and camel boys took the mounts off to be fed and stabled, and bin Wazir found himself alone, ignored, and somewhat wobbly, leaning on his stout walking stick just inside the gates. A minute later, a group of six imperial guards, tall bearded men in identical white robes and turbans, approached him, bowed slightly, then separated to provide a space for him in the center of their formation. They turned and marched him up the main steps of the residence and through the arched entrance, then disappeared.
He stood alone, waiting in a massive empty chamber of pure white marble, keenly aware of the ascetic quality of the Emir’s residence. There was no trace of decoration, no hint of luxury within these walls and bin Wazir knew this was true throughout the entire fortress. It was said the simple purity of the white stone was but a shining outward reflection of the Emir’s soul itself.
Musing upon what this surely said about his own soul, he was startled by the appearance of a tiny man wearing the familiar yellow robe and a black turban. This was Benazir, the wizened personal servant of the Emir.
“Allah be praised, you’ve made it safely,” Benazir said, his hands clasped together before his small, wrinkled face. “Follow this way, please. His Eminence the Emir is with his orchids. He has been told of your arrival.”
Bin Wazir followed the little elf through endless marble halls and passageways until they came to the gardens. Benazir placed his hand upon a towering wall of glass and it instantly slid down into the floor. The thick air was wet, steamy and so redolent of blooming orchids as to almost stagger the still unthawed Snay bin Wazir.
The Emir’s White Palace had nearly two acres under glass.
Snay, who had no knowledge of botany, was passing through some of the most exotic species of flora gathered in one place on the planet. The glass walls and roof were heavily misted and fat drops of moisture splashed down on the plants. The light inside was greenish and unreal, like light filtered through a vast aquarium. Snay did his best to keep up with Benazir, but was continually smacked in the face with sodden leaves.
They found the Emir seated on one of two stone benches in the middle of a small oval space paved with white stone. This small garden was overhung with lovely white blossoms, all seeming to be of the same species of orchid. Songbirds and butterflies flitted about in abundant profusion.
Benazir and the visitor dropped immediately to their knees in deference and bent forward, their foreheads touching the cool white marble, slick with moisture.
“Dendrobians,” the Emir said softly in his sing-song voice, delicately stroking a blossom. “You may rise. Be seated and enjoy them in silence for a few moments, Snay. When I have finished conversing with them, you shall have my undivided attention.”
Snay gratefully collapsed his huge frame on the bench opposite. He breathed deeply, and took this time to study the Emir, looking for clues as to his present mood and disposition.
The Emir was tall and wraithlike beneath his flowing white robes. His beatific face was framed with curls of snow-white hair and a full white beard lay upon his chest. Snay bin Wazir had never seen such physical grace in another human. His long, delicate white fingers caressing the orchids reminded Snay bin Wazir of those of the harpist he’d hired five years earlier to play in the lobby of Beechum’s. But then—
“It has been some time since your last visit,” the Emir said, finally turning his powerful dark eyes on bin Wazir. “You have grown most notably of girth.”
“I am most sorry, Excellency, but—”
The Emir held up a hand to silence him. Bin Wazir shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. The Emir had hard black eyes and, once he pinned you with them, their force was unshakable.
“It was not a rebuke,” the old man said, in his papery whispered voice, “It was a statement of fact. Facts, not feelings, interest the Emir this day. You have brought some with you? Facts?”
“Indeed, Excellency,” bin Wazir said. “I have much news that I pray will please you, King who is Most High.”
“You are making progress in our Holy War against the infidels? Our assassins have some successes? Speak! I desire every detail. Every word about my beautiful hashishiyyun.”
The word assassin has its origins in the bowl of the hashish pipe. Derived from the ancient Arabian political concept of hashishiyyun, originally, the word was derogatory, meaning ‘hashish taker.’ Over centuries, it had evolved to connote a captive harem of seductive assassins, kept faithful and ever more dependent by the constant supply of hashish. The sweet scent of the potent hemp, the lush surroundings of the lord’s luxuriant gardens, and the lure of willing love slaves all served to keep a ready supply of seductive and resourceful killers on hand. All eager to please their revered provider.
“Yes, Excellency,” bin Wazir said, risking a smile for the first time. It looked as if he might keep his head after all. “Your humble servant comes bearing gifts of the hashishiyyun that greatly exceed his pitiful powers of description.”
“Yes?”
Snay bin Wazir then handed the Emir the leather satchel he’d been carrying inside his robes. The Emir delicately unfastened the silver buckle and eagerly peered inside. When he looked up, he rewarded Snay with a radiant smile. The dangerous journey through the bandit-infested mountains now seemed an infinitely small price to pay.
“Allah be praised,” the Emir said. “You were able to obtain the visual records I demanded?”
“The stuff of many ecstatic hours, Most Revered One. I myself have viewed the videos countless times. My engineers have been working to improve the quality of the sound and pictures. Your summons came just as they completed their technical work. I pray you will not be disappointed.”
The Emir clapped his hands smartly and Benazir appeared through a tangle of orchids. He took the satchel, bowing deeply.
“I shall watch these immediately following evening prayers. Make sure all is in readiness.”
Benazir bowed deeply and disapp
eared the way he’d arrived, a soundless apparition.
“And your report?” the Emir asked with a level gaze.
“Four of the initial five components of Phase I have been successfully completed by the hashishiyyun, Excellency, as you will see with your own eyes this very night. Preparations for the final component of this phase are well under way.”
“And, so far, what is the reaction of the Satanists?”
“As you predicted, oh Great Sire and Redeemer. Widespread panic in their diplomatic community. Confusion. Fear reigns where the arrogance of the nonbelievers once held sway.”
“The Americans are even weaker than we thought.”
“Wickedness breeds weakness, as you have told me many times, Emir.”
The Emir’s black eyes narrowed then and Snay realized, with a spike of terror, the stupidity of his remark. Wicked and weak. The Emir’s precise definition of Snay himself. He had but a split second to recover and his mind was racing.
“You, the exemplar of all that is profane, dare, dare speak to me of wickedness and weakness?” the Emir said, and Snay bowed his head.
“I know that you live in a world on a plane far above my own, Most Revered Emir. But my belief in our global Holy War against the infidels gives me strength and faith beyond measure,” Snay said.
“Your faith is beyond transparent as well as measure, Snay, son of Machmud. Were it not for my Yasmin’s abiding love for you, I should never abide an abomination such as you. Ah, well, it is as it is. We will have our reckoning one day, you and I.”
“When my earthly work is done, when my service to the Great Redeemer of our people is complete, then I shall accept my fate with honor, Excellency.”
The Emir waved this familiar verbal flatulence away with a sharp gesture of his hand beneath his nose, glaring at the creature who, through some cruel joke, was husband to his cherished Yasmin.