by Gar Wilson
"That's an understatement," Ben-David declared. "We found traces of cocaine, various depressants and strong stimulants as well. On top of that, you've ordered that we keep Monsul under sedation because you claim he'll commit suicide if he's conscious."
"That's true. He was also carrying a cyanide capsule."
"We could keep him in restraints," the doctor suggested.
"When we captured one of his comrades, we used riot cuffs, and that didn't stop him from killing himself. If Monsul isn't sedated, he'll do his damnest to take his own life. I wouldn't be surprised if he bit off his own tongue."
"That man's constitution has gone through hell," Ben-David said. "He's been abusing all types of drugs for years. I don't think his heart will be able to take a large injection of scopolamine."
"What would you say the odds are, Doctor?"
"About eighty percent that the scopolamine would kill him," Ben-David answered grimly.
"Is there any other drug we could use?"
"Sodium pentothal. It's much safer, but not as reliable."
"Perhaps we should try something else," Katz mused thoughtfully.
* * *
Abdul Monsul heard the mellow song made by water gently running along a stream. Birds chirped and a cool breeze stroked his cheek. A lyre was being played in the distance.
Monsul opened his eyes. A ceiling of eucalyptus branches hung overheard. The Arab glanced about. A fresh spring ran between the trees. He turned his head and saw a lovely young woman. Dressed in a transparent silk garment with a veil draped across her face, she knelt and offered him a platter of figs, dates and sliced fruit.
"Paradise," Monsul said as he sat up. "Allah has rewarded me."
"Indeed, true believer," a voice announced in Arabic. "You have arrived."
Monsul gazed up at two men clad in white robes and keffiyeh. Both had white beards, yet their faces were unlined and their eyes glowed with the health of youth. Monsul rose from the carpet of grass. He suddenly noticed he too was wearing a fine robe of white silk.
"Is it not written in the Koran: 'Enter unto paradise; no fear be with you, nor have you sorrow'?" one of the bearded men declared. "Welcome, true believer."
"Praise Allah," Monsul replied. "But who are you who greet me in this wondrous place of peace and beauty?"
"We were once men not unlike yourself," a robed man replied. "But we were then prophets of Allah. I am Ishmael and this is the Imam Muwafig."
"Ishmael," Monsul cried. "I followed your teachings, great prophet..."
"You followed me not," the bearded man who called himself Ishmael said sadly. "Nor did you follow Allah. Instead, you followed the word of a cunning liar and fraud."
"But Hassan is your voice on earth," the startled Monsul began.
"That is his claim," Muwafig replied. "But it is not true. Hassan duped you, poor soul."
"But he first showed me paradise," Monsul said.
"He showed you sorcery," Ishmael explained. "Hassan is a devil who misled you by using Satan's evil magic."
"I am confused," Monsul said.
"The very first verse of the Koran speaks of Allah, the merciful and the compassionate," Ishmael stated. "Did you ever consider this when Hassan instructed you to hate and kill for him? Could his word truly be the word of God?"
Monsul began to weep.
"Do not despair," Ishmael urged. "Allah will not damn you for following a false prophet. Your mind was corrupt, yet your heart remained pure."
"I have wronged the one true God," Monsul moaned. "Yet Allah forgives me?"
"Yes, believer," Muwafig said. "But you must redeem yourself."
"Anything," Monsul cried. "I will do anything."
"What do you last remember of your life on earth?" Muwafig asked.
"I was sent to kill the Jewish prime minister," Monsul said. "I was about to carry out my mission, but I don't recall what happened then."
"You were struck down by a lightning bolt," Ishmael explained. "Your heart stopped beating. You died before you could harm the Israeli."
"Allah be praised," Monsul sighed with relief. "Then the Jew was not meant to die?"
"Allah also created the Jews," Ishmael said. "He must have a reason."
"But Jews are unbelievers..."
"Do you claim to understand the mind of God?" Ishmael demanded. "Only He is the Lord of the day of doom. Judgment is His to make. It was never meant for you."
"What shall I do?"
"The Israelis have taken your body to a room of the dead," Muwafig explained. "Your life will be restored and you will speak with them. Tell the Jews everything you know about Hassan and his followers."
"Tell the Jews?" Monsul sighed. "Very well."
"May Allah bless you," Ishmael said with a smile.
Monsul suddenly felt a sting in the back of his neck. He winced and reached for the pain's source. Ishmael caught his wrist.
"Do not worry," he whispered. "You are about to return. There will be little pain. Relax..."
Monsul nodded in reply. He felt light-headed and giddy. Then his knees buckled and he fell to the ground. Seconds later, he lay at the feet of the robed figures. As Monsul slept peacefully, a hand plucked the tranquilizer dart from his neck.
Gary Manning approached Monsul, an Anschutz .22-caliber air rifle in his fists. Colonel Katzenelenbogen followed him. "Ishmael" and "Muwafig" pulled off their false beards to reveal the faces of Major Nizam and Captain Malik, the two Egyptian security officers.
"You both played your roles magnificently," Katz told the pair.
"I don't understand why you needed us instead of playing this game yourself," Malik remarked. "You speak Arabic, Colonel Katz."
"My Arabic doesn't have a natural accent," Yakov explained. "You and the major speak the language as your native tongue. I could best serve this charade by listening and telling Gary when to fire the sleep dart."
"It also gave you an opportunity to observe us," Nizam said, smiling. "1 trust it proved we can be trusted."
"Yes, Major," Katz assured him.
"What are your plans now?" Malik asked.
"We're going to take Abdul Monsul back to Mossad headquarters," Katz explained. "He'll awake in a morgue where everyone will reinforce the story of his heart attack in the rose garden. If our performance has convinced Monsul, he will tell us everything he knows about the Order of the Assassins."
"If we're ready to leave 'paradise,'" Rachel Stern remarked as she stripped off her veil. "May I change into something less embarrassing?"
"I don't know why you're embarrassed," Manning grinned. "You look great."
"Thanks," she said dryly.
"Well," Manning said, "so much for our stay in heaven. Now if we can find the location of the Assassins' headquarters, we can put these bastards out to pasture for good."
"We also have a double agent here in Israel to take care of," Katz added. "And we'd better find out who he is."
16
Demons with horns, serpentine tails and batlike wings leered and danced in the flickering flames. Bestial growls and groans emanated from the monstrous creatures.
Hassan opened the door and prepared to enter the room where the hideous beings lurked. He hesitated. The awful creatures seemed so very real...
Hassan extended a shaky hand and placed it on the winged back of a scaly green monster. His fingers passed through the demon. Hassan smiled, amused by his own apprehension. He marched to the center of the room.
The demons surrounded him. Fangs hung from their mouths. Toadlike faces with yellow eyes, mocked him. Clawed hands with black talons slashed the air in threatening gestures. It all seemed so very real.
"Turn it off, Jemal,'' he ordered in a loud voice.
Suddenly the demons vanished. The fiery lights disappeared. The room was sent into peaceful darkness. Hassan groped for the door, but it opened and light from the corridor sliced into the cell. Jemal appeared in the doorway.
"It worked," Hassan told his manservant. "Did you see it on the moni
tor?"
The servant nodded.
"Imagine how these ignorant dolts will react," Hassan said as he stepped into the hallway. "Surrounded by demons from hell. Those morons will beg me to rescue them."
He was very pleased with the new addition to his collection of tricks. The "demons" — images that appeared to be solid — were actually three-dimensional figures projected from a lens in the ceiling of the room. A sound track of roaring animals was played through a loudspeaker to complete the illusion.
The system had cost Hassan a small fortune but would be worth it. Now he could send his followers to hell as well as paradise. He could show them the rewards for blind faith in his word and the punishments for failing to obey him.
Manipulating people had always been Hassan's specialty. He had first learned the art of trickery as the son of a traveling magician in Iraq. The father-and-son team rode in their tiny wagon from province to province, setting up a tent in marketplaces.
Hassan's father was an expert at sleight of hand. He amazed people by producing coins from thin air, making melons disappear or pulling cloth from his clenched fist. Perhaps he was too good at his trade; eventually it cost him his life.
A trio of superstitious Shiite Muslims were horrified when they saw Hassan's father perform the illusion of the burning stone. The magician held a rock in his palm and passed his other hand over it. The stone then appeared to burst into flame. The Shiite fanatics attacked the conjurer and stabbed him to death, convinced such magic was born of the devil.
His mother had died at childbirth. Young Hassan, now orphaned was alone in the world. He wandered the streets and was forced to beg to survive. A clever youth, he soon learned to use the skills of a magician to distract unsuspecting individuals as he deftly plucked their purses and wallets. He also discovered he could impress less worldly lads with simple tricks. By the time he was eleven, Hassan was the leader of a gang of young thieves and beggars, who coordinated with masterful skill to steal larger and more expensive merchandise.
Hassan despised any type of religion, blaming such beliefs for the death of his father. Yet he realized the tremendous influence of Islam in the Arab world. He decided that manipulating people through their religious notions was the best way to gain control over them.
The boy studied the Koran and the Bible. He quietly slipped into Mosques and churches of various religious sects and observed the services, trying to select the faith that seemed best suited for his scheme.
Hassan was nineteen years old when he read about the Order of the Assassins. It seemed he had found his destiny. The Hashishins had even been founded by a man with his name. What the original Hassan had done centuries ago, he could do again. And thus Hassan began his sinister, ruthless climb to power.
Twenty-six years later, Hassan became the leader of his own clandestine organization of fanatical killers. The new leader of the Assassins had even more ambition than his forerunner. Hassan planned to create a secret empire of followers, a world power that would exist in the shadows, yet would be capable of infiltrating governments, toppling nations and changing the course of history.
* * *
"Hassan," Colonel Fawzi shouted as he stomped into the corridor. "I've been looking everywhere for you."
"You seem upset, Colonel," the cult leader replied.
"Of course I am," Fawzi snapped. "I watched the Israeli prime minister's press conference this morning."
"He isn't dead?" Hassan questioned.
"You didn't know that?" Fawzi was startled. "You mean you didn't even turn on a radio to listen for a news bulletin about the conference?"
"I've been busy with other matters," the Assassin leader said, shrugging.
"The Jew gave a flowery speech about what good friends Israel and Egypt are," Fawzi told Hassan. "He accused the 'terrorists' who tried to kill him of attempting to provoke a conflict between the two countries. It was a very moving speech. You should have heard it. The rest of the world did."
"That complicates matters," Hassan admitted.
"You talk as if this is a minor problem," Fawzi said as he began to pace the floor. "Your assassin obviously failed. He didn't even try to kill the Jew."
"Something must have happened to him," Hassan said. "The Mossad agents probably found his explosives. I was certain it would work..."
"You've always been certain your plans would work, you pompous ass," the terrorist colonel snapped. "You send your assassins out to kill for you, but they never succeed. Little wonder. They're nothing but a collection of morons whose brains have been rotted away by drugs and religious hogwash."
"They're totally dedicated to me..." Hassan said.
"Oh, yes," Fawzi snickered. "They're willing to die for you. Dying seems to be all they know how to do. They're good at getting themselves killed, but not worth a damn when it comes to killing anyone else. The United Arab Front hired you to assassinate the prime minister. Your people have failed."
"According to my agent in Israeli intelligence," Hassan said, "Colonel Katzenelenbogen and those damn foreigners are the problem."
"A problem your men have not been able to deal with," Fawzi complained.
"You didn't hire me to kill anyone except the Israeli prime minister."
"But you promised that your men would take care of anyone who got between them and the Jew."
"I made a mistake," Hassan confessed. "I underestimated Katzenelenbogen and his team. You were right, Colonel. They are special. We can deal with Israeli intelligence because we've penetrated them. We understand them and we can outguess them. But Katzenelenbogen realizes there's a spy in the Israeli intelligence structure, so his men have been working on their own. My agent can't get enough details about them to help us."
"Your people are no match for them," Fawzi declared. "My UAF soldiers will take care of Katzenelenbogen and his friends."
"I think that would be a mistake," Hassan warned. "If your men fail, it will just make matters worse. Even if they succeed, it won't make that much difference. The prime minister will still be alive."
"Perhaps with the Jew cripple and his team out of the way," Fawzi said, "your people will be able to accomplish their mission."
"Oh, they'll succeed," Hassan said. "My spy inside Israeli intelligence is going to see to that personally."
17
Rafael Encizo lay naked in the depths of Rachel Stern's warm, comfortable bed. He was thinking about the pleasures of the past while — such thoughts aroused him. The sound of bare feet padding into the room triggered him into action. Encizo's hand automatically reached toward the holstered Walther PPK that hung on the bedpost near his head. Then he saw the smooth curves and high breasts of the nude intruder.
"Don't shoot," Rachel teased. "I brought you a drink."
"Thanks," he said, running an inviting hand up her thigh as she climbed onto the bed beside him. He placed his drink on the night table as she propped a pillow behind her back and shook a cigarette from a pack. Rafael continued his admiring exploring.
"You've got a great touch," she said as she fired the smoke and inhaled deeply. "Crazy hormones and a great touch," she laughed.
Rachel and Rafael had made love several times. For both it had been a relaxing, wonderful respite from the high-pressure hell they had been submerged in. But Rafael, a man who had worked hard to earn a reputation as a woman's man, was not satisfied. Not quite satisfied.
He kissed her neck, softly, gently. He caressed her silky skin. Tenderly he held her. She snuffed out her smoke. Rafael smiled as Rachel Stern slipped her leg over his frame and kissed him hard on the mouth. It's starting again, he thought... make it last.
When they were finished, they held each other close, not wanting the real world to intrude. But eventually it had to happen. Rachel broke the silence.
"I suppose we'd better get ready to leave."
"I suppose," Rafael reluctantly agreed.
Soon the warrior's mind was back on business.
"Gary and Keio just g
ot the sedan out of the shop today. New bullet-proof glass and complete bodywork with armor plating and a fresh coat of paint. They're driving it over here to pick us up."
"I still don't think it's necessary to move out of my apartment," Rachel stated. "The terrorists probably won't try anything here again."
"Let's not take any chances," Encizo told her, glancing at his Seiko Diver's wristwatch. "They'll be arriving any minute now."
"I hope we get a chance to do this again, Rafael," she said. "It was great."
The Cuban was in full agreement.
Rafael strapped on his shoulder-holster rig and made certain the Walther was ready for action. Then he wrapped a Velcro bandage around his ankle and strapped the Gerber Mark I sheath knife to it. Rachel had donned a khaki shirt and slacks. She opened the cylinders of her snub nose and checked the thirty-eight cartridges before returning the gun to her purse.
"I guess we're both ready for action," Encizo said. "Let's go."
Encizo and Rachel waited in the lobby until the sedan pulled in front of the November Apartments. They recognized Gary Manning's face behind the steering wheel and Keio Ohara seated beside him. The couple left the building and headed for the car.
Full auto fire exploded from the rooftop of a men's clothing store across the street from the November Apartments. Another salvo of copper-jacketed slugs snarled at them from a newsstand on the street corner. A third stream of deadly 7.62mm rounds sizzled from a cab that had pulled up to the curb behind the sedan.
Caught in a three-way cross fire, the sedan was pelted by dozens of bullets. Manning and Ohara felt as if they were trapped inside a tin can in the middle of a hailstorm. The armored body of the car rang sourly as bullets struck metal. The reinforced glass began to crack, threatening to give way under the bombardment of slugs.
Encizo and Rachel found themselves in an even deadlier situation. The couple were on the sidewalk, totally exposed to the murderous hellfire, when the shooting began.
The Cuban immediately threw himself to the pavement and rolled toward the sedan. Bullets burned air above his body. Slugs literally tugged at the loose cloth of his jacket. Two bullets creased his rib cage and split open flesh. Bone snapped as a projectile struck a rib.