"Is this a death match?" Bolan tried to make the question casual, but there was still a trace of latent tension in his voice.
"By no means." For an instant Bolan's host seemed wounded by the mere suggestion. "Under normal circumstances, the opposing force is armed with dirks and sabers, while the trainee has his choice of weapons, short of firearms. On this occasion, I have chosen kendo sticks for all concerned… if you approve?"
Bolan's dozen fresh opponents were already in possession of the wooden simulated swords employed in martial arts displays, some working through the pattern of aggressive thrusts, others chopping heavily, two-handed, at the empty air.
"Of course."
He took the weapon that was offered to him, weighed it in his hands and tried to recollect how long ago his training with the kendo stick had been. Too long, for damn sure, but he still recalled the basics, and he seemed to have no options left, in any case.
"All right, then, what's the drill?"
"Quite simply, you will be escorted to the top floor, a room with exits on three sides. Your adversaries will take up positions in surrounding rooms and on the lower floors. A signal will be sounded when they are in place. From there, your sole objective is to exit through the only door available."
"I understand." It sounded clean and simple, but he knew at least a dozen reasons why the exercise could turn into a free-for-all. "If I make it?"
"We are ready to discuss the business that has brought you here."
"And suppose I don't?"
The Old Man's smile remained in place, but any hint of human warmth was gone. "It is my custom to deal only with the worthy men, on whom I can depend."
Bolan swung the kendo stick across one shoulder, forced a smile. "Let's get this over with."
The bearded drill instructor led him through the open door and up a flight of wooden stairs, positioned in the center of the structure like an elevator shaft. They climbed four flights to reach the third and topmost floor, with Bolan counting doors along the way. The ground floor boasted four rooms, besides the entry hall, with doors for eight each on the next two floors. Scratch one room for himself, and that left nineteen places for a dozen warriors to conceal themselves. Connecting doors would give the enemy mobility and make an estimate of their deployment virtually worthless.
As promised, Bolan's room had exits on three sides: the door through which he entered and connecting doors with two adjacent rooms. There was no window in the outside wall. When he was left alone, the Executioner stood absolutely still and listened to the sounds in the house. He could hear his guide descending, others passing by him on the stairs. A step below the final landing creaked, and shuffling noises in the room immediately to his left told Bolan one of his opponents, at the very least, was planning to abbreviate their close encounter. He would have to watch himself when he left the room.
All things considered, he would have to watch himself the whole way down.
The room on Bolan's right was slightly smaller than the one in which he started. It was also vacant, and the cautious shift had put some combat stretch between himself and his assailant in the adjoining room on his left. It was enough, for now, and Bolan waited for the signal to begin his passage through the gauntlet.
To the Executioner's surprise, it was an air horn, of the sort employed by fans at stateside football games. The single note was strident, piercing, and he had no doubt that each of his opponents was alert and ready to begin the simulated dance of death.
And would they pull their punches? Could they? Was the whole routine a ruse to take him down outside the castle proper? Why go through the motions when a simple bullet in the head would do the job?
No time for answers now, he was on the move. A glance around the landing, and he eased through the door, immediately conscious of a thrashing in the room where he had started. Moving swiftly, he was halfway to the stairs before his would-be adversary struck, an angry blur of motion driving from his left, the makeshift wooden saber poised to strike.
Bolan went low and inside the swing, using his own kendo stick like a riot baton, the blunt tip driving deep beneath the slim Ismaili's sternum, emptying his lungs and briefly robbing him of power to inhale. The guy was struggling for breath when Bolan seized his collar, dragged him to the rail and tipped him over. He paused long enough to watch the man drop two floors.
He was at the stairs when number two erupted from another door along the landing, narrowing the gap between them with a cautious, mincing stride that mimicked something from a silent movie. Bolan saw the roundhouse coming, blocked it with his staff and then reversed, delivering a backhand smash across his adversary's face before the young Assassin could regain his balance. Teeth and cartilage were shattered by the stunning impact, and his opposition dropped without a sound, his breath a ragged whisper in the silent house.
Bolan overstepped the squeaky riser, simultaneously watching front and back as he descended toward the second floor. In spite of this precaution, Bolan nearly missed his third attacker, warned by fabric whispering across the banister as the Assassin poised to leap. Another heartbeat, and the man was dropping on him like a shadow of destruction.
A hasty backstep did the trick, and Bolan swung his stick, delivering a solid blow to feet that had been meant to strike his head and shoulders. Knowing that it could have been a fatal blow, he felt no vestige of remorse when his assailant smashed his head into the banister as he toppled to the floor. It might have been the woodwork or his neck that made the ugly snapping sound, but either way, Bolan's opposition made no further moves as he stepped across the prostrate body continuing his descent.
Three men chose to rush him on the second floor, with two more in reserve. He stopped the first man with a boot between the thighs, immediately followed by a crushing blow across the windpipe, but the effort left him open, and he was rewarded with a solid crack across his shoulders. Dodging, taking other hits along his flank, his thighs, he tried to parry with the wooden saber, feinting, buying time.
The Assassins were convinced they had him now, and two of them retreated, yielding to their comrade. Bolan let him close, then cut the slugger's ankles out from under him, delivering a solid jab behind one ear to keep him down. Before the others could recover, Bolan was among them, kicking, slashing with his elbows and his cudgel, opening one's scalp and flattening another's nose in record time. They got their licks in, raising welts across his back and belly, staggering him once, but weeks of training could not match the killer instinct that a veteran brings to combat, and they fell before him, one by one. He thought a couple of them might be seriously injured, even dying, but it made no difference. He could kill them now, or the Israeli bombs could kill them later. Either way, the result would be the same.
One floor remained, and another four Ismailis to be dealt with. Bolan took his time descending, conscious of the shadows moving out to greet him, saw them clustered at the bottom of the stairs. He scanned their young-old faces, saw determination there, with just a trace of doubt behind the eyes of one or two. And he could almost see the wheels in motion. If the infidel had conquered eight of their companions, what could four achieve?
But they would not be moved. Bolan seized the moment to launch himself into a flying kick, directly toward the central figure of the group. The tough guy didn't move, and by the time he raised his cudgel it was too late to save himself, with Bolan's boot heels planted on his chest. The man hit the wall and rebounded in a daze directly into Bolan's crushing backhand as the soldier scrambled to his feet. A second man tried to scramble out of range, and Bolan broke his staff across the back of that one's head, immediately stooping to retrieve a fallen kendo stick.
The nearer of his last two adversaries took a swing at Bolan's head, and it almost connected. Almost. His cudgel whispered past the soldier's face, and he was instantly repaid with an annihilating blow across the forehead, folding like a rag doll at the tall man's feet. His comrade snarled in rage and made his move — an awkward, headlong rush that set hi
m up for Bolan's final swing. The impact knocked his jaw around behind one ear and put his lights out in a heartbeat, his flaccid body sprawling across the stairs.
Twelve up, twelve down.
Bolan's body was a tapestry of welts and bruises, and blood was leaking from a ragged cut above one eye, but he was mobile, and his battered ribs had not been broken. Bolan used his cudgel like a cane until he reached the open doorway, then discarded it and made the exit on his own.
From all appearances, the sheikh had been expecting someone else. The expression on his face might not be disappointment — not precisely — but it was readily apparent that the Old Man was not happy. His stormy eyes told Bolan that the twelve trainees were in for trouble, if and when they came around.
"Are those the best you have?"
"Trainees. A man of your experience is better matched, I think, against more seasoned troops."
"Another time, perhaps. We still have business to discuss."
"Tonight," the Old Man told him stiffly, turning with a flourish toward the waiting horses.
Bolan smiled and followed, suddenly unmindful of the pain. If nothing else, the sheikh's smug self-satisfaction had been shaken to the core, and for the moment, that was victory enough. The Executioner would have another opportunity to break his host.
Tonight.
14
Tahir Arrani put his faith in Allah and in vultures. Allah had provided him with the intelligence to see through "Bryan Harrigan." In time, the vultures would provide him with the evidence of treachery he needed to convince Sheikh al-Jebal that they had been deceived.
It was a point of fitting irony, Arrani thought, that he should use the traitor's jeep to search for evidence that would, eventually, cost the man his head. Cooped up at Alamut for weeks or months on end, compelled to ride on horseback when he left the castle for a tour of the surrounding countryside, he viewed the jeep ride as a luxury of sorts, despite the glaring sun and winding mountain road, which sometimes made his stomach queasy as his driver rushed the curves.
"Slow down," he spit, rewarded by immediate deceleration of the vehicle. When «Harrigan» was dead, Arrani thought that he might claim the jeep. It was perfect for outings, and with certain minor changes it could be of use in helping to keep the valley folk in line. The horses left Arrani saddle-sore, and he was terrified of flight — a weakness he managed to conceal, with difficulty, on occasions when the helicopter was his only means of transportation. Allah gave him strength at such times, and he had not shamed himself — yet.
A mile ahead of them, a single vulture rode the silent currents of the sky, describing lazy circles like a giant leaf compelled to travel on the winds. The other members of the flock had already descended to their feast, which might be anything from goatflesh to a jackal's pathetic leavings.
Or a man.
"Speed up," he ordered, generous enough to overlook his driver's wry expression at the sudden change of orders. They were close. He could feel it like a lover's touch upon his skin.
At half a mile, the scent of death became apparent, carried on a gentle mountain breeze. This was no camel. To anyone who dealt in death, who trafficked in annihilation, the aromas of corruption were distinct and separate: the sharp, metallic smell of blood; the barnyard reek of bowels that emptied at the impact of a bullet or a blade. No man who sampled the perfume of human flesh gone sour would confuse it with the smell of rotting sheep or bullock.
This had been a human kill, and if Tahir Arrani had not found his man, at least he had found someone, something that might be of interest on a sultry afternoon.
He recognized the turnout, saw the mountain spring, a vulture perched upon its rocky lip, its curved beak wet and glistening. No travelers were stopping here, just now, but some had been, and the odor in his nostrils told Arrani that they had not traveled far beyond the small roadside oasis.
Arrani's driver held a submachine gun in his lap, a minimal concession to the fact that they were miles from Alamut, in territory where a passing mention of Sheikh al-Jebal might not be adequate to cow the infidels they met along their way. Arrani had refused a larger escort, trusting in his fearsome reputation and his knowledge that concerted efforts by the government and the Assassins had been whiting the ranks of independent outlaws in the mountains, thinning out their numbers much as evolution weeds out weaker species, dooming them to ultimate extinction. Any highwaymen they met on this excursion would be rogues, alone or traveling in motley bands of two or three, living off the land. If they attempted to molest him, they would die.
Someone had died, already, at the turnout. From the powerful smell, he could count on several bodies, and they had to have been lying here, exposed to elements and predators alike, for better than a day. Despite the scorching sun, it took that long to raise a stench like the one that drew Arrani from his jeep, toward a gully set behind the mountain spring.
At his approach, the nearest vulture left its perch and flapped away to find another roost among the rocks. Arrani clapped his hands and whistled shrilly, putting the other birds to flight — perhaps a dozen in all. One of them was on a hard collision course with the intruder, veering off to starboard when Arrani clapped his hands again. The Arab noted that the vulture had been carrying a streamer of intestine in its beak.
The gully had become a slaughterhouse, or, more precisely, a communal grave. Six bodies had been dumped there — hastily, from all appearances — and all of them had died by violence. By the gun. As was their normal style, the vultures had been drawn primarily to open wounds, enlarging cuts and gashes, eating outward from the points where blood had freely flowed. Of six men in the gully, five had died from head wounds, scalps and faces long since peeled of flesh by hungry scavengers. Their mothers would have been hard-pressed to identify them.
It was a blessing, the Assassin thought, that he had not come out in search of faces. Bryan Harrigan could pass him on the street, might stop and speak to him, and they would still be strangers. He was searching for a different point of recognition, and Arrani had a fair idea of where to start.
Of the six men in the gully, three wore bloody caftans, one was dressed in standard military uniform and two had been stripped down to boots and underwear. With so much flesh exposed, the vultures had been busy, and Arrani breathed through his mouth as he descended the rocky slope, nearly losing his balance at one point, catching himself before he plunged facefirst into the grotesque carcasses.
One of the mutilated bodies was an Arab's, and the other was a European's. Sun and scavengers could not disguise the pallid flesh — or rather, what was left of it — from the Assassin's expert eye. This man had lived in cities, temperate climates, and he had habitually dressed accordingly. Long sleeves, perhaps with collar buttoned and a neatly knotted tie in place. His hands were tanned, but only from the wrists to fingertips. His face…well, that was anybody's guess, but from his nape down to the callused soles of singularly ugly feet, he had been pale, inclined to burn instead of tan.
The man had been well-fed, perhaps a trifle soft, and so the vultures had attacked him with a vengeance, but they had not reached the part Tahir Arrani longed to see. Suppressing an involuntary grimace of distaste, he rolled the faceless man onto his stomach, hooked his fingers in the waistband of the corpse's shorts and dragged them down.
Even the postmortem settling of blood in fatty tissues of the back and buttocks could not obscure the jaunty Union Jack. The visitor to Alamut was not Bryan Harrigan. The IRA ambassador was vulture food, his mission terminated by a bullet in the face.
And who was the impostor? How had he discovered the location of the Eagle's Nest? How had he known that Harrigan was coming to discuss a proposition with the sheikh? Was his associate affiliated with the government in some way, acting under secret orders? Why would Damascus turn against them now, when they were so successful, with the future bright ahead? What was the mission of the man who, posed as Bryan Harrigan?
These and other questions would be answere
d when he brought the news to Alamut. Sheikh al-Jebal could not refuse to hear him now, dared not ignore the evidence of treachery by a man he had welcomed in his fortress home.
An order sent his driver scrambling for the camera Arrani had been clever enough to bring along. It was a small blackmarket Polaroid, producing snapshots that developed on the spot. They also faded, over time, but he was not preparing keepsakes for a scrapbook. As he focused on the buttocks of the bloated corpse, his mind was fixed on clarity instead of art.
The only prize he sought would be the pleasure of interrogating «Harrigan» for hours, days, whatever length of time might be required to learn the truth. The impostor's death would be a celebration of his own success in sniffing traitors out and running them to earth. Before he finished with the stranger, he would be aware of secrets the man himself had long forgotten. Finally, when he was finished, he would give the man called Harrigan a terrible, slow death.
First, however, there was still the matter of a conference with the sheikh. A mere formality, with evidence in hand, but he had learned from grim experience that logic did not always rule the Old Man's mind. The photographs were proof, but deft persuasion might be necessary to convey his message, win the proper answer from his lord. He would be humble, self-effacing, as he laid the evidence before the man whose word was law. And when approval had been granted, he would close the trap around his enemies.
Soon, now.
He scrambled up the slope, ignored the driver's outstretched, helping hand and shook his robes as if he could divorce himself from death's stench with a simple gesture. He would have the caftan cleaned, but even so, the smell might linger in the fabric, haunting, like a preview of the grave. On impulse, he decided to discard the garment when he reached his destination. Never mind the laundry; it was useless, anyway.
But for the moment, he was satisfied to travel with the smell of death around him. Let it be a warning to his enemies, all those who schemed against him, striving daily to prevent him from ascending the throne. In time, when he became the reigning Old Man of the Mountain, he would grind them beneath his heel.
Cold Judgment Page 13