In time.
He had a special enemy to deal with, and Arrani was already looking forward to it. With a passion.
* * *
Abdel al-Sabbah surveyed the kneeling men and scowled. They had dishonored him and shown themselves unworthy of their mission. Twelve on one, they should have had no problem dealing with the Irishman, but they had failed. Resoundingly. Their scandalous performance might have jeopardized his deal with Harrigan — the tall man still had doubts, which had to be allayed — but at the moment, Harrigan was simply laughing.
Laughing at Sheikh al-Jebal.
It was intolerable, but he could not blame his guest. The men who knelt before him now were laughable, impersonating warriors of the cause when they could not defeat a single man who had been outnumbered, virtually unarmed. They were a joke, and he would not be made the butt of foolish humor for an infidel's amusement.
Slowly, anger darkening his face like thunder clouds, he moved along the line. He stared at the ten «warriors» pitiful survivors of a bungled exercise that had rebounded to his detriment. One man had died inside the house; another had been comatose when he was carried out, and euthanasia had been ordered at the scene. These ten had managed to survive, although they sported cuts and bruises, blackened eyes, a shattered jaw. If they had died in combat, some small measure of their honor might have been redeemed, but as it was, they left a yawning debt to be repaid.
Beginning now.
He reached the end of the line, turned back to watch them as he snapped his fingers, nodding to Amal. The bearded warrior drew his scimitar, approached the nearest man in line and barked an order. On command, the penitent bent forward at the waist, head bowed, eyes closed, the brown curve of his neck exposed.
Amal delayed for half a heartbeat, studying his target, then the blade descended, whispering, until its voice was silenced in a sheath of flesh. The young man's blood erupted in a scarlet fountain, spattering the walls and floor. At liberty, his severed head had come to rest ten feet away, the eyes still open, staring sightlessly at what had been its body.
Amal moved down the line with terse commands and flashing blade, dispatching two, three more in swift succession. Now, his scimitar was slick with gore, his caftan decorated with the fanlike patterns of arterial explosions. Crimson droplets glistened in his beard, and he was smiling, that rarest of expressions he wore uneasily and only at the most peculiar times.
The fifth man's jaw had been so badly broken, twisted, that he could not bow his head. Amal was flexible. The horizontal progress of the curving blade was so meticulously smooth that it appeared he might have missed, then red tendrils overran the dead man's collar, and his head fell forward, bouncing on the tiles before his body followed, almost gracefully in pursuit.
The sixth man had begun to weep, a final insult to his master and to all Ismailis. At Amal's approach, he tried to rise, but he lost traction in the spreading slick of blood and fell on hands and knees. The scimitar swept upward, down again, and there would be no second chance to run away. Amal spit on the twitching body of the coward, moving on to number seven with his dripping blade.
The Old Man of the Mountain watched it all, and when Amal had finished, he was satisfied. Almost. He still would have to face the Irishman in knowledge that his demonstration had become a laughingstock, but there were ways to counter such embarrassment. Perhaps, he thought, the presentation of twelve heads, each on a silver platter, would suffice.
If only his disciples had been more like Harrigan. A warrior who could best twelve younger men in combat, hand-to-hand, was worth recruiting, but he knew the Irishman had other loyalties, different causes to fight for. It was a pity, all the same. He could have taken over training for the novices and whipped them into fighting form. In time, he might have risen to challenge Tahir Arrani in the hierarchy of the sect.
And where, precisely, was Arrani now? He had been gone for hours, long enough to scour the trail along a two-day march, and there was still no word. The prospect of an ambush did not phase the sheikh. He knew it was unlikely, first of all, and if Arrani came to harm, it might not be the worst thing that had happened to the Old Man of the Mountain.
Of late, Arrani had been growing arrogant, self-satisfied, although he took great pains to keep his shifting attitude a "secret." It required no special insight for the sheikh to recognize the younger man's ambition, his desire to mount the throne of Alamut. If he had not desired control, not lusted after greater power, then the Old Man would have worried. As it was, he recognized his danger and would guard against it, keeping one eye on Arrani all the time.
Of late his thoughts had turned to the selection of a worthy heir, someone to carry on the work when he was gone, but he would not be hurried to the grave by brash young men with hungry eyes. At first he had believed Arrani might be perfect for the role of his successor, but the Old Man's attitude had changed. His second-in-command had grown ambitious out of all proportion to his worth, his capabilities, and so the sheikh had come to question his selection of Arrani as the heir apparent to his kingdom.
They were men of power, certainly, with all that role implied, but they were also stewards of a sacred trust passed down across a thousand years to Allah's chosen few. If there were profits to be made along the way, so much the better, but the cult of the Assassins was not — and had never been — the private army of a single man. They were the army of jihad, in thrall to Allah, and he would not let a brash successor blunt the holy sword, divert the thrust that would, in time, destroy the infidels.
In time.
But he was running out of time, and none of those who flocked around his banner now were worthy of the throne. Arrani might still find himself, find Allah in his heart, but there were ways to deal with a subordinate who overstepped his bounds. Ten headless bodies in the courtyard testified to that. If he was challenged by Arrani — or by anyone — the silent dead would soon have company.
There were other problems to contend with at the moment, not the least of which was Bryan Harrigan and his proposal from the IRA. Tonight they would discuss the details of his scheme, the costs involved. Sheikh al-Jebal had no precise idea of what the Irishman desired, but it would be a challenging assignment, that was certain, and the buyer's confidence would not be strengthened by this afternoon's performance at the training ground. The mission might demand a record price, but he was ill prepared to ask a fortune from the Ulsterman while memories of ignominious defeat still hung between them.
He would wait to see what Harrigan proposed. If necessary he might offer to perform the mission at a discount, thereby building up goodwill and spreading word of his professional integrity. The IRA could be a major customer in years to come, with its unending war against the British crown requiring new blood, new approaches. There was only so much money to be made from killing Jewish children in the Middle East.
Besides, the war against the Zionists was still jihad, the holy cause ordained by Allah through his messengers on Earth. The rest of it — in Europe, in America — was all a sideshow to the main event, assassinations and disruptive actions executed in an effort to support the cause. And if the Old Man of the Mountain made his fortune in the process… well, it was a fact of life that Allah would reward his faithful servants.
Yes, he thought the Irishman might be entitled to a discount, but he would let Harrigan describe the mission first. There was no question of declining, under any circumstances, adding insult to injury, but there were still logistics to consider, plans to finalize.
Where was Arrani when his talents were most needed? Rambling about the mountains in an effort to convince Sheikh al-Jebal that Bryan Harrigan was not the man he claimed to be. It seemed preposterous, but nothing was impossible, and granting the request had been a simple way to shed Arrani's clutches for a while. And, in addition, it was good to show him that business could proceed without him. He was not yet indispensable.
Sheikh al-Jebal was still in charge of Alamut, and if Arrani's quest proved f
ruitless, it would be a good excuse for cutting back on his responsibilities around the palace, shortening his leash a fraction. If, by contrast, he should somehow prove his wild assertions, it would still require approval from the Old Man of the Mountain to interrogate — or, in the worst scenario, to execute — their guest. His word was law, and he would countenance no usurpation of his powers while he lived.
And he was not dead, yet.
15
"You're sure they weren't suspicious?"
Sarah shook her head, the ebony tresses rippling across her shoulders. "It is quite routine," she said.
On the return trip from the training compound, Bolan had requested that «Shari» be allowed to help him pass the time until he and the sheikh met for dinner and discussion of their business. There had been no opposition from his host, but he had been relieved, in spite of everything, when Sarah Yariv had arrived.
"How are you coming on that exit?"
"I have not had time or opportunity to search the garden, but I do not think we could escape that way, in any case. The mountainside is far too steep, too rugged, for descent in darkness."
Bolan had been troubled by the same idea. He didn't relish clambering down cliffs without a rope, at midnight, while the world exploded overhead. The climb would have been tough enough in daylight, given trained associates and proper gear.
"That leaves the stables, if we make it that far. What about the other women?"
"I trust only two or three of them. The others have the mentality of slaves. They would betray us in the hope of winning favor with their master."
"Can you take the trusted ones aside? I don't want any friendlies left behind, if I can help it."
"I will try." Her frown was thoughtful. "Do you believe we have a chance?"
"To get away?" He shrugged and forced a smile he did not feel. "I'd say it's eighty-twenty in the Old Man's favor, but you never know. Once bombs start falling, anything might happen."
"If the planes arrive."
"They'll be here if you activate the homer."
Silence hung between them for a moment. Sarah was seated on the edge of Bolan's bed, the soldier in a wooden chair directly opposite.
"What's the matter?"
"I was thinking," she responded, "that the time I have spent here has been wasted. Everything that I have done…"
"That's nonsense," Bolan told her sternly. "They'll be hanging on your every word when you get back to Tel Aviv. If any of these basket cases get away tonight — or if they find another group active, somewhere else — the information you've collected will be vital. I imagine you could close the books on half a dozen major raids right now."
"Perhaps. But I had hoped to have a hand in seeing all of this destroyed."
"You will," the Executioner reminded her. "No homer, no surprise, remember? You're the quarterback on this play."
"Quarterback?"
"Forget it."
There was something on the woman's mind, and though the soldier had a fair idea of what it was, he let her get there in her own way and her own good time.
"This morning, in the garden…"
"Sarah…"
"No, please listen. I have been there many times, in seven months, with many men."
"This isn't necessary."
"I believe it is. I need to have you understand that there was nothing in my heart for any of them, ever."
"I believe you."
He had seen the symptoms time and time again, the guilty burden borne by female warriors who were forced, at times, to use their bodies as a weapon in the everlasting war against the savages. It was a natural reaction, and the only cure was time, perhaps the opportunity to talk it out with someone who could understand.
"I am committed to the defense of Israel," Sarah told him, something of the old fire shining in her eyes. "The things that I have done were necessary — for my country — and they have not touched my soul."
"I know a little bit about the way you're feeling," Bolan answered. "Sometimes when I close my eyes, I see the faces of the men I've killed, the ones who got their tickets punched because they trusted me and tried to help. We all have extra baggage that we carry, but the trick is not to let it weigh you down."
"I see the faces, too, and wish that I could kill them."
"So tonight you get your wish."
"And will that make them go away?"
"It never has for me."
"My family was murdered by the PLO in 1980. I was seventeen and still in college. I was at a party when they died."
"No way you could have stopped it, even if you'd been there. Would your country be a better place if you had died beside them?"
Sarah thought about it for a moment, finally found an answer she could live with. "No," she said. "I think it is a better place because I live and fight against our enemies."
"Damn straight."
"You are a wise man, for a soldier."
Bolan grinned. "I have my moments."
"Yes, you do." Her smile was hesitant. "This morning, when we…"
"Sarah, really…"
"It is not polite to interrupt." Her voice was stern, but there was mischief in it, too. "You still have time, before your meeting with the sheikh, and it may seem suspicious if your bed is not disturbed."
"I'll turn the covers down."
She shook her head. "I am afraid that will not do. Ismaili guards are very thorough. They would immediately see through such deception."
"If you have any other notions…"
"One or two, perhaps." She was already on her feet and drawing back the coverlet, the blankets, on his king-size bed. Before he had a chance to speak, the sequined vest and filmy harem blouse were lying on the floor beside the bed, and she was naked to the waist.
"This isn't necessary," Bolan told her, even as he felt himself responding.
"Yes, it is. I have not made love with a man by choice in seven months. I choose you. Now."
He joined her on the bed without further invitation, shrugging off his robe. She came into his arms with eagerness that was entirely different from their staged encounter of that morning. For the soldier's part, his own response was different as well, but no less ardent. For a timeless moment, Alamut and all its dangers faded like a bitter nightmare, losing substance, giving way to the superior reality of here and now.
So caught up was he in the moment that he did not hear the enemy approaching, had no warning of their presence in the hall before his door swung open to admit Tahir Arrani and a flying squad of riflemen.
"You will, I trust, excuse the interruption, Mr. Harrigan?" The Arab's tone was mocking, and the extra emphasis he placed on Bolan's cover name could only mean bad news. "His majesty, Sheikh al-Jebal, desires your presence in the banquet hall. Immediately."
* * *
Victory was sweet, and it was all Arrani could do to keep from laughing as his captive scrambled out of bed.
"What's this all about?"
"Your questions may be answered by the master, if he chooses — after you have answered certain questions he will pose."
"You call this hospitality? What kind of questions?"
Ignoring the impostor for a moment, he addressed the frightened woman. "Dress yourself and go about your duties. You have no more business here."
She hastened to obey, aware that she was in the presence of a dead man, keeping eyes averted from Bolan. From the look of her, she could already feel his touch of death upon her flesh.
The man who posed as Bryan Harrigan had ceased to bluster, dressing silently beneath the watchful eye of four disciples armed with submachine guns. They had been forewarned of "Harrigan's" performance at the training compound, and they were prepared to take no chances with him. He was desired for questioning — a session Arrani was anticipating eagerly — but if he made an effort to escape, he would be shot without a second thought.
Arrani's conference with the Old Man had been brief and to the point. He had explained about the Harrigan tat
too, his observations in the garden of delights, and he had laid his Polaroid photographs before the master as the coup de grace. Throughout his presentation there had been no interruption from the sheikh. When he was finished, when the master had examined every photograph in minute detail, he raised weary eyes to Arrani's face.
"The stranger has deceived us, then."
"His driver, also. They are both impostors."
"I must know who has employed them to invade our sanctuary."
"As you say, my lord, so let it be."
"They must retain no secrets when you finish."
"I will know the hour when their worthless mothers gave them life."
And so he would. When he was finished with the so-called Irishman and his disreputable driver, he would know precisely who they worked for, what they had been paid, their mission and objectives. He would know their fondest hopes and deepest fears, the names of women they had loved and lost. They would be willing to betray their families at his command. And still it would not save them.
The woman finished dressing, gave the prisoner a wide berth as she exited the chamber in a swirl of gossamer and silk. The tall impostor watched her go, already dressed and waiting, eyes devoid of either disappointment or surprise as she abandoned him without a backward glance.
So much for love, Arrani thought, and smiled in satisfaction as another of his personal beliefs was proved out. The woman was a piece of property, no more significant — although, perhaps, more pleasing to the eye — than any other piece of furniture in the castle. She would do as she was told, with whom it might be ordered, and she would feel nothing for her recent lover, doomed to agonizing death.
The rat-faced driver was the only missing piece required for swift completion of the puzzle. He would still be in his chambers, and they would take him by surprise with little difficulty. He was unarmed, and he did not appear to be a formidable hand-to-hand combatant, like the bogus Harrigan. One guard should be sufficient to control the ferret while they brought him back to join his comrade.
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