Assassins - Ian Watson & Andy West

by Ian Watson

  Ah, so they’d noted some sense of purpose in him, beyond merely the ambition to become a healer.

  “Whores pretend their ecstasy,” Hakim remarked, as if he knew.

  “Not at the house we go to, I assure you. It’s as if the women have worms in their vaginas, making them itchy to be fucked.”

  “Thirty dirhams,” repeated Hakim, thinking of the money generously gifted him for his education, raised by tithes and donations.

  “Yes, dirhams. I didn’t say gold dinars! Or are you a prude, like poor Sadiq?”

  “No, I’ll come with you,” agreed Hakim.

  “But not,” quipped Naguib mischievously, “into the same cow. We withdraw to private little rooms after some dancing during which we make our choice.”

  Withdraw. Private. Almost every word seemed weighted with smutty significance.

  So that same evening, as a half-moon shone upon the splendours and squalors of Cairo, mirroring itself like a bright silver sail upon the Nile, Hakim went with his two fellow students of anatomy to a certain house with lattice windows.

  Silks hung around the walls of a large room, covering doorways. The three students shared a sprawl of tasselled cushions with another patron, a burly man. They all paid an old woman five dirhams for cool sherbet, an extra cost which Abdul had neglected to mention. Gleaming brass oil-lamps seemed to invite a caress, which might magically cause the flame to leap up and become a fiery enchantress.

  The enchantresses, four of them, faces rouged, eyelids shadowed with kohl, shimmied through the silks from separate doorways. They too were scantily clad in silk; their private parts were concealed, though barely so. Bangles on their wrists and ankles jangled, slippers with up-curving toes glittered on their feet. Two were plump and two were slim. One had skin of coffee with milk, another was almost white, a third was African ebony, Nubian undoubtedly, and the fourth was cinnamon. Lewdly, languidly, they began to dance while the old woman clapped her hands rhythmically.

  Almost at once the burly fellow arose, gesturing at the plump woman who was almost white. She stood still and recited, “I have allowed you.”

  He replied, “I have accepted. For a dowry of thirty dirhams, for one hour.”

  As soon as she nodded, he paid the old woman and followed his temporary wife through red silk to take his delight.

  Although scandalised by this highly abbreviated legitimisation of imminent copulation, Hakim was nevertheless glad to know the exact words used. He reminded himself that the Prophet, peace be upon him, had allowed such formulas, so that soldiers or merchants or other men far from home might gain relief.

  Naguib stood up and indicated the plump ebony woman; the same transaction then occurred. As the two remaining women continued to dance, Abdul eyed Hakim.

  “Be my guest,” he murmured, although he wouldn’t actually be paying. Yes, Hakim should indeed choose, not allow the choice to be dictated for him. He arose and pointed at the young woman whose skin was the hue of cinnamon.

  Within a small lamp-lit chamber beyond blue silk, its door now shut, much of the space was occupied by a bed. Incense smouldered headily. Cinnamon shed her bangles, and turned provocatively to Hakim.

  Apprehension assailed Hakim, not an emotion familiar to him. His manhood had swollen under his flowing jellaba, though only somewhat. If he failed to bed the whore manfully, Abdul might learn of this even if Hakim later lied and bragged; though what basis of knowledge could he brag upon? Hakim strongly suspected that Abdul or Naguib would question him. Therefore he must desire as totally as possible the body that swayed before him like a supple snake piped from a basket. Desire must exclude any other distracting thoughts, as with an animal on heat. Or maybe like a martyr gone to Paradise; yes, here was Paradise in advance, God’s reward for unknown accomplishments yet to be achieved. It was paradise that she should surrender herself to him, his slave so vulnerable, soft and delicate, baring her breasts, opening wide her legs, to be pierced by his shaft that now stiffened more.

  Her silks were loose and falling. He stared transfixed at the swell of her thighs, and her cleft crowned by a dark tuft below her naked, scarcely rounded belly. Oh the little peaches of her breasts, to gently squeeze.

  Yes, surely to squeeze first of all, for he mustn’t simply impale her impetuously all at once! What had Abdul said about causing ecstasy in a woman? Abdul might wish to know of this, by hearing tell of the signs of ecstasy from Hakim’s own report.

  As though aware of his perplexity, or perhaps impatient, Cinnamon silently slid a finger down her belly to her cleft, then within so that half of her finger disappeared. Thrusting forward her pubes, she rubbed herself slowly, as if she sought relief from itchy worms; yet surely her vagina must be deeper between her legs. Evidently, she was showing him what he should do to her, and how. Hakim refrained from speaking in case what he said was stupid, and she seemed disinclined to speak, as though mouths were intended for other purposes. Swiftly he shed his clothing. He was, he was in Paradise, blessed by God for what he had, for what he would, achieve!

  She must have moistened herself liberally with an unguent, he decided presently after she positioned his finger to replace hers. He massaged a small bump, which caused her to moan, then cry out and toss her head from side to side.

  Before long she gripped his shaft and guided him to where he fitted perfectly. As his weight bore down upon her, she hoisted her legs to grip him, ankles locking together. How she gasped at his thrusting, until deliriously he spent himself in pulsing surges. Too soon his organ was limp and he withdrew, kneeling between her splayed legs, assessing in the lamplight her wet, flushed openness.

  She chuckled with a kind of patronising complicity. And quite suddenly a great emptiness was within Hakim, a hollow sadness as of waste and futility: the waste of some of the carefully gathered funds of his community. The waste too of the sheer tension, as of a taut bow that had been within him so recently, all its accumulated potential now lost.

  Nevertheless, Hakim revisited the brothel twice more with Abdul and Naguib, choosing a different woman each time for comparison. After successfully establishing his ‘normality’, he allowed himself to become privately more friendly with Sadiq, not so that others would remark on this. As a result, Sadiq seemed almost to fall in love in a spiritual way; their friendship was to be special and confidential. Then Hakim focused upon mightier matters, his mind cleansed, not least because by now his studies in medicine had shown him many grotesque examples of disease and malignancy, both externally and also internally. He knew full well that anyone’s body, even the fairest, could become hideous.

  He immersed himself in the great medical texts by Ibn Sina, ar-Razi, Jabir ibn Hayyan, and Abu al-Qasim al-Zahrawi. A lecturer pointed out that ancient Greek doctors made claims based on insufficient observation, claims which ar-Razi disproved. Controlled, systematic experimentation was essential. Commissioned to choose the best site for a hospital in Baghdad, ar-Razi had famously hung up meat throughout the city to discover where it decomposed least quickly, thus to pinpoint the most hygienic place. Animal testing was important, even though a drug might not affect a dog in the same way as a human being.

  Hakim paid particular attention to theories of contagious disease, to Ibn Sina’s idea of bodily secretions being contaminated by foul foreign bodies, and that water could carry such bodies, as well as garments too. These foreign bodies were far too small to be seen, though their serious effects belied the size of the cause; therefore patients with similar serious symptoms should be kept separate from others. Mercurial compounds and sulphur and pure alcohol were surely efficacious, Hakim reasoned, because they destroyed or hindered that which could not be seen by any gaze less acute than God’s, Who saw all.

  Hakim couldn’t but note ar-Razi's insistence that a doctor's aim is to do good, ‘even to our enemies’. Yet if those enemies were also accursed antagonists of Allah, surely this didn’t apply!

  Dissections of abandoned or unclaimed corpses needed to be carried ou
t from time to time, otherwise how could one truly learn anatomy? By pretending that a dead pig is a human being? Ay, the vital work was carried out in utmost secrecy, in case the religious authorities heard that the body of a servant of Allah was being abused! A doctor soon learned to keep secrets.

  It was the duty of a doctor to heal, if possible. To bring relief. To limit suffering. This he solemnly swore when he was finally granted his licence to practise medicine.

  Yet below a calm exterior, always a tempest of ambition raged within Hakim…

  To be a doctor was to practise the art which brought one closest to God. Surely God wished the world purged of those who denied and offended Him, such a host of infidels and heretics! Surely it would be Godly to use not the clumsy sword forged by Man, but the subtle instruments created and therefore legitimised by God Himself, if those could be sufficiently understood and applied. The ultimate instrument, for instance, of plague…

  Armies had catapulted corpses over the battlements of besieged cities, yet no general had ever used disease itself in his armoury with any true understanding. Sickness often trailed behind the ravages of war. Why should disease not precede, and itself ravage enemies, thus sparing many faithful servants of God from being sent to Heaven prematurely by their infidel enemies? A doctor who could assist in this would be saving lives. Hakim dreamed of a future when war might be fought not with swords but with deadly sickness, to the glory of God and the salvation of the faithful, so that true faith might dominate the world, and its higher initiates might unlock the secrets of creation and apprehend the mind of God. Surely for this higher purpose God granted him exemption from his licence, the writ of well-meaning but limited men…

  Radcliffe Institute for Advanced Studies, Cambridge, Massachusetts: April

  Two days after Jack Turner’s visit, Abigail was winnowing a crop of almost uniformly negative replies to urgent emails she’d sent to colleagues and contacts all over the world, requesting any further information whatever on Safiyya bint Yusuf al-Ballisiyya. The only glimmer of light came from an old friend now resident in Oxford, England.

  Abigail, how’s the new book coming on? How is your charming bartender? Has your masterful father done away with him yet?

  I have a snippet for you. Not much I’m afraid, but hard-won after mining the Bodleian, so you owe me!

  It turns out that the long-term lover of Safiyya bint Yusuf al-Ballisiyya was one Sinan al-Din ibn Nasir. An Ismaili and a man ‘of rank’ apparently.

  Sorry, no other details. Hope it’s useful,

  Love Jen XX

  Abigail smiled. Jen admired older men, especially those with power and money. When introduced five years ago or so, Abigail’s own father had evoked a blush in her friend’s cheeks just by his presence. Typically, Jen hadn’t even offered a polite denial of her attraction.

  Rising, Abigail gazed at the vibrant inspiration of tulips, mulling over Jen’s snippet. This could indeed be useful. The once powerful Ismailis formed a sect within the Shi’a wing of Islam, recognising Ismail son of Jafar as-Sadiq as the disputed seventh Imam, the seventh divinely inspired and infallible religious guide for Muslims after the death of the Prophet. Ismailis had spawned a rich poetic tradition of their own. Maybe Safiyya al-Ballisiyya had borrowed from them some convention whereby a teacher of many lessons would indeed be an Imam, which might in turn explain the religious context in which death swells and overflows.

  This was off the edge of her field. She’d need help. The Ismaili connection teased her memory, touching upon something unsavoury at the edge of recollection.

  Movement in the yard below caught her attention. A young man, black coat, grey scarf, ducked into a doorway. Sudden fire flashed over Abigail’s cheeks as cold wrapped her spine. Had that ICEman prick set a watch on her? Her logic dismissed the idea as ludicrous, but her anger was alight and not so easily doused. The young man didn’t reappear.

  Centre for Middle Eastern Studies, Cambridge, Massachusetts: April

  The reception was boring. Abigail usually found them so. This one was a CMES do, the Centre for Middle Eastern Studies at Harvard, thrown to welcome a new associate to its heart. A free buffet though, inclusive of plonk.

  The beaming professor being honoured was taking over a regular seminar series, Islam in the West. So, when the ring of eager admirers thinned, she hoped to make contact. He’d astutely combined the CMES event with a PR push for his book, Guilt, Manipulation and Misunderstanding: the Hand of The West in the Palestinian-Israeli Conflict.

  Pending access to the worthy professor, she sauntered about like a thief spotting for opportunities, wielding her smile like a crow-bar to break into the most promising of other people’s conversations. Sadly, a great deal of schmoozing was necessary to remain afloat in the treacherous ocean of academia. Conscious of staying sharp and with a busy afternoon ahead too, she sipped her wine slowly. She spotted that reporter guy from the Boston Globe, Paul Summers, talking into his phone, though not with the usual animation people have when chatting to someone else, so he was probably just confiding audio notes. She had no wish to hobnob with him right now and hoped he wouldn’t recognize her. Crazily, he was wearing a long white kaftan over blue jeans, as if out of solidarity with the occasion. Or maybe not so crazily. CMES boasted a healthy ethnic range of participants: Mediterranean and North African, Arab and Turkic and Anglo-Saxon and more, dressed in Western suits and brightly coloured robes, T-shirts and hijabs and silk scarves and baseball caps.

  Of a sudden there leapt out at her an urgent hiss; eagle-teacher. She whirled in a desperate attempt to discover who’d said that, and her wine flew in a wide arc, her glass smashing spectacularly on the floor. Most conversation ceased. Abigail felt terribly exposed under the glare of lights and the glare of those nearby, although Paul Summers was grinning sympathetically at her across the room; maybe he was a connoisseur of social gaffes. A postgrad she’d seen around before, a South-East Asian who sported a puckered old scar just like a supplementary eyebrow, looked shocked and angry; maybe the wine had splashed him. A handsome, well-groomed, middle-aged Arab gentleman next to him smiled quizzically; he probably thought Abi was drunk. She lamely explained to the room in general that she’d lost her footing, then said sorry a lot as one of the catering staff came to clear up the mess. Did Jack Turner have someone snooping around here, asking the same improbable questions of other targets within CMES? A sense of unreality gripped her, a feeling of being adrift on an unknown sea.

  Get some perspective, girl.

  Her gentle history tutor back home in Montreal had said she should never reprove herself like that. Girl revealed disbelief in her own maturity. She circled as discretely as she could, hoping to hear the phrase again; but in vain. After making such an exhibition of herself, she decided this mightn’t be the best time to approach that professor.

  Tehran, Iran: June 1987

  Jafar had hurried to the observation booth as soon as he was told that at last the prisoner was showing the first signs of plague.

  Subject Number Two, was also a subject of that impostor who called himself the Aga Khan and who weighed himself in diamonds, so-called Commander-in-Chief of the so-called Nizari Ismailis, whose great great grandfather long ago hijacked a lineage and a true faith that had persisted in secret for centuries. How appropriate that the first experimental prisoner to show the desired signs should be one of those false Nizaris.

  Doctor… think of him not by his name, but as the Hakim of our time… was gazing through the toughened glass at his subject within the padded cell, a naked flabby brown man who suddenly spewed out water which he had only just gorged himself on, as though this might empty himself of what plagued him. Was that what his body was trying vainly to do?

  The prisoner clutched his head. His neck looked swollen. Moments later, blood began trickling from his nose. His chest flushed with a rash like a blushing girl.

  “Very fast onset,” commented The Doctor approvingly, scribbling in his notebook. “Extremely sa
tisfactory.”

  The prisoner staggered. His eyes glared madly at his observers. His bloodied lips mouthed something theatrically; the glass was soundproof but he’d probably screamed the words out. Possibly ‘shoot me’.

  “In olden times,” said The Doctor levelly, “people drowned themselves or jumped off cliffs… the pain and thirst was so great. Still very early days, we have years ahead of us, but I think this is indeed the same disease.”

  I’ll be needing a new identity before long, reflected Jafar, a new name.

  Boston, Massachusetts: April

  Abigail felt quite ridiculous weaving through downtown Boston, lurking in bookshop aisles with views of the street, leaving by alternative exits if possible, plunging into crowds then doubling back and slipping suddenly down side-streets. No man in a grey scarf appeared to be tailing her, though that didn’t mean that someone else wasn’t. Apart from taking great exception to Jack Turner knowing her business, she didn’t want Walid to suffer similar attention.

  She took the subway to Ruggles, then marched briskly into the grounds of North-Eastern University. Entering the foyer of the Behrakis Health Sciences Center, she checked from behind the glare of sunshine on blue glass. All seemed okay, just a few students wandering around. Shabby garb with pseudo-military pockets and zips plus arty beads, or winter coats thrown over bright tee-shirts and jogging bottoms or jeans.

  A shame Walid wasn’t closer to hand; more of a shame that she’d felt forced to take a long detour into downtown for no other reason than ICEman Jack might be watching her! Quelling a spasm of anger, she found a rear exit and wended her way to the intersection of Malcolm X Boulevard and Tremont Street.

  The golden dome of the Roxbury mosque was a mirror of the bright sun, nestling on ember-red columns and arches and curtains of brick, although for Abigail its tall minaret spoiled an otherwise exotic effect , looking as it did like a nineteenth century factory chimney. The brickwork architecture had apparently been chosen to fit in with Bostonian style.