Assassins - Ian Watson & Andy West

by Ian Watson

  “Right,” he said. “An acknowledgment in proportion.”

  Tehran, Iran: May

  Blood gushed from Bashir’s nose as he gritted his teeth to avoid howling. Surely his nose was broken!

  “What have you done, Amin?” demanded the instructor angrily. “Medic!” he called.

  “I apologise,” said Amin earnestly. “Oh Bashir, I’m so sorry, I…”

  To score his point, Amin should have halted the strike of his knife-hand a fraction of an inch short of the base of Bashir’s nose. The nasal bone might have been driven into the frontal sinus if the blow had fully carried through. Amin had indeed stopped his strike, but an instant too late.

  “You want to make my face a sight to see at passport checks?” bellowed Bashir, as a first aider rushed onto the practice mat.

  “No no no no, I swear in God’s name. You’re my comrade, not a competitor! I curse learning combat.”

  “You may need combat,” snapped the instructor, “to evade capture! Hopefully you’ll never need to… yet you must be as prepared as possible.”

  As the first aider examined Bashir’s injury, the masseur came to rub herbal cream onto Amin’s hands…

  Roxbury, Boston, Massachusetts: May

  For a hundred dollars Abigail had hired a long black dress with hat and veil. Her first thought had been to find something suitable knocked down by 75% in Filene’s Basement, but then she didn’t feel at all like rummaging with eager bargain hunters to equip herself for such a sad occasion. She hardly wished to keep the sombre outfit afterwards; she wasn’t planning on any more funerals in the near future.

  As she scanned the gathered mourners in the assembly hall, to her surprise she saw ringleted hair. Paul Summers? Why should he be here? She walked over, relieved there was someone else here that she knew.

  “Paul?”

  It was him indeed, in a charcoal grey suit, complete with goofy grin as soon as he saw her. Then realisation visibly washed across his face, erasing the grin.

  “I’m so sorry Abigail, I didn’t realise. That cleric friend you talked about… it was Walid al-Areqi?”

  A tight band of melancholy gripped Abigail. “Yes,” she mumbled, “yes it was.”

  “I had no way to know. I’m so sorry,” he repeated.

  Abigail breathed deeply to fend off her sadness. “It’s okay. But what are you doing here?”

  “More mosque related news, among other reasons. My territory at the Globe.” He blushed slightly. “Oh, as you know, of course.”

  Poor Paul seemed more uncomfortable and out of place than she did, mused Abigail. She beamed to instil confidence. “I’m very grateful for your story. You got my email?”

  “Oh, yes.” Paul shuffled his feet. “Hey, it’s quite an achievement for our M.E.’s office to manage an autopsy and release the body within just a couple of days. Maybe the medical examiner’s heedful of Muslim sensitivities.”

  “Perhaps. But that doesn’t make up for other officials who are grossly insensitive, or worse!”

  Paul smiled conspiratorially. “Well, we did something about that.” He frowned. “Which reminds me I’ve something pretty important to tell you, but not just now, I guess the service will be starting in a few minutes. Afterwards?”

  Abigail nodded, and at that point Kamal appeared. His place was with the other Muslim mourners, but he came to condole with Abigail for a short while, once again promising whatever help he could provide towards her researches.

  “Not that I could ever replace such a scholar as Walid in any sense! Yet in attempting fill the breech, I’d feel that I’m honouring Walid’s memory. And I may be of some use.” He contemplated dark-suited, crazy-haired Paul, whom Abigail had merely introduced by name. “Hmm… I believe you’re that valiant reporter… the one who broke the news about a certain government agency carrying out surveillance of the mosque here in Roxbury.”

  Paul grinned. “How did you work that out?”

  “Your photograph was with your by-line, in the Globe. I presume you’re here today professionally.”

  Paul nodded. “Yeah. There’ll be a small column with some obituary. Walid was a pillar of the community, as I’m sure you know.”

  “So you aren’t precisely a mourner, unlike your companion.”

  “Oh, I mourn such a murder all right, make no mistake.”

  “Murder?” Kamal’s eyes widened in shock.

  “It amounts to that, doesn’t it? I ran the Globe’s campaign against hit and runs a couple of years back, after that spate of them. Most of the drivers were DUI, or stoned.”

  “Ah, so you argue that getting into their car forms the deliberate act. I’m inclined to agree, especially as this has robbed us of one so dear.” Kamal’s gaze lingered on Paul and Abigail, but then he needed to rejoin his group. “Excuse me, Dr Leclaire, Mr Summers.”

  “Weird,” commented Paul. “It’s as if he was trying to suss out our relationship, but wouldn’t ask outright.”

  “Relationship?” queried Abigail.

  “For want of a better word.”

  “He was just being courteous. Are reporters suspicious of every darn thing?”

  Paul shrugged. “Just, I’m used to phrasing questions to gain a desired result.”

  “I’d better be careful of you, then.” Abigail flashed a smile, in case she might have caused offence; but then the occasion erased that smile, and indeed epitaphs for gentle Walid, many spoken in English as if for her benefit, soon brought tears, which continued to flow as they filed outside for the actual burial.

  Afterwards, tissues still in hand, Abigail was keen to find out what Paul had to tell her.

  “I discovered something just recently, Abigail. It’s important, I mean important to you. I was going to arrange to see you anyhow. Shall we walk a while?”

  They strolled off in a direction that offered minimal traffic noise. Paul spoke quietly. “My contact whom I checked with about the mosque surveillance… well yesterday afternoon I saw him again. He told me that surveillance is finished, cancelled, kaput.”

  “Why, that’s great! Well done, you. The power of the press!”

  “That’s not all. We got talking about other surveillances. And he happened to mention a ‘prof woman at Harvard’.”

  Abigail groaned.

  “Exactly,” said Paul. “To think when we were in Café Lorca the other day I made that daft joke about you being bugged. But it was true.”

  “I’ve certainly been followed, and ICE is doing this.”

  “Not any more they aren’t! My source didn’t seem to know you by name, or what this is all about, but I made the connection alright. Surveillance of the woman prof has also been cancelled, he said, from on high. Because, it seems, of her weighty connections. Maybe the mosque snooping getting uncovered helped a bit. So you aren’t being followed anymore! No one’s listening in on any of your phone calls, if in fact they were also doing that before.”

  “Oh, that’s such a relief to know. Thank you so much, Paul. I really owe you for this.”

  She beamed hugely at him, but his returned gaze was troubled.

  “Is there anything else you’d like to tell me about all this? I know that must sound inquisitive! Questions, desired results, I said it myself… I don’t mean to be intrusive but… well I haven’t gotten the whole story here. I mean, why were you being followed in the first place? Even ICE wouldn’t do that just because you visited the mosque. And you mentioned a medieval poem – is that connected somehow?”

  Abigail shook her head, then stared into the distance.

  “I can’t think straight today. I do miss Walid. I have to do a lot of serious thinking.”

  “Okay…” Paul’s tone was conciliatory, even gentle. “But may you say what your heavyweight connections are?”

  Abigail gave a wry smile. “That’ll be my Papa. Leclaire Enterprises.”

  Paul’s eyes bulged. “Fu… er, wow! Industrial technology, advanced hydraulics, military vehicles, system integrat
or, US government defence contracts, that’s you?”

  “My Papa,” insisted Abigail, “not me! It’s usually a burden, but for once it came in handy. Oh I hope he doesn’t find out what’s been going on…he worries, he tries to protect me too much.”

  “Well…” said Paul. But for once he was lost for words. “Well…”

  Radcliffe Institute for Advanced Studies, Cambridge, Massachusetts: May

  When Kamal phoned Abigail at her desk a couple of days after Walid’s funeral, she’d only just been thinking about him – and how much more competent, courteous and compassionate he seemed than the creature of chaos that was Terry, for sure now relegated permanently to the past tense! A truly international personage. Pathetic, despicable Terry couldn’t even cope in his own backyard. Yet Kamal probably wouldn’t find much time for Abigail’s puzzles, so she shouldn’t badger him.

  But then the phone rang.

  “Dr Leclaire, this is Kamal al-Mustafa Abu al-Bashir. Be assured I haven’t forgotten my promise! I need to be in Back Bay soon and I was wondering whether we might talk over lunch, if you’re able to pop down from Harvard? This would give me a fine excuse to enjoy what you might call my native cuisine, at the excellent Jewel of Newbury restaurant.”

  “Oh, I’ve heard of it.” Not the most graceful reply; she should have said: it’s so kind of you to find the time.

  “You’d be my guest, of course.”

  Abigail frantically searched for something intelligent to say, but her head had emptied.

  “Well, thank you…”

  “No, I thank you. I couldn’t possibly indulge myself on my own.”

  The perfect gentleman! The Jewel of Newbury was pricey.

  “In fact tomorrow would be fine, if that isn’t too soon.”

  “So I’ll make a reservation for twelve-thirty, if that’s suitable. I’ll give you my mobile number in case you have any problems. Oh, and please do call me Kamal, for simplicity…”

  “In that case, you must call me Abigail.”

  He read out the number. “Until tomorrow, Abigail.” He hung up.

  God, what should she wear? Just two days after she’d mourned at Walid’s funeral? The black dress was still awaiting return. Maybe that, obviously minus veil and hat, but with a modest flower-spray pinned on to lessen the severity? Though Kamal seemed willing to ‘indulge’ himself, as he gallantly put it; so maybe something informal, though business-like. Slacks, blouse, and a jacket; yes. And something to indicate sensitivity, a black chiffon scarf.

  The Jewel of Newbury restaurant, Boston, Massachusetts: May

  Even though Abigail turned up five minutes early, Kamal was already waiting outside. His smile immediately set her at ease.

  The restaurant was in a boutique hotel, a restored 19th century town house exalted into a luxurious and elegant evocation of North Africa and the Middle East. As dark-suited Kamal escorted her inside, she admired stained-glass panelling and tiles, ceramics and antique furniture. A bar was Art Deco: mirrors, metal, crystals.

  “A preliminary cocktail for you, Abigail?”

  “No, no. With the meal, some squeezed orange juice perhaps.”

  Soon they were seated at a round white marble table, being attended by a waiter who behaved more like a private butler. Kamal suggested roasted eggplant, to be followed by a lamb tagine flavoured with olives and prunes. Abigail wondered whether he was married, whether he had children. She saw no ring, should that be the custom.

  He smiled, showing good teeth. “I do hope you can do justice to the food, even if you’re on a diet like so many young women these days, except for those who would benefit by a diet! A lunchtime meeting seemed more suitable to me than a dinner, even though this place has a rooftop garden especially beloved by couples for its views of the city at night.”

  Abigail found herself imagining what that rooftop garden might be like of an evening, accompanied by such a man.

  “On the phone you said ‘native cuisine’, Kamal. If I’m not being impudent, does that mean you’re from North Africa originally?”

  “Abigail, these days I travel around so much, sometimes I think I’m from half a dozen countries! But I was born Syrian.”

  “Where Sinan… Rashid al-Din, had his stronghold…”

  “You are well versed in history! Have you been to Syria?”

  Their orange juices arrived.

  “Unfortunately not. I’d love to see Krak des Chevalier and such places.”

  “The finest Crusader castle anywhere.”

  “Actually, my urgent problem is the Syrian and Iranian background to a fragment of Provençal poetry I found, which refers to an ‘eagle teacher’…”

  Kamal set down his orange juice much too close to the edge of the table.

  “Your glass!”

  Reacting almost instantly, he caught the glass even as it tipped. Some juice slopped on to his hand, which he proceeded to dry with the linen napkin.

  “Apologies for my clumsiness.”

  “No way, I wish I had such fast reflexes.”

  “At my age, no less?” he queried ironically.

  “Give me maturity any day, rather than frustrating immaturity.” Terry, maybe even Paul, would likely have sent orange juice flying all over the floor.

  “Well, I’m all ears, Abigail. Do tell me everything.”

  Southern Ethiopia: October 1158

  The cries of monkeys mocked Hakim as he staggered onward through the steamy forest. Was he simply thrashing futile circles through the dense tangles of twisted trees draped with moss and bearded with woolly creepers?

  Due to some quirk of weather, sunlight shafted down through the dripping leaf canopy like golden spears stabbing at the broken ant that was Hakim. God’s light, the Nur from which the world had been made! The light in which the Prophet, peace be upon him, had been forged! The light which shone through the Imams, making them the bright lamps of heaven and Earth! The light that revealed truth!

  Sinking to his knees, Hakim vomited a thin, bitter gruel of berries and snails. Radiance wheeled dizzily around him. Surely he was on his knees to pray. How many weeks had he been lost? A bird, whose name he did not know, flew by in a blur of bright wings.

  Did he recite his prayers in the right order? In his mind the voice of a Yemeni muezzin seemed to cry, Hayya ‘ala khayri-l-amal, Rise up for the Best of Works!

  Yes, for the Best of Works he must indeed rise up, stinking and shaking, from his soiled and filthy knees! Remember, remember! Before he became so sickly, so lost in this wet and tangled forest, home to predators, had he not been engaged in the Best of Works?

  Swaying on his feet, Hakim spied a movement of reddish-brown amid the tumbling green mosses and pale tree-beards. Perhaps he was seeing double, although one of the two shapes in tentative motion seemed to be much smaller than the other. Instinctively he unscabbarded his sword and, with failing muscles, flung it wherever the blade might choose to go, yet with a word of prayer he hoped would recommend its course to heaven. It flew in a lazy arc, turning over and over.

  A squeal! As Hakim stumbled forward, the larger shape took flight but a young bushbuck lay with its legs kicking, struggling to rise, pierced by blessed steel through its russet, white-spotted flank, which blood was swiftly blemishing. As the animal’s small face jerked towards him, wide-eyed and panting, Hakim threw himself upon the hilt of the sword, thrusting and twisting.

  The young antelope’s death came soon. Hakim was aware of the mother watching from nearby cover, yet she lacked horns so could do nothing. An angel of Allah had guided the sword, sacrificing her child.

  Hakim’s butchery was cursory. Soon he was chewing raw meat and sucking blood. He did not vomit because the nourishing blood was angel-sent. A voice seemed to sing:

  As sperm from man’s backbone

  reposes itself in a womb

  so divine knowledge from God

  settles within the Imam

  trustee of authority and blood!

  Trustee of bl
ood, trustee of the knowledge of blood… Surely he, Hakim, was that; surely he was trustee of the knowledge of blood which would cleanse, which would wash away the unfaithful from the world.

  A week after he had gorged himself on the bushbuck, by Allah’s mercy and hopes for him, Hakim heard an Arabic word shouted far away.

  How long had he been wandering like an animal? A month? He slapped his hand to his scabbard, momentarily convinced that beside it he wore a stoppered bottle in which he had captured plague like a jinnee. Yet alas, that was an illusion borne of the utter conviction that such was possible. And would be possible! Only, he would need more companions, more supplies, more funds.

  He combed his hair and beard as best he could with his fingers. He could do little about the filthy rags hanging off him, yet he tore some away. And he still wore his sword, which an angel had guided. He croaked, then spoke his full name aloud, before heading towards the source of that Arabic word.

  A Muslim hunting camp. Tents. Horses. Arabs and their slaves. Fire and food. Blessèd, sacred hospitality. Hygiene and clothes. Prayers.

  Hakim was very floridly well-spoken and courteous in his gratitude, as befitting a scholar of the famous al-Azhar University in Cairo, sent on a mission of botanical exploration by the Caliph, which was the role he dissembled. Alas, he related, disaster had overtaken the expedition.

  Inside, Hakim seethed impatiently while his recovery granted him new strength, and he dreamed about millions of the people of opposition being consumed by plague, but he betrayed none of this.

  Tehran, Iran, May

  The Doctor, with latex gloves and an air-tight mask his only protection other than a white lab coat, held the hypodermic syringe on open palms as though it were a poison-tipped dagger of old being presented to bare-armed Ali, Assassin of the Unfaithful. From the chair alongside Ali, the other supremely privileged courier of death, Muhammad, a sleeve likewise rolled up, watched raptly; as did two senior witnesses seated further away, one of whom was videoing so that the two suicide martyrs could be commemorated in years to come. This was at the prompting of Jafar, who had warned from doomed America to advance the date. Jafar should have been here as witness too! He’d very much wish to watch that hallowed video when he returned.