Assassins - Ian Watson & Andy West

by Ian Watson

  “Utterly absurd! But look, I want to forget all that. At least Paul reckons they’ve stopped bugging me or following me now. He has contacts.”

  “Bugging? How… cloak and dagger. Medieval studies is not what it was! I blame the movies.” He displayed a wide grin, then studied the menu and chose stuffed vine leaves. Abigail copied Paul’s choice from the evening before. After she’d ordered, Kamal sighed.

  “I did mention I need to travel a lot. Well, it’s happening again. I have a half-day conference in Tehran on the 21st, but stopping over in Cairo for five or six days on the way. I’d hoped to avoid this, but it seems that my presence….” He gestured dismissively. “Tedious.”

  “The terrible lot of an international scholar!” Abigail gave a mock grimace. “I’m jealous.”

  “Lot?”

  “Destiny. What fate gives you.”

  “Ah, I see. Remember that English isn’t my first language.”

  “Kamal, no one would think it isn’t.”

  “You’re too kind. Anyway Abigail, what I’m going to say might seem ‘far out’ or unsuitable, but the fact is that my home university is very generous. Oil money, you know! They pay first class air travel for attending conferences, and the accommodation allowance is more than adequate for a simple scholar. The fact is, I can change my ticket to two regular tickets without any problem. Likewise, regarding two rooms in hotels. I wondered if you might actually care to accompany me on this trip, for some intelligent conversation? Iran is perfectly safe at the moment.” He held up his hand, in case she might object prematurely. “What comes to my mind is that Alamut is very close to Tehran… An extra couple of days, and I could show it to you.”

  Abigail was flabbergasted. “I’d die to see Alamut!”

  Kamal seemed relieved; he must have been worried about the etiquette of his proposal.

  “Do I take that for a ‘yes’? We might be away for ten days. It’ll be an ideal opportunity to delve into a bit of the background history connected with Safiyya’s intriguing piece of verse.”

  To be able to see such a place with her own personal expert!

  “I do insist on paying my own plane fare and hotel. It’s more than enough that you’re willing to show me Alamut, never mind what´s n route there. My fellowship’s meant to cover some travel. You need first class to sleep comfortably and stretch out.”

  “To avoid deep vein thrombosis? Your concern is delightful, but I keep fit.”

  “It does look so.”

  “Abigail,” and his voice was stern but his eyes gleamed, “me flying first class and you in tourist defeats the purpose of intelligent conversation. So let’s compromise. I’ll arrange the flights and you pay for your own hotel rooms. Meals are negotiable.”

  “Done! Oh Kamal, this is wonderful. I feel so privileged.”

  Was he married? Did that matter? Hastily Abigail put the thought aside, as he added: “Also this will take you, and myself as well, away from brooding about the tragic matter of Walid. We’ll be back in good time for the fortieth day commemoration.”

  Abigail shivered. “It’s felt like there’s a shadow over me since he… as though the world’s fundamentally changed. I must have appreciated him much more than I realised.”

  Kamal beamed. “The bright sun of the Middle East will dispel that shadow.”

  Cronkite Graduate Center, Cambridge, Massachusetts: May

  Abigail knew it was too much to hope that she could escape to sunnier climes before ICEman Jack hassled her again. At least this time it was only a minion who invaded her office, a guy named Dan Siegel. He asked questions about her research, her sources, who had custody of the Safiyya fragment. Reluctantly, she gave Dr Friedman’s name, the chief archivist at the Harvard library – not exactly a secret, yet redirecting ICE to a colleague felt mean. She said it would take time to collate her sources – don’t make it too easy for ICE! Dan Siegel didn’t have Jack’s grit; he acquiesced.

  During the next couple of days, along with hard if frustrating work at the computer, Abigail scheduled in some sessions of trying to teach herself a bit more Arabic. If only she’d stepped up her efforts a month earlier after the ICEman first called on her! She wanted to give Kamal a surprise when they arrived in Egypt.

  ‘Uriidu ‘aSiir al-burtuqaal,’ said the CD. Dutifully though she repeated such sentences, they slipped from her memory; she wasn’t going to get orange juice that way. In fact, face it: she wasn’t going to master elementary Arabic any day soon, apart from some nouns and greetings she already knew and stuff such as an-najda an-nadja! help help!

  On the plus side, she was finding that the connected-up variable squiggles and dots of the Arabic alphabet and the horizontal vowel lines above or below and the backward e damma were less daunting than she’d supposed. She was beginning to decode even if she couldn’t understand the meaning; and this capacity did stay in her mind. Must be a matter of pattern perception. It had been easy for her to correct the proofs of The Medieval Woman. Something similar applied in the case of Arabic. Patterns made sense. If only she could plumb the pattern of Safiyya’s verse and Sinaldin and such!

  Since there were other preparations to make, Abigail’s thought drifted from Arabic patterns to Middle Eastern lands, to what suitable hot-weather clothing she might or mightn’t find in Filene’s bargain basement or on its upper floors. Maybe she’d check out Macy’s too.

  Despite a rich dad, she generally had a functional attitude to what she wore, the informal academic look. Yet she mustn’t disgrace Kamal who always dressed so smartly; nor of course must she appear provocative in Muslim countries. Ticking away in a basement of her mind was a desire to have rather less functional underwear and nightwear, not that anyone but herself would be privy to such items… Still, good for morale. Oh, and she must get a lightweight hat with a broad brim, one that wouldn’t crumple in a suitcase.

  Three days after Dan Siegel’s visit, guilt finally overcame her and she emailed a list of research sources to the address he’d given. She certainly didn’t want a sterner visit from Jack himself.

  And then another task not wholly without guilt, calling Paul to break the news that she’d be disappearing for a while. He’d been contacting her every chance he got, and they’d met for drinks a couple of times. Paul was so sweet and helpful, but maybe she’d encouraged him too much. She doubted he’d take her departure well, and indeed he seemed flummoxed.

  “It’s not the end of the world, Paul, we can email… and I’ll be seeing Assassin HQ with my own eyes!”

  “Abi, that’s completely crazy, you can’t go there! Iran, I mean.”

  “I have a Canadian passport. Don’t worry, I’ll be with Kamal. He knows the ropes.”

  “Abi, about Kamal, I…”

  “No Paul, don’t say any more. You’re such a good friend, and I don’t want us to part in anger.”

  Last time they met, Paul had started to express some concern about Kamal, even casting doubt upon his academic credentials. Men were so predictable – promise undying support, and smear any other male in range!

  “I’ll spend every spare moment on your medieval mystery, Abi, honest injun!”

  Abigail smirked, though her reply was sincere. “You’re sweet, and I’m sure that’ll be invaluable.”

  Papa had to come next.

  “Qu’est-ce-qui se passe, ma mignonne?”

  “Nothing bad, Papa,” she replied in French, “I’m sorry I haven’t phoned home as much as I should lately. Now, would you believe, I’m flying to Cairo in a few days, so I’m rushing around trying to fit everything in.”

  “Of you I believe anything, but why on earth Cairo?”

  “Well, I’m accompanying an Arab scholar who has taken my research under his wing. There are important Middle Eastern ramifications, so we’ll visit Iran after Egypt-"

  Papa´s initial reaction was similar to Paul´s, only more so. Once she had mollified him about the dangers of the Middle East, he demanded: "What kind of Arab? Daughter mine,
you’re sounding to me suspiciously like the British Princess Diana.”

  “It’s nothing like that, Papa. It’s research.”

  “What, into the Kama Sutra?” Her father could sometimes be very outspoken.

  “That’s Indian, not Arab, as you probably know full well.”

  “Indeed… that was uncalled for on my part. But really, I do wonder at your taste in men. That Terry individual, as you’ve described him…”

  “He’s gone.” Perhaps she should not have admitted this.

  “And what is the name of this Arab scholar? Omar Shariff?”

  “Papa, you´re showing your age!" Abigail lied: "And Professor Kamal is no spring chicken either. His full name’s Kamal al-Mustafa Abu al-Bashir. He’s a close colleague of Walid al-Areqi whom I was consulting about my work…” Until he was slaughtered by some hit and run merchant: best not to mention that, no point worrying Papa unnecessarily. Then again, why would that worry him?

  “Hmm,” said her father. “So when are you coming home again for a weekend? It isn’t exactly far.”

  Since arriving at Radcliffe, she’d only been back home for Christmas, and in March for her Papa’s birthday.

  “After this trip, probably,” she temporised. Five minutes later she managed to extricate herself.

  Radcliffe Institute for Advanced Studies, Cambridge, Massachusetts: May

  “Actually,” confided Kamal to Abigail while they took a break from academia to stroll amongst leafy trees in the architectural garden of Eden that was Radcliffe Yard, “I must confess when I said that my home university are lavish with first class air travel, I might have added that in any case personally I’m quite wealthy.”

  He paused, breathing deep and appreciating the sweet air, then gazing at the Ionic portico of Agassiz House. “You see, I was a businessman before I became involved in academic life… mainly importing hi-tech novelties into the richer parts of the Middle East. Back then, Islamic history and literature and poetry were just passionate hobbies, until I became wealthy enough to pursue them formally and full-time, although I do still keep an eye on the business side. If I’d said that right off, you might have thought of me as, I don’t know, some sort of intellectual playboy sheikh.”

  “I hardly think so!” protested Abigail.

  So Kamal was rich as well as cultured…

  “Since you’re now committed to coming along on this trip, Abigail, I was thinking that it isn’t too late to upgrade to first class. The big advantage is arriving less jet-lagged. Whichever carrier we use, it’s a 13 hour flight with one change. In the end I opted for Air France, changing in Paris, because London Heathrow is so crowded. Charles de Gaulle is much more civilised. And you can use your French!”

  “Isn’t there a direct flight from JFK to Cairo?”

  “We’d still need to fly from Logan to JFK to start with.”

  “That’s true. And JFK is always over-crowded.”

  “Thirteen hours, with a stretch of the legs in Charles de Gaulle. As a favour, would you permit me to upgrade? Of course, if you prefer the democracy of economy, we’ll certainly fly thus. Just, it isn’t financially necessary at all.”

  “You’re very considerate, Kamal.”

  In fact she’d never before met anyone so considerate…

  He grinned. “Oh, it’s an Arab hospitality thing! You’re visiting my part of the world as my guest. So I must slaughter the best camel for a feast, as it were. Otherwise what will my tribe think of me?”

  She had to laugh. “Kamal’s flying camel…! Oh, you’ve twisted my arm.”

  “I’m sorry… Do you mean you’re hurt by my suggestion?”

  “No, the very opposite! How can I possibly refuse?”

  Immigration and Customs Enforcement, Downtown Boston, Massachusetts: May

  Only minutes into Jack’s first day back at the office after his trip, Chronicles, aka Dan Siegel, rushed in, looking at once anxious and self-important. Jack barely held back a groan; this was going to be significant news then, but not good news.

  “Guess what? Abigail Leclaire has flown off to Cairo!”

  “Say that again.”

  Dan Siegel gave a defensive shrug. “Via the Summers tap we got warning she was going, but we had no cause to hold her. I tried to contact you, but…”

  “Next time, invent a cause,” cut in Jack. “Not gone on her own, I presume?”

  “No. The details are here.” Dan Siegel handed over a printout.

  Jack could scarcely believe what he was reading.

  “Let me get this straight. Her ticket was paid for by a Kamal et cetera et cetera, a Syrian Arab, who was seated beside her in first class… And he was admitted to the US a month ago, after a couple of previous visits for academic reasons… Dates?”

  Dan helpfully leaned over and pointed those out, further down the page.

  “Okay, both those occasions preceded our Mam’zelle becoming a fellow at Radcliffe. So it’s probable Mam’zelle never knew him until last month. Yet now they swan off together first class to the Middle East! Two academics flying first class?”

  “What about the rich daddy?”

  “She won’t have money off her papa. Far too proud. Get me a transcript of all text and voice exchanges from Summers’ phone to her numbers. Right now. Then figure out who’s in charge of the archives at the Harvard library. We need to grab the original poem Leclaire wrote about. They’ve got that booklet thing it came inside too…”

  “Chapbook, it’s called. And I already know he’s Dr Friedman.”

  “Good. I want you to impound the poem and chapbook whatever under the Patriot Act, which we surely have a right to do, so don’t take no shit from this Friedman. We can get higher tech analysis done than any library. But do take a lockable case and a sealtite baggy. This ain’t something to cram in your pocket. You’ll find the shelving numbers on the system, in the Eagle Teacher folder, look at the first footnote of her article. Now please!”

  However, Chronicles remained, gazing at another printout he had brought, from which Jack deduced there was still more news, which surely couldn’t be as bad. He raised his eyebrows and subjected Siegel to a withering glare.

  “One of Leclaire’s research sources turns out to be a cleric guy called… er… Walid al-Areqi, who just so happens to have been killed in a hit-and-run a couple of weeks back.”

  Jack would have raised his eyebrows further if they’d hadn’t already run out of room.

  “Two weeks! How come we didn’t know this sooner?”

  “Sir, you know we’re doing this in the breathers between other jobs… and the lady’s still been playing hard to get. Anyhow, three days back the BPD found the vehicle involved, burned out, but they traced it back to a hire outfit. They got a suspect photo from the hire place’s CCTV, not good quality… but something to go on.”

  “Let me guess, he isn’t just some drunk, this actually matters.”

  “Dead right. Forensics found a piece of paper tucked into the vehicle manual, which was in the glove compartment and partially survived the fire. At least seven web addresses. Two can’t be recovered, three are bus and rail timetables, one is www.cdc.gov and one…” Siegel gave a triumphant grin, “is the AAMH, the very page with Leclaire’s poetry fragment on it.”

  Jack rubbed his chin. “Useful, Chronicles, if very late. CDC, Centre for Disease Control in Atlanta. So this isn’t assassination then, it’s bio-terrorism. Yeah, useful. Forward me the photo and details. And make sure Summers doesn’t get an inkling we’re onto this angle, via Grunty or anyone else! If he knows, so will Mam’zelle Leclaire, and if she knows, her Arab fancy-man will too, and for all we know he could be Mr Eagle Teacher himself. In fact Chronicles, keep this to yourself for now, the department doesn’t need to know.”

  As Dan Siegel hurried away to execute orders, Jack murmured to his retreating back, “Mam’zelle is up to her eyeballs.”

  The Jebel Bahra, Syria: May 1161

  Hakim rejoiced in the keen air and rug
ged vistas of the Jebel Bahra, the mountains of Syria where he had lived as a child, east of the sea and west of the great Orontes River. The sky was an intense and inspiring blue this day, deeper and more vivid than even lapis lazuli or fine tiles of Persian blue, indeed befitting God’s heavenly mantle for the world.

  He paused to catch his breath, since he had climbed continuously for an hour and now the slope was becoming even steeper. Turning, he viewed the great channel of the rocky valley that ploughed its way down to distant patchwork greens. How far below were the fields! How high he was already!

  How high he had climbed in life too, Hakim contemplated, how swiftly. Only twenty-five years ago he’d watched over goats in this valley. Then, his only goal had been to read properly, to which end he’d smuggled a tattered and poorly executed copy of the Koran out in his food-satchel.

  Yet by the age of ten he was encouraged to read, on account of his talent for curing sick animals, which was sold by his father to their farming and herding neighbours. Amid the liquorice-bushes, tall spiky asphodel and cane-brakes, each medicinal herb caught his eye, and his parents hoped that an increased knowledge of potions and anatomy would also increase their income, especially when he moved on to the cure of people. People who carded cotton in their balconied houses were vexed at times by scrofula sores or colic or dropsy. Hakim used vipers drowned in vinegar to relieve dropsy, vinegar to purge the dust from carders’ throats, glasswort and ashes in olive oil and yet more vinegar to treat scrofula pustules. He was a young prodigy. People spoke of him as the new Ibn Butlan, famous even after a century for his clinic in Aleppo to the north.

  For a while things worked out just as his parents had hoped, despite he’d bartered for books and scrolls that weren’t even medical in nature, and read a lot of hocus-pocus besides. Hakim smiled while recalling his boyish deceit and this happy time, but then his pleasant memories were soured and his smile turned to a grimace. His parents were killed by Christian pillagers, probing inland from their fortresses near the coast. It was small comfort that the excellent Ismaili charitable system which took him in fostered and focussed his talents still more. He’d craved for a suitable revenge even as he studied sacred writings as well as medical texts.