Assassins - Ian Watson & Andy West

by Ian Watson

  “Quake!” yelled Kamal. “Out! Get out!”

  He grabbed her from behind and half lifted, half pushed her towards the exit.

  The guard looked worried, but grinned when he saw them emerging. No more shocks followed; the Earth had just turned in its sleep.

  “Quite common in this area,” commented Kamal. “A big one back in 2002 badly damaged Qazvin.” Fresh air and sunshine seemed to restore his mood, and he flashed a winning smile. Abigail’s racing heart had slowed. Kamal’s strength might have saved her from an untimely end in a dark hole if the cave had collapsed…

  As they headed towards the car park, Abigail said, “Why on Earth did they have a menagerie at Alamut, do you think?”

  “Perhaps that’s what really made the legend!” He laughed heartily, but said no more. Abigail grabbed his wrist with one hand and proceeded to punch his shoulder with the other. She may as well have punched an Ox.

  “Tell me, tell me! What do you mean?”

  “Maybe that is how their Assassins came and went unseen, despite locked doors. They sent trained monkeys in through the windows!”

  Abigail laughed too, and they went arm in arm back to the car.

  Gazorkhan, Elburz mountains, Iran: May

  The first place the shopkeeper in Gazorkhan recommended had no rooms left. The second was a large ramshackle house painted in a faded flaking hue that once was probably bright terracotta. The sagging slant of the roof extended over a boarded wide veranda, and was held up by sturdy grey poles that looked like old and untreated tree-limbs. White window frames, also flaking, and lace curtains behind the glass, donated a hint of Western suburbia and made Abigail feel comfortable about the place.

  Kamal negotiated with a smiling woman, whose deeply carved face seemed outsized above a body like a gangly girl’s. A dress the same colour as her house stuck out from the bottom of her burkha. Below were thick black boots.

  “She only has one room.” Kamal’s voice betrayed no hint of hope or hunger, or even humour, yet his eyes twinkled. “Is that all right?”

  Abigail flushed and many butterflies fluttered in her tummy, yet lower still something pleasant pulled inside her. She tried to keep her voice light. “It’s fine.”

  She’d already been wearing a wedding ring since Tehran. On her own, a ring deterred unwanted attention. In company with Kamal, it avoided awkward questions.

  The room was cramped, but cosy and clean and warm. The second the door was closed, there was no thought of anything else. They both knew what had to take its course, immediately, urgently. Indeed, it was overdue. The cries of children and revving of scramble-bikes, filtering in from outside, quickly receded from their attention.

  Clothes seemed to drop away of their own volition; certainly Abigail wasn’t too aware of that phase. Her mind was filled with Kamal’s princely face, the depth of his eyes, the taste of his kisses, the intensity that was locked within him. Suddenly there was the tingle of his skin up and down her, all around her. She gasped and clutched him tighter. Looking down, she saw the taught muscles of his dusky thigh pressed against her own soft whiteness. He seemed so exotic, almost alien. A moment of panic grasped her. She was still tense inside, unready. She hoped he wouldn’t rush.

  An arm grabbed her shoulders and she felt her feet swept from under her.

  “Kamal!”

  He said nothing, but placed her gently on the bed, as though she was a child. He climbed up beside her. She closed her eyes. His lips found a nipple, a surprisingly rough hand stroked her belly. The sensations were good. And she wanted this, needed this. Yet she couldn’t relax. She felt like a stick, waiting to be snapped.

  Somehow, he knew. He flipped her over, easily and gracefully. His powerful hands began to massage her. Firm fingers ploughed down her neck, then dug into the muscles of her shoulders. Abigail groaned with satisfaction, and at last she felt her body begin to unwind.

  Kamal didn’t hurry. When he parted her legs and forcefully squeezed her right thigh, desire overtook mere satisfaction; she felt ready. He followed up with the left thigh, then a gorgeous prickly feeling ran swiftly down her spine. An involuntary cry escaped her, and at the same moment she was abruptly aware of her own moistness between her legs. Kamal was using his beard to massage her!

  He rolled her back, face up again, then once more spread her thighs. He was manipulating her like a doll, but she was a willing doll, so so willing. She kept her eyes shut and revelled in the luxury of total attendance, not having to do a thing. It was so different to the scenes with Terry, his alternate hesitancy and blundering.

  “Aaahh…”

  The soft slippiness of Kamal’s tongue had found her slit, and he seemed to know exactly what to do there. Waves of wonderful sensation washed upward to almost swamp her consciousness. She gasped like a struggling swimmer, but still the surges came. She arched back and her thighs bunched but, whenever she came too near to the ultimate intensity, Kamal slackened off, only to follow up with more waves a minute or so later. Stars and colours danced in front of her closed eyes; she sensed her skin going slick with sweat. Kamal was drowning her in delight!

  Then, as his tongue continued to work, she felt his finger slip inside her too. In just seconds, he found a place she was not too expert with herself. But Kamal clearly was. An explosion of ecstasy ripped through her. She cried out as her thighs jerked right up into the air, temporarily disconnecting Kamal. Aftershocks rippled up her, causing her to moan even though she tried to speak instead, tried to ask for a rest.

  But Kamal had no mercy. A strong arm anchored her waist, preventing her lower body from moving at all. Then the beautiful waves started again, and then…

  She screamed long and hard at the top of her voice as another explosion hit her. Never had she done such a thing before. She fought against the pleasure, it was too much for her! She thrashed her arms, but to no avail. More came. It was as though Kamal had connected a pressure hose of pleasure right into her, and refused to turn it off. Agonising orgasms poured into her. And yet somehow, in all this, he kept her just below a final climax that would set her free, that would desensitise her even beyond his skill.

  Eventually, he pulled back. Abigail opened her eyes. A mischievous grin split Kamal’s features. She weakly raised herself. She was drenched, her thighs still trembling. She gasped and attempted to clear her dry throat. This pause was a blessed ease, but she wasn’t done; amazingly, her body still craved climax, and the sight of his dark member sent a shock of anticipation through her.

  Once more Kamal manipulated her. She felt like a rag doll now, unresisting, indeed she didn’t want to resist. He flipped her face down again, then yanked her waist upwards and got her knees under her. She arched her back. Her head was buried against a pillow. He entered from behind, firmly, in a single movement. But she was far more than ready now. The relief of something for her muscles to grip on at last, was ecstasy in itself. A deep grunt of satisfaction was pushed out of her.

  He didn’t try to hold back. He used powerful thrusts, butting hard into her yielding flesh at the end of each. Yet his right arm reached around and a knowing finger gently rubbed her too. Abigail had never felt so feminine, so animal, so opened, so beautifully used. She squealed as her dam of passion rose, yet uttered a loud, low wail when the dam burst and her climax came, surprising herself with her own strange voice that seemed to swell right up from the depths of her gut.

  Kamal had timed himself to her moment, and she seemed to feel as much as hear his triumphant grunts when his last spasms strained against her soft insides.

  She collapsed. Kamal got some covers over them, then kissed her. His taste pleasantly reminded her of where he’d recently been. She cuddled up to him, embedding her hand in the mat of hairs on his chest.

  “Oh Kamal, I didn’t think it would be like that. I didn’t know it could be like that!”

  Kamal chuckled softly. “And you a French woman, or nearly.”

  That reminded her of Walid, but nicely. Beautif
ul sleep drifted over her drained and tingling body.

  Gazorkhan, Elburz mountains, Iran: May

  Breakfast was provided by the thin woman, who glared disapprovingly at Abigail.

  “Probably your screams yesterday evening,” whispered Kamal mischievously. Abigail’s cheeks burned.

  After they’d eaten, Kamal suggested that she explore the village for an hour while he made some business calls. The sun-gilded streets of Gazorkhan welcomed Abigail. With her heart leaping, a secret warmth inside, a slight and gorgeously-earned soreness between her legs, the world seemed full of light and love. She finished tying her headscarf and ran for a little way, for the sheer joy of it, ending by prancing breathlessly down the street like a pony, an action that incredibly her muscles still seemed to remember from childhood.

  After wandering for a bit, she spotted a sign saying INTERNET over a small store, and ducked inside.

  Two screens were tucked away at the back, and the place sold hot chocolate too. She availed herself of web access and the wonderful liquid.

  Paul’s inevitable message told how he was reading up on Ismaili history – he’d got two books and ordered a third from Amazon. True dedication, the better to serve her! She sent a swift reply, but kept it business-like. He was so sweet, so helpful, but she had to take care not to encourage him in the wrong way, especially now that love had wrapped her in its beautiful blanket! To Jen she sent a whole page of almost poetic text, spilling out her feelings and her love for Kamal, some of her worries too. Experience suggested that love was never straightforward, but then she’d never met such a sophisticated and magnificent man as Kamal.

  She got a little lost on the way back, and ended up approaching the faded terracotta house of ecstasy (for as such she would now always think of it) from a tiny side-street. She spotted two men peering into the car Kamal had hired, and instinctively hung back. Were they trying to steal it? Both snoopers wore a black T-shirt and black jeans; both looked athletic.

  A photo, take a photo, in case they were intent on mischief…

  This quickly done, Abigail took a deep breath and clenched her fists. She was just about to run at them, yelling and waving her arms, when the men moved off. They paused at a silver Mercedes a few cars back, from which one of them extracted a jacket, then they disappeared around a corner. How odd! Take a photo of the Mercedes too… Kamal could read the licence plate, if that mattered.

  Abigail darted forward and, keeping half a cautious eye on the corner, she peered into their car. Empty cans of soft drinks. Pamphlets in Arabic and English, one titled ‘ional Water Projects’; perhaps national or international. A holder for some kind of computing device or electronic navigator. Then, in the rear foot-well below her, she saw binoculars, and remembered the birdwatchers at Evan. Possible birdwatchers. Might easily be these same men. Puzzled and suspicious, Abigail hurried back to tell Kamal.

  The moment she walked in, Kamal grabbed her and kissed her, sending thrilling shocks chasing around her body and delaying delivery of her story somewhat.

  “What did they look like?” he asked rather sharply as soon as he heard.

  “Not obviously foreign, I mean not foreign to Iran that is. Black jeans and T-shirts. See for yourself! I took photos of them and their car just in case.”

  “Clever girl!” Taking the camera, he pressed and stared at the latest image then at the preceding one, zooming it. After a few moments study, though their window faced the rear, Kamal nonetheless peered through the lace.

  “They had binoculars in the back of the Mercedes. I think I saw the same men at lake Evan, down near the water when we arrived.”

  “Very clever girl!”

  That did grate somewhat with Abigail, even though she used girl on herself. Kamal must have seen upset marring her face. He came over to hold her and his voice softened.

  “It isn’t unusual for the government to keep an eye on foreign academics here. Especially if their studies involve religious or historical or political positions disagreeable to the party line.”

  He frowned. His dark eyes seemed to search far away.

  “But government minions aren’t usually like that. T-shirts. Both leaving the stake-out together, if it is a stakeout. Very unprofessional. I thought a silver Mercedes was trailing us from Alamut, but I wasn’t sure.”

  Abigail was a little shaken. “They won’t kidnap us, will they?”

  Kamal laughed, and Abigail was immediately comforted.

  “I hope not! Odd place to pick up on us though, Evan. Unless…” He shrugged. “There are lots of factions here. It could be anyone! My business activities have sailed close to the wind from time to time.” He grinned a wicked grin. “Or maybe someone’s keeping an eye on you. A Western academic who promotes the position of women in Arabic poetry. Not approved of here, I shouldn’t think.”

  “Oh my God!” Maybe she was risking arrest just by being here.

  “Don’t worry,” whispered Kamal huskily. “I’ll protect you.” He hugged her tightly.

  As they left their room, Abigail paused in the doorway for a final check that they hadn’t left anything. The place seemed so cosy, so safe. It would stay in her memory forever, the place where she and Kamal first made love. Then it occurred to her to help memory. She pulled out her camera and took a shot.

  Alamut valley, Elburz mountains, Persia: August 1164

  The dozen escorts on their long-necked chestnut chargers looked splendid in white garments and golden girdles, sheathed swords at their waists, wooden hilts tightly covered in leather, double-edged daggers in their boots, and a sheaf of reed-hafted spears each, streamers fluttering. Nasir al-Aziz and his three companions were more travel-stained, having come all the way from al-Kahf, Rashid al-Din Sinan’s principal castle in Syria, though they rode Khafaja thoroughbreds too.

  The further they rode along the valley, the more Nasir marvelled at the many defences both man-made and natural that protected the heart of the Nizari faith. Castles and smaller forts looked down from jagged crags, as did skilfully placed watch-towers. Impregnable peaks arose behind, and behind again, some touched with snow, although here in the valley the heat was intense. Hidden gorges, from which ambush might spring, divided the stony plateaux over which eagles circled. Fortresses looked unassailable, so steep and scree-covered were the slopes. It would require a host of demons, not mere human soldiers, ever to invade this territory! Ever!

  “Look, grapevines!” Umar called to Nasir, pointing.

  A wealth of living emeralds against the prevailing red-brown rock, along with walnut and poplar trees. Although the horses’ hooves stirred pebbles and dry sand, an icy grey-green river flowed through the desolation, so that pockets of bounty blossomed. Already they’d passed irrigated fields of young green rice, fields of melons, of onions, and nearer to villages knots of goats and sheep grazing under the eye of watchful boys as guardians.

  “Allah be praised for the gift of water!” Nasir shouted in return. “Otherwise the world would be hell.” Truly the heat of the day was stunning.

  Despite a landscape mostly barren, the villages of the valley obviously supported themselves, and one another, and even the hundreds, no, thousands of warriors commanded by the Master of Alamut, Hasan Ali, now two years in office, just as with Sinan in Syria. What mysterious event was Hasan Ali planning in the midst of the month of Ramadan, that summoned Nasir to Alamut to represent his master Sinan and the Syrian Nizaris?

  “Soon now,” Hussain, leader of the escort, told Nasir as their horses paced together, “you’ll see the castle of Alamut, from the walls of which privileged Fida’een leapt to their deaths when the first Hasan so commanded, to amaze visiting emissaries.”

  Indeed! The ultimate warning. The senders of those emissaries would forever live in dread of Hasan as-Sabah’s assassins going forth against them in disguise with poisoned knives, if they challenged the will of Alamut’s Master, knowing absolutely that those killers had no fear of their own death and would stop at nothing. By
sheer willpower the first Hasan had inspired such total dedication, and single-handedly had raised the Nizaris to power.

  “Hasan as-Sabah’s death was awesome too,” replied Nasir.

  “What do people tell of it in Syria, now that fifty years has passed?”

  “That Hasan announced he would soon leave this life. Consequently he wished to spend three days undisturbed in solitary meditation. Only at the end of three days might anyone enter his private chamber. However, those who entered found no human being there, but only a glossy-coated raven! The bird cried out and flew away, transporting Hasan as-Sabah’s soul to heaven within its body.”

  “That isn’t the whole of it,” whispered Hussain. “The raven was already within the chamber, and so too was a bath full of oil of vitriol secretly prepared by Hasan. When left alone, Hasan uncaged the raven and then – oh such willpower! – he submerged himself in the atrocious bath, bearing the agony until it surpassed his mind and consciousness fled. Over the course of three days the vitriol dissolved not only his flesh but his bones, so that Hasan seemed to have vanished miraculously from existence. Rather as the Hidden Imam disappeared, continuing in supernatural existence invisible to mankind, until the day when he will reveal himself as Lord of the Age and Ruler of the Universe!”

  Nasir slapped his thigh in amazement. How could the second Hasan, grandson of Kiya Buzurgumid, successor to the great founder, match such an achievement? And yet the message summoning the Syrians had implied something overwhelming.

  “The bath was drained away, so that the mystery would remain.” Hussain spurred his horse on to the front of their short column and shouted at his men to tighten formation.

  At long last, as the sun was setting to end the day and prefigure a new one, here was the qa’lat al-Alamut, sprawled upon a great, soaring grey rock that reminded Nasir in shape of a kneeling camel with its neck thrust forward. Alamut’s uncompromising presence dominated. A half-circle of huge peaks formed an impregnable wall of giants to guard its rear. To the front were such steep drops, such absence of cover for any besieger! Tall turrets were faced with hard stone; the curtain-walls were massive.