Assassins - Ian Watson & Andy West

by Ian Watson

  By the time bright stars gleamed in the vault of heaven, the new arrivals were safely inside the castle. A senior da’i, a Summoner to Wisdom, brought them to a large and well-lit chamber. Vivid rugs covered the floor, low tables were laden with turquoise lustreware. The fine plates and dishes were loaded with cooked lamb and saffron rice, barley and millet bread, apricots and grapes. And there was cool water, so sweet, so inviting. The Syrians had of course been sanctioned to eat and drink during their day of strenuous travel, but they’d refrained apart from a minimum of tepid water gulped from flasks.

  Many Nizari leaders were present in the room. From Iraq, From Khurasan. From the nearer Caspian regions. Only the Master of Alamut himself appeared to be absent, keeping secluded high in his tower. After exchanges of courtesies, hunger and thirst had to be blunted. Soon the eating became more leisurely, and between mouthfuls news was traded. From Nasir and Umar, news of the Frankish knights of Christendom, and a flux of alliances and intrigues.

  “Death to the heretic sultans and their viziers!” exclaimed a leader from Iraq. “For those are the enemies of true faith. These Frankish upstarts are but a devilish trick if they distract us.”

  “That,” agreed Nasir, “is why we treat with the Grand Master of those Knights of the Temple, so their hostility aims elsewhere and does not divert us from our true task.”

  “Why not simply send a specialist to eliminate this leader of temple men?” asked a da’i from Khurasan, who evidently failed to understand the situation in the west.

  “Because,” said Nasir, “the Knights of the Temple are not as other groups of men, where to cut off the head causes confusion and disarray. Another Grand Master of equal calibre would immediately be appointed. We would gain nothing, and we might lose much.”

  He paused significantly. “Never forget the principle of taqiyyah, dissimulation. Sinan is speculating that we can achieve a powerful alliance with the Knights of the Temple, the Knights of the Hospital too, if we put on the cloak of Christianity.”

  There was momentary uproar, but Nasir raised his hand.

  “I said the cloak. The concealment! Did not the Prophet hail Isa ibn Maryam, Jesus son of Mary, as a Spirit from God, as the Word of God, who will return at the end of time? Beneath this cloak, consisting of but a few rituals and observances regarding the holy Isa ibn Maryam, we would of course retain our true faith. Yet, by this ruse, the Christian knights would always fight with us against the Sunni enemy!”

  “Observances?” came a sceptical voice.

  “Such as pretending to accept the delusion that Jesus rose from the dead, and is himself divine, God in a man’s body. Historical errors and failures of understanding cause this delusion, yet the Prophet condones Christian observances, those of the Jews too, since their misunderstandings nevertheless embrace authentic revelations.”

  Servants brought coffee, which sustains the mind.

  All present knew that dissimulation was permitted if professing one’s faith could lead to persecution or harm. Inevitably, Nizaris in areas controlled by Sunnis must dissimulate, just as an assassin would dissimulate, occasionally perhaps for years, so as to place himself close to his target, supposing that the target protected himself as carefully as could be. But to use such a huge dissimulation in order to produce a hypothetical military advantage? Debate about this idea of Sinan’s continued for some while, stimulated by the qahveh beverage which excited the heart and the brain and the mouth.

  “Whence this wonderful drink?” asked a man from a remote northern region.

  At which, most people laughed.

  “It is the same,” said the Summoner to Wisdom, “as the medicine and the meditation wine made from the bright red cherries of a bush cultivated in Yemen, though originally from Ethiopia. Except that the berries are dried and then roasted. Everything valuable and useful comes to Alamut, including persons of great scientific calibre…”

  It seemed to Nasir that the Summoner, inspired by the beverage, was tempted to add something more, but the da’i restrained himself.

  Gazorkhan to Bandar-e-Anzali, Iran: May

  Kamal had a business meeting in Rasht, after which he’d promised Abigail a Caspian Sea sunset. They descended from the heights back past Qazvin, thence to Mulla Ali, Rūdbar, and so to Rasht. The traffic’s light flow followed the ancient course of rivers that had carved their way through to the land-locked sea. Green and gold rolled by for hours while the blue-dark mountains marched constantly alongside.

  Yet the grand vistas were spoiled for Abigail, as she constantly checked the side mirror for glimpses of the silver Mercedes. Often it seemed to have fallen away behind; always it reappeared. Kamal seemed calmly unconcerned. He put on some music and finally Abigail dozed.

  Their silver tail clung to them right through the busy streets of Rasht and beyond, where the town straggled northwards up to its airport.

  “Determined,” commented Kamal.

  “Very!” But Abigail’s grin masked worry.

  Kamal turned into an area of light industry on the side of the highway opposite to Rasht’s modest airport. He pulled up beside a long grey building, devoid of windows but brightened by two metal doors painted orange.

  “It’s usefully close to the airport. I’ll be inside about an hour.”

  “Oh, okay.” She tried to display a relaxed smile, but couldn’t help glancing behind where the Mercedes had parked in plain sight.

  Kamal patted her arm. “Don’t worry. If they’d wanted to trouble us, they would have by now. But give a blast on the horn if they approach, or anything else happens.”

  With that, he exited the car and pushed a button by one of the orange doors, to be promptly admitted.

  The moment Kamal had disappeared, panic started to creep over Abigail. She adjusted the driver’s mirror and glared at the threat reflected in its small frame. Why am I never free of interference? Her throat became dry and her neck prickled. Get a grip, girl. After several minutes, in which absolutely nothing happened, she calmed down and tore her gaze from the mirror. To keep herself busy, she fished Professor Ruffie’s book out from her bag on the back seat and flicked through for more references to the Nizaris.

  Deprived of their castles by the irresistible Mongol invasion, the Nizaris slowly diminished in Persia. They sent missionaries to safer areas in the distant south-east, within modern India, growing a sizeable community there over the centuries that now is led by his Highness the Aga Khan. In a faraway land, those sky-wrapped homes in the beautiful Elburz, so close to God, remained only as a cultural memory….

  The professor then went on to describe in considerable detail the state of each site where a Nizari fortress had stood; Abigail skipped to the end of the section.

  The Mongols are universally viewed as a nemesis for true Nizaris, yet the poem ‘The Triumph’ implies that the Nizaris achieved some great revenge or damage upon the Mongols. Known only through the late fifteenth century comments of ‘Abd Allah Ansar, but probably penned well over a century earlier, ‘The Triumph’ may simply be exulting that the Mongols had converted en masse to Sunni Islam, after which they proved no more capable of truly erasing Ismaili heresy than generations of other Sunnis before them.

  Annoyingly, no lines of ‘The Triumph’ were quoted. Nor did the professor’s book include any bibliography or index. Abigail clucked her tongue. Unprofessional! She chewed her lip thoughtfully while gazing at the mirror again.

  She’d insisted to Jack that the Nizaris had died out, bequeathing nothing to the Aga Khan’s benign community of modern Ismailis. Yet what if there was some more direct survival? Some secret thread in the tapestry of Ismaili history that led right back to the old elite of Alamut, to a power that had prompted the name Al Maut, the Death.

  To her great relief Kamal emerged, and they were soon back on the main highway, headed for the nearby port and tourist town of Bandar-e-Anzali. They took a small hotel within sight of the Caspian, then wandered hand in hand along the beach to appreciate the pr
omised sunset. Not a breath of wind touched their faces; the water barely murmured. The western sky was candy pink, striped with dark-gold syrup, laid upon a blue velvet cocktail. They kissed as all was ignited to molten orange, which spilled across the stilled sea and threatened to put the entire world to fire.

  After which, Kamal effortlessly produced a yet more romantic setting, treating her to dinner in a converted Caravanserai. Brick arches stretched from warm spheres of candlelight to subtle shadows, fountains teased the eyes and comforted the soul, waiters in felt slippers moved noiselessly on the tiled floor.

  Kamal’s exchange with the waiter sounded different from the speech of Qazvin or Tehran.

  “Were you talking Farsi there?”

  “It’s Giliki, the language of about three million people between the mountains and the sea.”

  “So of course you can speak that too!”

  Kamal smiled. “I can get by. This place has often been invaded,” he went on swiftly. “Sometimes by more than one army at a time. The British Empire fought the Bolsheviks here between 1918 and 1920.”

  After the meal, the evening air outside had lost much of its earlier warmth. Abigail went up to their room while Kamal chatted to a group of youths on the street. She thought it cool that a man of his age and stature could still hang out with young people, and used the time to prepare herself and the atmosphere. Fortunately, she had some baby-oil.

  Soon after Kamal joined her, Abigail returned his gift of ecstasy given at Gazorkhan. She slowly massaged his whole body, kneading the firm muscle as hard as she could, then ending much more gently with his member. She didn’t use oil for his eager manhood, instead providing lubrication with her tongue and finally taking his smooth glans into her mouth. Kamal was curiously silent throughout, but she was fully aware of his building tension and his petit-spasms of pleasure that made her feel surprisingly powerful, made her feel that at last she had a way to control this potent man, if only for a little while.

  At last he murmured as his muscles tensed and she felt his moment coming. But she immediately pulled her mouth away and pressed her thumb firmly against his swollen helmet, forcing it back a little. She’d learned this trick to stop Terry’s premature ejaculation, and sure enough Kamal slowly subsided too. She cupped and softly caressed his balls while his muscles relaxed, keeping a different kind of pleasant sensation going. Then once more she took him up, yet again denied him release, and then a third time she did the same. He moaned now and writhed as she stroked him.

  The fourth time, she freed him. As his dark, straining member started its contractions, she didn’t want to risk any disturbance by pulling her mouth away again. She stayed put and let the pressured liquid of his love flood over her tongue, something she’d never done before, nor even contemplated doing! The warmth and salty taste surprised her, triggering a shiver of kinky excitement, but she discreetly used a tissue moments later; she certainly wasn’t up to swallowing, or at least not yet.

  For once Kamal was speechless, his wit and sophistication temporarily overwhelmed. However, he had enough energy left to ensure Abigail didn’t have to sleep unsatisfied.

  Bandar-e-Anzali to Rasht, Iran: May

  The next morning was one of the most unreal in Abigail’s life. It started sanely enough, and pleasantly, with a leisurely breakfast after making love again. Later, Kamal started the car and edged into the busy main road outside the hotel; Abigail turned around to see whether their silver shadow was still in place. Indeed the Mercedes pulled out too, yet a leather-jacketed young man on a moped seemed to appear right out of nowhere and ran straight into the vehicle’s protruding wing. Abigail gasped as man and moped hit the road surface.

  “Kamal! Someone…”

  “Yes. I saw in the mirror.”

  “We can get away!”

  Instead of doing so, Kamal calmly drove around the block and came up to the Mercedes from behind. A large group of youths had gathered around the silver car, all remonstrating angrily with the unfortunate driver. Some were shaking their fists while others aggressively slapped the bodywork. A couple more were helping the guy on the ground.

  Kamal smirked and accelerated away, as realisation dawned on Abigail.

  “This is your doing! But if they’re government, things could get nasty. They might stop us leaving Iran!”

  “I doubt those men are government minions.” A look of contempt flickered briefly over Kamal’s features. “Whoever they belong to, they couldn’t keep me in this country.” He flashed her a rakish grin. “Don’t worry Abigail, you’re safe with me.”

  Even deep inside, Abigail felt certain this was true. Yet something still bothered her, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. Eventually, another thought took over.

  “Will the young man be okay, the moped guy?”

  “Ha, of course! It’s an old trick. Apply brakes at the last second, then kick out at the car to make it sound like a bad impact. You do need to hit the deck, but with barely any velocity.”

  Kamal was driving leisurely, as if deliberately frittering away his advantage. Abigail itched to ask, but she knew there’d be a clever reason. Sure enough, the Mercedes soon caught them up again, crazily overtaking the traffic behind.

  “So much for your gang of youths?”

  Kamal merely smiled. After only a few minutes, their tail began to fall behind again. Vehicles began to pass the lagging Mercedes. As Abigail peered over her shoulder through the rear window, distantly she saw the silver car pulling off the road.

  “Why on Earth would they give up?”

  “In the confusion, my little gang levered the petrol cap and put sugar in their tank,” commented Kamal casually. “That car will need some very serious repairs.”

  Abigail was dumbfounded. Life with Kamal was going to be anything but mundane.

  She’d assumed that their only option was the long road back to Tehran and a flight out from the International Airport there. Yet Kamal soon surprised her by turning off the main road. She recognised the area, just north of Rasht close to the industrial district they’d visited the day before. This time Kamal exited the highway on the opposite side to that grey building; moments later they were entering Rasht airport.

  “Oh, we´re going to fly to Tehran and leave the car here!"

  “All is arranged.” Just the hint of a smile played at the edges of his mouth. Abigail glared back in mock anger and poked him in the ribs.

  They relinquished their car at a tiny auto-rental booth, then Kamal made a quick call on his mobile before urging her towards the main airport building, their luggage in tow.

  “Hey, slow down!” as Abigail’s wheelie-case slewed. Kamal grinned back over his shoulder, but didn’t slacken the pace.

  The terminal was almost empty as they rushed through. A screen advertised scheduled departures in Farsi and English; just two, Bandar Abbas and Tehran.

  “Hang on, that departure time can’t be right! Hey let me read…”

  Kamal strode purposefully on, Abigail trotting to keep up. He approached a man in uniform, who nodded, then opened a side door and waved them through. A dim corridor, doors to one side, daylight at the other end.

  “Kamal! Where the hell are we going?”

  “Ah my dearest, you will soon see.”

  And she did. They burst out into sunlight, and on to tarmac.

  “What are you doing? We’re on the airfield!”

  “Ah, so we are.”

  “But…” Abigail realised she didn’t know what to say.

  Then they were standing beside an aircraft with a propeller, just one propeller. A young guy in blue overalls grinned hugely at her, she instinctively smiled back, then he grabbed her wheelie-case and Kamal’s piece of luggage to put onboard.

  “He’s our pilot?”

  “Climb up, Abigail. Climb aboard.”

  She did. The pilot and co-pilot seats were covered in sheepskin. She turned to the rear and took a step in. Six more seats in grey leather, smart carpeting in da
rker grey, wooden panelling in the roof. She hesitated as a huge roar announced the engine starting, and turned back. Her jaw dropped. Kamal was in the pilot’s seat! The young guy was still on the tarmac, his grin even wider. He closed the door.

  Kamal patted the co-pilot’s seat. “Get buckled up.”

  She hurried to comply. “Can you actually fly this thing?”

  The plane lurched forward. “Hopefully. It seems to be a Socata TBM700B.”

  “You devil! You never said you could fly.”

  “I wanted to see the surprise on your face. It was quite a picture just now!” He pointed to a mirror that reflected the plane’s interior. “The property of a friend, this plane.”

  Kamal lined up to the runway and chatted incomprehensibly to the control tower.

  “Is that why you rushed me? Did you think I wouldn’t get on?”

  “Something like that. In our culture, a man takes charge. I wouldn’t dream of imposing that on you ordinarily…” as the engine noise suddenly increased and the plane rushed forward, “but I thought a small demonstration might be fun!” He turned and displayed a beautiful smile, which made her heart sing. Everything shook; the din beat against her ears.

  “Well I’m not complaining. It’s fun!”

  What a way to be swept off her feet! The plane leapt into the air, rocking from side to side and leaving Abigail’s stomach behind. They banked steeply as Kamal got his bearings, circling back over the runway and nearby highway. Looking out of her side window, Abigail had the unnerving impression that the window faced directly downwards. Everything on the ground was a model from a child’s play-set, small and yet perfectly detailed. They were not yet high.

  Then Abigail saw a lone figure dressed in black, just outside the airport’s perimeter fence. He was pointing something at them. A rifle!