Vicious Circle

by Wilbur Smith

  The M110 SASS, including its miraculously accurate optics, weighed only twenty-five pounds. Once it was broken down into its component parts it could be concealed effectively and carried by two men. Directly across the road from the mosque in Mecca where Aazim Muktar preached was a small public park, about two or three acres in extent. Tariq had reconnoitred an ideal stand in these gardens that overlooked the route the mullah took daily to walk from his home to the mosque and back. Tariq had paced out the range at 210 metres. Even on a moving target, that was a certain head-shot kill for Hector.

  Of course, the most difficult part would be to smuggle the SASS into Mecca. Tariq had cultivated a contact in a transport company that, during the season of pilgrimage, carried thousands of tons of cargo every day from Jeddah airport into the city of Mecca. This was mostly in the form of perishable food items. However, Tariq was confident that he could get the sniper rifle through, once it was broken down into its separate parts. It could be labelled as spare parts for heavier machinery such as air conditioning or elevator units. Dave Imbiss was working closely with him on the project. He also had numerous contacts in Saudi Arabia who could be bribed or cajoled into assisting them. All this was merely long-range planning. There was plenty of time to work out a foolproof scheme. The final plan would only emerge after Hector had made the kill decision.

  The last thirty days before they set out on the journey to Mecca were spent in the final toughening-up process that Hector had imposed upon himself and Tariq. Dave Imbiss sent one of his karate trainers out to the base. This creature was more machine than human. He took Hector to his limits and then pushed him even further, showing scant concern for either his rank or his status, nor for the fact that Hector was almost twice his age. In the end Hector earned his respect the hard way, teaching the young wolf to walk wide and wary of the leader of the pack.

  Each evening, Hector had the helicopter fly the three of them out into the desert, in full battle gear. They parachuted to ground from low altitude and then ran twenty miles back to the base, still in full gear and lugging their parachutes.

  In the beginning of the training it was harder for Hector than the two younger men. However, as he returned rapidly to his top form he began to revel in the brutal physical routine. He slept deeply and dreamlessly. The dreadful aching void left by Hazel began to close. At last he could remember her with joy rather than hopeless despair. He knew that he was going to avenge her death, and that maybe she would be able to rest more peaceably once he had accomplished that.

  As his body regained its strength so too did his relationship with Tariq strengthen. The two of them were drawn as close as they had been many years ago. They had shared so much and together they had endured so much. They had stood shoulder to shoulder on the battlefield. Each of them had lost a beloved wife to the insensate cruelty of the Beast. Tariq’s wife Daliyah had been burned to death with her infant son in the ashes of their home. Shared tragedy was a strong bond between them.

  Hector found that he was able to speak to Tariq about Hazel’s death as he could to nobody else, not even Paddy or Nastiya. Hazel had been with them on the expedition into Puntland to rescue her daughter Cayla from the fortress of Khan Tippoo Tip. Tariq had witnessed her courage and her physical stamina that matched that of even the toughest Cross Bow men. Tariq had developed a deep respect and admiration for Hazel. He wanted to know every detail of the ambush that the Beast had set for her. He listened intently while Hector explained how the attack had been carried out. At the end of Hector’s description Tariq inclined his head gravely and was silent for a while, gazing out across the desert from the top of the dune on which they were resting. Then he coughed, hawked and spat a yellow globule of phlegm. It hit the sand and rolled down the dune like a tiny ball of sand. They watched its progress in silence until it reached the foot of the dune, and then Tariq asked, ‘So, how did they know you were coming?’

  The question took Hector by surprise. ‘The two swine on the motorcycle must have followed us when we left Harley Street. They probably called ahead to the masked truck driver,’ he explained.

  ‘Yes, I understand that; but how did the bikers know that you and Hazel would be with her doctor that morning? Who else knew that she had an appointment with him?’

  Hector stared at him for a few seconds and then he swore softly.

  ‘Shit! You’re right. Nobody knew; except Hazel, her secretary and me.’

  ‘Can you trust the secretary?’

  ‘She has worked for Hazel for years. It couldn’t have been her. I would take strychnine on that!’

  ‘Somebody knew,’ Tariq said firmly. ‘It’s the only explanation for what happened.’

  ‘I haven’t been thinking straight.’ Hector’s face was grim. ‘Of course you are right. Somebody must have known. I should have jumped on that right away. Am I getting old, my friend?’

  ‘Not you, Hector. You had just been hit really hard by losing Hazel. When they killed my Daliyah and our baby I went mad as a rabid dog for almost a year. So I understand what happened to you. I have been there before you.’

  ‘When I get back to London, somebody is going to die the hard way,’ Hector said softly.

  ‘But before that, you and I have to go to Mecca to follow the blood trail that leads us there.’ He laid his hand on Hector’s arm. ‘One thing at a time. But in the end you will find the one who did this terrible thing to you. I know this in my heart. I would like to be with you when you find him.’

  They sat in silence for a while and Hector thought about the bond between them that had grown strong as spun silk over the years, and he was reminded that the platonic love of one man for another is truly one of life’s nobler experiences.

  Here is another person I can trust with my very life, he thought with utter certainty, and it helped him to endure.

  *

  Six days later when Hector and Tariq boarded the crowded flight from Dubai to Jeddah they were both in top physical condition and Hector’s skin was sun darkened and his beard black and curling. They were travelling light, carrying neither weapons nor any electronic gizmos, not even mobile phones. All they had with them were their return air tickets, their passports and a handful of crumpled and grubby banknotes in the money belt that each of them had strapped around his waist under the robes. Their basic toiletries and clothing were wrapped in small cloth bundles.

  The aircraft was a pilgrim special: an ancient prop-engined Fokker operating out of a secondary domestic airport. The air conditioning was parlous and the odour of unwashed bodies in the cabin was eye-watering. The seats were narrow and unpadded. The legroom was so limited that Hector’s knees were forced up under his chin. The child in the row in front of him urinated on the floor during takeoff and the stream ran back under Hector’s feet. The flight lasted three hours that seemed like thirty.

  After they had passed through immigration and airport formalities in Jeddah they waited for seven hours before they could find standing room on a public bus up to Mecca. The bus broke down twice before it reached the Sacred City well after midnight. The hotel that Tariq had arranged for them was far from the painted marble splendours in the central areas of the city. It was hidden away in a muddle of narrow twisting streets. They shared a common dormitory with twelve other pilgrims. Not even the sounds of snoring and farting could keep Hector awake for very long. The room was astir before sunrise.

  Hector took his turn at the single squat-pan toilet, and afterwards washed himself with scoops of cold water in a tin dish that was chained to the base of the only tap. As soon as they had donned fresh robes they went down into the noisome and narrow street, carrying the meagre bundles of their possessions.

  They ate a breakfast of heavily spiced flatbread at one of the roadside stalls, and then they trudged into the centre of the city.

  The Saudi royal family ploughs billions of oil dollars into the glorification of this most holy place in Islam. In the middle of it stands a mighty agglomeration of marble and gold-le
af clad spires, domes, minarets, buildings and squares. All this surrounds the most venerated mosque in Islam, the Masjid al-Haram and the Kaaba shrine, which were first erected fourteen hundred years ago by the very hand of the Prophet. Every true Muslim faces towards these monuments when he prays five times a day.

  However, there are hundreds of less revered mosques in Mecca alone, many of them dating back to pagan times. It was in one of these lesser mosques that Aazim Muktar preached. This was the Masjid Ibn Baaz, lying on the western edge of the Azeeziyyah district. It looked very modern from the outside, though Tariq assured Hector that it was over a thousand years old and was widely venerated for the number of famously holy men who had prayed and preached within its precincts.

  They entered the public park across the street from the mosque. It was a few acres of bare and sun-parched ground, but already many hundreds of pilgrims had gathered here waiting to visit the mosque on the far side of the road to attend dhuhr, the noon prayers.

  Tariq led Hector to the slightly elevated knoll in the centre of the park on which grew a thicket of thorny desert euphorbia. They squatted close together on the brown grass among the clusters of waiting worshippers. The two of them shared a parcel of hummus and falafel wrapped in a round of unleavened bread. Then they drank from the same litre bottle of cold milky tea that Tariq had bought at a roadside stall. Tariq carefully wiped the neck of the bottle on the hem of his robe before passing it to Hector.

  While they ate, Tariq pointed out the killing ground that stretched out ahead of them and Hector assessed it with a marksman’s eye.

  ‘I thought that you and I could take our stance amongst those bushes,’ said Tariq. He turned his head and with his chin indicated the euphorbia plants. ‘They are thick enough to conceal both of us and the weapon. In the early morning very few people come into these gardens. At about six a.m. Aazim Muktar leaves his home in its compound four hundred metres up the road.’ He pointed out the flat-roofed building to Hector. ‘He walks down the far side of the road with many of his disciples surrounding him.’

  ‘Will I be able to pick him out from amongst his followers? I certainly don’t want to waste the first steady shot on the wrong man.’

  ‘You will see him today. Once you have seen him you will never forget him. He stands out in any crowd,’ Tariq assured him.

  ‘It will be a moving target,’ Hector mused, but Tariq did not agree.

  ‘If you are patient, that need not be so. There are always petitioners waiting for him along the road there. They prostrate themselves in his path and beg for his blessing, others hold out their sick children for him to touch and cure. He turns none of them away, but stops for all of them. It will be a stationary target, impossible for a man like you to miss.’ Tariq looked back over his shoulder. ‘When Aazim Muktar goes down, there will be great confusion and pandemonium; you need only leave the rifle and walk away through the rear gate of the garden. There is a bus stop outside the gate, and always many tuk-tuks in the street waiting for fares. One of these will take you away from here very quickly.’

  ‘I can see that. The report of the shot should echo off those high buildings on the far side of the street. Nobody will be able to tell for certain the direction it came from. That will win me a good start for a clean getaway.’

  ‘Let us deal with one thing at a time. All this will only happen once you have seen and listened to Aazim Muktar today, and if you decide that he is the Beast that gave the order to kill Hazel.’ Tariq spoke very softly, for there were many strangers squatting within easy earshot of them.

  ‘Where is Aazim Muktar likely to be right now? You say he comes to the mosque every day in the early morning?’ Hector asked.

  ‘He comes every morning of every day at six o’clock, without fail. He remains there all day. He leads the prayers five times a day, as is laid down in the Second Pillar of Islam,’ Tariq explained. ‘He preaches twice a day; once after the dhuhr prayers at noon and then again after the isha prayers in the evening. Then at about nine o’clock in the evening he returns to his home and family. Many of his followers go with him.’

  ‘So he should be in the mosque right now?’

  ‘He is there, certainly.’ Tariq checked his wristwatch. ‘It is forty minutes from noon, so we are in good time. We can wait and rest here.’

  The sun was warm and the murmur of the voices of the people crowded around them was lulling. Hector let himself doze off. Suddenly he jerked back awake. He was not certain how long he had slept and he looked around quickly. Tariq was gone. He felt a stab of anxiety, but then he saw him. Tariq was coming towards him, weaving his way through the clusters of other pilgrims scattered on the dusty earth.

  ‘Where have you been?’ Hector asked as Tariq squatted down beside him.

  ‘There.’ Tariq pointed out the public toilet at the entrance to the park. ‘I went to make water.’

  ‘You should have told me.’ Hector was annoyed. They were in the den of the Beast. They were at risk. They should cover each other at all times, that was a basic principle.

  ‘I am sorry. You were sleeping.’ Tariq was hurt by the reprimand, but he deserved it. Hector reined back his irritation. Perhaps he was being too touchy. Besides which he was in equal blame; he shouldn’t have fallen asleep. Tariq sat down at his side and Hector touched his shoulder lightly, a gesture of reconciliation.

  At last the high-pitched chanting of the muezzin reciting the adhan, the call to pray, rang out from the minaret of the mosque at the bottom of the hill. Tariq stood up immediately.

  ‘It is time for us to go down to pray,’ he said and there was an eager tone in his voice that he could not conceal. Hector rose with him and they joined the flood of men headed down towards the mosque. They left their sandals in the courtyard outside the main doors to the masjid and went to perform the ablutions with all the other worshippers. Then at last, barefooted and ritually cleansed, they walked with the multitude into the masjid and knelt side by side on a woollen prayer rug facing the direction of the Kaaba.

  There was a palpable sense of expectation which seemed to grip every one of the kneeling congregation. It was almost as though every person present was holding his breath. When Mullah Aazim Muktar Tippoo Tip entered the masjid Hector found himself exhaling and relaxing with all the others.

  Tariq had spoken the truth. Hector was in no doubt whatsoever. He knew it was Aazim Muktar. The man had a presence that seemed to resonate through the great hall of the mosque. He emanated an internal force. Hector was not certain whether it was evil or benign, but it was powerful.

  He was as he had been described to Hector: tall, lean and handsome, with strong almost ferocious features. This man could be a killer, Hector judged, but then again there was much else that cast doubt on that assumption. His mouth was generous but not soft. His gaze was searching and direct but not cruel. Hector realized almost at once that this man was an enigma.

  Aazim Muktar mounted to the minbar, the pulpit that overlooked the congregation. He moved with grace; his body beneath the flowing robe was supple as that of some beautiful predator. When he called the congregation to pray his voice reached to every corner of the vast hall and echoed from the dome above them. Hector watched him with fascination as he led them through the ritual prostrations and devotions. He found himself riddled by uncertainty. At one moment he knew that this was the man he must kill, and then only seconds later doubts assailed him and eroded his determination. The waves of deep reverence that emanated from the worshippers that surrounded him coloured his judgement and swayed him back and forth like a river reed in a fitful breeze.

  He knew it was not possible, but still he longed for an opportunity to confront this man face to face, to be able to peel back the layers which concealed his true identity, to reach down to his core and know for certain whether he was saint or demon. He realized that it would cheapen and belittle them both if he lay in ambuscade and shot him down from afar. He longed for proof positive, either that this was an enemy wo
rthy of his steel or that he was a fine and honest man who deserved his respect.

  The formal prayers ended. The worshippers rose from the final prostration and rocked back on their heels. A fresh tide of expectancy washed over their packed ranks and every one of their faces was raised to the imposing figure in the minbar above them.

  Aazim Muktar sat before them. He raised his right hand and began to speak. The impelling and sonorous tones of his voice riveted them all, even Hector Cross the sceptic.

  ‘I wish to speak to you of the Law of Al-Qisas, the Law of Retaliation, as it was first set out in the Torah in the twenty-first chapter of Exodus and subsequently endorsed by the Prophet Muhammad in the fifth sura of the Koran.

  ‘Al-Qisas is the right of an injured party to claim a life for a life, an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a hand for a hand, a foot for a foot, a burn for a burn, a wound for a wound and a bruise for a bruise.’

  Hector felt an arctic wind blow down his spine. Perhaps the text that Aazim had chosen was too close to his own intent to be purely coincidental. He was sitting well back in the crowded hall so he did not have a perfect view of the mullah’s face. He could read neither his expression nor the light in his eyes.

  ‘We know that this sura of the Koran was received by the Prophet directly from on high. We know that in the Hadith there are records of Muhammad putting into practice this aspect of Sharia law. In one instance when the aunt of Anas, one of his companions, broke the tooth of a serving maid and her family demanded recompense, Anas went to the Prophet and asked him to intervene. “Beloved Master,” he cried. “Surely she will not lose a tooth?” But Muhammad replied, “It is the law of Allah.’”