Assassins - Ian Watson & Andy West (17 page)

Yet, as the weeks went by and the corral
became a place of hideous death, the terrified villagers began to
disobey him and abuse him. Manifestly, the foreign Priest-Witch was
failing to save them. Malevolent monkey spirits must be to blame,
maybe offended at having been confined with the Igwe for so long.
Or angry at being confined in the first place.

Hakim kept meticulous records of the whole
event, down to every date and symptom and individual and hut
location. Hence, reading these back by the wavering light of an
oil-lamp, he realised that the spread was primarily through family
lines, with cousins or cross-matings connecting the leap of
sickness between huts. Somehow,
somehow
, without bites or
scratches or even in most cases sexual coupling, the infant seeds
of plague were finding their way into the blood of those closest to
the victim. Clearly this was possible between people, if not
between men and monkeys even when trapped in the same cage. He
ordered all contact between each hut to cease, with each obtaining
their own water and grain independently. But it was too late; the
villagers ignored him.

Just two days later, an old warrior and some
younger companions freed all the monkeys, even the precious grey
one that was kept separately. When Hakim tried to intervene, he was
threatened by spears, although no one went so far as to prick him.
The day might not be far off, Hakim realised, when they would do
so! Order had almost collapsed. Infected people decamped
deliriously into the forest, despite the nightly whooping cries of
hyenas. In daylight, uninfected people fled the village too,
leaving even less of the able-bodied to cope.

And then Yaqob succumbed. Hakim offered what
aid he could, which was useless, so he observed carefully until the
end. This came quickly, for the first paroxysm proved fatal. Now
there was no way to communicate, nor achieve anything more. Taking
only what he could easily carry, Hakim slipped out of the village
just before dawn. The Igwe scouts had hopefully been scared away
long before, but he couldn’t go anywhere near their territory. Nor
anywhere he might be recognized by previous visitors to the village
during its time of glory as a monkey Mecca, for word of the plague
had undoubtedly spread and he would almost certainly be killed out
of hand. He struck out into unknown woodland.

Downtown
Boston, Massachusetts: May

Paul emerged from Haymarket station and cut across
the vastness of City Hall Plaza, paved with nearly two million dull
red bricks. He headed for the John F. Kennedy Federal Building,
which rose up as a blunt statement of modernity, twin high-rise
towers of concrete and glass joined at right angles to one another,
their bands of windows rounding at the corners, plus a lower
four-storey building, its vicinity blessed by the only trees and
shrubs in sight. This was home to the IRS and other government
agencies, including the various divisions of ICE.

Paul walked on by, towards the curve of
Cambridge Street and Center Plaza, which resembled a matching
curved skyscraper on its side. Grunty Hogan favoured the Kinsale
Irish Pub there. Being mid-afternoon by now, the enthusiastic lunch
trade should all have departed back to their business and
government offices.

Grunty had said he had interesting news
about a certain matter
.

Presently Paul was seated on a high bar stool
at a table-top curving around a wooden pillar, which disappeared
into the likeness of a hooped barrel below. A glass of the dark
stuff was before him, and a cracked-open paperback history of the
Middle Ages, since that was Abigail’s thing. The bar area was
hardly quarter-full. A particularly authentic Irish pub, the
Kinsale, having been manufactured in Ireland and shipped over in
crates.

Grunty entered, somewhat podgy and red-faced,
wearing a lightweight grey suit, though he’d loosened his green tie
and opened his top shirt button. After a minute’s chat with the
barman, he steered towards Paul, glass in hand, and mounted the
neighbouring stool.

“
Unk
,” he expressed, “your very good
health, young man.”

Paul had never been quite sure whether Grunty
habitually cleared the back of a stuffed-up nose with an
unk
, or whether the tic was his version of
hmm
or
um
.

“So what do you have to tell me about
the
matter
?”

“And what would you be having,
unk
,
for me?”

Paul slid a flat envelope from his pocket,
although he kept his hand resting upon the offering.

“It’s like this. All surveillance of the
mosque has been called off.”

“As a direct result of my piece in the
Globe
? Or due to complaints received?”

“I’d say,
unk
, there have been certain
enquiries
.”

He’d say… but was that a fact?

“I’d say, Grunty, that what you’re telling me
is a bit predictable. I don’t think it really merits…” Paul’s hand
pressed more firmly upon the envelope.

Grunty looked aggrieved. “Here was me
thinking you’d be pleased to hear. Grateful.”

“I am for the confirmation in the first
place, but we already cleared that slate.”

“What else am I supposed to tell you about
surveillances, or cancelled ones? Ain’t much. Some prof woman at
Harvard cancelled, some Afghans ongoing but you’d better not print
that
. Neither print nor hint. I thought you’d be glad to
hear about the mosque.”

“What’s that about Harvard?” asked Paul.

“Some foreign research female,
unk
,
with heavyweight connections. British… No, Canadian. Investigation
office had to lay off, no following her, no messing with her
phones, whatever for. Getting back,
unk
, to the mosque
cancellation, I’d say I deserve an acknowledgement.”

Oh richly deserve. Though not for that.

Judiciously Paul pulled the envelope towards
him, slipped it open, extracted two bills which he pocketed, then
thrust the remaining acknowledgement Grunty’s way.

“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.