Assassins - Ian Watson & Andy West (18 page)

“I can’t think straight today. I do miss
Walid. I have to do a lot of serious thinking.”

“Okay…” Paul’s tone was conciliatory, even
gentle. “But may you say what your heavyweight connections
are?”

Abigail gave a wry smile. “That’ll be my
Papa. Leclaire Enterprises.”

Paul’s eyes bulged. “Fu… er, wow! Industrial
technology, advanced hydraulics, military vehicles, system
integrator, US government defence contracts, that’s you?”

“My Papa,” insisted Abigail, “not me! It’s
usually a burden, but for once it came in handy. Oh I hope he
doesn’t find out what’s been going on…he worries, he tries to
protect me too much.”

“Well…” said Paul. But for once he was lost
for words. “Well…”

Radcliffe
Institute for Advanced Studies, Cambridge, Massachusetts:
May

When Kamal phoned Abigail at her desk a couple of
days after Walid’s funeral, she’d only just been thinking about him
– and how much more competent, courteous and compassionate he
seemed than the creature of chaos that was Terry, for sure now
relegated permanently to the past tense! A truly international
personage. Pathetic, despicable Terry couldn’t even cope in his own
backyard. Yet Kamal probably wouldn’t find much time for Abigail’s
puzzles, so she shouldn’t badger him.

But then the phone rang.

“Dr Leclaire, this is Kamal al-Mustafa Abu
al-Bashir. Be assured I haven’t forgotten my promise! I need to be
in Back Bay soon and I was wondering whether we might talk over
lunch, if you’re able to pop down from Harvard? This would give me
a fine excuse to enjoy what you might call my native cuisine, at
the excellent Jewel of Newbury restaurant.”

“Oh, I’ve heard of it.”
Not
the most
graceful reply; she should have said:
it’s so kind of you to
find the time.

“You’d be my guest, of course.”

Abigail frantically searched for something
intelligent to say, but her head had emptied.

“Well, thank you…”

“No, I thank
you
. I couldn’t possibly
indulge myself on my own.”

The perfect gentleman! The Jewel of Newbury
was pricey.

“In fact tomorrow would be fine, if that
isn’t too soon.”

“So I’ll make a reservation for
twelve-thirty, if that’s suitable. I’ll give you my mobile number
in case you have any problems. Oh, and please do call me
Kamal
, for simplicity…”

“In that case, you must call me Abigail.”

He read out the number. “Until tomorrow,
Abigail.” He hung up.

God, what should she wear? Just two days
after she’d mourned at Walid’s funeral? The black dress was still
awaiting return. Maybe that, obviously minus veil and hat, but with
a modest flower-spray pinned on to lessen the severity? Though
Kamal seemed willing to ‘indulge’ himself, as he gallantly put it;
so maybe something informal, though business-like. Slacks, blouse,
and a jacket; yes. And something to indicate sensitivity, a black
chiffon scarf.

The Jewel of
Newbury restaurant, Boston, Massachusetts: May

Even though Abigail turned up five minutes early,
Kamal was already waiting outside. His smile immediately set her at
ease.

The restaurant was in a boutique hotel, a
restored 19
^th
century town house exalted into a
luxurious and elegant evocation of North Africa and the Middle
East. As dark-suited Kamal escorted her inside, she admired
stained-glass panelling and tiles, ceramics and antique furniture.
A bar was Art Deco: mirrors, metal, crystals.

“A preliminary cocktail for you,
Abigail?”

“No, no. With the meal, some squeezed orange
juice perhaps.”

Soon they were seated at a round white marble
table, being attended by a waiter who behaved more like a private
butler. Kamal suggested roasted eggplant, to be followed by a lamb
tagine flavoured with olives and prunes. Abigail wondered whether
he was married, whether he had children. She saw no ring, should
that be the custom.

He smiled, showing good teeth. “I do hope you
can do justice to the food, even if you’re on a diet like so many
young women these days, except for those who would benefit by a
diet! A lunchtime meeting seemed more suitable to me than a dinner,
even though this place has a rooftop garden especially beloved by
couples for its views of the city at night.”

Abigail found herself imagining what that
rooftop garden might be like of an evening, accompanied by such a
man.

“On the phone you said ‘native cuisine’,
Kamal. If I’m not being impudent, does that mean you’re from North
Africa originally?”

“Abigail, these days I travel around so much,
sometimes I think I’m from half a dozen countries! But I was born
Syrian.”

“Where Sinan… Rashid al-Din, had his
stronghold…”

“You are well versed in history! Have you
been to Syria?”

Their orange juices arrived.

“Unfortunately not. I’d love to see Krak des
Chevalier and such places.”

“The finest Crusader castle anywhere.”

“Actually, my urgent problem is the Syrian
and Iranian background to a fragment of Provençal poetry I found,
which refers to an ‘eagle teacher’…”

Kamal set down his orange juice much too
close to the edge of the table.

“Your glass!”

Reacting almost instantly, he caught the
glass even as it tipped. Some juice slopped on to his hand, which
he proceeded to dry with the linen napkin.

“Apologies for my clumsiness.”

“No way, I wish I had such fast
reflexes.”

“At my age, no less?” he queried
ironically.

“Give me maturity any day, rather than
frustrating
immaturity
.” Terry, maybe even Paul, would
likely have sent orange juice flying all over the floor.

“Well, I’m all ears, Abigail. Do tell me
everything.”

Southern Ethiopia:
October 1158

The cries of monkeys mocked Hakim as he staggered
onward through the steamy forest. Was he simply thrashing futile
circles through the dense tangles of twisted trees draped with moss
and bearded with woolly creepers?

Due to some quirk of weather, sunlight
shafted down through the dripping leaf canopy like golden spears
stabbing at the broken ant that was Hakim. God’s light, the
Nur
from which the world had been made! The light in which
the Prophet, peace be upon him, had been forged! The light which
shone through the Imams, making them the bright lamps of heaven and
Earth! The light that revealed truth!

Sinking to his knees, Hakim vomited a thin,
bitter gruel of berries and snails. Radiance wheeled dizzily around
him. Surely he was on his knees to pray. How many weeks had he been
lost? A bird, whose name he did not know, flew by in a blur of
bright wings.

Did he recite his prayers in the right order?
In his mind the voice of a Yemeni muezzin seemed to cry,
Hayya
‘ala khayri-l-amal
, Rise up for the Best of Works!

Yes, for the Best of Works he must indeed
rise up, stinking and shaking, from his soiled and filthy knees!
Remember, remember! Before he became so sickly, so lost in this wet
and tangled forest, home to predators, had he not been engaged in
the Best of Works?

Swaying on his feet, Hakim spied a movement of
reddish-brown amid the tumbling green mosses and pale tree-beards.
Perhaps he was seeing double, although one of the two shapes in
tentative motion seemed to be much smaller than the other.
Instinctively he unscabbarded his sword and, with failing muscles,
flung it wherever the blade might choose to go, yet with a word of
prayer he hoped would recommend its course to heaven. It flew in a
lazy arc, turning over and over.

A squeal! As Hakim stumbled forward, the
larger shape took flight but a young bushbuck lay with its legs
kicking, struggling to rise, pierced by blessed steel through its
russet, white-spotted flank, which blood was swiftly blemishing. As
the animal’s small face jerked towards him, wide-eyed and panting,
Hakim threw himself upon the hilt of the sword, thrusting and
twisting.

The young antelope’s death came soon. Hakim
was aware of the mother watching from nearby cover, yet she lacked
horns so could do nothing. An angel of Allah had guided the sword,
sacrificing her child.

Hakim’s butchery was cursory. Soon he was
chewing raw meat and sucking blood. He did not vomit because the
nourishing blood was angel-sent. A voice seemed to sing:

As sperm from man’s backbone
reposes itself in a womb
so divine knowledge from God
settles within the Imam
trustee of authority and blood!

Trustee of blood, trustee of the knowledge of
blood… Surely he, Hakim, was that; surely he was trustee of the
knowledge of blood which would cleanse, which would wash away the
unfaithful from the world.

A week after he had gorged himself on the bushbuck,
by Allah’s mercy and hopes for him, Hakim heard an Arabic word
shouted far away.

How long had he been wandering like an
animal? A month? He slapped his hand to his scabbard, momentarily
convinced that beside it he wore a stoppered bottle in which he had
captured plague like a jinnee. Yet alas, that was an illusion borne
of the utter conviction that such was possible. And
would
be
possible! Only, he would need more companions, more
supplies, more funds.

He combed his hair and beard as best he could
with his fingers. He could do little about the filthy rags hanging
off him, yet he tore some away. And he still wore his sword, which
an angel had guided. He croaked, then spoke his full name aloud,
before heading towards the source of that Arabic word.

A Muslim hunting camp. Tents. Horses. Arabs and their
slaves. Fire and food. Blessèd, sacred hospitality. Hygiene and
clothes. Prayers.

Hakim was very floridly well-spoken and
courteous in his gratitude, as befitting a scholar of the famous
al-Azhar University in Cairo, sent on a mission of botanical
exploration by the Caliph, which was the role he dissembled. Alas,
he related, disaster had overtaken the expedition.

Inside, Hakim seethed impatiently while his
recovery granted him new strength, and he dreamed about millions of
the people of opposition being consumed by plague, but he betrayed
none of this.

Tehran,
Iran, May

The Doctor, with latex gloves and an air-tight mask
his only protection other than a white lab coat, held the
hypodermic syringe on open palms as though it were a poison-tipped
dagger of old being presented to bare-armed Ali, Assassin of the
Unfaithful. From the chair alongside Ali, the other supremely
privileged courier of death, Muhammad, a sleeve likewise rolled up,
watched raptly; as did two senior witnesses seated further away,
one of whom was videoing so that the two suicide martyrs could be
commemorated in years to come. This was at the prompting of Jafar,
who had warned from doomed America to advance the date. Jafar
should have been here as witness too! He’d very much wish to watch
that hallowed video when he returned.

“At last the day has come,” the Doctor said
solemnly, “as willed by God long ago, when my inspired and blessèd
predecessor created and preserved the waters of death, and of life,
for our use when time and our God-given skills became ripe…”

Radcliffe Institute for Advanced Studies, Cambridge,
Massachusetts: May

When the phone rang Abigail was glad of a break;
she’d been so intensely absorbed in books on early Ismaili culture
and poetry, as recommended by Kamal, that she felt dizzy when she
raised her head. The caller was Paul Summers, in theory to tell her
about reader’s letters regarding the mosque surveillance piece, but
really sniffing for a deeper story as well as sniffing out an
eligible female. She smirked. Nice to be chased again, even if she
wasn’t interested. Paul made a polite query about Kamal.

“Kamal’s being incredibly helpful towards my
research, considering how busy he is.”

“You’re a very persuasive woman, Abi.”

“I don’t think
woman
has anything at
all to do with it.”
Though did it? Could it conceivably?

“Sorry.
Person
. But since you’re a
woman too, may I take you out to dinner?”

“Journalist’s ulterior motive? You want to
pump me for more about my medieval mystery?” She’d known at the
funeral that he’d ask sooner or later. A funeral was the wrong
moment though, and besides the revelation about her Papa had seemed
to intimidate him. Not the first time
that
had happened! In
Paul’s case this didn’t matter; no romance at stake.

“I’m deeply hurt, but anyhow haven’t I earned
the right?”

Abigail smiled. He had. Then something
occurred to her.

“I’d love to be taken, but can I choose the
place?”

“Hmm… unusual rules, but I’m a flexible
guy.”

“The Sabra restaurant, Eliot Square off
J.F.K. Street. Middle Eastern, shawarma and shish-kebab on the
menu. Won’t break the budget.”

Paul readily agreed, and they hung up.

She’d been thinking of the Sabra for a
reciprocation with Kamal. Though at just five or six dollars for
dishes, he’d be slumming it! The waiters wouldn’t be butlers.
Despite modest prices, the invitation could be a charming gesture,
and proof she wasn’t a parasite.
Now
she could test the
place in advance. If it seemed mediocre to her, Kamal would find it
dire. Yet if it seemed good, or even great…

Sabra restaurant,
Cambridge, Massachusetts: May

At seven that evening the Sabra was bustling, though
it was the kind of bustle where you could be private at your own
little table due to all the conflicting noisy chatter.

“Baba Ghanoush sounds interesting,” commented
Abigail to Paul. “Puréed smoked eggplant. Says it’s exotic.”