Assassins - Ian Watson & Andy West (20 page)

Kamal looked at her enquiringly, and Abigail
wasn’t sure if she blushed as she quickly whispered to him, “I
thought I’d test this place in case it mightn’t be up to your
standards. Though maybe it isn’t.” She hoped the waiter didn’t
hear.

“How charming of you! Just like the taster of
a sultan’s food, in case it’s poisonous!”

Seating her courteously, and then himself,
Kamal surveyed the Sabra appreciatively, perhaps amused. “It has…
character.” A man two tables away was actually reading a newspaper
while waiting for his food. “Oh, I read a letter to the editor in
the
Globe
that was very supportive of Paul Summers,
regarding his ICE surveillance article. Do you know Mr Summers
well?”

“Actually, hardly at all.”
Keep your
options open girl! No need for any unnecessary male
complications.
“In fact we just met to make that story.” She
couldn’t help a slight smirk. “I was the main source of Paul’s
information.”

“
You?
Goodness. But how were you privy
to ICE operations?”

“I’m not. They’ve been hassling me, and it
slipped out during…” She remembered her shock and then fury at
Elephant Walk, Jack’s steely pressure. “During an interaction.”

“Do you mean to say these ICE people have
been pressuring you in some way?”

“And how. But they can go jump in the
sea.”

“Yet why would they…?” Kamal spread his
hands, wide-eyed and lost for words.

“Oh, they imagine there’s a connection
between the ancient Assassins of Alamut and some modern nefarious
plot, goodness knows what. They think Safiyya’s fragment is a
link.”

Kamal picked up a menu and fanned
himself.

“How absurd and bizarre.”

“Utterly absurd! But look, I want to forget
all that. At least Paul reckons they’ve stopped bugging me or
following me now. He has contacts.”

“Bugging? How… cloak and dagger. Medieval
studies is not what it was! I blame the movies.” He displayed a
wide grin, then studied the menu and chose stuffed vine leaves.
Abigail copied Paul’s choice from the evening before. After she’d
ordered, Kamal sighed.

“I did mention I need to travel a lot. Well,
it’s happening again. I have a half-day conference in Tehran on the
21
^st
, but stopping over in Cairo for five or six days on
the way. I’d hoped to avoid this, but it seems that my presence….”
He gestured dismissively. “Tedious.”

“The terrible lot of an international
scholar!” Abigail gave a mock grimace. “I’m jealous.”

“
Lot
?”

“Destiny. What fate gives you.”

“Ah, I see. Remember that English isn’t my
first language.”

“Kamal, no one would think it isn’t.”

“You’re too kind. Anyway Abigail, what I’m
going to say might seem ‘far out’ or unsuitable, but the fact is
that my home university is very generous. Oil money, you know! They
pay first class air travel for attending conferences, and the
accommodation allowance is more than adequate for a simple scholar.
The fact is, I can change my ticket to
two
regular tickets
without any problem. Likewise, regarding
two
rooms in
hotels. I wondered if you might actually care to accompany me on
this trip, for some intelligent conversation? Iran is perfectly
safe at the moment.” He held up his hand, in case she might object
prematurely. “What comes to my mind is that
Alamut
is very
close to Tehran… An extra couple of days, and I could show it to
you.”

Abigail was flabbergasted. “I’d
die
to
see Alamut!”

Kamal seemed relieved; he must have been
worried about the etiquette of his proposal.

“Do I take that for a ‘yes’? We might be away
for ten days. It’ll be an ideal opportunity to delve into a bit of
the background history connected with Safiyya’s intriguing piece of
verse.”

To be able to see such a place with her own
personal expert!

“I do insist on paying my own plane fare and
hotel. It’s more than enough that you’re willing to show me Alamut,
never mind what´s n route there. My fellowship’s meant to cover
some travel. You need first class to sleep comfortably and stretch
out.”

“To avoid deep vein thrombosis? Your concern
is delightful, but I keep fit.”

“It does look so.”

“Abigail,” and his voice was stern but his
eyes gleamed, “me flying first class and you in tourist defeats the
purpose of intelligent conversation. So let’s compromise. I’ll
arrange the flights and you pay for your own hotel rooms. Meals are
negotiable.”

“Done! Oh Kamal, this is wonderful. I feel so
privileged.”

Was he married?
Did that matter?
Hastily Abigail put the thought aside, as he added: “Also this will
take you, and myself as well, away from brooding about the tragic
matter of Walid. We’ll be back in good time for the fortieth day
commemoration.”

Abigail shivered. “It’s felt like there’s a
shadow over me since he… as though the world’s fundamentally
changed. I must have appreciated him much more than I
realised.”

Kamal beamed. “The bright sun of the Middle
East will dispel that shadow.”

Cronkite
Graduate Center, Cambridge, Massachusetts: May

Abigail knew it was too much to hope that she could
escape to sunnier climes before ICEman Jack hassled her again. At
least this time it was only a minion who invaded her office, a guy
named Dan Siegel. He asked questions about her research, her
sources, who had custody of the Safiyya fragment. Reluctantly, she
gave Dr Friedman’s name, the chief archivist at the Harvard library
– not exactly a secret, yet redirecting ICE to a colleague felt
mean. She said it would take time to collate her sources – don’t
make it too easy for ICE! Dan Siegel didn’t have Jack’s grit; he
acquiesced.

During the next couple of days, along with
hard if frustrating work at the computer, Abigail scheduled in some
sessions of trying to teach herself a bit more Arabic. If only
she’d stepped up her efforts a month earlier after the ICEman first
called on her! She wanted to give Kamal a surprise when they
arrived in Egypt.

‘
Uriidu ‘aSiir al-burtuqaal
,’ said the
CD. Dutifully though she repeated such sentences, they slipped from
her memory; she wasn’t going to get
orange juice
that way.
In fact, face it: she wasn’t going to master elementary Arabic any
day soon, apart from some nouns and greetings she already knew and
stuff such as
an-najda an-nadja!
help help!

On the plus side, she was finding that the
connected-up variable squiggles and dots of the Arabic alphabet and
the horizontal vowel lines above or below and the backward e
damma
were less daunting than she’d supposed. She was
beginning to decode even if she couldn’t understand the meaning;
and this capacity
did
stay in her mind. Must be a matter of
pattern perception. It had been easy for her to correct the proofs
of
The Medieval Woman
. Something similar applied in the case
of Arabic. Patterns made sense. If only she could plumb the pattern
of Safiyya’s verse and Sinaldin and such!

Since there were other preparations to make,
Abigail’s thought drifted from Arabic patterns to Middle Eastern
lands, to what suitable hot-weather clothing she might or mightn’t
find in Filene’s bargain basement or on its upper floors. Maybe
she’d check out Macy’s too.

Despite a rich dad, she generally had a
functional attitude to what she wore, the informal academic look.
Yet she mustn’t disgrace Kamal who always dressed so smartly; nor
of course must she appear provocative in Muslim countries. Ticking
away in a basement of her mind was a desire to have rather less
functional underwear and nightwear, not that anyone but herself
would be privy to such items… Still, good for morale. Oh, and she
must get a lightweight hat with a broad brim, one that wouldn’t
crumple in a suitcase.

Three days after Dan Siegel’s visit, guilt
finally overcame her and she emailed a list of research sources to
the address he’d given. She certainly didn’t want a sterner visit
from Jack himself.

And then another task not wholly without
guilt, calling Paul to break the news that she’d be disappearing
for a while. He’d been contacting her every chance he got, and
they’d met for drinks a couple of times. Paul was so sweet and
helpful, but maybe she’d encouraged him too much. She doubted he’d
take her departure well, and indeed he seemed flummoxed.

“It’s not the end of the world, Paul, we can
email… and I’ll be seeing Assassin HQ with my own eyes!”

“Abi, that’s completely crazy, you can’t go
there!
Iran
, I mean.”

“I have a
Canadian
passport. Don’t
worry, I’ll be with Kamal. He knows the ropes.”

“Abi, about Kamal, I…”

“No Paul, don’t say any more. You’re such a
good friend, and I don’t want us to part in anger.”

Last time they met, Paul had started to
express some concern about Kamal, even casting doubt upon his
academic credentials. Men were so predictable – promise undying
support, and smear any other male in range!

“I’ll spend every spare moment on your
medieval mystery, Abi, honest injun!”

Abigail smirked, though her reply was
sincere. “You’re sweet, and I’m sure that’ll be invaluable.”

Papa had to come next.

“Qu’est-ce-qui
se passe, ma mignonne?”

“Nothing bad, Papa,” she replied in French,
“I’m sorry I haven’t phoned home as much as I should lately. Now,
would you believe, I’m flying to Cairo in a few days, so I’m
rushing around trying to fit everything in.”

“Of you I believe anything, but why on earth
Cairo?”

“Well, I’m accompanying an Arab scholar who
has taken my research under his wing. There are important Middle
Eastern ramifications, so we’ll visit Iran after Egypt-"

Papa´s initial reaction was similar to
Paul´s, only more so. Once she had mollified him about the dangers
of the Middle East, he demanded: "What kind of Arab? Daughter mine,
you’re sounding to me suspiciously like the British Princess
Diana.”

“It’s nothing like that, Papa. It’s
research.”

“What, into the
Kama Sutra
?” Her
father could sometimes be very outspoken.

“That’s Indian, not Arab, as you probably
know full well.”

“Indeed… that was uncalled for on my part.
But really, I do wonder at your taste in men. That Terry
individual, as you’ve described him…”

“He’s
gone
.” Perhaps she should not
have admitted this.

“And what is the name of this Arab
scholar
? Omar Shariff?”

“Papa, you´re showing your age!" Abigail
lied: "And Professor Kamal is no spring chicken either. His full
name’s Kamal al-Mustafa Abu al-Bashir. He’s a close colleague of
Walid al-Areqi whom I was consulting about my work…”
Until he
was
slaughtered by some hit and run merchant
: best not
to mention that, no point worrying Papa unnecessarily. Then again,
why would that worry him?

“Hmm,” said her father. “So when are you
coming home again for a weekend? It isn’t exactly far.”

Since arriving at Radcliffe, she’d only been
back home for Christmas, and in March for her Papa’s birthday.

“After this trip, probably,” she temporised.
Five minutes later she managed to extricate herself.

Radcliffe
Institute for Advanced Studies, Cambridge, Massachusetts:
May

“Actually,” confided Kamal to Abigail while they took
a break from academia to stroll amongst leafy trees in the
architectural garden of Eden that was Radcliffe Yard, “I must
confess when I said that my home university are lavish with first
class air travel, I might have added that in any case personally
I’m quite wealthy.”

He paused, breathing deep and appreciating
the sweet air, then gazing at the Ionic portico of Agassiz House.
“You see, I was a businessman before I became involved in academic
life… mainly importing hi-tech novelties into the richer parts of
the Middle East. Back then, Islamic history and literature and
poetry were just passionate hobbies, until I became wealthy enough
to pursue them formally and full-time, although I do still keep an
eye on the business side. If I’d said that right off, you might
have thought of me as, I don’t know, some sort of intellectual
playboy sheikh.”

“I hardly think so!” protested Abigail.

So Kamal was rich as well as cultured…

“Since you’re now committed to coming along
on this trip, Abigail, I was thinking that it isn’t too late to
upgrade to first class. The big advantage is arriving less
jet-lagged. Whichever carrier we use, it’s a 13 hour flight with
one change. In the end I opted for Air France, changing in Paris,
because London Heathrow is so crowded. Charles de Gaulle is much
more civilised. And you can use your French!”

“Isn’t there a direct flight from JFK to
Cairo?”

“We’d still need to fly from Logan to JFK to
start with.”

“That’s true. And JFK is always
over-crowded.”

“Thirteen hours, with a stretch of the legs
in Charles de Gaulle. As a favour, would you permit me to upgrade?
Of course, if you prefer the democracy of economy, we’ll certainly
fly thus. Just, it isn’t financially necessary at all.”

“You’re very considerate, Kamal.”

In fact she’d never before met anyone so
considerate…

He grinned. “Oh, it’s an Arab hospitality
thing! You’re visiting my part of the world as my guest. So I must
slaughter the best camel for a feast, as it were. Otherwise what
will my tribe think of me?”

She had to laugh. “Kamal’s flying camel…! Oh,
you’ve twisted my arm.”

“I’m sorry… Do you mean you’re hurt by my
suggestion?”

“No, the very opposite! How can I possibly
refuse?”