Assassins - Ian Watson & Andy West (21 page)

Immigration and
Customs Enforcement, Downtown Boston, Massachusetts: May

Only minutes into Jack’s first day back at the office
after his trip, Chronicles, aka Dan Siegel, rushed in, looking at
once anxious and self-important. Jack barely held back a groan;
this was going to be significant news then, but not good news.

“Guess what? Abigail Leclaire has flown off
to Cairo!”

“Say that again.”

Dan Siegel gave a defensive shrug. “Via the
Summers tap we got warning she was going, but we had no cause to
hold her. I tried to contact you, but…”

“Next time,
invent
a cause,” cut in
Jack. “Not gone on her own, I presume?”

“No. The details are here.” Dan Siegel handed
over a printout.

Jack could scarcely believe what he was
reading.

“Let me get this straight. Her ticket was
paid for
by a Kamal et cetera et cetera, a
Syrian
Arab
, who was seated beside her in first class… And he was
admitted to the US a month ago, after a couple of previous visits
for academic reasons… Dates?”

Dan helpfully leaned over and pointed those
out, further down the page.

“Okay, both those occasions
preceded
our Mam’zelle becoming a fellow at Radcliffe. So it’s probable
Mam’zelle never knew him until last month. Yet now they swan off
together first class to the Middle East! Two academics flying first
class?”

“What about the rich daddy?”

“She won’t have money off her papa. Far too
proud. Get me a transcript of all text and voice exchanges from
Summers’ phone to her numbers. Right now. Then figure out who’s in
charge of the archives at the Harvard library. We need to grab the
original poem Leclaire wrote about. They’ve got that booklet thing
it came inside too…”

“Chapbook, it’s called. And I already know
he’s Dr Friedman.”

“Good. I want you to impound the poem and
chapbook whatever under the Patriot Act, which we surely have a
right to do, so don’t take no shit from this Friedman. We can get
higher tech analysis done than any library. But do take a lockable
case and a sealtite baggy. This ain’t something to cram in your
pocket. You’ll find the shelving numbers on the system, in the
Eagle Teacher
folder, look at the first footnote of her
article. Now please!”

However, Chronicles remained, gazing at
another printout he had brought, from which Jack deduced there was
still more news, which
surely
couldn’t be as bad. He raised
his eyebrows and subjected Siegel to a withering glare.

“One of Leclaire’s research sources turns out
to be a cleric guy called… er… Walid al-Areqi, who just so happens
to have been killed in a hit-and-run a couple of weeks back.”

Jack would have raised his eyebrows further
if they’d hadn’t already run out of room.

“Two weeks! How come we didn’t know this
sooner?”

“Sir, you know we’re doing this in the
breathers between other jobs… and the lady’s still been playing
hard to get. Anyhow, three days back the BPD found the vehicle
involved, burned out, but they traced it back to a hire outfit.
They got a suspect photo from the hire place’s CCTV, not good
quality… but something to go on.”

“Let me guess, he isn’t just some drunk, this
actually matters.”

“Dead right. Forensics found a piece of paper
tucked into the vehicle manual, which was in the glove compartment
and partially survived the fire. At least seven web addresses. Two
can’t be recovered, three are bus and rail timetables, one is
www.cdc.gov
and one…” Siegel gave
a triumphant grin, “is the
AAMH
, the very page with
Leclaire’s poetry fragment on it.”

Jack rubbed his chin. “Useful, Chronicles, if
very late. CDC, Centre for Disease Control in Atlanta. So this
isn’t assassination then, it’s bio-terrorism. Yeah, useful. Forward
me the photo and details. And make sure Summers doesn’t get an
inkling we’re onto this angle, via Grunty or anyone else! If
he
knows, so will Mam’zelle Leclaire, and if
she
knows, her Arab fancy-man will too, and for all
we
know he
could be
Mr Eagle Teacher
himself. In fact Chronicles, keep
this to yourself for now, the department doesn’t need to know.”

As Dan Siegel hurried away to execute orders,
Jack murmured to his retreating back, “
Mam’zelle is
up to
her eyeballs.
”

The Jebel
Bahra, Syria: May 1161

Hakim rejoiced in the keen air and rugged vistas of
the Jebel Bahra, the mountains of Syria where he had lived as a
child, east of the sea and west of the great Orontes River. The sky
was an intense and inspiring blue this day, deeper and more vivid
than even lapis lazuli or fine tiles of Persian blue, indeed
befitting God’s heavenly mantle for the world.

He paused to catch his breath, since he had
climbed continuously for an hour and now the slope was becoming
even steeper. Turning, he viewed the great channel of the rocky
valley that ploughed its way down to distant patchwork greens. How
far below were the fields! How high he was already!

How high he had climbed in life too, Hakim
contemplated, how swiftly. Only twenty-five years ago he’d watched
over goats in this valley. Then, his only goal had been to read
properly, to which end he’d smuggled a tattered and poorly executed
copy of the Koran out in his food-satchel.

Yet by the age of ten he was encouraged to
read, on account of his talent for curing sick animals, which was
sold by his father to their farming and herding neighbours. Amid
the liquorice-bushes, tall spiky asphodel and cane-brakes, each
medicinal herb caught his eye, and his parents hoped that an
increased knowledge of potions and anatomy would also increase
their income, especially when he moved on to the cure of people.
People who carded cotton in their balconied houses were vexed at
times by scrofula sores or colic or dropsy. Hakim used vipers
drowned in vinegar to relieve dropsy, vinegar to purge the dust
from carders’ throats, glasswort and ashes in olive oil and yet
more vinegar to treat scrofula pustules. He was a young prodigy.
People spoke of him as the new Ibn Butlan, famous even after a
century for his clinic in Aleppo to the north.

For a while things worked out just as his
parents had hoped, despite he’d bartered for books and scrolls that
weren’t even medical in nature, and read a lot of hocus-pocus
besides. Hakim smiled while recalling his boyish deceit and this
happy time, but then his pleasant memories were soured and his
smile turned to a grimace. His parents were killed by Christian
pillagers, probing inland from their fortresses near the coast. It
was small comfort that the excellent Ismaili charitable system
which took him in fostered and focussed his talents still more.
He’d craved for a suitable revenge even as he studied sacred
writings as well as medical texts.

He seated himself on the sun-warmed surface
of a level piece of weathered stone, unfolding a cloth containing
goat’s cheese and olives, dark bread and fruit. Memories of
childhood lingered as he dangled his legs over a long drop.
Minerals in the cool mountain water from his flask made it an
elixir his tongue still welcomed daily, even now, although it was
over a year since his return from the oppressive airs and tasteless
warm water of Cairo. Tasteless at best in fact, often tainted.

Even within that year, Hakim had risen
significantly, as though Allah was smoothing his way. Having
reacquainted himself with the local Nizari Ismaili community and
made himself useful to them, he also submerged himself in
purification and prayer and religious studies. From a comrade and
learner, he’d risen quickly to the role of teacher, for he had a
powerful intellect and consequently powerful insights of his own,
which traits Ismailis never stifled but directed upwards in their
hierarchy.

Of course, his adoption of the name Hakim had
intrigued the Nizaris who’d known his parents and himself as an
orphan.

“The murderous Franks erased my lineage!”
Hakim had declared. “For this reason I prefer to be called only by
the name which signifies Doctor, and modestly serve the whole
community. I have no other family. In choosing this name I also pay
homage to our sixteenth Imam, the ilustrious caliph of Cairo,
al-Hakim bi-Amrillah, who struck such a blow to the Franks by
destroying their main church in Jerusalem, where Christians falsely
claim Isa ibn Maryam was buried after his supposed
crucifixion.”

“In that case,
Hakim
,” said one
grizzled elder, “beware of the Sons of Grace, the Druzes. Since our
neighbours here in the Jebel Bahra actually worship the sixteenth
Imam, they might kill you as an impostor!”

Hakim hadn’t known this, for the one people
more secretive than his own Ismailis were the Druze. Yet neither
did he care; they too would one day be reaped by plague.

Hakim had settled as near as he could to the
great stone stronghold of al-Kahf, the seat of Abu Muhammad who
guided the Syrian Nizari community. Soon he came across another
newcomer to the area who was residing in the castle itself, Sinan,
a skilful young man who like himself did occasional work as a
physician. Sinan behaved as one of the people, yet many men made
subtle obeisance to this Sinan, even men of rank, from which Hakim
realised that all was not as it first seemed.

Taking an inspired gamble, he had made every
effort to befriend Sinan, suspending his own doctoring and instead
making all his medical knowledge available to the mysterious young
man. One day, Hakim had told himself, this gamble would pay
off.

Sinan was a man with piercing eyes, with
swift yet subtle judgement, with patient yet boundless ambition, a
man filled with God’s light, a man from whom it was not wise to
hide anything. Yet in the narrow field of medicine Hakim was now
second to none, having incorporated Arwe’s deep insights into the
framework of advanced Islamic science.

It seemed that Sinan’s purpose was to gain
popularity in the community, in the scattered mountain villages and
the virtually impregnable Ismaili castles, the qa’lats of Kahf and
Masyaf, Rusafa, Maniqa, Qabat and the rest. Hakim greatly aided
Sinan in this goal, to the point where some believed the younger
man could actually perform miracles. So eventually there was great
gratitude, and mutual revelation too.

On a night flavoured by fermented goat’s milk
and honey, a night warmed and ruddily lit by embers in the small
hearth of Hakim’s simple cottage, the two men of vision exchanged
their hopes and plans for the triumph of the Ismaili faith and the
greater glory of God.

“Blessed Abu Muhammad has been an excellent
guide for our community here in Jebel Bahra these last forty
years,” explained Sinan. “We have no wish for his soul to follow
its appointed course to Allah, though this must surely happen in
due time as Allah wishes.” He hesitated momentarily and his eyes
scanned Hakim’s face. “And also I’m not sent here by the Master of
Alamut, but by Hasan his son, who before long will be ascendant. So
timing is… delicate. Until Hasan rises to his inheritance, until he
is the true
hand of power
, I have no real authority.”

Hakim appreciated Sinan’s delicate position.
The two young candidates for power intended to usher in a new cycle
of leadership, no doubt one of spiritual revelation, with Sinan
leading the flock in Syria and subject only to the holy word of
Hasan in Alamut. But if Abu Muhammad should die before Sinan’s
sponsor gained the leadership in Alamut… the succession in Syria
could be disputed.

“As you know,” said Hakim, “I support you
without reservation.”

They clasped hands in fealty and friendship
across the rough boards of the table, then

Sinan refilled their shallow bowls that
served as cups, smiling a knowing smile.

“Good Hakim, you are wise indeed to aid me,
where others would have flaunted such astounding ability. For I see
that some high ambition burns within you, though this thing is not
to lead men or become their gate to Allah. Also you are devout and
unflinching, so your goal must be exceptionally difficult to
achieve or by now you would already hold the fruits of success in
your hand. So I will help you, if I can, for surely you toil
towards something invaluable for our faith, something that will
make our Ismaili brotherhood shine still greater before God?”

Hakim was amazed that Sinan had guessed so
closely.

“Not only shine,” breathed Hakim. “Triumph!
Over
all
our enemies.”

That was the proudest hour of Hakim’s life.
He revealed his grand vision of plague as a scimitar to fell the
enemies of Allah, the enemies of the Ismailis, expounding all its
glorious detail and holding nothing back. Sinan was at first
spellbound, but then sceptical, subjecting Hakim to sharp
questions. Yet when Hakim described how far he’d progressed in
Ethiopia, the unique knowledge gleaned from Arwe and then
synthesised with the written experience of past civilisations,
finally Sinan was amazed. As a man of high vision himself, Sinan
perceived the power of the concept, and his own medical knowledge
helped him grasp Hakim’s proposed methods.

“It can be done!” gasped Sinan. “We can
capture the jinnee of plague in a bottle, and release it within the
heart of our enemies. Its fire will utterly consume them! Hakim, my
own place and purpose is here. But I will help you, I swear it.
Have faith!”

A movement caught Hakim’s eye: off to his
right an eagle was rising on pillar of air. Minutely adjusting its
wings, it hovered just below the level of Hakim’s improvised seat,
intent on a patch of ground far below. The feathers on its back
ruffled and strained upwards, as though the very air desired to
pull the bird further up. Then, perhaps catching sight of him, the
noble hunter wheeled away, disappearing behind a large bluff.