Assassins - Ian Watson & Andy West (26 page)

Eventually, he pulled back. Abigail opened
her eyes. A mischievous grin split Kamal’s features. She weakly
raised herself. She was drenched, her thighs still trembling. She
gasped and attempted to clear her dry throat. This pause was a
blessed ease, but she wasn’t done; amazingly, her body still craved
climax, and the sight of his dark member sent a shock of
anticipation through her.

Once more Kamal manipulated her. She felt
like a rag doll now, unresisting, indeed she didn’t want to resist.
He flipped her face down again, then yanked her waist upwards and
got her knees under her. She arched her back. Her head was buried
against a pillow. He entered from behind, firmly, in a single
movement. But she was
far more
than ready now. The relief of
something for her muscles to grip on at last, was ecstasy in
itself. A deep grunt of satisfaction was pushed out of her.

He didn’t try to hold back. He used powerful
thrusts, butting hard into her yielding flesh at the end of each.
Yet his right arm reached around and a knowing finger gently rubbed
her too. Abigail had never felt so feminine, so animal, so opened,
so beautifully used. She squealed as her dam of passion rose, yet
uttered a loud, low wail when the dam burst and her climax came,
surprising herself with her own strange voice that seemed to swell
right up from the depths of her gut.

Kamal had timed himself to her moment, and
she seemed to feel as much as hear his triumphant grunts when his
last spasms strained against her soft insides.

She collapsed. Kamal got some covers over
them, then kissed her. His taste pleasantly reminded her of where
he’d recently been. She cuddled up to him, embedding her hand in
the mat of hairs on his chest.

“Oh Kamal, I didn’t think it would be like
that. I didn’t know it
could
be like that!”

Kamal chuckled softly. “And you a French
woman, or nearly.”

That reminded her of Walid, but nicely.
Beautiful sleep drifted over her drained and tingling body.

Gazorkhan, Elburz
mountains, Iran: May

Breakfast was provided by the thin woman, who glared
disapprovingly at Abigail.

“Probably your screams yesterday evening,”
whispered Kamal mischievously. Abigail’s cheeks burned.

After they’d eaten, Kamal suggested that she
explore the village for an hour while he made some business calls.
The sun-gilded streets of Gazorkhan welcomed Abigail. With her
heart leaping, a secret warmth inside, a slight and
gorgeously-earned soreness between her legs, the world seemed full
of light and love. She finished tying her headscarf and ran for a
little way, for the sheer joy of it, ending by prancing
breathlessly down the street like a pony, an action that incredibly
her muscles still seemed to remember from childhood.

After wandering for a bit, she spotted a sign
saying INTERNET over a small store, and ducked inside.

Two screens were tucked away at the back, and
the place sold hot chocolate too. She availed herself of web access
and the wonderful liquid.

Paul’s inevitable message told how he was
reading up on Ismaili history – he’d got two books and ordered a
third from Amazon. True dedication, the better to serve her! She
sent a swift reply, but kept it business-like. He was so sweet, so
helpful, but she had to take care not to encourage him in the wrong
way, especially now that love had wrapped her in its beautiful
blanket! To Jen she sent a whole page of almost poetic text,
spilling out her feelings and her love for Kamal, some of her
worries too. Experience suggested that love was never
straightforward, but then she’d never met such a sophisticated and
magnificent man as Kamal.

She got a little lost on the way back, and
ended up approaching the faded terracotta house of ecstasy (for as
such she would now always think of it) from a tiny side-street. She
spotted two men peering into the car Kamal had hired, and
instinctively hung back.
Were they trying to steal it?
Both
snoopers wore a black T-shirt and black jeans; both looked
athletic.

A photo, take a photo, in case they were
intent on mischief…

This quickly done, Abigail took a deep breath
and clenched her fists. She was just about to run at them, yelling
and waving her arms, when the men moved off. They paused at a
silver Mercedes a few cars back, from which one of them extracted a
jacket, then they disappeared around a corner. How odd! Take a
photo of the Mercedes too… Kamal could read the licence plate, if
that mattered.

Abigail darted forward and, keeping half a
cautious eye on the corner, she peered into
their
car. Empty
cans of soft drinks. Pamphlets in Arabic and English, one titled
‘ional Water Projects’; perhaps
national
or
international
. A holder for some kind of computing device or
electronic navigator. Then, in the rear foot-well below her, she
saw binoculars, and remembered the birdwatchers at Evan.
Possible
birdwatchers. Might easily be these same men.
Puzzled and suspicious, Abigail hurried back to tell Kamal.

The moment she walked in, Kamal grabbed her
and kissed her, sending thrilling shocks chasing around her body
and delaying delivery of her story somewhat.

“What did they look like?” he asked rather
sharply as soon as he heard.

“Not obviously foreign, I mean not foreign to
Iran that is. Black jeans and T-shirts. See for yourself! I took
photos of them and their car just in case.”

“Clever girl!” Taking the camera, he pressed
and stared at the latest image then at the preceding one, zooming
it. After a few moments study, though their window faced the rear,
Kamal nonetheless peered through the lace.

“They had binoculars in the back of the
Mercedes. I think I saw the same men at lake Evan, down near the
water when we arrived.”

“
Very
clever girl!”

That did grate somewhat with Abigail, even
though she used
girl
on herself. Kamal must have seen upset
marring her face. He came over to hold her and his voice
softened.

“It isn’t unusual for the government to keep
an eye on foreign academics here. Especially if their studies
involve religious or historical or political positions disagreeable
to the party line.”

He frowned. His dark eyes seemed to search
far away.

“But government minions aren’t usually like
that. T-shirts. Both leaving the stake-out together, if it
is
a stakeout. Very unprofessional. I thought a silver
Mercedes was trailing us from Alamut, but I wasn’t sure.”

Abigail was a little shaken. “They won’t
kidnap us, will they?”

Kamal laughed, and Abigail was immediately
comforted.

“I hope not! Odd place to pick up on us
though, Evan. Unless…” He shrugged. “There are lots of factions
here. It could be anyone! My business activities have sailed close
to the wind from time to time.” He grinned a wicked grin. “Or maybe
someone’s keeping an eye on
you
. A Western academic who
promotes the position of women in Arabic poetry. Not approved of
here, I shouldn’t think.”

“Oh my God!” Maybe she was risking arrest
just by being here.

“Don’t worry,” whispered Kamal huskily. “I’ll
protect you.” He hugged her tightly.

As they left their room, Abigail paused in
the doorway for a final check that they hadn’t left anything. The
place seemed so cosy, so safe. It would stay in her memory forever,
the place where she and Kamal first made love. Then it occurred to
her to help memory. She pulled out her camera and took a shot.

Alamut valley,
Elburz mountains, Persia: August 1164

The dozen escorts on their long-necked chestnut
chargers looked splendid in white garments and golden girdles,
sheathed swords at their waists, wooden hilts tightly covered in
leather, double-edged daggers in their boots, and a sheaf of
reed-hafted spears each, streamers fluttering. Nasir al-Aziz and
his three companions were more travel-stained, having come all the
way from al-Kahf, Rashid al-Din Sinan’s principal castle in Syria,
though they rode Khafaja thoroughbreds too.

The further they rode along the valley, the
more Nasir marvelled at the many defences both man-made and natural
that protected the heart of the Nizari faith. Castles and smaller
forts looked down from jagged crags, as did skilfully placed
watch-towers. Impregnable peaks arose behind, and behind again,
some touched with snow, although here in the valley the heat was
intense. Hidden gorges, from which ambush might spring, divided the
stony plateaux over which eagles circled. Fortresses looked
unassailable, so steep and scree-covered were the slopes. It would
require a host of demons, not mere human soldiers, ever to invade
this territory! Ever!

“Look, grapevines!” Umar called to Nasir,
pointing.

A wealth of living emeralds against the
prevailing red-brown rock, along with walnut and poplar trees.
Although the horses’ hooves stirred pebbles and dry sand, an icy
grey-green river flowed through the desolation, so that pockets of
bounty blossomed. Already they’d passed irrigated fields of young
green rice, fields of melons, of onions, and nearer to villages
knots of goats and sheep grazing under the eye of watchful boys as
guardians.

“Allah be praised for the gift of water!”
Nasir shouted in return. “Otherwise the world would be hell.” Truly
the heat of the day was stunning.

Despite a landscape mostly barren, the
villages of the valley obviously supported themselves, and one
another, and even the hundreds, no,
thousands
of warriors
commanded by the Master of Alamut, Hasan Ali, now two years in
office, just as with Sinan in Syria. What mysterious event was
Hasan Ali planning in the midst of the month of Ramadan, that
summoned Nasir to Alamut to represent his master Sinan and the
Syrian Nizaris?

“Soon now,” Hussain, leader of the escort,
told Nasir as their horses paced together, “you’ll see the castle
of Alamut, from the walls of which privileged Fida’een leapt to
their deaths when the first Hasan so commanded, to amaze visiting
emissaries.”

Indeed! The ultimate warning. The senders of
those emissaries would forever live in dread of Hasan as-Sabah’s
assassins going forth against them in disguise with poisoned
knives, if they challenged the will of Alamut’s Master,
knowing
absolutely
that those killers had no fear of their own death
and would stop at nothing. By sheer willpower the first Hasan had
inspired such total dedication, and single-handedly had raised the
Nizaris to power.

“Hasan as-Sabah’s death was awesome too,”
replied Nasir.

“What do people tell of it in Syria, now that
fifty years has passed?”

“That Hasan announced he would soon leave
this life. Consequently he wished to spend three days undisturbed
in solitary meditation. Only at the end of three days might anyone
enter his private chamber. However, those who entered found no
human being there, but only a glossy-coated raven! The bird cried
out and flew away, transporting Hasan as-Sabah’s soul to heaven
within its body.”

“
That isn’t the whole of it
,”
whispered Hussain. “The raven was
already
within the
chamber, and so too was a bath full of oil of vitriol secretly
prepared by Hasan. When left alone, Hasan uncaged the raven and
then – oh such willpower! – he submerged himself in the atrocious
bath, bearing the agony until it surpassed his mind and
consciousness fled. Over the course of three days the vitriol
dissolved not only his flesh but his bones, so that Hasan seemed to
have vanished miraculously from existence. Rather as the Hidden
Imam disappeared, continuing in supernatural existence invisible to
mankind, until the day when he will reveal himself as Lord of the
Age and Ruler of the Universe!”

Nasir slapped his thigh in amazement. How
could the second Hasan, grandson of Kiya Buzurgumid, successor to
the great founder, match such an achievement? And yet the message
summoning the Syrians had implied something overwhelming.

“The bath was drained away, so that the
mystery would remain.” Hussain spurred his horse on to the front of
their short column and shouted at his men to tighten formation.

At long last, as the sun was setting to end the day
and prefigure a new one, here was the qa’lat al-Alamut, sprawled
upon a great, soaring grey rock that reminded Nasir in shape of a
kneeling camel with its neck thrust forward. Alamut’s
uncompromising presence dominated. A half-circle of huge peaks
formed an impregnable wall of giants to guard its rear. To the
front were such steep drops, such absence of cover for any
besieger! Tall turrets were faced with hard stone; the
curtain-walls were massive.

By the time bright stars gleamed in the vault
of heaven, the new arrivals were safely inside the castle. A senior
da’i, a Summoner to Wisdom, brought them to a large and well-lit
chamber. Vivid rugs covered the floor, low tables were laden with
turquoise lustreware. The fine plates and dishes were loaded with
cooked lamb and saffron rice, barley and millet bread, apricots and
grapes. And there was cool water, so sweet, so inviting. The
Syrians had of course been sanctioned to eat and drink during their
day of strenuous travel, but they’d refrained apart from a minimum
of tepid water gulped from flasks.

Many Nizari leaders were present in the room.
From Iraq, From Khurasan. From the nearer Caspian regions. Only the
Master of Alamut himself appeared to be absent, keeping secluded
high in his tower. After exchanges of courtesies, hunger and thirst
had to be blunted. Soon the eating became more leisurely, and
between mouthfuls news was traded. From Nasir and Umar, news of the
Frankish knights of Christendom, and a flux of alliances and
intrigues.