Assassins - Ian Watson & Andy West (23 page)

She wasn’t sure what was in the poetry book,
but decided to buy it anyway. On the next shelf she spotted a group
of titles in French. She pulled one out,
Les légendes des
montagnes Elburz
. Legends of the Elburz Mountains, by a
Professor J Ruffie. Poor quality print on thin paper, a limited
edition published in 1934. Perhaps the professor had funded it
himself. One chapter of the rambling history covered the Ismailis,
even containing the line of succession at Alamut. The whole work
was strewn with small maps and drawings of ruined castles,
descriptions of mountain trails and flora, local anecdotes and
legends and even folk-remedies. The professor must have spent a
great deal of time in the area. One paragraph spoke of a brilliant
physician who’d stayed at Alamut, probably in the late twelfth
century;
al-Hakim, the sword of Allah, the shield of Allah, the
possessed
. What odd appellations for a physician! How could he
be all of these things?

Kamal had shown her the medieval mosque of an
allegedly mad Ismaili Caliph named al-Hakim, next to a surviving
section of old city wall in Cairo. Hakim was the man who destroyed
the church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem, enraging Christians.
Yet Kamal said he died in the early eleventh century; so there must
be
two
strange, high-profile men by the name of Hakim in
Ismaili history.

She read: In the early thirteenth century, a
new legend about the origin of the name Alamut arose. For a while
this challenged the earlier wisdom about ‘the teaching of the
eagle’, yet the tale faded after the Mongol invasion and became
almost forgotten. This legend insisted that Alamut was a corruption
of ‘al maut’, meaning death. Amateur though this book might look,
she must have it.

The Jebel Bahra,
Syria: July 1161

A servant led Hakim along a dim corridor in the guts
of the castle. A door swung open and a servant boy emerged,
burdened with a tray of cups and bottles. In that moment Hakim saw
within. An array of candles on a long table illuminated what
perhaps were maps. Hakim was surprised to see that some of the men
in this well-appointed room were pale. One had hair like flax,
another’s was the colour of bright rust. They must be Franks,
Christians! All but one of the infidel wore surcoats above
chain-mail, white adorned with red crosses. The other was wrapped
in a black cloak, a white cross stitched upon it. An open casket on
the floor was piled high with gold coins. The boy hastily nudged
the door shut.

Bitterness and outrage overturned Hakim’s
optimistic mood, unravelling the careful phrases and spiritual calm
he’d spent all day achieving for this meeting with Sinan. Unholy
Christians, here in Kahf of all places! He was still struggling to
get himself under control when he was ushered into a modest
chamber. Sunlight slanted in from a narrow opening and brightly
illuminated hands that were folded upon a table, Sinan’s hands,
which it was said could manipulate anything their owner desired.
The rest of him was somewhat veiled by shadow.

“Dear Hakim, welcome! I must first apologise
for the deplorable number of weeks since our last meeting. Abu
Muhammad grows frail and has started to rely upon me, which I
welcome, yet high position is a thief of time… but Hakim, what is
amiss? Your eyes smoulder and your brow is furrowed.” Sinan leant
forward, plunging his face into the light, a face radiant with
concern. “Has some wrong been done to you?”

Somehow, Hakim already felt comforted.

“Wrong, yes, though long ago. Yet my pain was
recalled to me just now. Our brotherhood is consorting with infidel
Christians, inside this very castle!”

Sinan’s concern relaxed into a kindly smile,
like that of a supportive father to an erring child. He leant back
again.

“Hakim, Hakim,” he chided gently, “Allah
expects more wisdom from his chosen few. Don’t let old wounds
impair your good judgement. Our enemies here are many and we can’t
fight them all at once. These particular Christians aren’t like the
mass of the infidel. They’re trained and resourceful, and lift
themselves above the herd. They even practice their own
dissimulation,
taqiyyah
, beneath which they reject much
Christian practice. This makes them attractive as allies of
convenience, and we’ve found that these… these orders, the Templars
and Hospitallers, are very dangerous as enemies.”

Hakim’s logic and faith reasserted
themselves, like a ship emerging from the waves after a near
capsize. His heart still held bitterness for the Christians, but
nothing
was more important than the survival of the
brotherhood. His anger melted away.

“Oh forgive me dear Sinan, my lord and my
guide.”

Sinan reached out to touch Hakim’s hand.

“There’s nothing to forgive. Potions are your
forte, not politics. The situation here is complex and fluid. The
Templars are from Tortosa, the Hospitallers from the old qa’lat
al-Akrad, Krak as they call it. Both are too close for comfort,
much too close to ignore. But in their hearts these orders admire
us. Perhaps they’ve been granted a faint glimpse of the true light
that shines through our Nizari brotherhood. For decades we’ve
encouraged this admiration, and of their own accord they’ve taken
up some of our own ways. Did you notice their attire?”

“Most had surcoats like the robes of our
initiates, although the red formed a cross.”

“Yes,” mused Sinan. “Like, but not identical.
And they’re a useful thorn in the side of the Sunni enemy, whose
strength in Syria has waxed these last years. Yet if your high
purpose is achieved, good Hakim, there’ll be no further need for
any such distasteful alliances! By grant of Allah, our power would
approach that of His own hand, and none could then stand against
us. To this end I have the authority to raise you to a da’i, which
thus I will do this very day.”

“Oh Sinan,” breathed Hakim, genuinely
overcome. “You have my eternal gratitude.”

Sinan beamed magnanimously.

“Having helped each other we will both help
the brotherhood triumph within this turbulent world. And you
haven’t heard the rest… In reply to my urgings, Hasan himself has
asked to see you! Tomorrow you’ll leave with a small escort to the
very fount of our Nizari Ismaili faith, to Alamut. I cannot
guarantee
you’ll receive the resources you need, but I think
your personal dedication and skill and hard work will do this for
you.”

Hakim’s jaw dropped. He was speechless. So
soon! Truly Allah was great.

Qazvin, Iran:
May

They were staying in a house owned by one of Kamal’s
colleagues, who was away. A business colleague rather than an
academic, Abigail assumed, considering how expensive the place must
be. Wide verandas looked out onto trees and trailing greenery. Airy
rooms featured dark wood and tiles with raised knot-work patterns:
gold on blue, gold on green, blue on white. The bathroom was a
watery cave of smoky grey and mirrored surfaces, adorned by gold
taps and fitments. The bed in her guestroom was the softest
imaginable. Of course there were exquisite Persian rugs too.

Adding to Abigail’s feeling of being bathed
in luxury, Kamal had cooked their evening meal. To start there was
an eggplant salad with diced tomato, onion, garlic, lemon and
parsley. Then Kamal served the main course with a proud flourish; a
‘double chicken’ dish with rice. The lower layer was broiled in
stock with aromatic spice, the upper roasted with pine-nuts and
almonds. Abigail tried to guess the spices, but apart from
confirming cinnamon Kamal wouldn’t reveal anything.

“A secret recipe,” he whispered, “known only
to the culinary elite.”

“Is there no end to your skills?” Abigail
felt her laughter descend into girlish giggles and tried
frantically to arrest it.

“Well, I’ve cheated a little. Although we’re
in Iran these dishes are actually Syrian, from my homeland. The
salad is called
father’s favourite
.”

“Then I guess you’re forgiven the lapse of
protocol, but when we’re in Syria I may want a taste of Iran!”

Their conversation danced light-heartedly
around throughout the meal.
Dancing around the obvious
perhaps
, thought Abigail. Beneath the polite smiles there was
certainly something deeper, an animal tension she was still a
little afraid to let loose. Maybe Kamal was wary too.

As the wine lit a fire in her belly, the
tension eased. Selling and consuming alcohol was banned in Iran,
but home-brewed beer and wine was readily available to those with a
little local knowledge. Kamal had picked up this fruity little
number from behind the counter at a petrol-station in Qazvin.
Abigail realised only belatedly that it was pretty strong
stuff.

They left the table and settled on a large
leather sofa, glasses in hand. Abigail picked up her book of Arabic
love poetry, which she’d deliberately seeded there earlier.

“Dear Kamal,
please
read me some
poetry.”

Kamal raised his hands, his eyebrows too,
Abigail noted with amusement.

“The pleasure of Arabic poetry comes largely
from harmonies of sound and striking turns of phrase. It can’t
easily be rendered into English, especially on the spur of the
moment and by one with so little talent as I.”

“I doubt your talent is little,” grinned
Abigail. Then she pouted and made eyes. “
Pleeease…
”

Kamal sighed and took the book.

A giddy, teasing mood had grasped Abigail.
Wine-fuelled perhaps, or love-fuelled. Her cheeks flushed, but
fortunately Kamal was scanning the pages and hadn’t noticed.

His face was so noble in profile! The sharp
nose hooked over very slightly; a dark eye flicked across the
words. A tilted black brow lent an impression of strength, even
fierceness. Like an eagle, she thought. Grey in his trim beard
advertised experience and authority. Yet the strength was contained
by impeccable manners, allied to immense knowledge, tempered by
sophistication. She realised with a shock that her father would
like Kamal; since they’d both been successful in business, perhaps
like him a lot.
Well that would be a first for any man of
hers!

“Oh. I’ve seen this one before Abigail. The
fifth verse is often quoted. It’s by Hafiz.

My friend, before you wander into
the street of love
Do not forget to take along a guide
It is perilous for your undirected feet
Such twists and turns once you are inside.”

The fourteenth century warning wafted
impotently over Abigail.

“Hasn’t he something more optimistic, more
mysterious, more… oh I don’t know, more committed to love?” Abigail
drained her wineglass and slipped down into the smooth softness of
the sofa.

“Well, here’s a likely candidate...”

Kamal muttered a few practice runs under his
breath, trying to order the words for best effect and introduce
some rhyme, so that even in English it might actually sound a
little like poetry. Then he started off, his tone gentle, yet
earnest.

“
On this holy night, stay with
me
Until the morning, do not leave
On this night so dark,
My course, how will I weave?
Oh breath of life, this night help me
So come morning, I make a start
In my love for you, I will
My pride and my ego kill
Like Hafiz, be able at love
I long to master this skill.”

Abigail clapped. “Oh, you’re so clever!”

Kamal, unflustered as always, permitted
himself a small grin.

“If only Safiyya’s fragment was so easy to
understand. We might have had more chance with the original
Arabic.”

“
You
might have. That would be much
worse for me!”

“So how much have you actually told this
iceman
, this Jack whatever his name is?”

“Jack Turner. Very little. He’s paranoid. A
religious nut too, most likely. I didn’t even tell him about
Sinaldin.”

“Sinaldin? That sounds like… Well it’s an
intriguing name.” Kamal frowned. “But just who is this
Sinaldin?”

“Sinan al-Din ibn Nasir. He’s an Ismaili, and
something to do with all this I’m sure. He was Safiyya’s lover.”
Abigail waved an arm vaguely; she was having trouble thinking
straight. “He came by ship to Provence around the time of the Black
Death, then went on to Spain.” Her arm landed on Kamal’s shoulder.
He leaned over and stared at her intently.

“Then your Andalusian poetisa had an exotic
Arab lover?” he said softly.

“Yes, possibly younger than her. I’ve no
evidence for that, but I always imagine it so. She must have been
at least in her forties by the time Sinaldin returned to her from
that trip. Age doesn’t have to be a barrier to love, does it?”

She pulled him a little closer. Their gazes
locked.

“No, indeed not.”

Then his firm lips were pushing against hers.
Her tongue tingled at the touch of his, sending pleasant pins and
needles in a swift wave all the way down her body. Her nostrils
widened to pull in his scents, the musk of sandalwood, the clean
smell of his skin. His strength seemed all about her. Her head
spun.

Minutes of blessed relief and tight hugs and
urgent kisses later, they were stumbling up the stairs. Abigail
couldn’t stop giggling. She couldn’t direct her feet and clung to
Kamal. The heat of excitement coursed through her, yet then spawned
cold shocks of apprehension. Her stomach began to feel queasy.

They made it awkwardly to her bedroom door.
The air seemed close. Abigail had trouble getting her breath.

“Hey Kamal, look I… I’m sorry… I’m not
feeling too good. It’s been a lovely evening, but maybe it’s moving
a bit fast, maybe I’m not ready yet. I’m sorry, I…”

A lopsided smile tugged Kamal’s manly
features into a moment of boyishness.

“There’s no hurry. In my love for you I will,
my pride and my ego kill.”