The Lion of Cairo (20 page)

“No,” Yasmina replied. The tone of her voice was abrupt and vicious. “We can’t.” Without breaking stride, she hiked up the hem of her gown to reveal a makeshift sheath strapped to one long brown thigh; from it, Yasmina drew a thin-bladed dagger.

Parysatis’s eyes bulged. “What … what are you doing?”

The Egyptian girl did not answer, and before Parysatis could intervene she had reached the struggling eunuch, planted a petite foot on his chest—and in one quick motion laid open his throat. Bright blood spurted over the turquoise tiles.

Parysatis turned away, eyes squeezed shut and a hand clamped to her mouth as she fought the urge to be sick. She listened, horrified, to the African’s final throes: the wet gurgle as he tried to draw breath; the muffled grunting; the drumming of his heels. Mercifully, he did not linger, and in a dozen heartbeats the sounds ceased altogether.

The coppery stench of blood filled the dusty air of the hammam.

Parysatis opened her eyes to find Yasmina standing in front of her. The girl rested a consoling hand on her forearm. “I did what was necessary, mistress,” she said, her gaze frank and utterly without remorse. “Alive, he was a witness. Dead, he affords you deniability.”

“Merciful Allah!” Parysatis whispered. Her guilt outweighed her horror and both left her dizzy, her face pale and red eyes swollen. “Where did you learn such things?”

Yasmina’s answer came tinged with macabre pride: “I had an extraordinary teacher.” Gently, the girl bound Parysatis’s wrists with the dead eunuch’s sash. “When they come, you must appear distraught. You remember very little. You heard the struggle, and when you tried to rise the physician tied you up. The last thing you saw was al-Gid pressing a leaf and vanishing into the far wall. You’ve lain here in a stupor ever since. Do you understand?”

Parysatis nodded. She felt numb as Yasmina guided her into bed, an empty vessel drained of emotion. “What of you?”

“Don’t worry about me, mistress. If this hammam is like the others it will have a slave’s entrance. I’ll be gone before the hounds arrive.”

“Gone where?”

Yasmina swiped her hair off her forehead. “With or without your permission, I go to find the Gazelle. This is beyond us, now, mistress.
She
is the only person I can think of who will know what we can do, who we can trust.”

“I should just confess my part in this and beg for mercy,” Parysatis replied, her voice thick with despair.

“That would solve nothing, mistress.” Yasmina frowned. “And I would rather kill you myself—though it would break my heart to do so—than see you suffer at the hands of the vizier’s torturers. No, mistress. Now is not the time to act the martyr. Lie back and remember the part you’re playing. When I return,
inshallah,
it will be with good news.”

“Do not place too much faith in your Gazelle, Yasmina. She is only a woman, after all.”

“So was Scheherazade, mistress, and she wrapped a sultan around her finger. I’ll be back soon. Be strong.” Yasmina planted a quick kiss on Parysatis’s forehead before darting away. In a moment, all traces of the Egyptian’s passing had faded.

Shivering, Parysatis shrank down into her pillows and stared at the domed ceiling far above, its white patina awash in golden sunlight. The stink of blood filled her nostrils, and the young woman soon discovered the illness she meant to feign had become real …

10

The mosque of al-Aqmar stood at the head of the Bayn al-Qasrayn—that broad marble-paved plaza separating the East and West Palaces. Dubbed the Gray Mosque for the color of its stonework, it had a façade which displayed an array of elaborate decoration, from soaring keel arches and ribbed niches to stone rosettes and bands of Qur’anic verse chiseled deep into pale stucco. A single minaret rose from the heart of the mosque, adding its own slender bulk to a jagged skyline of domes and spires that caught the hazy midmorning sun and reflected it down into the crowded streets.

In the cool shadow of the mosque’s entry arch, Assad paused to remove his sandals. He glanced back into the Bayn al-Qasrayn. Hundreds jammed the broad plaza, a colorful sea of turbans and veils, tarboushes and headscarves. Native Cairenes and provincial Egyptians eager for a glimpse of their beloved Caliph mixed with foreigners of every stripe; Moslems mingled with Nazarenes who mingled with Jews. Slaves darted through the throng; porters staggered past under heavy loads. Merchants hurried to conclude their business before the markets closed for the morning, while courtiers and men of influence held forth beneath parasols of striped linen. Soldiers peppered the crowd: grim Turks, hawkish Circassians, and Sudanese mercenaries—all of them bristling with swagger and steel.

Though he trusted his disguise, Assad was in no mood to take chances. Slowly, he swept his back trail for signs of suspicious interest, of pursuit. He found neither. Indeed, in the press and shuffle of market day—with all its myriad sights, smells, and sounds—who would think to glance twice at a crippled holy man leaning on his ivory-headed walking stick? Satisfied, Assad nodded to himself.

“
As-salaam alaikum,
brother,” said a man’s voice from deeper inside the mosque.

The Assassin turned, falling effortlessly into character.
“Alaikum as-salaam.”

“Are you lost, my friend?”

“Lost? Not if this is the mosque of al-Aqmar, praise be to Allah.” Assad hobbled closer, dragging one foot as he leaned on his “walking stick”—his
salawar
in a makeshift sheath constructed from elongated laths of old, black-daubed teak bound in leather and copper wire; only the pommel of the blade protruded, a knob of sculpted ivory hidden by his hand. Faint tremors of hatred whitened his knuckles. At his back, a crescendo of sound caused him to glance once more into the plaza. “Where I am from, we conduct our Friday market with much less … fanfare.”

The clean-shaven man who faced Assad smiled, though the gesture did not extend to his eyes; these were deep set and agleam with innate distrust. Though plainly dressed in a linen
khalat
and a tulip-shaped turban, Assad reckoned him a palace chamberlain—one of the vizier’s eunuchs sent ahead to keep an eye on the mosque prior to the Caliph’s arrival. Obviously, part of his task was to keep the undesirables at bay. He made no move to step out of Assad’s path. “And where do you hail from, my friend?”

“Teyma, in the Hejaz.”

“A harsh land, the Hejaz. What brings you to Cairo?”

Though the eunuch’s tone was pleasant and his manner one of affable curiosity, Assad recognized a subtle interrogation taking place. The Assassin played along; to do otherwise would have raised alarm in the eunuch’s mind. “A pilgrimage,” he said, patting the cool stone wall beside him. “My mentor, ere he passed on, always sang the praises of the Gray Mosque. He was here as a boy, when Caliph al-Amir first laid its foundations, and was one of the first congregants through this very arch. I have come in honor of his memory to make my submission to God.
Allahu akbar
.”

“Allahu akbar,”
the eunuch echoed. He looked Assad up and down, seeing exactly what he was supposed to see: a backwater mystic from the heart of Arabia—scarred, crippled, and perfectly harmless. Slowly, the eunuch’s eyes lost their suspicious gleam; he stepped aside. “I suggest a spot under yonder colonnade, my friend. You’ll find it is coolest in its shade.”

“My thanks,” Assad replied, shuffling past.

Arches dominated the open courtyard of the Gray Mosque: keel arches held aloft by ancient columns of smooth marble, the whole braced and interconnected by timber tie beams. Lamps of smoky glass and bronze hung from these, unlit during the day. The scent of perfumed oils drifted in the air. The mosque was far from deserted. Already, men sought refuge from the heat, sitting alone or in pairs; some engaged in quiet conversation, while others simply closed their eyes and dozed. In one corner, beneath a narrow window, a wiry old man sat cross-legged in a patch of light, his gray-bearded lips moving as he read from his Qur’an.

Assad chose a spot opposite the niche in the eastern wall indicating the direction of Mecca; his position also kept the main entrance in his field of vision. With exaggerated care, he laid his disguised
salawar
on the ground and spread out his prayer rug. Assad exhaled and knelt. He cleared his mind as he performed the first of many prostrations. Whispering the
Shahada,
he rocked his body back and forth, and appeared to lose himself in a fog of religious ecstasy. He became a holy man.

And while Ibn al-Teymani, a rustic Sufi from the Hejaz, guided Assad’s physical actions, it was the Emir of the Knife who maintained his sense of predatory alertness, patient and calculating …

11

Away from the tumult of the Bayn al-Qasrayn, deep in the maze of narrow alleys stitching the Soldiers’ Quarter, a carpet seller from Aleppo ducked under a crumbling archway. Two confederates followed close on his heels; all three men moved at speed, their dusty robes swirling as they descended a flight of shallow steps. The alley ended in a mudbrick cul-de-sac, where an old wooden gate led to a hidden courtyard long bereft of a gardener’s care. Weeds grew knee-high around an old lotus pool, its basin bone-dry and cracked from the merciless heat; ruptured paving stones allowed a tangled mimosa to take root in the scabby earth.

With his companions in tow, the carpet seller made no attempt at stealth as he crossed the courtyard and stopped next to a jagged fissure in the wall. As the man favored keeping his head on his shoulders, he dared not step through unannounced.
“Askari!”
he panted, one half of the prearranged code.

From inside, a voice answered with the other half:
“Al-Din!”
Nodding, the man who claimed to be a seller of carpets from Aleppo squeezed through the cleft and into another garden—this one green and pleasant, with shady sycamores around a small pool. Incongruous to this, a black-clad fedayee waited next to the fissure with a naked scimitar cradled in his hands. Others loitered nearby.

“You’re late.”

“Is he already here?” The carpet seller, Gamal, brushed dust from his embroidered burnoose. He wished for a clean cloth to blot the tears streaming from his left eye, red and swollen with infection.

“By Allah, he’s been here for the past hour.”

“What’s his mood?”

The fedayee shrugged. “He has but one mood, brother.”

Cursing under his breath, Gamal left his companions to slake their thirst in the garden pool and entered the house alone. Constructed of stone slathered in a layer of cool white stucco, the place had rooms on multiple levels with arched galleries and broad casement windows—
mashrafiyya
—its layout meant to foster a constant flow of air. Pots of herbs and flowering plants added their soft fragrance to the breeze. Save for a handful of fedayeen, the house was all but deserted, its owner and his family unfortunate casualties of the clandestine war between Massaif and Alamut.

The house’s highest point was in the women’s quarters; in the harem reception room, where the master’s wife received her female visitors, a delicate
mashrafiyya
set with panels of stained glass overlooked the street. Here, Gamal found the man he had kept waiting.

Garbed in a girdled
khalat
of somber hue, Badr al-Mulahid reclined on a divan of yellow brocade, his legs crossed at the ankles—Death in quiet repose. He passed the time by dragging a whetstone along the edges of his Frankish dirk; those long rasping strokes punctuated the silence.

Gamal licked his cracked lips with the tip of his tongue. His eye ached. “Forgive my tardiness,
ya sidi
.”

The Heretic didn’t look up; stone and steel grated. “Well?”

“So far, nothing.” The carpet seller—in truth a captain of Massaif—twisted the heavy ring he wore as part of his disguise. “We spread the offer to the beggars at every gate. If they can’t lay their hands on the bitch, no one can.”

“What of the Emir of the Knife?”

“He’s going to be a hard one to run to ground, especially as the only thing we have to go on is a scarred face and the description of his knife. I look for those ignorant wretches to attempt a deception on us—like murdering some poor pox-ridden fellah and tucking an Afghan knife in his belt—hoping we will be stupid enough to hand over the money with no questions asked.”

“If they try it, kill them.” The Heretic raised his dirk and studied its twin cutting edges. “Cairo does not have enough beggars to bring low the Emir of the Knife. When he gets wind of the bounty, though, perhaps he will be encouraged to act before he is truly ready—and thus reveal himself. I will strike once your men have identified him.”

“The woman … does she remain our chief priority?”

The Heretic’s pale eyes transfixed him. “Both are equally important. But yes, we must take the woman first, and soon. Her death will answer the original commission Ibn Sharr laid upon us, to obliterate Alamut’s influence in Cairo, and in the same stroke we rob the Emir of a valuable ally.”

Before Gamal could respond, another of the fedayeen entered. “There’s movement,
ya sidi
!” Nodding, Badr al-Mulahid uncoiled from the divan like a steel spring. He sheathed his dirk and moved to the latticed window; Gamal followed in his wake.

The window overlooked the Street of Perfume Makers, nearly deserted as the noon hour approached. Across the way and to their left stood the House of the Gazelle; from this vantage Gamal could just make out the entryway. A figure stood at the mouth of the alley. Though his aspect seemed ragged and unkempt, he nevertheless moved like a man who knew how to handle himself. “Another of her customers,
ya sidi
?”

The Heretic said nothing; he watched the man through slitted eyes. There was something familiar about him, something he recognized though he could not put his finger on it. The figure peered out into the street—Badr could sense his suspicion—then, he turned and swept his gaze across neighboring rooftops, his head cocked to one side to compensate for having but a single eye …