Assassin (15 page)

T
HE
E
MIR’S STARK FORTRESS STOOD AT SOME TWELVE THOUSAND
feet, nestled between four craggy peaks rising like curved stone incisors at each of the four walled corners of the ancient fortress. Since the Emir himself knew he would never leave his citadel for any destination save Paradise, he didn’t care that it was virtually impossible to reach in any season. This was precisely why he’d chosen the inaccessible site in the mountainous heart of the Emirate. He had begun to enlarge and modernize this bastion some thirty years prior.

Remote as it was, security was sophisticated, and pervasive. A large monitor, one of many mounted above the small divan in the Emir’s day room, showed a small caravan now making its way upwards through the pass toward his gates, battered by a howling snowstorm. It was the camel train of Snay bin Wazir the infidel, the impious, the indispensable, the son-in-law. Although the Emir despised Snay bin Wazir, his impending arrival met with considerable anticipation.

His Excellency, the Most High, the Emir had but one burning lifelong goal. To establish
Khilafah.
Allah’s rule over all the earth. His fiery zealotry was deeply and purely religious. He wanted to purge the planet of every drop of the blood of the infidels, the unbelievers. Only then could humankind live in peace under the One True God.

Truly, a lot of infidel blood had already been shed. But this the Emir considered but a drop in Allah’s bucket.

The ice-coated bin Wazir, now making his way up the steep incline, shuddered with cold and anger. His loathing was predicated on far less righteous ideals than those of the noble Emir. Bin Wazir burned with envy. Jealousy. Humiliation. It was a source of great friction between himself and his father-in-law. In the late nineties, the Emir had found Snay bin Wazir’s highly publicized love of western luxury and the western mores of London debasing and disgusting.

Then one of the Emir’s British agents had sent him a taped BBC segment entitled:

Snay’s days as a bon vivant on the London scene were already numbered. This public humiliation of a member of the Emir’s household was one thing. But the Emir had heard through the grapevine that his son-in-law had recently attracted the attention of the police. Interpol and the Americans were looking into a series of brutal murders in London. Knowing Snay’s bloody proclivities, the Emir knew his guilt in the matter was more than likely. It was only a matter of time before the investigation would lead to the Emir’s doorstep. And so he’d had his network of sleeper agents inside Britain kidnap the infidel and his wife, the Emir’s beloved daughter Yasmin, fly them out of the country and transport them to his mountain fortress.

In a trial presided over by the Emirate’s sole authority, the Emir himself, bin Wazir had been found guilty of endangering the holy cause and bringing great shame on the House of the Emir. He was dragged away in chains, his fate sealed, his wife pleading with her father, to no avail.

On the morning of Snay bin Wazir’s scheduled beheading, however, the Emir had second thoughts about his despicable son-in-law. To execute him, however just, would kill his own daughter just as surely. She swore she would follow her husband to Paradise. The Emir could not imagine life on this earth without his precious child, no matter how cruelly she had disappointed him.

He would save two birds with one uncast stone.

His son-in-law was a vicious, vengeful animal with more cunning and raw intelligence than was typical of his low-bred breed. He could, the Emir considered, actually be useful. He could render service to Allah even though he was not remotely a true believer. He could become, with time and training, yet another swift sword in the Emir’s hand. He would have to be schooled ruthlessly until he had mastered the Arab warrior’s timeless arts of murder. After that, yes, this beast Snay could prove useful.

After some thought, the Emir made another fateful decision. He would recreate an age-old Arabic institution: the
hashishiyyun.
Once a secret sect of medieval Islam, this drug-crazed cadre of exquisitely skilled assassins was originally comprised of both sexes. In the Emir’s vision, this murderous clan would be comprised of the deadlier of the species. All seductive females, the better to insinuate themselves more easily into the enemy’s hearts and lives. And bin Wazir, who had a certain power over women, would be the ideal chieftain for such a secret army.

The ancient assassins would gladly hurl themselves from the tops of lofty towers at the click of the master’s fingers, just to demonstrate their contempt for life and absolute fealty to their lord. The Emir believed Snay could command that kind of loyalty. He had a strange power over women.

So Snay bin Wazir’s head, to his amazement and delight, remained affixed to his torso. So long as he trained faithfully, and ruthlessly executed the Emir’s evolving strategies for the creation of the new
hashishiyyun,
his existence would be tolerated. He would retire from public life in the west. He and his wife could live as they chose as long as they remained chiefly inside the Emirate’s borders. The Emir deposited one hundred million pounds sterling in Yasmin’s name in a bank in Zurich. Six months later, Snay and Yasmin began construction on their magnificent new mountain-top residence, the Blue Palace.

There, in splendid isolation, bin Wazir would create this new order of
hashishiyyun.
An army of perfectly trained female killers. Seductive and lethal, they would go out into the world, far beyond the borders of the Emirate, to do the bidding of their immediate master through the orders of Snay’s own exalted lord, the Emir.

“Shit!” Snay shouted to his camel boy, wiping a fresh coating of snow from his frozen beard. “How much farther?” His camels stumbled once more and he was nearly thrown from his tossing and pitching sedan. Camels were for the desert. Normally camels were the transport of choice in these mountains, too. But, ascending icy mountain ranges in a blinding snowstorm was not their strong suit.

The new millenium was already in its fourth year. Riding atop these bloody frostbitten camels was a far cry from gliding around Mayfair in the rear of his gleaming Silver Ghost, sipping a Pimm’s Cup with his old friend Attar. Ah, he’d been the toast of London for a while, his handsome face and glitzy lifestyle the stuff of glossy magazines and Sunday supplements.

Then, Beechum’s.

He had opened his opulent palace with great expectations. It was to be the cornerstone of his expanding personal real estate empire. But, then the disastrous opening and, the morning after, that infamous boldface tabloid headline had appeared. Two bloody words (written, no doubt, by the treacherous Stilton) were emblazoned above a close-up picture of Snay at the opening night reception. A full-page, four-color nightmare.

The fatal stab was the headline all London saw that morning. Above the shot of Snay toasting the camera with champagne, the erstwhile Pasha of Knightsbridge read these words:

“YESTERDAY, THE TOAST OF LONDON…TODAY, HE’S TOAST!”

Five long years after the fact, bin Wazir, still nursing those old wounds, was riding out another storm. Only now he was slung between two surly camel mounts in a custom cradle of ebony with an ivory rim, richly adorned with gold and jewels. Wind and snow whipped through, lashing the canvas awnings aside as if they were ribbons. Snay’s thick moustache was solid ice beneath his nose.

“How long, boy?” he called out.

“Another hour or two, I believe,” the boy Harib called back, quaking with fear.
“Inshallah.”

Harib knew his indefinite answer would only serve to anger Snay further.
Inshallah
had many shades of meaning, from ‘God willing,’ to ‘soon,’ to ‘don’t count on it.’ But Harib couldn’t be more precise because he couldn’t see any of his familiar landmarks. The snowstorm wasn’t his fault, but Snay didn’t care. He’d been screaming at everyone for the better part of the day. Harib had already felt the sting of Snay’s rhino-hide whip across his shoulders when one of the camels had stumbled into a deep crevasse hidden by snow, nearly spilling the four-hundred-pound sumo-weight Pasha into a snowbank.

There were, in all, twelve camels in the storm-lashed caravan, the lead six bearing Snay, his four sumo guards, and the African chieftain Tippu Tip at the front of the pack. Six more camels behind them were loaded with supplies, weapons and Snay’s mountain fighters. The weaponry was sophisticated in this remote part of the world and included the very latest German machine guns and laser-guided rocket propelled grenades, RPGs.

No sign of trouble yet, fortunately, but there were many ancient warring tribes in these mountains, vicious warriors who bore no allegiance to either Snay or the Emir, and the danger of a surprise attack by these screaming, saber-rattling hordes was ever present.

The wind-whipped snow had been increasing in intensity. Snay had known he faced a treacherous ascent, even in mild weather. In white-out conditions, as now, it was madness. But what choice did he have?

He’d been summoned by the Emir. And so began the long, dangerous journey which would take him from one mountain peak, his own 18,000-foot Blue Mountain, down and across the Dasht-e Margow, the Desert of Death, that crossroads where three continents meet, and, from the baking desert floor, up again into one of the world’s most treacherous mountain ranges.

Ahead, on the so-called trail, Snay bin Wazir could almost distinguish three giant figures atop their struggling mounts. Tippu Tip was leading the two sumos in front of his sedan. Behind were camels bearing the two other sumos. He was well guarded as always, he thought, trying to find some comfort in his situation. But what could protect him from plummeting through a snow-covered crevasse? Or from a rock slide, an avalanche, a murderous horde? These things happened with regularity at this altitude and—

“Pasha! Look!” the camel boy shouted, interrupting his dark musings.

“What?” Snay said, looking everywhere for signs of his imminent demise. As if he didn’t have enough on his mind, wondering what the Emir wanted that—“What is it, damn your eyes?”

“There!” the excited boy said, pointing off to the right. “Do you see it? Allah be praised!”

Relief swept over him. No wild devils on horseback were sweeping down on him from the heights. No, what he saw was a massive radar dome. It was just the first of an outlying perimeter of many radar sites leading up to the fortress itself; but it meant the caravan was much closer to its destination than he’d been told by the witless Harib. First, the radar, and then, climbing higher, the anti-aircraft and surface-to-air emplacements. He was, by all approximations, less than an hour from learning what his future held.

Snay bin Wazir shut his eyes. He knew this next bit well enough. The cages.

Now came the first of many “man cages” erected on either side of the pass. These filthy iron baskets, stretching along either side of the “mile of death” leading to the fortress’s massive gates, held men, women, or the remains of either. They were ancient devices, made of thick iron slats, woven into basket shapes. The victim was placed inside, then hoisted high on poles that loomed above the pass, where no friends or relations could pass food, water, or salvation in the form of poison to the condemned. The cages were a sobering reminder of the Emir’s absolute power over all his subjects and agents; not that bin Wazir, of all people, needed any sober reminding.

“Allah preserve me,” Snay croaked, miserably rubbing away the painful icicles that had formed on his frozen eyelashes.

T
HREE MEN STOOD UP WHEN
A
LEX APPROACHED THE CORNER
table, one of only ten tables in the Connaught’s celadon green Grill Room. The tall, lean, Jeffersonian figure of Patrick Kelly; a solidly built hardcore Army type Hawke recognized instantly as former First Lieutenant Sonny Pendleton, now with the American Defense Department; and a surprisingly handsome mustachioed gentleman, tall, athletically built, and ruggedly resplendent in a three-piece chalk-stripe that could only have come from Huntsman’s.

This bin Wazir was good-looking enough, with a vulpine aspect to his ready grin, and, beneath luxuriant black eyebrows, a startling manic energy in his black eyes that fairly crackled with intensity.

“Why, you must be Lord Hawke,” the fellow boomed, sticking out his hand. Heads swiveled. The Connaught’s smaller dining room was filled with patrons accustomed to quiet civility and hushed decorum, although, since it had gone nonsmoking, it tended to attract a fair number of Americans. One of the reasons Hawke much preferred it to the stuffier main dining room. He was one of those somewhat rare Englishmen who’d always found the casual bonhomie of Americans refreshing rather than tedious.

Hawke shook hands with all three men. Snay bin Wazir’s handshake was surprisingly warm and dry. In Hawke’s experience, people in interview situations, which is what this evening basically was about, had very clammy handshakes. “An honor, your lordship,” he said.

“Alex Hawke will do,” Hawke said, smiling. “Don’t use the title, never have. I’m descended from pirates and peasants, you see. A rather churlish lot, but I’m proud of them.”

“I see. Well, then.” The man seemed at a loss and Hawke covered his obvious embarrassment by making a show of sitting down.

There was the usual small talk as drinks were served. Bin Wazir again surprised Hawke. The man was a brute, there was no disguising it, but someone had sanded off his rough edges. There was keen intelligence in those obsidian eyes, and a ready smile to go with it. Whatever his reputation, here was someone who clearly enjoyed life to the fullest. He was also, by reputation, utterly fearless.

Hawke leaned back and studied bin Wazir while the Arab, Brick Kelly, and the DoD man Pendleton engaged in a discussion in which the name of the arms dealer al-Nassar featured prominently. Here was a chap, this self-styled Pasha, who had just taken a bastion of London society and utterly destroyed it. And subsequently been soundly pilloried for it. If there was even an ounce of remorse over what he’d done to London’s most revered hotel, or any sense of social humiliation in the fellow, Hawke couldn’t see it.

Fascinating.

Dinner came and went uneventfully, with Pendleton pressing his case against al-Nassar’s imminent sale of more fighter jets to Iran and bin Wazir alternating between demurral and assent with Washington’s position. It wasn’t until coffee and brandy were being served that Brick brought up the subject at hand.

“Alex,” Brick said, putting a match to the end of a Griffin cigar, “Mr. bin Wazir here had a most unfortunate experience at Nell’s last Thursday evening.”

“Really?” Hawke said, looking over at the man, “I’m very sorry to hear that, Mr. bin Wazir. Please tell me what happened.”

Bin Wazir laughed and rubbed his big beefy hands together as if relishing the memory. He gave Hawke a look as if to say they were old friends and that this little tale was just idle club gossip amongst gentlemen.

“It was most amusing, actually,” Bin Wazir then said, his smile revealing a set of gleaming white teeth beneath the thick black moustache.

“Amusing,” Hawke said, giving him a smile of encouragement.

“Quite. You see, I was dining in the neighborhood with a lovely young woman of my acquaintance. After dinner, she asked if I would take her to Nell’s for a dance and a drink. Yes, I said, why not, it’s right around the corner. We descended the stairway and were met by two gentlemen at the door.”

“Yes,” Hawke said, “Thursday evening, that would be Mr. Bamford and Mr. Lycett.”

“Exactly. Well, they asked if they could help me and I said yes, I’d like to buy the young lady a drink at the bar. Was there a problem? Well, yes, they said, this is a private club. Members only. Not a problem at all, I said, getting out my checkbook. I’ll join. How much?”

Bin Wazir laughed again as if at himself, and looked round the table, gathering approval.

“Most amusing,” Hawke said, finally.

“I thought so, too,” bin Wazir said, now warming to the tale.

“Ah, but Mr. bin Wazir, they said, this is unfortunately not how the club functions. They said I must be proposed by a member, seconded, and have a number of supporting letters. Well, it was a little embarrassing, but, thankfully, my dear friend Sonny here agreed to help me smooth things over.”

Smooth things over? Well,
Hawke thought, casting a glance at Brick,
well, this certainly could get interesting.

“Mr. bin Wazir,” Brick said, “You certainly took the direct approach, but I’m afraid Mr. Bamford and Mr. Lycett were accurate. You will need to go through the process.”

“Surely, you’re not serious, Mr. Ambassador,” bin Wazir said. “A simple phone call from you would—”

“He is serious, I’m afraid, Mr. bin Wazir,” Hawke said, coming to Brick’s aid. “I, as it happens, am the current chairman of the admissions committee. I approve all applications and no one is accepted unless they have met all the requirements. Proposer, seconder, and a minimum of five supporting letters. All from members.”

“That’s right, Mr. bin Wazir,” Brick said. “Sorry, but there you have it.”

Bin Wazir looked at the two of them as if he could not believe what he was hearing. Finally, he smiled and said, “Fine, you two gentlemen are members. You can propose and second me.”

“Unfortunately, we cannot,” Hawke said, sipping his brandy. “Membership committee members are not permitted to do that.”

“Who says that?” bin Wazir said, the color rising in his cheeks now.

“The club rules say that,” Hawke said coolly. “There’s actually a whole book of them. Rather thick, to be quite honest.”

“I’ve sent you a book listing the names of the entire membership,” Brick said. “It’s just a matter of your going through it, calling the members you know, and getting the process started.”

“I didn’t know any of the fucking members in the book,” bin Wazir said, his voice rising. More than a few heads swiveled in his direction at that point and Alex realized he’d have to calm the fellow down and quickly.

“Please,” Alex said. “You’re taking this personally. It isn’t. Everyone at Nell’s has gone through the exact same process. Including Ambassador Kelly and myself. You’ll just have to be patient and get to know a sufficient number of members, that’s all.”

The man turned on Alex then and literally snarled. “And, Lord Hawke, how do I get to know the fucking members if I’m not allowed inside the fucking club? Let’s cut this bullshit, all right? How much? Give me a goddamn number. I’ll write you a fucking check and—”

Barnham, the maître d’, had appeared by bin Wazir’s side. He bent and looked the man in the eye and said quietly but firmly, “Sir, your behavior is inappropriate in this establishment. Either lower your voice and clean up your language or you will be asked to leave.”

“Fuck you,” bin Wazir barked at Barnham, and turned away from him. His eyes were blazing and looked back and forth to Hawke and Kelly, who stared back at him implacably.

“You guys think you can fuck with me? Nobody fucks with me. The arrogance of you Americans and Brits! My people were inventing mathematics when you people were still rubbing fucking sticks together. I’ll make you bastards pay for this, that I can guarantee you! I will—”

“Mr. bin Wazir,” Barnham said, “You are no longer welcome in this establishment. These two gentlemen will escort you to the door.” Two burly waiters had arrived and by now all conversation in the room had ceased and all eyes were riveted on the scene at the corner table.

Bin Wazir got to his feet, furiously wiping his mouth with his napkin, which he then threw to the floor. “If they touch me, they’re dead,” he said, flecks of spittle at the corners of his mouth. And with that he gripped the edge of the table and upended it, sending all the china and silverware flying, and a large snifter full of brandy into Alex Hawke’s lap.

Hawke looked at the enraged man evenly and, trying to keep his voice down, said, “I would say the odds of your getting past the Nell’s admissions committee at this point are decidedly slim, Mr. bin Wazir.”

This brought forth a great deal of chuckling from the surrounding tables. For a moment, Hawke thought the man might actually go for his jugular but he wisely decided to simply turn on his heel and storm out of the Grill Room, pushing and shoving all and sundry out of his path.

The waiters already had the table back in place and were bringing a fresh coffee service and liqueurs. After apologizing profusely to the staff and the other diners, Brick turned to Alex and said, “I’m sorry to have dragged you into this nightmare, Alex. Really, I am.”

“Good God,” Pendleton said, “I’m the one who should be apologizing. The whole mess is on me. I’ll go find the hotel manager and see if I can’t clean it up somehow.”

“I’m the one who invited Hawke, remember?” Kelly said, as Pendleton got up from the table.

“Don’t be ridiculous, old Brick. You either, Sonny. Most fun I’ve had in months.”

Half an hour later, having laughed the whole thing off over a few stiff whiskies courtesy of Duckworth at the bar, Hawke and Kelly went outside, looking for the ambassador’s driver. A few taxis stood waiting in Carlos Place, but the embassy car was not there.

“Where in the world’s my car?” Brick asked one of the doormen.

“Gentleman came flying out about half hour ago, sir. Quite upset he was, too. Before I could stop him, he climbed into the back of your car, said something to your driver, and off they went. Thought it was a bit odd, but—”

“Unbelievable,” Brick said. “Lunacy.”

“He pulled a gun on him, Brick,” Hawke whispered. “It’s the only answer.”

“Shall I call a cab for you gentlemen?”

“We’ll find one, thank you,” Hawke said. It was still spitting rain but he needed a little fresh air.

“I’ve got to call my DSS guys, Alex,” Kelly said as the two men turned into Mount Street. “I think this guy is seriously dangerous.”

“Here. Use my mobile.”

They hadn’t traveled more than halfway up the empty block when a giant black man leaped out of the shadows from behind them. He grabbed a stunned Kelly by the collar of his jacket and ripped the cell phone out of his hand. Brick whirled, his fist already cocked, and threw a vicious roundhouse punch. It was deflected and a head-butt from the giant sent a stunned Kelly sprawling to the pavement. Then the monstrous fellow turned his brutal attentions on Hawke.

“I would say we could go somewhere and discuss this like gentlemen,” Hawke said, “But you’ve made the stupid mistake of attacking a friend of mine.”

The thug grunted and made a move towards Hawke. Alex was set, and he stepped inside it. He chopped the flat edge of his right hand across the man’s throat and drove the compressed fingers of his left hand up under the sternum. A shockwave rippled up both of Hawke’s arms. He might as well have attacked the statue of Roosevelt in nearby Grosvenor Square.

There was iron in the man’s bones.

His efforts earned him no more than a grunt from the great box-like man and suddenly he was in a deathly embrace, the huge black arms enfolding him, lifting him. He could feel a hot pain as his ribs were compressed by the two human bands of iron encircling him. His arms pinioned and on fire, his entire upper body useless, Hawke’s racing mind surveyed his enemy’s anatomy, ticking off the possible vulnerabilities in milliseconds.

Kidneys? Groin? No. He was locked in a death vise which gave his own knees and feet no good angle. He felt the air going out of him. A familiar blackness laced with red was encroaching upon his conscious mind. He’d been in this place many times and knew automatically that he was out of time. It would be a near thing. He felt hot snorts from the giant’s nostrils as the man added crushing pressure, preparatory to killing him. Very hot breath against his face? Where? On his forehead. Yes. In a single, violent motion, Hawke whipped his head back, then forward, smashing the top of his skull against the man’s nose. There was a satisfying crunch of small bones and Hawke’s face was instantly drenched in a spray of the man’s hot blood.

The iron grip eased momentarily, and Alex collapsed to the pavement. Shaking his head, panting through clenched teeth, and trying to clear out the black veil, Hawke got to his hands and knees. He was nothing but a furious animal now, unthinking and bent on terrible vengeance. He was getting to his feet, eyeing his adversary through mists of pain, when the vicious blow of steel-capped shoe caught his ribcage, splintering three ribs and propelling Alex Hawke into the gutter.

“Ar kill you,” the giant said, speaking for the first time, his own voice garbled with blood and pain. Alex lifted his head and looked up at the towering figure with the blood pouring from his smashed nose. He struggled to rise, breathing deeply, summoning reserves of strength he knew had to be there. Kelly still wasn’t moving. He lay against a lamppost at a grotesque angle. Unconscious, one could only hope.