Cold Judgment Read online

  Within the hour, she would strike a blow that would be long remembered by her enemies. And, as an added bonus, there was still a chance she might survive.

  * * *

  "One of the women from the garden?"

  Bolan nodded, putting on a rueful smile.

  "By Allah's beard! No wonder the Assassins all look forward to the afterlife with such enthusiasm."

  Bolan chuckled, but Kasm was instantly suffused with guilt. His wife might not possess the charms of that one, but her beauty shone within, and it was honest, pure. He was ashamed of having looked upon the woman with desire.

  "Something to drink?"

  The warrior shook his head and helped himself to fruit from the elaborate arrangement on the platter. "Not for me."

  Kasm picked up the heavy goblet, raised it to his lips… and saw the folded slip of paper lying on the platter, where it had been concealed. He set the chalice down, picked up the paper and unfolded it. A glance was all it took before he knew the message had been meant for his companion.

  "Here. For you."

  Bolan read it several times, his forehead lined with concentration. Finally he passed the message back and asked, "What do you make of that?"

  The Arab read through the message, which had been printed in square block letters, like a sample from an English textbook.

  Meet me at the entrance to the garden in an hour's time. The door will not be guarded. Come alone. Destroy this note when you have finished reading it.

  The cryptic letter was not signed. Kasm was frowning as he passed it back. "Do you think it is a message from the girl?"

  "Who else?"

  He shrugged. "If I were you, I would ignore it."

  "Just like that?"

  "It is a trap. Or possibly a test."

  "Explain."

  "The Old Man — or that piece of camel's dung, Arrani — may be questioning your loyalty. If you are lured by this note, they might have further cause to doubt you. Who can say what they might do?"

  Bolan considered it, but finally shook his head. "I don't believe that. If you ask me why, I couldn't tell you. It just feels wrong."

  "Then, a trap. Why else would anyone desire to meet you in the garden when they could as easily approach you here? The girl was here just now, and she said nothing. Why delay your meeting for an hour?"

  "Maybe she's the bashful type."

  "A bashful whore?" Kasm made no attempt to hide his scorn. "I know you do not hear my words, but on my life I beg you. Do away with this." He pointed at the note disdainfully. "Forget you ever saw it."

  "Sorry. Can't."

  "Americans. Is this not what you call bullheaded?"

  Bolan smiled. "You may be right. Let's say I can't resist a mystery."

  Kasm could feel the color rising in his cheeks. "And your appointed mission? What becomes of that, of Syria, if you are killed before your work is done?"

  "It shouldn't matter. I'm invited to assassin's school this afternoon. With any luck, I should have this installed and functioning before we meet for dinner." As he spoke, the warrior brushed one hand against a pocket of his caftan, where he had concealed the miniature transmitter when the woman arrived.

  "And that is all?"

  "It's self-contained. The strike force makes its pass at the appointed hour, finds the beacon, and they're home. It would be nice if we were somewhere else just then, but either way, it's show time."

  "And the Eagle's Nest will be destroyed?"

  "I wouldn't want to write the Old Man any home-insurance policies right now."

  "If we are still inside…"

  "The curtain comes down, either way. There's no abort procedure once the strike force has that beacon."

  "And the scheduled time of their arrival?"

  "Midnight."

  "But the transmitter must be in place."

  "That's right."

  "In that case, I suggest your visit with the harlot should not be prolonged."

  Bolan smiled. "Believe me, I don't have the energy for anything but conversation."

  "You will please be careful?"

  "Yes."

  "I do not ask this for myself, but for my people. If this bloody business must be done, then let us do it properly."

  He rose to leave, and Bolan stopped him with a hand upon his arm.

  "If anything goes wrong," he said, "if they come looking for you and its obvious I'm out of it, do everything you can to get away. The stable route has possibilities. Outside, if you can make connections with your contacts, pass along coordinates. The raid can be rescheduled for another time."

  "I will not leave you here."

  "Get real. If they come looking for you, and I'm not around, it means I won't be coming back. In that case, you'll know you were right, and you might still have time to save yourself."

  "It is a shameful thing to run away."

  "You've got it wrong. The shame is giving up your life for no good reason, when you have a chance to make it count."

  "I will consider this."

  "You do that. And with any luck at all, I'll see you when we meet for dinner."

  In the corridor outside, Kasm moved slowly toward his room, pondering the American's words. Before he reached his own door, he had made his mind up. He would not run away, no matter how Belasko might wish it. If the enemy should turn on him, if the summons from the whore turned out to be an ambush, Kasm would try to help his comrade with the means at his disposal. If he failed, and if he spent his life in the attempt, at least he would have died a man. But running? Never.

  They would leave the Eagle's Nest together, or they would not leave at all.

  * * *

  Bolan thought about the note while he was shredding it and moving toward the tiny bathroom, where he flushed its tattered remnants down the toilet. He had listened to Hafez Kasm, realized the common sense behind the Arab's words. It made no sense that anyone inside the castle — least of all Shari — would attempt to seek a private audience with Bryan Harrigan outside his chambers. Not unless they planned to do him harm or somehow test his loyalty to the cause he claimed to represent.

  Forewarned, however, Bolan felt that he could not afford to let the moment pass. If there was unknown danger here he would be better off to meet the threat head-on, instead of leaving enemies at large to choose their time and place. If he was being tested by the sheikh or his associate, Tahir Arrani, Bolan thought that he could play his part convincingly enough to put their minds at ease.

  What form would an attempted buy-off take, if that turned out to be the game? He had already sampled everything the woman had to offer, and the prospect of financial pay-offs from a slave were slim, indeed. Of course, if the Old Man and his right arm were setting up an ambush, then the woman would merely be a gofer, carrying the message and, perhaps, remaining at the rendezvous to mark him with the Judas kiss. The killers would be members of the standing army Sheikh al-Jebal maintained for such emergencies, his own disciples, dedicated to the faith.

  Unarmed, would he have any chance at all? No matter. Knowledge of an enemy in waiting could be half the battle. If he missed the meeting, left the hunters to decide upon another place and time, he would be granting them the critical advantage of surprise. At least, if Bolan knew that an attack was coming, he could take some measures to defend himself.

  For openers, he wore his desert camo uniform beneath his caftan. It had been returned that morning, cleaned and pressed, along with his combat boots. His side arm and the AK-47 had not been returned, but he had not expected them. For now it was enough that he possessed the other gear. As Bolan counted down the final moments to his garden rendezvous, he pulled one of the plastic canteens from its canvas sheath, dipping anxious fingers inside, smiling with relief as he discovered that his hosts had missed the secret pocket there.

  Withdrawing the Tekna "Security Card" from its hiding place, Bolan palmed it, ran his thumb across its plastic outer surface. Manufactured to the general dimensions of a credit card, t
he Tekna was, in fact, a compact skinning knife. The blade, when manually extended from its high-impact plastic sheath, was just over two inches long, an inch and a quarter across at its base. The cutting edge was razor-sharp and could produce appalling wounds in close encounters of the lethal kind. He thought about the woman once more and stopped himself before he had a chance to visualize her face, her supple body, opened by the blade.

  And Bolan knew that he would do whatever his survival and the mission might require. If he was forced to make a choice, the mission would, of course, come first. There were innumerable lives at stake outside of Syria, and Bolan's death, when it arrived, could hardly be considered an untimely one, in any case.

  He had already crammed more action, more success and failure, into one lifetime than most men ever dreamed of. Since his youth, in Asia, Bolan had been waiting for the Reaper, and it mattered little, in the final scheme of things, if he should meet death here or somewhere down the road.

  The Tekna in one pocket, his directional transmitter safe inside another, Bolan knew that he was ready. He would keep his date with Shari in the garden, and if he was able, afterward, he would go on to join the Old Man of the Mountain for a tour of the assassin's school. Along the way he would secrete the homer, key its signal and begin the countdown toward destruction of the vipers' lair.

  12

  As she waited in the garden, Shari wondered if the tall man would succumb to curiosity and keep their rendezvous. She might have overplayed her hand, been too mysterious. There was the possibility that he had smelled a trap and shied away, preferring to remain secure inside his room.

  He would not be secure, of course, but it would be more difficult to reach him there, more dangerous for anyone who tried to make the kill and cover up his tracks. Her tracks. If he ignored her message, an attempt to take him in his room would find the man on his guard against her, his suspicion already aroused.

  Shari knew his name, now. It had come to her as information always traveled through the castle, carried on a tide of furtive whispers. He was Bryan Harrigan, an Irish name, and while the field of Western European politics was not her strong point, Shari knew the sort of Irishman who would have business with the Old Man of the Mountain. Bryan Harrigan had come to Alamut with bloody hands, no doubt, and he was there to strike a bargain with the devil, trading cash for lives.

  In other circumstances Shari might have let him go, dismissed him as a minor character of no importance to her mission. In her seven months of silent watching, though, frustration had been mounting, urging her to take action that would provide some feeling of accomplishment, a sense that she was doing something.

  She would have her chance today.

  No guards were posted on the entrance to the garden as her harem sisters had been called away to other duties in the castle. Shari, for her part, had been assigned to work the laundry, but her friends would cover for her while she kept her tryst. It had been easy to convince them that the man sought her company, that he had offered gifts she could not refuse. Security was not as tight around the women now that they were seasoned in their duties, and an hour lost would likely go unnoticed.

  The blow she struck this afternoon would shake the Old Man's confidence, allowing paranoia's voice to whisper in his ear and undermine his smug self-satisfaction. If nothing else, he would be damaged by the understanding that his fortress was not sacrosanct, his cherished privacy was not inviolate.

  The temperature was mild, but Shari's palms were damp with perspiration. Nervously she rubbed her hands together, reached behind her back to make another readjustment to the long knife tucked inside the waistband of her harem pants. Its blade was cool against her skin, the sharp tip pricking at her buttocks as she paced.

  She knew precisely what to do, had practiced and rehearsed the moment in her mind, until she was convinced no possibility for error remained. Seduction was her specialty, and Bryan Harrigan undoubtedly possessed the same male ego that would urge him to accept her story, lead him to believe a woman could desire his touch so ardently that she would risk her life for stolen moments in his arms. He would believe, because where their gonads were concerned, most men were fools.

  She would not give him time to scrutinize the glaring flaws inherent in her tale of irresistible desire. Before cold logic had a chance to master flattery, she would have slit his throat from ear to ear and left him leaking blood on the garden path. It would be hours before his lifeless body was discovered and a search for his murderer mounted in the castle.

  A sound beyond the heavy door made Shari hold her breath. The silence of the garden was oppressive, stifling, and she worried that her heartbeat might be audible, hammering, as it was, like a kettledrum. If anyone but Bryan Harrigan should find her here…

  The door swung open silently on well-oiled hinges, admitting the Irishman. When it was firmly shut behind him, and Shari had confirmed he had come alone, she emerged from the leafy undergrowth.

  "It pleases me that you have come."

  "Your message sounded urgent, and I never could resist a damsel in distress."

  She wore her most seductive smile. "There is no danger here. I simply wished to… see you."

  "Funny thing. I had a similar idea, myself."

  "I please you, then?" She was within arm's reach, but Harrigan made no attempt to touch her.

  "I've got no complaints," he said.

  She stepped into his arms, submission giving way to simulated ardor, one hand slipping down to fondle him, the other easing back in the direction of her weapon. Now she had it, was prepared to make her move…

  And in a sudden, dizzy instant, she was airborne, tumbling through space. Her shoulders struck the ground with force enough to empty her lungs, and for a moment she was blinded by her loss of equilibrium, the rush of blood that sent a thousand colored asteroids to cloud her field of vision.

  As she got her eyesight back, remembered how to breathe at last, she found the Irishman sitting astride her. Both arms were stretched above her head, her wrists secured by one of Harrigan's large hands. He held a knife blade tight against her throat, the keen edge dimpling her skin.

  "So much for hearts and flowers," he declared. "Let's try a new game — like the truth."

  * * *

  "I do not understand."

  "Wrong answer." Bolan let the Tekna's stubby blade caress her jawline, sliding down to tease the skin where a pronounced and rapid pulse revealed the jugular. "I haven't got all day," he told her, "and I've got no sympathy for people who try to kill me. Even pretty ones."

  She tried to bluff it out. "You will not do this."

  "No? I guess you're right. I ought to let the sheikh take care of his employees."

  Sudden terror in the woman's eyes told Bolan that his hunch had been on target. She had not been sent to kill him by the master of the Eagle's Nest.

  He stood and backed away, retrieving Sharps fallen knife and pocketing the Tekna. "On your feet."

  She rose on shaky legs, considered running for it, and finally decided that she wouldn't have a chance. "The master will be angry," Shari said at last. "I will be punished."

  "I'd think so."

  "Have you seen the way he punishes his concubines?"

  "I must have missed it."

  "If a woman laughs while in his presence, he commands Amal to pierce her tongue with heated iron. Two months ago, a sister of the harem was discovered with a sentry. They were making love without permission from the master. Her companion was chastised with twenty lashes. She was boiled alive."

  "You should have thought it through beforehand."

  "Is there nothing I can offer for your silence?"

  She was already reaching for the buttons of her filmy vest when Bolan stopped her with a scowl. "We've been that route," he snapped. "The only thing I want from you is information."

  Shari hesitated, dropped her hands back to her sides. "What is it that you wish to know?"

  "For openers, I'm interested in who you are an
d why you felt the urge to whittle me a second smile."

  She stiffened, then shook her head. "If you must kill me or betray me to the master, do it."

  Bolan hesitated, played a hunch. From the reaction of his captive, he was certain that the sheikh had not prompted her attempt to slit his throat. If she was operating on her own, it raised a host of possibilities he was anxious to explore.

  "You know my name?"

  "I know you, Mr. Harrigan."

  "And you decided you should take me out?"

  This time, the woman held her tongue.

  "Would it make any difference to you if I wasn't Bryan Harrigan?"

  She looked confused, but hid it cunningly behind a mask of skepticism. "Oh? And if not Harrigan, who are you?"

  "Names don't count for anything," he answered. "But I'm no more IRA than you are. I was sent here for a purpose, and unless I miss my guess, we have that much in common."

  "You confuse me."

  "Do I? Would it clear things up if I was sent to shut this operation down?"

  "You speak in riddles."

  Bolan shrugged. "You can't expect me to reveal the details. I don't even know your name."

  "I told you…"

  "And I don't believe you. Fair enough?"

  She nodded, still reluctant. "Sarah. Sarah Yariv."

  "Israeli?"

  "Now you know my secret." There was new defiance in her eyes.

  "You're on assignment?"

  Sarah nodded. "And you are?"

  "American. Mike Belasko." Bolan's cards were on the table now, his cover well and truly blown, but he believed the woman, thought that he could understand her actions if he read them in the light of her affiliation with Mossad. "I'm in communication with your people."

  " You were sent from Tel Aviv?"

  "Let's say they know I'm here. They've got a little something lined up for the Old Man's entertainment at midnight."

  Sarah's brow was furrowed with concern. "Explain."

  "A little housewarming. Right down to the ground."