Cold Judgment Read online

  "You are condemned to death for trifling with the will of Allah," he declared. "But first, I will have answers to the questions your presence here has raised. Defiance will prolong your suffering. The choice is yours."

  The mocking smile was back. "Guess I might as well try it the hard way," he said.

  "To the cellars!" Turning to his aide, he said, "Arrani, you will supervise the questioning to ascertain precisely who has sent this infidel among us and for what unholy purpose."

  Bowing from the waist, Tahir Arrani smiled. "To hear is to obey."

  Alone once more, the lord of the Assassins was beset by nagging doubts and questions. It was obvious that his security had been unequal to the task of keeping out intruders. Having failed this time, the system would be suspect in the future, making every new disciple a potential enemy. Could there be other infiltrators in the palace, even now? If so, how could he ever hope to root them out without revealing failure, losing face with those who worshiped him as Allah's voice on Earth?

  It pleased him to believe that «Harrigan» had been a fluke, an aberration that would help him to improve security, strengthen his defenses against the day when other enemies would send their spies and their killers to destroy him. He could learn from the experience and profit from it in the long run, if he kept his wits about him.

  He was not concerned about the missing driver. They would find him soon, and crush him like the scuttling insect that he was. Unarmed, without a prayer of slipping past the sentries on the gate, he was a cockroach in a maze, condemned to run the corridors until he was eventually cornered and destroyed.

  But he was Syrian, and that was troubling. It left two possibilities: some portion of the Ba'ath regime had secretly turned against him, or the man was a traitor, on the payroll of some hostile Western government. In either case, the notion of a native Syrian betraying the Ismaili sect was a disturbing one. If nothing else, he should have been too frightened to participate in such a scheme. His courage — or insanity — might prove contagious in the long run, leading other fools to raise their voices or their hands in opposition to the will of Allah.

  He would serve as an example, this one, and his body — what remained of it when they were finished — would be sent home to his village, graphic evidence of what lay waiting for the idiots and infidels who dared approach the walls of Alamut. His family and friends would understand the warning well enough, and word would spread like wildfire in the desert grass.

  Already feeling stronger, Abdel al-Sabbah stood and moved across the dais toward his private exit from the throne room. Guards in the corridor snapped instantly to full attention, falling in behind their leader with precision born of numerous rehearsals. They would stand outside his sleeping chamber through the night, and if he left again for any reason, they would follow him wherever he might go.

  His door was one of very few within the palace capable of being bolted from inside. He used the extra safety measure now, embarrassed by the apprehension that refused to leave him, hopeful that his confidence would be restored once the impostor was broken in mind and body, stripped of every conscious thought and hidden memory that might be useful to the cause. Debasement of his enemy would make him strong again, and once he knew the infidel's employers, he would have a means of wreaking vengeance on them in his own good time.

  The prospect of revenge improved his humor, but he knew that it would be difficult to sleep. Hashish would help, but he would need his wits about him if his enemy began to confess. And while the drug was soothing, it possessed a tendency to cloud the mind, obscuring crucial details. It was well enough for soldiers on the eve of death to fire their courage by artificial means, but he could not afford that luxury.

  It had occurred to him that he should witness the interrogation, but he had dismissed the thought at once. Arrani was entirely competent to conduct the questioning alone, and it demeaned the sheikh to deal with all the trivial details himself. When they were finished with the infidel, he would receive the information he sought, and he would base his retaliation on it.

  The necessity of retribution, swift and lethal, was not open to debate. The means might be discussed, but a challenge to his power here, in Alamut, could not be left unpunished. If he had to strike at Downing Street or send his men against the White House, Abdel al-Sabbah would teach the Western governments that he was no one to be trifled with. Intimidation might impress the Russian bear, but Communists were godless fools, devoid of inner strength, the fortitude that only Allah could provide.

  Jihad was coming; he could feel it in his soul. For years, the sheikh had been content to hire out his soldiers as mercenaries, raking in a fortune for himself while they paid homage to the will of Allah, wreaking havoc on the unbelievers. It was satisfying, and, above all, it had been safe.

  The holy war had found him, had been brought home to his doorstep, and he could not turn away. His ancestors had steeled themselves through generations, waiting for the proper time to strike, and it would be his duty — his eternal honor — to inaugurate the holy war. If Muslim governments elected to support him, he would welcome their assistance. If they failed him, each in turn would find that Abdel al-Sabbah possessed a memory of great endurance.

  But first they had to finish with the enemy at hand, and there was nothing he could do to rush the process. Proper questioning took time, a certain creativity and style. For all his ambition, all the doubts that he engendered in his chief from time to time, Tahir Arrani was a master at his craft, and he would have the hours or days required to properly complete his work.

  The lord of Alamut had time to spare, and he could easily afford to wait.

  * * *

  "I think it is our only chance. If you have a better plan, I'm listening."

  "How do we know the planes are coming? It could be a trick." Mari, as Sarah had expected, was the first to express doubt.

  "To serve what purpose?" Her exasperation showed, and she was painfully aware of passing time. "Would anyone come all this way and risk so much without a reason? Would he throw his life away in such a fashion if he did not honestly believe the planes are on their way?"

  "All right, then," Mari countered. "Let us take his word as truth. Why should we risk our lives to help this man, when we barely have the time to get away ourselves?"

  "Because without him we would have no chance at all."

  "He is a man. He takes his pleasure like the rest, by force."

  "You speak from ignorance. He is an agent, forced to play a role."

  "I think that we should help him."

  Startled by Michelle's decision to participate in the discussion, Sarah smiled. "And I agree. You have a choice now, Mari. You can join us, or…"

  "Be left behind, I know." Her frown was petulant. "Which means I have no choice at all."

  "You're with us, then?"

  "I'd help the devil if I thought it would get me out of here."

  Despite the superficial similarities of their appearance — long dark hair and harem costumes — the three women posed a study in contrasts. Sarah was the oldest of the three, although their ages spanned a period of barely eighteen months. Michelle was French, a student who had taken time off from her studies for a bargain-basement tour of the Middle East. She had been picked up in Damascus and carried off to Alamut, her year-old disappearance still a mystery to French officials in the capital. Soft-spoken and apparently submissive, she had startled Sarah, in their early conversations, by repeatedly expressing her intention to escape the Eagle's Nest by any means available.

  Mari, the final member of their trio, was a native Syrian, abducted from her village fourteen months before Sarah's arrival at Alamut. Mari was a lesbian, her casual contempt for men exacerbated into hatred by the various indignities she had endured under orders from the sheikh. After an initial overture to Sarah in the second week of her "apprenticeship," the slender Arab swallowed her rejection, and they had gone on to share a friendship based on mutual respect. While Mari shared Mic
helle's desire for freedom, she was fatalistic in her own acceptance of their hopeless situation. Still, she was a fighter, and Sarah was glad to have her on their side.

  It would have been a shame to kill her as a guarantee of silence.

  "Tell us, then," the Syrian demanded, "how are we to work this miracle against an army?"

  Sarah told them, spelling out the details, and they heard her out without interruption, asking pointed questions when she finished. Neither of them seemed to doubt her premise, although Mari was convinced they would all be killed in the attempt.

  "I do not care," Sarah told her. "I would rather be shot down than burned or buried by the rubble when the Phantoms come."

  "A lovely choice. Such opportunities."

  "And what about the others?"

  "Can we trust them?" Sarah asked.

  "Oh, yes — to get us killed."

  "Let's do it, then," Michelle put in, "before I lose my nerve."

  Sarah stretched out her hands and clasped those of her comrades. For a moment, they comprised a living circle, pledged to one another, to the death.

  "All right," she said at last. "Let's go."

  17

  "All systems go."

  Behind Grimaldi, the Israeli flight officer echoed confirmation. "All systems go."

  They waited for clearance from the tower, Grimaldi chafing at what seemed to be another in the endless series of delays that had confronted him since he awoke in Tel Aviv that morning. They had time to spare, he knew, but it did not ease the nagging apprehension that had dogged his footsteps through the city, perching on his shoulder like a harpy during his last ride to the air base.

  His last ride. And where the hell had that come from?

  He made a conscious effort to relax. They were on time, the weather held no threats in store, and Bolan had never let him down.

  And that, Grimaldi finally decided, was the problem. What if he let Bolan down? What if they found their target, right on schedule, and the rockets he unleashed against the target killed the man he admired above all others? How would he live with that… or would he care to try?

  The Executioner had known the odds against him going in, and he had been in tighter corners. Hadn't he? Before he ever set the homer, long before he keyed it into life, the soldier would have mapped an exit from the killing grounds. No way in hell would Bolan hang around to see the fireworks from a ring-side seat. It would be suicide, and kamikaze raids had never been a part of Bolan's style.

  The tower's clearance crackled in his ear, and Jack Grimaldi put the Phantom in motion, taxiing into position for takeoff. Another delay, while the traffic controller went through his procedures, and then they were clear. Throttle forward, the first, heady rush down the tarmac, velocity pressing the pilot and passenger back in their seats. Grimaldi kept one eye on the accelerometer and one on the runway, feeling the plane as it started to lift, hauling back on the stick to oblige the raw power of thundering engines.

  Once airborne, they circled the field while the four other Phantoms took off, falling into formation with Jack on the point. They would first travel west, and then north, over water, until they were holding on station, just off the Syrian coast. They would wait there, regardless of whether the homer was working or not, until half-past eleven, at which time the flight would slip in under radar and close in on their target.

  A strike before midnight was out of the question. If the homer was active upon their arrival, the Phantoms would wait all the same. Bolan's life was at stake. Jack had promised him midnight, and midnight it would be. He had weathered the flack from Mossad and the air force, suggestions that one man was always expendable given the mission's importance to thousands or millions of others. He held to the line, never budging in spite of their threats to proceed on their own, with a last-minute phase-out of troublesome Yankees. He had been persuasive, his phone calls to higher-ups reversing the Israeli decision. The strike would be laid down at midnight, no later, and anyone still on the ground could look out for himself or get fried.

  The whole premise, of course, was dependent on Bolan. Achieving his optimum altitude, settling in for the ride, Grimaldi had time to review all the myriad problems that might have defeated the soldier, prevented his placing the homer at all. If his contact had failed to appear, Bolan would have been forced to proceed on his own; he might never have pinned down the target — or come within miles of it — given the rugged, confusing terrain. There were bandits to deal with, assorted guerrillas with possible secrets to hide, not to mention the Assassins Bolan was seeking. In spite of official protection, the cult would undoubtedly lay out security screens of its own, to prevent casual intruders from stumbling into its stronghold.

  It was no piece of cake, but then, Bolan was known to the select few as a can-do commando, the best and the boldest. (Grimaldi had no doubt the homer would be there and singing its heart out before they arrived. It was Bolan who worried him, one man — or two, with his contact — against what might well be an army of die-hard fanatics. Some enemies scattered or folded when heat was applied; true believers would stick to the end, never counting the cost to themselves or their comrades. They reveled in death, in the prospect of giving their lives for "the cause," and that meant every one of them had to be killed. Bolan might not have adequate hardware to carry it off. Hell, he might not have time.

  Clearing land, Grimaldi went to his instruments to plot their course, holding radio silence. His wingmen were pros, with enough years of combat between them to tote up a century, all of them itching for action, a crack at the crazies who listened to Allah and heard only shrill cries for blood. They were anxious, but they were committed to following his lead, and Grimaldi had no fear of anyone peeling off early to follow the transmitter's beam on his own. They would wait, and when time came to strike, they would go as a team.

  Only Bolan, afoot in the darkness, would be forced to go it alone.

  * * *

  As Jack Grimaldi led his flight of Phantoms toward their holding point, the Executioner was neither on his feet nor in the dark. The ceiling fixtures of the cellars were larger and brighter than the scattered bulbs that lit the corridors above. It had been clearly reasoned that the torturers would need sufficient light in which to do their work.

  As yet, the rack was not especially uncomfortable. Bolan's ankles were securely fastened at one end with leg irons, while his arms were stretched above his head, wrists bound to something that resembled a giant cogwheel, manually operated by a handle on one side. The rack itself was made of unfinished timber, which was rough against his skin without the buffer of his camo shirt and pants.

  He knew about the rack. There were different styles and cultural refinements, but they all performed the same grim function: stretching muscles, joints and tendons until something gave, the body or the mind. A stubborn subject might be physically dismembered, but the soldier thought that it would seldom go that far before the victim started babbling everything he knew.

  A charcoal brazier stood to one side of the rack, assorted branding irons and metal tongs protruding from the heap of glowing coals. If stretching did not do the trick, Arrani was prepared to try his hand at other means.

  At the moment, he was alone. The sheikh's second-in-command had supervised his placement on the rack, the fastening of cuffs and clamps, the stoking of a fire inside the brazier. Then, surprisingly, Arrani and his ghouls had withdrawn without a word about half an hour earlier. In the interim, there had been time for him to think, anticipate pain and listen to superheated metal clicking in the brazier. Ample time to be afraid.

  And that, of course, had been the point. Whatever else Tahir Arrani might turn out to be, he was apparently a student of psychology. He knew that the imagination was a potent weapon, magnifying pain beyond the scope of physical reality. Some victims, Bolan knew, would break before the questioning began, their fear denying them the opportunity to test their thresholds.

  Shrugging off his fear, he used the time to test h
is bonds for any slack. The leg irons were unyielding, loose enough to chafe his flesh without allowing him to wriggle free. The screws that held them firmly in their place were long and tight, the hasps secured by metal clips resembling clothespins. At the other end, his wrists were bound with leather cuffs that buckled tight enough to hold him fast without cutting off the circulation. Bolan's hands would not be numb if one of his interrogators felt the urge to pull his fingernails.

  Without a prospect for escape, the warrior turned his mind to tactics of resistance. What would his interrogators want to know? His name and nationality, for openers. The names and nationality of his employers. Finally his contacts, mission and objectives. In short, everything.

  He was experienced enough with torture to be conscious of the fact that every human being had a breaking point. No man or woman could resist indefinitely; every person had a weakness which, discovered by the enemy, would make them infinitely vulnerable.

  He would talk, beyond the shadow of a doubt. The only concerns were the timing and the extent of his disclosures. It was roughly ten o'clock, by Bolan's estimate, and while he might be able to withstand interrogation for two hours, it was not entirely necessary. In the last analysis, he could afford to tell his captors anything, as long as he did not reveal the existence of the homer. While the small transmitter was secure and sending out its beacon, he could tell Arrani everything about the dead-end mission into Syria. His chance encounter with the IRA's ambassador would kill some time, and none of it would matter if he held them with his tales until the stroke of midnight. After that, they would all be dead, their lips forever sealed by fire from heaven.