Cold Judgment Read online

  "The third man's name was Hasan al-Sabbah. He, too declined the vizier's offer, not because he feared responsibility, but rather because his heart and mind were set on greater things. A provincial governorship would have confined him to Persia, but he sought to visit Cairo — then the seat of Muslim power — and the court of the caliph. Nizam-ul-mulk, a loyal friend, used his influence to secure employment in the caliph's service for Hasan."

  The Arab paused to study Bolan's face a moment, then forged on.

  "Now, Hasan al-Sabbah was a pious Shiite from the north of Persia. As you may already know, the Shiites believe that Ali, son-in-law of the prophet Mohammed, was Mohammed's true successor, while the great majority followed the first caliph, Abu Bakr. Thus, Islam suffered its first great rift soon after the prophet's death, in the year 632, and the Ismailis — followers of Ismail, the sixth 'true leader' after Ali — broke away from Shia doctrines in their turn.

  "Persecuted as heretics in the early years, the Ismailis became a secretive and fanatical cult, drawing thousands of members from other Islamic groups. They became highly organized, dedicated students of science and astronomy, couching their doctrines in seductive form. So successful were they, in the face of persecution, that ten million known Ismailis still exist today… but that is neither there nor here."

  "That's 'here nor there. »

  The slender Arab shook his head and smiled. "We know that Hasan al-Sabbah spent three years at the caliph's court in Cairo, at a time when the Ismaili sect controlled the caliphate. Within that time, he made powerful enemies with his intrigues. He was deported, but the ship was lost at sea. Hasan survived, and traveled overland to Syria, collecting followers along the way with promises of paradise on Earth. Unable to control the whole Ismaili sect, he would create another faction, with himself as leader."

  "Sounds like certain people I could name today."

  "Indeed. The name of Allah has been much abused by men who lust for power." Kasm hesitated, eyes downcast, as if his own words had embarrassed him.

  "You don't have any corner on the market," Bolan told him. "The United States was founded with religious liberty in mind, and churches have been fighting ever since."

  "You understand, then, how Hasan al-Sabbah could recruit young men in Syria, Iraq, throughout the region, winning them with visions of adventure and intrigue, a heavenly reward on Earth for those who would perform their duty faithfully. Selecting the castle of Alamut, in the heart of these mountains, for his headquarters, Hasan acquired it using stealth and treachery. One of his missionaries smuggled Hasan and a number of his followers into the castle, where they took the ruling leaders hostage and persuaded them to sell."

  "An offer they couldn't refuse?"

  "Precisely. With the castle and adjacent valley in his hands, Hasan assumed the title of Sheikh al-Jebal — the Old Man of the Mountain — implying that he was an incarnation of the prophet. His new doctrine demanded the murder of his enemies as a sacred religious duty, and Hasan's disciples were quick to obey his orders. Many of them drew their courage from the use of hashish, and were known as Hashshashin, or what you call Assassins. Sheikh al-Jebal also used the drug to make his followers believe that he had shown them paradise on Earth, a garden of delights where every wish and fantasy was instantly fulfilled by lovely women, nubile boys, the finest food and wine. Disciples who were privileged to see the garden came away devoted to the master, having lost all fear of death."

  "It sounds effective." Bolan had encountered various conditioning techniques before, most of them negative and very painful, but it sounded like the Old Man of the Mountain had employed the pleasure principle to build himself a dedicated cadre. "I imagine there was very little his disciples wouldn't do to keep the master's favor."

  "There was nothing they would not attempt, upon his slightest whim. Assassination, arson, rape and pillage were committed with the blessings of the prophet, in the name of Allah. In the early days, Hasan used terror to eliminate his enemies and win new followers. As time went on, he launched a holy war against the Turks and killed the Turkish emir of Damascus. Soon, the rulers of surrounding kingdoms — even, it is said, the Britons' Richard Lionheart — were using members of the Old Man's sect to kill their enemies, avoiding guilt by hiring 'heathen savages' to carry out their crimes."

  "An early Murder, Incorporated."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "Never mind. Go on."

  "Hasan al-Sabbah lived until the time of the Crusades, becoming ancient in his castle fortress, ordering the deaths of thousands in his time. One of his victims was an old friend, Nizam-ul-mulk, who knew the falsehood of the Old Man's claims to personal divinity. Hasan is also rumored to have killed his sons — one of them simply for consuming too much wine."

  "A sweetheart."

  "Truly. But his death did not abolish the Assassin cult. He was succeeded by another Old Man of the Mountain, and another after him. The reign of terror continued for 150 years, until Crusaders of the Christ invaded Syria and captured Alamut. It was believed the sect had been destroyed, but soldiers of the British empire found it active in Bombay as recently as 1850. I am told that some historians believe the Old Man's scattered followers may have adopted Kali as their goddess, so creating the Thuggee."

  "And now they're back?" It was a lot to swallow, with a century and more between the Bombay trials and the attack on Orly International, but Bolan noticed that his contact was not smiling.

  "The Eagle's Nest at Alamut is occupied once more, and killers with the mark of the Hashshashin have been slain or captured by authorities of several nations. It is not for me to say, but I believe the facts speech for themselves."

  "That's 'speak. »

  "A thousand pardons."

  "Skip it. The original Assassins… they were mercenaries?"

  "So it has been written."

  "And this latest bunch?"

  "The same, if my accumulated information is correct."

  "If the religion's back in business, it must have a leader."

  "Yes. Another Old Man of the Mountain."

  "Let me get this straight. The government of Syria allows this cult to operate, despite the risks involved?"

  "Our government is dominated by the Ba'ath Arab Socialist Party, which in turn is dominated by the military. Above all else, the government of Syria is Muslim first. We are perpetually at war with Israel, momentarily hostile to Iraq and closer to the Shiite rulers of Iran. You are aware of the position that our government has taken on support of training camps for fedayeen, the liberation fighters?"

  Bolan nodded. Anyone with the ability to read a headline knew of Syria's continuing support for Arab terrorists through maintenance of training centers and supply depots. It came as no surprise that remnants of the old Assassin cult should find their sanctuary in the country that had sheltered Carlos, gunners for the PFLP and the PLO, along with sundry other jackals from around the world. Aside from Libya, where coexistence with the egomaniac Khaddafi might have been impossible, the Executioner could think of no more fertile soil for a «religion» founded on the tenet of murder for hire.

  "You are a Muslim?"

  Bolan's contact nodded. "Yes. But 'Muslim' and 'murderer' are not the same. I have participated in the war against the Zionists, but as a soldier." Kasm pinned the soldier with his eyes. "Will you believe me when I say that I have never killed a woman or a child?"

  "I have no reason not to."

  "Ah. Some of your people see an Arab, and they need to see no more. They see Khaddafi, Arafat, no matter where they look."

  "My people?"

  "The Americans, the Europeans. It is much the same."

  "Like Arabs?"

  For the briefest moment, Bolan's contact frowned, and then he shook his head, a sheepish smile appearing on his face. "Your point is taken. I apologize."

  "No need. We live and learn."

  "Some live," Kasm replied, "but never learn."

  "Which brings us back to the Assassins.
How long have they been in operation this time?"

  "It is difficult to say. Perhaps a year. My contacts in the government are frightened. When the leader's name is mentioned, they begin to roll their eyes."

  "You know his name?"

  "I know the one he uses, though it may not be the name his mother gave him. He calls himself Abdel al-Sabbah and claims to be a lineal descendant of Hasan, the founder of the sect. His followers revere him as Sheikh al-Jebal."

  "The Old Man of the Mountain."

  Kasm nodded grimly. "This one knows his history, if nothing else. His followers believe he is descended from Hasan al-Sabbah, who in turn was thought to be descended from Mohammed. Thus, he is infallible, the voice of Allah."

  "That's incredible."

  The Arab shrugged. "Perhaps. But in America, do you not have the ministers who make a mockery of their religion, using Christ for selfish ends?"

  "We do," the Executioner conceded, "but I have never heard of anyone who claimed he was the great-grandson of Jesus."

  "It is all a matter of degree. Another prophet has been looked for, by Ismailis in particular, and some of them believe that they have found him. It matters little if he calls on them to kill or sacrifice themselves. He makes a guarantee of paradise, and many such young men would join the fedayeen in any case. The promise of a perfect afterlife assures them they can do no wrong."

  "And while they die, the Old Man profits?"

  "So it would appear. These days, he ventures rarely from the Eagle's Nest, but when he does, he travels, as you say, in fashion."

  "That's in style/"

  "I have a problem with your idiots."

  "Try 'idioms. " The soldier grinned.

  "Of course." Kasm responded with an easy smile. "It is apparent, from his scope of operations, that the sect is well-financed, supplied with weapons and explosives."

  "Government support?"

  "Undoubtedly… but from which government?"

  The Executioner was edging toward thin ice, but he was not about to turn back now. "You may not have to look too far from home."

  "It was my own first thought, but such is not the case. How can I make you understand? The military leaders of Ba'ath are followers of Islam, as am I, but they are not such zealots as the Old Man of the Mountain and his followers. I think our leaders are afraid to trifle with the Hashshashin."

  "The guns and money have to come from somewhere. Have you thought about Khaddafi?"

  Kasm nodded slowly. "Once again, my sources claim uncertainty. As for myself, I think the Libyan is too — how would you say it in America — involved with Number One?"

  "That's how we'd say it," Bolan answered. "If you're right, we've narrowed down the possibilities."

  "Indeed. Despite their recent actions, I do not believe the sect is self-supporting. Weapons and explosives must be purchased, cash exchanged with willing vendors."

  "Not if they're a gift, with strings attached."

  The Arab's eyes were downcast. "I have pondered this. It grieves me, but I fear that you may be correct."

  "The KGB?"

  "I have no proof, but it is foolish to suggest the Russians are not active in my country. They are friendly with the fedayeen, although such friends, I think, are worse than enemies."

  It played. Throughout certain parts of the world, agents of the KGB were known as sugar daddies of misguided revolution, doling out cash and arms like there was no tomorrow, giving weapons freely where recipients could not afford to pay. Kalashnikovs and Soviet grenades had turned up in the hands of terrorists from Bogotá to Belfast, from Venice to Vientiane. The Russians had a stake in chaos, an investment in the sordid world of terrorism, and they meant to get their money's worth.

  The soldier changed his tack. "How long have you been working for the Company?"

  "Almost three years. This strikes you as unusual?"

  He nodded. "Frankly, yes."

  "You must not think I am a traitor to my country. I am not a puppet who will dance whenever someone in the Agency pulls strings."

  "I see."

  The Arab hunched forward, elbows resting on his knees. "I still believe the Zionists were wrong to build their 'homeland' on the soil they stole from others, but the time for holy war is past. We cannot live on oil and hatred for all time." He paused. "This business with the Hashshashin is dangerous for Syria, my people. If we seem to sanction such extremities, we may become like Libya, a land apart. I have no wish to live in exile from the world."

  "You've given this some thought."

  "A man must choose his destiny," Kasm went on. "Allah may attempt to guide his footsteps through the holy word of the Koran, but in the end each one of us must stand alone."

  "I would imagine that you're taking quite a chance."

  "Opposing evil is a dangerous pursuit. I think you know that, from your own experience."

  "I'm in a different situation. You have family here."

  "A wife, two children. They know nothing of my business with the Company."

  "I wonder if the General Intelligence Directorate would buy that?"

  At his mention of the Syrian secret police, Kasm paled, but his jaw remained firm, and Bolan saw no tremor in his hands. "I pray about such things," the Arab said at last. "One day, the leaders of my country will be thankful that the Hashshashin were driven out. With Allah's guidance, they will understand the error of their ways."

  "You place a lot of faith in God."

  "What else do I have?"

  The silence spun between them for a moment, Bolan realizing that the Arab had been speaking from his heart.

  "When this is over," he suggested, "you might want to think about evacuating."

  "No." Kasm shook his head in an emphatic negative. "My place is here. These times shall pass."

  "How old are you?"

  The Arab looked confused. "I will be twenty-eight next month," he said at last.

  "This war was going on a dozen years before your birth. You really think you'll see the end of it?"

  "I must believe. When Allah made this land, he did not plan for it to be a battlefield."

  "Some plans just don't work out."

  "Indeed. But you believe. I see it in your eyes. You would not be here, otherwise."

  "Sometimes I wonder."

  "Do you? I believe you know precisely what you have been fighting for."

  "It's different," Bolan told him. "I don't mean to change the world. The best that I can hope for is to even out the odds a little, keep the jackals running. If you let them rest too long, they start to feed."

  "They have been feeding here. Together, I have hopes that we may scatter them again."

  "You wouldn't work with the Israelis?"

  "No. They only care about their people, land they stole from others to create a sanctuary for themselves. I will not bring them here to trespass on my homeland."

  "I'm a stranger here, as well."

  "There is a difference. You have no desire to rule my country, or destroy it in the name of self-defense. The Hashshashin have jeopardized the safety of your people, as they jeopardize my own. We share a common interest, you and I. Together, with the help of Allah, we will find the Eagle's Nest and rid the world of many jackals."

  Bolan made no mention of the compact signaling device he carried in his pack, the Phantoms standing by to strike on cue. His mission and his life depended on the Arab's guidance, his cooperation, and the soldier's ears were ringing with a sour note.

  "Did you say find the Eagle's Nest?"

  "I did."

  "It was my understanding that you had the target spotted."

  Warily, his contact shrugged. "I know the mountains, the location, but in truth, I have not been to Alamut myself. Is this a difficulty?"

  "You could say that." Alarm bells went off inside the warrior's skull, and he felt the short hairs rising on his neck. "Do you have aerials?"

  "Again, please?"

  "Photographs, from airplanes. They would show the
layout, give us some idea of numbers. Do you have them?"

  Kasm shook his head. "The government has made no aerial reconnaissance of Alamut. No photographs exist… or so I have been told."

  "All right, an estimate of numbers, then."

  "Sheikh al-Jebal has many followers. We know that much, but numbers are uncertain. It has never been considered wise to count the Hashshashin."

  "We're blind, then."

  "Not entirely. We have Alamut, we have our faith, we know our enemy by name."

  "I make it zero out of three," the Executioner replied. "We haven't found our target yet, I don't take anything on faith, and names don't mean a whole lot in this business. Give me numbers any day."

  "Would you have come in any case, if you had known?"

  That stopped him for a moment, and he finally nodded. "Yes."

  "And why?"

  "To do the job."

  "Precisely. We must do the job, regardless of the cost. The 'numbers, as you call it, are irrelevant."

  Perhaps. But they could get a soldier killed.

  "We'd better get some rest."

  "Indeed. Tomorrow — no, today — we have a march of several hours still ahead of us. The mountains give us shelter, but they also make us work to reach our destination."

  Bolan thought about the march of "several hours," climaxed by a battle he could never hope to win. It had been foolish to accept the mission knowing he was cut off from supply lines and support. He had one man to back him up, and that one man was pinning all his hopes on an assist from Allah in the crunch.

  Terrific.

  Spreading out his bedroll at the far end of the cave, he lay down with the Makarov in hand, his AK-47 propped against the rocky wall, beside his head. If they were taken by surprise, he still might have an opportunity to make a showing for himself. It was the best that he could do. They had no place to run.

  And sleep was coming. He could feel it tugging at his eyelids now, demanding unconditional surrender. Kasm was on first watch, so Bolan let the creeping sluggishness insinuate itself into his arteries and veins, the natural narcotic wafting him away.