Cold Judgment Read online

  The servers instantly appeared with bowls and baskets, bottles and tureens. The plates they set before Mack Bolan were of fine bone china, filigreed with gold. The silverware was polished sterling, and the beverage that accompanied the meal was served in goblets forged, if he was not mistaken, out of solid gold. Whatever his beginnings or his link to the original Assassins, this particular Old Man was living out his days in style.

  The menu ranged from beef and steaming rice with herbs to sauteed vegetables, grapes and other fruits. The sheikh seemed disinclined to broach the subject of their business over dinner, and as they dug in after small talk, Bolan was suddenly reminded that he had been on short rations for the best part of the day.

  When they were done, Arrani struck the silver bell again, and the servants reappeared to cart off the remnants of the feast. Restraint had kept the Executioner from overeating, and he now felt satisfied, instead of groggy from the meal. Kasm, beside him, had relaxed enough to work his way through double portions all around, and he was clearly feeling the effects.

  The warrior prepared to deal with business now, or fake it to the best of his ability, but as he tried to formulate an opener, Arrani raised his silver bell again and struck it twice. The court musicians entered through a side door, lining up along one wall with flutes and mandolins, a sitar, drums resembling a set of bongos. A pair of muscular men entered on their heels, naked but for breechcloths and the scimitars they carried in their hands.

  "I trust you will enjoy our humble entertainment."

  Bolan smiled and waited, while the swordsmen bowed before their master, foreheads pressed against the granite. They retreated, facing each other as the band struck up a lively tune. On cue, the mock combatants circled, closed, their weapons flashing, curved blades ringing out like cymbals as they clashed. As one man ducked a swift, potentially decapitating swing, he countered with a sweep at ankle-height that made his adversary leap for safety. Back and forth it went, the flashing weapons missing naked flesh by fractions of an inch, the swordsmen glistening with perspiration.

  The war of make-believe went on for several moments, neither athlete showing any sign of tiring, slowing down. From what the Executioner could see, they might have battled through the night without a break, but now Arrani had his silver bell in hand, its ringing note the signal for cessation of hostilities.

  The swordsmen stepped apart, bowed deeply once again, and took their leave. No sooner had they cleared the doorway than a dozen women clad in harem costumes took their place. Their faces were veiled, but otherwise their gossamer apparel left little to the imagination. They formed a circle, waited for the lilting music to begin and then exploded into twirling, undulating steps that obviously had been practiced to perfection. Supple bodies moved hypnotically in rhythm with the music, dipping, swaying, teasing.

  Bolan was surprised to see a pair of blondes among the troupe. He wondered where the sheikh acquired his dancers, cutting off that train of thought as it swung southwest, toward the slave marts of Algiers. He had attempted once to close the markets down, but they were doing business at the same old stand these days, and they were not alone. It was ironic that the Middle East and many parts of Africa still tolerated secret slavery in the shadow of the Third World's angry dedication to assorted "liberation movements." And the more things changed, it seemed, the more they stayed the same.

  These women might be Syrians, of course — except the blondes — and Bolan had no way of knowing how they came to join the Old Man's stable. He had not anticipated women in the hostile camp, but there was little he could do to help them. It would be hard enough to extricate himself and save Hafez Kasm in the bargain. A mass escape was hopeless, tantamount to suicide. There was a chance the dancers would survive the air strike, and if not…

  At first, he thought the meeting of their eyes was accidental, mere coincidence, but then he caught the brunette staring at him, studying his face as she went through her moves. It was a pleasure to return her gaze, although he could not force himself to concentrate entirely on her eyes. She had the body of an athlete, trim and shapely, but without the muscularity of one who emphasizes pumping iron. Her flesh was alabaster, lightly kissed by desert sunshine, and her hair was gleaming. Her eyes were touched with fire.

  He glanced away, and found Tahir Arrani watching him, a curious expression on his face. As Bolan turned to face him, the Assassin swept the dancers with a brooding glare, apparently found nothing out of place. Unsettled by the warrior's stare, Arrani felt compelled to speak.

  "I trust you find our women pleasing to the eye?"

  "They'll do." He took a chance. "I've never encountered an Arab blonde before."

  The sheikh ignored his statement, but Arrani smiled, the same disturbing viper's grimace.

  "Our performers come from many backgrounds, many walks of life," he answered. "They are honored to fulfill their destinies as servants of Sheikh al-Jebal."

  "Who wouldn't be?"

  Arrani searched his face for hints of disrespect, looked sullen when he came up empty. "As you say. It is an honor for us all."

  The airy music was approaching its crescendo, and the dancers came together, moving in a tight formation that reminded Bolan of a sensuous aerobics video. They dipped and swayed in perfect time to drum and flute, all facing inward, the silk and sequins of their harem costumes whispering.

  On cue, the music died as if it had been cut off by a saber stroke. The dancers folded, knees in toward the center of their circle, arms and flowing hair outflung like petals of a rare, exotic flower. Prone, they held the pose until Arrani struck a sharp note on his bell.

  Bolan watched the dancers rise and bow their way out of the banquet chamber, followed by the members of the tiny orchestra. Was it a figment of imagination or had the brunette delayed her exit long enough to shoot him one more searching glance?

  He couldn't say, but Bolan made a special effort to conceal his own reaction, just in case. There was no point in giving anything away before he knew precisely what the hell was going on.

  They were alone, the hall deserted by servants, dancers and musicians. Bolan turned to face the Old Man of the Mountain, smiling thinly. "That was quite a show," he said. "Can we get down to business now?"

  "Tomorrow," the sheikh replied. "A good night's sleep will clear our minds of sweet distractions. In the morning you will see our fortress and present your proposition."

  "No time like the present," Bolan pressed.

  "Tomorrow, Mr. Harrigan."

  The sheikh rose to leave, and Bolan followed suit, Arrani and Kasm already on their feet in gestures of respect.

  "Tomorrow," he told the sheikh, his disappointment only partly feigned.

  Arrani hung back for a moment, staring Bolan in the eye. "Sheikh al-Jebal may not be hurried."

  "Well, you never know until you try."

  Amal had turned up on the sidelines, with his usual scowl in place, and Bolan trailed him back through winding tunnels to his suite. This time the door was locked, perhaps because the guard force was reduced by night, and Bolan did not bother working on the latch. He had nowhere to go, and the idea of roaming aimlessly through stony corridors did not appeal to him this evening.

  He would see the sheikh's operation in the morning, and they would discuss the deal that Harrigan had come to make. Potential problems there. If Ulster's traveling ambassador of death had briefed his contacts on the subject of his visit, Bolan would be rapidly exposed as an impostor. He had no idea of any items on the IRA agenda, but if Harrigan had kept the crucial information to himself — which seemed entirely probably, all things considered — Bolan should be able to conduct a bluff with fair results.

  The late and unlamented Irishman would have assassination on his mind, or else why would he visit the Assassins, bearing gifts of cash? A sensitive assignment, certainly; one vital to the IRA, but «hot» enough that they could not afford to claim the credit publicly. Outsiders were required, fanatics from the East to carry out a spec
ial mission, bear the heat and keep their mouths shut afterward. The shooters would be sacrificed, of course. As for the men who pulled their strings… well, there would be no rash exposures or admissions by the Old Man of the Mountain or his handpicked team.

  Tomorrow, then. There would be time enough to formulate a story, time enough to think about the woman. She was already on his mind, her dark, disturbing eyes still with him as he stretched out on the king-size bed and waited for the day to fade.

  His first day on the ground, in hostile territory.

  One day left to go.

  Tomorrow, he would have to plant the homer surreptitiously, with time to spare before Grimaldi made his offshore pass. If Bolan missed his deadline, Jack was under orders to abort the mission, scrub it clean and take himself back home to Stony Man. There would not be a second chance, with so much riding on the value of surprise. If Bolan missed his contact, it would mean that he was dead or otherwise debilitated, and the stateside crew would write him off. He would become another casualty of everlasting war.

  At the moment he was not inclined to think in terms of death or failure. He was still alive, and while he lived there was a chance for victory.

  Bolan closed his eyes and focused on the darkness, merging with it and becoming one, allowing it to carry him away.

  8

  Breakfast was a replay of the evening meal, without the benefit of swordsmen, dancers and musicians. They convened within the banquet hall, and servants flourished trays of gold and silver, bearing delicacies for the four men who assembled at the single table. There were grapes and citrus fruits, stuffed grape leaves, loaves of rich, dark bread still hot enough to melt the butter Bolan lathered onto every slice. He did not ask about the eggs, which came hard-boiled and seemed a trifle larger than the average, but he had seen nothing in the courtyard to suggest that there were chickens in the Eagle's Nest. Unsettled by potential explanations, Bolan ate the eggs and kept his questions to himself, content to wash the whole meal down with strong black coffee of a Turkish blend.

  "I could get used to this," he said, and meant it. Luxury was rare enough for any soldier waging endless war. The lavish meals, the women — they were staple items from a warrior's fantasy, and he had shared the dream with comrades in the Asian hellgrounds, dreaming of a day when there would be no need for arms and bloodshed. Dreaming of a day that had not yet arrived, and that appeared to have no prospect of arriving.

  Remembering the eggs deliberately to break his drifting train of thought, he rose as servants helped Sheikh al-Jebal out of his chair. The Old Man was not frail, by any means, but he was treated almost like an invalid, presumably a token of respect. This time he waved his lackeys off and sent them packing.

  "There is much for you to see before we speak of business," he informed the Executioner. "Amal will show your driver to his room while we are occupied."

  "Is he a prisoner?"

  The sheikh made a stab at looking hurt. "By no means," he replied. "There are, of course, some portions of the castle where a stranger is not welcome… without escort. I am sure you understand."

  "Hafez?"

  "Of course." If anything, the slender Arab seemed relieved to be excluded from the tour of Assassin Central.

  "All right, then."

  Arrani snapped his fingers, and Amal did his appearing act, approaching from their flank on silent feet. As he led Hafez Kasm through a side door, Bolan followed his hosts as they struck off across the broad expanse of marble floor.

  The many guards they passed bowed deeply at the sheikh's approach, their turbans grazing stone. The soldier made a mental note of their abject reaction, realizing that if worse came down to worst, the sheikh himself might serve as cover and a way of exiting the fortress. Granting, always, that the Old Man valued life enough to try to save his own.

  It was an open question, one Bolan could not hope to answer on his own, before the crisis moment had arrived. In Nam, he had known men who thrived on death the way an infant thrives on mother's milk, addicted to the act of spilling human blood. In time, it had not mattered to them if the blood was spilled from friend or foe. Most of them were dead now, victims of the private search for bigger, bloodier encounters with the enemy.

  If Bolan's host was a fanatic cultist, he would likely be immune to threats of violence. On the other hand, if he was strictly mercenary, looking out for Number One, he would be vulnerable in a pinch.

  The sunlight in the courtyard was a momentary shock to Bolan's eyes. He made a show of squinting as he scanned the yard to left and right, in search of a secure place in which to plant his homer. He was not carrying the small transmitter, for the hour was early yet, and if he set it now, the battery would be long dead before Grimaldi made his midnight pass. This was a scouting trip; if Bolan found a likely place to hide the homer, he would mark it in his mind, return with darkness and put the wheels in motion then.

  "This fortress was erected by the sultan of the Seljuq dynasty," the Old Man said, "almost one thousand years ago. My ancestor, Hasan al-Sabbah, won the castle from its stewards, and my family has held it ever since… with minor interruptions from the jackals in Damascus. Here, my father's father forged the heart of an empire that I, in my humble way, endeavor to maintain."

  "I'd say you've done all right."

  "There have been obstacles, of course. Despite their pose as followers of Allah, men who claim to rule this country have the hearts of infidels. There have been certain pressures, efforts to prevent us from fulfilling our holy mission. But we shall prevail."

  They were passing the stables, a smith's forge where horseshoes were made and repaired. Sentries on the wall above kept pace, with automatic weapons at the ready. As they toured the courtyard, Bolan was aware of hostile glances from Tahir Arrani. For whatever reason, the sheikh's assistant had apparently mistrusted "Bryan Harrigan" on sight, and Bolan knew that it would do no good to try to curry favor with him. An honest enemy was preferable to a phony comrade, any day.

  "How many soldiers do you keep on hand?"

  "Disciples," the Old Man corrected him. "Remember, Mr. Harrigan, that we are a religious order, not an army."

  "As you like it."

  "Numbers are a fragile thing, is it not so? A man is born, he dies, and in the meantime, who can say his influence is that of but a single man? Each of my disciples has the dedication of a hundred men."

  "That's very nice, I'm sure, but can each one stand off a hundred men in case of an attack?"

  "I have no fear of being overrun by enemies without or traitors from within. The force on hand is adequate for my defensive needs, and every man among them has been tested for his loyalty to Allah."

  "And to you?"

  The Old Man smiled. "I am the voice of Allah."

  "Makes it nice, eh?" Bolan caught Arrani's eyes and winked, eliciting a scowl. "Your boys are primed to go the limit, then?"

  "They do not fear the afterlife," his host replied. "If Allah calls them home, they are prepared."

  "I ask because the mission that my people have in mind is… touchy, shall we say? The shooter isn't likely to be coming home again."

  "As I have said…"

  "Yes, sir, but as we say, the eyes don't lie."

  "Impertinence!" Arrani's face was flushing crimson, and the change in color was accelerated by another mocking smile from Bolan.

  "You desire a demonstration?"

  "If it isn't too much trouble for you."

  "A simple matter, easily arranged. If you will follow me?"

  "Of course."

  They climbed a flight of steps that had been carved into the wall, ascending to the parapets and passing lookouts who were bowing. At a word from Bolan's host and guide, one of the gunners scrambled to his feet and fell in step behind them, trotting to keep up as they continued on their way.

  Outside the fortress walls, the ground had fallen off increasingly, until they stood above a chasm several hundred feet in depth. From Bolan's vantage point, he saw the c
astle's hidden strength: its manner of construction, hewn out of the mountain peak itself, prevented enemies from flanking the defenders. It would take a troop of dedicated mountain climbers to assault the fortress from the rear, and they would be exposed to hostile fire, like insects climbing on a windowpane.

  They reached the point where human handiwork and native stone became inseparable, and they could proceed no farther. Bolan, peering cautiously beyond the ledge, experienced a moment's vertigo as he beheld the tiny boulders of a rugged river canyon, some four hundred feet below. That first step was a killer, and he moved back from the edge with a sensation of relief.

  Sheikh al-Jebal was speaking to the sentry who had joined their party, issuing commands in Arabic. The gunner nodded once and passed his rifle to Tahir Arrani, bowing deeply to the master with a beatific smile upon his face. From all appearances, he might just have been touched by God.

  "The demonstration you requested, Mr. Harrigan."

  The sentry had removed his cartridge belt and placed it at Arrani's feet, immediately dropping to his knees before the sheikh and speaking rapidly. Although his words were lost on Bolan, it didn't appear that he was begging off of his assignment; rather, if his face and tone were any indicators, he was offering sincerest thanks for what appeared to be a golden opportunity.

  The sheikh reached down to pat his chosen gunner on the head, a faithful pet rewarded for its show of fealty. As if on cue, the sentry rose, retreated toward the wall and climbed on the parapet, his turbaned figure standing out in stark relief against the crystal sky. He spread his arms, addressed himself to Allah in a ringing voice — and jumped.

  It took a heartbeat for the Executioner to realize what he had seen, a heartbeat more before he found the strength to draw breath. He didn't need to check the falling body's progress, felt no urge to scrutinize the bright graffiti on the rocks below. It was no trick, no sham. There was no ledge or net to catch the sentry, no trapeze to save him at the final instant.