Cold Judgment Read online

  All movement abruptly halted, and Bolan found himself face-to-face with Shari. He could lose himself in those eyes, he thought, but she was doing something with her hands, her hips, that broke his train of thought. Her lips brushed his lightly, and she trailed a string of teasing kisses down his throat, across his chest, descending. In a moment, she was submerged, her dark hair fanned out on the surface as she caught him. He felt the moment stretch into infinity, aware that she must soon take oxygen, amazed that she could hold her breath so long.

  When Shari broke the surface, she was like a graceful dolphin surfacing, head thrown back and dark hair streaming down her spine. She locked her arms around his neck and clamped her thighs around his waist, accommodating Bolan with a single, practiced thrust. He clutched her urgently. It seemed impossible, the strength and depth of the sensation that he felt, and Bolan knew the moment was too powerful to be maintained. A gasp, a shudder, and he was aboard the old, familiar roller coaster — only this time, he was plunging from a height he had never known before, and he was taking Shari with him, racing toward their mutual release.

  They separated, aeons later, and Shari and the other woman, Alia, bathed him tenderly, rejuvenating energy through the selective laying of hands. Incredibly the soldier felt himself responding, and he made no protest as they led him from the pool area, toward quilted blankets that were spread out on the grass. He saw that silver platters heaped with fruit and other refreshments were waiting for him there.

  "Your every fantasy come true," the dark-eyed dancer told him, as she stepped aside and let Alia take his hand.

  So this is paradise, he thought, and realized how an impressionable young disciple of the sheikh, already flying high on hashish and assorted other drugs, might think that he had died and gone to heaven. As a thought-control technique, it seemed a damned sight more effective — not to mention more enjoyable — than narco-hypnotism or aversion therapy. If he had been a loyal disciple of the master, and he knew that this was waiting for him on the other side of death, he might have volunteered to take that long, last dive himself.

  The sheikh had made his point, and Bolan knew he could expect no quarter from the soldiers at al-Sabbah's beck and call. While they existed, they were clearly a danger to the world at large, a suicidal force of mercenary killers who would welcome death on orders from their master, welcoming the reaper with a lover's open arms. It was imperative that they should be destroyed.

  But first, Bolan thought wryly, he had to finish off his tour of paradise. The Old Man of the Mountain was expecting it, and Bolan could not afford to blow his cover. He was obligated to pursue his mission to the limits of his personal endurance, and he would not flinch from that commitment.

  * * *

  Tahir Arrani watched the stranger from his hiding place without a flicker of desire. The harlots did not move him, though he realized that other men must find them beautiful, alluring. Unconsciously he offered thanks to Allah that his flesh was strong, his heart committed to the holy war that lay ahead.

  Jihad. The final war against the infidel. It was a concept that had captured his imagination years before, when he had fought beside the fedayeen, against the Zionists of Israel, and a grim succession of defeats had failed to quench his thirst for blood. The Old Man of the Mountain had attracted him with visions of a world in flames, the true believers riding down their enemies like Death incarnate, and it mattered little that the sheikh had lost direction in the meantime, giving in to the temptations of the flesh. No matter that the holy quest had been diverted, briefly, into mercenary channels, serving men instead of Allah. There was ample time to bring the mission back on target, and his time was coming. Soon.

  Meanwhile, it served Arrani's purposes to help Sheikh al-Jebal spread violence and chaos in the West. If the accursed infidels were bent upon destroying one another, was it not the duty of a dedicated true believer to assist them? If the fools were anxious to employ the agents of their own destruction, who was he, Tahir Arrani, to prevent them?

  It amused him to imagine members of the Red Brigades, the Baader-Meinhof faction or the South Moluccan network doling out their cash in the belief that they were moving toward an epic victory. In fact, disruption of the several governments they hated served the purposes of the Jihad perfectly, and each dead infidel was one less who would stand against the faithful on the coming day of reckoning.

  At the moment, his mind was on the Irish and the man called Harrigan. Of course, the name was false — or so he had convinced himself — and radio communication with assorted contacts on the outside had done nothing to relieve his first suspicion of the stranger. The missing accent had been troublesome, but logically explained. The vanishing tattoo was something else entirely.

  In his youth, according to Arrani's sources, Bryan Harrigan had shown the ultimate contempt for queen and country by acquiring a tattoo — the British Union Jack — across his buttocks. He had never been arrested, and the information was not in his file maintained by the authorities in London, but it was a fact well-known to fellow members of the IRA, along with certain of their sympathizers. It had been a standing — or rather a sitting — joke among the Ulster partisans for more than twenty years.

  An accent might be lost, with practice and determination. Surgery could change a face so that it went unrecognized by parents, wives and lovers. As well, a tattoo could be removed, but there would be a scar, some vestige of the human canvas having changed his mind too late.

  The buttocks of this man, clearly visible from where Arrani stood, were unblemished.

  It was enough to prove his case, but not, perhaps, enough to satisfy the master. Money had changed hands, with more to come, and these days it would not surprise him to discover that the sheikh was more devoted to his private income than the holy mission. He might accept the fact that Harrigan was an imposter and continue doing business with the man in any case. Through greed and negligence, he might destroy them all.

  It would be different if some further proof of treachery existed. If Arrani could convince the sheikh that «Harrigan» was not a simple stand-in for their scheduled contact but a hostile agent sent to do them harm, the Old Man would be forced to put his personal venality aside and take decisive action.

  Proof.

  He could interrogate the weasel who had brought this stranger to them, use his talents to extract each hidden grain of knowledge while a trace of sanity remained, but such a breach of hospitality might lead to questions from the master that he was not yet prepared to answer. With the proof in hand, he would be free to move against their enemies without restriction, but he must acquire the evidence beforehand, to protect himself.

  He examined the warrior's body with its several scars of battle. This man was no stranger to the moment of the kill. It would be difficult, perhaps, to take him by surprise, but he was hopelessly outnumbered here and without a weapon to defend himself. If one or two of the disciples should be lost in bringing him to heel, it was a trifling price to pay. They were prepared to die, in any case, to win what the impostor was sampling now.

  Arrani turned away and left the stranger to his pleasure, moving through the garden like the shadow of a thought. No man observed his passing, and no sentry watched the secret entrance he used to make his way inside the castle. Unknown even to the master, it had been discovered by Arrani, quite by accident, some months before, and he had used it sparingly. He had no business in the garden ordinarily, and did not take his pleasure with the harlots who were kept sequestered there. His own belief in paradise, the ultimate reward of Allah, had no need of artificial reinforcement through the flesh.

  Tahir Arrani was a true believer, dedicated to Allah and the destruction of the infidels who made a mockery of his sacred word. He was devoted to Jihad, the cleansing holy war, above all else, and in that cause he had accepted the assistance of the Russians, in his master's name. The Communists believed they owned him now, but there were more surprises still in store for them. Jihad, when it began i
n earnest, would not be confined to nations that revered the Christ. There would be time enough to deal with godless Bolsheviks, as well.

  But first, the lone imposter. And the proof.

  Tahir Arrani left the garden of delights behind him, entering the mountain's heart where secrets could be nurtured in the dark, away from prying eyes. He still had work to do this morning, and there was no time to waste.

  10

  Shari scrubbed herself with energetic strokes, as if she could eradicate her memories, all traces of the stranger's touch, with soap and water. It had never worked before, but she observed the ritual in any case, unwilling to forsake the futile gesture of defiance.

  As a member of the sheikh's harem, Shari was expected to perform upon command, with anyone selected by her master. Personal initiative and individuality were not encouraged by Sheikh al-Jebal; if demonstrated publicly, they might be punished in the dungeons, and she knew from grim experience that no one made a return trip.

  For the past seven months she had done her job without complaint, the perfect model of submission. Oh, there had been feeble protests in the early days, but those were mandatory, absolutely necessary to convince the Old Man and his toady that they had another ordinary slave girl on their hands. In truth, the sheikh had found her anything but ordinary in their various prolonged encounters. His assorted gifts had marked her as a favorite in the harem, but he still did not possess the slightest notion of her true identity, the mission that had placed her voluntarily within his grasp.

  When she was finished drying off Shari slipped into her costume of gossamer and silk. She felt ridiculous, avoided mirrors when she could, but she knew that there was power in her body, in the face that men found beautiful. Their own lust to possess her would betray them in the end, and so she wore the harem costume as she wore her lot in life, without complaint.

  From the beginning, she had accepted the mission with her eyes wide open. There was no point in contending that she had been deceived by her controllers or misled by anyone, in any way. The choice had been her own, and she would live with it — assuming that she lived.

  In her present situation survival was by no means certain. Over seven months, the number of her harem «sisters» had been whittled down from sixteen to an even dozen. Of the missing, three had simply disappeared without a trace, a circumstance veteran members of the master's stable seemed to take in stride. The fourth had fallen victim to "an accident"; one of the sheikh's commandos-in-the-making had erupted from sedation in a violent rage and locked his fingers around the nearest throat. He had crushed the life out of a young woman from Damascus by the time he'd been bludgeoned into unconsciousness. The sheikh had been solicitous, a minor miracle considering the victim's sex and rank, but life — and death — went on at Alamut, and Shari's task remained the same.

  In fact, her mission could not be so easily defined. Having taken on the job, she was instructed to observe, disrupt whenever possible, and to remain in place, above all else. Her presence in the Eagle's Nest was critical. When it was time for her to leave, the order would somehow be passed along, and she would find her own way from the fortress.

  Shari had some thoughts on that already, but her exit plans were in the embryonic stage. Thus far, she knew how women were stolen from the streets, how they were forced into a life of servitude, how the Assassins were prepared for war. But none of that concerned her government. She needed targets and agendas, names, dates and places for impending raids — the better to prevent them from occurring.

  How could she accomplish this? She was a prisoner, a slave, deprived of all communication with the outside world. Her cover had demanded that she go in "clean," without equipment or an established contact in the outside world. The word would come, she had been told, and when it came, she would escape with all the vital knowledge she had gathered from her enemies.

  But in the meantime, there was something she could do right now, today. The ice-eyed stranger could be stopped before he made his deal with the Assassins, carrying the torch of terrorism back to Europe or America, wherever he had come from. She could stop this enemy on her own, and with a bit of luck, she might escape detection.

  She had begun to think of home more frequently, had dreamed of it on two occasions in the past ten days. Her vital mission had begun to pale, when held up against the cost it exacted on a daily basis. On the upside, Shari did not feel humiliated or degraded by the acts she was obliged to perform. The sex meant no more to her than killing had in other situations where she had been called upon to do her duty. She felt nothing with her enemies; they never touched her soul.

  Shari knew the stranger must be an important guest. His visit to the garden had been hastily arranged, with orders for every wish to be fulfilled. He had not been especially demanding, but he had been pleased with his reception; that much had been plain to see. He had been vigorous, which was surprising, considering the fact that he had obviously shunned the normal drugs and stimulants that were available. His body had been scarred by war, but there had been a certain softness in his eyes.

  Shari knew her duty, realized that she could never hope to learn the stranger's business, make her getaway and carry the report to her superiors in time. The tall man would be gone, his devil's work complete before she had a chance to intervene, unless…

  It would require precision timing, a degree of privacy, but Shari thought that she could pull it off. The stranger had been pleased with her today, she knew that much beyond the shadow of a doubt, and he would doubtless be agreeable to further encounters, should the opportunity arise. Sex would be the weapon of his ultimate destruction, and if she was careful, planning every move precisely, she would have him at her mercy. Who would suspect a harem girl, a slave, of staging an assassination in the heart of the Ismaili stronghold?

  She had armed herself with a long knife from the kitchen shortly after her arrival, but as yet there had been no occasion to remove the weapon from its hiding place behind a loose stone in the floor of her sleeping chamber. She could hide it underneath her costume with a bit of difficulty, and the tall man would be in for a surprise. His last.

  Shari would have liked to know his name, his mission, but it didn't matter. His obvious association with the Old Man of the Mountain was enough to seal his fate, and any plans she disrupted would spare the lives of innocents abroad. Those who dealt with the Assassins were themselves beyond the pale, fair game for any who would strike on the behalf of peace and justice.

  Taking out the tall man would be her gift to future victims yet unborn. It was her duty.

  * * *

  "What reason have you to suspect our guest?"

  Tahir Arrani spread his hands, eyes downcast in a semblance of humility. "I have no proof, Your Highness, but you have been generous enough to trust my intuition in the past. I am convinced that evidence can be obtained."

  "And if you are correct," Sheikh al-Jebal inquired, "who is this man who poses as our Irish comrade?"

  "Once again, I cannot say. If my suspicions prove correct, and I can demonstrate that Bryan Harrigan is not among us, time and patience will supply the answers that you seek."

  "Why would a stranger wish to pose as Harrigan?" He knew the answer in advance, but he was interested in Arrani's own assessment of the situation.

  "To destroy us." The response was given without a trace of hesitation. "To subvert your rule and crush the faith before our destiny is realized."

  "And whom do you suspect of plotting this offensive?"

  "Israel."

  "Does our Mr. Harrigan resemble an Israeli in your eyes?"

  "A mercenary, then." Arrani was not shaken by the sheikh's facetious tone. "Your messengers of death have traveled widely, O Enlightened One. Your enemies are legion in the West."

  That much, at least, was true. The British, the Italians and the French would all be pleased to see him dead, his followers annihilated. The Americans, as well, bore watching. The CIA was not above assassination if it was consid
ered necessary "in the national interest." Still, the Israelis were the best bet, with their late attempts to infiltrate his stronghold. He had destroyed the agents sent against him, punishing the traitors who had helped them come so far, and Tel Aviv might be prepared to use a mercenary warrior this time out.

  Then again, Arrani might be wrong. Their guest might be precisely who he claimed to be, with endless sums of ready cash to supplement the offering he had made upon arrival at the Eagle's Nest. He might be one more in the string of «terrorists» and freedom fighters who solicited the Old Man of the Mountain for assistance in these times of trial. The sheikh had lucrative arrangements with the Basques, with certain factions in West Germany and Italy; why should he be surprised at honest overtures from Northern Ireland? Members of the IRA were too well-known these days to carry off a major-league assassination anywhere within a thousand miles of Belfast. Local boys were fine for sniping soldiers, dropping gasoline bombs on armored cars from darkened rooftops, but precision murder of celebrities in public would require fresh faces, someone Scotland Yard and SAS would never spare a second glance.

  He did not know the details of the IRA's request, could not surmise whether the target would be royalty, a ranking politician, or perhaps Parliament itself. Whichever, his disciples would be equal to the task. Provided, always, that his guest was who he claimed to be.

  "What is it that you wish?" he asked Arrani, careful to betray no indecision of his own.

  "Permission to conduct a search for evidence… outside."

  "Where would you go?"

  "Not far. If your guest is an impostor, then he must have intercepted Harrigan along the highway from Damascus. If the Irishman had turned up missing earlier, our contacts in the government would certainly have warned us."

  "I agree. Go with my blessings and return with all due haste to make your findings known."