The thoughts echoed in his mind. The thoughts were of the Old Man of the Mountains who had built his fortress a thousand years ago in the valley of Alamut and gathered his followers, who were the Assassins.
Enclosed in the valley that was paradise were palaces and pavilions, channels flowing with wine and honey, and young girls who danced and sang. Every pleasure was found here for the Assassins until the Old Man of the Mountains called one forward.
"Go from here and kill the man whose name I give you… When you return you will enter again into paradise… should you not return then my angels will seek you out and carry you back to our paradise."
A thousand years ago word of the skill and dedication of the Assassins of Syria, travelling from the valley of Alamut, had spread across the known world. Brilliant in disguise, unrivalled in their dedication and fanaticism, ruthless in murder, the Assassins were feared by kings and princes and military commanders and civil gover-nors and the priests of Sunni Islam. Abu Hamid saw himself as the descendant of the old Assassins of ten centuries before.
The words, soundless in the throat of Abu Hamid, were those of the Old Man of the Mountains, handed down over a millennium.
"To kill these people is more lawful than rainwater."
There was no advance warning. The car drove unannounced into the forecourt of the embassy. Three men in the car, all pressed into service and summoned from their weekend break. A First Deputy Foreign Minister, a protocol official, a full colonel of the Second Directorate. They were shown into an ante room on the ground floor where they were watched by a security man.
The duty officer for that weekend was a Second Secretary, Trade. He was still buttoning his collar when he came into the room. Grim faces staring back at him, all three men standing. They introduced themselves, even the one from State Security. Not the moment to offer them tea, nor the moment to ask them to sit. Their seniority meant urgent business to be conducted without delay.
"I am the duty officer," he said. He produced a pencil and notepad and waited on them.
The First Deputy Foreign Minister seemed for a moment to examine the close patternwork of the carpet, from Bokhara, then he straightened.
"It is with the utmost regret that as the representative of my government I have the sad duty to inform you that His Excellency, Sir Sylvester Armitage, and Miss Jane Canning were today the victims of a cruel and cowardly attack in the city of Yalta. As a result of this attack His Excellency and Miss Canning have died. The third member of the delegation, Mr Holt, is unhurt. I am instructed to inform you that the Soviet government has made available a military aircraft to take to Yalta any members of your staff who would wish to go. The aircraft is ready to leave at your convenience. I am able to tell you that a comprehensive criminal investigation has been launched in Yalta, and it is our earnest hope that the investigation will bear fruit soon."
The duty officer was scribbling his note, in longhand.
Incredulity on his face. Lips moving, but they could not formulate the barrage of questions.
"The deaths were caused by shooting. His Excellency and Miss Canning were hit many times as they were leaving the hotel for lunch with the city authorities; they were dead on arrival at hospital. The initial indication is that the culprit was involved in an attempt to enter the hotel for the purpose of robbing the cash desk, but panicked as he was confronted by the British delegation leaving."
"Where's Holt?" The first stuttered question.
"He is in the hotel. He is quite safe."
"But this happened, you say, before lunch. Why hasn't he telephoned?"
"Mr Holt is in shock."
The mind of the duty officer was racing, incoherent.
"Didn't they have any protection?"
"Later there will be an opportunity for such detail."
The KGB colonel added, "There was a representative of state security at the hotel. He performed his duties with great bravery, but sadly was not able to prevent the attack."
"God Almighty…"
The First Deputy Foreign Minister said, "We shall be at the Foreign Ministry. We are at the disposal of the British people in this moment of anguish."
"It wasn't terrorism?"
"It was the act of a common criminal in pursuance of theft," the KGB colonel said decisively.
In darkness and amongst a sea of pimple landing navigation lights the Antonov put down at El Masr military airbase. They were checked with military thoroughness for contraband goods. They were home, in that home for these refugee strays of the Middle East was to be found in the Syrian Arab Republic. They had been together six months, now they were to disperse.
Minibuses each for the Struggle Command, and for Sai'iqa, and for the Popular Front, and for the Democratic Front, and for the General Command, and for the Liberation Front. The culprit from Sai'iqa had lost his handcuffs five minutes after take off, the victim from Struggle Command embraced his attacker when they parted. The commander reflected that the Russians could never understand his children.
All went their separate ways, except that Abu Hamid with his commander travelled from the base in the Mercedes car that had been sent to collect Major Said Hazan. Abu Hamid, unshaven and with the sweat smell on his body from his sprint away from the Oreanda Hotel, rode out of the base cushioned in the back seat between the officer of Syrian Air Force Intelligence and the officer of the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine.
When the car had gathered speed along the wide highway from, the airport, the commander said softly to Major Said Hazan, "It was magnificent, Said. It was just as you had said it would be."
The voice was muffled through the scarf. "You played your part, friend."
Two quiet men talking casually across Abu Hamid, as if he were not there.
"But you took a great risk."
"Risk nothing, and it is not possible to achieve victory."
"When will the claim be made?"
"Claim?"
"What has happened has been a triumph for the Popular Front. The Popular Front should be, must be, credited…"
"There will be no claim. There will only be silence."
Abu Hamid heard the ice chill in the voice. He felt the major shift his body further into his seat.
He was in the darkness, on the bed, when he heard the light knock on his door. He thought he might have been to sleep. He felt the wet of his tears on his face when he rubbed his eyes. He heard his name called. He slid off the bed, opened the door, let in the flood of light.
The security officer said, "Thank God we've reached you, young man."
Holt blinked at him, turned away from the door.
"They gave us an executive j e t… "
"Bloody decent of them."
"I came down with the counsellor. He's at the hospital, I've been at militia HQ."
"Super, first class."
"It's all right, Holt, you've had a bloody rough time, eh?"
Holt gazed into the security officer's face. "Rubbish.
It's not bloody rough when you're watching a shooti n g… "
"Easy, young man."
Holt flared. "Easy… it's to be easy, is it? We come down here, Low bloody Risk bloody posting, we're set up for a shooting gallery. We're chopped down like Boxing Day pheasants…"
"I understand you were not exactly co-operative."
"Would you have been? What do they want co-operation for? They've just wiped out my boss and my girl, and they want me to help their bloody inquiry, put a gloss on their bloody lies. 'Course I didn't bloody co-operate."
A sharpness in the security officer's voice. "I have to tell you that the Soviet authorities could not have been more sympathetic and eager to help me. I have been given a very full briefing on their investigation and its conclusion… "