Nexus Point (Meridian Series) (15 page)

       “Look,” said Paul. “It is clear
that I am a Westerner—an American, in fact. I have told you how I came here, or
at least all that I can recall, yet you people have been talking in these
riddles and I can’t seem to get a straight word out of anyone. Now, answer me
this: am I a prisoner here? Do you mean to hold me hostage? If so get on with
it then and bring out your video camera or whatever else you intend. I’ll be
more than happy to become a star in your little show.” He folded his arms,
angry and frustrated, yet also a bit unsettled that he had allowed his emotions
to get the better of him. Who were these people? The question rankled him, and
he had decided to have it out with them here and now—in spite of the gratitude
he felt for their rescue and the kindness of their hospitality.

       Jabr looked at him, a bit wide
eyed, and then slowly translated what he had been saying. The Kadi kept looking
from Jabr to Paul, clearly annoyed, yet determined. His brows drooped and
returned a flash of the same anger Paul had postured, resolving more to a stern
indignation. He spoke again, his voice clear and loud.

       “Then you claim to serve no
order? You are not a sergeant, or even a squire? Do you speak truly?”

       They were going to hold to this
drivel about knights and squires, and Paul shrugged. “No,” he said
disconsolately. “I am not a knight, or a sergeant or a squire or anything else.
I was simply here on an archeological dig to recover a fossil. Now, if you must
know, the find was very valuable, and yes, we were removing it without papers.
I can’t imagine that is very much of a crime, and we can offer any compensation
that may be asked—along with the return of the Ammonite, if that matters. Now I
want to be put in contact with the American embassy in Amman. Is that clear?”

       While Paul had hoped his
directness would bring this matter to a quick conclusion, Jabr looked more and
more bemused as he went on. He began speaking to the Kadi, but Paul realized
that he was not making a simple translation. The two men were speaking to one
another now, clearly animated, as though trying to reach some mutual conclusion
on what to do next. The Kadi waved his arms, giving Jabr a clear instruction
until he turned to Paul and spoke, his voice low and controlled.

       “The Kadi does not understand—
we
do not understand the things you speak of. Yet, he must reach discernment here.
This is very important Do-Rahlan. You must speak truly, and open yourself.
Otherwise the judgment here could be harsh.”

       There was a cold scrape of metal
and the echo of hard footsteps. All eyes turned to see a man striding from the
shadow of an alcove behind the dais. He was dressed in white robes, hooded,
with a sable sash tying off his garments at the waist. Paul saw that his hand
rested on the hilt of a sheathed weapon, and wondered if this was a captain of
this little troop of Arabian guards. All the men in the room seemed to defer to
him as he emerged, the guards stooping to a kneeling position as they caught
sight of the man. Even Jabr averted his eyes and lowered his head. Only the
Kadi sat straight, chin high, an indignant fire in his eyes as he watched the
extraordinary figure approach. Paul sensed the edge of tension between the two
men, and realized that the audience had taken a strange turn, spiraling into
some unpredictable level of danger that he now sensed quite clearly in the
room. The guards were not merely  deferring with respect, they were afraid.
Jabr bowed low and Paul saw that his hand was shaking as he did so.

       The man’s tread slowed, and
softened on the thick carpeting as he drew near. Paul was drawn to him,
catching the glint of his eyes from beneath the hood of his garment. He cut an
ominous and threatening figure, and seemed very intent upon Paul. Then the Kadi
spoke, as though to draw the attention of the man, pulling at the interloper,
who turned from Paul to heed him.

       The two men exchanged words, and
the tone seemed quite unfriendly. Then the Kadi pointed at Jabr, and called his
name. The translator quavered a bit, bowing first and then whispering in Paul’s
ear. “I am instructed to interpret for you now, and I advise you to be cautious
in all you say here. The third pillow has arrived, and the time of your
judgment is now at hand.”

       Paul glanced at the empty
cushion to his left. Good cop, bad cop, he thought. This must be the real
interrogator, or perhaps the ringleader of this little group. They’re terrified
of the man—except for the Kadi. Those two stand on equal footing, and there’s
some enmity between them, that much is clear.

       “This is Sami Abdul-Basir of
Massiaf, Servant of the All Seeing. He will question you now, and the Kadi will
listen. You must speak truly, and may Allah guide you in all you say.”

       The Sami pointed at Paul and
spoke, his voice quiet and almost melodious, his eyes catching and magnifying
the wavering light of torches, though his face remained shrouded in shadow.

       “The Sami has heard all that was
spoken before,” said Jabr. “He asks you now to chant your oath, and reveal the
Order you serve.”

       Paul looked from the Sami to
Jabr, and then made up his mind. “Tell him I serve no order, and I take no
oath.”

       “Ana Laa Afham. The Sami does
not understand how this can be so, for all Walkers are sworn. He asks if this
is
taqiyya—
forgive me,” Jabr
explained. “He does not believe you. He suggests that you deny your true faith
and position out of fear, or to conceal your real motives.”

       “You mean he thinks I’m a liar.” Paul did
not mince words. “Well, he can think whatever he wishes, but I hold to no
order, as he suggests. This is nonsense!”

       “Then how is it you have come to
this place at the appointed time. The Kadi has said your coming was written.
You were expected. Explain this.”

       “I have
no
idea what the
Kadi means,” said Paul, holding his ground in spite of the hostile tone in the
Sami’s voice. “My arrival here was an accident, nothing more.”

       “Then you had no Dawa? You were
not prepared?”

       “They have tried to explain that
to me, but I don’t understand. I am not in the employ of any government, if
that is what you mean. I wasn’t briefed or cajoled or bribed. I simply fell! I
had an accident! Look, I am a free citizen, if that is not something you 
people have difficulty comprehending. I go where I please and, right now, the
only thing on my mind is getting home. I demand to make a phone call to the
embassy of the United States in Amman.”

       The Sami spoke sharply in reply,
though Jabr softened the words in translation. “Who is this emissary you wish
to call upon? Is he your contact here? Is he a Templar?”

      
“Embassy,”
Paul’s
frustration was apparent. “Look here, either you are the gracious people you
first appeared to be, or you are a band of Islamic radicals—I don’t know which.
Quite frankly, I don’t care.  Just make up your mind here and get on with this.
Either grant me my rights under international law, or, if you refuse—“        The
Sami shouted.

       “Be silent, Do-Rahlan!” Jabr
seemed terrified.

       The white robed figure had drawn
his weapon, and he strode boldly up to Paul, a long dagger gleaming in his hand
as he came. But, as he drew near, his hand seemed to freeze, and Paul caught
the sibilant intake of the man’s breath, as though he was physically shocked.
He stopped short, and Paul could see his hand tremble ever so slightly where he
held out the knife. He obviously meant to threaten, if not to do Paul serious
harm, yet something had taken hold of him, like an unseen hand restraining him.
He stepped away, as a man might back away from a ghost. His left hand moved to
grasp his right where he held the dagger, stilling the tremor.

      
What was going on here?

       The Sami was clearly shaken by his approach
to Paul, and began engaging the Kadi in a heated exchange. Paul looked at Jabr,
and saw that his eyes were pressed tightly closed, his head low. Something was
clearly
amiss, but Paul could not guess what it was.
He only knew that his fate was somehow teetering in the balance, and wished he
could think of what to say or do. Finally, the Kadi stood up, his eyes set with
bright determination; his arm pointing sternly at the Sami’s drawn dagger. The
Sami said something more, his voice low and threatening. Then he turned and
strode away as he had come, disappearing into the shadows behind the dais. No
one moved until he was gone.

       Paul was watching the Kadi very closely now,
and he could see that the man was
shaken
, as
though the confrontation with the Sami had been a trial that drained his
strength and energy. His fingers pinched at the bridge of his nose, and then,
as though suddenly aware of Paul’s regard, he glanced up, his hand returning to
stroke his beard. He spoke to Jabr again, who whispered quietly in Paul’s ear.

       “We must go now,” he said. “The Kadi must
consider what was said here this morning. Come now—rise and bow. We will leave
as we have come.”

12

The Sami waited
in the Eyrie of Sinan, the highest point in
Castle Massiaf, towering up over the crenellated battlements of the main wall,
a stark spike of stone penetrating the night. A
forbidden
keep
, the retreat of the nameless Sheikh himself when he quartered
there, it was a dank and cheerless place. Few would chance even to speak of its
bleak walls, and none would dare to climb the gray stair leading to the high
arched gate that made for its single entrance. Only the Sami, master of the
arts of the Assassins and the keeper of the keys to that
tower
, would dare to cross the threshold. The
keystone of the arch was scored with the Arabic inscription that would stand as
both a warning and guiding rule for the secret cult he presided over, a truth
the Sami knew well—that Time is boundless.

       Yet his patience was not so generous. An
enemy was at work here: Arnat, the Wolf that had preyed upon his brethren and
even dared to launch raids upon the holy soil of Arabia, was again at large.
The Sami had it in his mind to send a chosen clutch of his lethal
Fedayeen
to deal with the man. He had been planning the matter for many months now,
sending out spies to gather information on the man’s whereabouts. Now, the
coming of this strange messenger filled him with doubt. It may be that he would
need his loyal fighters here at Massiaf until he could determine how to deal
with this intruder. He sighed, still unwavering in his mind. I will follow the 
track of the Wolf soon enough, he thought, but first the matter of this
stranger, and the intransigence of the Kadi.

       Tonight the restless airs blew from the
east, carrying with them the scent of the desert, warm dry winds over the flint
and shale of sunburned rock. He squinted out over the iron transom of a tall
lancet window there, smelling the air and watching the gathering of night. It
was a fast wind tonight, he thought, and the messengers will come before the moon
is down for certain.

       As if in answer he heard the haunting call
of the birds drifting over the rugged highlands, and caught the dark fleck of
the messenger pigeons wheeling against the mottled face of a waning moon.
Perhaps tonight he would have his answer, he thought. It had been five days
since the stranger arrived at Massiaf—five days of uncertainty that rankled in
his gut as he recalled the face and manner of the man. He was still shaken by
the apprehension that had fallen upon him when he approached the stranger,
dagger in hand, in the Kadi’s council chamber. It was as if he perceived a
faint glow emanating from the man, an aura that surrounded him with some dark
magic that was undoubtedly the work of the Order. He remembered how he
shirked
back, lest he be defiled by the man’s unholy
touch. Who was this?  Why was he sent?

       It was clear that he was an enemy, and if
there was one thing the Sami had a firm hold on, it was the treatment of
enemies. He knew what he wished to accomplish in this matter, but the Kadi
would not hear him. It was evident that this man could not be the one
prescribed by the prophets of Egypt, yet the Kadi was blind, and weak of
spirit.  If this stranger, an infidel,  had come to them from the Well of
Souls, then the enemies of Islam were on the move once more, prowling the hills
and vales like restless wolves, intent on devouring the faithful or bending
them to heathen creeds.

       If they have found the well in the Valley of
the Moon, he ruminated, then they must have sent this man through as a spy –or
possibly even an assassin, a business the Sami knew only too well. Who was he
targeted to? What was his mission? The man would not speak. He was holding to
the discipline of his oath and offered insulting lies instead. And to make matters
worse, the Kadi would not accede. Why did he harbor the intruder in gilded
chambers, with sweetened airs and trays of the finest food and drink?

       The Kadi had grown
soft
and uncertain with age. He was not the man needed here when war would soon
beset this land. Cast no seed upon the rocks, he mused. The Kadi had become as
dull of mind as the cold stone bricks of the castle itself. He doted upon the
scrolls of the prophets and had no will of his own. It was time for a strong
hand, for stern measures, and mercy to the enemies of Islam was unseemly in the
face of
jihad.
The Sami knew what he must do.  So it was that he
selected the pride of his courier birds, a messenger to the distant fastness of
Alamut, far to the East. If the Kadi would not hear the wisdom of his
arguments, then the Sheikh in Alamut must rule instead.