Vicious Circle (19 page)

‘Yet again, if we forgive the murderer, is it justice that he should walk away from his crime, perhaps to murder again? What nobility of mind is required for a man to let the killer of his beloved wife survive?’

‘No! He must die,’ they shouted out angrily. Skilfully Aazim Muktar was toying with them in the Socratic elenctic style, refuting argument by proving the error of its conclusion. Hector could only admire his subtlety.

‘Then if the murderer is killed, will his brother have the right to revenge him also? Will he return and murder the dead woman’s son? Does this not plunge mankind into a vicious circle of death begetting death?’

The congregation fell to muttering amongst themselves, confused and uncertain. Aazim Muktar let them wrestle with their own consciences for a while, before he took pity on them.

‘Is it possible that each new age finds its own morality? Perhaps what was right and just fifteen hundred years ago is no longer so today.’ He held up both hands and went on in a lighter and more joyous tone. ‘It is one of the precepts of not only the Holy Koran, but of the Jewish Torah and the Christian Bible as well, that in the end days before the world that we know perishes and is gone for ever the Redeemer will be sent down to us by God. The Koran tells us that he will reign over us for nine years in a time of peace and love and righteousness when there will be no more cruelty and evil, and wrongdoing will vanish from the face of earth.’

‘Inshallah!’

‘There are many who believe that this blessed time of forgiveness and righteousness has come and the Redeemer is already amongst us.’

‘Allahu Akbar!’

Aazim rose to his feet and made a sign of blessing over them and then he descended to the marble floor, and disappeared through the door behind the minbar.

The worshippers rose to their feet and moved towards the exit doors. Their collective mood was buoyant. They were excited and obviously moved by all they had heard. They were so densely packed that Hector was carried along bodily by the throng. The closer they came to the exit doors the more tightly Hector was hemmed in. The men closest to him were all big and tall, many of them as tall as Hector himself. It was almost as though they had been chosen for these attributes.

He looked around for Tariq but could not see him. He must have been carried away in the flood of humanity. Hector was not particularly concerned. He knew that he and Tariq would find each other in the courtyard beyond the doors. However, by now he could hardly breathe and the press of bodies around him was solid. The face of the man on his right side was only inches from his, and his lips were almost touching Hector’s ear.

‘Effendi,’ he said quietly, and Hector started at the use of the Arabic term of respect. ‘Please do not be alarmed. We mean you no harm and you are in no danger. However, I must insist that you are to come with us, please.’ His use of the plural instantly clarified Hector’s situation for him. It must be that all the men surrounding him were working together. He estimated that there were twenty of them at the very least. He was their prisoner just as certainly as if he already wore manacles and leg irons. He tried to judge the odds set against him. He might take down two, three or even ten of them, but in the end their numbers would be decisive. Even if he managed to break free of the pack, he would not have any idea of the escape route from the unfamiliar maze of the mosque. He was unarmed in a strange city in a foreign land. The hand of every man would be turned against him. He knew he would not get very far. This was not the time to take it on the run. He must bide his chance until the odds turned more favourably towards him.

‘Where are you taking me?’ It was a fatuous question, but he asked it to buy time. He was thinking quickly. Where the hell was Tariq? Tariq was his best chance. Tariq was resourceful and brave. Tariq was on familiar ground. Most of all, Tariq was loyal and devoted.

‘The Mullah Aazim Muktar Tippoo Tip wants you to know that it is of the utmost importance that you visit him as his honoured guest. He wishes to speak with you. He has ordered us to bring you to his home.’

‘I think you are mistaking me for somebody else,’ Hector protested.

‘There is no mistake, effendi. We know who you are.’ Hector lapsed into silence; as a form of defence it was a last futile effort. He had to hope that Tariq had realized the predicament they were in and he could work out some sort of solution.

Then he heard one of the men close behind him warn his companions quietly, ‘Take care. He may be armed.’

‘No. They were both unarmed.’ The reply from one of the other Arabs was confident, containing not a shadow of doubt.

Hector was stunned as the full purport of that simple statement dawned upon him. The man had used the plural, which meant Tariq and himself. Only Tariq knew they were both unarmed, which meant Tariq had told them.

Tariq!
It was a silent scream of despair from the depths of his soul.
Tariq has spoken to them. He has helped them set me up. Tariq is a traitor.
He stopped dead in his tracks. Immediately he was thrust forward again, not brutally but firmly. His captors closed up even more tightly around him.

When did he do it? He was with me at all times, when?
Then he remembered. Tariq had left him while he was asleep.
Traitor! He has fed me to the Beast.

He knew then with utter certainty that he was going to kill Tariq; Tariq who once he had loved like a brother. Tariq was going to die and the thought sustained him. Now he was coldly determined. He was going to kill them, Tariq and Aazim Muktar Tippoo Tip both. If he died with them he would welcome it, for there was nothing left in this world he could truly believe in.

*

They left the mosque through the main gate and turned up the road towards the walled residential compound that Tariq had pointed out to him earlier as the home of Aazim Muktar. They moved swiftly, with almost military precision, in a tight-packed ruck with Hector in their midst. When they reached the gates of the compound they were opened from within and they marched through into a paved courtyard. In the centre of it grew a large banyan tree with spreading branches. In its shade sat a small group of veiled women and young children. They looked on with interest as Hector was marched to the set of steps that led up to the veranda of a flat-roofed bungalow.

It was a modest and unpretentious building, not the home that one might expect belonged to a high-ranking cleric or important government functionary. Most of Hector’s escort stopped at the bottom of the stairs, but two of them flanked him and took hold of his arms from either side to lead him up the steps onto the veranda. Hector shrugged their hands away irritably, and they did not insist. He went up the stairs two at a time and paused as he reached the porch. The door facing him was open and he crossed to it with long determined strides and paused in the doorway while his eyes adjusted to the gloomy interior after the brilliant sunlight of the courtyard.

The room was large but sparsely furnished in Arabic style. The furniture was aligned with the walls and the centre of the room was left bare and uncluttered. Aazim Muktar was the only person in the room. He was seated cross-legged on a pile of green velvet cushions, before a low table. He rose to his feet in one lithe movement and bowed as he touched his forehead, lips and heart. Then he straightened up and spoke quietly.

‘You are very welcome in my home, Mr Cross.’

‘It is very kind of you to invite me, Sheikh Tippoo Tip.’ Hector returned his bow, and Aazim Muktar grimaced slightly at his ironical tone.

‘It might be best if we speak freely and openly, Mr Cross. I do not wish to detain you longer than is absolutely necessary.’ His English was perfect, educated and cultivated as that of any high-born Englishman.

‘I would expect nothing less from you, Mullah Aazim Muktar.’

‘Please be seated, sir.’ He indicated a high-backed chair that had obviously been prepared for Hector. Hector went to it without hesitation and sat down. He was at a severe disadvantage, so it was essential that he maintained a hard expression and a stern resolve.

Aazim Muktar sat facing him, cross-legged on his cushions. They regarded each other steadily, until Aazim Muktar broke the silence.

‘Did you know that I met your wife some years ago at a reception in the London residence of the American ambassador? Hazel Bannock-Cross was a very beautiful and superior lady. I liked and admired her immensely.’

Hector took a long slow breath. He did not want his voice to shake with the rage that flooded every cell in his body. When he replied it was in a low and level tone.

‘So why, then, did you have her murdered?’

Aazim Muktar’s eyes were dark and expressive. His lashes were long and almost feminine, incongruous when set in such powerful masculine features. Slowly they filled with stark shadows of pain and sorrow. He leaned towards Hector and for a moment it seemed he might reach out and touch him, but he restrained himself. He sat upright again and held Hector’s angry gaze.

‘I call on Allah and his Prophet to hear me when I tell you that is not true, sir. I was not involved in any way in the murder of your wife.’

‘And I tell you, sir, that words trip glibly across the tongue of one who deals in them.’

‘Is there no way I can convince you?’ he asked quietly. ‘I grieve for her almost as deeply as you do.’

‘I cannot imagine anything that might convince me of that,’ Hector told him. ‘There is nobody else who had any motive, except you. The creed of retaliation and revenge killing is deeply embedded in your religion, your culture and your psyche.’

‘That is not true, Mr Cross. There is also the light of forgiveness that leads us on. Did you take no account of the plea that I addressed to you personally in the mosque today? I pleaded with you to call a halt to this vicious circle of kill and kill again.’

‘I heard what you said,’ Hector replied, ‘but I did not believe a word of it.’

‘It seems I am left with only one other recourse.’

‘What is that? Are you going to kill me also?’

‘No, sir. I did not kill your lovely wife and I am not going to kill you. You are a guest in my home. You are under my protection. Will you bear with me for just a short while, Mr Cross?’ Hector did not reply and Aazim Muktar stood up and left the room. Hector jumped up from the chair and moved quickly around the room. His eyes darted from side to side searching for an escape route, seeking a weapon with which to defend himself. He found nothing except books and scrolls, and when he glanced through the window he saw that the courtyard was still filled with Aazim Muktar’s followers. He was trapped helplessly.

Within minutes the mullah returned. ‘Forgive me, Mr Cross, but I had to make the final arrangements to get you out of the city. You may not know that it is a very serious offence for any person who is not of the Islamic faith to enter the holy places of Medina and Mecca. The penalty is death by beheading. I have a car and driver waiting at the gates of the compound to drive you down to the airport at Jeddah. I have made a reservation in the first-class section of an Emirates flight from Jeddah to Abu Zara which departs at ten p.m. this evening. Once you are airborne your people at Cross Bow Security will be alerted to your arrival. However, you must leave Mecca at once.’

Hector stared at him in astonishment and total disbelief. They were not going to set him free. This was another ruse, he knew that. He tried to see beyond the mullah’s open gaze and his sincere expression.

‘Please, Mr Cross. This is a matter of life and death. You must leave at once. I will follow you in a separate vehicle. We will have another opportunity to talk at Jeddah airport, in a VIP room that I have reserved.’

Hector inclined his head slightly, feigning acquiescence. He knew that the driver would take him out into the desert where there would be an execution squad of religious zealots waiting to receive him. They had probably already dug his grave.

No matter how heavy the odds this devious bastard has stacked up against me, my chances are better out there in the desert than bottled up here,
he decided.

‘You are very generous—’ he began, but Aazim Muktar cut him short.

‘Here is your air ticket.’ He handed Hector an envelope with an Emirates crest stamped on the flap. Hector opened the envelope and checked the name on the ticket. It was the same as the false name in the Abu Zarian passport on which he was travelling. Of course, Tariq the traitor had given them that information.

Hector looked up. ‘This seems to be in order.’

‘Good! Now go, at once. I will meet you again in Jeddah.’ He held the door open and Hector crossed to it and ran down the steps into the courtyard. Immediately a black Mercedes saloon drove in through the gate from the street. It parked in front of Hector. A bearded chauffeur in a black turban jumped out of the driver’s seat and opened the rear passenger door for him. As soon as Hector had settled himself into the seat the chauffeur slammed the door and slipped back behind the wheel. The ranks of the disciples opened to allow the Mercedes through and they drove out through the gates of the compound into the street. Hector looked back through the rear window. Aazim Muktar was standing on the veranda of the bungalow and watching him leave.

Hector spent the entire journey down to Jeddah airport in a turmoil of indecision. It would have been so easy to reach over the back of the seat, take the chauffeur in a head lock and break his neck. Then he could take the Mercedes and make a run for the Abu Zarian border. However, that was over a thousand miles away and the fuel gauge on the dashboard of the Mercedes was indicating under half full. He did not have more than a few dollars with him, certainly not enough to refill the tank. The chauffeur might be carrying cash, but he doubted it. The man probably had a fuel card or some other type of debit card. Without cash he would never make it. Of course, once the alarm went out the Saudi police would have an APB on every road. He wouldn’t go a hundred miles, let alone a thousand, before they had him. He abandoned that idea.