Brass Monkey: A James Acton Thriller Book #2 (7 page)

“Everyone has done this?”

“Yes.”

“And they all know?”

Hasni shook his head. “Of course not, only the training masters know. It is a tradition handed down for over a century, from one training master to the next. I remember when I was told, how shocked I was. I even felt betrayed, as I am sure you do now, but then I realized the brilliance of it. Paradise—Jannah. Few men ever experience anything like it while living.
We
all have. And it is a wonderful thing. Keep it fresh in your mind, boy, for it is something to keep you alive, and something to die for.”

Faisal stared at the ground.
It was all a lie.

“Look out!” yelled Hasni.

Faisal jerked his head up as Hasni grabbed him by the robe and yanked him into a nearby doorway. A volley of arrows had cleared the outer wall and rained down on the courtyard they stood in.

Hasni spun Faisal around to face him and stared him in the eyes. “We are under attack. Are you a Hassassin or are you a coward?”

Faisal took a deep breath through his nose, the scent from the pool still fresh on his skin filled his nostrils, the memory of what had almost happened sent a surge through his loins. Then he realized what it all meant. “I am Hassassin!” he said with a surge of pride. “I am no coward.”

Hasni smiled and squeezed Faisal’s shoulders. “Good, good. Now let’s get in this fight, brother.”

Southeast District Police Headquarters, Kashirskoye Street, Moscow

Interrogation Room 1

The interrogation room at the Southeast District Police Headquarters would have horrified any American tourist unfortunate enough to find themselves in it. A single incandescent bulb burned hot in the center of the room, its cheap shade serving to focus the light down over the lone table. The table, made from a sturdy oak, was a fixture in the station house for years. Hit with weapons, fists, prisoners’ heads, and more, tossed over and thrown on too many occasions to count, pock marks, splinters and chips covered its surface. The times it was broken, the men at the precinct would repair it, rather than have it replaced. It had been there as long as the precinct had been, and it brought them good luck. More cases broke at that table than any other in Moscow. Whether true or not was irrelevant, but it was the story they told the rookies, and the myth was perpetuated. It had been there so many decades the story very well might be true by now.

Yakovski was handcuffed, sitting in an uncomfortable metal chair, staring at the floor. He raised his foot and dropped it on a cockroach unfortunate enough to pass within his field of vision. He twisted his boot, grinding the insect into the filth covered floor, its original color anybody’s guess.

Dymovsky watched the proceedings through the two way mirror. They had run the man’s fingerprints and confirmed he was Yakovski. Dymovsky had refamiliarized himself with the man’s military history, which was the last information they had on him. In August 1991 he had disappeared, with the rest of his unit from 1985, never to be seen again.
This one will be tough to crack.

Dymovsky left the observation room and paused before the door to the interrogation room. He raised his hand, took a deep breath, then dropped it on the handle, yanking the door open quickly. If he had hoped to startle Yakovski, it hadn’t worked. In fact, Yakovski didn’t budge, giving no outward sign he was even aware Dymovsky had entered.

Dymovsky walked around the table and laid out his files deliberately, taking his time, saying nothing. Finally done, he sat down across from Yakovski, leaned back in his chair, folded his arms, and stared.

This continued for ten straight minutes. Dymovsky didn’t move, didn’t say anything. Yakovski, who was slowly sobering up, fidgeted, using the nail of one thumb to pick those on his opposite hand clean.

Dymovsky leaned forward and flipped open one of the files. “Boris Yakovski, born September 23, 1958, in Morshansk, Russia. Parents Mikhail and Devora, both deceased. Only child. Joined the Soviet Army on September 23, 1974, you’re sixteenth birthday I see, Service Number 3-741187, served with distinction in Afghanistan, Angola and Ethiopia until disappearing August 21, 1991.” Dymovsky glanced up from the file. “Interesting date that. Not happy with Mr. Yeltsin?”

No reaction.

“I have here a mission report,” continued Dymovsky as he opened another file and placed it in front of him. “This is from July 23, 1985, filed by Colonel Grigori Trubitsin, Major at the time. Would you like me to read it?”

The fidgeting had stopped. Yakovski shrugged his shoulders.

Got you!

“Very well, I won’t. There’s no need. Both you and I know it’s a fabrication.”

Yakovski was now still.

“Well, perhaps not a complete fabrication. You did successfully
spoof the TACAN
as they call it, shoot down a US Air Force FB-111A fighter bomber, kill the crew when they tried to resist, and recovered invaluable technology for Mother Russia. Do you deny this?”

A slight smile flashed for a brief instant on Yakovski’s face.

“I see you don’t.” Dymovsky closed the file and placed it back in the stack he had taken it from. He picked up another file, and placed it in front of him, but didn’t open it. “The problem with this report, is that it is incomplete.”

No smile this time.
Is that vein in his neck throbbing harder than it was a minute ago?
“We both know that you recovered a nuclear weapon and didn’t report it.”

It looked like the vein would burst through the skin at any moment.

“You recovered this missile, failed to report it, and just recently, acquired the arming code.”

Yakovski sat perfectly still, the only movement the vein.

“You orchestrated the theft of this code, and knowing the Americans were closing in, deliberately betrayed one of our spy networks in the United States, in order to have the code transported back without trying to transmit it electronically where it might be detected and blocked.”

Yakovski glanced up, briefly making eye contact, then stared at the door.

This last part Dymovsky had made up, but it was a likely guess. The Americans said the code was stolen, and Yakovski was seen exiting a hotel Anya Kushchenko had entered minutes before. Dymovsky didn’t believe in coincidences.

Yakovski tilted his head toward him, revealing the long scar occupying much of the left side of his face. “When do I get my phone call?” he snarled.

Dymovsky laughed. “You watch too many American TV shows.” Dymovsky pushed his chair out, stood, then left the room. He quickly headed back to the observation room where several watched.

Dymovsky looked through the window. Yakovski had resumed staring at the floor, giving no indication anything from the last few minutes bothered him.

“Thoughts?” asked Dymovsky as he stared at his adversary.

“I don’t think you’ll break him, sir. He’s not the type.”

“Da. He’s ex-army. A sergeant. They are the toughest of the tough.”

Dymovsky nodded. “Agreed, we can’t scare him, or threaten him with anything. He has no family, and we don’t even know where he lives. Taking his freedom away means he wins. He knows we need that missile and he knows he’s our only lead.”

“What are you going to do, sir?”

Dymovsky remained silent for a minute as he stared at the man on the other side of the glass.

“We let him go.”

Alamut, Persia

December 15, 1256 AD

“It is time.”

The chamber was filled with Hassassin warriors, dressed from head to toe in black robes, their faces, normally covered, bared without fear amongst their brothers. Many showed the scars of battles long ago, even more revealed the fresh wounds of a bloody, hopeless battle, a battle they knew they could not win. They turned as one to face the Grand Headmaster of the Hassassin Order, Ruknuddin Khurshah, who stood on a raised platform at the head of the chamber.

The battle hadn’t gone well. It had raged for almost a month, the Mongol hordes surrounding them unleashing a never ending volley from their ballistae and scorpion siege weapons. The enemy hadn’t had the courage to fight the Hassassin man to man, instead relying on the weapons of cowards. The Hassassin had killed many, but so outnumbered, it was clear in the end there would be no victory.

Faisal had fought by the side of his Master, Hasni, never flinching, never questioning his orders. He did what he was asked, participating in nighttime raiding parties, sometimes to take prisoners for interrogation, other times to silently kill the enemy while they slept in their tents, sowing fear amongst them. Despite these missions being successful, the numbers they faced remained too great, and they all knew it.

“It is time to think of the future, rather than the present.” Grand Headmaster Khurshah’s voice was strong, firm, reassuring, but tired. Though exhausted, their pride had never wavered. Faisal glanced at Hasni. Hasni’s chin was held high, a slight smile on his face as he gazed upon the man who Faisal knew had trained his master years before. Faisal wondered what was going through his master’s mind. Did he feel fear? Did he feel desperation? Did he
feel
? He rarely revealed any emotion except anger, and that was usually when an order wasn’t followed, or he was in the thick of battle. But this thin smile, this hint of pride, was the first sense of emotion Faisal had ever seen that made Hasni seem less than super-human.

“This battle will be lost. This battle will be lost though we will continue to fight, for we are Hassassins, and surrender is not an option.” Nods of assent spread amongst the gathered throngs of ragged warriors. “The Mongols claim they will let us live if we simply surrender. We know that to be a lie. The Mongols are without honor, without courage. The moment we lay down our arms, they will slaughter us. There is not a man here who fears death, there is not a man here who would not die for The Order, die for his beliefs, die for Allah.”

More murmurs of assent filled the room, then someone screamed, “Allahu Akbar!” The room erupted into a roar, the entire crowd chanting “Allahu Akbar!” at the top of their lungs, fists pumping in the air.

Faisal’s chest swelled with religious ardor as his own fist punched the air in defiance of the hordes outside the walls. “Allahu Akbar!” he yelled.

Grand Headmaster Khurshah raised both hands and quieted the crowd, bowing slightly. “And it is in the name of Allah that we must make the next sacrifice. For death is not to be feared, for Jannah awaits all those who sacrifice themselves in service to Allah. However death of The Order is not acceptable. In order to maintain balance between Islam and Christianity, our Order must survive. And for The Order to survive, some of you in this room must survive.”

Faisal looked around him. He was the youngest there. The last to have passed the rigorous testing, the last to have gone through the Rite of Initiation, or as it was called amongst the select few in the room who knew the truth, the Ritual of the False Jannah. Over the past days of fighting, he had come to understand the reasoning behind it, to realize the genius behind it, and he no longer felt betrayed. He had come to accept it, and to romanticize it, romanticize it to the point where part of him was now convinced it had indeed been real, and it warmed his heart to know the wonder of Jannah in reality must be far greater than any fantasy created by man. He knew when he died, should he be granted entry to Jannah, it would be even more wonderful than the few moments he had experienced.

And he knew his time would come shortly, for he was the youngest and had no reason to expect to be among those who would survive. Why should he? He knew little of The Order, of its ways. How could he, one so young, be expected to continue The Order? Yes he was well trained, but he lacked experience, experience the rest in the room had in abundance. He looked at Hasni and his heart turned heavy as he thought of how little time he had left to learn from his master.

“I have decided that to survive as an Order, those who remain must be swift of foot, strong in body, and in mind. And it is for that reason that I will remain here, with the defenders, to delay the Mongol hordes for as long as we can, while younger men make their escape to preserve The Order.”

The room filled with chants of outrage, of disappointment. Men yelling, “No! Not you master!” Their grief was palpable, the dismay on their faces speaking more than their words could convey. Faisal shouted with them, and a glance at Hasni shocked him, a tear rolled down his face, leaving a trail in the dirt and dust caked upon his cheek.

Grand Headmaster Khurshah again raised his hands. “My heart leaps with your outpouring, but I am old, and will only slow you down. There is one among us who can take my place, and who will lead those that have been chosen to preserve The Order to safety.”

The crowd looked around at each other, and one near the front raised his head, looking up at their leader, and asked, “Grand Headmaster, who among us could possibly replace you? Who is worthy enough to take your place?”

The room was silent, all eyes on Grand Headmaster Khurshah whose eyes slowly surveyed the audience, and settled on Faisal. Faisal gulped.
Why is he looking at me?
Grand Headmaster Khurshah descended the platform steps he stood on, and walked toward Faisal. The thick crowd parted to let him pass, all eyes turning to try and see who the successor would be. Faisal took a slight step to the side, shifting himself behind his master.

Grand Headmaster Khurshah paused in front of Hasni. Hasni bowed his head, his master returning the bow and then taking Hasni by the hand, he turned to face the crowd. “Brother Hasni will be your new Grand Headmaster. Honor him with loyalty as you have honored me over the years. Let us all put our faith in him, and in Allah, to preserve The Order. All hail your new master!”

The crowd erupted in applause and cheers, shouts of “Allahu Akbar!” again filled the chamber. Faisal joined in, reveling in the fact it was
his
master who was now the master to all, and a little embarrassed that for a moment he had thought Grand Headmaster Khurshah was speaking of him. He patted Hasni on the back as the crowd surrounded their new and old masters, their troubles beyond the walls momentarily forgotten.