Prologue

NEW YORK CITY

MAY 19,1929

The hour has come, called the voice of the master.

   The Hashashin watched from his place in the shadows, staring out into the sunlit street.

   " I am a living dagger," he replied in a hoarse whisper, "thrust by the Old Man's hand." He pressed three fingers to his forehead and made a low bow.

   Across the street, the door of the telegraph office swung open, and a heavy, grizzle~bearded man emerged, tucking an envelope into his pocket as he started up the block. The Hashashin followed quickly, stepping from his concealment into the street amid the coughing, growling motorcars.

   The strangeness of this place still unbalanced him, and it was more than these lurching machines in the road. The customs and laws of this country were alien; the speech was difficult. His garments felt awkward and uncomfortable-- the coat and trousers, the necktie at his throat, the brimmed hat pulled low over his eyes.

   All this was of no consequence, of course. He reached into his coat and found his knife, felt the edge sticky~sharp beneath his thumb, felt the certainty of its weight in his palm.

   Up ahead, the sacrifice moved at an easy pace, pausing to take in the window displays of several shops along the way. The Hashashin held back, moving inconspicuously through the crowds with eyes fixed like barbed hooks on the back of the man's neck, until finally they arrived at a faded storefront squeezed between a butcher shop and a Chinese laundry, with a window lettered in flaking gold:

RUGS-CARPETS

➡️ANATOLIAN & PERSIAN⬅️

FINEST QUALITY

The Hashashin waited while the man unlocked the entrance; then he circled the building and found a rear door. Producing a pair of slender steel instruments from a leather wallet, he picked the lock and slipped inside a dim storeroom, blinking twice as his eyes adjusted to the heavy darkness. A gray Persian cat, startled by his arrival, darted past him and disappeared down an aisle of wooden crates and baked rugs. The Hashashin paused and listened.

   A steady string of thumbs echoed faintly in the gloom. The Hashashin crept toward the sounds, weaving his way through the cluttered space like a jackal among the tombs, until he came at last to a standing row of rolled carpets at the back of a small showroom.

   Except for the afternoon Ray's that filtered through the dusty windows, the store was unlit. It was the same back in the bazaars of far~off Baghdad and Istanbul. In this way the shops were kept tolerably cool even in the oppressive heat of Midday. Only when a customer changed to enter would the hot bulbs above be switched on, illuminating the rich carpets in a magnificent blaze of color.

   There were no customers now. Here in the shadows, old grizzle~beard worked alone in the middle of the floor, heaving a pile of rugs back one by one with a whoosh and a thud, checking his inventory with a series of regular grunts. His task absorbed him entirely.

   Like the rumble of distant thunder, the voice of the master called to the Hashashin from beyond the void.

   His life is forfeit.

   The Hashashin exhaled silently and drew his knife. In an instant, in the space between two heartbeats, the stroke would be accomplished.

   "One breath more, sadiqi," he whispered as he started to step out into the room.

   At that moment, the door of the shop opened, ringing a bell on the jamb. The carpet merchant looked up from his stack, and the Hashashin froze. Cursing silently, he shrank back into hiding.

   "Mr. Constantin!" said a tall, gray~haired gentleman with a British accent.

   "Ah, effendi," replied the carpet merchant, beaming. "Excellent timing, old friend! I am only just now returned."

   The men shook hands, and the visitor removed his hat and smoothed  his broad mustache.

   "How are you these days? Business is good?"

   "Tolerable," said Mr. Constantin with an indifferent wave.

   The visitor nodded, sighing comfortably as he sank onto the pile of carpets. He ruffled his hair and stretched his arms. Then he stiffened.

   "What is it?" asked Mr. Constantin. "Something is wrong?"

   "I'm not sure." The visitor's eyes were alert now, probing. "You're alone?" he asked.

   "Of course. Except for the cat. Perhaps you heard him chasing a mouse in the storeroom."

   The Hashashin was seething inside, but he remained motionless. He had no instructions for this contingency. Perhaps both men should fall, though two strokes represented a more demanding test.

   The visitor waited for several moments, listening for even the faintest disturbance of the stillness. None come. His senses chafed, unsatisfied, but at last he shook his head. "Has it arived?"

   Mr. Constantin nodded and handed him the telegram. "Do you have time for apple tea, Horatius?" he asked.

   "Why not?" said his quest, turning his attention to the contents of the envelope. "I've never turned down tea before, that I recall."

   As he scanned the lines, his jaw tightened in alarm.

   "No," he murmured. "No . . . it can't be."

   "Is everything all right?"

   The gray~haired man hesitated, as if words momentarily failed him.

   "The enemy has found them," he said. "After all these years . . ."

   Mr. Constantin's eyes widened spectacularly. "And what of the Eye of Midnight?"

   "The telegram mentions nothing on that point," muttered the visitor. "I'm sorry, but it looks as if I'll have to pass on tea. I have a train to catch."

   He took up his hat and put his hand on the shopkeeper's shoulder, hastening for the door. "Thank you, old friend," he said in earnest, "and thank you Yusuf for me as well."

   Mr. Constantin shook his head. "It was nothing," he said. "The dept still stands on my side of the ledger, I think. Besides, I understand what this means to you. You know I would do anything to help."

   His guest tipped his hat. "Tread carefully," he said. "The Old Man's arm is long."

   Mr. Constantin made a circle with his thumb and forefinger and held it over his heart.

   "Nothing will prevail," he said.

   "The Cipher does not sleep," replied the gray~haired man, returning the peculiar salute as he turned for the door.

   The Hashashin knew the visitor's identity and purpose now, knew also that his only opportunity to intercept the telegram had been lost.

   Furiously, he tore open his garment and pressed the point of his blade to his chest. "I have failed the Old Man," he whispered.

   Remember the command, rang the voice in his head. Thy death belongs to me.

   His hand faltered and dropped to his side. He knew the creed. His life was not his own take.

   And yet, blood must still be spilled today.

   Behind him, the gray cat crushed and hissed.

   The Hashashin lifted his eyes toward the carpet merchant, who stood at the dusty window. He gripped his dagger and stepped out onto the room.