the-secret-crusade-oliver-bowden

but safer than risking a landing on a fraying canopy, which was liable to
tear and deposit him in a heap on the stall below. He listened, waiting
until the street was quieter, then scrambled from the cart and began to
make his way to the Bureau.
He reached it from the roof, dropping into a shaded vestibule in
which tinkled a fountain, plants deadening the sounds from outside. It
was if he had stepped into another world. He gathered himself and went
inside.
The leader lounged behind a counter. He stood as the Assassin
entered. ‘Altaïr. It is good to see you. And in one piece.’
‘You as well, friend.’ Altaïr eyed the man, not much liking what he
saw. For one thing, he had an insolent, ironic manner. There was no
doubt, also, that he had been informed of Altaïr’s recent … difficulties –
and, by the look of him, planned to make the most of the temporary
power the situation afforded him.
Sure enough, when he next spoke it was with a barely disguised
smirk. ‘I am sorry for your troubles.’
‘Think nothing of it.’
The leader assumed a look of counterfeit concern. ‘A few of your
brothers were here earlier …’
So. That was how he was so well informed, thought Altaïr.
‘If you’d heard the things they said,’ the leader continued airily, ‘I’m
certain you’d have slain them where they stood.’
‘It’s quite all right,’ said Altaïr.
The leader grinned. ‘Yes, you’ve never been one for the Creed, have
you?’
‘Is that all?’ Altaïr found himself longing to slap off the insolent dog’s