11
The three escaped prisoners crawled in the darkness up through the ancient, moss-laden sewer line to a gridded opening on the stone floor of the embassy’s east courtyard. Struggling, their hands and feet scraped and bloodied, they emerged into the dazzling sunlight only to be met by a scene Evan Kendrick wished with all his being had remained in darkness. Sixty or more hostages had been removed from the roof to the courtyard for their meager morning food and ablutions. A latrine consisted of wooden planks with circular holes above planter boxes, the men separated from the women by a large transparent screen ripped from one of the embassy’s windows. The degradation was complete in that the guards, male and female, walked back and forth in front of the hostages, male and female, laughing and making loud jokes about the functional difficulties their captives were experiencing. The toilet paper, tauntingly held out beyond the reach of trembling hands before it was finally delivered, consisted of printouts from the embassy’s computers.
Across the way, in full view of the frightened, humiliated people at the planks, the hostages had formed a line leading to three long, narrow tables with rows of metal plates holding dry bread and small wedges of questionable cheese. Spaced between were filthy pitchers filled with a grayish-white liquid, presumably diluted goat’s milk, which was poured sparingly into the prisoners’ wooden bowls by a group of armed terrorists behind the tables. Every now and then a hostage was refused a plate or a ladleful of milk; pleading was futile; it resulted in a slap or a fist or a ladle in the face when the cries were too loud.
Suddenly, as Kendrick’s eyes were still adjusting to the harsh light a young prisoner, a boy of no more than fourteen or fifteen, tears streaming down his face, his features contorted, screamed in defiance. “You lousy bastard! My mother’s sick! She keeps throwing up from this crap! Give her something decent, you sons of bitches—”
The boy’s words were cut short by the barrel of a rifle across his face, tearing his left cheek. Instead of subduing the youngster, the blow infuriated him. He lunged across the table, grabbing the shirt of the man with the rifle, tearing it off his chest, sending metal plates and pitchers crashing down from the table. In seconds, the terrorists were on him, pulling him away from the bearded man he was wrestling to the ground, pummeling him with rifle butts and kicking his writhing body on the courtyard stone. Several other male hostages, their anger and courage aroused by the boy’s action, rushed forward shouting with weak, hoarse voices, their arms flailing pathetically against their arrogant, far stronger enemies. What followed was a brutal suppression of the minirevolt. As the hostages fell they were beaten unconscious and kicked like carcasses being thumped and processed in a slaughterhouse.
“Animals!” roared an old man, holding his trousers and walking unsteadily forward from the planks, his resolve and dignity intact. “Arab animals! Arab savages! Have none of you a shred of civilized decency? Does beating to death weak defenseless men make you heroes of Islam? If so, take me and issue yourselves more medals, but in the name of God, stop what you’re doing!”
“Whose God?” shouted a terrorist over the body of the unconscious boy. “A Christian Jesus, whose followers arm our enemies so they can massacre our children with bombs and cannons? Or a wandering Messiah, whose people steal our lands and kill our fathers and mothers? Get your Gods straight!”
“Enough!” commanded Azra, striding rapidly forward. Kendrick followed, unable to control himself, thinking that moments before he might have grabbed the MAC-10 weapon off Blue’s shoulder and fired into the terrorists. Standing above the bloodied youngster, Azra continued, his voice casual. “The lesson’s been taught; don’t overteach it or you’ll numb those you want to instruct. Take these people down to the infirmary, to the hostage doctor … and find the boy’s mother. Bring her there also and get her a meal.”
“Why, Azra?” protested the Palestinian. “No such consideration was shown my mother! She was—”
“Nor to mine,” broke in Blue firmly, stopping the man. “And look at us now. Take this child down and let him stay with his mother. Have someone speak to them about overzealousness and pretend to care.”
Kendrick watched in revulsion while the limp, bleeding bodies were carried away. “You did the right thing,” he said to Azra in English, his words coldly noncommittal, talking like a technician. “One doesn’t always care to, but one has to know when to stop.”
The new prince of terrorists studied Evan through opaque eyes. “I meant what I said. Look at us now. The death of our own makes us different. One day we’re children, the next we are grown up, no matter the years, and we are experts at death, for the memories never leave us.”
“I understand.”
“No, you don’t, Amal Bahrudi. Yours is an ideological war. For you death is a political act. You are a passionate believer, I have no doubt—but still what you believe is politics. That’s not my war. I have no ideology but survival, so that I can extract death for death—and still survive.”
“For what?” asked Kendrick, suddenly terribly interested.
“Oddly enough, to live in peace, which was forbidden to my parents. For all of us to live in our own land, which was stolen from us, delivered to our enemies and paid for by rich nations to assuage their own guilt over crimes against a people that were not our crimes. Now we’re the victims; can we do less than fight?”
“If you think that’s not politics, I suggest you think again. You remain a poet, Azra.”
“With a knife and a gun as well as my thoughts, Bahrudi.”
There was another commotion across the courtyard, this one benign. Two figures raced out of a doorway, one a veiled woman, the other a man with streaks of white in his hair. Zaya Yateem and Ahbyahd, the one called White, thought Evan, standing rigid, aloof. The greeting between brother and sister was odd; they formally shook hands, looking at each other, then fell into an embrace. The universal guardianship of an older sister for a younger brother—the latter so often awkward, impulsive in the eyes of the older, wiser sibling—bridged races and ideology. The younger child would inevitably grow stronger, the muscular arms of the household, but the older sister was always there to guide him. Ahbyahd was subsequently less formal, throwing his arms around the youngest, strongest member of the Operations Council, and kissing him on both cheeks. “You have much to tell us,” exclaimed the terrorist called White.
“I do,” agreed Azra, turning to Evan Kendrick, “because of this man. He is Amal Bahrudi from East Berlin, sent by the Mahdi to us here in Masqat.”
Above her veil, Zaya’s urgent, even violent eyes searched Evan’s face. “Amal Bahrudi,” she repeated. “I’ve heard the name, of course. The Mahdi’s strings reach great distances. You are far from your own work.”
“Uncomfortably so,” said Kendrick, in the cultured dialect of Riyadh. “But others are watched, their every move monitored. It was thought that someone unexpected should come here, and East Berlin is a convenient place from which to travel. People will swear you’re still there. When the Mahdi called, I responded. In truth it was I who first made contact with his people about a problem you have here, which your brother will explain to you. We may have different objectives, but we all progress by cooperating with each other, especially when our bills are paid.”
“But you,” said Ahbyahd, frowning. “The Bahrudi of East Berlin, the one who moves anywhere, everywhere. You were found out?”
“It’s true I have a reputation for getting around,” answered Evan, permitting himself the hint of a smile. “But it certainly won’t be enhanced by what happened to me here.”
“You were betrayed, then?” asked Zaya Yateem.
“Yes. I know who it was and I’ll find him. His body will drift up in the harbor—”
“Bahrudi broke us out,” interrupted Azra. “While I was thinking he was doing. He deserves whatever reputation he has.”
“We go inside, my dearest brother. We’ll talk there.”
“My dearest sister,” said Bl
ue. “We have traitors here, that’s what Amal came to tell us—that and one more thing. They’re taking photographs and smuggling them outside, selling them! If we live, we’ll be hunted for years … a record of our activities for all the world to see!”
The sister now studied the brother, her dark eyes above the veil questioning. “Photographs? Taken by concealed cameras with sophisticated features to operate and noticed by no one? Do we have such advanced students of photography among our brothers and sisters here, the majority of whom can barely read?”
“He saw the photographs! In East Berlin!”
“We’ll talk inside.”
The two Englishmen sat in front of the large desk at the British embassy, the weary attaché, still in a bathrobe, doing his best to stay awake. “Yes, chaps,” he said, yawning. “They’ll be here any moment now, and if you don’t mind my saying so, I hope there’s substance in what you’re telling us. MI-Six is seven ways into a dither here, and they’re not too charmed by a couple of our own Brits robbing them of a few precious hours of sleep.”
“My friend Dickie, here, was in the Grenadiers!” exclaimed Jack, protectively and otherwise. “If he thinks there’s something to be told you, I think you should pay attention. After all, what are we here for?”
“To make money for your firms?” offered the attaché.
“Well, of course, that’s a minor part of it,” said Jack. “But first we’re Englishmen, and don’t you forget it. We’ll not see the Empire sink into oblivion. Right, Dickie?”
“It already has,” said the attaché, stemming another yawn. “Forty years ago.”
“You see,” interrupted Dickie. “My friend Jack, here, is in ferrous metals but I’m in textiles, and I tell you the way that bugger was dressed, as opposed to the way he had dressed before—he’s up to no good. The cloth not only determines the man but it also suits his activities—been that way since the first flax was woven, probably right here in this part of the world, come to think of it—”
“MI-Six has the information,” broke in the attaché with the dulled expression of a man numbed by repetition. “They’ll be here soon.”
They were. Within five seconds of the attaché’s remark, two men in open shirts, both needing a shave and neither looking particularly pleasant, walked into the office. The second man carried a large manila envelope; the first man spoke. “Are you gentlemen the reason we’re here?” he asked, addressing Dickie and Jack.
“Richard Harding on my left,” said the attaché. “And John Preston on the right. May I leave?”
“Sorry, old boy,” replied the second man, approaching the desk and opening the envelope. “We’re here because you summoned us. That entitles you to stay.”
“You’re too kind,” said the embassy man unkindly. “However, I did not summon you, I merely relayed information that two British citizens insisted I relay. That entitles me to get some sleep insofar as I’m not in your line of endeavor.”
“Actually,” interrupted Jack Preston, “it was Dickie who insisted, but I’ve always felt that in times of crisis no stone or instinct should be overlooked, and Dickie Harding—a former Grenadier, you know—has had some fine instincts … in the past.”
“Damn it, Jack, it’s got nothing to do with instincts, it’s what he was wearing. I mean a chap could swelter in the winter Highlands under that material, and if the sheen on his shirt indicated silk or polyester, he’d positively suffocate. Cotton. Pure breathing cotton is the only cloth for this climate. And the tailoring of his ensemble, well, I told you—”
“Do you mind, sir?” His eyes briefly straying to the ceiling, the second man removed a pile of photographs from the envelope and thrust them between Preston and Harding, cutting off the dialogue. “Would you look these over and see if there’s anyone you recognize?”
Eleven seconds later the task was done. “That’s him!” cried Dickie.
“Believe it is,” agreed Jack.
“And you’re both bonkers,” said the first man from MI-Six. “His name’s MacDonald and he’s a swizzling, society-boy drunk from Cairo. His wife’s father owns the company he works for—an automobile-parts firm—and he’s posted over here because he’s a complete ass and the second in command at the Cairo branch runs the show. So much for instincts at this hour of the morning. Should I ask where you two spent the night?”
“Now, Dickie, I did say that you might be overreacting on rather superficial grounds—”
“A minute, please,” interrupted the second MI-Sixer, picking up the enlarged passport photograph and studying it. “A year or so ago one of our military stationed here contacted us and wanted to set up a meeting regarding an E.E. problem he thought was in the making.”
“A what?” asked the attaché.
“ ‘Equipment evaluation’—that’s to be read as espionage. He wouldn’t say much on the phone, of course, but he did remark that we’d be astonished at the suspect. ‘A bloated sot of an Englishman working in Cairo,’ or words to that effect. Could this be the man?”
“Still,” continued Jack. “I urged Dickie to follow up, not to hold back!”
“Now, really, chap, you weren’t all that enthusiastic. You know, we still might make that plane you were so worried about.”
“What happened at the meeting?” asked the attaché, leaning forward, his eyes riveted on the second man from MI-Six.
“It never took place. Our military was killed on the waterfront, his throat slit outside a warehouse. They called it a robbery, as nothing was left in his pockets.”
“I do think we should catch that plane, Dickie.”
* * *
“The Mahdi?” exclaimed Zaya Yateem, sitting behind the desk in what three weeks before had been the American ambassador’s office. “You are to bring one of us to him in Bahrain? Tonight?”
“As I told your brother,” said Kendrick, seated in a chair next to Ahbyahd and facing the woman. “The instructions were probably in the letter I was to deliver to you—”
“Yes, yes.” Zaya spoke rapidly, impatiently. “He explained it to me during our few moments together. But you’re wrong, Bahrudi. I have no way of directly reaching the Mahdi—no one knows who he is.”
“I assume you reach someone who in turn reaches him.”
“Naturally, but it could take a day or possibly two days. The avenues to him are complicated. Five calls are made and ten times five are relayed to unlisted numbers in Bahrain, and only one of them can reach the Mahdi.”
“What happens in an emergency?”
“They’re not permitted,” intruded Azra, leaning against the wall by a sunlit cathedral window. “I told you that.”
“And that, my young friend, is ridiculous. We can’t do what we do effectively without considering the unexpected.”
“Granted.” Zaya Yateem nodded her head, then shook it slowly. “However, my brother has a point. We are expected to carry on in any emergency for weeks, if we must. Otherwise, as leaders, we would not be given our assignments.”
“Very well,” said the congressman from the Ninth District of Colorado, feeling the sweat rolling down his neck despite the cool morning breezes sweeping through the open windows. “Then you explain to the Mahdi why we’re not in Bahrain tonight. I’ve done my part, including, I believe, saving your brother’s life.”
“He’s right about that, Zaya,” agreed Azra, pushing himself away from the wall. “I’d be a corpse in the desert by now.”
“For which I’m grateful, Bahrudi, but I can’t do the impossible.”
“I think you’d better try.” Kendrick glanced at Ahbyahd beside him, then turned back to the sister. “Your Mahdi went to a great deal of trouble and expense to get me here, which I assume means he has an emergency.”
“The news of your capture would explain what happened,” said Ahbyahd.
“Do you really think Oman’s security forces will put out the word that they caught me only to admit I escaped?”
“Of course not,” answered
Zaya Yateem.
“The Mahdi holds your purse strings,” added Kendrick. “And he could influence mine, which I don’t like.”
“Our supplies are low,” broke in Ahbyahd. “We need the fast boats from the Emirates, or everything we’ve done will be for nothing. Instead of sieging, we ourselves will be in a state of siege.”
“There may be a way,” said Zaya, suddenly getting out of the chair, her hands on the desk, her dark eyes above the veil gazing aimlessly in thought. “We’ve scheduled a press conference this morning; it will be watched everywhere and certainly by the Mahdi himself. At some point in my talk I’ll mention that we are sending out an urgent message to our friends. A message that requires an immediate response.”
“What good would that do?” asked Azra. “All communications are monitored, we know that. None of the Mahdi’s people will risk getting in touch with us.”
“They don’t have to,” interrupted Evan, sitting forward. “I understand what your sister’s saying. The response need not be verbal; no communication is necessary. We’re not asking for instructions, we’re giving them. It’s what you and I talked about several hours ago, Azra. I know Bahrain. I’ll choose a place where we’ll be and let one of your contacts here in Masqat forward it, telling him that this is the urgent message your sister spoke of during the press conference.” Kendrick turned to Yateem. “That is what you had in mind, isn’t it?”
“I hadn’t refined it,” admitted Zaya, “but it’s feasible. My thought was merely to speed up the process of reaching the Mahdi. It is plausible.”
“It’s the solution!” cried Ahbyahd. “Bahrudi has given it to us!”
The Icarus Agenda Page 19
