Dead Boy Walking

by David Brining

  #28. SOUTH THEATRE, JERASH, JORDAN

  Thursday July 16, 13.02

  BLAZING FROM a clear blue sky, the sun beat furiously down on Ali's head as he dragged a big black loudspeaker across the ancient stone stage of an old Roman theatre. The white T-shirt and blue nylon shorts clung clammily to his skin and sweat plastered his hair to his skull. Midday and manual work were unhappy companions, he reflected, rocking the speaker on its corners.

  Uthman had fetched the boys for breakfast at eight. They had sipped mango juice and nibbled some soft white cheese and scrambled eggs whilst Al-Sekem's men loaded Youssef Abdullah's Renault with crates, speakers and microphones, Uthman checked the clasps and the blue tarpaulin that read AL-HOURI DELIVERIES and Moustapha Al-Sekem himself, dressed in his white Armani suit, black shirt and dark glasses, looked on, coffee-cup in his gold-ringed hand. Now Ali knew why they had killed the driver. They had wanted his truck.

  ''Good morning, Hisham,'' Al-Sekem had called jovially. ''I hope your voice is not impaired by lack of sleep.''

  ''I doubt it,'' said Ali.

  ''Where is Anas?''

  ''On his way,'' said Ali. ''He can't move as quickly as me these days. No toe-nails and second-degree burns slow a person down, you know.''

  ''Quite,'' said Al-Sekem. ''You will travel in the car with me and Uthman. No funny busy, or I will shoot you.'' He patted a squarish bulge in his jacket pocket.

  Ali had spread his palms innocently. ''You hurt my feelings, Doctor Al-Sekem. I have done nothing against you. I am disappointed you do not trust me like Talal Hafez did.''

  ''Talal Hafez is dead,'' said Al-Sekem.

  ''OK, bad example,'' said Ali, ''But you must know how much I admire your work, the alternative sources of sustainable power, Hands across the Sands. I could be your protégé if you would let me. I have many skills, you know. Which car is Miss Kinkhladze travelling in?''

  ''Miss Kinkhladze will join us later,'' Al-Sekem said, ''For the opening ceremony itself.''

  Squashing his disappointment, Ali peeked into the back of the Renault and saw the dozen crates stacked up. A truck-bomb, he decided. It had to be a truck-bomb. Presumably he and Hisham were to detonate it or drive the truck or something similar but he was unable to confirm it with his Timex detector because of the number of people milling about so he simply clambered into the back of a black BMW X5 SUV with Hisham, who was dressed in a loose, washed-out grey galabeya, and fastened the seat-belt. Uthman sat in the passenger seat, eyes fixed unwaveringly on the boys. Al-Sekem drove.

  Followed by the Renault truck, they swung out of the compound, passed Ajloun Castle and descended a steep hill into the fertile valley of olive groves, orange trees, fig bushes and irrigation channels and into the desert. Behind them, row upon row of tall white wind-turbines sprouted from the hillside, their long spindly arms turning steadily. Hisham and Ali exchanged glances but no words. Hisham looked strained and nervous although he had been crammed to the eyeballs with painkilling drugs.

  Ali flicked through the glossy programme. There was a brief biography of Moustapha Al-Sekem, a brief history of Al-Sekem Enterprises, an advert for Morsi Machine-Parts, another for Al-Houri Deliveries. There was a long technical essay about wind-power written by a professor from Irbid University. There was a piece about the charitable work of Hands across the Sands and a list of institutions sponsored by the organisation. Ali noted that the Mohamed Bin-Rahman Mosque in Damascus was named but the Dar El-Tawhid Madrassa was not. Over the page he found a group under the heading IRAQ and gasped. Halfway down the list was Sisters of Mercy Orphanage, Baghdad.

  Memories flashed across his mind, memories of Salah, of Sayed, of Magdy, of Samir, of Mr Ala'a and Sister Gihan and that black-wire mole, the cupboard under the stairs, that bloody scratchy uniform, the slop they served as food, the brutality of his caning, the ice-cold showers…

  ''It's a terrible place,'' he told Al-Sekem. ''You should stop the funding.''

  ''They do an excellent job,'' Al-Sekem replied disinterestedly, changing gear and accelerating out of a bend. One gold-ringed hand rested on the shift-stick, the cracked nails looking brown and dirty in the half-light of the car's interior. The 3000 cc, 4.8 litre, V8 engine of the X5 roared angrily through the desert.

  The small convoy swept quickly through the small, dull town of Jerash towards the ruined remains of Roman Gerasa. Conquered by the Romans in 63 BC, Gerasa was in 90 AD incorporated into the province of Arabia. Sixteen years later, the Emperor Trajan ordered a road-building programme which had connected the cities of the Decapolis together. The city had become so prominent the Emperor Hadrian had spent the winter of 129-130 AD there. A vast commemorative arch which still stands at the entrance had been constructed to mark the occasion. In 749 an earthquake destroyed many of the proud, towering buildings and what survived had been buried in sand and soil. The site lay undisturbed until 1806 when a German explorer discovered the remains, although actual excavations did not begin until 1925. The result was the uncovering of a near-perfect Roman city which attracted thousands of visitors each year.

  Dozens of khaki-uniformed policemen were already patrolling the site when Al-Sekem's SUV drew up at the barrier. Scrambling into the Renault they examined the boxes, found nothing suspicious and waved the convoy through. So not a truck-bomb then. Ali was getting frustrated.

  The mid-morning heat was harsh and fierce. The strong sun glared dazzlingly off the enormous white columns, temple walls and flights of steps which lined wide, white, smoothly paved streets. Ali settled his Monster Dogs on the bridge of his nose and trotted after Al-Sekem into the Oval Forum, a vast open space enclosed within a slender-pillared colonnade. Some children were playing around a tall metal structure topped with a torch. To the left, a steep grass-covered hill ran up through forgotten blocks of fallen stone to a small clump of ragged trees. This was where spectators would sit for the opening ceremony, for the Jordanian Police Pipe-Band, the Minister of Arts, Culture, Museums and Antiquities and the new Crown Prince who would ignite the Flame of Culture and declare the festival open. Unless Al-Sekem killed him first.

  They moved into the main street, the cardo maximus, lined either side with tall, thick columns and scarred with the two thousand year old tracks of chariot-wheels. Hisham's heavy limping slowed them down and Ali hung back to help him. To his enormous relief, he saw Hamza Madani, dressed like a tourist in beige slacks, leather sandals, a flowery yellow short-sleeved shirt, sunglasses and a floppy wide-brimmed sun-hat shadowing them on the other side of the road. He was taking pictures of the delicate mouldings in the stone lintel of the Temple of Artemis and also, more surreptitiously, of Al-Sekem, Uthman and their group. Pausing at a fast-food stall and savouring the smell of frying onions, Ali dug in his pocket for some coins.

  ''How much is a hot-dog?'' he chirped at the vendor.

  ''Two dinars,'' came the reply.

  Hamza materialised beside him. ''Seven-Up please.''

  ''I think it's a truck-bomb,'' Ali said from the corner of his mouth. ''Renault. Al-Houri Deliveries. Anas! You got a spare dinar?''

  Uthman was striding menacingly towards him.

  ''He's a looker.'' Hamza opened his can with a fizzing spurt.

  ''Hisham!'' Al-Sekem was shouting. ''Come here!''

  Scowling at Hamza, Uthman dragged Ali away by his elbow.

  ''Do not wander off,'' Al-Sekem had snapped. ''You have work to do.''

  Now, as he helped push the speakers around the stage, he saw some of the crates being unpacked. They contained glossy programmes, packs of Haribo sweets, cardboard sun-visors, cushions for spectators and a giant laminated banner advertising Hands across the Sands which was to be strung across the entrance to the South Theatre, an ancient amphitheatre containing countless stone rows running in steep semi-circles up from a narrow rectangular stone stage. Uthman was setting up microphones. The other men were sorting cushions into one pile, packs of sweets into another and so on.

  Al-Sekem had hired a troupe of tradi
tional dabke dancers for a spectacular festival launch. It would take place at around seven-thirty just after the opening ceremony under the flickering glow of a hundred burning torches which were now being fitted around the arena.

  Ali leaned against a laurel-crowned bust of Apollo and wiped sweat from his face with the back of his hand. There was no shade whatsoever in the South Theatre and, to make it worse, the blinding sun stared relentlessly back from the white stones, white walls and white sand. Had they found the truck-bomb? He needed to know.

  ''Moustapha, I need a drink,'' he called.

  Uthman grinned his lipless grin and tossed across a bottle of water.

  Damnation. Ali tipped some into his mouth, swilled it around, spat it out.

  Hamza Madani entered the theatre, camera raised.

  Ali's heart hammered excitedly but Hamza simply shook his head, took a snap and left.

  So it wasn't a truck bomb. For God's sake!

  Maybe there was nothing. Maybe he was paranoid. Maybe it was all in his head but Doctor Al-Sekem was as mad as a mongoose and what he had witnessed at the villa left him certain something was going to happen. Wildly, desperately, he looked round the South Theatre. He had to think of something, and fast. He felt sure they were going after the Minister, Prince Hussein and the huge crowds at the opening ceremony, but how? With what? He slammed the bottom of his fist backwards into the wall.

  Hisham sat in the dark doorway suffering in the heat. He looked intensely miserable and squirmed occasionally as his injuries prickled despite the loose-fitting galabeya not rubbing his burns too roughly. The plump white sausages of his bandaged toes poked through the sandals. His nose looked like a split, splattered tomato. His breathing was harsh and irregular.

  ''You all right?'' Ali handed him the Baraka bottle.

  ''No,'' Hisham admitted. ''I feel like shit.''

  ''Do you need more paracetamol?''

  Hisham pulled a face, shifted on his bottom, groaned quietly, nodded.

  ''Moustapha!'' Ali called. ''Anas needs some painkillers! I'm just gonna get some.''

  Al-Sekem flashed, lightning-fast, across the arena to seize Ali's bicep tightly in a gold-ringed vice.

  ''Don't call me Moustapha, you little shit,'' he hissed, ''And no, you're not. You stay here where I can keep an eye on you.''

  ''But he's sick,'' Ali protested.

  ''So what? He's a little shit like you. He's going to die? Let him die. You betrayed him anyway. His blood will be on your head.''

  Drawing himself up to his full five foot four and moments away from killing the man, he levered Al-Sekem's broken fingernails away from his arm.

  ''Listen, Moustapha,'' he said slowly, ''If he dies, here, in the South Theatre, at your concert… well, how will you explain it? There's no piranha pool here. There are hundreds of policemen though. Dead boy in the arena. Evidence of torture. Secret Service. Questions. Before you know it, Moustapha, you will be in a cell getting a broomstick shoved up your ass, you murdering scumbag.''

  Al-Sekem stepped back, his expression that of a man slapped in the face with a dead rat.

  ''You talk and talk,'' Ali continued, ''And nothing happens. Talal Hafez said you were just a talker. He was right.''

  Al-Sekem's face contorted. ''You wait!'' His voice rose in a manic scream. ''Just you wait till the Festival starts! Then you'll see, you shitty little prick!'' He struck Ali across the cheek with the back of his hand. Ali collapsed against the wall in an untidy bundle.

  Al-Sekem crouched down. ''Do you know what sarin is, Ali?''

  ''It's a nerve-agent.'' Ali scrambled into a sitting position, rubbing blood from his cheek, feeling a sudden hollow despair in the pit of his stomach. ''It was developed by German scientists in 1938 and named after them, Schräder, Ambros, Rüdiger and van der Linde, but the Nazis never used it. Terrorists unleashed it on the Tokyo subway in 1995 killing thirteen people. Saddam Hussein used it against the Kurds killing hundreds. It is classed as a Schedule One Weapon of Mass Destruction.''

  ''Clever boy,'' Al-Sekem said approvingly. ''Sarin is a compound of methylphosphonyl diofluoride and isopropyl alcohol and is deadly to humans. After inhalation, death occurs within one minute. Symptoms of sarin poisoning include a runny nose, a tightening of the chest, nausea, drooling, difficulty in breathing, loss of control of bodily functions. The victim vomits, defecates and urinates then his body spasms, convulsing until he suffocates.

  ''Sarin is five hundred times more toxic than cyanide. Even in vapour form it is absolutely fatal if inhaled or absorbed through the skin. A drop of sarin the size of a pinhead can kill a human within thirty seconds.''

  Al-Sekem removed his dark glasses. His eyes were utterly expressionless icy blue chips. The absence of lashes made them creepily reptilian.

  ''Two litres of liquid sarin are concealed in those speakers,'' he continued. ''The precursors are contained in different shells. A small explosive device will destroy the shell-casings. Sarin is highly volatile. The liquid vaporizes in seconds. The precursors will mix together and the sarin vapour will leak through the mesh. It is colourless and odourless. No-one will know it is there. Every single person in this arena will die within minutes.''

  ''They'll hear the explosion,'' Ali said numbly.

  ''No, they won't,'' said Al-Sekem. ''And if they do, they will think it a problem with the speakers. But it gets even better. I have two hundred windmills running at full power. The sarin will be spread into the air and, carried by the windmills, will spread across the entire region, to Jerash, to Ajloun, to Amman itself fifty-four miles away. Every city, every village, every town in this miserable country will die and those that do not, well, after Saddam Hussein used it on Halabja, the population never recovered. Miscarriages, colon cancer, skin and eye problems, birth defects, genetic disorders…. the same will happen here.''

  ''You'll kill thousands of people,'' Ali gasped.

  ''Millions, I think,'' Al-Sekem smirked. ''The country of Jordan will effectively be liquidated but it is only forty-six miles from here to Nazareth in Israel and only sixty-eight from here to Jerusalem and less than thirty to my dear home-town of Jericho. With the turbines driving it on, the sarin will reach there within hours. Israel too will be crippled.''

  ''Sarin degrades very quickly,'' said Ali, trying to remember what he had read about it.

  ''I'll take that chance,'' said Al-Sekem.

  ''And you? How will you escape?''

  ''I have the antidotes,'' said Al-Sekem craftily, ''Atropine and pralidoxime. I also have a biological warfare suit. I shall merely drive away through the dying hordes and make my escape to China or North Korea or Libya, somewhere a visionary of my genius will be appreciated.''

  ''I thought you were an environmentalist trying to refashion the Earth,'' said Ali. ''Killing millions of innocent people doesn't seem very environmentally friendly to me.''

  ''They are not innocent!'' Al-Sekem's voice rose again into a Hitlerian howl of insanity. ''They have betrayed everything, everyone. They turned their backs on Palestine. They turned away from the dying and the dead, the persecuted and the pulverised. They made peace with the Jews. They followed America. They sold their culture, their very identity for a few lousy dollars. They deserve nothing but extermination! Extermination! Everyone of these insects shall die! And you, my dear Master Amin, Master Ali Amin from the Joint Security Council of the Arab League, will have the honour of detonating the device.''

  Ali shook his head. ''Do you know how many agents are in this place? Hundreds. They'll shoot you down like a dog.''

  ''They'll be too busy dying to bother about me.'' Al-Sekem's icy eyes never flickered. Ali became aware that he had not yet seen the lashless lids blink.

  ''Where did you get it from?'' said Ali. ''You weren't mixing it up in your kitchen, surely.''

  ''Iraq,'' said Al-Sekem. ''Saddam's famous stockpiles of chemical weapons disappeared as soon as the Americans arrived to people like me with the money and the means. These nerve agents and mustar
d gases and rockets were distributed all over the region. We developed the formula with some of Saddam's chemists, ran some tests…The orphanage you named.''

  ''The Sisters of Mercy.''

  ''Quite so. The Sisters of Mercy. Aptly named, don't you think?''

  Everything fell into place. Al-Sekem had tested the sarin on those who had disappeared.

  ''That's where I saw you,'' said Ali thoughtfully. ''You were there when I was beaten.''

  ''That was you?'' Al-Sekem seemed surprised. ''We were going to do you after the skinny runt who betrayed you but you got away in an ambulance.''

  ''Sayed,'' said Ali strongly. ''His name was Sayed.''

  Al-Sekem shrugged. ''Whatever. He was an orphan. Who would miss him?'' Slamming his sunglasses back on, he jack-knifed upright and shouted for Uthman.

  Ali was taken to a Portaloo just outside the South Theatre and handcuffed to the cistern pipe, a strip of black electrical tape stuck roughly across his mouth.

  ''We'll fetch for your debut,'' said Al-Sekem as he locked the door and placed an 'Out of Order' sign on the handle. ''Just relax and prepare your soul.''

  Ali straddled the toilet-seat. Sarin was the deadliest nerve-agent he had learned about apart, perhaps, from tabun which could be absorbed through the eyes as well as the skin.

  Sarin.

  Al-Sekem was right. A pinhead-sized drop could kill a man in a minute. Two litres were stashed inside the speakers up on the stage. It would devastate the Jordan Valley for decades and he was stuck inside a toilet. The Timex told him it was three-fifteen.

  Thinking back to the orphanage, he processed the new information. On his first night, Mental Magdy had claimed three boys had disappeared, then, just after his failed escape attempt, Sayed had been taken away for a reward for telling the truth. Some reward. Ali now knew he had been murdered by Al-Sekem with the sarin in that little room under the gym. God, what a way to die. And if he hadn't escaped, he, Ali, would have been next. He wondered how much Sister Gihan knew about it, how deeply complicit Mr Ala'a had been. Did they know what Al-Sekem had done in their basement? Had they asked questions? Had they asked, or had they simply shut their eyes to these crimes?

  Rattling his handcuffs against the pipe, he tried to kick the plastic sides of the toilet but couldn't quite reach. He thought he might be able to overturn it if he rocked it but he couldn't get any purchase and anyway the Portaloo was lodged between two others. The thought of Al-Sekem and the sarin, of Sister Gihan and Mr Ala'a, was driving him crazy. He had to get out, but how?

  He gave up tugging the pipe when he realised it was not going to break. He also gave up trying to kick the wall or the door. He could not shout because of the tape over his mouth. He was hot, thirsty and very sweaty, but all he could do was wait and conserve his strength until the door of the Portaloo clicked open again.

  Hours passed. The toilet grew stuffier, the stink of chemicals stronger, Ali's skin clammier. He could feel the perspiration soaking his hair but at least the cut on his cheek had stopped bleeding. By the time Uthman returned, Ali's breathing had also changed, to a shallow panting, like a thirsty dog.

  The early-evening dusk was punctured by floodlights and burning brands. Uthman unlocked the handcuffs and tossed in a set of baggy red satin trousers, black boots, a white shirt with puffy, frilled sleeves, a red satin waistcoat with gold braiding and a red satin turban.

  ''Oh great.'' Ali removed the tape from his face. ''I'm going to die looking like Aladdin.''

  Uthman, grunting and waving a gun, jammed his foot firmly in the door.

  ''Don't I ever get any privacy?'' Ali exchanged his sweat-soaked clothes for the ridiculous costume. ''Any curly-toed slippers? Go the whole Arab stereotype?''

  Scowling, Uthman pushed him impatiently back towards the amphitheatre.

  At the rear of the South Theatre's stage was a narrow space crammed with musical instruments, bags, boxes, holdalls, cardboard coffee-cups, sandwich wrappers, all kinds of debris. Three regularly spaced doorways opened onto the narrow platform.

  Far away, at the end of the cardo maximus, a crowd of thousands had gathered on the hill to watch the Police Pipe-Band march around the Oval Forum. The sorrowful, wailing ululation of bagpipes, drifting on the still night air, drowned out the cheerful buzzing of cicadas in the olive-groves.

  ''Where's Al-Sekem?'' he demanded.

  ''With the Prince,'' answered a goon. ''Sit down.''

  He pointed at a green plastic chair in the third doorway from the entrance. Ali obeyed. Hisham, thin face pinched with pain, sat in a chair nearby.

  As the last keening note from the bagpipes floated away to die in the darkness of the desert night, Ali heard a faint rattle of applause and watched as people began flowing into the theatre, families, children, grandparents, foreigners, a blend of jeans, shirts, frocks and dresses, hundreds of people filling the amphitheatre's hard, stone, semi-circular rows, fourteen in the lower section, fourteen in the upper, the two halves separated by a wide walkway. In the sea of faces, Ali spotted Hamza Madani, third-row centre.

  Now, his brain urged his body. Run across and tell him now.

  With a sharp warning grunt, Uthman clamped a heavy hand on his shoulder and held him firmly in the seat.

  Colonel Ibrahim, wearing a dark brown suit, came glowering through the ancient arch accompanied by the Minister for Culture, a short, portly man in a light grey suit, blue tie and a red and white khefiyah, and Crown Prince Hussein, the heir to the Hashemite Throne of Jordan, a fifteen year old with a thatch of curly black hair and glasses. Moustapha Al-Sekem, gold rings blinking in the flickering torchlight, white Armani immaculately pressed, was walking alongside, and chatting amiably. Katya Kinkhladze, spectacular in a knee-length, short-sleeved black cocktail dress, teetered on ridiculously high, stiletto heels, arm entwined in the Minister's. He seemed mightily flattered by the attention and laughed heartily at her remarks. Al-Sekem showed the party to their seats in the front row, Colonel Ibrahim, the Prince, Kinky and the Minister, then jogged lightly up the steps into a spotlight.

  ''Your Royal Highness, esteemed and honoured Excellency, ladies, gentlemen and children, welcome to the South Theatre and the first event of this wonderful festival. It is indeed a pleasure and a privilege to be headlining this event, this annual celebration of traditional music, dance and drama in the splendid setting of this ancient city and marking this year the elevation of your Royal Highness to the rank of Crown Prince.''

  Sliding the mike from the stand, he paced once downstage.

  ''I am Doctor Moustapha Al-Sekem and I am the Founding Chairman, Chief Executive and Scientific Advisor of Al-Sekem Enterprises. The lights, the sound, everything you will witness tonight is powered by windmills built in my factory as part of my small contribution to Jordan's development of sustainable, renewable energy. This evening's show will, I hope, reveal once and for all the awesome power of Nature and the potential for the human race to move away from fossil fuels and stop raping the Earth for its own needs.''

  People clapped enthusiastically.

  ''I am also,'' Al-Sekem resumed, ''The founding chairman of Hands across the Sands.''

  There was another burst of applause. Al-Sekem bowed humbly, hand on heart.

  ''This is a charity that supports educational institutions such as schools, religious colleges, orphanages, shelters for the homeless and children's hospitals in five countries across the Middle East. My projects stretch from Siwa in Egypt to Baghdad in Iraq, from Aleppo in Syria to Aqaba on the Jordanian coast, and into the West Bank of Palestine, my birthplace. I believe it vitally important to repay my debt to the nation that accepted me some forty years ago, a poor child, a skinny refugee, come from Jericho in search of bread and an education.''

  More applause. The audience was lapping him up. Ali wanted to puke.

  ''First this evening, Highness, Excellency, ladies and gentlemen, Al-Sekem Enterprises and Hands across the Sands are proud to present, all the way from Petra, the dance-troupe H
abel Mwadea.''

  Prolonged applause greeted the band as it entered through the first door. The five men were attired in baggy white trousers, baggy white shirts and black waistcoats and black turbans embroidered with gold thread. Ali recognised all five instruments, the oud or lute, shaped like a half-pear with a short neck and wide-bellied body, the mijwiz, or reed clarinet, which emitted a harsh buzzing sound, the beautifully decorated, hand-held, vase-shaped drum with a goat-skin membrane known as tablah, the rikk, a round tambourine with metal discs and a goat-skin surface, and the yarghoul, a reed-pipe smaller than a mijwiz and with fewer finger holes. The band occupied a position on the left as the dancers, four men and three women, appeared through the centre door. The men were dressed in black trousers tied at the waist with red sashes, white shirts and black jackets decorated with gold braid. Red and white checked Jordanian scarves covered their heads. The women wore long black dresses with elaborately embroidered gold, red and white-beaded hems. The same decoration was stitched round their neck-lines. Long red, white and gold-beaded flaps dangled from the sides of their red turbans. They lined up in alternating genders, men on the outside, and bowed in unison to the audience. A singer in long black and gold robes entered through the final door, acknowledged the applause and took the microphone. The torchlight cast long shadows on the ancient stones.

  ''Good evening,'' said the singer. ''This first dance is a famous Jordanian dabke set to the words of the Lebanese song 'Ala Dalouna' or 'Help Us, oh Lord'.''

  Ali groaned at the irony.

  The band struck up the tune and the troupe, arms across each others' shoulders, stamped sideways and forwards in time to the music.

  ''Help us, help us, pray to our Prophet against the evil eye…''

  Al-Sekem stood by Ali's chair. ''Good, aren't they?'' he said slyly.

  The audience started clapping rhythmically.

  ''Help us, help us, pray to our prophet against the evil eye…''

  ''When am I on?''

  ''Soon,'' said Al-Sekem.

  ''And how, precisely, am I to detonate your device?''

  ''With your voice,'' said Al-Sekem. ''When you hit the highest note in your song, the device will ignite. There is a chip in the microphone which is coded to recognise your voice and programmed to send the detonation signal to the speakers.'' He chuckled. ''Yesterday all your troubles seemed so far away. Never was the song more appropriate.''

  He started clapping as the dance drew to a close.

  ''Suppose I don't sing?'' said Ali.

  ''Uthman will shoot you,'' Al-Sekem said simply. ''We will tell the audience you fainted from stage-fright and then play the recording to show them what they missed. It's all covered, Ali. Just say your prayers, go out and save the world.'' Fiercely he kissed Ali's forehead. ''You're a dead boy walking and you always were but soon you will be in Paradise in the arms of Allah.''

  The applause died down. Habel Mwadea were chattering happily as they came off-stage. Al-Sekem returned to the microphone.

  ''What a great start to the Festival,'' he crowed. ''But now, Highness, Excellency, ladies and gentlemen, Al-Sekem Enterprises and Hands across the Sands are proud to present, for the first time in Jordan, and in the presence of the new heir apparent to the Hashemite throne, the latest singing sensation from Iraq. His impact tonight, I assure you, will spread well beyond the confines of this little theatre. In fact, his song will impact on every man, woman and child in this kingdom. Ladies and gentlemen! Ali Hassan Al-Amin!'' He threw out his right arm.

  Ali gulped.

  It was time.