‘It’s not the worst thing that could happen to your cover.’
‘Certainly not. I obviously go to the highest bidder.’
‘What about our super patriots, the elder merchant princes who’d just as soon see me flee to the West in frustration as stay here? They still believe you’re working with them, don’t they?’
‘Yes. My “friend” in the Sabat Aynub market told me that they’re convinced you met with Kendrick. His logic was such that I had to go along with him and agree that you were a damn fool; you were asking for the worst kind of trouble. Sorry.’
‘What logic?’
‘They know that a garrison car picked up the American a few blocks away from his hotel. I couldn’t argue, I was there.’
‘Then they were looking for that car. Garrison vehicles are all over Masqat.’
‘Sorry, again, it was a wrong move, Ahmat. I could have told you that if I’d have been able to reach you. You see, the circle was broken; they knew Kendrick was here—’
‘Mustapha,’ interrupted the young sultan angrily. ‘I mourn his death but not the closing of his big mouth.’
‘Perhaps it was he, perhaps not,’ said Khalehla. ‘Washington itself could be responsible. Too many people were involved in Kendrick’s arrival, I saw that also. As I understand, it was a State Department operation; there are others who do these things better.’
‘We don’t know who the enemy is or where to look!’
Ahmat clenched his fist, bringing his knuckles to his teeth. ‘It could be anyone, anywhere—right in front of our eyes. Goddamn it, what do we do?’
‘Do as he’s told you,’ said the woman from Cairo. ‘Let him go in under deep cover. He’s made contact; wait for him to reach you.’
‘Is that all I can do? Wait?’
‘No, there’s something else,’ added Khalehla. ‘Give me the escape route and one of your fast cars. I brought along my courtesan’s equipment—it’s in a suitcase outside in the hall—and while I change clothes you coordinate the details with your cousins and that doctor you call an old friend.’
‘Hey, come on!’ protested Ahmat. ‘I know you and Bobbie go back a long time but that doesn’t give you the right to order me to endanger your life! No way, Jose.’
‘We’re not talking about my life,’ said Khalehla icily, her brown eyes staring at Ahmat. ‘Or yours, frankly. We’re talking about raw terrorism and the survival of Southwest Asia. Nothing may come of tonight, but it’s my job to try to find out, and it’s your job to permit me. Isn’t that what we’ve both been trained for?’
‘And also give her the number where she can reach you,’ said Roberta Yamenni calmly. ‘Reach us.’
‘Go change your clothes,’ said the young sultan of Oman, shaking his head, his eyes closed.
‘Thank you, Ahmat. I’ll hurry but first I have to speak to my people. I don’t have much to say so it’ll be quick.’
The drunken bald-headed man in the dishevelled Savile Row pinstripes was escorted out of the elevator by two countrymen. The girth and weight of their inebriated charge were such that each struggled to uphold his part of the body.
‘Bloody disgrace, is what he is!’ said the man on the left, awkwardly glancing at a hotel key dangling from the fingers of his right hand, which was even more awkwardly shoved up under the drunk’s armpit.
‘Come now, Dickie,’ retorted his companion, ‘we’ve all swigged our several-too-many on occasion.’
‘Not in a goddamned country going up in flames fuelled by nigger barbarians! He could start a bloody brawl and we’d be hanged by our necks from two lamp posts! Where’s the damned room?’
‘Down the hall. Heavy bugger, isn’t he?’
‘All lard and straight whisky is my guess.’
‘I don’t know about that. He seemed like a pleasant enough chap who got taken by a fast-talking whore. That sort of thing makes anyone pissed, you know. Did you get whom he worked for?’
‘Some textile firm in Manchester. Twillingame or Burlingame, something like that.’
‘Never heard of it,’ said the man on the right, arching his brows in surprise. ‘Here, give me the key; there’s the door.’
‘We’ll just throw him on the bed, no courtesies beyond that, I tell you.’
‘Do you think that fellow will keep the bar open for us? I mean, while we’re doing our Christian duty the bugger could lock the doors, you know.’
‘The bastard had better not!’ exclaimed the man named Dickie as the three figures lurched into the darkened room, the light from the hallway outlining the bed. ‘I gave him twenty pounds to keep the place open, if only for us. If you think I’m shutting my eyes for a single second until I’m on that plane tomorrow, you’re ready for the twit farm! I’ll not have my throat slit by some wog with a messianic complex, I tell you that, too! Come on, heave!’
‘Good night, fat prince,’ said the companion. ‘And may all kinds of black bats carry you to wherever.’
The heavyset man in the pinstriped suit raised his head from the bed and turned his face towards the door. The footsteps in the hallway receded; inelegantly he rolled his bulk over and got to his feet. In the shadowed light provided by the dull streetlamps below outside the window, he removed his jacket and trousers, hanging them carefully in the open closet, smoothing out the wrinkles. He proceeded to undo his regimental tie, slipping it off his neck. He then unbuttoned his soiled shirt reeking of whisky, removed it also and threw it into a wastebasket. He went into the bathroom, turned on both taps and sponged his upper torso; satisfied, he picked up a bottle of cologne and splashed it generously over his skin. Drying himself, he walked back into the bedroom to his suitcase on a luggage rack in the corner. He opened it, selected black trousers and a black silk shirt, and put them on. As he buttoned the shirt and tucked it under the belt around his thick stomach, he walked over to a window, taking out a book of matches from his trouser pocket. He struck a match, let the flame settle and made three semicircles in front of the large glass pane. He waited ten seconds then crossed to the desk in the centre of the left wall and switched on the lamp. He went to the door, unlatched the automatic lock and returned to the bed where he meticulously removed the two pillows from under the spread, fluffed both up for a backrest and lowered his large frame. He looked at his watch and waited.
The scratching at the door made three distinct eruptions, each semicircular, on the wood, if one listened. ‘Come in,’ said the man on the bed in the black silk shirt.
A dark-skinned Arab entered hesitantly, in apparent awe of his surroundings and the person within those surroundings. His robes were clean, if not brand new, and his headdress spotless; his was a privileged mission. He spoke in a quiet, reverent voice. ‘You made the holy sign of the crescent, sir, and I am here.’
‘Much thanks,’ said the Englishman. ‘Come in and close the door, please.’
‘Of course, Effendi.’ The man did as he was told, holding his position of distance.
‘Did you bring me what I need?’
‘Yes, sir. Both the equipment and the information.’
‘The equipment first, please.’
‘Indeed.’ The Arab reached under his robes and withdrew a large pistol, its outsize appearance due to a perforated cylinder attached to the barrel; it was a silencer. With his other hand the messenger pulled out a small grey box; it contained twenty-seven rounds of ammunition. He walked dutifully forward to the bed, extending the handle of the weapon. ‘The gun is fully loaded, sir. Nine shells. Thirty-six shells in all.’
‘Thank you,’ said the obese Englishman, accepting the equipment. The Arab stepped back obsequiously. ‘Now the information, if you please.’
‘Yes, sir. But first I should tell you that the woman was recently driven to the palace from her hotel in the next street—’
‘What?’ Astonished, the British businessman bolted upright on the bed, his heavy legs swinging around, pounding the floor. ‘Are you certain?’
‘Yes, sir. A royal limousine picked her up.’
‘When?’
‘Roughly ten to twelve minutes ago. Naturally I was informed immediately. She is there by now.’
‘But what about the old men, the merchants?’ The fat man’s voice was low and strained, as if he were doing his utmost to control himself. ‘She made contact, didn’t she?’
‘Yes, sir,’ answered the Arab tremulously as though he feared a beating if he replied in the negative. ‘She had coffee with an importer named Hajazzi in the Dakhil, then much later met with him at the Sabat market. She was taking photographs, following someone—’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know, sir. The Sabat was crowded and she fled. I could not follow her.’