‘Signore?’ whispered the tuxedoed Italian into Weingrass’s ear. ‘There is a telephone call for you, someone I could never in my life have respect for.’
‘That’s a strange remark, Luigi.’
‘He insulted you, my dear friend and most considerate guest. If you wish, I will dismiss him in the language of barbarians which he so justly deserves.’
‘Not everyone loves me as you do, Luigi. What did he say?’
‘What he said I would not repeat in front of the grossest French croupier here!’
‘You’re very loyal, my friend. Did he give you his name?’
‘Yes, a Signer Mossad. And I tell you he is deranged, pazzol’
‘Most of them are,’ said Weingrass as he walked quickly to the telephone.
* * *
Chapter 10
The early light progressively threatened. Azra looked up at the morning sky, swearing at himself—including the rough-hewn Yosef in his oaths—for taking a wrong turn at the Kabritta Tower and thus wasting precious minutes. The three fugitives had torn off their prison trousers high above the ankles, at mid-calf, and the sleeves away from their shoulders. Without the benefit of sunlight they could pass for labourers brought in from Lebanon or the slums of Abu Dhabi, spending their rials on the only recreation accessible to them: The whores and the whisky available in the el Shari el Mish kwayis, that land-locked island of the city.
They were in the recessed, concrete employees’ entrance of the Waljat Hospital less than two hundred yards away from the gates of the American Embassy. A narrow street on the right intersected the broad thoroughfare. Angling around the corner was a line of shops, indistinguishable behind their iron shutters. All business was suspended while the madness lasted. In the distance, inside the gates of the embassy, were ragtag squads of lethargic young people walking slowly, the weight of their weapons dragging their arms and shoulders down, doing what they were ordered to do for their jihad, their holy war. The lethargy, however, would vanish with the first rays of the sun, and manic energy would erupt with the first wave of onlookers, especially the radio and television crews—mainly because of those crews. The angry children would go onstage within the hour.
Azra studied the large square in front of the gates. Opposite, on the north side, stood three white two-storey office buildings close to one another. The curtained windows were dark, no signs of light anywhere, which was immaterial in any event. If there were men inside watching, they were too far away from the gates to hear what he would say softly through the bars, and the light was still too dim for him to be definitely identified—if, indeed, word of their escape had reached the post. And even if it had, the enemy would not mount a rash attack on the basis of vague possibilities; the consequences were too deadly. Actually, the square was deserted except for a row of beggars, their clothes in shreds, squatting in front of the embassy’s sandstone walls, their alms plates in front, several with their own excrement in evidence. The filthiest of these outcasts were not potential agents of the sultan or foreign governments, but others might be. He focused his eyes on each of the latter, looking for sudden, abrupt movements that would betray a man not used to a beggar’s locked, hunkered stance. Only someone whose muscles were trained to withstand the interminable stress of a beggar’s squat could remain immobile for any length of time. None moved, none squeezed a leg; it was not proof but it was all he could ask for. Azra snapped his fingers at Yosef, removing the MAC-10 weapon from under his shirt and thrusting it towards the older terrorist.
‘I’m going over,’ he said in Arabic. ‘Cover me. If any of those beggars make an unbeggarly move, I expect you to be there.’
‘Go ahead. I’ll swing out behind you in the hospital’s shadow and slip from doorway to doorway on the right side. My aim is unequalled, so if there’s one unbeggarly move, there is no beggar!’
‘Don’t anticipate, Yosef. Don’t make a mistake and fire when you shouldn’t. I have to reach one of those imbeciles inside. I’ll stumble down as though it wasn’t the best morning of my life.’ The young Palestinian turned to Kendrick, who was crouched in the sparse foliage by the hospital wall. ‘You, Bahrudi,’ he whispered in English. ‘When Yosef reaches the first building over there, come out slowly and follow him, but for God’s sake, don’t be obvious! Pause now and then to scratch yourself, spit frequently, and remember that your appearance doesn’t belong to someone with good posture.
‘I know those things!’ Evan lied emphatically, impressed with what he was learning about terrorists. ‘You think I haven’t employed such tactics a thousand times more than you have?’
‘I don’t know what to think,’ answered Azra simply. ‘I do know that I didn’t like the way you walked past the Zawawi Mosque. The mullahs and the muezzins were congregating. Perhaps you’re better in the refined capitals of Europe.’
‘I assure you I’m adequate,’ said Kendrick icily, knowing he had to retain the Arabic version of strength, which came with cold understatement. His playacting was quickly deflated, however, as the young terrorist grinned. It was a genuine smile, the first he had observed in the man who called himself Blue.
‘I’m assured,’ said Azra, nodding his head. ‘I’m here and not a corpse in the desert. Thank you for that, Amal Bahrudi. Now keep your eyes on me. Go where I direct you.’
Pivoting swiftly, Blue rose and walked haltingly across the hospital’s short stretch of zoysia lawn and into the wide thoroughfare that led to the square proper. Within seconds, Yosef raced out, ninety degrees to the right of his superior, crossing the narrow street twenty feet from the corner, hugging the side of the building in the dim light’s darkest shadows. As the lone, isolated figure of Azra came into clear view staggering towards the embassy gates, Yosef spun around the corner; the last object Evan saw was the murderous MAC-10 machine pistol, held low in his left hand by the blunt sergeant-foreman. Kendrick knew it was the moment to move and a part of him suddenly wished he were back in Colorado, southwest of Telluride at the base of the mountains and at temporary peace with the world. Then the images came again, filling his inner screen: Thunder. A series of deafening explosions. Smoke. Walls suddenly collapsing everywhere amid the screams of terrified children about to die. Children! And women—young mothers—shrieking in horror and protest as tons of rubble came cascading down from a hundred feet above the earth. And helpless men—friends, husbands, fathers—roaring defiantly against the cascading hell they knew instantly would be their tomb… the Mahdi!
Evan got to his feet, breathed deeply, and started out towards the square. He reached the north side pavement in front of the barricaded shops, his shoulders bent; he paused frequently to scratch himself and spit.
‘The woman was right,’ whispered the dark-skinned Arab in Western clothes peering out through a loose slat in a boarded-up store that only twenty-two days ago had been an attractive cafe devoted to cardamom coffee, cakes and fruit. ‘The older pig was so close I could have touched him as he passed by! I tell you, I did not breathe.’
‘Shhh!’ warned the man at his side in full Arab dress. ‘Here he comes. The American. His height betrays him.’
‘Others will betray him also. He will not survive.’
‘Who is he?’ asked the robed man, his whispered voice barely audible.
‘It’s not for us to know. That he risks his life for us is all that matters. We listen to the woman, those are our orders.’ Outside, the stooped figure in the street passed the store, pausing to scratch his groin while spitting into the gutter. Beyond, diagonally across the square, another figure, blurred in the dim light, approached the embassy gates. ‘It was the woman,’ continued the Arab in Western clothes, still squinting between the loose boards, ‘who told us to watch for them on the waterfront, checking the small boats, and on the roads north and south, even here where they were least expected. Well, contact her and tell her the unexpected has happened. Then call the others on the Kalbah and Bustafi Wadis and let them know they needn’t watch any longer.’
‘Of course,’ said the robed man starting towards the back of the deserted dark cafe with its profusion of chairs eerily perched on top of tables as if the management expected unearthly customers who disdained the floor. Then the Arab stopped, quickly returning to his colleague. ‘Then what do we do?’
‘The woman will tell you. Hurry! The pig by the gates is gesturing for someone inside. That’s where they’re going. Inside!’
Azra gripped the iron bars, his eyes darting up at the sky; the sprays of light were growing brighter by the minute in the east. Soon the dull dark grey of the square would be replaced by the harsh, blinding sun of Masqat; it would happen at any moment, as it did every dawn, an explosion of light that was suddenly total, all-encompassing. Quickly! Pay attention to me, you idiots, you mongrels! The enemy is everywhere, watching, scanning, waiting for the instant to pounce, and I am now a prize of extraordinary value. One of us must reach Bahrain, reach the Mahdi! For the love of your goddamned Allah, will somebody come over here? I cannot raise my voice!