‘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 defenceless 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. Take 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 over-zealousness 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 want 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 co-operating 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 harbour—’
‘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 Blue. ‘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 yet 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 attach้ behind it still in a dressing gown, doing his best to stay awake. ‘Yes,’ 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-6 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 Jack here was in the Grenadiers!’ exclaimed Dickie, protectively. ‘If he thinks there’s something you should be told, I think you should pay attention. After all, what are we here for?’
‘To make money for your firms?’ offered the attach้ .
‘Well, of course, that’s a minor part of it,’ said Dickie. ‘But first we’re Englishmen, and don’t you forget it. We’ll not see what’s left of the Empire sink into oblivion. Right, Jack?’
‘It already has,’ said the attach้ , stemming another yawn.
‘You see,’ interrupted Jack. ‘My friend Dickie 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 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-6 has the information,’ broke in the attach้ with the dulled expression of a man numbed by repetition. ‘They’ll be here soon.’
They were. Within five seconds of the attach้ ‘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 attach้ . ‘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 endeavour.’
‘Actually,’ interrupted Dickie Harding, ‘it was Jack here who insisted, but I’ve always felt that in times of crisis no stone or instinct should be overlooked, and Jack Preston—a former Grenadier, you know—has had some fine instincts… in the past.’
‘Damn it, Dickie, it’s got nothing to do with instincts, it’s what he was wearing. I mean a chap could swelter in the winter in the 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—’