First the papers from a man called El-Baz.
The ruins of the old Portuguese fortress rose eerily into the dark sky, a jagged silhouette that bespoke the strength and resolve of sea-going adventurers of centuries past. Evan walked rapidly through the area of the city known as Harat Waljat towards the market of Sabat Aynub, the name translated freely as the basket of grapes, a marketplace far more structured than a bazaar, with well-kept shops lining the square, the architecture bewildering for it was an amalgam of early Arabic, Persian, Indian and the most modern of Western influences. All these, thought Kendrick, would fade one day; an Omani presence to be restored, once again confirming the impermanence of conquerors—military, political or terrorist. It was the last that concerned him now. The Mahdi.
He entered the large square. A Roman fountain was sending sprays of water above a dark, circular pool in whose centre stood a statue of some Italian sculptor’s concept of a desert sheik striding forward, robes flowing, going nowhere. But it was the crowds that stole Evan’s attention. Most were male Arabs, merchants catering for the rich and foolhardy Europeans, tourists indifferent to the chaos at the embassy, marked by their Western clothes and profusion of gold bracelets and chains, glistening symbols of defiance in a city gone mad. The Omanis, however, were like animated robots, forcing themselves to concentrate on the inconsequential, their ears blocking out the constant gunfire from the American Embassy less than a half-mile away. Everywhere, their eyes blinked and squinted incessantly, brows frowning in disbelief and disassociation. What was happening in their peaceful Masqat was beyond their understanding; they were no part of the madness, no part at all, so they did their best to shut it out.
He saw it. Balawa bohrtooan. ‘Orange baklava,’ the specialty of the bakery. The Turkish-style small brown shop with a succession of minarets painted above the glass of the shopfront was sandwiched between a large, brightly lit jewelry store and an equally fashionable boutique devoted to leather goods, the name Paris scattered in black and gold signs beyond the glass in front of ascending blocks of luggage and accessories. Kendrick walked diagonally across the square, past the fountain, and approached the door of the bakery.
‘Your people were right,’ said the dark-haired woman in the tailored black suit walking out of the shadows of the Harat Waljat, the miniature camera in her hand. She raised it and pressed the shutter-release; the automatic advance took successive photographs as Evan Kendrick entered the bakery shop in the market of Sabat Aynub. ‘Was he noticed in the bazaar?’ she asked, replacing the camera in her bag, addressing the short, robed, middle-aged Arab who cautiously stood behind her.
‘There was talk about a man running into the alley after the police,’ said the informant, his eyes on the bakery. ‘It was contradicted, convincingly, I believe.’
‘How? He was seen.’
‘But in the excitement he was not seen rushing out, clasping his wallet, which was presumably taken by the pigs. That was the information emphatically exclaimed by our man to the onlookers. Naturally, others emphatically agreed, for hysterical people will always leap on new information unknown to a crowd of strangers. It elevates them.’
‘You’re very good,’ said the woman, laughing softly. ‘So are your people.’
‘We had better be, ya anisa Khalehla,’ responded the Arab, using the Omani title of respect. ‘If we are less than that, we face alternatives we’d rather not consider.’
‘Why the bakery?’ asked Khalehla. ‘Any ideas?’
‘None whatsoever. I detest baklava. The honey doesn’t drip, it pours. The Jews like it, you know.’
‘So do I.’
‘Then you both forget what the Turks did to you—both.’
‘I don’t think our subject went into that bakery for either baklava or an historical treatise on the Turks versus the tribes of Egypt and Israel.’
‘A daughter of Cleopatra speaks?’ The informant smiled.
‘This daughter of Cleopatra doesn’t know what the hell you’re talking about. I’m just trying to learn things.’
‘Then start with the military car that picked up your subject several blocks north of his hotel after the praters of el Maghreb. It has considerable significance.’
‘He must have friends in the army.’
‘There is only the sultan’s garrison in Masqat.’
‘So?’
‘The officers are rotated bi-monthly between the city and the posts at Jiddah and Marmul, as well as a dozen or so garrisons along the borders of South Yemen.’
‘What’s your point?’
‘I present you with two points, Khalehla. The first is that I find it unbelievably coincidental that the subject, after four or five years, would so conveniently know a certain friend in the relatively small rotating officer corps stationed this specific fortnight in Masqat in an officer corps that changes with the years—’
‘Unusually coincidental, I agree, but certainly possible. What’s your second point?’
‘Actually, it negates my mentioning the first. These days no vehicle from the Masqat garrison would pick up a foreigner in the manner he was picked up, in the guise he was picked up, without supreme authority.’
‘The sultan?’
‘Who else?’
‘He wouldn’t dare! He’s boxed. A wrong move and he’d be held responsible for whatever executions take place. If that happens, the Americans would level Masqat to the ground. He knows that!’
‘Perhaps he also knows that he is held responsible both for what he does do as well as for what he does not. In such a situation it’s better to know what others are doing, if only to offer guidance—or to abort some unproductive activity with one more execution.’
Khalehla looked hard at the informant in the dim light of the square’s periphery. ‘If that military car took the subject to a meeting with the sultan, it also brought him back.’
‘Yes, it did,’ agreed the middle-aged man, his voice flat, as if he understood the implication.
‘Which means that whatever the subject proposed was not rejected out of hand.’
‘It would appear so, ya anisa Khalehla.’
‘And we have to know what was proposed, don’t we?’
‘It would be dangerous in the extreme for all of us not to know,’ said the Arab, nodding. ‘We are dealing with more than the deaths of two hundred and thirty-six Americans. We are dealing with the destiny of a nation. My nation, I should add, and I shall do my best to see that it remains ours. Do you understand me, my dear Khalehla?’
‘I do, ya sahib el Aumer.’
‘Better a dead cipher than a catastrophic shock.”
‘I understand.’
‘Do you really? You had far more advantages in your Mediterranean than we ever had in our obscure Gulf. It is our time now. We won’t let anyone stop us.’
‘I want you to have your time, dear friend. We want you to have it.’
‘Then do what you must do, ya sahbtee Khalehla.’
‘I will.’ The well-tailored woman reached into her shoulder bag and took out a short-barrelled automatic. Holding it in her left hand, she again searched her bag and removed a clip of bullets; with a pronounced click she jammed it into the base of the handle and snapped back the loading chamber. The weapon was ready to fire. ‘Go now, adeem sahbee,’ she said, securing the strap of her bag over her shoulder, her hand inside, gripping the automatic. ‘We understand each other and you must be somewhere else, some place where others can see you, not here.’
‘Salaam aleikum, Khalehla. Go with Allah.’
‘I’ll send him to Allah to plead his case… Quickly. He’s coming out of the bakery! I’ll follow him and do what has to be done. You have perhaps ten to fifteen minutes to be with others away from here.’
‘At the last, you protect us, don’t you? You are a treasure. Be careful, dear Khalehla.’
‘Tell him to be careful. He intrudes.’
‘I’ll go to the Zwadi mosque and talk with the elder mullahs and muezzins. Holy eyes are not questioned. It is a short distance, five minutes at most.’
‘Aleikum es-salaam,’ said the woman, starting across the square to her left, her gaze riveted on the American in Arabian robes who had passed beyond the fountain and was walking rapidly towards the dark, narrow streets to the east, beyond the market of Sabat Aynub. What is that damn fool doing? she thought as she removed her hat, crushing it with her left hand and shoving it into her bag next to the weapon which she gripped feverishly in her right. He’s heading into the mish kwayis ish-shari, she concluded, mixing her thoughts in Arabic and English, referring to what is called in the West the roughest section of the town, an area outsiders avoid. They were right. He’s an amateur and I can’t go in there dressed like this! But I have to. My God, he’ll get us both killed!
Evan Kendrick hurried down the uneven layers of stone that was the narrow street, past low, run-down, congested buildings and half-buildings—crumbling structures with canvas and animal skins covering blown-out windows; those that remained intact were protected by slatted shutters, more broken than not. Bare wires sagged everywhere, municipal junction boxes having been spliced, electricity stolen, dangerous. The pungent smells of Arabic cooking intermingled with stronger odours, unmistakable odours—hashish, burning coca leaves smuggled into unpatrolled coves in the Gulf, and pockets of human waste. The inhabitants of this stretch of ghetto moved slowly, cautiously, suspiciously through the dimly lit caverns of their world, at home with its degradation, comfortable with its insulated dangers, at ease with their collective status as outcasts—the ease confirmed by sudden bursts of laughter behind shuttered windows. The dress code of this mish kwayis ish-shari was anything but consistent. Abas and ghotras coexisted with torn blue jeans, forbidden miniskirts, and the uniforms of sailors and soldiers from a dozen different nations—soiled uniforms exclusively from the ranks of enlisted personnel, although it was said that many an officer borrowed a subordinate’s clothes to venture inside and taste the prohibited pleasures of the neighbourhood.