‘He was. He died last night in East Berlin—that is the green telephone.’
‘Died? Last night?’
‘East German intelligence, controlled of course by the Soviets, will keep his death quiet for days, perhaps weeks, while their bureaucrats examine everything with an eye to KGB advantage, naturally. In the meantime, Mr. Bahrudi’s arrival here has been duly entered on our immigration lists—that’s the blue telephone—with a visa good for thirty days.’
‘So if anyone runs a check,’ added Kendrick, ‘this Bahrudi is legitimately here and not dead in East Berlin.’
‘Exactly.’
‘What happens if I’m caught?’
‘That would hardly concern you. You’d be an immediate corpse.’
‘But the Russians could make trouble for us here. They’d know I’m not Bahrudi.’
‘Could they? Would they?’ The old Arab shrugged. ‘Never pass up an opportunity to confuse or embarrass the KGB, ya Shaikh.’
Evan paused, frowning. ‘I think I see what you mean. How did you get all this? For God’s sake, a dead Saudi in East Berlin—covered up—his dossier, even some grandfather, a European grandfather. It’s unbelievable.’
‘Believe, my young friend, whom I do not know nor have ever met. Of course there must be confederates in many places for men like me, but that is not your concern either. Simply study the salient facts—revered parents’ names, schools, universities; two, I believe, one in the United States, so like the Saudis. You won’t need any more than that. If you do, it won’t matter. You’ll be dead.’
Kendrick walked out of the underworld city within a city, skirting the grounds of the Waljat Hospital in the northeast section of Masqat. He was less than 150 yards from the gates of the American Embassy. The wide street was now only half filled with die-hard spectators. The torches and the rapid bursts of gunfire from within the grounds of the embassy created the illusion that the crowds were much larger and more hysterical than they actually were. Such witnesses to the terror inside were interested only in entertainment; their ranks thinned as one by one they were overcome by sleep. Ahead less than a quarter of a mile beyond the Harat Waljat, a calm passed over the young sultan’s seaside mansion. Evan looked at his watch the hour and his location were an advantage; he had so little time and Ahmat had to move quickly. He looked for a street phone, vaguely remembering that there were several near the hospital entrance—thanks again to Manny Weingrass. Twice the reprobate old architect had claimed his brandy was poisoned, and once an Omani woman had bitten his wandering hand so severely that he required seven stitches.
The white plastic shells of three public phones in the distance reflected the light from the streetlamps. Gripping the inside pocket of his robes where he had put his false papers, he broke into a run, then immediately slowed down. Instinct told him not to appear obvious… or threatening. He reached the first booth, inserted a larger coin than was necessary, and dialed the strange number indelibly printed on his mind. 555-0005.
Beads of sweat formed at his hairline as the progressively slower rings reached eight. Two more and an answering machine would replace the human voice! Please!
‘Iwah?’ came the simple greeting saying Yes?
‘English,’ said Evan.
‘So quickly?’ replied Ahmat astonished. ‘What is it?’
‘First things first… A woman followed me. The light was dim, but from what I could see she was of medium height, with long hair, and dressed in what looked like expensive Western clothes. Also, she was fluent in both Arabic and English. Anybody come to mind?’
‘If you mean someone who would follow you into El-Baz’s neighbourhood, absolutely no one. Why?’
‘I think she meant to kill me.’
‘What?’
‘And a woman gave El-Baz the information about me–over a telephone, of course.’
‘I know that.’
‘Could there be a connection?’
‘How?’
‘Someone moving in, someone looking to steal false papers.’
‘I hope not,’ said Ahmat firmly. ‘The woman who spoke to El-Baz was my wife. I would not trust your presence here with anyone else.’
‘Thank you for that, but someone else knows I’m here.’
‘You spoke to four men, Evan, and one of them, our mutual friend, Mustapha, was killed. I agree that someone else knows you’re here. It’s why the other three are under twenty-four-hour surveillance. Perhaps you should stay out of sight, in hiding, for at least a day. I can arrange it, and we might learn something. Also, I have something I must discuss with you. It concerns this Amal Bahrudi. Go in hiding for a day. I think that would be best, don’t you?’
‘No,’ answered Kendrick, his voice hollow at what he was about to say. ‘Out of sight, yes, but not in hiding.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I want to be arrested, seized as a terrorist. I want to be thrown into that compound you’ve got somewhere. I’ve got to get in there tonight!’
* * *
Chapter 6
The robed figure raced down the middle of the wide avenue known as the Wadi Al Kabir. He had burst out of the darkness from beyond the massive Mathaib Gate several hundred yards from the waterfront west of the ancient Portuguese fortress called The Mirani. His robes were drenched with the oil and flotsam of the harbour, his headdress clinging to the back of his wet hair. To observers—and there were still many in the street at this late hour—the desperately running man was one more dog from the sea, an alien who had leaped from a ship to gain illegal entrance into this once-peaceful sultanate, a fugitive—or a terrorist.
Strident eruptions of a two-note siren grew louder as a patrol car careened around the corner from the Wadi Al Uwar into the Al Kabir. The chase was joined; a police informant had betrayed the point of entry, and the authorities were ready. These days they were always ready, ready and eager and frenzied. A blinding light split the dimly lit street, its beam coming from a movable lamp mounted on the patrol car. The powerful light caught the panicky illegal immigrant; he spun to his left facing a series of shops, their dark fronts protected by iron shutters, protection that had not been thought of barely three weeks ago. The man pivoted, lurching across the Al Kabir to his right. Suddenly he stopped, blocked by a number of late-night strollers who moved together, stood together, their stares not without fear but somehow collectively saying they had had enough. They wanted their city back. A short man in a business suit but in Arab headdress stepped forward—cautiously to be sure, but with purpose. Two larger men in robes, perhaps more cautiously but with equal purpose, joined him, followed hesitantly by others. Down the Al Kabir to the south a crowd had gathered; tentatively they formed a line, robed men and veiled women creating a human wall across the street, courage reluctantly summoned from both exasperation and fury. It all had to stop!
‘Get away! Spread out! He may have grenades!’ A police officer had jumped out of the patrol car and was racing forward, his automatic weapon levelled at the quarry.
‘Disperse!’ roared a second policeman, sprinting down the left side of the street. ‘Don’t get caught in our fire!’
The cautious strollers and the hesitant crowd beyond scattered in all directions, running for the protection of distance and the shelter of doorways. As if on cue, the fugitive grappled with his drenched robes, pulling them apart and menacingly reaching inside the folds of cloth. A rapid, staccato burst of gunfire shattered the Al Kabir; the fugitive screamed, calling on the powers of a furious Allah and a vengeful Al Fatah as he gripped his shoulder, arched his neck and dropped to the ground. He seemed to be dead, but in the dim light no one could determine the extent of his wounds. He screamed again, a roar summoning the furies of all Islam to descend on the hordes of impure unbelievers everywhere. The two police officers fell on him as the patrol car skidded to a stop, its tyres screeching; a third policeman leaped from the open rear door shouting orders.
‘Disarm him! Search him!’ His two subordinates had anticipated both commands. ‘It could be he!’ added the superior officer, crouching to examine the fugitive more closely, his voice even louder than before. ‘There!’ he continued, still shouting. ‘Strapped to his thigh. A packet. Give it to me!’
The onlookers slowly rose in the semidarkness, curiosity drawing them back to the furious activity taking place in the middle of the Al Kabir under the dim wash of the streetlights.
‘I believe you are right, sir!’ yelled the policeman on the prisoner’s left. ‘Here, this mark! It could be what remains of the scar across his neck.’
‘Bahrudi!’ roared the ranking police officer in triumph as he studied the papers ripped from the oil cloth packet. ‘Amal Bahrudi! The trusted one! He was last seen in East Berlin and, by Allah, we have him!’