‘And you don’t?’
‘I’m not the issue, you are. What proof of treason do you have?’
‘The woman, Yateem,’ replied Kendrick, answering the former question not the current one. ‘Zaya Yateem. I was told she was—’
‘Yateem a traitor?’ cried the terrorist, his eyes furious.
‘I didn’t say that—’
‘What did you say?’
‘She was reliable—’
‘Far more than that, Amal Bahrudi!’ The young man grabbed the remaining cloth of Evan’s shirt. ‘She is devoted to our cause, a tireless worker who exhausts herself beyond any of us at the embassy!’
‘She also speaks English,’ said Kendrick, hearing still another note in the terrorist’s voice.
‘So do I!’ shot back the angry, self-proclaimed student, releasing his prisoner within their prison.
‘I do, too,’ said Evan quietly, glancing over at the numerous groups of inmates, many of whom were looking at them. ‘May we speak English now?’ he asked, once more studying his bleeding shoulder. ‘You say you want proof, which, of course, is beyond my providing, but I can tell you what I’ve seen with my own eyes—in Berlin. You yourself can determine whether or not I’m telling you the truth—since you’re so adept at determining things. But I don’t want any of your brother animals understanding what I say.’
‘You’re an arrogant man under circumstances that do not call for arrogance.’
‘I am who I am—’
‘You’ve said that.’ The terrorist nodded. ‘English,’ he agreed, switching from Arabic. ‘You spoke of Yateem. What about her?’
‘You assumed I meant she was the traitor.’
‘Who dares—’
‘I meant quite the opposite,’ insisted Kendrick, wincing, and gripping his shoulder with greater force. ‘She’s trusted, even extolled; she’s doing her job brilliantly. After Nassir, she was the one I was to find.’ Evan gasped in pain, an all too easy reflex, and coughed out his next words. ‘If she had been killed… I was to look for a man who’s called Azra—if he was gone, another with grey streaks in his hair known as Ahbyahd.’
‘I am Azra! cried the dark-eyed student. ‘I am the one called Blue!’
Bingo, thought Kendrick, staring hard at the young terrorist, his eyes questioning. ‘But you’re here in this compound, not at the embassy—’
‘A decision of our operations council,’ broke in Azra. ‘Headed by Yateem.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Word reached us. Prisoners had been taken and held in isolation—tortured, bribed, broken one way or another into revealing information. It was decided that the strongest among us on the council should also be taken—to provide leadership, resistance!’
‘And they chose you? She chose you?’
‘Zaya knew whereof she spoke. She is my sister, I her blood brother. She is as certain of my dedication as I am of hers. We fight together to our deaths, for death is our past.’
Jackpot! Evan arched his neck, his head falling against the hard concrete wall, his pained eyes roaming across the ceiling with the naked bulbs encased in wire. ‘So I meet my vital contact in the most impossible place possible. Allah may have deserted us after all.’
‘To hell with Allah!’ exclaimed Azra, astonishing Kendrick. ‘You’ll be released in the morning. There is no scar across your throat. You’ll be free.’
‘Don’t be so sure of that,’ said Evan, wincing again and again grabbing his shoulder. ‘To put it plainly, that photograph of me was traced to a jihad cell in Rome and the scar is now questioned. They’re searching Riyadh and Manamah for my early dental and medical records. If any were overlooked, if any are found, I’ll be facing an Israeli hangman… However, that’s not your concern, nor mine at the moment, frankly.’
‘At least your courage matches your arrogance.’
‘I told you before,’ snapped Kendrick, ‘write poems in your own time. If you are Azra, brother of Yateem, you need information. You have to know what I saw in Berlin.’
‘The evidence of treason?’
‘If not treason, utter stupidity, and if not stupidity, unforgivable greed which is no less than treason.’ Evan started once more to rise, pressing his back against the wall, his hands against the floor. This time the terrorist did not stop him. ‘Damn you, help me!’ he cried. ‘I can’t think like this. I have to wash away the blood, clear my eyes.’
‘Very well,” said the man called Azra haltingly, his expression conveying his intense curiosity. ‘Lean on me,’ he added without enthusiasm.
‘I only meant you to help me up,’ said Kendrick, yanking his arm away once he was on his feet. ‘I’ll walk by myself, thank you. I don’t need assistance from ignorant children.’
‘You may need more assistance than I’m prepared to offer—’
‘I forgot,’ interrupted Evan, lurching, making his way awkwardly towards the row of four toilets and the sink. ‘The student is both judge and jury, as well as the right hand of Allah whom he sends to the devil!’
‘Understand this, man of faith,’ said Azra firmly, staying close to the arrogant, insulting stranger. ‘My war is not for or against Allah, Abraham or Christ. It is a struggle to survive and live like a human being despite those who would destroy me with their bullets and their laws. I speak for many when I say, Enjoy your faith, practise it, but do not burden me with it. I have enough to contend with just trying to stay alive if only to fight one more day.’
Kendrick glanced at the angry young killer as they neared the sink. ‘I wonder if I should be talking to you,’ he said, narrowing his swollen eyes. ‘I wonder if perhaps you are not the Azra I was sent to find.’
‘Believe it,’ replied the terrorist. ‘In this work, accommodations are made between people of many stripes, many different purposes, all taking from each other for very selfish reasons. Together we can accomplish more for our individual causes than we can separately.’
‘We understand each other,’ said Kendrick, no comment in his voice.
They reached the rusted metal sink. Evan turned on the single tap of cold water at full force, then, conscious of the noise, reduced the flow as he plunged his hands and face into the stream. He splashed the water everywhere over his upper body, dousing his head and chest and repeatedly around the bleeding wound in his shoulder. He prolonged the bathing, sensing Azra’s growing impatience as the Palestinian shifted his weight from foot to foot, knowing that the moment would come. The remaining taps are in the flushing mechanisms of the toilets. The moment came.
‘Enough!’ exploded the frustrated terrorist, gripping Kendrick’s unharmed shoulder and spinning him away from the sink. ‘Give me your information, what you saw in Berlin! Now! What is this proof of treason… or stupidity… or greed? What is it?’
‘There has to be more than one person involved,’ began Evan coughing, each cough more pronounced, more violent, his whole body trembling. ‘As people leave they take them out—’ Suddenly, Kendrick bent over, clutching his throat, lurching for the first toilet to the left of the filthy sink. ‘I’m retching!’ he cried, grabbing the edges of the bowl with both hands.
‘Take what out?’
‘Films!’ spat out Evan, his voice directed towards the area around the toilet’s handle. ‘Films smuggled out of the embassy!… For sale!’
‘Films? Photographs?’
‘Two rolls. I intercepted them, bought them both! Identities, methods—’
Nothing further could be heard in the enormous concrete terrorist cell. Ear-shattering bells erupted; deafening sounds signalling an emergency reverberated off the walls as a group of uniformed guards rushed in, weapons levelled, eyes frantically searching. In seconds they spotted the object of their search; six soldiers bolted forward towards the row of toilets.
‘Never!’ screamed the prisoner known as Amal Bahrudi. ‘Kill me, if you wish, but you will learn nothing, for you are nothing!’
The first two guards approached. Kendrick lunged at them, hurling his body at the stunned soldiers, who thought they were rescuing an infiltrator about to be killed. He swung his arms and smashed his fists into the confused faces.
Mercifully, a third soldier hammered the stock of his rifle into the skull of Amal Bahrudi.
All was darkness but he knew he was on the examining table in the prison laboratory. He could feel the cold compresses on his eyes and ice packs over various parts of his body; he reached up and removed the thick, wet compresses. Faces above him came into focus—bewildered faces, angry faces. He had no time for them!
‘Faisal!’ he choked, speaking Arabic. ‘Where is Faisal, the doctor?’
‘I am down here by your left foot,’ answered the Omani physician in English. ‘I’m sponging out a rather strange puncture wound. Someone bit you, I’m afraid.’
‘I can see his teeth,’ said Evan, now also speaking English. ‘They were like those of a saw-toothed fish only yellow.’
‘Proper diets are lacking in this part of the world.’
‘Get everyone out, Doctor,’ interrupted Kendrick. ‘Now. We’ve got to talk—now!’
‘After what you did in there I doubt they’d leave and I’m not even sure I’d let them. Are you crazy? They came to save your life and you tore into them, fracturing one man’s nose and breaking apart another’s bridgework.’