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Chapter 12
‘Meen ir rdh-gill da?’ said Evan, mind and body paralysed, straining, forcing himself to move casually as he asked Zaya who was the obese man who had spoken English.
‘He says he is from the Mahdi,’ Azra replied, standing between Yosef and Ahbyahd.
‘What did he mean?’
‘You heard him. He says you’re someone named Kendrick.’
‘Who’s that?’ asked Evan in English, addressing Anthony MacDonald, trying desperately to remain composed while adjusting not only to the sight of a man he had not seen in nearly five years, but to his very presence in that room. MacDonald! The fatuous society drunk from the British colony in Cairo! ‘My name is Amal Bahrudi, what is yours?’
‘You know damned well who I am!’ shouted the Englishman, jabbing his index finger in the air, looking in turn at the four Arab councillors, especially Zaya Yateem. ‘He’s not Amal-whatever and he’s not from the Mahdi! He’s an American named Evan Kendrick!’
‘I studied at two American universities,’ said Evan, smiling, ‘but no one ever called me a Kendrick. Other things, yes, but not Kendrick.’
‘You’re lying!’
‘On the contrary, I’d have to say you’re the liar if you claim to be working for the Mahdi. I was shown the photograph of every European in his—shall we say—confidential employ and you certainly were not among them. I would definitely remember because—shall we again say—you have a very distinctive face and figure.’
‘Liar! Impostor! You work with Khalehla the whore, the enemy! Early this morning, before daybreak, she was on her way to meet you!’
‘What are you talking about?’ Kendrick glanced at Azra and Yosef. ‘I’ve never heard of a Khalehla, either as an enemy or a whore, and before daybreak my friends and I were running for our lives. We had no time for dalliance, I assure you.’
‘I tell you he’s lying. I was there and I saw her! I saw all of you!’
‘You saw us?’ asked Evan, eyebrows arched. ‘How?’
‘I drove off the road—’
‘You saw us and you did not help us?’ broke in Kendrick angrily. ‘And you say you’re from the Mahdi?’
‘He has a point, Englishman,’ said Zaya. ‘Why did you not help them?’
‘There were things to learn, that’s why! And now I have learned them. Khalehla… him!’
‘You have extraordinary fantasies, that’s what you have, whatever your name is, which I don’t know. One, however, we can easily dispose of. We’re on our way to Bahrain to meet the Mahdi. We’ll take you with us. The great man will undoubtedly be delighted to see you again since you’re so important to him.’
‘I agree,’ said Azra firmly.
‘Bahrain?’ roared MacDonald. ‘How in hell are you going to get there?’
‘You mean you don’t know?’ said Kendrick.
Emmanuel Weingrass, his slender chest heaving in pain from the most recent fit of coughing, stepped out of the car in front of the cemetery at Jabal Sa’ali. He turned to the driver, who held the door, and spoke reverently in an exaggerated British accent. ‘I shall pray over my English ancestors, so few do, you know. Come back in an hour.’
‘Howar?’ asked the man, holding up one finger. ‘Iss’a?’ he repeated in Arabic, using the word for hour.
‘Yes, my Islamic friend. It is a profound pilgrimage I make every year. Can you understand that?’
‘Yes, yes, el sallah. Allแhoo Akbar!’ answered the driver, rapidly nodding his head, saying that he understood prayers and that God was great. He also held money in his hand, more money than he had expected, knowing that even more could be his when he returned in an hour.
‘Leave me now,’ said Weingrass. ‘I wish to be alone—Sibni fihแhlee.’
‘Yes, yes!’ The man closed the door, ran back to his seat, and drove away. Manny permitted himself a brief spasm, one vibrating cough compounding the previous one, and looked around to ascertain his bearings, then started across the cemetery to the stone house that stood in a field several hundred yards away. Ten minutes later he was ushered down to the basement where Israeli intelligence had set up its command post.
‘Weingrass,’ cried the Mossad officer, ‘it’s good to see you again!’
‘No, it’s not. You’re never happy to see me or hear me on the telephone. You know nothing about the work you do, you’re only an accountant—a miserly one at that.’
‘Now, Manny, let’s not start—’
‘I say we start right away,’ interrupted Weingrass, looking over at Ben-Ami and the five members of the Masada unit. ‘Do any of you misfits have whisky? I know this zohlah doesn’t,’ he added, implying that the Mossad man was cheap.
‘Not even wine,’ replied Ben-Ami. ‘It was not included in our provisions.’
‘No doubt issued by this one. All right, accountant, tell me everything you know. Where is my son, Evan Kendrick?’
‘Here, but that’s all we know.’
‘That’s standard. You were always three days behind the Sabbath.’
‘Manny—’
‘Calm yourself. You’ll have cardiac arrest and I don’t want Israel to lose its worst accountant. Who can tell me more?’
‘I can tell you more!’ shouted Yaakov, code name Blue. ‘We should be at this moment—hours ago—studying the embassy. We have a job to do that has nothing to do with your American!’
‘So, besides an accountant you have a hot-head,’ said Weingrass. ‘Anyone else?’
‘Kendrick is here without sanction,’ replied Ben-Ami. ‘He was flown over under cover but is now left to his own devices. He’s unacknowledged if caught.”
‘Where did you get that information?’
‘One of our men in Washington. I don’t know who or from what department or agency.’
‘You’d need a telephone book. How secure is this phone?’ asked Weingrass, sitting down at the table.
‘No guarantees,’ said the Mossad officer. ‘It was installed in a hurry.’
‘For as few shekels as possible, I’m sure.’
‘Manny!’
‘Oh, shut up.’ Weingrass took a notebook out of his pocket, flipped through the pages and riveted his eyes on a name and a number. He picked up the phone and dialled. Within seconds he spoke.
‘Thank you, my dear friend at the palace, for being so courteous. My name is Weingrass, insignificant to you, of course, but not to the great sultan, Ahmat. Naturally, I would not care to disturb his illustrious person, but if you could get word to him that I called, perhaps he might return a great favour. Let me give you a number, may I?’ Manny did so, squinting at the digits on the phone. ‘Thank you, my dear friend, and may I say, in respect, that this is a most urgent matter and the sultan may praise you for your diligence. Thank you, again.’
The once renowned architect hung up the telephone and leaned back in the chair, breathing deeply to stem the rattling echo erupting in his chest. ‘Now we wait,’ he said, looking at the Mossad officer. ‘And hope that our sultan has more brains and money than you do… My God, he came back! After four years he heard me and my son has come back?’
‘Why?’ asked Yaakov.
‘The Mahdi,’ said Weingrass quietly, angrily, staring at the floor.
‘The who?’
‘You’ll learn, hot-head.’
‘He’s not really your son, Manny.’
‘He’s the only son I ever wanted—’ The telephone rang; Weingrass grabbed it, pulling it to his ear.
‘Yes?’
‘Emmanuel?’
‘At one time, when we found ourselves in Los Angeles, you were far less formal.’
‘Allah be praised, I’ll never forget. I had myself checked when I got back here.’
‘Tell me, you young stinker, did you ever get a passing grade for that economics thesis in your third year?’
‘Only a B, Manny. I should have listened to you. You told me to make it far more complicated—that they liked complications.’
‘Can you talk?’ asked Weingrass, his voice suddenly serious.
‘I can, but you may not. From this end everything’s static. Do you understand?’
‘Yes. Our mutual acquaintance. Where is he?’
‘On his way to Bahrain with two other people from the embassy—there was supposed to be only one other but that was changed at the last minute. I don’t know why.’
‘Because there’s a string leading to someone else, probably. Is that everyone?’
Ahmat paused briefly. ‘No, Manny,’ he said quietly. ‘There’s one other you must not interfere with or acknowledge in any way. She is a woman and her name is Khalehla. I tell you this because I trust you and you should know that she’s there, but no one else must ever know. Her presence here must be kept as quiet as our friend’s; her exposure would be a catastrophe.’
‘That’s a mouthful, young fellow. How do I recognize this problem?’
‘I hope there’ll be no cause for you to. She’s hidden in the pilot’s cabin, which will remain locked until they reach Bahrain.’
That’s all you’ll tell me?’
‘About her, yes.’
‘I’ve got to move. What can you do for me?’
‘Send you on another plane. As soon as he can, our friend will call and tell me what’s happening. When you get there, contact me; here’s how.’ Ahmat gave his private, scrambled telephone number to Weingrass.