No name, no forwarding address, just Ciao, amico. So much for two passing ships in the Persian Gulf or two uptight, damaged people on a late afternoon in Bahrain. But it was not afternoon any longer, he realized. He was barely able to read Khalehla’s note; only the last orange sprays of sundown now streamed through the windows. He reached for his watch; it was seven-fifty-five; he had slept nearly four hours. He was famished, and his years in the deserts, the mountains and the white water had taught him not to travel hard on an empty stomach. A ‘guard’, she had said. ‘Outside,’ she had explained. Evan yanked the sheet off the bed, wrapped it around himself and walked across the room. He stopped; on the floor was an envelope. That was the sound he had heard, an envelope shoved under a door, forced under, sliding back and forth because of the thick rug. He picked it up, tore it open and read it. A list of sixteen names, addresses and telephone numbers. MacDonald! The roster of calls he had made in Bahrain. One step closer to the Mahdi!
Evan opened the door; the greetings between himself and the uniformed guard were dispensed with rapidly in Arabic. ‘You are awake now, sir. You were not to be disturbed until eight-thirty o’clock.’
‘I’d be most grateful if you would disturb me now with some food. The woman said I might get something to eat from your kitchen.’
‘Indeed, whatever you wish, sir.’
‘Whatever you can find. Meat, rice, bread… and milk, I’d like some milk. Everything as soon as possible, please.’
‘Very quick, sir!’ The guard turned and rushed down the hallway towards the staircase. Evan closed the door and stood for a moment finding his bearings in the now darkened room. He switched on a lamp at the edge of the endless bureau, then started across the thick-piled rug to another door that led to one of the most opulent bathrooms in Bahrain.
Ten minutes later he emerged, showered and shaved, now dressed in a short terrycloth robe. He walked to the cupboard where Khalehla had said his clothes were—’fumigated, laundered and pressed’. He opened the mirrored door and barely recognized the odd assortment of apparel he had collected at the embassy in Masqat; it looked like a respectable paramilitary uniform. Leaving everything on hangers he draped the starched outfit over the chaise-lounge, walked back to the bed and sat down, gazing at his belongings on the floor. He was tempted to check his money belt to see if any of the large bills were missing, then decided against it. If Khalehla was a thief, he did not want to know it, not at the moment.
The telephone rang, its harsh bell less a ring than a prolonged metallic shriek. For a moment he stared at the instrument wondering… who? He had MacDonald’s list; that was the only call Khalehla said he could expect. Khalehla? Had she changed her mind? With a rush of unanticipated feeling he reached for the phone, yanking it to his ear. Eight seconds later he wished to God he had not.
‘Amreekแnee,’ said the male voice, its flat monotone conveying hatred. ‘You leave that royal house before morning and you are a dead man. Tomorrow you go quietly back to where you came from, where you belong.’
* * *
Chapter 14
Emmanuel Weingrass pulled code Grey’s radio to his lips and spoke. ‘Go ahead and remember to keep the line open. I’ve got to hear everything!’
‘If you’ll forgive me, Weingrass,’ replied Ben-Ami from the shadows across Government Road. ‘I would feel somewhat more secure if our colleague Grey also heard. You and I are not so adept in these situations as those young men.’
‘They haven’t a brain in their collective head. We have two.’
‘This is not shul, Emmanuel, this is what’s called the field and it can be very unpleasant.’
‘I have every confidence in you, Benny boy, so long as you guarantee these kiddie radios can be heard through steel.’
‘They’re as clear as any electronic bug ever developed, with the added function of direct transmission. One just pushes the right buttons.’
‘One doesn’t,’ said Weingrass, ‘you do. Go on, we’ll follow when we hear what this MacDonald-Strickland says.’
‘Send code Grey first, please.’ Out of the shadows near the marquee of the Tylos Hotel, Ben-Ami joined the bustling crowds around the entrance. People came and went, mostly male, mostly in Western dress, along with a smattering of women exclusively in Western dress. Taxis disgorged passengers, as others filled them, tipping a harried doorman whose sole job was to open and close doors, and every now and then to blow a strident whistle for a lowly, thobed bellhop to carry luggage. Ben-Ami melted into this melee and went inside. Moments later, through the background noise of the lobby, he could be heard dialling; squinting in irritation, Manny held up the radio between himself and the much taller, muscular code Grey. The first words from Room 202 were obscured; then the Mossad agent spoke.
‘Shaikh Strickland?’
‘Who’s this?’ The Englishman’s cautious whisper was now distinct; Ben-Ami had adjusted the radio.
‘I’m downstairs… Anah henah littee gแhrah—’
‘Bloody damn black fool!’ cried MacDonald. ‘I don’t speak that gibberish! Why are you calling from the lobby?’
‘I was testing you, Mr. Strickland,’ Ben-Ami broke in quickly. ‘A man under stress often gives himself away. You might have asked me where my business trip was taking me, perhaps leading to a subsequent code. Then I would have known you were not the man—’
‘Yes, yes, I understand! Thank Christ you’re here! It’s taken you long enough. I expected you a half-hour ago. You were to say something to me. Say it!’
‘Not over the telephone,’ answered the Mossad infiltrator firmly. ‘Never over the telephone, you should know that.’
‘If you think I’m just going to let you into my room—’
‘I wouldn’t if I were you,’ interrupted Ben-Ami once again. ‘We know you’re armed.’
‘You do?’
‘Every weapon sold under a counter is known to us.’
‘Yes… yes, of course.’
‘Open your door with the latch on. If my words are incorrect, kill me.’
‘Yes… very well. I’m sure it won’t be necessary. But understand me, whoever you are, one misplaced syllable and you’re a corpse!’
‘ I shall practise my English, Shaikh Strickland.’
A tiny green light suddenly began blinking on the small radio in Weingrass’s hand. ‘What the hell is that?’ asked Manny.
‘Direct transmission,’ replied code Grey. ‘Give it to me.’ The Masada commando took the instrument and pressed a button. ‘Go ahead.’
‘He’s alone!’ said Ben-Ami’s voice. ‘We have to move quickly, take him now!’
‘We don’t make any moves, you Mossad imbecile!’ countered Weingrass, grabbing the radio. ‘Even those mutants from the State Department’s Consular Operations can hear what they’ve just been told, but not the holy Mossad! They hear only their own voices, and maybe Abraham’s if he’s got a code ring out of a box of corn flakes!’
‘Manny, I don’t need this,’ said Ben-Ami slowly, painfully over the radio.
‘You need ears, that’s what you need, ganza macher! That daffodil expects a contact from the Mahdi any minute—someone who’s not to call from the lobby but who’s to go directly to his room. He’s got the words to get MacDonald to open the door, that’s when we join the party and take them both! What did you have in mind? Breaking the door down courtesy of the Neanderthal here beside me?’
‘Well, yes—’
‘I don’t need this, either,’ muttered Grey quietly.
‘No wonder you idiots blew it in Washington. You thought Password was a Mossad drop and not a television show!’
‘Manny!’
‘Get your secret ass up to the second floor! We’ll be there in two minutes, right, Tinker Bell?’
‘Mr. Weingrass,’ said code Grey, the muscles of his lean, muscular jaw working furiously as he snapped off the radio. ‘You are probably the most irritatingly vexatious man I have ever met.’
‘Oy, such words! In the Bronx you would have been beaten up for that—if ten or twelve of my Irish or Italian buddies could have handled you. Come on!’ Manny started across Government Road, followed by Grey, who kept shaking his head, not in disagreement but only to purge the thoughts he was thinking.
The hotel corridor was long, the carpet worn. It was the dinner hour and most of the guests were out. Weingrass stood at one end; he had tried to smoke a Gauloise but had crushed it out, burning a hole in the carpet, as it had started a devastating rumble in his chest. Ben-Ami was by the farthest elevator, the ever-present, irritated hotel guest waiting for a conveyance that never came. Code Grey was nearest to Room 202, leaning casually against the wall next to a door fifteen feet diagonally across the hall from ‘Mr. Strickland’s’. He was a professional; he assumed the posture of a young man eagerly awaiting a woman he was perhaps not meant to meet, even to the point of seeming to talk through the door.