The woman stood inside the airport fence inches from the metal links. She wore gently flared white slacks and a tapered, dark green silk blouse, the blouse creased by the leather strap of her handbag. Long dark hair framed her face; her sharp attractive features were obscured by a pair of large designer sunglasses, her head covered by a wide-brimmed white sun hat, the crown circled by a ribbon of green silk. At first she seemed to be yet another traveller from wealthy Rome or Paris, London or New York. But a closer look revealed a subtle difference from the stereotype; it was her skin. Its olive tones, neither black nor white, suggested northern Africa. What confirmed the difference was what she held in her hands, and only seconds before had pressed against the fence: a miniature camera, barely two inches long and with a tiny bulging, convex, prismatic lens engineered for telescopic photography, equipment associated with intelligence personnel. The seedy, run-down truck had swerved out of the warehouse parking lot; the camera was no longer necessary.
She grabbed the handbag at her side and slipped it out of sight.
‘Khalehla!’ shouted an obese, wide-eyed, bald-headed man running towards her, pronouncing the name in Arabic, ‘Ka-lay-la.’ He was awkwardly carrying two suitcases, the sweat drenching his shirt and penetrating even the black, pinstripe suit styled in Savile Row. ‘For God’s sake, why did you drift off?
‘That dreadful queue was simply too boring, darling,’ replied the woman, her accent an unfathomable mixture of British and Italian or perhaps Greek. ‘I thought I’d stroll around.’
‘Good Christ, Khalehla, you can’t do that, can’t you understand? This place is a veritable hell on earth right now!’ The Englishman stood before her, his jowled face flushed, dripping with perspiration. ‘I was the very next in line for that Immigration imbecile, and I looked around and you weren’t there! And when I started rushing about to find you, three lunatics with guns—guns!—stopped me and took me into a room and searched our luggage!’
‘I hope you were clean, Tony.’
‘The bastards confiscated my whisky!’
‘Oh, the sacrifices of being such a successful man. Never mind, darling, I’ll have it replaced.’
The British businessman’s eyes roved over the face and figure of Khalehla. ‘Well, it’s past, isn’t it? We’ll go back now and get it over with.’ The obese man winked—one eye after the other. ‘I’ve got us splendid accommodation. You’ll be very pleased, my dear.’
‘Accommodation? With you, darling?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Oh, I really couldn’t do that.’
‘What? You said-‘
‘I said?’ Khalehla broke in, her dark brows arched above her sunglasses.
‘Well, you implied, rather emphatically, I might add, that if I could get you on that plane we might have a rather sporting time of it in Masqat.’
‘Sporting, of course. Drinks on the Gulf, perhaps the races, dinner at El Quaman—yes, all of those things. But in your room?’
‘Well, well… well, certain things shouldn’t have to be—specified.’
‘Oh, my sweet Tony. How can I apologize for such a misunderstanding? My old English tutor at the Cairo University suggested I contact you. She’s one of your wife’s dearest friends. Oh, no, I couldn’t really.’
‘Shit!’ exploded the highly successful businessman named Tony.
‘Miraya!’ shouted Kendrick over the deafening sounds of the dilapidated truck as it bounced over a back road into Masqat.
‘You did not request a mirror, ya Shaikh,’ yelled the Arab in the rear of the trailer, his English heavily accented but understandable enough.
‘Rip out one of the sideview mirrors on the doors, then. Tell the driver.’
‘He cannot hear me, ya Shaikh. Like so many others, this is an old vehicle, one that will not be noticed. I cannot reach the driver.’
‘Goddamn it!’ exclaimed Evan, the tube of gel in his hand. ‘Then you be my eyes, ya sahbee,’ he said, calling the man his friend. ‘Come closer to me and watch. Tell me when it’s right. Open the canvas.’
The Arab folded back part of the rear covering, letting the sunlight into the darkened trailer. Cautiously, holding on to the straps, he moved forward until he was barely a foot away from Kendrick. ‘This is the id-dawa, sir?’ he asked, referring to the tube.
‘Iwah,’ said Evan, when he saw that the gel was indeed the medicine he needed. He began spreading it first on his hands; both men watched; the waiting-time was less than three minutes.
‘Anna!’ shouted the Arab, holding out his right hand; the colour of the skin nearly matched his own.
‘Kwayis,’ agreed Kendrick, trying to approximate the amount of gel he had applied to his hands so as to equal the proportion for his face. There was nothing for it but to do it. He did, and anxiously watched the Arab’s eyes.
‘Ma’ool!’ cried his newest companion, grinning the grin of significant triumph. ‘Delwatee anzur!’
He had done it. His exposed flesh was now the colour of a sun-drenched Arab. ‘Help me into the thob and the aba, please,’ Evan asked as he started to disrobe in the violently shaking truck.
‘I will, of course,’ said the Arab, suddenly in much clearer English than he had employed before. ‘But now we are finished with each other. Forgive me for playing the na๏f with you but no one is to be trusted here; the American State Department not exempted. You are taking risks, ya Shaikh, far more than I, as the father of my children would take, but that is your business, not mine. You will be dropped off in the centre of Masqat and you will then be on your own.’
‘Thanks for getting me there,’ said Evan.
‘Thank you for coming, ya Shaikh. But do not try to trace those of us who helped you. In truth, we would kill you before the enemy had a chance to schedule your execution. We are quiet, but we are alive.’
‘Who are you?’
‘Believers, ya Shaikh. That is enough for you to know.’
‘Alfshukr,’ said Evan, thanking the clerk and tipping him for the confidentiality he had been guaranteed. He signed the hotel register with a false Arabic name and was given the key to his suite. He did not require a bellboy. Kendrick took the elevator to a wrong floor and waited at the end of a corridor to see if he had been followed. He had not, so he walked down the staircase to his proper floor and went to his suite.
Time. Time’s valuable, every minute. Frank Swann, Department of State. The evening prayers of el Maghreb were over; darkness descended and the madness at the embassy could be heard in the distance. Evan threw his small case into a corner of the living room, took out his wallet from under his robes, and withdrew a folded sheet of paper on which he had written the names and telephone numbers—numbers that were by now almost five years old—of the people he wanted to contact. He went to the desk and the telephone, sat down and unfolded the paper.
Thirty-five minutes later, after the effusive yet strangely awkward greetings of three friends from the past, the meeting was arranged. He had chosen seven names, each among the most influential men he remembered from his days in Masqat. Two had died; one was out of the country; the fourth told him quite frankly that the climate was not right for an Omani to meet with an American. The three who had agreed to see him, with varying degrees of reluctance, would arrive separately within the hour. Each would go directly to his suite without troubling the front desk.
Thirty-eight minutes passed, during which time Kendrick unpacked the few items of clothing he had brought and ordered specific brands of whisky from room service. The abstinence demanded by Islamic tradition was more honoured in the breach, and beside each name was the libation each guest favoured; it was a lesson Evan had learned from the irascible Emmanuel Weingrass. An industrial lubricant, my son. You remember the name of a man’s wife, he’s pleased. You remember the brand of whisky he drinks, now that’s something else. Now you care!
The soft knocking at the door broke the silence of the room like cracks of lightning. Kendrick took several deep breaths, walked across the room, and admitted his first visitor.
‘It is you, Evan? My God, you haven’t converted, have you?’
‘Come in, Mustapha. It’s good to see you again.’
‘But am I seeing you? said the man named Mustapha who was dressed in a dark brown business suit. ‘And your skin! You are as dark as I am if not darker.’
‘I want you to understand everything.’ Kendrick closed the door, gesturing for his friend from the past to choose a place to sit. ‘I’ve got your brand of Scotch. Care for a drink?’
‘Oh, that Manny Weingrass is never far away, is he?’ said Mustapha, walking to the long, brocade-covered sofa and sitting down. ‘The old thief.’