The Icarus Agenda

Chapter 11

The three escaped prisoners crawled in the darkness up through the ancient, moss-laden sewer line to a gridded opening on the stone floor of the embassy's east courtyard. Struggling, their hands and feet scraped and bloodied, they emerged into the dazzling sunlight only to be met by a scene Evan Kendrick wished with all his being had remained in darkness. Sixty or more hostages had been removed from the roof to the courtyard for their meagre morning food and ablutions. A latrine consisted of wooden planks with circular holes above planter boxes, the men separated from the women by a large, transparent screen ripped from one of the embassy's windows. The degradation was complete in that the guards, male and female, walked back and forth in front of the hostages, male and female, laughing and making loud jokes about the functional difficulties their captives were experiencing. The toilet paper, tauntingly held out beyond the reach of trembling hands before it was finally delivered, consisted of print-outs from the embassy's computers.

Across the way, in full view of the frightened, humiliated people at the planks, the hostages had formed a line leading to three long, narrow tables with rows of metal plates holding dry bread and small wedges of questionable cheese. Spaced between were filthy pitchers filled with a greyish-white liquid, presumably diluted goat's milk, which was poured sparingly into the prisoners' wooden bowls by a group of armed terrorists behind the tables. Every now and then a hostage was refused a plate or a ladle of milk; pleading was futile; it resulted in a slap or a fist or a ladle in the face when the cries were too loud.

Suddenly, as Kendrick's eyes were still adjusting to the harsh light, a young prisoner, a boy of no more than fourteen or fifteen, tears streaming down his face, his features contorted, screamed in defiance. 'You lousy bastard! My mother's sick! She keeps throwing up from this crap! Give her something decent, you sons of bitches—’

The boy's words were cut short by the barrel of a rifle across his face, tearing his left cheek. Instead of subduing the youngster, the blow infuriated him. He lunged across the table, grabbing the shirt of the man with the rifle, tearing it off his chest, sending metal plates and pitchers crashing down from the table. In seconds, the terrorists were on him, pulling him away from the bearded man he was wrestling to the ground, pummelling him with rifle butts and kicking his writhing body on the courtyard stone. Several other male hostages, their anger and courage aroused by the boy's action, rushed forward shouting with weak, hoarse voices, their arms flailing pathetically against their arrogant, far stronger enemies. What followed was a brutal suppression of the mini revolt. As the hostages fell they were beaten unconscious and kicked like carcasses being thumped and processed in a slaughter house.

'Animals!' roared an old man, holding his trousers and walking unsteadily forward from the planks, his resolve and dignity intact. 'Arab animals! Arab savages! Have none of you a shred of civilized decency? Does beating to death weak defenceless men make you heroes of Islam? If so, take me and issue yourselves more medals, but in the name of God, stop what you're doing!'

'Whose God?' shouted a terrorist over the body of the unconscious boy. 'A Christian Jesus whose followers arm our enemies so they can massacre our children with bombs and cannons? Or a wandering Messiah whose people steal our lands and kill our fathers and mothers? Get your Gods straight!'

'Enough!' commanded Azra, striding rapidly forward. Kendrick followed, unable to control himself, thinking that moments before he might have grabbed the MAC-10 weapon off Blue's shoulder and fired into the terrorists. Standing above the bloodied youngster, Azra continued, his voice casual. 'The lesson's been taught; don't overteach it or you'll numb those you want to instruct. Take these people down to the infirmary, to the hostage doctor… and find the boy's mother. Take her there also and get her a meal.'

'Why, Azra?' protested the Palestinian. 'No such consideration was shown my mother! She was—’

'Nor to mine,' broke in Blue firmly, stopping the man. 'And look at us now. Take this child down and let him stay with his mother. Have someone speak to them about over-zealousness and pretend to care.'

Kendrick watched in revulsion while the limp, bleeding bodies were carried away. 'You did the right thing,' he said to Azra in English, his words coldly noncommittal, talking like a technician. 'One doesn't always want to but one has to know when to stop.'

The new prince of terrorists studied Evan through opaque eyes. 'I meant what I said. Look at us now. The death of our own makes us different. One day we're children, the next we are grown up, no matter the years, and we are experts at death for the memories never leave us.'

'I understand.'

'No, you don't, Amal Bahrudi. Yours is an ideological war. For you death is a political act. You are a passionate believer, I have no doubt—but still what you believe is politics. That's not my war. I have no ideology but survival, so that I can extract death for death—and still survive.'

'For what?' asked Kendrick, suddenly terribly interested.

'Oddly enough to live in peace,, which was forbidden to my parents. For all of us to live in our own land, which was stolen from us, delivered to our enemies and paid for by rich nations to assuage their own guilt over crimes against a people that were not our crimes. Now we're the victims; can we do less than fight?'

'If you think that's not politics, I suggest you think again. You remain a poet, Azra.'

'With a knife and a gun as well as my thoughts, Bahrudi.'

There was another commotion across the courtyard, this one benign. Two figures raced out of a doorway, one a veiled woman, the other a man with streaks of white in his hair. Zaya Yateem and Ahbyahd, the one called White, thought Evan, standing rigid, aloof. The greeting between brother and sister was odd; they formally shook hands, looking at each other, then fell into an embrace. The universal guardianship of an older sister for a younger brother, the latter so often awkward, impulsive in the eyes of the older, wiser sibling, bridged races and ideology. The younger child would inevitably grow stronger, the muscular arms of the household, but the older sister was always there to guide him. Ahbyahd was subsequently less formal, throwing his arms around the youngest, strongest member of the Operations Council and kissing him on both cheeks. 'You have much to tell us,' exclaimed the terrorist called White.

'I do,' agreed Azra, turning to Evan Kendrick, 'because of this man. He is Amal Bahrudi from East Berlin, sent by the Mahdi to us here in Masqat.'

Above her veil, Zaya's urgent, even violent eyes searched Evan's face. 'Amal Bahrudi,' she repeated. 'I've heard the name, of course. The Mahdi's strings reach great distances. You are far from your own work.'

'Uncomfortably so,' said Kendrick, in the cultured dialect of Riyadh. 'But others are watched, their every move monitored. It was thought that someone unexpected should come here, and East Berlin is a convenient place from which to travel. People will swear you're still there. When the Mahdi called, I responded. In truth it was I who first made contact with his people about a problem you have here which your brother will explain to you. We may have different objectives, but we all progress by co-operating with each other, especially when our bills are paid.'

'But you,' said Ahbyahd, frowning. 'The Bahrudi of East Berlin, the one who moves anywhere, everywhere. You were found out?'

'It's true I have a reputation for getting around,' answered Evan, permitting himself the hint of a smile. 'But it certainly won't be enhanced by what happened to me here.'

'You were betrayed, then?' asked Zaya Yateem.

'Yes. I know who it was and I'll find him. His body will drift up in the harbour—’

'Bahrudi broke us out,' interrupted Azra. 'While I was thinking he was doing. He deserves whatever reputation he has.'

'We go inside, my dearest brother. We'll talk there.'

'My dearest sister,' said Blue. 'We have traitors here, that's what Amal came to tell us—that and one more thing. They're taking photographs and smuggling them outside, selling them! If we live, we'll be hunted for years, a record of our activities for all the world to see!'

The sister now studied the brother, her dark eyes above the veil questioning. 'Photographs? Taken by concealed cameras with sophisticated features to operate yet noticed by no one? Do we have such advanced students of photography among our brothers and sisters here, the majority of whom can barely read?'

'He saw the photographs! In East Berlin!'

'We'll talk inside.'

The two Englishmen sat in front of the large desk at the British Embassy, the weary attaché behind it still in a dressing gown, doing his best to stay awake. 'Yes,' he said, yawning. 'They'll be here any moment now, and if you don't mind my saying so, I hope there's substance in what you're telling us. MI-6 is seven ways into a dither here, and they're not too charmed by a couple of our own Brits robbing them of a few precious hours of sleep.'

'My friend Jack here was in the Grenadiers!' exclaimed Dickie, protectively. 'If he thinks there's something you should be told, I think you should pay attention. After all, what are we here for?'

'To make money for your firms?' offered the attaché .

'Well, of course, that's a minor part of it,' said Dickie. 'But first we're Englishmen, and don't you forget it. We'll not see what's left of the Empire sink into oblivion. Right, Jack?'

'It already has,' said the attaché , stemming another yawn.

'You see,' interrupted Jack. 'My friend Dickie here is in ferrous metals, but I'm in textiles, and I tell you the way that bugger was dressed—as opposed to the way he had dressed before—he's up to no good. The cloth not only determines the man but also suits his activities—been that way since the first flax was woven, probably right here in this part of the world, come to think of it—’

'MI-6 has the information,' broke in the attaché with the dulled expression of a man numbed by repetition. 'They'll be here soon.'

They were. Within five seconds of the attaché 's remark, two men in open shirts, both needing a shave and neither looking particularly pleasant, walked into the office. The second man carried a large manila envelope; the first man spoke. 'Are you gentlemen the reason we're here?' he asked, addressing Dickie and Jack.

'Richard Harding on my left,' said the attaché . 'And John Preston on the right. May I leave?'

'Sorry, old boy,' replied the second man, approaching the desk and opening the envelope. 'We're here because you summoned us. That entitles you to stay.'

'You're too kind,' said the embassy man unkindly. 'However, I did not summon you, I merely relayed information that two British citizens insisted I relay. That entitles me to get some sleep insofar as I'm not in your line of endeavour.'

'Actually,' interrupted Dickie Harding, 'it was Jack here who insisted, but I've always felt that in times of crisis no stone or instinct should be overlooked, and Jack Preston—a former Grenadier, you know—has had some fine instincts… in the past.'

'Damn it, Dickie, it's got nothing to do with instincts, it's what he was wearing. I mean a chap could swelter in the winter in the Highlands under that material, and if the sheen on his shirt indicated silk or polyester, he'd positively suffocate. Cotton. Pure breathing cotton is the only cloth for this climate. And the tailoring of his ensemble, well, I told you—’

'Do you mind, sir?' His eyes briefly straying to the ceiling, the second man removed a pile of photographs from the envelope and thrust them between Preston and Harding, cutting off the dialogue. 'Would you look these over and see if there's anyone you recognize?'

Eleven seconds later the task was done. 'That's him!' cried Jack.

'Believe it is,' Dickie agreed.

'And you're both bonkers,' said the first man from MI-6. 'His name's MacDonald and he's a swizzling, society-boy drunk from Cairo. His wife's father owns the company he works for—a spare parts firm—and he's posted over here because he's a complete ass and the second-in-command at the Cairo branch runs the show. So much for instincts at this hour of the morning. Should I ask where you two spent the night?'

'Now, Jack, I did say you might be overreacting on rather superficial grounds—'

'A minute, please,' interrupted the second man from MI-6, picking up the enlarged passport photograph and studying it. 'A year or so ago one of our military staff stationed here contacted us and wanted to set up a meeting regarding an EE problem he thought was in the making.'

'A what?' asked the attaché .

'“Equipment evaluation”; that's to be read as espionage. He wouldn't say much on the phone, of course, but he did remark that we'd be astonished at the suspect. “A bloated sot of an Englishman working in Cairo” or words to that effect. Could this be the man?'

'Still,' continued Dickie. 'I urged Jack to follow it up, not to hold back!'

'Now, really, old chap, you weren't all that enthusiastic. You know, we still might make that plane you were so worried about.'

'What happened at the meeting?' asked the attaché , leaning forward, his eyes riveted on the second man from MI-6.

'It never took place. Our military man was killed on the waterfront, his throat slit outside a warehouse. They called it a robbery as nothing was left in his pockets.'

'I do think we should catch that plane, Jack.'

'The Mahdi?' exclaimed Zaya Yateem, sitting behind the desk in what three weeks before had been the American ambassador's office. 'You are to take one of us to him in Bahrain? Tonight?'

'As I told your brother.' Kendrick sat in a chair next to Ahbyahd and facing the woman. 'The instructions were probably in the letter I was to deliver to you—’

'Yes, yes.' Zaya spoke rapidly, impatiently. 'He explained it to me during our few moments together. But you're wrong, Bahrudi. I have no way of directly reaching the Mahdi—no one knows who he is.'

'I assume you contact someone who in turn reaches him.'

'Naturally, but it could take a day or possibly two days. The avenues to him are complicated. Five calls are made and ten times five are relayed to unlisted numbers in Bahrain, and only one of them can reach the Mahdi.'

'What happens in an emergency?'

'They're not permitted,' interrupted Azra, who was leaning against the wall by a tall sunlit window. 'I told you that.'

'And that, my young friend, is ridiculous. We can't do what we do effectively without considering the unexpected.'

'Granted.' Zaya Yateem nodded her head, then shook it slowly. 'However, my brother has a point. We are expected to carry on in any emergency for weeks, if we must. Otherwise, as leaders, we would not be given our assignments.'

'Very well,' said the congressman from the ninth district of Colorado, feeling the sweat rolling down his neck despite the cool morning breezes sweeping through the open windows. 'Then you explain to the Mahdi why we're not in Bahrain tonight. I've done my part, including, I believe, saving your brother's life.'

'He's right about that, Zaya,' agreed Azra, pushing himself away from the wall. 'I'd be a corpse in the desert by now.'

'For which I'm grateful, Bahrudi, but I can't do the impossible.'

'I think you'd better try.' Kendrick glanced at Ahbyahd beside him, then turned back to the sister. 'Your Mahdi went to a great deal of trouble and expense to get me here, which I assume means he has an emergency.'

'The news of your capture would explain what happened,' said Ahbyahd,

'Do you really think Oman's security forces will put out the word that they caught me only to admit I escaped?'

'Of course not," answered Zaya Yateem.

'The Mahdi holds your purse strings,' added Kendrick. 'And he could influence mine, which I don't like.'

'Our supplies are low,' broke in Ahbyahd. 'We need the fast boats from the Emirates or everything we've done will be for nothing. Instead of besieging, we ourselves will be in a state of siege.'

'There may be a way," said Zaya, suddenly getting out of the chair, her hands on the desk, her dark eyes above the veil gazing aimlessly in thought. 'We've scheduled a press conference this morning; it will be watched everywhere and certainly by the Mahdi himself. At some point in my talk I'll mention that we are sending out an urgent message to our friends. A message that requires an immediate response.'

'What good would that do?' asked Azra. 'All communications are monitored, we know that. None of the Mahdi's people will risk getting in touch with us.'

'They don't have to,' interrupted Evan, sitting forward. 'I understand what your sister's saying. The response need not be verbal; no communication is necessary. We're not asking for instructions, we're giving them. It's what you and I talked about several hours ago, Azra. I know Bahrain. I'll choose a place where we'll be and let one of your contacts here in Masqat forward it, telling him that this is the urgent message your sister spoke of during the press conference.' Kendrick turned to Yateem. 'That is what you had in mind, isn't it?'

'I hadn't refined it,' admitted Zaya, 'but it's feasible. My thought was merely to speed up the process of reaching the Mahdi. It is plausible.'

'It's the solution!' cried Ahbyahd. 'Bahrudi has given it to us!'

'Nothing is solved at this juncture,' said the veiled woman, again sitting down. 'There's the problem of getting my brother and Mr. Bahrudi to Bahrain. How can it be done?'

'It's been taken care of,' answered Evan, the pounding in his chest accelerating, astonished at his own control, at his casual voice. He was closer! Closer to the Mahdi! 'I have a telephone number, which I won't give you—can't give you—but with a few words it will get us a plane.'

'Just like that?' exclaimed Ahbyahd.

'Your benefactor here in Oman has methods you haven't dreamed of.'

'All phone calls in and out are intercepted,' objected Azra.

'What I say may be heard, but not what the person I'm calling says. I was assured of that.'

'A scrambling device?' asked Yateem.

'They're part of our kits in Europe. A simple cone pressed over the mouthpiece. The distortion is absolute except on the direct connection.'

'Make your call,' said Zaya, getting up and walking rapidly around the desk as Kendrick did the same, replacing her in the chair. Holding his hand over the numbers, Evan dialled.

'Yes?' Ahmat's voice came on the line before the second ring.

'A plane,' said Kendrick. 'Two passengers. Where? When?'

'My God!' exploded the young sultan of Oman. 'Let me think… The airport, of course. There's a turn in the road about a quarter of a mile before the cargo area. Someone will pick you up in a garrison car. Tell them it was stolen to get you past the guards.'

'When?'

'It will take time. The security's heavy everywhere and arrangements have to be made. Can you give me a destination?'

'The twenty-second letter split in two.'

'V… split—a slanted I—Iran?'

'No. By the numbers.'

'Twenty-second… two. B?'

'Yes.'

'Bahrain!'

'Yes.'

'That helps. I'll make some calls. How soon do you need it?'

'At the height of the festivities here. We have to get out in the confusion.'

'That would be around noon.'

'Whatever you say. Incidentally, there's a doctor—he has something I may need for my health.'

'The money belt, of course. It will be slipped to you.'

'Good.'

'The turn before the cargo area. Be there.'

'We will.' Evan hung up the phone. 'We're to be at the airport by twelve noon.'

'The airport?' shouted Azra. 'We'll be picked up!'

'On the road before the airport. Someone will steal a garrison car and they'll pick us up.'

'I'll arrange for one of our contacts here in the city to drive you,' said Zaya Yateem. 'He'll be the one to whom you will give the location in Bahrain, the meeting ground. You have at least five hours before you leave.'

'We'll need clothes, a shower, and some rest,' said Azra. 'I can't remember when I last slept.'

I'd like to look around your operation,' remarked Kendrick, getting out of the chair. 'I might learn something.'

'Whatever you wish, Amal Bahrudi,' said Zaya Yateem, approaching Evan. 'You saved my dear brother's life and for that there are no adequate words to express my thanks.'

'Just get me to that airport by noon,' replied Kendrick, no warmth in his voice. 'Frankly, I want to get back to Germany as soon as possible.'

'By noon,' agreed the female terrorist.

'Weingrass will be here by noon!' exclaimed the Mossad officer to Ben-Ami and the five-man unit from the Masada Brigade. They were in the cellar of a house in the Jabal Sa'ali, minutes from the rows of English graves where scores of privateers were buried centuries before. The primitive stone basement had been converted into a control centre for Israeli intelligence.

'How will he get here?' asked Ben-Ami, who had taken the ghotra off his head, the blue jeans and loose dark shirt far more natural to him. 'His passport was issued in Jerusalem, not the most welcome of documents.'

'One does not question Emmanuel Weingrass. He undoubtedly has more passports than there are bagels in Tel Aviv's Jabotinsky Square. He says we are to do nothing until he arrives. “Absolutely nothing”, were his exact words.'

'You don't sound so disapproving of him as you did before,' said Yaakov, code name Blue, son of a hostage and leader of the Masada unit.

'Because I will not have to sign his expense vouchers! There'll be none. All I had to do was mention Kendrick's name and he said he was on his way.'

'That hardly means he won't submit his expenses,' countered Ben-Ami, chuckling.

'Oh, no, I was very specific. I asked him how much would it cost us for his assistance and he replied unequivocally, “Up yours, this is on me!” It's an American expression that absolves us from payment.'

'We're wasting time!' cried Yaakov. 'We should be scouting the embassy. We've studied the plans; there are a half-dozen ways we might enter and get out with my father!'

Heads snapped and eyes widened at the young leader called Blue. 'We understand,' said the Mossad officer.

'I'm sorry. I didn't mean to say that.'

'You of all people have every right to say it,' said Ben-Ami.

'I shouldn't have. I apologize again. But why should we wait for this Weingrass?'

'Because he delivers, my friend, and without him we may not.'

'I see! You people in the Mossad turn flip-flops. Now it's the American you want to help, not our original objective! Damn it, yes, my father!'

'The result could be one and the same, Yaakov—’

‘I'm not Yaakov!' roared the young leader. 'To you I am only Blue—the son of a father who watched his own father and mother pulled apart in Auschwitz as they clung to each other before each was driven into the showers of gas. I want my father out and safe and I can do it! How much more can that man suffer? A childhood of horror, watching while children his own age were hanged for stealing garbage to eat, sodomized by Wehrmacht pigs, hiding, starving in forests all over Poland until the Allies came. Then later blessed with three sons, only to have two of them killed, my brothers killed, butchered in Sidon by filthy pig-terrorist Arabs! Now I should care about one American cowboy, a politician who wants to be a hero so he can act in films and have his picture on cereal boxes?'

'From what I've been told,' said Ben-Ami calmly, 'none of that is true. This American risks his life without help from his own people, without the prospect of future rewards if he lives. As our friend here tells us, he does what he's doing for a reason not very much different from yours. To right a terrible wrong that was done to him, to his family, as it were.'

'To hell with him! That was a family, not a people! I say we go to the embassy!'

'I say you don't,' said the officer, placing his pistol slowly on the table. 'You are now under the command of the Mossad and you will follow our orders.'

'Pigs!' screamed Yaakov. 'You're pigs, all of you!'

'Ever so,' said Ben-Ami. 'All of us.'

10:48 am. Oman time. The controlled press conference was over. The reporters and television crews were securing their notebooks and equipment, prepared to be ushered out through the embassy halls to the outside gates, patrolled by a hundred young men and veiled women marching back and forth with weapons at ready-fire. Inside the conference hall, however, a fat man broke through the guards with unctuous words and approached the table where Zaya Yateem sat. Rifles at his head, he spoke.

'I come from the Mahdi,' he whispered, 'who pays every shilling you owe.'

'You too? The emergency in Bahrain must be serious indeed.'

'I beg your pardon—’

'He's been searched?' asked Zaya of the guards, who nodded. 'Let him go.'

'Thank you, madame—what emergency in Bahrain?'

'Obviously we don't know. One of our own is going there tonight to be told and will return to us with the news.'

MacDonald stared into the eyes above the veil, a sharp hollow pain forming in his enormous chest. What was happening? Why was Bahrain going around him? What decisions had been made that excluded him? Why? What had the filthy Arab whore done? 'Madame,' continued the Englishman slowly, his words measured, 'The emergency in Bahrain is a new development, whereas I am concerned with another question equally serious. Our benefactor would like clarified—immediately clarified—the presence of the woman Khalehla here in Masqat.'

'Khalehla? There's no woman named Khalehla among us here, but then names are meaningless, aren't they?'

'Not here, not inside here, but outside and in contact with your people—your own brother, in fact.'

'My brother?'

'Precisely. Three escaped prisoners raced to meet her on the road to Jabal Sham, to meet with the enemy!'

'What are you saying?'

'I'm not saying, madame, I'm demanding. We are demanding an explanation. The Mahdi insists on it most emphatically.'

'I have no idea what you're talking about! It is true three prisoners escaped, one of them my brother along with Yosef and our benefactor's other emissary, a man named Bahrudi from East Berlin.'

'East—Madame, you're too quick for me.'

'If you're really from the Mahdi, I'm astonished you're not aware of him.' Yateem stopped, her penetrating large eyes roaming over MacDonald's face. 'On the other hand, you could be from anyone, anywhere.'

'While in Masqat I am the Mahdi's only voice! Call Bahrain and hear it for yourself, madame.'

'You know perfectly well such calls are not permitted.' Zaya snapped her fingers for the guards; they rushed to the table. 'Take this man and bring him to the council room. Then wake my brother and Yosef and find Amal Bahrudi. Another conference is called for. Now!'

The clothes Evan chose for himself were a blend of the terrorist dress code: unpressed khaki trousers, a soiled American-style field jacket and a dark shirt open to mid-chest.

Except for his age and his eyes, he was similar in appearance to the majority of the fanatic punks who had captured the embassy. Even the years were obscured by his darkened flesh, and his eyes were shaded by the visor of a cloth cap. To complete the image he wanted, a sheathed knife was attached to his jacket and the bulge of a revolver apparent in the right pocket. The ‘trusted one' was trusted; he had saved the life of Azra, prince of terrorists, and moved freely about the seized embassy, from one sickening scene to another, one frightened, exhausted, hopeless group to another.

Hope. It was all he could give, knowing that in the final analysis it was probably false, but he had to give it, give them something to cling to, at least to think about in the darkest, most terrifying hours of the night.

'I'm an American!' he whispered to shocked hostages wherever he found three or more together, his eyes constantly glancing around at the roving punks who thought he was insulting their prisoners with sudden, audible bursts of anger. 'Nobody's forgotten you! We're doing all we can! Don't mind my shouting at you! I have to.'

'Thank God!' was the constant, initial reply, followed by tears and descriptions of horror that invariably included the public execution of the seven condemned hostages.

'They'll kill us all! They don't care! The filthy animals don't care about death—ours or theirs.'

'Do your best to stay calm and I mean that! Try not to show fear, that's very, very important. Don't antagonize, but don't crawl to them. Seeing you afraid is like a narcotic to them. Remember that.'

At one point Kendrick suddenly stood up and shouted abusively at a group of five Americans. His straying eyes had picked out one of Zaya Yateem's personal guards; the man was walking rapidly towards him.

'You! Bahrudi!'

'Yes.'

'Zaya must see you right away. Come, the council room!'

Evan followed the guard across the roof and down three flights of stairs into a long corridor. He removed his cap, now soaked with perspiration, and was led to the open door of a large embassy office. He walked inside, and four seconds later his world was shattered by the last words he could ever hope to hear, 'Good Christ! You're Evan Kendrick!'