The Icarus Agenda

Chapter 3

The estimated flying time from Andrews to the US Air Force base in Sicily was seven hours plus. Arrival was scheduled for 5 am, Rome time; eight o'clock in the morning in Oman, which was four to five hours away depending on the prevailing Mediterranean winds and whatever secure routes were available. Takeoff into the Atlantic darkness had been swift in the military jet, a converted F-106 Delta with a cabin that included two adjacent seats in the rear with tray tables that served both as miniature desks and surfaces for food and drink. Swivelled lights angled down from the ceiling, permitting those reading to move the sharp beams into the areas of concentration, whether they were manuscript, photographs or maps. Kendrick was fed the pages from OHIO-Four-Zero by the man on his left, one page at a time, each given only after the previous page was returned. In two hours and twelve minutes, Evan had completed the entire file. He was about to start at the beginning again when the young man on his left, a handsome, dark-eyed member of OHIO-Four-Zero who had introduced himself simply as a State Department aide, held up his hand.

'Can't we take time out for some food, sir?' he asked.

'Oh? Sure.' Kendrick stretched in his seat. 'Frankly, there's not a hell of a lot here that's very useful.'

'I didn't think there would be,' said the clean-cut youngster.

Evan looked at his seat companion, for the first time studying him. 'You know, I don't mean this is in a derogatory sense—I really don't—but for a highly classified State Department operation, you strike me as being kind of young for the job. You can't be out of your twenties.'

'Close to it,' replied the aide. 'But I'm pretty good at what I do.'

'Which is?'

'Sorry, no comment, sir,' said the seat companion. 'Now how about that food? It's a long flight.'

'How about a drink?'

'We've made special provision for civilians.' The dark-haired, dark-browed young man smiled and signalled the Air Force steward, a corporal in a bulkhead seat facing aft; the attendant rose and came forward. 'A glass of white wine and a Canadian on the rocks, please.'

'A Canadian—'

'That's what you drink, isn't it?'

'You've been busy.'

'We never stop.' The aide nodded to the corporal who retreated to the miniature galley. 'I'm afraid the food is fixed and standard,' continued the young man from OHIO. 'It's in line with the Pentagon cut-backs… and certain lobbyists from the meat and produce industries. Filet mignon with asparagus hollandaise and boiled potatoes.'

'Some cut-backs.'

'Some lobbyists,' added Evan's seat companion, grinning. 'Then there's a dessert of baked Alaska.'

'What?'

'You can't overlook the dairy boys.' The drinks arrived; the steward returned to a bulkhead phone where a white light flashed, and the aide held up his glass. 'Your health.'

'Yours, too. Do you have a name?'

'Pick one.'

'That's succinct. Will you settle for Joe?'

'Joe, it is. Nice to meet you, sir.'

'Since you obviously know who I am, you have the advantage. You can use my name.'

'Not on this flight.'

'Then who am I?'

'For the record, you're a cryptanalyst named Axelrod who's being flown to the embassy in Jiddah, Saudi Arabia. The name doesn't mean much; it's basically for the pilot's logs. If anyone wants your attention, he'll just say “sir”. Names are sort of off limits on these trips.'

'Dr Axelrod? The corporal's intrusion made the State Department's aide blanch.

'Doctor?' replied Evan, mildly astonished, looking at 'Joe'.

'Obviously you're a PhD,' said the aide under his breath.

'That's nice,' whispered Kendrick, raising his eyes to the steward. 'Yes?'

'The pilot would like to speak with you, sir. If you'll follow me to the flight deck, please?'

'Certainly,' agreed Evan, pushing up the tray table while handing 'Joe' his drink. 'At least you were right about one thing, junior,' he mumbled to the State Department man. 'He said “sir”.'

'And I don't like it,' rejoined 'Joe', quietly, intensely. 'All communications involving you are to be funnelled through me.'

'You want to make a scene?'

'Screw it. It's an ego trip. He wants to get close to the special cargo.'

'The what?

'Forget it, Dr Axelrod. Just remember, there are to be no decisions without my approval.'

'You're a tough kid.'

'The toughest, Congress—Dr Axelrod. Also, I'm not “junior”. Not where you're concerned.'

'Shall I convey your feelings to the pilot?'

'You can tell him I'll cut both his wings and his balls off if he pulls this again.'

'Since I was the last on board, I didn't meet him, but I gather he's a brigadier general.'

'He's brigadier-bullshit to me.'

'Good Lord,' said Kendrick, chuckling. 'Inter-service rivalry at forty thousand feet. I'm not sure I approve of that.'

'Sir?' The Air Force steward was anxious.

'Coming, Corporal.'

The compact flight deck of the F-106 Delta glowed with a profusion of tiny green and red lights, dials and numbers everywhere. The pilot and co-pilot were strapped in front, the navigator on the right, a cushioned earphone clipped to his left ear, his eyes on a gridded computer screen. Evan had to bend down to advance the several feet he could manage in the small enclosure.

'Yes, General?' he inquired. 'You wanted to see me?'

'I don't even want to look at you, Doctor,' answered the pilot, his attention on the panels in front of him. 'I'm just going to read you a message from someone named S. You know someone named S?'

'I think I do,' replied Kendrick, assuming the message had been radioed by Swann at the Department of State. 'What is it?'

'It's a pain in the butt to this bird, is what it is!' cried the brigadier general. 'I've never landed there! I don't know the field, and I'm told those fucking Eyetals over in that wasteland are better at making spaghetti sauce than they are at giving approach instructions!'

'It's our own air base,' protested Evan.

'The hell it is!' countered the pilot as his co-pilot shook his head in an emphatic negative. 'We're changing course to Sardinia! Not Sicily but Sardinia! I'll have to blow out my engines to contain us on that strip—if, for Christ's sake, we can find it!'

'What's the message, General?' asked Kendrick calmly. 'There's usually a reason for most things when plans are changed.'

'Then you explain it—no, don't explain it. I'm hot and bothered enough. Goddamned spooks!'

'The message, please?'

'Here it is.' The angry pilot read from a perforated page of paper. ' “Switch necessary. Jiddah out. All MA where permitted under eyes—”'

'What does that mean?' interrupted Evan quickly. 'The MA under eyes.'

'What it says.'

'In English, please.'

'Sorry, I forgot. Whoever you are you're not what's logged. It means all military aircraft in Sicily and Jiddah are under observation, as well as every field we land on. Those Arab bastards expect something and they've got their filthy psychos in place, ready to relay anything or anyone unusual.'

'Not all Arabs are bastards or filthy or psychos, General.'

'They are in my book.'

'Then it's unprintable.'

'What is?'

'Your book. The rest of the message, please.'

The pilot made an obscene gesture with his right arm, the perforated paper in his hand. 'Read it yourself, Arab-lover. But it doesn't leave this deck.'

Kendrick took the paper, angled it towards the navigator's light, and read the message. 'Switch necessary. Jiddah out. All MA where permitted under eyes. Transfer to civilian subsidiary on south island. Routed through Cyprus, Riyadh, to target. Arrangements cleared. ETA is close to Second Pillar el-Maghreb best timing possible. Sorry. 5.' Evan reached out, holding the message over the brigadier general's shoulder and dropped it. 'I assume that “south island” is Sardinia.'

'You got it.'

'Then, I gather, I'm to spend roughly ten more hours on a plane, or planes, through Cyprus, Saudi Arabia and finally to Masqat.'

I'll tell you one thing, Arab-lover,' continued the pilot. 'I'm glad it's you flying on those Minnie Mouse aircraft and not me. A word of advice: Grab a seat near an emergency exit and if you can buy a chute, spend the money. Also a gas mask. I'm told those planes stink.'

'I'll try to remember your generous advice.'

'Now you tell me something,' said the general. 'What the hell is that “Second Pillar” Arab stuff?'

'Do you go to church?' asked Evan.

'You're damned right I do. When I'm home I make the whole damn family go—no welching on that, by Christ. At least once a month, it's a rule.'

'So do the Arabs, but not once a month. Five times a day. They believe as strongly as you do, at least as strongly, wouldn't you say? The Second Pillar of el Maghreb refers to the Islamic prayers at sundown. Hell of an inconvenience, isn't it? They work their Arab asses off all day long, mostly for nothing, and then it's sundown. No cocktails, just prayers to their God. Maybe it's all they've got. Like the old plantation spirituals.'

The pilot turned slowly in his seat. His face in the shadows of the flight deck startled Kendrick. The brigadier general was black. 'You set me up,' said the pilot flatly.

'I'm sorry. I mean that; I didn't realize. On the other hand you said it. You called me an Arab-lover.'

Sundown. Masqat, Oman. The ancient turbo-jet bounced on to the runway with such force that some of the passengers screamed, their desert instincts alert to the possibility of fiery oblivion. Then with the realization that they had arrived, that they were safe, and that there were jobs for the having, they began chanting excitedly. Thanks be to Allah for His benevolence! They had been promised rials for servitude the Omanis would not accept. So be it. It was far better than what they had left behind.

The suited businessmen in the front of the aircraft, handkerchiefs held to their noses, rushed to the exit door, gripping their briefcases, all too anxious to swallow the air of Oman. Kendrick stood in the aisle, the last in line, wondering what the State Department's Swann had in mind when he said in his message that 'arrangements' had been cleared.

'Come with me!' cried a be-robed Arab from the crowd forming outside the terminal for Immigration. 'We have another exit, Dr Axelrod.'

'My passport doesn't say anything about Axelrod.'

'Precisely. That is why you are coming with me.'

'What about Immigration?'

'Keep your papers in your pocket. No one wants to see them. I do not want to see them!'

'Then how—'

'Enough, ya Shaikh. Give me your luggage and stay ten feet behind me. Come!'

Evan handed his soft carry-on suitcase to the excited contact and followed him. They walked to the right, past the end of the one-storeyed brown and white terminal, and headed immediately to the left towards the tall wire fence beyond which the fumes from dozens of taxis, buses and trucks tinted the burning air. The crowds outside the airport fence were racing back and forth amidst the congested vehicles, shrieking admonishments and screeching for attention, their robes flowing. Along the fence for perhaps 75 to 100 feet, scores of other Arabs pressed their faces against the metal links, peering into an alien world of smooth asphalt runways and sleek aircraft that was no part of their lives, giving birth to fantasies beyond their understanding. Ahead, Kendrick could see a metal building, the airfield warehouse he remembered so well, recalling the hours he and Manny Weingrass had spent inside waiting for long overdue equipment promised on one flight or another, often furious with the customs officials who frequently could not understand the forms they had to fill out which would release the equipment—if, indeed, the equipment had arrived.

The gate in front of the warehouse's hangarlike doors was open, accommodating the line of freight containers, their deep wells filled with crates disgorged from the various aircraft. Guards with attack dogs on leashes flanked the customs conveyor belt that carried the freight inside to anxious suppliers and retailers and the ever-present, ever-frustrated foremen of construction teams. The guards' eyes constantly roamed the frenzied activity, in their hands repeating machine pistols. They were there not merely to maintain a semblance of order amid the chaos and to back up the customs officials in the event of violent disputes, but essentially to look out for weapons and narcotics being smuggled into the sultanate. Each crate and thickly-layered box was examined by the snarling, yelping dogs as it was lifted on to the belt.

Evan's contact stopped; he did the same. The Arab turned and nodded at a small side gate with a sign in Arabic above it. Stop. Authorized Personnel Only. Violators Will Be Shot. It was an exit for the guards and other officials of the government. The gate also had a large metal plate where a lock would normally be placed. And it was a lock, thought Kendrick, a lock electronically released from somewhere inside the warehouse. The contact nodded twice more, indicating that on a signal Evan was to head for the gate where 'violators will be shot'. Kendrick frowned questioningly, a hollow pain forming in his stomach. With Masqat under a state of siege, it would not take much for someone to start firing. The Arab read the doubt in his eyes and nodded for a fourth time, slowly, reassuringly. The contact turned and looked to his right down the line of freight containers. Almost imperceptibly, he raised his right hand.

Suddenly, a fight broke out beside one of the containers. Curses were shrieked as arms swung violently and fists pounded.

'Contraband!'

'Liar!'

'Your mother is a goat, a filthy she-goat!'

'Your father lies with whores! You are a product!'

Dust flew as the grappling bodies fell to the ground, joined by others who took sides. The dogs began barking viciously, straining at their leashes, their handlers carried forward towards the melee. All but one handler, one guard; and the signal was given by Evan's contact. Together they ran to the deserted personnel exit.

'Good fortune, sir,' said the lone guard, his attack dog sniffing menacingly at Kendrick's trousers as the man tapped the metal plate in a rapid code with his weapon. A buzzer sounded and the gate swung back. Kendrick and his contact ran through, racing along the metal wall of the warehouse.

In the parking lot beyond stood a broken-down truck, the tires apparently only half inflated. The engine roared as loud reports came from a worn exhaust pipe. 'Besuraa!' cried the Arab contact, telling Evan to hurry. 'There is your transport.'

'I hope,' mumbled Kendrick, his voice laced with doubt.

'Welcome to Masqat, Shaikeh—whoever.'

'You know who I am,' said Evan angrily. 'You picked me out in the crowd! How many others can do that?'

'Very few, sir. And I do not know who you are, I swear by Allah.'

'Then I have to believe you, don't I?' asked Kendrick, staring at the man.

'I would not use the name of Allah if it were not so. Please. Besuraa!'

'Thanks,' said Evan, grabbing his case and running towards the truck's cab. Suddenly the driver was gesturing out the window for him to climb into the back under the canvas that covered the bed of the ancient vehicle. The truck lurched forward as a pair of hands pulled him up inside.

Stretched out on the floorboards, Kendrick raised his eyes to the Arab above him. The man smiled and pointed to the long robes of an aba and the ankle-length shirt known as a thob which were suspended on a hanger in the front of the canvas-topped trailer; beside it, hanging on a nail, was the ghotra headdress and a pair of white balloon trousers, the street clothes of an Arab and the last items Evan had requested of the State Department's Frank Swann. These and one other small but vital catalyst.

The Arab held it up. It was a tube of skin-darkening gel, which when generously applied turned the face and hands of a white Occidental into those of a Middle-Eastern Semite whose skin had been permanently burnished by the hot, blistering, near-equatorial sun. The dyed pigment would stay darkened for a period of ten days before fading. Ten days. A lifetime—for him or for the monster who called himself the Mahdi.

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 naïf 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.'

'Hey, come on, Musty,' protested Evan, laughing and heading for the bar. 'He never short-changed you.'

'No, he didn't. Neither he nor you nor your other partners ever short-changed any of us… How has it been with you without them, my friend? Many of us talk about it even after all these years.'

'Sometimes not easy,' said Kendrick honestly, pouring drinks. 'But you accept it. You cope.' He brought Mustapha his Scotch and sat down in one of the three chairs opposite the sofa. 'The best, Musty.' He raised his glass.

'No, old friend, it is the worst—the worst of times as the English Dickens wrote.'

'Let's wait till the others get here.'

'They're not coming.' Mustapha drank his Scotch.

'What?'

'We talked. I am, as is said in so many business conferences, the representative of certain interests. Also, as the only minister of the sultan's cabinet, it was felt that I could convey the government's consensus.'

'About what? You're jumping way the hell ahead of me.'

'You jumped ahead of us, Evan, by simply coming here and calling us. One of us; two, perhaps; even in the extreme, three—but seven. No, that was reckless of you, old friend, and dangerous for everyone.'

'Why?'

'Did you think for a minute,' continued the Arab, overriding Kendrick, ‘that even three recognizable men of standing—say nothing of seven—would converge on a hotel within minutes of each other to meet with a stranger without the management hearing about it? Ridiculous.'

Evan studied Mustapha before speaking, their eyes locked. 'What is it, Musty? What are you trying to tell me? This isn't the embassy, and that obscene mess over there hasn't anything to do with the businessmen or the government of Oman.'

'No, it obviously does not,' agreed the Arab firmly. 'But what I'm trying to tell you is that things have changed here—in ways many of us do not understand.'

'That's also obvious,' interrupted Kendrick. 'You're not terrorists.'

'No, we're not, but would you care to hear what people—responsible people—are saying?'

'Go ahead.'

'“It will pass,” they say. “Don't interfere; it would only inflame them further.”'

'Don't interfere?' repeated Evan incredulously.

'And “Let the politicians settle it.”'

'The politicians can't settle it!'

'Oh, there's more, Evan. “There's a certain basis for their anger,” they say. “Not the killing of course, but within the context of certain events,” et cetera, et cetera. I've heard that, too.'

'Context of certain events? What events?'

'Current history, old friend. “They're reacting to a very uneven Middle East policy on the part of the United States.” That's the catch-phrase, Evan. “The Israelis get everything and they get nothing,” people say. “They, are driven from their lands and their homes and forced to live in crowded, filthy refugee camps, while in the West Bank the Jews spit on them.” These are the things I hear.'

'That's bullshit!' exploded Kendrick. 'Beyond the fact that there's another, equally painful, side to that bigoted coin, it has nothing to do with those two hundred and thirty-six hostages or the eleven who've already been butchered! They don't make policy, uneven or otherwise. They're innocent human beings, brutalized and terrified and driven to exhaustion by goddamned animals! How the hell can responsible people say those things? That's not the President's cabinet over there, or hawks from the Knesset. They're civil service employees and tourists and construction families. I repeat. Bullshit!'

The man named Mustapha sat rigidly on the sofa, his eyes still levelled at Evan. 'I know that and you know that,' he said quietly. 'And they know that, my friend.'

'Then why?

'The truth then,' continued the Arab, his voice no louder than before. 'Two incidents that forged a dreadful consensus, if I may use the word somewhat differently from before… The reason these things are said is that none of us cares to create targets of our own flesh.'

'Targets? Your… flesh?'

'Two men, one I shall call Mahmoud, the other Abdul—not their real names, of course, for it's better that you not know them. Mahmoud's daughter—raped, her face slashed. Abdul's son, his throat slit in an alley below his father's office on the piers. “Criminals, rapists, murderers!” the authorities say. But we all know better. It was Abdul and Mahmoud who tried to rally an opposition. “Guns!” they cried. “Storm the embassy ourselves,” they insisted. “Do not let Masqat become another Tehran!”… But it was not they who suffered. It was those close to them, their most precious possessions… These are the warnings, Evan. Forgive me, but if you had a wife and children would you subject them to such risks? I think not. The most precious jewels are not made of stone, but of flesh. Our families. A true hero will overcome his fear and risk his life for what he believes, but he will balk when the price is the lives of his loved ones. Is it not so, old friend?'

'My God,' whispered Evan. 'You won't help—you can't.'

'There is someone, however, who will see you and hear what you have to say. But the meeting must take place with extraordinary caution, miles away in the desert before the mountains of Jabal Sham.'

'Who is it?'

'The sultan.'

Kendrick was silent. He looked at his glass. After a prolonged moment he raised his eyes to Mustapha. 'I'm not to have any official linkage,' he said, 'and the sultan's pretty official. I don't speak for my government, that's got to be clear.'

'You mean you don't want to meet with him?'

'On the contrary, I want to very much. I just need to make my position clear. I have nothing to do with the intelligence community, the State Department or the White House—God knows not the White House.'

'I think that's patently clear; your robes and the colour of your skin confirm it. And the sultan wants no connection with you, as emphatically as Washington wants no connection.'

'I'm rusty,' said Evan, drinking. 'The old man died a year or so after I left, didn't he? I'm afraid I didn't keep up with things over here—a natural aversion, I think.'

'Certainly understandable. Our current sultan is his son; he's nearer your age than mine, even younger than you. After school in England, he completed his studies in your country. Dartmouth and Harvard, to be exact.'

'His name's Ahmat,' broke in Kendrick, remembering. 'I met him a couple of times.' Evan frowned. 'Economics and international relations,' he added.

'What?'

'Those were the degrees he was after. Graduate and postgraduate.'

'He's educated and bright, but he's young. Very young for the tasks facing him.'

'When can I see him?'

'Tonight. Before others become aware of your presence here.' Mustapha looked at his watch. 'In thirty minutes leave the hotel and walk four blocks north. A military vehicle will be at the corner. Get in and it will take you to the sands of Jabal Sham.'

The slender Arab in the soiled aba ducked into the shadows of the darkened shopfront opposite the hotel. He stood silently next to the woman called Khalehla, now dressed in a tailored black suit, the kind favoured by women executives and indistinct in the dim light. She was awkwardly securing a lens into the mount of her small camera. Suddenly, two sharp, high-pitched beeps sounded out.

'Hurry,' said the Arab. 'He's on his way. He's reached the lobby.'

'As fast as I can,' replied the woman, swearing under her breath as she manipulated the lens. 'I ask little of my superiors but decent, functioning equipment is one of them… There. It's on.'

'Here he comes!'

Khalehla raised her camera with the telescopic, infra-red lens for night photographs. She rapidly snapped three pictures of the robed Evan Kendrick. 'I wonder how long they'll let him live,' she said. 'I have to reach a telephone.'

Ultra Maximum Secure

No Existing Intercepts

Proceed

The journal was continued.

Reports from Masqat are astonishing. The subject has transformed himself into an Omani complete with Arab dress and darkened skin. He moves about the city like a native apparently contacting old friends and acquaintances from his previous life. The reports, however, are also sketchy as the subject's shadow routes everything through Langley and as yet I haven't been able to invade the CIA access codes from the Gulf nations. Who knows what Langley conceals? I've instructed my appliances to work harder! The State Department, naturally, is duck soup. And why not?