Richard was growing restless. He would be damned if he could see the relevance of this, but he trusted Salah, and Salah was still hanging on the blind man’s every wheezing whisper.
“And then an accident occurred. The car in which they were driving was run off the road by a drunkard and the wife was killed. The man was lucky to survive. Increasingly sickened by life in London and sure that he owed his own survival only to the direct intervention of Allah, blessings be upon Him, he returned to the bosom of his family in Dahran. Once there, he realized the enormity of his mistake. For the women in Dahran had not been infected by Westernism. They behaved modestly and correctly. How different were his own girls. How soiled had they become. How far had they been seduced from the true way.
“At once he commanded that they return. But one was a doctor now, and married against his wishes. The other was a reporter of some kind. They both made excuses and refused. Duty and obedience were things he had paid a fortune to have educated out of them.
“So he resorted to a stratagem. He announced that he was dying and begged them to come home so that he could divide his fortune between them. The reporter came at once. The doctor, in the middle of a divorce, did not. As soon as she arrived in her father’s house, the reporter was locked away. Her life as a Western woman was over, she was told. All outside contacts were broken. She was given an abbah and a chador and she became like the other women. Slowly she acquiesced. It was difficult for her, no doubt, but she adapted. Tried to please her father. Worked to become as he wished her to be. And eventually he trusted her enough to let her entertain some acquaintances, for she was lonely, and the father was not a cruel man, merely a misguided one. These were acquaintances that he had selected for her, of course. But then, his indulgence of the girl betrayed him yet again. He found an Englishman whose friendship he thought would make her happy. This man was not a young man, but he was newly turned to the way of Islam. A man of great potential with business contacts all over the Gulf, from Syria and Iran to the Emirates. A seafarer. A captain. A merchant of some consequence and standing.”
“Forgive me,” interrupted Richard, courteously, “but did you say an Englishman?”
“I did. But like yourself, perhaps, looking less English than he really was. Looking more than he was in every other respect, however. For behind the foolish father’s back, he seduced the girl away, stole her from her father’s house, and they vanished into the night. It is said they went to Benghazi or Trabulus. And not as lovers, but as revolutionaries. She, they say, was afire to release all women from what she saw as the thrall of men. And he, too, had his own jihad. They vanished and they trained. I know nothing precise beyond these things. But within a year a new group had sprung up. The Dawn of Freedom, they called themselves. Thirteen in number. Owing no direct allegiance. Admitting to no known paymaster. Following no dogma. And remarkable in this: that they were led by an Englishman and a woman.”
Richard sat silently, arranging his thoughts. The story’s relevance remained elusive. Its credibility was suspect, in his mind at least. Oh, the English papers were always full of stories about Islamic fathers taking back their sons and daughters after their mixed marriages had failed. And he remembered reading of at least one terrorist who had turned out to be English. He had no doubt that the International Maritime Bureau could furnish him with more cases if he asked. But both situations merging like that. Was it possible?
He was still deep in thought when Salah heaved himself erect and began to make their farewells. Somewhere an electronic watch alarm went off and the old man smiled. “You set it as you left the carpet-sellers. For three-quarters of an hour, I hope. You still have to leave the Soukh.”
“I was hoping to rely on your hospitality,” said Salah quietly. “I would assume the gates are closed to us now.”
“I assume you are correct as always. And yes, you may rely on my hospitality. It has yet to be violated, even by the importunities of this execrable century.” He turned his head toward Richard. “All true courtesy died many years ago. Everything now is rush and demand. Nothing is duty or correctness. Truly, this is a terrible time to be alive.”
A man appeared in the shadows at the back of the room, ready to conduct them out through some hidden way. Richard paused, wondering how best to frame his thanks. The old man, sensing his stillness and divining the reason for it, raised a hand. “Come back and thank me later,” he whispered, his voice like snake on tile. “You may ask for me anywhere in the Soukh. Ask for…” He paused, perhaps for dramatic effect, and smiled his secretive smile. “Ask for Sinbad.”
“What was that all about?” asked Richard in the back of an old Lincoln Continental, working out its final years as a taxi. It was completely indistinguishable from the rest of the traffic, multilighted, bright chromed, high finned, and bald tired, blasting its way across Manama.
“He is the most reliable source I have,” answered the Palestinian. “And he has yet to let me down. The one thing I didn’t tell you about the terrorists abroad Prometheus. I heard most of them speak. Yelling orders. Having discussions. I listened outside the doors of the gym. I couldn’t see their faces, or the color of their eyes or skin. But of two things I am certain.” He turned to Richard and lowered his voice dramatically.
“One of them was a woman…”
“And one of them was English…” whispered Richard.
Chapter Fourteen
Richard climbed out of the taxi immediately outside Angus’s apartment block and walked across the narrow strip of pavement toward the door. As he pressed the button on the entry phone, a figure stepped out of the shadows in front of him and he found himself face to face with Captain Suleiman. “Shall we go in?” asked the policeman, sliding a passkey into the security lock.
“Certainly.”
Even this late — it was well past ten — the heat outside was such that the air-conditioning shocked Richard. But he showed nothing except polite interest in his questioner.
“You have been to the Soukh?” asked Suleiman as the door closed behind them. Richard glanced back. The taxi was still outside, surrounded by policemen. How wise they had been to split up before he returned.
“The Soukh? Indeed I have!”
“Alone?”
“No. An old friend acted as a guide.”
“Salah Malik?”
“That’s right.”
Suleiman paused for an instant, weighing things up. “What was your business there?” he asked eventually.
“We were trying to find news of my father-in-law. And my tanker Prometheus. Or who’s holding them.”
“You did not go to a shop on the Street of the Carpet Makers?”
“We did.”
“And bought there?”
“Two bags made out of carpet and, I believe, two Heckler and Koch MP-5 machine pistols. I didn’t do the buying myself and I didn’t inspect the guns too closely, so I can’t be absolutely certain about that.”
“I see. You realize that the unlicensed sale of firearms is forbidden in Bahrain?”
“Of course. Though I should emphasize that I was not myself involved in the purchase. In fact I had no idea there were any guns in the shop.” On that slightly pompous, mentally rehearsed note, Richard paused at the lifts. “Are we going to continue this in the common parts? Or would you prefer to use Mr. El Kebir’s flat?”
“The flat. They are not back from dinner yet.”
Richard made no comment on the fact that Suleiman had Angus and Robin under surveillance. Nor on the fact that he had a key that fitted Angus’s door. Instead he switched on the lights, crossed to the bar, poured two fruit juices, and offered one to the captain. Then they sat.