Conclusions: The insurrection had been externally programmed. No more than twenty of the two hundred-odd unkempt, shrieking youngsters had been specifically identified as Omanis. Therefore, covert operations officers with sources in every extremist faction in the Mediterranean-Arabian axis went instantly to work, pulling in contacts, bribing, threatening.
'Who are they, Aziz? There's only a spitful from Oman, and most of those are considered simple-minded. Come on, Aziz. Live like a sultan. Name an outrageous price. Try me!'
'Six seconds, Mahmet! Six seconds and your right hand is on the floor without a wrist! Next goes your left. We're on countdown, thief. Give me the information!' Six, Five, four… Blood.
Nothing. Zero. Madness.
And then a breakthrough. It came from an ancient muezzin, a holy man whose words and memory were as shaky as his gaunt frame might be in the winds now racing down from Hormuz.
'Do not look where you would logically expect to look. Search elsewhere.'
'Where?'
'Where grievances are not born of poverty or abandonment. Where Allah has bestowed favour in this world, although perhaps not in the after one.'
'Be clearer, please, most revered muezzin.'
'Allah does not will such clarification—His will be done. Perhaps He does not take sides—so be it.'
'But surely you must have a reason for saying what you're saying!'
'As Allah has given me that reason—His will be done.'
'How's that again?'
'Quiet rumours heard in the corners of the mosque. Whispers these old ears were meant to hear. I hear so little I should not have heard them had Allah not willed it so.'
'There must be more!'
'The whispers speak of those who will benefit from the bloodshed.'
'Who?'
'No names are spoken of, no men of consequence mentioned.'
'Any group or organization? Please! A sect, a country, a people? The Shiites, the Saudis… Iraqi, Irani… the Soviets?'
'No. Neither believers nor unbelievers are talked of, only “they”?'
'They?'
'That is what I hear whispered in the dark corners of the mosque, what Allah wants me to hear—may His will be done. Only the word “they”.'
'Can you identify any of those you heard!'
'I am nearly blind, and there is always very little light when these few among so many worshippers speak. I can identify no one. I only know that I must convey what I hear, for it is the will of Allah.'
'Why, muezzin murdenis? Why is it Allah's will?'
'The bloodshed must stop. The Koran says that when blood is spilled and justified by impassioned youth, the passions must be examined, for youth—'
'Forget it! We'll send a couple of men back into the mosque with you. Signal us when you hear something!'
'In a month, ya Shaikh. I am about to undertake my final pilgrimage to Mecca. You are merely part of my journey. It is the will of—'
'Goddamn it!'
'It is your God, ya Shaikh. Not mine. Not ours.'
The Icarus Agenda
Chapter 2
Washington DC
Wednesday, 11 August, 11:50 am
The noonday sun beat down on the capital's pavement; the midsummer's air was still with the oppressive heat. Pedestrians walked with uncomfortable determination, men's collars open, ties loosened. Briefcases and bags hung like dead weights while their owners stood impassively at intersections waiting for the lights to change. Although scores of men and women—by and large servants of the government and therefore of the people—may have had urgent matters on their minds, urgency was difficult to summon in the streets. A torpid blanket had descended over the city, numbing those who ventured outside air-conditioned rooms and offices and cars.
A traffic accident had taken place at the corner of twenty-third Street and Virginia Avenue. It was not major in terms of damage or injury, but it was far from minor where tempers were concerned. A taxi had collided with a government car emerging from an underground parking ramp of the State Department. Both drivers—righteous, hot and fearing their superiors—stood by their vehicles accusing each other, yelling in the blistering heat while awaiting the police who had been summoned by a passing government employee. Within moments the traffic was congested; horns blared and angry shouts came from reluctantly opened windows.
The passenger in the cab climbed impatiently out of the back seat. He was a tall, slender man in his early forties, and seemed out of place in surroundings that included summer suits, neat print dresses and attaché cases. He wore a pair of rumpled khaki trousers, boots and a soiled cotton safari jacket that took the place of a shirt. The effect was of a man who did not belong in the city, a professional guide, perhaps, who had strayed out of the higher and wilder mountains. Yet his face belied his clothes. It was clean-shaven, his features sharp and clearly defined, his light blue eyes aware, squinting, darting about and assessing the situation as he made his decision. He put his hand on the argumentative driver's shoulder; the man whipped around and the passenger gave him two $20 bills.
'I have to leave,' said the fare.
'Hey, come on, mister! You saw! That son of a bitch pulled out with no horn, no nothing!'
'I'm sorry. I wouldn't be able to help you. I didn't see or hear anything until the collision.'
'Oh, boy! Big John Q! He don't see and he don't hear! Don't get involved, huh?'
'I'm involved,' replied the passenger quietly, taking a third $20 bill and shoving it into the driver's top jacket pocket. 'But not here.'
The oddly-dressed man dodged through the gathering crowd and started down the block towards Third Street—towards the imposing glass doors of the State Department. He was the only person running on the pavement.
The designated situation room in the underground complex at the Department of State was labelled OHIO-Four-Zero. Translated it meant 'Oman, maximum alert'. Beyond the metal door rows of computers clacked incessantly, and every now and then a machine—having instantaneously crosschecked with the central data bank—emitted a short high-pitched signal announcing new or previously unreported information. Intense men and women studied the printouts, trying to evaluate what they read.
Nothing. Zero. Madness!
Inside that large, energized room was another metal door, smaller than the entrance and with no access to the corridor. It was the office of the senior official in charge of the Masqat crisis; at arm's length was a telephone console with links to every seat of power and every source of information in Washington. The current proprietor was a middle-aged deputy director of Consular Operations, the State Department's little known arm of covert activities. His name was Frank Swann, and at the moment—a high noon that held no sunlight for him—his head with its prematurely grey hair lay on his folded arms on the top of the desk. He had not had a night's sleep for nearly a week, making do with only such naps as this one.
The console's sharp hum jarred him awake; his right hand shot out. He punched the lighted button and picked up the phone. 'Yes?… What is it?' Swann shook his head and swallowed air, only partially relieved that the caller was his secretary five storeys above. He listened, then spoke wearily. ' Who? Congressman, a congressman? The last thing I need is a congressman. How the hell did he get my name?… Never mind, spare me. Tell him I'm in conference—with God, if you like—or go one better and say with the secretary.'