Evan leaned against the table, his arms folded, studying the Omani. 'Then I don't understand, and I mean that, Doctor. I'm not looking for demons, but I think there's a lapse in your explanation.'
'What is it?'
'If finding me the name of a terrorist—an unaccounted-for, dead terrorist—was to be my fall-back position, as you called it—'
'Your temporary protection, as you so rightfully called it,' interrupted Faisal.
'Then suppose—just suppose—I hadn't been around to act in that little melodrama on the Al Kabir tonight?'
'You were never meant to,' replied the doctor calmly. 'You simply moved up the schedule. It was to take place not at midnight but in the early morning hours, just before the prayers, near the mosque of Khor. The word of Bahrudi's capture would have spread through the markets like the news of a shipment of cheap contraband on the waterfront. Another would have posed as the impostor you are. That was the plan, nothing else.'
'Then, as the lawyers would say, there's a convenient convergence of objectives, rearranged in time and purpose so as to accommodate all parties without conflict. I hear phrases like that in Washington all the time. Very sharp.'
'I am a doctor, ya Shaikh, not a lawyer.'
'To be sure,' agreed Evan, smiling faintly. 'But I wonder about our young friend in the palace. He wanted to “discuss” Amal Bahrudi. I wonder where that discussion would have led us.'
'He's not a lawyer, either.'
'He has to be everything to run this place,' said Kendrick sharply. 'He has to think. Especially now… We're wasting time, Doctor. Mess me up a bit. Not the eyes or the mouth, but around the cheeks and the chin. Then cut into my shoulder and bandage it but don't dry the blood.'
'I beg your pardon!'
'For Christ's sake, I'm not going to do it myself!'
The heavy steel door sprang back, yanked by two soldiers who instantly placed their arms against the exterior iron plate as if expecting an assault on the exit. A third guard hurled the wounded, still bleeding prisoner into the huge concrete hall that served as a mass cell; what light there was was subdued, provided by low-wattage bulbs encased in wire mesh and bolted to the ceiling. A group of inmates instantly converged on the new entry, several gripping the shoulders of the bloody, disfigured man awkwardly trying to rise from his knees. Others huddled around the imposing metal door chattering loudly among themselves—half shrieking, actually—apparently to drown out whatever was being said inside the compound.
'Khalee balak!' roared the newcomer, his right arm lashing upward to free itself, then with a tight fist pummelling the face of a young prisoner whose grimace revealed rotted teeth. 'By Allah, I'll break the head of any imbecile here who touches me!' continued Kendrick, screaming in Arabic and rising to his full height which was several inches taller than the tallest man around him.
'We are many and you are one!' hissed the offended youngster, pinching his nose to stop the bleeding.
'You may be many but you are lovers of she-goats! You are stupid! Get away from me! I must think!' With his last explosive remark, Evan slammed his left arm against those holding it, then instantly pulled it back and thrust his elbow into the throat of the nearest prisoner holding him. With his still-clenched right fist, he swung around and hammered his knuckles into the man's unsuspecting eyes.
He could not remember when he had last hit another person, physically attacked another human being. If his flashing memories were correct, it went back to junior school. A boy named Peter Somebody-or-Other had hidden his best friend's lunch-box—a tin box with Walt Disney characters on it—and because his friend was small and Peter Somebody-or-Other was bigger than his best friend, he had challenged the bully. Unfortunately, in his anger, he had beaten the boy named Peter so severely that the principal called his father and both adults told him he was terribly wrong. A young man of his size did not pick fights. It wasn't fair… But, sir! Dad!… No appeal. He had to accept twenty demerit points. But then his father said, if it happens again, son, do it again.
It happened again! Someone grabbed his neck from behind! Life-saving procedure. Why did it come to mind? Pinch the nerve under the elbow! It releases the grip of a drowning man! Red Cross—Senior Life-Saving Certificate. Summer money on the lake. In panic, he slid his hand down the exposed arm, reached the soft flesh under the elbow and pressed with all the strength that was in him. The terrorist screamed; it was enough. Kendrick hunched his shoulders and threw the man over his back, slamming him down on to the cement floor.
'Do any of you want more?' whispered the newest prisoner harshly, crouching, turning, his height still apparent. 'You are fools! If it weren't for you idiots, I would not have been taken! I despise all of you! Now, leave me alone! I told you, I must think!'
'Who are you to insult us and give us orders?' screeched a wild-eyed post-adolescent, a harelip impeding his diction. It was all a scene out of Kafka—half-crazed prisoners prone to instant violence, yet nervously aware of more brutal punishment from the guards. Whispers became harsh commands, suppressed insults screams of defiance, while those who spoke looked continuously towards the door, making sure the babble beyond covered whatever they said, keeping it from eavesdropping enemy ears.
'I am who I am! And that is enough for she-goat fools—’
'The guards told us your name!' stammered another inmate, this one perhaps thirty, with an unkempt beard and long, filthy hair; he cupped his lips with his hands as though they would stifle his words. '“Amal Bahrudil” they yelled. “The trusted one from East Berlin and we've caught him!”… So what? Who are you to us? I don't even like the way you look. You look very odd to me! What is an Amal Bahrudi? Why should we care?'
Kendrick glanced over at the door and the agitated group of prisoners talking excitedly. He took a step forward, again whispering harshly. 'Because I was sent by others much higher than anyone here or in the embassy. Much, much higher. Now, I'm telling you for the last time, let me think! I have to get information out—'
'You try and you'll put us all in front of a firing squad!' exclaimed another prisoner through his teeth; he was short and strangely well groomed, except for unaccountable splotches of urine staining his prison trousers.
'That bothers you?' replied Evan, staring at the terrorist, his voice low and filled with loathing. It was the moment to establish his credo further. 'Tell me, pretty little boy, are you afraid to die?'
'Only because I could no longer serve our cause!' gushed the boy-man defensively, his eyes darting about, seeking justification. A few in the crowd agreed; there were emotional, knee-jerk nods from those close enough to hear him, swept up in his fears. Kendrick wondered how pervasive was this deviation from zealotry.
'Keep your voice down, you fool!' said Evan icily. 'Your martyrdom is service enough.' He turned and walked through the hesitantly parting bodies to the stone wall of the immense cell where there was an open rectangular window with iron bars embedded in the concrete.
'Not so fast, odd-looking one!' The rough voice, barely heard above the noise, came from the outer fringes of the crowd. A stocky, bearded man stepped forward. Those in front of him gave way as men casually do in the presence of a noncommissioned superior—a sergeant or a foreman, perhaps; not a colonel or a corporate vice president. Was there someone with more authority in that compound? wondered Evan. Someone else watching closely; someone else giving orders?
'What is it?' asked Kendrick quietly, abrasively.
'I also don't like the way you look! I don't like your face. That's enough for me.'
'Enough for what?' said Evan contemptuously, dismissing the man with a shrug of his head as he leaned into the wall, his hands gripping the iron bars of the small cell window, his gaze on the floodlit grounds outside.