'Arabic for “blue”,' interrupted code Red, glancing at Yaakov.
'He's on the terrorist council in Masqat,' broke in Orange. 'They say he led the team that stormed the Teverya kibbutz near the Galilee, killing thirty-two, including nine children.'
'He planted bombs in three settlements on the West Bank,' added Grey, 'and blew up a pharmacy, paint-spraying the name “Azra” on a wall. After the blast the wall was pieced together like a puzzle, and there it was. The name Azra. I've seen him on television.'
'Pig,' said Yaakov quietly, adjusting the straps of his weapon under the jacket. 'When we get to the Aradous, what do we do? Give him tea and cakes or just a medal for humanitarianism?'
'You stay out of his sight!' replied Weingrass harshly. 'But don't let him out of yours. Two of you get rooms near his; watch the door. Don't get a glass of water, don't go to the toilet, just watch his door every minute. The two others take up positions in the street, one in front, the other by the employees' exit. Stay in radio contact with each other. Work out simple codes, one-word codes—in Arabic. If he moves, you move with him, but don't let him suspect for even a moment that you're there. Remember, he's as good as you are; he's had to survive, too.'
'Are we silently escorting him to a private dinner party?' asked code Blue sarcastically. 'This is a plan without the most rudimentary blueprint!'
'The blueprint will come from Kendrick,' said Manny, for once not rising to the insult. 'If he really has one,' he added softly, concern in his voice.
'What?' Ben-Ami rose from his chair, not, however, in anger but in astonishment.
'If everything goes according to schedule, he'll pick up the Arab at ten o'clock. With his Masqat terrorist in tow, he expects to make contact with one of the Mahdi's agents, someone who can lead them either to the Mahdi himself or to someone else who can.'
'On what basis?' asked the incredulous Ben-Ami from the Mossad.
'Actually, it's not bad. The Mahdi's people think there's an emergency, but they don't know what it is.'
'An amateur!' roared code Red of the Masada unit. 'There'll be back-ups, and blind drones, and back-ups for them. What the hell are we doing here?'
'You're here to take out the back-ups and the drones and the back-ups behind them!'' shouted Weingrass in reply. 'If I have to tell you what to look for, go back and start all over again with the Boy Scouts in Tel Aviv. You follow; you protect; you take out the bad guys. You clear a path for that amateur who's putting his life on the line. This Mahdi's the key, and if you haven't understood that by now, there's nothing I can do about it. One word from him, preferably with a gun to his head, and everything stops in Oman.'
'It's not without merit,' said Ben-Ami.
'But it's without sense!' cried Yaakov. 'Suppose this Kendrick does reach your Mahdi. What does he do, what does he say?' Code Blue shifted to a broad caricature of an American accent. '“Say, pardner, Ah gotta hell of a deal for you, buddy. You call off your dumb goons and Ah'll give you mah new leather boots.” Ridiculous! He'll be shot in the head the moment he's asked “What's the emergency?”'
'That's not without merit, either,' repeated Ben-Ami.
'Lawyers now I've got!' yelled Manny. 'You think my son is stupid? He built a construction empire on mishegoss? The minute he has something concrete—a name, a location, a company—he contacts Masqat, and our mutual friend, the sultan, calls the Americans, the British, the French and anyone else he trusts who's set up shop in Oman and they go to work. Their people here in Bahrain close in.'
'Merit,' said Ben-Ami once again, nodding.
'Not totally without,' agreed code Black.
'And what will you be doing?' asked a somewhat subdued yet still challenging Yaakov.
'Caging a fat fox who's been devouring a lot of chickens in a coop no one ever knew about,' said Weingrass.
Kendrick's eyes snapped open. A sound, a scrape—an intrusion on the silence of the bedroom that had nothing to do with the traffic outside the tall windows. It was closer, more personal, somehow intimate. Yet it was not the woman, Khalehla; she was gone. He blinked for a moment at the indented pillows beside him, and despite everything that his mind was putting together, he felt a sudden sadness. For those brief few hours with her he had cared, feeling a warmth between them that was only a part of their frantic love-making, which in itself would not have happened without that sense of warmth.
What time was it? He turned his wrist and—his watch was not there. Goddamn it, the bitch still had it! He rolled over on the bed and swung his legs out on the floor without regard for the sheet covering him. The soles of his feet landed on hard objects; he looked down at the polar-bear white rug and blinked again. Everything that had been in his pockets was there—everything but the pack of cigarettes which he very much wanted at the moment. And then his eyes were drawn to a gold-bordered page of notepaper on the bedside table; he picked it up.
I think we were both kind to each other when each of us needed some kindness. No regrets other than one. I won't see you again. Goodbye.
No name, no forwarding address, just Ciao, amico. So much for two passing ships in the Persian Gulf or two uptight, damaged people on a late afternoon in Bahrain. But it was not afternoon any longer, he realized. He was barely able to read Khalehla's note; only the last orange sprays of sundown now streamed through the windows. He reached for his watch; it was seven-fifty-five; he had slept nearly four hours. He was famished, and his years in the deserts, the mountains and the white water had taught him not to travel hard on an empty stomach. A 'guard', she had said. 'Outside,' she had explained. Evan yanked the sheet off the bed, wrapped it around himself and walked across the room. He stopped; on the floor was an envelope. That was the sound he had heard, an envelope shoved under a door, forced under, sliding back and forth because of the thick rug. He picked it up, tore it open and read it. A list of sixteen names, addresses and telephone numbers. MacDonald! The roster of calls he had made in Bahrain. One step closer to the Mahdi!
Evan opened the door; the greetings between himself and the uniformed guard were dispensed with rapidly in Arabic. 'You are awake now, sir. You were not to be disturbed until eight-thirty o'clock.'
'I'd be most grateful if you would disturb me now with some food. The woman said I might get something to eat from your kitchen.'
'Indeed, whatever you wish, sir.'
'Whatever you can find. Meat, rice, bread… and milk, I'd like some milk. Everything as soon as possible, please.'
'Very quick, sir!' The guard turned and rushed down the hallway towards the staircase. Evan closed the door and stood for a moment finding his bearings in the now darkened room. He switched on a lamp at the edge of the endless bureau, then started across the thick-piled rug to another door that led to one of the most opulent bathrooms in Bahrain.
Ten minutes later he emerged, showered and shaved, now dressed in a short terrycloth robe. He walked to the cupboard where Khalehla had said his clothes were—'fumigated, laundered and pressed'. He opened the mirrored door and barely recognized the odd assortment of apparel he had collected at the embassy in Masqat; it looked like a respectable paramilitary uniform. Leaving everything on hangers he draped the starched outfit over the chaise-lounge, walked back to the bed and sat down, gazing at his belongings on the floor. He was tempted to check his money belt to see if any of the large bills were missing, then decided against it. If Khalehla was a thief, he did not want to know it, not at the moment.
The telephone rang, its harsh bell less a ring than a prolonged metallic shriek. For a moment he stared at the instrument wondering… who? He had MacDonald's list; that was the only call Khalehla said he could expect. Khalehla? Had she changed her mind? With a rush of unanticipated feeling he reached for the phone, yanking it to his ear. Eight seconds later he wished to God he had not.