“Which way is he heading?”
“He’s turning north toward the Khoi-Van road.”
“Did you see Her Highness?”
“Yes. She looked petrified. Tell the Khan we saw the kidnapper strap her into the seat and it looked as though the kidnapper also had a strap around her wrist. She…” The sergeant’s voice picked up excitedly. “Now the helicopter’s turned eastward, it’s keeping about two or three kilometers south of the road.”
“Good. Well done. We’ll alert the air force…”
TEHRAN - AT INNER INTELLIGENCE HQ: 9:54 P.M.
Group Four assassin Suliman al Wiali tried to stop his fingers from trembling as he took the telex from the SAVAMA coloneclass="underline" “Chief of Inner Intelligence Colonel Hashemi Fazir was killed last night, bravely leading the charge that overran the leftist mujhadin HQ, together with the English adviser Armstrong. Both men were consumed by fire when the traitors blew up the building. (signed) Chief of Police, Tabriz.”
Suliman was not yet over his fright at the sudden summons, petrified that this official had already found incriminating papers in Fazir’s safe about Group Four assassins - the safe open and empty behind him. Surely my Master wouldn’t have been that careless, not here in his own office! “The Will of God, Excellency,” he said, handing the telex back and hiding his fury. “The Will of God. Are you the new leader of Inner Intelligence, Excellency?” “Yes. What were your duties?”
“I’m an agent, Excellency,” Suliman told him, fawning as would be expected, disregarding the past tense. His fear began to leave him. If these dogs suspected anything, I wouldn’t be standing here, he reasoned, his confidence growing, I’d be in a dungeon screaming. These incompetent sons of dogs don’t deserve to live in the world of men. “The colonel ordered me to live in Jaleh and keep my ears and eyes open and smoke out Communists.” He kept his eyes blank, despising this lean-faced, pompous man who sat at Fazir’s desk.
“How long have you been employed?”
“Three or four years, I don’t remember exactly, Excellency, it’s on my card. Perhaps it’s five, I don’t remember. It should be on my card, Excellency. About four years and I work hard and will serve you with all my power.” “SAVAMA is absorbing Inner Intelligence. From now on you will report to me. I’ll want copies of your reports since you began.”
“As God wants, Excellency, but I can’t write, at least I write very badly and Excellency Fazir never required written reports,” Suliman lied guilelessly. He waited in silence, shuffling his feet and acting dull-witted. SAVAK or SAVAMA, they’re all liars and more than likely they arranged my Master’s murder. God curse them - these dogs’ve ruined my Master’s plan. They’ve done me out of my perfect job! My perfect job with real money and real power and real future. These dogs are thieves, they’ve stolen my future and my safety. Now I’ve no job, no pinpointed enemies of God to slay. No future, no safety, no protec - Unless!
Unless I use my wits and skills and take over where my Master was stopped! Son of a burnt father, why not? It’s the Will of God that he’s dead and I’m alive, that he’s the sacrifice and I’m not. Why not induct more teams? I know the Master’s techniques and part of his plan. Even better, why not raid his house and empty the safe in the cellar he never knew I knew about. Not even his wife knows about that one. Now that he’s dead it should be easy. Yes, and better I go tonight, get there first before these turd eaters of the Left Hand do it. What riches that safe could contain - should contain! Money, papers, lists - my Master loved lists like a dog loves shit! May I be sacrificed if the safe doesn’t contain a list of the other Group Fours. Didn’t my late Master plan to be today’s al-Sabbah? Why not me instead? With assassins, real assassins who are already fearless of death and seek martyrdom as their guaranteed passport to Paradise…
He almost laughed aloud. To cover it he belched. “Sorry, Excellency, I’m not feeling well, can I leave, pl - ”
“Where did Colonel Fazir keep his papers?”
“Papers, Excellency? May I be your sacrifice, Excellency, but what should a man like me know about papers? I’m just an agent, I reported to him and he sent me away, most times with a boot and a curse - it will be grand to work for a real man.” He waited confidently. Now what would Fazir have wanted me to do? Certainly to be avenged which is clearly to dispose of Pahmudi who’s responsible for his death - and this dog who dares to sit at his desk. Why not? But not until I’ve emptied the real safe. “Please can I go, Excellency? My bowels are overful and I’ve the parasite disease.”
Distastefully, the colonel looked up from the card mat told him nothing. No files in the safe, just money. A marvelous pishkesh for me, he thought, but where are his files? Fazir must have kept files somewhere. His home? “Yes, you can go,” he said irritably, “but report to me once a week. Personally to me. And don’t forget, unless you do a good job… we don’t intend to employ malingerers.”
“Yes, Excellency, certainly, Excellency, thank you, Excellency, I’ll do my best for God and the Imam, but when should I report?”
“The day after Holy Day, every week.” Testily the colonel waved him away. Suliman shuffled out and promised himself that before the next reporting day this colonel would be no more. Son of a dog, why not? Already my power reaches to Beirut and to Bahrain.
BAHRAIN: 12:50 P.M. Due south, almost seven hundred miles away, Bahrain was balmy and sunny, the beaches full with weekend vacationers, windsurfers offshore enjoying the fine breeze, hotel terrace tables filled with men and women, scantily dressed to bask in the fine spring sunshine. One of these was Sayada Bertolin.
She wore a filmy sundress over her bikini and sipped a citron pressé and sat alone, her table shaded by a green umbrella. Idly she watched the bathers and the children playing in the shallows - one small boy a pattern of her own son. It’ll be so good to be home again, she thought, to hold my son in my arms again and yes, yes, even to see my husband again. It’s been such a long time away from civilization, from good food and good talk, from good coffee and croissants and wine, from newspapers and radio and TV and all the wonderful things we take for granted. Though not me. I’ve always appreciated them and have always worked for a better world and justice in the Middle East.
But now? Her joy left her..
Now I’m not just a PLO sympathizer and courier but a secret agent for Lebanese Christian militia, their Israeli overlords and their CIA overlords - thank God I was fortunate to overhear them whispering together when they thought I had already left after getting their orders to return to Beirut. Still no names, but enough to pinpoint their origin. Dogs! Filthy vile dogs! Christians! Betrayers of Palestine! There’s still Teymour to be revenged. Dare I tell my husband who’ll tell others in the Council? I daren’t. They know too much.
Her attention focused out to sea and she was startled. Among the windsurfers she recognized JeanLuc, hurtling shoreward, beautifully balanced on the precarious board, leaning elegantly against the wind. At the very last second, he twisted into the wind, stepped off in the shallows, and allowed the sail to collapse. She smiled at such perfection.
Ah, JeanLuc how you do love yourself! But I admit that had flair. In many things you’re superb, as a chef, as a lover - ah, yes, but only from time to time, you’re not varied enough or experimental enough for us Middle Easterns who understand eroticism, and you’re too concerned with your own beauty. “I’ll admit you’re beautiful,” she murmured, moistening pleasantly at the thought. In lovemaking you’re above average, chéri, but no more. You’re not the best. My first husband was the best, perhaps because he was the first. Then Teymour. Teymour was unique. Ah, Teymour I’m not afraid to think of you now, now that I’m out of Tehran. There I couldn’t. I won’t forget you, or what they did. I’ll take revenge for you on Christian militia one day. Her eyes were watching JeanLuc, wondering what he was doing here, elated he was here, hoping he would see her, not wanting to make the first move to tempt fate but ready to wait and see what fate had in store. She glanced in her hand mirror, added a touch of gloss to her lips, perfume behind her ears. Again she waited. He started up from the beach. She pretended to concentrate on her glass, watching him in its reflection, leaving it up to chance.