He saw it. Balawa bohrtooan. 'Orange baklava,' the specialty of the bakery. The Turkish-style small brown shop with a succession of minarets painted above the glass of the shopfront was sandwiched between a large, brightly lit jewelry store and an equally fashionable boutique devoted to leather goods, the name Paris scattered in black and gold signs beyond the glass in front of ascending blocks of luggage and accessories. Kendrick walked diagonally across the square, past the fountain, and approached the door of the bakery.
'Your people were right,' said the dark-haired woman in the tailored black suit walking out of the shadows of the Harat Waljat, the miniature camera in her hand. She raised it and pressed the shutter-release; the automatic advance took successive photographs as Evan Kendrick entered the bakery shop in the market of Sabat Aynub. 'Was he noticed in the bazaar?' she asked, replacing the camera in her bag, addressing the short, robed, middle-aged Arab who cautiously stood behind her.
'There was talk about a man running into the alley after the police,' said the informant, his eyes on the bakery. 'It was contradicted, convincingly, I believe.'
'How? He was seen.'
'But in the excitement he was not seen rushing out, clasping his wallet, which was presumably taken by the pigs. That was the information emphatically exclaimed by our man to the onlookers. Naturally, others emphatically agreed, for hysterical people will always leap on new information unknown to a crowd of strangers. It elevates them.'
'You're very good,' said the woman, laughing softly. 'So are your people.'
'We had better be, ya anisa Khalehla,' responded the Arab, using the Omani title of respect. 'If we are less than that, we face alternatives we'd rather not consider.'
'Why the bakery?' asked Khalehla. 'Any ideas?'
'None whatsoever. I detest baklava. The honey doesn't drip, it pours. The Jews like it, you know.'
'So do I.'
'Then you both forget what the Turks did to you—both.'
'I don't think our subject went into that bakery for either baklava or an historical treatise on the Turks versus the tribes of Egypt and Israel.'
'A daughter of Cleopatra speaks?' The informant smiled.
'This daughter of Cleopatra doesn't know what the hell you're talking about. I'm just trying to learn things.'
'Then start with the military car that picked up your subject several blocks north of his hotel after the praters of el Maghreb. It has considerable significance.'
'He must have friends in the army.'
'There is only the sultan's garrison in Masqat.'
'So?'
'The officers are rotated bi-monthly between the city and the posts at Jiddah and Marmul, as well as a dozen or so garrisons along the borders of South Yemen.'
'What's your point?'
'I present you with two points, Khalehla. The first is that I find it unbelievably coincidental that the subject, after four or five years, would so conveniently know a certain friend in the relatively small rotating officer corps stationed this specific fortnight in Masqat in an officer corps that changes with the years—’
'Unusually coincidental, I agree, but certainly possible. What's your second point?'
'Actually, it negates my mentioning the first. These days no vehicle from the Masqat garrison would pick up a foreigner in the manner he was picked up, in the guise he was picked up, without supreme authority.'
‘The sultan?’
'Who else?'
'He wouldn't dare! He's boxed. A wrong move and he'd be held responsible for whatever executions take place. If that happens, the Americans would level Masqat to the ground. He knows that!'
'Perhaps he also knows that he is held responsible both for what he does do as well as for what he does not. In such a situation it's better to know what others are doing, if only to offer guidance—or to abort some unproductive activity with one more execution.'
Khalehla looked hard at the informant in the dim light of the square's periphery. 'If that military car took the subject to a meeting with the sultan, it also brought him back.'
'Yes, it did,' agreed the middle-aged man, his voice flat, as if he understood the implication.
'Which means that whatever the subject proposed was not rejected out of hand.'
'It would appear so, ya anisa Khalehla.'
'And we have to know what was proposed, don't we?'
'It would be dangerous in the extreme for all of us not to know,' said the Arab, nodding. 'We are dealing with more than the deaths of two hundred and thirty-six Americans. We are dealing with the destiny of a nation. My nation, I should add, and I shall do my best to see that it remains ours. Do you understand me, my dear Khalehla?'
'I do, ya sahib el Aumer.'
'Better a dead cipher than a catastrophic shock."
'I understand.'
'Do you really? You had far more advantages in your Mediterranean than we ever had in our obscure Gulf. It is our time now. We won't let anyone stop us.'
'I want you to have your time, dear friend. We want you to have it.'
'Then do what you must do, ya sahbtee Khalehla.'
'I will.' The well-tailored woman reached into her shoulder bag and took out a short-barrelled automatic. Holding it in her left hand, she again searched her bag and removed a clip of bullets; with a pronounced click she jammed it into the base of the handle and snapped back the loading chamber. The weapon was ready to fire. 'Go now, adeem sahbee,' she said, securing the strap of her bag over her shoulder, her hand inside, gripping the automatic. 'We understand each other and you must be somewhere else, some place where others can see you, not here.'
'Salaam aleikum, Khalehla. Go with Allah.'
'I'll send him to Allah to plead his case… Quickly. He's coming out of the bakery! I'll follow him and do what has to be done. You have perhaps ten to fifteen minutes to be with others away from here.'
'At the last, you protect us, don't you? You are a treasure. Be careful, dear Khalehla.'
'Tell him to be careful. He intrudes.'
'I'll go to the Zwadi mosque and talk with the elder mullahs and muezzins. Holy eyes are not questioned. It is a short distance, five minutes at most.'
'Aleikum es-salaam,' said the woman, starting across the square to her left, her gaze riveted on the American in Arabian robes who had passed beyond the fountain and was walking rapidly towards the dark, narrow streets to the east, beyond the market of Sabat Aynub. What is that damn fool doing? she thought as she removed her hat, crushing it with her left hand and shoving it into her bag next to the weapon which she gripped feverishly in her right. He's heading into the mish kwayis ish-shari, she concluded, mixing her thoughts in Arabic and English, referring to what is called in the West the roughest section of the town, an area outsiders avoid. They were right. He's an amateur and I can't go in there dressed like this! But I have to. My God, he'll get us both killed!
Evan Kendrick hurried down the uneven layers of stone that was the narrow street, past low, run-down, congested buildings and half-buildings—crumbling structures with canvas and animal skins covering blown-out windows; those that remained intact were protected by slatted shutters, more broken than not. Bare wires sagged everywhere, municipal junction boxes having been spliced, electricity stolen, dangerous. The pungent smells of Arabic cooking intermingled with stronger odours, unmistakable odours—hashish, burning coca leaves smuggled into unpatrolled coves in the Gulf, and pockets of human waste. The inhabitants of this stretch of ghetto moved slowly, cautiously, suspiciously through the dimly lit caverns of their world, at home with its degradation, comfortable with its insulated dangers, at ease with their collective status as outcasts—the ease confirmed by sudden bursts of laughter behind shuttered windows. The dress code of this mish kwayis ish-shari was anything but consistent. Abas and ghotras coexisted with torn blue jeans, forbidden miniskirts, and the uniforms of sailors and soldiers from a dozen different nations—soiled uniforms exclusively from the ranks of enlisted personnel, although it was said that m
any an officer borrowed a subordinate's clothes to venture inside and taste the prohibited pleasures of the neighbourhood.
Men huddled in doorways to Evan's annoyance, for they obscured the barely legible numbers on the sandstone walls. He was further annoyed by the filthy intersecting alleys that unaccountably caused the numbers to skip from one section of the street to the next. El-Baz. Number 77 Shari el Balah—the street of dates. Where was it?
There it was. A deeply recessed heavy door with thick iron bars across a closed slot that was built into the upper panel at eye level. However, a man in dishevelled robes squatting diagonally against the stone blocked the door on the right side of the tunnel-like entrance.
'Esmahlee?' said Kendrick, excusing himself and stepping forward.
'Lay?' replied the hunched figure, asking why.
'I have an appointment,' continued Evan in Arabic. I'm expected.'
'Who sends you?' said the man without moving.
'That's not your concern.'
'I am not here to receive such an answer.' The Arab raised his back, angling it against the door; the robes of his aba parted slightly, revealing the handle of a pistol tucked into an undersash. 'Again, who sends you?"
Evan wondered whether the sultan's police officer had forgotten to give him a name or a code or a password that would gain him entrance. He had so little time! He did not need this obstruction; he reached for an answer. 'I visited a bakery in the Sabat Aynub,' he said rapidly. 'I spoke—’
'A bakery?' broke in the squatting man, his brows arched beneath his headdress. 'There are at least three bakeries in the Sabat Aynub.'
'Goddamn it, baklaval' spat out Kendrick, his frustration mounting, his eyes on the handle of the gun. 'Some asinine orange—’
'Enough,' said the guard, abruptly rising to his feet and pulling his robes together. 'It was a simple reply to a simple question, sir. A baker sent you, you see?'
'All right. Fine! May I go inside, please?'
'First we must determine whom you visit. Whom do you visit, sir?'
'For God's sake, the man who lives here… works here.'
'He is a man without a name?'
'Are you entitled to know it?' Evan's intense whisper carried over the street noises beyond.
'A fair question, sir,' said the Arab, nodding pensively. 'However, since I was aware of a baker in the Sabat Aynub—’
'Christ on a raft!' exploded Kendrick. 'All right. His name is El-Baz! Now will you let me in? I'm in a hurry!'
'It will be my pleasure to alert the resident, sir. He will let you in if it is his pleasure. Certainly you can understand the necessity for—'
It was as far as the ponderous guard got before snapping his head towards the pavement outside. The undercurrent of noises from the dark street had suddenly erupted. A man screamed; others roared, their strident voices echoing off the surrounding stone.
'Elhahoonai!'
'Udam!'
And then piercing the chorus of outrage was a woman's voice. 'Siboomi jihalee!' she cried frantically, demanding to be left alone. Then came in perfect English, 'You bastards!'
Evan and the guard rushed to the edge of the stone as two gunshots shattered the human cacophony, escalating it into frenzy, the ominous rings of ricocheting bullets receding in the cavernous distance. The Arab guard spun around, hurling himself to the hard stone floor of the entranceway. Kendrick crouched; he had to know! Three robed figures accompanied by a young man and woman dressed in slovenly Western clothes raced past, the male in torn khaki trousers clutching his bleeding arm. Evan stood up and cautiously peered around the edge of the stone corner. What he saw astonished him.
In the shadows of the confining street stood a bareheaded woman, a short-bladed knife in her left hand, her right gripping an automatic. Slowly, Kendrick stepped out on the uneven layers of stone. Their eyes met and locked. The woman raised her gun; Evan froze, trying desperately to decide what to do and when to do it, knowing that if he moved quickly she would fire. Instead, to his further astonishment, she began stepping backward into the deeper shadows, her weapon still levelled at him. Suddenly, with the approach of excited voices punctuated by the repeated penetrating sounds of a shrill whistle, the woman turned and raced away down the dark narrow street. In seconds, she had disappeared. She had followed him! To kill him? Why? Who was she?
'Here!' In a panicked whisper the guard was calling him. Evan whipped his head around; the Arab was gesturing wildly for him to come to the heavy, forbidding door in the recessed entranceway. 'Quickly, sir! You have gained admittance. Hurry! You must not be observed here!'
The door swung open and Evan ran inside, instantly pulled to his left by the strong hand of a very small man who shouted to the guard in the entranceway. 'Get away from here!' he cried. 'Quickly!' he added. The diminutive Arab slammed the door shut, slapping in place two iron bolts as Kendrick squinted his eyes in the dim light. They were in some kind of foyer, a wide, run-down hallway with several closed doors set progressively down both sides of the corridor. Numerous small Persian rugs covered the rough wood of the floor—rugs, Kendrick mused, which would bring very decent prices at any Western auction—and on the walls were more rugs, larger rugs that Evan knew would bring small fortunes. The man called El-Baz put his profits into intricately woven treasures. Those who knew about such things would be instantly impressed that they were dealing with an important man. The others, which included most of the police and other regulating authorities, would undoubtedly think that this secretive man covered his floors and his walls with tourist-cloth so as not to repair flaws in his residence. The artist called El-Baz knew his marketing procedures.
'I am El-Baz,' said the small, slightly bent Arab in English, extending a veined, large hand. 'You are whoever you say you are and I am delighted to meet you, preferably not with the name your revered parents gave you. Please come this way, the second door on the right, please. It is our first and most vital procedure. In truth, the rest has been accomplished.'
'Accomplished? What's been accomplished?' asked Evan.
'The essentials,' answered El-Baz. 'The papers are prepared according to the information delivered to me.'
'What information?'
'Who you may be, what you may be, where you might come from. That is all I needed.'
'Who gave this information to you?'
'I have no idea,' said the aged Arab, touching Kendrick's arm, insinuating him down the foyer. 'An unknown person instructing me over the telephone, from where I know not. However, she used the proper words and I knew I was to obey.'
'She?'
'The gender was insignificant, ya Shaikh. The words were all important. Come, Inside.' El-Baz opened the door to a small photographic studio; the equipment appeared out of date. Evan's rapid appraisal was not lost on El-Baz. 'The camera on the left duplicates the grainy quality of government identification papers,' he explained, 'which, of course, is as much due everywhere to government processing as it is to the eye of the camera. Here. Sit on the stool in front of the screen. It will be painless and swift.'
El-Baz worked quickly and as the film was Instant Polaroid, he had no difficulty selecting a print. Burning the others, the old man put on a pair of thin surgical gloves, held the single photo and gestured towards a wide-curtained area beyond the stretched grey fabric that served as a screen. Approaching it, he pulled back the heavy drapery revealing a blank, distressed wall; the appearance was deceiving. Placing his right foot next to a spot on the chipped floor moulding, his gloved right hand reaching for another specific location above, he simultaneously pressed both. A jagged crack in the wall slowly separated, the left side disappearing behind the curtain; it stopped, leaving a space roughly two feet wide. The small purveyor of false papers stepped inside, beckoning Kendrick to follow him.
What Evan saw now was as modern as any machine in his Washington office and of even higher quality. There were two large computers, each with its own printer, and four telephones in four different colours,
all with communication modems, all situated on a long white table kept spotlessly clean in front of four typist's chairs.
'Here,' said El-Baz, pointing to the computer on the left, where the dark screen was alive with bright green letters. 'See how privileged you are, Shaikh. I was told to provide you with complete information and the sources thereof, but not, however, with any written documents other than the papers themselves. Sit. Study yourself.'
'Study myself?' asked Kendrick.
'You are a Saudi from Riyadh named Amal Bahrudi. You are a construction engineer and there is some European blood in your veins—a grandfather, I think; it's written on the screen.'
'European…?'
'It explains your somewhat irregular features should anyone comment.'
'Wait a minute.' Evan bent over looking closer at the computer screen. 'This is a real person?'
'He was. He died last night in East Berlin—that is the green telephone.'
'Died? Last night?'
'East German intelligence, controlled of course by the Soviets, will keep his death quiet for days, perhaps weeks, while their bureaucrats examine everything with an eye to KGB advantage, naturally. In the meantime, Mr. Bahrudi's arrival here has been duly entered on our immigration lists—that's the blue telephone—with a visa good for thirty days.'
'So if anyone runs a check,' added Kendrick, ‘this Bahrudi is legitimately here and not dead in East Berlin.'
'Exactly.'
'What happens if I'm caught?'
'That would hardly concern you. You'd be an immediate corpse.'
The Icarus Agenda Page 8