“No, it obviously does not,” agreed the Arab firmly. “But what I’m trying to tell you is that things have changed here—in ways many of us do not understand.”
“That’s also obvious,” interrupted Kendrick. “You’re not terrorists.”
“No, we’re not, but would you care to hear what people—responsible people—are saying?”
“Go ahead.”
“ ‘It will pass,’ they say. “ ‘Don’t interfere; it would only inflame them further.’ ”
“Don’t interfere?” repeated Evan incredulously.
“And ‘Let the politicians settle it.’ ”
“The politicians can’t settle it!”
“Oh, there’s more, Evan. ‘There’s a certain basis for their anger,’ they say. ‘Not the killing, of course, but within the context of certain events,’ et cetera, et cetera. I’ve heard that, too.”
“Context of certain events? What events?”
“Current history, old friend. ‘They’re reacting to a very uneven Middle East policy on the part of the United States.’ That’s the catchphrase, Evan. ‘The Israelis get everything and they get nothing,’ people say. ‘They are driven from their lands and their homes and forced to live in crowded, filthy refugee camps, while in the West Bank the Jews spit on them.’ These are the things I hear.”
“That’s bullshit!” exploded Kendrick. “Beyond the fact that there’s another, equally painful side to that bigoted coin, it has nothing to do with those two hundred thirty-six hostages or the eleven who’ve already been butchered! They don’t make policy, uneven or otherwise. They’re innocent human beings, brutalized and terrified and driven to exhaustion by goddamned animals! How the hell can responsible people say those things? That’s not the President’s cabinet over there, or hawks from the Knesset. They’re civil service employees and tourists and construction families. I repeat—bullshit!”
The man named Mustapha sat rigidly on the sofa, his eyes still leveled at Evan. “I know that and you know that,” he said quietly. “And they know that, my friend.”
“Then why?”
“The truth, then,” continued the Arab, his voice no louder than before. “Two incidents that forged a dreadful consensus, if I may use the word somewhat differently from before.… The reason these things are said is that none of us cares to create targets of our own flesh.”
“Targets? Your … flesh?”
“Two men, one I shall call Mahmoud, the other Abdul—not their real names, of course, for it’s better that you not know them. Mahmoud’s daughter … raped, her face slashed. Abdul’s son, his throat slit in an alley below his father’s office on the piers. ‘Criminals, rapists, murderers!’ the authorities say. But we all know better. It was Abdul and Mahmoud who tried to rally an opposition. ‘Guns!’ they cried. ‘Storm the embassy ourselves,’ they insisted. ‘Do not let Masqat become another Teheran!’ … But it was not they who suffered. It was those close to them, their most precious possessions.… These are the warnings, Evan. Forgive me, but if you had a wife and children, would you subject them to such risks? I think not. The most precious jewels are not made of stone, but of flesh. Our families. A true hero will overcome his fear and risk his life for what he believes, but he will balk when the price is the lives of his loved ones. Is it not so, old friend?”
“My God,” whispered Evan. “You won’t help—you can’t.”
“There is someone, however, who will see you and hear what you have to say. But the meeting must take place with extraordinary caution, miles away in the desert before the mountains of Jabal Sham.”
“Who is it?”
“The sultan.”
Kendrick was silent. He looked at his glass. After a prolonged moment he raised his eyes to Mustapha. “I’m not to have any official linkage,” he said, “and the sultan’s pretty official. I don’t speak for my government, that’s got to be clear.”
“You mean you don’t care to meet with him?”
“On the contrary, I care to very much. I just want my position clear. I have nothing to do with the intelligence community, the State Department or the White House—God knows not the White House.”
“I think that’s patently clear; your robes and the color of your skin confirm it. And the sultan wants no connection with you, as emphatically as Washington wants no connection.”
“I’m rusty,” said Evan, drinking. “The old man died a year or so after I left, didn’t he? I’m afraid I didn’t keep up with things over here—a natural aversion, I think.”
“Certainly understandable. Our current sultan is his son; he’s nearer your age than mine, even younger than you. After school in England, he completed his studies in your country. Dartmouth and Harvard, to be exact.”
“His name’s Ahmat,” broke in Kendrick, remembering. “I met him a couple of times.” Evan frowned. “Economics and international relations,” he added.
“What?”
“Those were the degrees he was after. Graduate and postgraduate.”
“He’s educated and bright, but he’s young. Very young for the tasks facing him.”
“When can I see him?”
“Tonight. Before others become aware of your presence here.” Mustapha looked at his watch. “In thirty minutes, leave the hotel and walk four blocks north. A military vehicle will be at the corner. Get in and it will take you to the sands of Jabal Sham.”
* * *
The slender Arab in the soiled aba ducked into the shadows of the darkened storefront across the street from the hotel. He stood silently next to the woman called Khalehla, now dressed in a tailored black suit, the kind favored by women executives and indistinct in the dim light. She was awkwardly securing a lens into the mount of her small camera. Suddenly, two sharp, high-pitched beeps filled the storefront.
“Hurry,” said the Arab. “He’s on his way. He’s reached the lobby.”
“As fast as I can,” replied the woman, swearing under her breath as she manipulated the lens. “I ask little of my superiors, but decent, functioning equipment is one of them.… There. It’s on.”
“Here he comes!”
Khalehla raised her camera with the telescopic infrared lens for night photographs. She rapidly snapped three pictures of the robed Evan Kendrick. “I wonder how long they’ll let him live,” she said. “I have to reach a telephone.”
Ultra Maximum Secure
No Existing Intercepts
Proceed
The journal was continued.
Reports out of Masqat are astonishing. The subject has transformed himself into an Omani, complete with Arab dress and darkened skin. He moves about the city like a native, apparently reaching old friends and contacts from his previous life. The reports, however, are also sketchy, as the subject’s shadow routes everything through Langley and as yet I haven’t been able to invade the CIA access codes from the Gulf nations. Who knows what Langley conceals? I’ve instructed my appliances to work harder! The State Department, naturally, is duck soup. And why not?
4
The vast, arid desert appeared endless in the night, the sporadic moonlight outlining the mountains of Jabal Sham in the distance—an unreachable, menacing border towering on the dark horizon. Everywhere the flat surface seemed to be a dry mixture of earth and sand, the windless plain devoid of those swelling, impermanent hills of windblown dunes one conjures up with images of the great Sahara. The hard, winding road beneath was barely passable; the brown military sedan lurched and skidded around the sandy curves on its way to the royal meeting ground. Kendrick, as instructed, sat beside the armed, uniformed driver; in the back was a second man, an officer and also armed. Security started at the pickup; a perceived wrong move on Evan’s part and he was flanked. Beyond polite greetings neither soldier spoke.
“This is desert country,” said Kendrick in Arabic. “Why are there so many turns?”
“There are many offshoot roads, sir,” answered the officer from the backseat. “A straight lane in these sands
would mark them too clearly.”
Royal security, thought Evan without comment.
They took an “offshoot road” after twenty-five minutes of speeding due west. Several miles beyond, a campfire glowed on the right. As they drew near, Kendrick saw a platoon of uniformed guards circling the fire, facing out, all points of the compass covered; the dark silhouettes of two military trucks loomed in the distance. The car stopped; the officer leaped out and opened the door for the American.
“Precede me, sir,” he said in English.
“Certainly,” replied Evan, trying to spot the young sultan in the light of the fire. There was no sign of him, nor of anyone not in uniform. Evan tried to recall the face of the boy-man he had met over four years ago, the student who had come home to Oman during a Christmas or a spring break, he could not remember which—he recalled only that the son of the sultan was an amiable young man, as knowledgeable as he was enthusiastic about American sports. But that was all: no face came to him, only the name, Ahmat, which Mustapha had confirmed. Three soldiers in front of him gave way; they walked through the protective ring.
“You will permit me, sir?” said a second officer, suddenly standing in front of Kendrick.
“Permit you what?”
“It is customary under these circumstances to search all visitors.”
“Go ahead.”
The soldier swiftly and efficiently probed the robes of the aba, raising the right sleeve above the area where Evan had spread the skin-darkening gel. Seeing the white flesh, the officer held the cloth in place and stared at Kendrick. “You have papers with you, ya Shaikh?”
“No papers. No identification.”
“I see.” The soldier dropped the sleeve. “You have no weapons, either.”
“Of course not.”
“That is for you to claim and for us to determine, sir.” The officer snapped out from his belt a thin black device no larger than a pack of cigarettes. He pressed what looked like a red or orange button. “You will wait here, please.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” said Evan, glancing at the guards, their rifles poised.
“No, you are not, ya Shaikh,” agreed the soldier, striding back toward the fire.
Kendrick looked at the English-speaking officer who had accompanied him in the backseat from Masqat. “They take no chances, do they?” he said aimlessly.
“The will of almighty Allah, sir,” replied the soldier. “The sultan is our light, our sun. You are Aurobbi, a white man. Would you not protect your lineage to the heavens?”
“If I thought he could guarantee my admittance, I certainly would.”
“He is a good man, ya Shaikh. Young, perhaps, but wise in many ways. We have come to learn that.”
“He is coming here, then?”
“He has arrived, sir.”
The bass-toned roar of a powerful limousine broke the crackling intrusion of the campfire. The vehicle with tinted windows swerved in front of the ring of guards and came to an abrupt stop. Before the driver could emerge, the rear door opened and the sultan stepped out. He was in the robes of his royal office, but with the door still open he proceeded to remove them, throwing his aba into the car, the ghotra headdress remaining on his head. He walked through the circle of his Royal Guard, a slender, muscular man of medium height and broad shoulders. Except for the ghotra, his clothes were Western. His slacks were a tan gabardine, and over his chest was a T-shirt with a cartoon figure wearing a three-cornered American revolutionary hat bursting out of an American football. Underneath, the legend read: New England Patriots.
“It’s been a long time, Evan Kendrick, ya Shaikh,” said the young man in a slightly British accent, smiling and extending his hand. “I like your costume, but it’s not exactly Brooks Brothers, is it?”
“Neither is yours unless the Brothers Brooks are into T-shirts.” They shook hands. Kendrick could feel the sultan’s strength. “Thank you for seeing me, Ahmat.… Forgive me—I should say Your Royal Highness. My apologies.”
“You knew me as Ahmat, and I knew you as Shaikh, sir. Must I still call you ‘sir’?”
“That’d be inappropriate, I think.”
“Good. We understand each other.”
“You look different from what I remember,” said Evan.
“I was forced to grow up swiftly—not by choice. From student to teacher, without the proper qualifications, I’m afraid.”
“You’re respected, I’ve heard that.”
“The office does it, not the man. I must learn to fill the office. Come on, let’s talk—away from here.” The sultan, Ahmat, took Kendrick’s arm and started through his circle of guards only to be stopped by the officer who had searched Evan.
“Your Highness!” cried the soldier. “Your safety is our lives! Please remain within the cordon.”
“And be a target by the light of the fire?”
“We surround you, sir, and the men will continuously side-step around the circle. The ground is flat.”
“Instead, point your weapons beyond the shadows, ya sahbee,” said Ahmat, calling the soldier his friend. “We’ll only be a few meters away.”
“With pain in our hearts, Your Highness.”
“It will pass.” Ahmat ushered Kendrick through the cordon. “My countrymen are frequently given to trivial melodramatics.”
“It’s not so trivial if they’re willing to make a moving ring and take a bullet meant for you.”
“It’s nothing special, Evan, and, frankly, I don’t know all the men in those bodies. What we may have to say to each other could be for our ears only.”
“I didn’t realize …” Kendrick looked at the young sultan of Oman as they walked into the darkness. “Your own guards?”
“Anything’s possible during this madness. You can study the eyes of a professional soldier but you can’t see the resentments or the temptations behind them. Here, this is far enough.” Both men stopped in the sand.
“The madness,” said Evan flatly in the dim light of the fire and the intermittent moonlight. “Let’s talk about it.”
“That’s why you’re here, of course.”
“That’s why I’m here,” Kendrick said.
“What the hell do you want me to do?” cried Ahmat in a harsh whisper. “Whatever move I make, another hostage could get shot and one more bullet-riddled body is thrown out a window!” The young sultan shook his head. “Now, I know you and my father worked well together—you and I discussed a few projects at a couple of dinner parties, but I don’t expect you to remember.”
“I remember,” broke in Kendrick. “You were home from Harvard, your second year in graduate school, I think. You were always on your father’s left, the position of inheritance.”
“Thanks a bunch, Evan. I could have had a terrific job at E. F. Hutton.”
“You have a terrific job here.”
“I know that,” said Ahmat, his whispered voice again rising. “And that’s why I have to make goddamned sure I do it right. Certainly I can call back the army from the Yemeni border and take the embassy by blowing it apart—and in doing so I guarantee the deaths of two hundred thirty-six Americans. I can see your headlines now: ‘Arab Sultan Kills,’ et cetera, et cetera. Arab. The Knesset in Jerusalem has a field day! No way, pal. I’m no hair-trigger cowboy who risks innocent lives and somehow in the confusion gets labeled in your press as anti-Semitic. Good Christ! Washington and Israel seem to have forgotten that we’re all Semites, and not all Arabs are Palestinians and not all Palestinians are terrorists! And I won’t give those pontificating, arrogant Israeli bastards another reason to send their American F-14s to kill more Arabs just as innocent as your hostages! Do you read me, Evan Shaikh?”
“I read you,” said Kendrick. “Now, will you cool off and listen to me?”
The agitated young sultan exhaled audibly, nodding his head. “Of course I’ll listen to you, but listening isn’t agreeing to a damn thing.”
“All right.” Evan paused, his eyes intense,
wanting to be understood despite the strange, obscure information he was about to impart. “You’ve heard of the Mahdi?”
“Khartoum, the 1880s.”
“No. Bahrain, the 1980s.”
“What?”
Kendrick repeated the story he had told Frank Swann at the State Department. The story of an unknown, obsessed financier who called himself the Mahdi, and whose purpose was to drive out the Westerner from the Middle East and Southwest Asia, keeping the immense wealth of industrial expansion in Arab hands—specifically his hands. How this same man who had spread his gospel of Islamic purity throughout the fanatic fringes had formed a network, a silent cartel of scores, perhaps hundreds, of hidden companies and corporations all linked together under the umbrella of his own concealed organization. Evan then described how his old Israeli architect, Emmanuel Weingrass, had perceived the outlines of this extraordinary economic conspiracy, initially by way of threats leveled against the Kendrick Group—threats he had countered with his own outrageous warnings of retribution—and how the more Manny learned, the more he was convinced that the conspiracy was real and growing and had to be exposed.
“Looking back, I’m not proud of what I did,” continued Evan in the dim light of the campfire and the flitting desert moon. “But I rationalized it because of what had happened. I just had to get out of this part of the world, and so I walked away from the business, walked away from the fight Manny said we had to confront. I told him his imagination was working overtime, that he was giving credence to irresponsible—and often drunken—goons. I remember so clearly what he said to me. ‘Could my wildest imaginings,’ he said, ‘or even less conceivably theirs, come up with a Mahdi? Those killers did it to us—he did it!’ Manny was right then and he’s right now. The embassy is stormed, homicidal lunatics kill innocent people, and the ultimate statement is made. ‘Stay away, Western Boy. You come over here, you’ll be another corpse thrown out a window.’ Can’t you see, Ahmat? There is a Mahdi and he’s systematically squeezing everyone else out through sheer, manipulative terror.”
The Icarus Agenda Page 6