by Nick Carter
Wesley turned to face me. "What are you talkin' about? Wheels like that take a lot of bread, man!"
"I get your help, Wesley, and you get that car," I said. "That's what I'm talking about. And how you got it will be just between you and me."
Wesley showed no emotion.
"You still a honky bastard," he said. "The worst kind."
I nodded my head.
"I still hate your white guts," he said, mean and hard and fully meaning every word he said, his voice resentfully angry.
I nodded again.
"But I'll do it," he said. "Anything comes up, you'll hear from me."
He didn't offer to shake hands when we parted.
Chapter Six
Thursday. 7:10 p.m. The Georgian Hotel. Park Avenue.
The two phone calls came within a few minutes of each other. Rig Sal's was first. He wasted no time.
"I get word maybe you can find those guys in the Fifties, around First Avenue," he said, without bothering to say hello.
"That takes in a lot of ground."
"Some creeps like you been lookin' for was seen around there in the last couple of days, that's the word I get," he said, his voice a growl in my ear. "I hear anything more, I give you a call."
And that was the extent of Rig Sal's conversation.
The girl was next. Her voice had a slightly excited, breathy quality to it.
"Hi, honey. This is Shelley. A mutual friend of ours told me to call you if anything came up," she said. "You know who I mean?" I knew she had to be one of Wesley's girls.
"That's nice," I said. "What's up?"
"A friend of mine has invited me out for dinner, and he likes for me to get another couple. The dinner part is just social, if you know what I mean. You want to join us?"
"If you think I should."
"Yeah, I think so. You got a girlfriend?"
I looked across the room at Tamar.
"I can get one for you, if you haven't," she said. "Real cute, too."
"I've got a girl. Who's your friend?"
"Well, right now, he's on his way over to see me. I haven't heard from him in almost a year, and out of a clear blue I get a call a few minutes ago. He wants to see me — if you know what I mean."
I knew what she meant.
"He's real generous," she said. "He likes to take me out to dinner. I guess he likes to show me off because I'm so blonde and he's so dark."
"Are you telling me he's an Arab?"
"I think so," she said. "He comes from one of those Middle East countries. I was introduced to him about three years ago when he had something to do with some kind of a delegation to the United Nations. He was kind of keeping me, if you know what I mean. Then, last year, he left the country, so I lost track of him. Not even a letter or a postcard. Now, tonight, he calls and asks if I'm free. I wasn't. I had another date. One of my regulars. But Wesley told me that it was real important so I cancelled the other date."
"You won't lose out," I promised. "I'll make up the difference."
She laughed. "Hey, you sound like a great guy," she said. "I'm looking forward to meeting you."
"Where?"
She told me. It was a restaurant in the Forties between Second and Third Avenues. I knew the place. It was expensive, but the food was good.
"What time do we meet you?" I asked her.
"Oh," she said, "give us at least a couple of hours, okay? He sounded real horny on the telephone. Let's say around ten o'clock."
Then, suddenly, she said, "Hey — I just remembered. You're supposed to be an old friend. But he won't like it when he sees you're a man. He doesn't like the idea of my seeing other men, even though he knows about me. How about I tell him I know your girlfriend — and she's bringing you along?"
"That's a great idea."
"What's her name?"
"Sa'ida," I said.
"What?"
I pronounced it again for her. "Tell him she's Syrian. She comes from Damascus."
"Hey, that's wild! She really Syrian?"
"That's right."
"Can she talk that crazy language? Arabic, I mean?"
"Yes."
"He's going to like that, I can tell you." Shelley sounded pleased. "Hey, one other thing. This chick — is she in the life?"
I didn't think an Arab would like the idea of being seen socially with an Arabian prostitute.
"Tell him she's straight. She's just a girl you know who doesn't even know you're a working girl. You must have some straight friends, right?"
Shelley giggled. "Beautiful! He'll dig that. Listen, I'll see you about ten o'clock. What do you two look like so I'll be able to recognize you when you come in?"
I described Tamar to her.
"She sounds like a great looking chick," Shelley said. "If she were in the life, I bet she could make a fortune!"
There was nothing I could say to that.
"What do you look like?" Shelley asked. I tried to be objective in describing myself. Shelley giggled again. "Hey, if you look like that, I might swap."
"Keep your mind on your work," I told her. "You want a bonus, don't you?"
"Damn right!"
"Tell your friend I'm Sa'ida's Arab fiancé."
"Got it."
"And just in case — what's this guy's name, so I can ask for you two at the restaurant?"
"Hakeni," she said. "Hamal Hakeni. I don't know if it's his real name or not. Most Johns don't like to give you their real names. Anyhow, it's the one he's always used with me."
"I'll see you later," I said, and we hung up.
"What was that all about?" Tamar asked from across the room. I didn't answer. I was too busy scanning the list of names that Taylor had left with me.
Hakeni. Hamal Hakeni.
There it was! That made three of them. Yousef Khatib. Sharif al Sallal. Hamal Hakeni. Or did it? Hakeni might have no connection with the Al Asad terrorists at all. On the other hand, his name was on the list of those who'd come into the country in the last several months and had dropped out of sight. It was something to think about. Hell, it was all I had to go on!
Tamar asked me again about the phone call. I told her.
"Sa'ida," she repeated. "It's Arabic enough."
"Yeah."
I looked at my watch. It was only seven-fifteen and I was dead tired. I started to take off my clothes.
"What are you doing?" asked Tamar.
"I'm going to take a nap," I told her. "I think you ought to take one, too. God knows when we'll have another chance to get some sleep."
By the time I had turned down the bed and turned off the lights, Tamar had peeled off her dress and underclothes. She squirmed up against me, drew a long, deep breath and put her arms around me. She put her mouth against my ear and blew into it gently.
Mischievously, she murmured, "We'll both sleep more soundly if you make love to me first, darling."
I was going to protest, and then her hands and her mouth and the soft fullness of her breasts prevented me from speaking. Tired as I was, she aroused me to a fever pitch of impatience. There was no dallying, no foreplay, no lovemaking. There was just the furious thrust and repulse of our bodies mating in an animal beat. In minutes, we simultaneously built to a peak and simultaneously clutched at each other in an explosive spasm of released passion.
Tamar let her body relax with a long, convulsive sigh. She opened her eyes just long enough to gaze amusedly at me and said, huskily, "Missionary!"
I didn't answer. I was asleep almost as soon as she was, my arms around the soft, female curves of her breasts, the heat of her warm body warming me, lulling me to sleep.
* * *
Thursday. 10:15 p.m. East 48th Street.
The two of them were seated at a semi-secluded table for four when Tamar and I came into the restaurant. The blonde had long hair and a pale complexion and was wearing a low cut dress that pushed her breasts together into a pronounced cleavage. She had been looking toward the door as we entered so she spotted us im
mediately. She left the table, came rushing over to Tamar, throwing her arms around her and kissing her on the cheek as she made happy, meaningless sounds of greeting.
The man at her table didn't move from his seat. He waited for her to bring us to him. Shelley was right. He was as dark as she was blonde. The swarthiness of his skin was olive brown, and his short, neatly trimmed beard was jet black and wiry. He seemed to be in his middle thirties.
As we came up to the table, Shelley had one arm around Tamar.
"This is my good friend, Hamal," she said, introducing him. "Hamal, I told you about Sa'ida. I haven't known her very long, but she's really a sweet girl."
Hamal glanced quickly at Tamar but he stared at me carefully. I have brown hair and regular features that could be taken for almost any nationality. Even so, just before Tamar and I had left the hotel, I'd taken time to rub a skin dye into my face and hands that darkened them several shades more. My hair was now jet black.
"And this is Sa'ida's fiancé," Shelley burbled on. "Sa'ida, introduce him, will you. I can never remember his name."
"Mah'moud el Zaoumi," I said, bowing slightly. And then, in Arabic, I added, "Ahalen wa-Sahalen, ya Sheikh!"
Hamal's fake broke into a smile of pleasure at my words of welcome.
"Salaam Aleikum," he replied.
"Sala'am."
"You are Egyptian?" he asked, in Arabic.
"From the desert," I replied.
"Ah," said Hamal with satisfaction. "Then you are Bedouin?"
"We are all believers in the Prophet," I answered evasively.
He gestured for me to sit down beside him. Shelley sat on the other side of him. Tamar sat between Shelley and myself.
"Can I order a drink for you?" Shelley asked Tamar.
"I'll have a gin and tonic," said Tamar before she realized what she was saying.
Hamal's face froze. He waited for me to order. I shook my head.
"I am not allowed to drink alcohol," I said to Shelley. I turned to Hamal. "Sa'ida is of the Allawi sect," I said in explanation. Hamal relaxed. The Allawi are allowed to have alcoholic beverages, unlike the average Moslem.
"She is Syrian, Shelley tells me."
I nodded. "Yes."
"Is that where you met?" Hamal was still slightly suspicious of me.
"Yes. Her father was an officer at Sheba'im," I told him. Hamal nodded his head. Apparently, he knew of the Syrian Army prison that's located just outside of Damascus.
"Why were you there?" he asked.
I smiled without humor. "They didn't like my politics," I said ruefully. "I was too revolutionary for even Al Fatah. The Ba'athist regime arrested me on a trumped up charge. I spent five months in Sheba'im before I was released. By coincidence, Sa'ida's father was a secret sympathizer. When I was released, he brought me home. That's when I met her."
"And what are you doing here in the United States?" Hamal asked, still curious about me.
I let my face take on a stern look.
I lapsed back into Arabic. "I have been commanded to make an Iqra — a speaking out." Iqra means to recite, to cry out. It's from the same Arabic verb — 'qar'a' — from which the word Quran, or Koran, comes. Qu'ran means "The Recitation."
Hamal lifted an eyebrow, questioning me.
"Surely you know the ninety-sixth Surah of the Qu'ran," I said pointedly.
Hamal shrugged. "I am not that learned in the words of our Prophet."
I quoted, "Oh, Prophet, struggle with unbelievers and hypocrites and be harsh with them!" I stressed the last phrase.
Hamal said carefully, "It is mabim — evident — that you are a learned man, Mah'moud."
I shook my head. "I am a fighter," I said.
Hamal began to smile.
"Ta… Sin… Mim…" I said deliberately, staring boldly into his face and watching his expression carefully. "There are words in the twenty-eighth Surah that I live by. The Prophet has promised us we shall regain our homeland! I am a Palestinian!"
I could see the struggle going on inside Hamal's mind. He didn't quite know what to make of what I had said. It was obvious that the words had had a powerful impact on him. They were the pass words of Al Asad. He couldn't make up his mind whether to acknowledge the pass words or to be silent and let them go by.
"The new Prophet has promised us a 'homecoming' soon!" I exclaimed, watching the struggle in Hamal grow stronger. There is a compulsion among Arabs to talk. Talk is food and drink to an Arab. Words are ideas that free his soul. Hamal could resist no longer. He threw a glance at Tamar.
"Does Sa'ida know?" he asked in a conspiratorial whisper. I nodded. "She knows."
"Then you are both followers of the new Prophet?" he asked, still in a whisper.
"Yes, we follow the teachings of Sharif al Sallal," I said.
Hamal's face turned almost white when I spoke the name aloud. He clutched at my sleeve.
"By the beard of Allah!" he swore at me, "do not mention that name aloud!"
"And you?" I asked, ignoring his outburst.
He nodded his head. "I, too, my brother," he said, still speaking Arabic. "From the beginning, when we lived as children on the Gaza Strip, I have followed him. He will restore us to our Palestinian homeland. He will do away with even the last of the accursed Jews who sit on the ground that is rightfully ours!"
"Insh'allah!" I said impassively. "As God wills!" But I meant it in a way that was completely different from the way Hamal took it.
Hamal beamed at me. "I will have news when I see him next." Even indirectly, he couldn't help boasting that he was in communication with Sharif al Sallal. He wanted to impress me with the fact of his importance to the organization.
I looked properly impressed.
"Will you see him soon?"
"Before the night is over," Hamal bragged. "He is like my own brother."
"I thought Yousef Khatib was closest to him." I thrust the verbal dagger into him, pin-pricking his ego with its sharp tip.
Hamal turned his head and spat on the floor. He uttered a curse.
"That fornicator of camels!" he swore. "Al Sallal keeps him around as one would keep a watch dog. For no other reason!"
"It is not what I have heard."
"I speak the truth! There are others closer to al Sallal than that jackal Khatib!"
I put an expression of tolerant disbelief on my face. It stung Hamal even more than had I put it into words.
"Abdul Latif Hashan and Nasser as-Din Waladi are but two of the many who are close to the new Prophet," Hamal said, forcefully. "Even as I am!"
I nodded, pretending that I knew the names. As I filed them away in my mind, I said, "Words from your mouth can only be the truth."
The waiter came up, handing menus to each of us. Hamal bent his head over the heavy, engraved paper. Shelley leaned close to him, touching her head to his and whispering in his ear. Quietly, I said to Tamar, "Make some excuse to leave. Follow Hamal when he comes out of here, but — for God's sake — don't let him catch you at it!"
Under the tablecloth, Tamar touched me on the thigh to indicate she understood.
Hamal beckoned to the waiter. Tamar stood up and smiled at Shelley. "The ladies room?" she asked.
Shelley said, "That way, honey." Hamal broke off ordering dinner to watch Tamar's lithe figure sway across the room. She turned the corner and disappeared.
"You are fortunate, my friend, to have such a woman," he said to me admiringly.
I said, "You are to see al Sallal before the night is over, is that true?"
"Yes."
"I would like to give him a message."
Hamal lifted an eyebrow.
"Tell him that he is not safe where he is."
A look of consternation spread over Hamal's face. "They have learned where he is in hiding?"
"Not of this moment," I said, "but they will know soon."
Hamal frowned. "I don't understand."
"Believe what I tell you," I said, calmly. The calmness of my voice lent verifi
cation to what I said. It was the best assurance he could have had that I was telling the truth. Hamal looked anxiously at his watch.
The waiter said, "What would the lady like to order?" indicating Tamar's empty seat.
"She will not be coming back," I told the waiter.
Hamal gazed at me in astonishment. The waiter shrugged and moved away.
Hamal had trouble in controlling the emotions that had begun to churn in him. I had meant to disturb him deeply and I had succeeded. His guard was down completely. One moment, he had been self-assured and confident enough to confide in me like a brother. Now, his inbred suspicious nature took over. He was swung on the rope of his emotions as violently and wildly as a child on a swing pushed by forces beyond his control. Fear and anxiety alternated with antagonism and anger.
The two of us might have been sitting in a cafe in Cairo or Amman or Damascus, plotting over small cups of thick, bitter coffee, playing verbal games with the truth as a shuttlecock that we hit back and forth over an invisible net, saying one thing, meaning another and thinking a third.
"She will not be back," he repeated uneasily. "What do you mean by that?"
"Hey, what's going on?" asked Shelley.
"Shut up!" Hamal turned and slapped her violently across the face.
He turned back to me, his eyes glaring wildly.
"Why will she not be coming back?"
"She has gone to tell the authorities," I said calmly.
"She has — what!"
"She has gone to tell the authorities that you are a member of al Asad! I would guess that the police will be here to arrest you in a matter of minutes!"
Hamal was thunderstruck. His face paled beneath the swarthiness of his skin.
"In the name of Allah — why would she do a thing like that?"
"Because she is an Israeli spy," I told him, not raising my voice.
"You… you said her father was an officer in the Army…"
"True. He never knew about his daughter."
Hamal shook his head in disbelief.
"That's why I've done my best to win her confidence. That's why I became betrothed to her. She is our pipeline to feed false information to the Mossad — the Israeli Intelligence!"
I cocked my head and narrowed my eyes in deliberate surprise. "You fool! Didn't you suspect? Why do you think I was talking the way I did? What I said was to throw her suspicions onto me! If the police arrest me, they will learn nothing that they do not already know! But you — you had to brag about your importance! You had to announce that you know the whereabouts of our leader, al Sallal! Even worse, you cry out like a muezzin atop a mosque at prayertime that you will be seeing Sharif al Sallal tonight! Eater of camel dung! How can you be so stupid!" I lashed at Hamal with every insult I could think of.