The onlookers slowly rose in the semidarkness, curiosity drawing them back to the furious activity taking place in the middle of the Al Kabir under the dim wash of the streetlights.
“I believe you are right, sir!” yelled the policeman on the prisoner’s left. “Here, this mark! It could be what remains of the scar across his neck.”
“Bahrudi!” roared the ranking police officer in triumph as he studied the papers ripped from the oilcloth packet. “Amal Bahrudi! The trusted one! He was last in East Berlin and, by Allah, we have him!”
“All of you!” yelled the policeman, kneeling to the right of the fugitive, addressing the mesmerized crowd. “Leave! Get away! This pig may have protectors—he is the infamous Bahrudi, the Eastern European terrorist! We have radioed for soldiers from the sultan’s garrison—get away, don’t be killed!”
The witnesses fled, a disjointed stampede racing south on the Al Kabir. They had summoned their courage, but the prospect of a gun battle panicked them. All was uncertainty, punctuated by death; the only thing the crowd was certain of was that a notorious international terrorist named Amal Bahrudi had been captured.
“The word will spread quickly in our small city,” said the sergeant-of-police in fluent English, helping the “prisoner” to his feet. “We will help, of course, if it is necessary.”
“I’ve got a question or two—maybe three!” Evan untied the headdress, removing it over his head, and stared at the police officer. “What the hell was all that stuff about ‘the trusted one,’ the ‘Islamic leader’ of East European whatever-it-was?”
“Apparently the truth, sir.”
“I’m way behind you.”
“In the car, please. Time is vital. We must leave here.”
“I want answers!” The two other policemen walked up beside the congressman from Colorado, gripped his arms and escorted him to the back door of the patrol car. “I played that little charade the way I was told to play it,” continued Evan, climbing into the green police sedan, “but someone forgot to mention that this real person whose name I’m assuming is some killer who’s throwing bombs around Europe!”
“I can only tell you what I’ve been told to tell you, which, truthfully, is all I know,” replied the sergeant, settling his uniformed figure beside Kendrick. “Everything will be explained to you at the laboratory at the compound headquarters.”
“I know about the laboratory. I don’t know about this Bahrudi.”
“He exists, sir.”
“I know that but not the rest of it—”
“Hurry, driver!” said the police officer. “The other two will remain here.” The green sedan lurched in reverse, made a U-turn and sped back toward the Wadi Al Uwar.
“All right, he’s real, I understand that,” pressed Kendrick rapidly, breathlessly. “But I repeat. No one said anything about his being a terrorist!”
“At the headquarters laboratory, sir.” The sergeant-of-police lit a brown Arabian cigarette, inhaled deeply and exhaled the smoke through his nostrils in relief. His part of the strange assignment was over.
“There was a great deal that El-Baz’s computer did not print out for your eyes,” said the Omani doctor, studying Evan’s bare shoulder. They were alone in the laboratory examining room, Kendrick sitting on the elongated hard-cushioned table, his feet resting on a footstool, his money belt beside him. “As Ahmat’s—forgive me—the great sultan’s personal physician, which I have been since he was eight years old, I am now your only contact to him in the event you cannot for whatever reason reach him yourself. Is that understood?”
“How do I reach you?”
“The hospital or my private number, which I will give you when we are finished. You must remove your trousers and undergarment and apply the dye, ya Shaikh. Strip searches are a daily, often hourly, occurrence in that compound. You must be all one flesh color, and certainly no canvas belt filled with money.”
“You’ll hold it for me?”
“Certainly.”
“Back to this Bahrudi, please,” said Kendrick, applying the skin-darkening gel to his thighs and lower regions, as the Omani physician did the same to his arms, chest and back. “Why didn’t El-Baz tell me?”
“Ahmat’s instructions. He thought you might object, so he wished to explain it to you himself.”
“I spoke to him less than an hour ago. He didn’t say anything other than he wanted to talk about this Bahrudi, that’s all.”
“You were also in a great hurry and he had much to organize in order to bring about your so-called capture. Therefore he left the explanation to me. Lift your arm up higher, please.”
“What’s the explanation?” asked Evan, less angry now.
“Quite simply, if you were taken by the terrorists you’d have a fall-back position, at least for a while, with luck providing enough time to help you—if help was at all possible.”
“What fall-back position?”
“You’d be considered one of them. Until they learned otherwise.”
“Bahrudi’s dead—”
“His corpse is in the hands of the KGB,” added the doctor instantly, overriding Kendrick’s words. “The Komitet is notoriously indecisive, afraid of embarrassment.”
“El-Baz mentioned something about that.”
“If anyone in Masqat would know, it is El-Baz.”
“So if Bahrudi is accepted here in Oman, if I’m accepted as this Bahrudi, I might have some leverage. If the Soviets don’t blow the whistle and tell what they know.”
“They will exhaustively examine the whistle before bringing it near their lips. They can’t be certain; they will fear a trap, a trap of embarrassment, of course, and wait for developments. Your other arm, please. Lift it straight up, please.”
“Question,” said Evan firmly. “If Amal Bahrudi supposedly went through your immigration, why wasn’t he picked up? You’ve got one hell of a security force out there these days.”
“How many John Smiths are there in your country, ya Shaikh?”
“So?”
“Bahrudi is a fairly common Arabic name, more so perhaps in Cairo than in Riyadh but nevertheless not unusual. Amal is the equivalent of your ‘Joe’ or ‘Bill’ or, of course ‘John.’ ”
“Still, El-Baz entered him in the immigration computers. Flags would leap up—”
“And rapidly return to their recesses,” broke in the Omani, “the officials satisfied by observation and harsh, if routine, questioning.”
“Because there’s no scar on my neck?” asked Evan quickly. “One of the police in the Al Kabir made a point of a scar across my neck—Bahrudi’s neck.”
“That is information I know nothing about, but I suppose it’s possible; you have no such scar. But there are more fundamental reasons.”
“Such as?”
“A terrorist does not announce his arrival in a foreign land, much less a troubled one. He uses false papers. That’s what the authorities look for, not the coincidence of one John W. Booth, a pharmacist from Philadelphia, who was cursed with the same name as the assassin from Ford’s Theater.”
“You’re pretty well versed in things American, aren’t you?”
“Johns Hopkins Medical School, Mr. Bahrudi. Courtesy of our sultan’s father, who found a Bedouin child eager for more than a wandering tribal existence.”
“How did that happen?”
“It is another story. You may lower your arm now.”
Evan looked at the doctor. “You’re very fond of the sultan, I gather.”
The Omani physician returned Kendrick’s gaze. “I would kill for the family, ya Shaikh,” he said softly. “Of course, the method would be nonviolent. Perhaps poison or a misdiagnosed medical crisis or a reckless scalpel—something to repay my debt in kind—but I would do it.”
“I’m sure you would. And by extension, then, you’re on my side.”
“Obviously. The proof I am to give you and which was previously unknown to me comes numerically. Five, five, five—zero, zero, z
ero, five.”
“That’s good enough. What’s your name?”
“Faisal. Dr. Amal Faisal.”
“I see what you mean—‘John Smith.’ ” Kendrick got off the examining table and walked naked to a small sink across the room. He washed his hands, kneading them with strong soap to remove the excess stains from his fingers, and studied his body in the mirror above the basin. The undarkened white flesh was turning brown; in moments it would be dark enough for the terrorist compound. He looked at the doctor reflected in the glass. “How is it in there?” he said.
“It is no place for you.”
“That’s not what I asked. I want to know what it’s like. Are there rites of passage, any rituals they go through with new prisoners? You must have the place wired—you’d be fools if you don’t.”
“It’s wired and we have to assume they know it; they crowd around the door where the main taps are and make a great deal of noise. The ceiling is too high for audible transmission and the remaining taps are in the flushing mechanisms of the toilets—a civilizing reform instituted by Ahmat several years ago, replacing the floor holes. They’ve been useless, as if the inmates had determined they were placed there—we don’t know this, of course. However, what we minimally hear is not pleasant. The prisoners, like all extremists, continuously vie for who is the most zealous, and as there are constant newcomers, many do not know each other. As a result, the questions are severe and pointed, the methods of interrogation often brutal. They’re fanatics, but not fools in the accepted sense, ya Shaikh. Vigilance is their credo, infiltration a constant threat to them.”
“Then it’ll be my credo.” Kendrick crossed back to the examining table and the neat pile of prison clothes provided for him. “My vigilance,” he continued. “As fanatic as anyone’s in there.” He turned to the Omani. “I need the names of the leaders inside the embassy. I wasn’t permitted to make any notes from the briefing papers, but I memorized two because they were repeated several times. One was Abu Nassir; the other, Abbas Zaher. Do you have any more?”
“Nassir hasn’t been seen for over a week; they believe he’s gone, and Zaher is not considered a leader, merely a show-off. Recently the most prominent appears to be a woman named Zaya Yateem. She’s fluent in English and reads the televised bulletins.”
“What does she look like?”
“Who can tell? She wears a veil.”
“Anyone else?”
“A young man who’s usually behind her; he seems to be her companion and carries a Russian weapon—I don’t know what kind.”
“His name?”
“He is called simply Azra.”
“Blue? The color blue?”
“Yes. And speaking of colors, there’s another, a man with premature gray streaks in his hair—quite unusual for one of us. He is called Ahbyahd.”
“White,” said Evan.
“Yes. He’s been identified as one of the hijackers of the TWA plane in Beirut. Only by photographs, however; no name was uncovered.”
“Nassir, the woman Yateem, Blue, and White. That should be enough.”
“For what?” asked the doctor.
“For what I’m going to do.”
“Think about what you’re doing,” said the doctor softly, watching Evan draw up the loose-fitting prison trousers with the elastic waistband. “Ahmat is torn, for we might learn a great deal by your sacrifice—but you must understand, it could well be your sacrifice. He wants you to know that.”
“I’m no fool, either.” Kendrick put on the gray prison shirt and slipped into the hard leather sandals common to Arab jails. “If I feel threatened, I’ll yell for help.”
“You do and they’ll be on you like crazed animals. You wouldn’t survive ten seconds; no one could reach you in time.”
“All right, a code.” Evan buttoned the coarse shirt while looking around the police laboratory; his eyes fell on several X rays suspended on a string. “If your people monitoring the taps hear me say that films were smuggled out of the embassy, move in and get me out. Understood?”
“ ‘Films smuggled out of the embassy—’ ”
“That’s it. I won’t say it, or shout it, unless I think they’re closing in on me.… Now, let the word go inside. Tell the guards to taunt the prisoners. Amal Bahrudi, leader of the Islamic terrorists in East Europe, has been captured here in Oman. Your bright young sultan’s strategy for my temporary protection can make a big leap forward. It’s my passport into their rotten world.”
“It was not designed for that.”
“But it’s damn convenient, isn’t it? Almost as though Ahmat had it in mind before I did. Come to think of it, he might have. Why not?”
“That’s ridiculous!” protested the doctor, both palms raised toward Evan. “Listen to me. We can all theorize and postulate as much as we like, but we cannot guarantee. That compound is guarded by soldiers and we cannot see into the soul of each man. Suppose there are sympathizers? Look at the streets. Crazed animals awaiting the next execution, wagering bets! America is not loved by every citizen in an aba or conscript in uniform; there are too many stories, too much talk of anti-Arab bias over there.”
“Ahmat said the same thing about his own garrison here in Masqat. Only, he called it looking into their eyes.”
“The eyes hold the secrets of the soul, ya Shaikh, and the sultan was right. We live in constant fear of weakness and betrayal here within. These soldiers are young, impressionable, quick to make judgments about real or imagined insults. Suppose, just suppose, the KGB decides to send in a message so as to further destabilize the situation: ‘Amal Bahrudi is dead, the man claiming to be him is an impostor!’ There would be no time for codes or cries for help. And the manner of your death should not be contemplated lightly.”
“Ahmat should have thought of that—”
“Unfair!” cried Faisal. “You ascribe to him things he never dreamt of! The Bahrudi alias was to be used only as a diversionary tactic in the last extremity, not for anything else! The fact that ordinary citizens could publicly state that they witnessed the capture of a terrorist, even to the point of naming him, would create confusion—that was the strategy. Confusion, bewilderment, indecision. If only to delay your execution for a few hours—whatever time might be used to extricate you, a single individual—that was Ahmat’s intention. Not infiltration.”
Evan leaned against the table, his arms folded, studying the Omani. “Then I don’t understand, and I mean that, Doctor. I’m not looking for demons, but I think there’s a lapse in your explanation.”
“What is it?”
“If finding me the name of a terrorist—an unaccounted-for, dead terrorist—was to be my fall-back position, as you called it—”
“Your temporary protection, as you so rightly called it,” interrupted Faisal.
“Then suppose—just suppose—I hadn’t been around to act in that little melodrama on the Al Kabir tonight?”
“You were never meant to,” replied the doctor calmly. “You simply moved up the schedule. It was to take place not at midnight but in the early morning hours, just before the prayers, near the mosque of Khor. The word of Bahrudi’s capture would have spread through the markets like the news of a shipment of cheap contraband on the waterfront. Another would have posed as the impostor you are. That was the plan, nothing else.”
“Then, as the lawyers would say, there’s a convenient convergence of objectives, rearranged in time and purpose so as to accommodate all parties without conflict. I hear phrases like that in Washington all the time. Very sharp.”
“I am a doctor, ya Shaikh, not a lawyer.”
“To be sure,” agreed Evan, smiling faintly. “But I wonder about our young friend in the palace. He wanted to ‘discuss’ Amal Bahrudi. I wonder where that discussion would have led us.”
“He’s not a lawyer either.”
“He has to be everything to run this place,” said Kendrick sharply. “He has to think. Especially now.… We’re wasting time, Docto
r. Mess me up a bit. Not the eyes or the mouth, but around the cheeks and the chin. Then cut into my shoulder and bandage it, but don’t dry the blood.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“For Christ’s sake, I’m not going to do it myself!”
The heavy steel door sprang back, yanked by two soldiers who instantly placed their arms against the exterior iron plate as if expecting an assault on the exit. A third guard hurled the wounded, still-bleeding prisoner into the huge concrete hall that served as a mass cell; what light there was, was subdued, provided by low-wattage bulbs encased in wire mesh and bolted to the ceiling. A group of inmates instantly converged on the new entry, several gripping the shoulders of the bloody, disfigured man awkwardly trying to rise from his knees. Others huddled around the imposing metal door chattering loudly among themselves—half shrieking, actually—apparently to drown out whatever was being said inside the compound.
“Khaleebalak!” roared the newcomer, his right arm lashing upward, freeing itself, then with a tight fist pummeling the face of a young prisoner whose grimace revealed rotted teeth. “By Allah, I’ll break the head of any imbecile here who touches me!” continued Kendrick, screaming in Arabic and rising to his full height, which was several inches taller than the tallest man around him.
“We are many and you are one!” hissed the offended youngster, pinching his nose to stop the bleeding.
“You may be many but you are lovers of he-goats! You are stupid! Get away from me! I must think!” With his last explosive remark, Evan slammed his left arm against those holding it, then instantly pulled it back and thrust his elbow into the throat of the nearest prisoner holding him. With his still-clenched right fist, he swung around and hammered his knuckles into the man’s unsuspecting eyes.
He could not remember when he had last hit another person, physically attacked another human being. If his flashing memories were correct, it went back to grammar school. A boy named Peter Somebody-or-other had hidden his best friend’s lunch box—a tin box with Walt Disney characters on it—and because his friend was small and Peter Somebody-or-other was bigger than his best friend, he had challenged the bully. Unfortunately, in his anger he had beaten the boy named Peter so severely that the principal called his father and both adults told him he was terribly wrong. A young man of his size did not pick fights. It wasn’t fair.… But, sir! Dad!… No appeal. He had to accept twenty demerits. But then his father said if it happens again, son, do it again.