“Where did you get that information?”
“One of our men in Washington. I don’t know who or from what department or agency.”
“You’d need a telephone book. How secure is this phone?” asked Weingrass, sitting down at the table.
“No guarantees,” said the Mossad officer. “It was installed in a hurry.”
“For as few shekels as possible, I’m sure.”
“Manny!”
“Oh, shut up.” Weingrass took a notebook out of his pocket, flipped through the pages, and riveted his eyes on a name and a number. He picked up the phone and dialed. Within seconds he spoke.
“Thank you, my dear friend at the palace, for being so courteous. My name is Weingrass, insignificant to you, of course, but not to the great sultan, Ahmat. Naturally, I would not care to disturb his illustrious person, but if you could get word to him that I called, perhaps he might return a great favor. Let me give you a number, may I?” Manny did so, squinting at the digits on the phone. “Thank you, my dear friend, and may I say, in respect, that this is a most urgent matter and the sultan may praise you for your diligence. Thank you, again.”
The once renowned architect hung up the telephone and leaned back in the chair, breathing deeply to stem the rattling echo erupting in his chest. “Now we wait,” he said, looking at the Mossad officer. “And hope that our sultan has more brains and money than you do.… My God, he came back! After four years he heard me and my son has come back!”
“Why?” asked Yaakov.
“The Mahdi,” said Weingrass quietly, angrily, staring at the floor.
“The who?”
“You’ll learn, hothead.”
“He’s not really your son, Manny.”
“He’s the only son I ever wanted—” The telephone rang; Weingrass grabbed it, pulling it to his ear.
“Yes?”
“Emmanuel?”
“At one time, when we found ourselves in Los Angeles, you were far less formal.”
“Allah be praised, I’ll never forget. I had myself checked when I got back here.”
“Tell me, you young stinker, did you ever get a passing grade for that economics thesis in your third year?”
“Only a B, Manny. I should have listened to you. You told me to make it far more complicated—that they liked complications.”
“Can you talk?” asked Weingrass, his voice suddenly serious.
“I can, but you may not. From this end everything’s static. Do you understand?”
“Yes. Our mutual acquaintance. Where is he?”
“On his way to Bahrain with two other people from the embassy—there was supposed to be only one other, but that was changed at the last minute. I don’t know why.”
“Because there’s a string leading to someone else, probably. Is that everyone?”
Ahmat paused briefly. “No, Manny,” he said quietly. “There’s one other you must not interfere with or acknowledge in any way. She is a woman and her name is Khalehla. I tell you this because I trust you and you should know that she’s there, but no one else must ever know. Her presence here must be kept as quiet as our friend’s; her exposure would be a catastrophe.”
“That’s a mouthful, young fellow. How do I recognize this problem?”
“I hope there’ll be no cause for you to. She’s hidden in the pilot’s cabin, which will remain locked until they reach Bahrain.”
“That’s all you’ll tell me?”
“About her, yes.”
“I’ve got to move. What can you do for me?”
“Send you on another plane. As soon as he can, our friend will call and tell me what’s happening. When you get there, reach me; here’s how.” Ahmat gave his scrambled private telephone number to Weingrass.
“Must be a new exchange,” said Manny.
“It’s no exchange,” said the young sultan. “Will you be at this number?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll call you back with the arrangements. If there’s a commercial flight leaving soon, it would be easier all around to get you on it.”
“Sorry, can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Everything has to be blind and deaf. I’ve got seven peacocks with me.”
“Seven …?”
“Yes, and if you think there’d be trouble—like catastrophes—try those highly intelligent birds feathered in blue and white.”
Ahmat, sultan of Oman, gasped. “The Mossad?” he whispered.
“That’s about it.”
“Holy shit!” exclaimed Ahmat.
The small six-passenger Rockwell jet flew northwest at thirty-four thousand feet over the United Arab Emirates and into the Persian Gulf on its eight-hundred-mile course to the sheikhdom of Bahrain. A disturbingly quiet, confident Anthony MacDonald sat alone in the first row of two seats, Azra and Kendrick in the last row together. The door to the pilot’s cabin was shut, and according to the man who had met them in the “stolen” garrison car and ushered them through the cargo area to the far end of Masqat’s airfield and the plane, that door would remain shut until the passengers left the aircraft. No one was to see them; they would be met at Bahrain’s International Airport in Muharraq by someone who would escort them through immigration.
Evan and Azra had gone over the schedule several times, and as the terrorist had never been to Bahrain, he took notes—primarily locations and their spellings. It was imperative to Kendrick that he and Azra separate, at least for an hour or so. The reason was Anthony MacDonald, the most unlikely of the Mahdi’s agents. The Englishman might be a shortcut to the Mahdi, and if he was, Evan would abandon the crown prince of terrorists.
“Remember, we escaped together from the Jabal Sham, and when you consider Interpol, to say nothing of the combined intelligence units from Europe and America, there’ll be alerts out for us everywhere and with our photographs. We can’t take the chance of being spotted together in daylight. After sundown the risk is less, but even then we must take precautions.”
“What precautions?”
“Buy different clothes, to begin with; these have the mark of lower-class roughnecks, all right for the conditions in Masqat but not here. Take a taxi to Manamah, that’s the city across the causeway on the big island, and get a room at the Aradous Hotel on the Wadi Al Ahd. There’s a men’s shop in the lobby; buy yourself a Western business suit and get a haircut at the barber’s. Write it all down!”
“I am.” Azra wrote faster.
“Register under the name of— Come to think of it, Yateem is a common name in Bahrain, but let’s not take the chance.”
“My mother’s name, Ishaad?”
“Their computers are too full. Use Farouk, everyone else does. T. Farouk. I’ll reach you in an hour or two.”
“What will you be doing?”
“What else?” said Kendrick, about to tell the truth. “Stay with the English liar who claims to work for the Mahdi. If by any chance he does and his communications broke down, the meeting tonight will be easily arranged. But, frankly, I don’t believe him, and if he’s the liar I think, I have to learn who he is working for.”
Azra looked at the man he knew as Amal Bahrudi and spoke softly. “You live in a more complicated world than I do. We know our enemies; we aim our weapons at them and try to kill them because they would kill us. Yet it appears to me that you cannot be sure, that instead of firing your guns in the heat of battle you must first concern yourselves over who is the enemy.”
“You’ve had to infiltrate and consider the possibility of traitors; the precautions aren’t that much different.”
“Infiltration isn’t difficult when thousands dress as we do, talk as we do. It’s a matter of attitude; we assume the enemy’s. As to traitors, we failed in Masqat, you taught us that.”
“Me?”
“The photographs, Bahrudi.”
“Of course. Sorry. My mind’s on other things.” It was, but he could not do that again, thought Kendrick. The young terrorist was
looking curiously at him. He had to remove any doubts. Quickly! “But speaking of those photographs, your sister will have to provide proof that she’s ripped out the entire treacherous business. I suggest other photographs. Corpses in front of a smashed camera, with taped statements that can be circulated—taped confessions, of course.”
“Zaya knows what to do; she’s the strongest among us, the most dedicated. She won’t rest until she’s torn apart every room, searched every brother and sister. Methodically.”
“Words, poet!” admonished Evan harshly. “Perhaps you don’t understand. What happened in Masqat—what was carelessly permitted to happen—could affect our operations everywhere. If it gets out and goes unpunished, agents everywhere will be flocking to infiltrate us, worming their way inside to expose us with cameras and recordings!”
“All right, all right,” said Azra, nodding, unwilling to hear further criticism. “My sister will take care of everything. I don’t think she was convinced until she understood what you did for us in the Jabal Sham, saw what you could do on the telephone. She will quickly take the actions she must, I assure you.”
“Good! Rest now, angry poet. We’ve got a long afternoon and night ahead of us.”
Kendrick leaned far back in the seat as though prepared to doze, his half-closed eyes on the back of Anthony MacDonald’s large balding head in the first row. There was so much to think about, so many things to consider that he had not had time to analyze, even try to analyze. Yet above everything, there was a Mahdi, the Mahdi! Not surrounding and starving out Khartoum and George Gordon in the mid-1800s, but living and manipulating terror a hundred years later in Bahrain! And there was a complex chain that led to the monster; it was concealed, buried, professionally fashioned, but it was there! He had found a terrorist appendage, only a tentacle, perhaps, but part of the host body. The killer beside him could lead to the main conduit as each electric cable in a building ultimately leads to the central power source. Five calls are made, ten times five to unlisted numbers in Bahrain and only one can reach the Mahdi: Zaya Yateem, who knew whereof she spoke. Fifty calls, fifty telephone numbers—one among fifty unknown men or women who knew where the Mahdi was, who he was!
He had created an emergency the way Manny Weingrass had always told him to invent emergencies when dealing with potential clients who would not or could not communicate with each other. Tell the first bozo that you have to have an answer by Wednesday or we’re moving on to Riyadh. Tell the second clown we can’t wait beyond Thursday because there’s a hell of a job in Abu Dhabi that’s ours for the asking.
This was not the same, of course—only a variation of the technique. The terrorist leaders at the embassy in Masqat were convinced an emergency existed for their benefactor, the Mahdi, since he had arranged for East Berlin’s “Amal Bahrudi” to bring one of them to Bahrain. Conversely, the forces of the Mahdi had been told on international television that an “urgent message” had been sent out “to friends” and it required an “immediate response”—emergency!
Manny, did I do it right? I have to find him, fight him—kill him for what he did to all of us!
Emmanuel Weingrass, mused Evan, his eyes beginning to close, the dead weight of sleep descending. Yet he could not prevent it; a quiet laugh echoed in his throat. He remembered their first trip to Bahrain.
“Now for Christ’s sake, bear in mind that we’re dealing with a people who run an archipelago, not a landmass bordering another landmass that both sides conveniently call a country. This is a sheikhdom consisting of over thirty goddamned islands in the Persian Gulf. It’s nothing you’re going to measure in acreage, and they never want you to—that’s their strength.”
“What are you driving at, Manny?”
“Try to understand me, you unread mechanic. You appeal to that sense of strength. This is an independent state, a collection of eruptions from the sea that protects the ports from the storms of the Gulf and is conveniently situated between the Qatar peninsula and the Hasa coast of Saudi Arabia, the latter extremely important because of the Saudi leverage.”
“What the hell has that got to do with a lousy island golf course? Do you play golf, Manny? I never could afford it.”
“Chasing a little white ball over a hundred acres of grass while the arthritis is killing you and your heart is blowing apart in frustration has never been my idea of a civilized pursuit. However, I know what we put into this lousy golf course.”
“What?”
“Remembrances of things past. Because it’s a constant reminder of their present, a reminder to everyone. Their strength.”
“Will you come down from orbit, please?”
“Read the historical chronicles of Assyria, Persia, the Greeks and the Romans. Take a peek through the early drawings of the Portuguese cartographers and the logs of Vasco da Gama. At one time or another all of these people fought for control of the archipelago—the portugués held it for a hundred years—why?”
“I’m sure you’ll tell me.”
“Because of its geographical location in the Gulf, its strategic importance. For centuries it’s been a coveted center for trade and the financial repositories of trade—”
The much younger Evan Kendrick had sat up at that moment, now understanding what the eccentric architect was driving at. “That’s what’s happening now,” he had interrupted, “by leaps and bounds, money pouring in from all over the world.”
“As an independent state without fear of being conquered in today’s world,” clarified Weingrass. “Bahrain services allies and enemies alike. So our magnificent clubhouse on this lousy golf course will reflect its history. We’ll do it with murals. A businessman looks up at the paintings above the bar and sees all these things pictured and thinks, Jesus, this is some place! Everybody wanted it! Look at the money they spent! He’s now even more anxious to operate here. It’s common knowledge that deals are made on golf courses, you young illiterate. Why do you think they want to build one?”
After they had built the somewhat grotesque clubhouse on the second-rate golf course, the Kendrick Group contracted for three banks and two government buildings. And Manny Weingrass was personally pardoned by one of the highest ministers for disturbing the peace at a café on the Al Zubara Road.
The drone of the jet bored into Evan’s brain. His eyes were closed.
“I object to this subsidiary operation and I want the record to show it,” said Yaakov, code name Blue, of the Masada Brigade, as the seven men climbed into the jet at the far east end of Masqat’s airfield. Emmanuel Weingrass immediately joined the pilot, strapping himself into the adjacent seat, coughing quietly, deeply, as he secured the belt. The Mossad officer had remained behind; he had work to do in Oman; his pistol was in the possession of the slender Ben-Ami, who kept it unholstered until the five-man unit had taken their seats in the aircraft.
“The record will show it, my friend,” replied Ben-Ami as the plane sped down the runway. “Please try to understand that there are things we cannot be told for the good of all of us. We are the activists, the soldiers—and those who make the decisions are the high command. They do their job and we do ours, which is to follow orders.”
“Then I must object to a loathsome parallel,” said the unit member, code name Gray. “ ‘Following orders’ is not a phrase I find very palatable.”
“I remind you, Mr. Ben-Ami,” added code Orange. “For the past three weeks we’ve trained for a single assignment, one we all believe we can accomplish despite profound doubts back home. We’re ready; we’re primed for it, and suddenly it’s aborted without explanation and we’re on our way to Bahrain hunting a man we don’t know with a plan we’ve never seen.”
“If there is a plan,” said code Black. “And not simply a debt owed by the Mossad to a disagreeable old man who wants to find an American, a Gentile ‘son’ that isn’t his.”
Weingrass turned around; the plane was climbing rapidly, the engines partially muted by the swift ascent. “Listen to me, pea-heads!”
he shouted. “If that American has gone to Bahrain with a demented Arab terrorist, it means he’s got a damn good reason. It probably hasn’t occurred to you musclebound, intellectual crap shooters, but Masqat wasn’t planned by those subhuman yo-yos playing with guns. The brains, if you’ll pardon an obscure reference, are in Bahrain, and that’s what he’s after, who he’s after!”
“Your explanation, if true,” said code White, “does not include a plan, Mr. Weingrass. Or do we shoot craps over that issue?”
“The odds may be worse, smart-ass, but no, we don’t. Once we’ve landed and set up shop, I’ll be calling Masqat every fifteen minutes until we have the information we need. Then we have a plan.”
“How?” asked Blue angrily, suspiciously.
“We make it up, hothead.”
The huge Englishman stood in rigid disbelief as the terrorist Azra started walking away with the Bahrainian official. The quiet man in uniform had met the Rockwell jet beyond the last maintenance hangar at the airport in Muharraq. “Wait,” shouted MacDonald, glancing wildly at Evan Kendrick standing beside him. “Stop! You can’t leave me with this man. I told you, he’s not who he says he is! He’s not one of us!”
“No, he’s not,” agreed the Palestinian, stopping and looking over his shoulder. “He’s from East Berlin and he saved my life. If you’re telling the truth, I assure you he’ll save yours.”
“You can’t—”
“I must,” broke in Azra, turning to the official and nodding.
The Bahrainian, without comment either in his words or in his expression, addressed Kendrick: “As you can see, my associate is coming out of the hangar. He will escort you through another exit. Welcome to our country.”
“Azra!” screamed MacDonald, his voice drowned out by the roar of jet engines.
“Easy, Tony,” said Evan as the second Bahrainian official approached them. “We’re entering illegally and you could get us shot.”
“You! I knew it was you! You are Kendrick!”
“Of course I am, and if any of our people here in Bahrain knew you used my name, your lovely, besotted Cecilia—it is Cecilia, isn’t it?—would be a widow before she could ask for another drink.”