“Do you go to church?” asked Evan.
“You’re damned right I do. When I’m home I make the whole damn family go—no welching on that, by Christ. At least once a month, it’s a rule.”
“So do the Arabs, but not once a month. Five times a day. They believe as strongly as you do, at least as strongly, wouldn’t you say? The Second Pillar of el Maghreb refers to the Islamic prayers at sundown. Hell of an inconvenience, isn’t it? They work their Arab asses off all day long, mostly for nothing, and then it’s sundown. No cocktails, just prayers to their God. Maybe it’s all they’ve got. Like the old plantation spirituals.”
The pilot turned slowly in his seat. His face in the shadows of the flight deck startled Kendrick. The brigadier general was black. “You set me up,” said the pilot flatly.
“I’m sorry. I mean that; I didn’t realize. On the other hand, you said it. You called me an Arab lover.”
Sundown. Masqat, Oman. The ancient turbojet bounced onto the runway with such force that some of the passengers screamed, their desert instincts alert to the possibility of their fiery oblivion. Then with the realization that they had arrived, that they were safe, and that there were jobs for the having, they began chanting excitedly. Thanks be to Allah for His benevolence! They had been promised rials for servitude the Omanis would not accept. So be it. It was far better than what they had left behind.
The suited businessmen in the front of the aircraft, handkerchiefs held to their noses, rushed to the exit door, gripping their briefcases, all too anxious to swallow the air of Oman. Kendrick stood in the aisle, the last in line, wondering what the State Department’s Swann had in mind when he said in his message that “arrangements” had been cleared.
“Come with me!” cried a berobed Arab from the crowd forming outside the terminal for immigration. “We have another exit, Dr. Axelrod.”
“My passport doesn’t say anything about Axelrod.”
“Precisely. That is why you are coming with me.”
“What about immigration?”
“Keep your papers in your pocket. No one wants to see them. I do not want to see them!”
“Then how—”
“Enough, ya Shaikh. Give me your luggage and stay ten feet behind me. Come!”
Evan handed his soft carry-on suitcase to the excited contact and followed him. They walked to the right, past the end of the one-story brown-and-white terminal, and headed immediately to the left toward the tall Cyclone fence beyond which the fumes from dozens of taxis, buses and trucks tinted the burning air. The crowds outside the airport fence were racing back and forth amid the congested vehicles, their robes flowing, shrieking admonishments and screeching for attention. Along the fence for perhaps seventy-five to a hundred feet, scores of other Arabs pressed their faces against the metal links, peering into an alien world of smooth asphalt runways and sleek aircraft that was no part of their lives, giving birth to fantasies beyond their understanding. Up ahead, Kendrick could see a metal building the size of ten Quonset huts. It was the airfield warehouse he remembered so well, recalling the hours he and Manny Weingrass had spent inside waiting for long-overdue equipment promised on one flight or another, often furious with the customs officials who frequently could not understand the forms they had to fill out that would release the equipment—if indeed the equipment had arrived.
The gate in front of the warehouse’s hangarlike doors was open, accommodating the line of freight containers, their deep wells filled with crates disgorged from the various aircraft. Guards with attack dogs on leashes flanked the customs conveyor belt that carried the freight inside to anxious suppliers and retailers and the ever-present, ever-frustrated foremen of construction teams. The guards’ eyes constantly roamed the frenzied activity, repeating machine pistols in their hands. They were there not merely to maintain a semblance of order amid the chaos and to back up the customs officials in the event of violent disputes, but essentially to be on the lookout for weapons and narcotics being smuggled into the sultanate. Each crate and thickly layered box was examined by the snarling, yelping dogs as it was lifted onto the belt.
Evan’s contact stopped; he did the same. The Arab turned and nodded at a small side gate with a sign in Arabic above it. Stop. Authorized Personnel Only. Violators Will Be Shot. It was an exit for the guards and other officials of the government. The gate also had a large metal plate where a lock would normally be placed. And it was a lock, thought Kendrick, a lock electronically released from somewhere inside the warehouse. The contact nodded twice more, indicating that with a signal Evan was to head for the gate where “violators will be shot.” Kendrick frowned questioningly, a hollow pain forming in his stomach. With Masqat under a state of siege, it would not take much for someone to start firing. The Arab read the doubt in his eyes and nodded for a fourth time, slowly, reassuringly. The contact turned and looked to his right down the line of freight containers. Almost imperceptibly he raised his right hand.
Suddenly, a fight broke out beside one of the containers. Curses were shrieked as arms swung violently and fists pounded.
“Contraband!”
“Liar!”
“Your mother is a goat, a filthy she-goat!”
“Your father lies with whores! You are a product!”
Dust flew as the grappling bodies fell to the ground, joined by others who took sides. The dogs began barking viciously, straining at their leashes, their handlers carried forward toward the melee—all but one handler, one guard; and the signal was given by Evan’s contact. Together they ran to the deserted personnel exit.
“Good fortune, sir,” said the lone guard, his attack dog sniffing menacingly at Kendrick’s trousers as the man tapped the metal plate in a rapid code with his weapon. A buzzer sounded and the gate swung back. Kendrick and his contact ran through, racing along the metal wall of the warehouse.
In the parking lot beyond stood a broken-down truck, the tires seemingly only half inflated. The engine roared as loud reports came from a worn exhaust pipe. “Besuraa!” cried the Arab contact, telling Evan to hurry. “There is your transport.”
“I hope,” mumbled Kendrick, his voice laced with doubt.
“Welcome to Masqat, Shaikh-whoever.”
“You know who I am,” said Evan angrily. “You picked me out in the crowd! How many others can do that?”
“Very few, sir. And I do not know who you are, I swear by Allah.”
“Then I have to believe you, don’t I?” asked Kendrick, staring at the man.
“I would not use the name of Allah if it were not so. Please. Besuraa!”
“Thanks,” said Evan, grabbing his carryon and running toward the truck’s cab. Suddenly, the driver was gesturing out the window for him to climb into the back under the canvas that covered the bed of the ancient vehicle. The truck lurched forward as a pair of hands pulled him up inside.
Stretched out on the floorboards, Kendrick raised his eyes to the Arab above him. The man smiled and pointed to the long robes of an aba and the ankle-length shirt known as a thobe that were suspended on a hanger in the front of the canvas-topped trailer; beside it, hanging on a nail was the ghotra headdress and a pair of white balloon trousers, the street clothes of an Arab and the last items Evan had requested of the State Department’s Frank Swann. These and one other small but vital catalyst.
The Arab held it up. It was a tube of skin-darkening gel, which when generously applied turned the face and hands of a white Occidental into those of a Mideastern Semite whose skin had been permanently burnished by the hot, blistering, near-equatorial sun. The dyed pigment would stay darkened for a period of ten days before fading. Ten days. A lifetime—for him or for the monster who called himself the Mahdi.
The woman stood inside the airport fence inches from the metal links. She wore slightly flared white slacks and a tapered dark green silk blouse, the blouse creased by the leather strap of her handbag. Long dark hair framed her face; her sharp, attractive features were obscured by a pair of l
arge designer sunglasses, her head covered by a wide-brimmed white sun hat, the crown circled by a ribbon of green silk. At first she seemed to be yet another traveler from wealthy Rome or Paris, London or New York. But a closer look revealed a subtle difference from the stereotype; it was her skin. Its olive tones, neither black nor white, suggested northern Africa. What confirmed the difference was what she held in her hands, and only seconds before had pressed against the fence: a miniature camera, barely two inches long and with a tiny bulging, convex, prismatic lens engineered for telescopic photography, equipment associated with intelligence personnel. The seedy, run-down truck had swerved out of the warehouse parking lot; the camera was no longer necessary. She grabbed the handbag at her side and slipped it out of sight.
“Khalehla!” shouted an obese, wide-eyed, baldheaded man running toward her, pronouncing the name as “Ka-lay-la.” He was awkwardly carrying two suitcases, the sweat drenching his shirt and penetrating the black pin-striped suit styled on Savile Row. “For God’s sake, why did you drift off?”
“That dreadful line was simply too boring, darling,” replied the woman, her accent an unfathomable mixture of British and Italian or perhaps Greek. “I thought I’d stroll around.”
“Good Christ, Khalehla, you can’t do that, can’t you under-stand? This place is a veritable hell on earth right now!” The Englishman stood before her, his jowled face flushed, dripping with perspiration. “I was the very next in line for that immigration imbecile, and I looked around and you weren’t there! And when I started rushing about to find you, three lunatics with guns—guns!—stopped me and took me into a room and searched our luggage!”
“I hope you were clean, Tony.”
“The bastards confiscated my whisky!”
“Oh, the sacrifices of being such a successful man. Never mind, darling, I’ll have it replaced.”
The British businessman’s eyes roved over the face and figure of Khalehla. “Well, it’s past, isn’t it? We’ll go back now and get it over with.” The obese man winked—one eye after the other. “I’ve got us splendid accommodations. You’ll be very pleased, my dear.”
“Accommodations? With you, darling?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Oh, I really couldn’t do that.”
“What? You said—”
“I said?” Khalehla broke in, her dark brows arched above her sunglasses.
“Well, you implied, rather emphatically, I might add, that if I could get you on that plane we might have a rather sporting time of it in Masqat.”
“Sporting, of course. Drinks on the Gulf, perhaps the races, dinner at El Quaman—yes, all of those things. But in your room?”
“Well, well … well, certain specifics shouldn’t have to be—specified.”
“Oh, my sweet Tony. How can I apologize for such a misunderstanding? My old English matron at the Cairo University suggested I reach you. She’s one of your wife’s dearest friends. Oh, no, I couldn’t, really.”
“Shit!” exploded the highly successful businessman named Tony.
“Miraya!” shouted Kendrick over the deafening sounds of the dilapidated truck as it bounced over a back road into Masqat.
“You did not request a mirror, ya Shaikh,” yelled the Arab in the rear of the trailer, his English heavily accented but understandable enough.
“Rip out one of the side-view mirrors on the doors, then. Tell the driver.”
“He cannot hear me, ya Shaikh. Like so many others, this is an old vehicle, one that will not be noticed. I cannot reach the driver.”
“Goddamnit!” exclaimed Evan, the tube of gel in his hand. “Then you be my eyes, ya sahbee,” he said, calling the man his friend. “Come closer to me and watch. Tell me when it’s right. Open the canvas.”
The Arab folded back part of the rear covering, letting the sunlight into the darkened trailer. Cautiously, holding on to the strips, he moved forward until he was barely a foot away from Kendrick. “This is the iddahwa, sir?” he asked, referring to the tube.
“Iwah,” said Evan, when he saw that the gel was indeed the medicine he needed. He began spreading it first on his hands; both men watched; the waiting time was less than three minutes.
“Arma!” shouted the Arab, holding out his right hand; the color of the skin nearly matched his own.
“Kwiyis,” agreed Kendrick, trying to approximate the proportion of gel he had applied to his hands so as to equal the amount for his face. There was nothing for it but to do it. He did, and anxiously watched the Arab’s eyes.
“Mahool!” cried his newest companion, grinning the grin of significant triumph. “Delwatee anzur!”
He had done it. His flesh was now the color of a sun-drenched Arab. “Help me into the thobe and the aba, please,” Evan asked as he started to disrobe in the violently shaking truck.
“I will, of course,” said the Arab, suddenly in much clearer English than he had employed before. “But now we are finished with each other. Forgive me for playing the naïf with you but no one is to be trusted here; not exempted is the American State Department. You are taking risks, ya Shaikh, far more than I, as the father of my children would take, but that is your business, not mine. You will be dropped off in the center of Masqat and you will then be on your own.”
“Thanks for getting me there,” said Evan.
“Thank you for coming, ya Shaikh. But do not try to trace those of us who helped you. In truth, we would kill you before the enemy had a chance to schedule your execution. We are quiet, but we are alive.”
“Who are you?”
“Believers, ya Shaikh. That is enough for you to know.”
“Alfshukre,” said Evan, thanking the clerk and tipping him for the confidentiality he had been guaranteed. He signed the hotel register with a false Arabic name and was given the key to his suite. He did not require a bellboy. Kendrick took the elevator to a wrong floor and waited at the end of a corridor to see if he had been followed. He had not been, so he walked down the staircase to his proper floor and went to his suite.
Time. Time’s valuable, every minute: Frank Swann, Department of State. The evening prayers of el Maghreb were over; darkness descended and the madness at the embassy could be heard in the distance. Evan threw his small carryon into a corner of the living room, took out his billfold from under his robes, and withdrew a folded sheet of paper on which he had written the names and the telephone numbers—numbers that were by now almost five years old—of the people he wanted to contact. He went to the desk and the telephone, sat down and unfolded the paper.
Thirty-five minutes later, after the effusive yet strangely awkward greetings of three friends from the past, the meeting was arranged. He had chosen seven names, each among the most influential men he remembered from his days in Masqat. Two had died; one was out of the country; the fourth told him quite frankly that the climate was not right for an Omani to meet with an American. The three who had agreed to see him, with varying degrees of reluctance, would arrive separately within the hour. Each would go directly to his suite without troubling the front desk.
Thirty-eight minutes passed, during which time Kendrick unpacked the few items of clothing he had brought and ordered specific brands of whisky from room service. The abstinence demanded by Islamic tradition was more honored in the breach, and beside each name was the libation each guest favored; it was a lesson Evan had learned from the irascible Emmanuel Weingrass. An industrial lubricant, my son. You remember the name of a man’s wife, he’s pleased. You remember the brand of whisky he drinks, now that’s something else. Now you care!
The soft knocking at the door broke the silence of the room like cracks of lightning. Kendrick took several deep breaths, walked across the room, and admitted his first visitor.
“It is you, Evan? My God, you haven’t converted, have you?”
“Come in, Mustapha. It’s good to see you again.”
“But am I seeing you?” said the man named Mustapha who was dressed in a dark brown busine
ss suit. “And your skin! You are as dark as I am if not darker.”
“I want you to understand everything.” Kendrick closed the door, gesturing for his friend from the past to choose a place to sit. “I’ve got your brand of Scotch. Care for a drink?”
“Oh, that Manny Weingrass is never far away, is he?” said Mustapha, walking to the long brocade sofa and sitting down. “The old thief.”
“Hey, come on, Musty,” protested Evan, laughing and heading for the hotel’s dry bar. “He never shortchanged you.”
“No, he didn’t. Neither he nor you nor your other partners ever shortchanged any of us.… How has it been with you without them, my friend? Many of us talk about it even after these four years.”
“Sometimes not easy,” said Kendrick honestly, pouring drinks. “But you accept it. You cope.” He brought Mustapha his Scotch and sat down in one of the three chairs opposite the sofa. “The best, Musty.” He raised his glass.
“No, old friend, it is the worst—the worst of times, as the English Dickens wrote.”
“Let’s wait till the others get here.”
“They’re not coming.” Mustapha drank his Scotch.
“What?”
“We talked. I am, as is said in so many business conferences, the representative of certain interests. Also, as the only minister of the sultan’s cabinet, it was felt that I could convey the government’s consensus.”
“About what? You’re jumping way the hell ahead of me.”
“You jumped ahead of us, Evan, by simply coming here and calling us. One of us; two, perhaps; even in the extreme, three—but seven. No, that was reckless of you, old friend, and dangerous for everyone.”
“Why?”
“Did you think for a minute,” continued the Arab, overriding Kendrick, “that even three recognizable men of standing—say nothing of seven—could converge on a hotel within minutes of each other to meet with a stranger without the management hearing about it? Ridiculous.”
Evan studied Mustapha before speaking, their eyes locked. “What is it, Musty? What are you trying to tell me? This isn’t the embassy, and that obscene mess over there hasn’t anything to do with the businessmen or the government of Oman.”