Authors: Robert Ludlum
He entered the large square. A Roman fountain was sending sprays of water above a dark circular pool in whose center stood a statue of some Italian sculptor’s concept of a desert sheikh striding forward, robes flowing, going nowhere. But it was the crowds that stole Evan’s attention. Most were male Arabs, merchants catering to the rich and foolhardy Europeans, tourists indifferent to the chaos at the embassy, marked by their Western clothes and profusion of gold bracelets and chains, glistening symbols of defiance in a city gone mad. The Omanis, however, were like animated robots, forcing themselves to concentrate on the inconsequential, their ears blocking out the constant gunfire from the American embassy less than a half mile away. Everywhere, their eyes blinked and squinted incessantly, brows frowning in disbelief and disassociation. What was happening in their peaceful Masqat was beyond their understanding; they were no part of the madness, no part at
all
, so they did their best to shut it out.
He saw it.
Balawa bohrtooan
. “Orange baklava,” the specialty of the bakery. The Turkish-styled small brown shop with a succession of minarets painted above the glass of the storefront was sandwiched between a large, brightly lighted jewelry store and an equally fashionable boutique devoted to leather goods, the name
Paris
scattered in black and gold signs beyond the glass in front of ascending blocks of luggage and accessories. Kendrick walked diagonally across the square, past the fountain, and approached the door of the bakery.
“Your people were right,” said the dark-haired woman in the tailored black suit walking out of the shadows of the Harat Waljat, the miniature camera in her hand. She raised it and pressed the shutter release; the automatic advance took successive
photographs as Evan Kendrick entered the bakery shop in the market of Sabat Aynub. “Was he noticed in the bazaar?” she asked, replacing the camera in her purse, addressing the short, robed middle-aged Arab who cautiously stood behind her.
“There was talk about a man running into the alley after the police,” said the informant, his eyes on the bakery. “It was contradicted, convincingly, I believe.”
“How? He was seen.”
“But in the excitement he was
not
seen rushing out, clasping his billfold, which was presumably taken by the pigs. That was the information emphatically exclaimed by our man to the on-lookers. Naturally, others emphatically agreed, for hysterical people will always leap on new information unknown to a crowd of strangers. It elevates them.”
“You’re very good,” said the woman, laughing softly. “So are your people.”
“We had better be,
ya anisa
Khalehla,” responded the Arab, using the Omani title of respect. “If we are less than that, we face alternatives we’d rather not consider.”
“Why the bakery?” asked Khaleh. “Any ideas?”
“None whatsoever. I detest baklava. The honey doesn’t drip, it pours. The Jews like it, you know.”
“So do I.”
“Then you both forget what the Turks did to you—both.”
“I don’t think our subject went into that bakery for either baklava or a historical treatise on the Turks versus the tribes of Egypt and Israel.”
“A daughter of Cleopatra speaks?” The informant smiled.
“This daughter of Cleopatra doesn’t know what the hell you’re talking about. I’m just trying to learn things.”
“Then start with the military sedan that picked up your subject several blocks north of his hotel after the prayers of
el Maghreb
. It has considerable significance.”
“He must have friends in the army.”
“There is only the sultan’s garrison in Masqat.”
“So?”
“The officers are rotated bimonthly between the city and the posts at Jiddah and Marmul, as well as a dozen or so garrisons along the borders of South Yemen.”
“What’s your point?”
“I present you with two points, Khalehla. The first is that I find it unbelievably coincidental that the subject, after four years, would so conveniently know a certain friend in the relatively
small rotating officer corps stationed this specific fortnight in Masqat in an officer corps that changes with the years—”
“Unusually coincidental, I agree, but certainly possible. What’s your second point?”
“Actually, it negates my mentioning the first. These days no vehicle from the Masqat garrison would pick up a foreigner in the manner he was picked up, in the guise he was picked up, without supreme authority.”
“The
sultan
?”
“Who else?”
“He wouldn’t dare! He’s boxed. A wrong move and he’d be held responsible for whatever executions take place. If that happens, the Americans would level Masqat to the ground. He knows that!”
“Perhaps he also knows that he is held responsible both for what he
does
do as well as for what he does
not
do. In such a situation it’s better to know what others are doing, if only to offer guidance—or to abort some unproductive activity with one more execution.”
Khalehla looked hard at the informant in the dim light of the square’s periphery. “If that military car took the subject to a meeting with the sultan, it also brought him back.”
“Yes, it did,” agreed the middle-aged man, his voice flat, as if he understood the implication.
“Which means that whatever the subject proposed was not rejected out of hand.”
“It would appear so,
ya anisa
Khalehla.”
“And
we
have to know what was proposed, don’t we?”
“It would be dangerous in the extreme for all of us
not
to know,” said the Arab, nodding. “We are dealing with more than the deaths of two hundred thirty-six Americans. We are dealing with the destiny of a nation.
My
nation, I should add, and I shall do my best to see that it remains
ours
. Do you understand me, my dear Khalehla?”
“I do,
ya sahib el Aumer
.”
“Better a dead cipher than a catastrophic shock.”
“I understand.”
“Do you really? You had far more advantages in your Mediterranean than we ever had in our obscure Gulf. It is our time now. We won’t let anyone stop us.”
“I want you to have your time, dear friend.
We
want you to have it.”
“Then do what you must do,
ya sahbitee
Khalehla.”
“I will.” The well-tailored woman reached into her purse and took out a short-barreled automatic. Holding it in her left hand, she again searched her purse and removed a clip of bullets; with a pronounced click she jammed it into the base of the handle and snapped back the loading chamber. The weapon was ready to fire. “Go now,
adeem sahbee
,” she said, securing the strap of her purse over her shoulder, her hand inside, gripping the automatic. “We understand each other and you must be somewhere else, someplace where others can see you, not here.”
“
Salaam aleikum
, Khalehla. Go with Allah.”
“I’ll send
him
to Allah to plead his case.…
Quickly
. He’s coming out of the bakery! I’ll follow him and do what has to be done. You have perhaps ten to fifteen minutes to be with others away from here.”
“At the last, you protect us, don’t you? You are a treasure. Be careful, dear Khalehla.”
“Tell
him
to be careful. He intrudes.”
“I’ll go to the Zawadi mosque and talk with the elder mullahs and muezzins. Holy eyes are not questioned. It is a short distance, five minutes at most.”
“
Aleikum salaam
,” said the woman, starting across the square to her left, her gaze riveted on the American in Arab robes who had passed beyond the fountain and was walking rapidly toward the dark, narrow streets to the east, beyond the market of Sabat Aynub.
What is that damn fool doing?
she thought as she removed her hat, crushing it with her left hand and shoving it into her purse next to the weapon that she gripped feverishly in her right.
He’s heading into the el Shari el Mishkwiyis
, she concluded, mixing her thoughts in Arabic and English, referring to what is called in the West the roughest section of town, an area outsiders avoid.
They were right. He’s an amateur and I can’t go in there dressed like this! But I have to. My God, he’ll get us both killed!
Evan Kendrick hurried down the uneven layers of stone that was the narrow street, past low, run-down, congested buildings and half-buildings—crumbling structures with canvas and animal skins covering blown-out windows; those that remained intact were protected by slatted shutters, more broken than not. Bare wires sagged everywhere, municipal junction boxes having been spliced, electricity stolen, dangerous. The pungent smells of Arabic cooking intermingled with stronger odors, unmistakable odors—hashish, burning coca leaves smuggled into unpatrolled
coves in the Gulf, and pockets of human waste. The inhabitants of this stretch of ghetto moved slowly, cautiously, suspiciously through the dimly lit caverns of their world, at home with its degradation, comfortable with its insulated dangers, at ease with their collective status as outcasts—the ease confirmed by sudden bursts of laughter behind shuttered windows. The dress code of this el Shari el Mishkwiyis was anything but consistent. Abas and ghotras coexisted with torn blue jeans, forbidden miniskirts, and the uniforms of sailors and soldiers from a dozen different nations—soiled uniforms exclusively from the ranks of enlisted personnel, although it was said that many an officer borrowed a subordinate’s clothes to venture inside and taste the prohibited pleasures of the neighborhood.
Men huddled in doorways, to Evan’s annoyance, for they obscured the barely legible numbers on the sandstone walls. He was further annoyed by the filthy intersecting alleys that unaccountably caused the numbers to skip from one section of the street to the next.
El-Baz. Number 77 Shari el Balah
—the street of dates. Where
was
it?
There it was. A deeply recessed heavy door with thick iron bars across a closed slot that was built into the upper panel at eye level. However, a man in disheveled robes squatting diagonally against the stone blocked the door on the right side of the tunnellike entrance.
“
Esmahlee?
” said Kendrick, excusing himself and stepping forward.
“
Lay?
” replied the haunched figure, asking why.
“I have an appointment,” continued Evan in Arabic. “I’m expected.”
“Who sends you?” said the man without moving.
“That’s not your concern.”
“I am not here to receive such an answer.” The Arab raised his back, angling it against the door; the robes of his aba parted slightly, revealing the handle of a pistol tucked into an undersash. “Again, who sends you?”
Evan wondered if the sultan’s police officer had forgotten to give him a name or a code or a password that would gain him entrance. He had so little time! He did not need this obstruction; he reached for an answer. “I visited a bakery in the Sabat Aynub,” he said rapidly. “I spoke—”
“A bakery?” broke in the squatting man, his brows arched beneath his headdress. “There are at least three bakeries in the Sabat Aynub.”
“Goddamnit,
baklava
!” spat out Kendrick, his frustration mounting, his eyes on the handle of the gun. “Some asinine orange—”
“Enough,” said the guard, abruptly rising to his feet and pulling his robes together. “It was a simple reply to a simple question, sir. A
baker
sent you, you see?”
“All right.
Fine!
May I go inside, please?”
“First we must determine whom you visit. Whom do you visit, sir?”
“For God’s sake, the man who lives here … works here.”
“He is a man without a name?”
“Are you entitled to know it?” Evan’s intense whisper carried over the street noises beyond.
“A fair question, sir,” said the Arab, nodding pensively. “However, since I was aware of a baker in the Sabat Aynub—”
“Christ on a raft!” exploded Kendrick. “All right. His name is El-Baz! Now will you let me
in
? I’m in a hurry!”
“It will be my pleasure to alert the resident, sir.
He
will let you in if it is
his
pleasure. Certainly you can understand the necessity for—”
It was as far as the ponderous guard got before snapping his head toward the pavement outside. The undercurrent of noises from the dark street had suddenly erupted. A man screamed; others roared, their strident voices echoing off the surrounding stone.
“
Elhahoonai!
”
“
Udam!
”
And then piercing the chorus of outrage was a woman’s voice. “
Siboni fihalee!
” she cried frantically, demanding to be left alone. Then came in perfect English, “You
bastards
!”
Evan and the guard rushed to the edge of the stone as two gunshots shattered the human cacophony, escalating it into frenzy, the ominous rings of ricocheting bullets receding in the cavernous distance. The Arab guard spun around, hurling himself to the hard stone floor of the entranceway. Kendrick crouched; he had to
know
! Three robed figures accompanied by a young man and woman dressed in slovenly Western clothes raced past, the male in torn khaki trousers clutching his bleeding arm. Evan stood up and cautiously peered around the edge of the stone corner. What he saw astonished him.
In the shadows of the confining street stood a bareheaded woman, a short-bladed knife in her left hand, her right gripping an automatic. Slowly, Kendrick stepped out on the uneven layers
of stone. Their eyes met and locked. The woman raised her gun; Evan froze, trying desperately to decide what to do and when to do it, knowing that if he moved quickly she would fire. Instead, to his further astonishment, she began stepping backward into the deeper shadows, her weapon still leveled at him. Suddenly, with the approach of excited voices punctuated by the repeated penetrating sounds of a shrill whistle, the woman turned and raced away down the dark narrow street. In seconds she had disappeared. She had followed him! To kill him?
Why?
Who
was
she?