Authors: Robert Ludlum
“
Bahrain?
” roared MacDonald. “How in hell are you going to
get
there?”
“You mean you don’t know?” said Kendrick.
Emmanuel Weingrass, his slender chest heaving in pain from the most recent fit of coughing, stepped out of the limousine in front of the cemetery at Jabal Sa’ali. He turned to the driver, who held the door, and spoke reverently in an exaggerated British accent. “I shall pray over my English ancestors—so few do, you know. Come back in an hour.”
“Howar?” asked the man, holding up one finger. “
Iss’a?
” he repeated in Arabic, using the word for hour.
“Yes, my Islamic friend. It is a profound pilgrimage I make every year. Can you understand that?”
“Yes, yes!
El sallah. Allahoo Akbar!
” answered the driver, rapidly nodding his head, saying that he understood prayers and
that God was great. He also held money in his hand, more money than he had expected, knowing that even more could be his when he returned in an hour.
“Leave me now,” said Weingrass. “I wish to be alone—
sibni fihahlee
.”
“Yes, yes!” The man closed the door, ran back to his seat and drove away. Manny permitted himself a brief spasm, one vibrating cough compounding the previous one, and looked around to ascertain his bearings, then started across the cemetery to the stone house that stood in a field several hundred yards away. Ten minutes later he was ushered down to the basement, where Israeli intelligence had set up its command post.
“
Weingrass
,” cried the Mossad officer, “it’s good to see you again!”
“No, it’s not. You’re never happy to see me or hear me on the telephone. You know nothing about the work you do, you’re only an accountant—a miserly one at that.”
“Now, Manny, let’s not start—”
“I say we start right away,” interrupted Weingrass, looking over at Ben-Ami and the five members of the Masada unit. “Do any of you misfits have whisky? I know this
zohlah
doesn’t,” he added, implying that the Mossad man was cheap.
“Not even wine,” replied Ben-Ami. “It was not included in our provisions.”
“No doubt issued by
this
one. All right, accountant, tell me everything you know. Where is my son, Evan Kendrick?”
“Here, but that’s all we know.”
“That’s standard. You were always three days behind the Sabbath.”
“
Manny
—”
“Calm yourself. You’ll have cardiac arrest and I don’t want Israel to lose its worst accountant. Who can tell me more?”
“
I
can tell you more!” shouted Yaakov, code name Blue. “We should be at this moment—
hours
ago—studying the embassy. We have a job to do that has nothing to do with your
American
!”
“So, besides an accountant you have a hothead,” said Weingrass. “Anyone else?”
“Kendrick is here without sanction,” replied Ben-Ami. “He was flown over under cover but is now left to his own devices. He’s unacknowledged if caught.”
“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!