The Icarus Agenda (31 page)

“If everything goes according to schedule, he’ll pick up the Arab at ten o’clock. With his Masqat terrorist in tow, he expects to make contact with one of the Mahdi’s agents, someone who can lead them either to the Mahdi himself or to someone else who can.”

“On what
basis
?” asked the incredulous Ben-Ami from the Mossad.

“Actually, it’s not bad. The Mahdi’s people think there’s an emergency, but they don’t know what it is.”

“An
amateur
!” roared code Red of the Masada unit. “There’ll be backups, and blind drones, and backups for
them
. What the hell are we
doing
here?”

“You’re here to take out the backups and the drones
and
the backups behind
them
!” shouted Weingrass in reply. “If I have to tell you what to look for, go back and start all over again with
the Boy Scouts in Tel Aviv. You follow; you protect; you take out the
bad guys
. You clear a path for that amateur who’s putting his life on the line. This Mahdi’s the key, and if you haven’t understood that by now, there’s nothing I can do about it. One word from him, preferably with a gun to his head, and everything stops in Oman.”

“It’s not without merit,” said Ben-Ami.

“But it’s without
sense
!” cried Yaakov. “Say this Kendrick does reach your Mahdi. What does he do, what does he
say
?” Code Blue shifted to a broad caricature of an American accent. “Say, pardner, Ah gotta hell of a deal for you, buddy. You call off your dumb goons and Ah’ll give you mah new leather boots.
Ridiculous!
He’ll be shot in the head the moment he’s asked, ‘What’s the emergency?’ ”

“That’s not without merit, either,” repeated Ben-Ami.

“Lawyers now I’ve got!” yelled Manny. “You think my son is stupid? He built a construction empire on mishegoss? The minute he has something concrete—a name, a location, a company—he reaches Masqat, and our mutual friend, the sultan, calls the Americans, the British, the French and anyone else he trusts who’s set up shop in Oman and
they
go to work. Their people here in Bahrain close in.”

“Merit,” said Ben-Ami once again, nodding.

“Not totally without,” agreed code Black.

“And what will
you
be doing?” asked a somewhat subdued yet still-challenging Yaakov.

“Caging a fat fox who’s been devouring a lot of chickens in a coop no one ever knew about,” said Weingrass.

Kendrick’s eyes snapped open. A sound, a scrape—an intrusion on the silence of the bedroom that had nothing to do with the traffic outside the cathedral windows. It was closer, more personal, somehow intimate. Yet it was not the woman, Khalehla; she was gone. He blinked for a moment at the indented pillows beside him, and despite everything that his mind was putting together, he felt a sudden sadness. For those brief few hours with her he had cared, feeling a warmth between them that was only a part of their frantic lovemaking, which in itself would not have happened without that sense of warmth.

What time was it? He turned his wrist and—his watch was not there.
Goddamnit
, the bitch still
had
it! He rolled over on the bed and swung his legs out on the floor without regard for the sheet covering him. The soles of his feet landed on hard objects;
he looked down at the white polar-bear rug and blinked again. Everything that had been in his pockets was there—everything but the pack of cigarettes, which he very much wanted at the moment. And then his eyes were drawn to a gold-bordered sheet of notepaper on the bedside table; he picked it up.

I think we were both kind to each other when each of us needed some kindness. No regrets other than one. I won’t see you again. Good-bye.

No name, no forwarding address, just
Ciao, amico
. So much for two passing ships in the Persian Gulf or two uptight, damaged people on a late afternoon in Bahrain. But it was not afternoon any longer, he realized. He was barely able to read Khalehla’s note; only the last orange sprays of sundown now streamed through the windows. He reached for his watch; it was seven-fifty-five; he had slept nearly four hours. He was famished, and his years in the deserts, the mountains and the white water had taught him not to travel hard on an empty stomach. A “guard,” she had said. “Outside,” she had explained. Evan yanked the sheet off the bed, wrapped it around himself and walked across the room. He stopped; on the floor was an envelope. That was the sound he had heard, an envelope shoved under a door, forced under, sliding back and forth because of the thick rug. He picked it up, tore it open and read it. A list of sixteen names, addresses and telephone numbers.
MacDonald!
The roster of calls he had made in Bahrain. One step closer to the Mahdi!

Evan opened the door; the greetings between himself and the uniformed guard were dispensed with rapidly in Arabic. “You are awake now, sir. You were not to be disturbed until eight-thirty o’clock.”

“I’d be most grateful if you would disturb me now with some food. The woman said I might get something to eat from your kitchen.”

“Indeed, whatever you wish, sir.”

“Whatever you can find. Meat, rice, bread … and milk, I’d like some milk. Everything as soon as possible, please.”

“Very quick, sir!” The guard turned and rushed down the hallway toward the staircase. Evan closed the door and stood for a moment to find his bearings in the now darkened room. He switched on a lamp at the edge of the endless bureau, then started across the thick-piled rug to another door that led to one of the most opulent bathrooms in Bahrain.

Ten minutes later he emerged, showered and shaved, now
dressed in a short terry-cloth robe. He walked to the closet where Khalehla had said his clothes were—“fumigated, laundered and pressed.” He opened the mirrored door and barely recognized the odd assortment of apparel he had collected at the embassy in Masqat; it all looked like a respectable paramilitary uniform. Leaving everything on hangers, he draped the starched outfit over the chaise, walked back to the bed and sat down, gazing at his belongings on the floor. He was tempted to check his money belt to see if any of the large bills were missing, then decided against it. If Khalehla was a thief, he did not want to know it, not at the moment.

The telephone rang, its harsh bell less a ring than a prolonged metallic shriek. For a moment he stared at the instrument wondering … 
who?
He had MacDonald’s list; that was the only call Khalehla said he could expect.
Khalehla?
Had she changed her mind? With a rush of unanticipated feeling he reached for the phone, yanking it to his ear. Eight seconds later he wished to God he had not.

“
Amreekanee
,” said the male voice, its flat monotone conveying hatred. “You leave that royal house before morning and you are a dead man. Tomorrow you go quietly back to where you came from, where you belong.”

Emmanuel Weingrass pulled code Gray’s radio to his lips and spoke. “Go ahead and remember to keep the line open. I’ve got to hear
everything
!”

“If you’ll forgive me, Weingrass,” replied Ben-Ami from the shadows across Government Road. “I would feel somewhat more secure if our colleague Gray also heard. You and I are not so adept in these situations as those young men.”

“They haven’t a brain in their collective head. We have two.”

“This is not
shul
, Emmanuel, this is what’s called the field and it can be very unpleasant.”

“I have every confidence in you, Benny boy, as long as you guarantee these kiddie radios can be heard through steel.”

“They’re as clear as any electronic bug ever developed, with the added function of direct transmission. One just pushes the right buttons.”

“One doesn’t,” said Weingrass, “
you
do. Go on, we’ll follow when we hear what this MacDonald-Strickland says.”

“Send code Gray first, please.” Out of the shadows near the marquee of the Tylos Hotel, Ben-Ami joined the bustling crowds around the entrance. People came and went, mostly male, mostly in Western dress, along with a smattering of women exclusively in Western dress. Taxis disgorged passengers as others filled them, tipping a harried doorman whose sole job was to open and close doors, and every now and then to blow a strident whistle for a lowly, thobe-clad bellhop to carry luggage. Ben-Ami melted into this melee and went inside. Moments later, through the background noise of the lobby, he could be heard dialing; squinting in irritation, Manny held up the radio between himself and the much taller, muscular code Gray. The first words from Room 202 were obscured, then the Mossad agent spoke.

“
Shaikh Strickland?
”

“
Who’s this?
” The Englishman’s cautious whisper was now distinct; Ben-Ami had adjusted the radio.

“
I’m downstairs.… Anah hénah, littee gáhrah
—”

“
Bloody damn black fool!
” cried MacDonald. “
I don’t speak that gibberish! Why are you calling from the lobby?
”

“
I was testing you, Mr. Strickland
,” Ben-Ami broke in quickly. “
A man under stress often gives himself away. You might have asked me where my business trip was taking me, perhaps leading to a subsequent code. Then I would have known you were not the man
—”

“
Yes, yes, I understand! Thank Christ you’re here! It’s taken you long enough. I expected you a half hour ago. You were to say something to me. Say it!
”

“
Not over the telephone
,” answered the Mossad infiltrator firmly. “
Never over the telephone, you should know that
.”

“
If you think I’m just going to let you into my room
—”

“
I wouldn’t if I were you
,” interrupted Ben-Ami once again. “
We know you’re armed
.”

“
You do?
”

“
Every weapon sold under a counter is known to us
.”

“
Yes … yes, of course
.”

“
Open your door with the latch on. If my words are incorrect, kill me
.”

“
Yes … very well. I’m sure it won’t be necessary. But understand me, whoever you are, one misplaced syllable and you’re a corpse!
”

“
I shall practice my English, Shaikh Strickland
.”

A tiny green light suddenly began blinking on the small radio in Weingrass’s hand. “What the hell is
that
?” asked Manny.

“Direct transmission,” replied code Gray. “Give it to me.” The Masada commando took the instrument and pressed a button. “Go ahead.”

“He’s alone!” said Ben-Ami’s voice. “We have to move quickly, take him now!”

“We don’t make
any
moves, you Mossad imbecile!” countered Weingrass, grabbing the radio. “Even those mutants from the State Department’s Consular Operations can hear what they’ve just been
told
, but not the holy
Mossad
! They hear only their
own
voices, and maybe Abraham’s if he’s got a code ring out of a box of corn flakes!”

“Manny, I don’t need this,” said Ben-Ami slowly, painfully over the radio.

“You need ears, that’s what you need,
ganza macher
! That daffodil expects a contact from the Mahdi any minute—someone who’s not to call from the lobby but who’s to go directly to his room. He’s got the words to get MacDonald to open the door—
that’s
when we join the party and take them both! What did you have in mind? Breaking the door down courtesy of the Neanderthal here beside me?”

“Well, yes—”

“I don’t need this, either,” muttered Gray quietly.

“No wonder you idiots blew it in Washington. You thought
Password
was a Mossad drop and not a television show!”

“Manny!”

“Get your secret ass up to the second floor! We’ll be there in two minutes, right, Tinker Bell?”

“Mr. Weingrass,” said code Gray, the muscles of his lean, muscular jaw working furiously as he snapped off the radio. “You are probably the most irritatingly vexatious man I have ever met.”

“
Oy
, such words! In the Bronx you would have been beaten up for that—if ten or twelve of my Irish or Italian buddies could have handled you. Come
on
!” Manny started across Government Road, followed by Gray, who kept shaking his head, not in disagreement but only to purge the thoughts he was thinking.

The hotel corridor was long, the carpet worn. It was the dinner hour and most of the guests were out. Weingrass stood at one end; he had tried to smoke a Gauloise but had crushed it out, burning a hole in the carpet, as it had started a devastating
rumble in his chest. Ben-Ami was by the farthest elevator, the ever-present irritated hotel guest waiting for a conveyance that never came. Code Gray was nearest to Room 202, leaning casually against the wall next to a door fifteen feet diagonally across the hall from “Mr. Strickland’s.” He was a professional; he assumed the posture of a young man eagerly awaiting a woman he was perhaps not meant to meet, even to the point of seeming to talk through the door.

It happened, and Weingrass was impressed. The uniformed doorman from the Tylos’s marqueed entrance suddenly walked out of an elevator, his gold-braided cap in his hand; he approached Room 202. He stopped, knocked, waited for the chained door to be partially opened and spoke. The chain was unlatched. Suddenly, with the aggressive speed and purpose of an Olympic athlete, code Gray spun away from the wall, hurling himself at the two figures in the doorway, somehow managing to withdraw a handgun from some unseen place as he crashed his body, surging up laterally, into his two enemies, his feet and arms, again somehow, pulling them together as one entity and sending them across the floor. Two muted shots erupted from the commando’s pistol; the automatic in Anthony MacDonald’s hand was blown away, as were two of his fingers.

Weingrass and Ben-Ami converged on the door and rushed inside, slamming it shut behind them.

“My
God, look
at me!” screamed the Englishman on the floor, grabbing his bleeding right hand. “Jesus
Christ
!
I
have no—”