sell, and kill a child for carrying the Palestinian flag—'an accident of excess', they call it—and yet we are the terrorists!… If the Aradous Hotel was a trap, he could not remain caged in the room; yet if it was not a trap, he had to be where he could be contacted. The Mahdi was everything, his summons a command, for he gave them the means for hope, for spreading their message of legitimacy. When would the world understand them? When would the Mahdis of the world be irrelevant?
The telephone rang and Azra raced to it. 'Yes?'
'I was delayed but I'm on my way. They found me; I was nearly killed at the airport but I escaped. They may even have traced you by now.'
'What?'
'Leaks in the system. Get out, but don't go through the lobby. There's a staircase designed for a fire exit. It's at the south end of the hallway, I think. North or south, one or the other. Use it and go through the restaurant's kitchen to the employees' exit. You'll come out on the Wadi Al Ahd. Walk across the road; I'll pick you up.'
'You are you, Amal Bahrudi? I can trust you?'
'Neither of us has a choice, do we?'
'That is not an answer.'
I'm not your enemy,' lied Evan Kendrick. 'We'll never be friends but I'm not your enemy. I can't afford it. And you're wasting time, poet, part of which is mine. I'll be there in five minutes. Hurry!'
‘I go—'
'Be careful.'
Azra hung up the phone and went to his weapons which he had cleaned repeatedly and placed in a neat row on the bureau. He took the small Heckler and Koch P9S automatic, knelt down, pulling up his left trouser leg, and inserted the weapon in the criss-crossing calf straps that rested below the back of his knee. Standing up he removed the larger, more powerful Mauser Parabellum pistol and shoved it into his shoulder holster, this followed by the sheathed hunting knife resting alongside the gun. He walked to a chair where he had thrown the coat of his newly purchased suit, put on the jacket and crossed to the door, rapidly letting himself out into the corridor.
Nothing would have seemed odd to him were it not for his concentration on the whereabouts of the staircase and his desire to save time—time now measured in minutes and segments of minutes. He started to his right, to the south end of the hallway, his eyes only partially aware of a door being closed, not an open door but one barely ajar. Meaningless: a careless guest; a Western woman carrying too many shopping boxes. Then, unable to see an exit sign for a staircase, he turned quickly to check the other end, the north end of the hallway. A second door, this one open no more than two inches, was closed swiftly, silently. The first was now no longer meaningless, for surely the second was not. They had found him! His room was being watched. By whom? Who were they? Azra continued walking, now to the north end of the corridor, but the instant he passed the second door he pivoted against the wall, reached inside his jacket for the long-bladed hunting knife, and waited. In seconds the door opened; he spun around the frame instantly facing a man he knew was his enemy, a deeply tanned, muscular man near his own age—desert training was written all over him, an Israeli commando! Instead of a weapon the startled Jew held a radio in his hand; he was unarmed!
Azra thrust the knife directly forward towards the Israeli's throat. In a lightning move the blade was deflected; the terrorist then arced it down, slicing into the Hebrew's wrist; the radio fell to the carpeted floor as Azra kicked the door shut; the automatic lock clicked.
Gripping his wrist, the Israeli lashed out his right foot, expertly catching the Palestinian's left kneecap. Azra stumbled; another steel toe caught him in the side of his neck, then still another crashed into his ribs. But the angle was right; the Israeli was off balance! The terrorist lunged, the knife an extension of his arm as he sent it directly into the commando's stomach. Blood erupted, covering Azra's face, as the Israeli, code name Orange of the Masada Brigade, fell back on the floor.
The Palestinian struggled to get up, sharp bolts of pain surging through his ribs and his knee, the tendons in his neck nearly paralysed. Suddenly, without a scratch or a footstep, the door crashed open, the hotel lock blown out of its mount. The second commando, younger, his thick bare arms bulging in tension, his furious eyes surveying the scene in front of him, whipped his hand beyond his right hip for a holstered weapon. Azra hurled himself against the Israeli, smashing the commando into the door slamming it shut. Code Blue's gun spiralled across the floor, freeing his
