I knew my boy would come back to find you, you scum of the earth. It was just a matter of time. Where is he?'
'My life for his.'
'You're in no position to bargain—’
'Perhaps I am,' broke in the Mahdi. 'He's on his way to an unmarked airfield where a plane will fly him out to sea. Destination—the shoals of Qatar.'
'The sharks,' said Weingrass quietly, in cold fury.
'Ever so. One of nature's conveniences. Now do we bargain? Only I can stop them.'
The old architect, his frail body trembling as he breathed deeply, stared at the tall, robed black man, his voice strained as he replied. 'We bargain,' he said. 'And by Almighty God you'd better deliver or I'll hunt you down with an army of mercenaries.'
'You were always such a melodramatic Jew, weren't you?' The Mahdi glanced at his watch. 'There's time. As is the custom on such flights, there can be no ground-to-air radio contact, no subsequent forensic examinations of a plane. They're scheduled to take off with the first light. Once outside I'll place the call; the aircraft will not leave, but you and your little army of whatever-they-are will.'
'Don't even think about any tricks, you scum ball… We deal.'
'No!' Code Grey whipped out his knife and lunged at the Mahdi, gripping his robes and throwing him over the desk. 'There are no bargains, no deals, no negotiations whatsoever. There's only your life at this moment!' Grey shoved the point of his blade into the flesh below the Chicagoan's left eye. The Mahdi screamed as the blood rolled down his cheek and into his open mouth. 'Make your call now or lose first this eye, then the other! After that it won't matter to you where my knife goes next; you won't see it.' The commando reached over, grabbed the phone on the desk and slammed it down beside the bleeding head. 'That's your bargain, scum! Give me the number. I'll dial it for you—just to make sure it's an airfield and not some private barracks. Give it to me!'
'No-no, I can't!'
'The blade goes in!'
'No, stop! There is no airfield, no plane!'
'Liar!'
'Not now. Later!'
'Lose your first eye, liar!'
'He's here! My God, stop! He's here!'
'Where?' roared Manny, rushing up to the desk.
'The west wing… there's a staircase in the hall on the right, a small storage area below the roof—'
Emmanuel Weingrass did not hear any more. He raced out of the room, screaming with all the breath that was in him. 'Evan! Evan…!'
He was hallucinating, thought Kendrick; a person dear to him from the past was calling to him, giving him courage. The singular privilege of a condemned man, he considered. He looked up from the cot at the window; the moon was moving away, its light fading. He would not see another moon. Soon there would be nothing but darkness.
'Evan! Evan!'
It was so like Manny. He had always been there when his young friend needed him. And here at the end he was there to give comfort. Oh, Lord, Manny, I hope you learn somehow that I came back! That finally I listened to you. I found him, Manny! Others will, too, I know it! Please be a little proud of me—
'Goddamn it, Kendrick! Where the hell are you?'
That voice was no hallucination! Nor were the pounding footsteps on the narrow staircase! And other footsteps! Jesus Christ, was he already dead? 'Manny…? Manny?' he screamed.
'Here it is! This is the room! Break it down, musclehead!'
The door of the small room crashed open like a deafening crack of thunder.
