he would have been dead a year ago, his remains expunged by the sharks of Qatar.
Instead, a common theme ran through all the articles. Everything Arab was tainted with the brush of inhuman brutality and terrorism. The very word Arab was synonymous with ruthlessness and barbarism, not a vestige of decency allowed to a whole people. The longer Evan studied the newspapers, the angrier he became. Suddenly, in a burst of fury, he swept them all off the bed.
Why?
Who?
And then he felt a hollow, terrible pain in his chest Ahmat! Oh, my God, what had he done? Would the young sultan understand, could he understand? By omission—by silence—the American media had condemned the entire country of Oman, leaving to insidious speculation its Arab impotence in the face of terrorists, or worse, its Arab complicity in the wanton, savage killing of American citizens.
He had to call his young friend, reach him and tell him that he had no control over what had happened Kendrick sat on the edge of the bed, he grabbed the telephone while reaching into his trousers pocket for his wallet, balancing the phone under his chin as he extracted his credit card. Not remembering the sequence of numbers to reach Masqat, he dialled 0 for an operator. Suddenly the dial tone disappeared and for a moment he panicked, his eyes wide, glancing around at the windows.
'Yeah, twenty-three' came the hoarse male voice over the line.
'I was trying to call the operator.'
'You dial even an area code you get the board here.'
'I . . . I have to make an overseas call,' stammered Evan, bewildered.
'Not on this phone you don't.'
'On a credit card. How do I get an operator—I'm charging it to my credit card number.'
'I'll listen in till I hear you give the number and it's accepted for real, understand?'
He did not understand. Was it a trap? Had he been traced to a run-down motel in Woodbridge, Virginia? 'I don't really think that's acceptable,' he said haltingly. 'It's a private communication.'
'Fancy that,' replied the voice derisively. 'Then go find yourself a pay phone. There's one at the diner about five miles down the road. Ta-ta, asshole, I've been stuck enough—'
'Wait a minute! All right, stay on the line. But when the operator clears it, I want to hear you click off, okay?'
'Well, actually, I was gonna call Louella Parsons.'
'Who?'
'Forget it, asshole. I'm dialling. People who stay all day are either sex freaks or shooting up.'
Somewhere in the far reaches of the Persian Gulf an English-speaking, Arabic-accented operator volunteered that there was no exchange in Masqat, Oman, with the prefix 555. 'Dial it, please!' insisted Evan, adding a more plaintive 'Please.'
Eight rings passed until he heard Ahmat's harried voice. 'Iwah?'
'It's Evan, Ahmat,' said Kendrick in English. 'I have to talk to you—'
'Talk to me?' exploded the young sultan. 'You've got the balls to call me, you bastard?'
'You know, then? About—what they're saying about me.'
'Know? One of the nicer things about being a rich kid is that I've got dishes on the roof that pick up whatever I want from wherever I want! I've even got an edge on you, ya Shaikh. Have you seen the reports from over here and the Middle East? From Bahrain and Riyadh, from Jerusalem and Tel Aviv?'
'Obviously not. I've only seen these—’
'They're all the same garbage, a nice pile for you to sit on! Do well in Washington, just don't come back here.'
