would you subject them to such risks? I think not. The most precious jewels are not made of stone, but of flesh. Our families. A true hero will overcome his fear and risk his life for what he believes, but he will balk when the price is the lives of his loved ones. Is it not so, old friend?'
'My God,' whispered Evan. 'You won't help—you can't.'
'There is someone, however, who will see you and hear what you have to say. But the meeting must take place with extraordinary caution, miles away in the desert before the mountains of Jabal Sham.'
'Who is it?'
'The sultan.'
Kendrick was silent. He looked at his glass. After a prolonged moment he raised his eyes to Mustapha. 'I'm not to have any official linkage,' he said, 'and the sultan's pretty official. I don't speak for my government, that's got to be clear.'
'You mean you don't want to meet with him?'
'On the contrary, I want to very much. I just need to make my position clear. I have nothing to do with the intelligence community, the State Department or the White House—God knows not the White House.'
'I think that's patently clear; your robes and the colour of your skin confirm it. And the sultan wants no connection with you, as emphatically as Washington wants no connection.'
'I'm rusty,' said Evan, drinking. 'The old man died a year or so after I left, didn't he? I'm afraid I didn't keep up with things over here—a natural aversion, I think.'
'Certainly understandable. Our current sultan is his son; he's nearer your age than mine, even younger than you. After school in England, he completed his studies in your country. Dartmouth and Harvard, to be exact.'
'His name's Ahmat,' broke in Kendrick, remembering. 'I met him a couple of times.' Evan frowned. 'Economics and international relations,' he added.
'What?'
'Those were the degrees he was after. Graduate and postgraduate.'
'He's educated and bright, but he's young. Very young for the tasks facing him.'
'When can I see him?'
'Tonight. Before others become aware of your presence here.' Mustapha looked at his watch. 'In thirty minutes leave the hotel and walk four blocks north. A military vehicle will be at the corner. Get in and it will take you to the sands of Jabal Sham.'
The slender Arab in the soiled aba ducked into the shadows of the darkened shopfront opposite the hotel. He stood silently next to the woman called Khalehla, now dressed in a tailored black suit, the kind favoured by women executives and indistinct in the dim light. She was awkwardly securing a lens into the mount of her small camera. Suddenly, two sharp, high-pitched beeps sounded out.
'Hurry,' said the Arab. 'He's on his way. He's reached the lobby.'
'As fast as I can,' replied the woman, swearing under her breath as she manipulated the lens. 'I ask little of my superiors but decent, functioning equipment is one of them… There. It's on.'
'Here he comes!'
Khalehla raised her camera with the telescopic, infra-red lens for night photographs. She rapidly snapped three pictures of the robed Evan Kendrick. 'I wonder how long they'll let him live,' she said. 'I have to reach a telephone.'
Ultra Maximum Secure
No Existing Intercepts
Proceed
The journal was continued.
Reports from Masqat are astonishing. The subject has transformed himself into an Omani complete with Arab dress and darkened skin. He moves about the city like a native apparently contacting old friends and acquaintances from his previous life. The reports, however, are also sketchy as the subject's shadow routes everything through Langley and as yet I haven't been able to invade the CIA access codes from the Gulf nations. Who knows what Langley conceals? I've instructed my appliances to work harder! The State Department, naturally, is duck soup. And why not?
