Palestinian, but they could not deny him his martyrdom. They would not in a distant place called Mesa Verde, thousands of kilometres from Mecca.
'My brothers,' began the white-haired one, facing the four men of his command in the small, dingy motel room. 'Our time has come and we approach it with rapture, knowing that a far better world lies before us, a heaven where we will be free, neither slaves nor pawns to others here on earth. If through the grace of Allah we survive to fight again, we will bring home to our brothers and sisters the holy kill of vengeance that so justly belongs to us. And the world will know that we have done it, know that five men of valour penetrated and destroyed all within two fortresses built by the great enemy to stop us… Now we must prepare. First with prayers, and then with the more practical applications of our cause. Depending on what we learn, we strike when they will least expect an attack—not with the cover of night but in sunlight. By sundown we will either be with the holy hour of Salat el Maghreb or in the arms of Allah.'
It was shortly past noon when Khalehla walked off the plane and into the lounge at San Diego's International Airport. She was instantly aware of being watched, mainly because her observer made no pretence of not doing so. The nondescript overweight man in an unpressed, ill-fitting gabardine suit was eating popcorn from a white cardboard container. He nodded his head once, turned, and started walking down the wide, crowded corridor towards the terminal. It was a signal. In moments Rashad caught up with him, slowing her pace to his at his side.
'I gather you weren't waiting to pick me up,' she said without looking at him.
'If I was, you'd be on your knees begging me to take you home, which I'll probably have to do.'
'Your modesty is as irresistible as you are.'
'That's what my wife says, except she adds “beauty”.'
'What is it?'
'Call Langley. I have a feeling that all hell's broken loose, but call from one of these phones, not my place, if it's going to be my place. I'll wait up ahead; if we're a team, just nod and follow me… at a respectful distance, naturally.'
'I think I'd like a name. Something.'
Try Shapoff.'
'Gingerbread?' said Khalehla, briefly shifting her eyes to glance at the field officer so highly regarded that he was practically a legend at the Agency. 'East Berlin? Prague? Vienna—’
'Actually,' interrupted the man in the dishevelled gabardine suit. 'I'm a left-handed periodontist from Cleveland.'
'I guess I had a different picture of you.'
'That's why I'm “Gingerbread”… stupid goddamned name. Make your call.'
Rashad peeled off at the next pay telephone. Anxious and not familiar with the latest phone procedures, she pushed the Operator button and while feigning a bewildered French accent placed a collect call to a number she had long since committed to memory.
'Yes?' said Mitchell Payton at the other end of the line.
'MJ, it's me. What's happened?'
'Andrew Vanvlanderen died early this morning.'
'Killed?'
'No, it was a cardiac seizure; we've established that. There was a fair amount of alcohol in his blood and he was a mess—unshaven, eyes bloodshot, reeking of body sweat and worse—but it was a stroke.'
'Damn… damn!'
'There was also an interesting set of circumstances—always circumstances, nothing clean. He'd been sitting in front of a television set for hours on end and obviously smashed it with a marble ashtray.'
'Touchy, touchy,' said the agent from Cairo. 'What does his wife say?'
'Between excessive tears and pleas for seclusion, the stoic widow claims he was depressed over heavy losses in the market and other investments. Which, of course, she insists she knows nothing about, which of course she does. That marriage must have been consummated above a financial statement under the mattress.'
