untraceable distance. I'll give you a telephone number to call; it's buried—non-existent, in fact—I and only two other people have it. You'll be able to reach me, but only me. You see, Shaikh Kendrick, I can't afford to know you.'
'I'm very popular. Washington doesn't want to know me, either.'
'Of course not. Neither of us wants the blood of American hostages on our hands.'
I'll need papers for myself and probably lists of air and sea shippers from areas I'll pinpoint.'
'Spoken, nothing written down, except for the papers. A name and an address will be delivered to you; pick up the papers from that man.'
'Thank you. Incidentally, the State Department said the same thing. Nothing they gave me could be written down.'
'For the same reasons.'
'Don't worry about it. Everything coincides with what I've got in mind. You see, Ahmat, I don't want to know you either.'
'Really?'
'That's the deal I've cut with State. I'm a non person in their books and I want to be the same in yours.'
The young sultan frowned pensively, his eyes locked with Evan's. 'I accept what you say but I can't pretend to understand. You lose your life, that's one thing, but if you have any measure of success, that's another. Why? I'm told you're a politician now. A congressman.'
'Because I'm getting out of politics and coming back here, Ahmat. I'm picking up the pieces and going back to work where I worked best, but I don't want any excess baggage with me that might make me a target. Or anyone with me.'
'All right, I'll accept that, gratefully on both counts. My father claimed that you and your people were the best. I remember, he once said to me, “Those retarded camels never over-run on cost.” He meant it kindly, of course.'
'And, of course, we usually got the next project, so we weren't so retarded, were we? Our idea was to work on reasonable margins, and we were pretty good at controlling costs… Ahmat, we have only four days left before the executions start again. I had to know that if I needed help I could go to you, and now I do know it. I accept your conditions and you accept mine. Now, please, I haven't an hour to waste. What's the number where I can reach you?'
'It can't be written down.'
'Understood.'
The sultan gave Kendrick the number. Instead of the usual Masqat prefix of 745, it was 555, followed by three zeros and a fourth five. 'Can you remember that?'
'It's not difficult,' answered Kendrick. 'Is it routed through a palace switchboard?'
'No. It's a direct line to two telephones, both locked in steel drawers, one in my office, the other in the bedroom. Instead of ringing, small red lights flash on; in the office the light is built into the right rear leg of my desk, and in the bedroom it's recessed in the bedside table. Both phones become answering machines after the tenth ring.'
'The tenth?'
'To give me the time to get rid of people and talk privately. When I travel outside the palace, I carry a beeper that tells me when that phone has been called. At an appropriate time, I use the remote control and hear the message—over a scrambler, of course.'
'You mentioned that only two other people had the number. Should I know who they are or isn't it any of my business?'
'It doesn't matter,' replied Ahmat, his dark brown eyes riveted on the American. 'One is my minister of security, and the other is my wife.'
Thanks for that kind of trust.'
His gaze still rigid on Kendrick, the young sultan continued. 'A terrible thing happened to you here in our part of the world, Evan. So many dead, so many close friends, a horrible senseless tragedy, far more so for the greed that was behind it. I must ask you. Has this madness in Masqat dredged up such painful memories that you delude yourself, reaching for implausible theories if only to strike out at phantoms?'
