on Rashad's right. 'The teams are going over. Be quiet.'
The Palestinians took out the barely awake men on watch at the bow, midships and stern while the Israelis raced up the gangways to an upper deck and captured five seamen who were sitting against a bulkhead drinking wine. By design, as they were in the waters of the Gulf of Oman, the Omanis ran up to the bridge to formally instruct the captain that the ship was under their control by royal decree and that its present course was to be maintained. The crew was rounded up and checked for weapons, all their knives and guns removed. They were confined to quarters with an Omani, a Palestinian and an Israeli, in rotating units of three, standing guard. The captain, a gaunt fatalist with a stubble of a beard, accepted the circumstances with a shrug of his shoulders and offered neither resistance nor objection. He stayed at the wheel, asking only that his first and second mates relieve him at the proper times. The request was granted and his subsequent comment summed up his philosophical reaction.
'Arabs and Jews together are now the pirates of the high seas. The world is a little madder than I thought.'
The radio man, however, was the most startling surprise. The communications room was approached cautiously, Khalehla leading two members of the Masada Brigade and Evan Kendrick. At her signal, the door was crashed open and their weapons levelled at the operator. The operator pulled a small Israeli flag out of his pocket and grinned. 'How's Manny Weingrass?' he asked.
'Good God!' was the only response the congressman from Colorado could manage.
'It was to be expected,' said Khalehla.
For two days on the water approaching the port of Nishtun, the force from Oman worked in shifts around the clock in the hold of the cargo ship. They were thorough, as each man knew the merchandise he was dealing with, knew it and effectively destroyed it. Crates were resealed, leaving no marks of sabotage in evidence; there were only neatly repacked weapons and equipment precisely as if they had come off assembly lines all over the world and been gathered together by Abdel Hamendi, seller of death. At dawn on the third day, the ship sailed into the harbour of Nishtun, South Yemen. The 'pirates' from the West Bank, Oman and the Masada Brigade, as well as the female agent from Cairo and the American congressman, had all changed into the clothes packed in their knapsacks. Half Arab, half Western, they wore the dishevelled garments of erratically employed merchant seamen scratching for survival in an unfair world. Five Palestinians, posing as Bahrainian cargomen, stood by the gangplank that in moments would be lowered. The rest watched impassively from the lower deck as the crowds gathered at the one enormous pier in the centre of the harbour complex. Hysteria was in the air; it was everywhere. The ship was a symbol of deliverance, for rich and powerful people somewhere thought the proud, suffering fighters of South Yemen were important. It was a carnival of vengeance; over what they might not collectively agree upon, but wild mouths below wild eyes screamed screams of violence. The vessel docked and the frenzy on the pier was ear-shattering.
Selected members of the ship's crew, under the watchful eyes and guns of the Omani force, were put to work at their familiar machinery and the massive unloading process began. As skids of crates were lifted out of the hold by cranes and swung over the side down to the cargo area, rabid cheers greeted each delivery. Two hours after the unloading started, it ended with the emergence of the three small Chinese tanks, and if the crates sent the crowds into frenzy, the tanks took them up into orbit. Raggedly uniformed soldiers had to hold back their countrymen from swarming over the armour-plated vehicles; again they were symbols of great importance, of immense recognition… from somewhere.
'Jesus Christ!' said Kendrick, gripping Ahmat's arm, staring down at the base of the pier. 'Look!'
'Where?'
'I see!' broke in Khalehla, in trousers, her hair swept up under a Greek fisherman's hat. 'My God, I don't believe it! It's him, isn't it?'
'Who?' demanded the young sultan angrily.
'Hamendi!' answered Evan, pointing at a man in a white silk suit surrounded by other men in uniforms and robes. The procession continued on to the pier, the soldiers in front clearing the way.
'He's wearing the same white suit he wore in one of the photographs in the Vanvlanderens' apartment,' added Rashad.
'I'm sure he's got dozens,' explained Kendrick. 'I'm also sure he thinks they make him look pure and godlike… I'll say this for him—he's got balls leaving his armed camp in the Alps and coming here only a few hours by air from Riyadh.'
'Why?' said Ahmat. 'He's protected; the Saudis wouldn't dare inflame these crazies by taking any action across the border.'
