comment.'
'Wait a minute.' Evan bent over looking closer at the computer screen. 'This is a real person?'
'He was. He died last night in East Berlin—that is the green telephone.'
'Died? Last night?'
'East German intelligence, controlled of course by the Soviets, will keep his death quiet for days, perhaps weeks, while their bureaucrats examine everything with an eye to KGB advantage, naturally. In the meantime, Mr. Bahrudi's arrival here has been duly entered on our immigration lists—that's the blue telephone—with a visa good for thirty days.'
'So if anyone runs a check,' added Kendrick, ‘this Bahrudi is legitimately here and not dead in East Berlin.'
'Exactly.'
'What happens if I'm caught?'
'That would hardly concern you. You'd be an immediate corpse.'
'But the Russians could make trouble for us here. They'd know I'm not Bahrudi.'
'Could they? Would they?' The old Arab shrugged. 'Never pass up an opportunity to confuse or embarrass the KGB, ya Shaikh.'
Evan paused, frowning. 'I think I see what you mean. How did you get all this? For God's sake, a dead Saudi in East Berlin—covered up—his dossier, even some grandfather, a European grandfather. It's unbelievable.'
'Believe, my young friend, whom I do not know nor have ever met. Of course there must be confederates in many places for men like me, but that is not your concern either. Simply study the salient facts—revered parents' names, schools, universities; two, I believe, one in the United States, so like the Saudis. You won't need any more than that. If you do, it won't matter. You'll be dead.'
Kendrick walked out of the underworld city within a city, skirting the grounds of the Waljat Hospital in the northeast section of Masqat. He was less than 150 yards from the gates of the American Embassy. The wide street was now only half filled with die-hard spectators. The torches and the rapid bursts of gunfire from within the grounds of the embassy created the illusion that the crowds were much larger and more hysterical than they actually were. Such witnesses to the terror inside were interested only in entertainment; their ranks thinned as one by one they were overcome by sleep. Ahead less than a quarter of a mile beyond the Harat Waljat, a calm passed over the young sultan's seaside mansion. Evan looked at his watch the hour and his location were an advantage; he had so little time and Ahmat had to move quickly. He looked for a street phone, vaguely remembering that there were several near the hospital entrance—thanks again to Manny Weingrass. Twice the reprobate old architect had claimed his brandy was poisoned, and once an Omani woman had bitten his wandering hand so severely that he required seven stitches.
The white plastic shells of three public phones in the distance reflected the light from the streetlamps. Gripping the inside pocket of his robes where he had put his false papers, he broke into a run, then immediately slowed down. Instinct told him not to appear obvious… or threatening. He reached the first booth, inserted a larger coin than was necessary, and dialed the strange number indelibly printed on his mind. 555-0005.
Beads of sweat formed at his hairline as the progressively slower rings reached eight. Two more and an answering machine would replace the human voice! Please!
'Iwah?' came the simple greeting saying Yes?
'English,' said Evan.
'So quickly?' replied Ahmat astonished. 'What is it?'
'First things first… A woman followed me. The light was dim, but from what I could see she was of medium height, with long hair, and dressed in what looked like expensive Western clothes. Also, she was fluent in both Arabic and English. Anybody come to mind?'
'If you mean someone who would follow you into El-Baz's neighbourhood, absolutely no one. Why?'
'I think she meant to kill me.'
'What?'
'And a woman gave El-Baz the information about me–over a
