one from East Berlin and we've caught him!”… So what? Who are you to us? I don't even like the way you look. You look very odd to me! What is an Amal Bahrudi? Why should we care?'
Kendrick glanced over at the door and the agitated group of prisoners talking excitedly. He took a step forward, again whispering harshly. 'Because I was sent by others much higher than anyone here or in the embassy. Much, much higher. Now, I'm telling you for the last time, let me think! I have to get information out—'
'You try and you'll put us all in front of a firing squad!' exclaimed another prisoner through his teeth; he was short and strangely well groomed, except for unaccountable splotches of urine staining his prison trousers.
'That bothers you?' replied Evan, staring at the terrorist, his voice low and filled with loathing. It was the moment to establish his credo further. 'Tell me, pretty little boy, are you afraid to die?'
'Only because I could no longer serve our cause!' gushed the boy-man defensively, his eyes darting about, seeking justification. A few in the crowd agreed; there were emotional, knee-jerk nods from those close enough to hear him, swept up in his fears. Kendrick wondered how pervasive was this deviation from zealotry.
'Keep your voice down, you fool!' said Evan icily. 'Your martyrdom is service enough.' He turned and walked through the hesitantly parting bodies to the stone wall of the immense cell where there was an open rectangular window with iron bars embedded in the concrete.
'Not so fast, odd-looking one!' The rough voice, barely heard above the noise, came from the outer fringes of the crowd. A stocky, bearded man stepped forward. Those in front of him gave way as men casually do in the presence of a noncommissioned superior—a sergeant or a foreman, perhaps; not a colonel or a corporate vice president. Was there someone with more authority in that compound? wondered Evan. Someone else watching closely; someone else giving orders?
'What is it?' asked Kendrick quietly, abrasively.
'I also don't like the way you look! I don't like your face. That's enough for me.'
'Enough for what?' said Evan contemptuously, dismissing the man with a shrug of his head as he leaned into the wall, his hands gripping the iron bars of the small cell window, his gaze on the floodlit grounds outside.
'Turn around!' ordered the surrogate foreman or sergeant, in a harsh voice directly behind him.
'I'll turn when I care to,' said Kendrick, wondering if he was heard.
'Now,' rejoined the man in a voice no louder than Evan's—a quiet prelude to his strong hand suddenly crashing down on Kendrick's right shoulder, gripping the flesh around the bleeding wound.
'Don't touch me, that's an order!' Evan shouted, holding his ground, his hands gripping the iron bars so as not to betray the pain he felt, his antennae alert for what he wanted to learn… It came. The fingers clenching his shoulder spastically separated; the hand fell away on Evan's command, but tentatively returned a moment later. It revealed enough: The noncom gave orders bluntly, yet he received and executed them with alacrity when they were given by an authoritative voice. Enough. He was not the man here in the compound. He was high on the totem pole but not high enough. Was there really another? A further test was called for.
Kendrick stood rigid, then without motion or warning swung swiftly around to his right, ignominiously dislodging the hand as the stocky man was thrown off balance by the clockwise movement. 'All right!' he spat out, his sharp whisper not a statement but an accusation. 'What is it about me you don't like? I'll convey your judgment to others. I'm sure they'll be interested for they would like to know who's making judgments here in Masqat!' Evan again paused, then abruptly continued, his voice rising in a one-on-one challenge. 'Those judgments are considered by many to be curdled in ass's milk. What is it, imbecile? What don't you like about me?'
'I do not make judgments!' shouted the muscular terrorist as defensively as the boy-man who feared a firing squad. Then just as quickly as his outburst had erupted, the wary sergeant-foreman, momentarily frightened that his words might have been heard above the babble, regained his suspicious composure. 'You're free with words,' he whispered hoarsely, squinting his eyes, 'but they mean nothing to us. How do we know who you are or where you come from? You don't even look like one of us. You look different.'
'I move in circles you don't move in—can't move in. I
