Kendrick watched in revulsion while the limp, bleeding bodies were carried away. 'You did the right thing,' he said to Azra in English, his words coldly noncommittal, talking like a technician. 'One doesn't always want to but one has to know when to stop.'
The new prince of terrorists studied Evan through opaque eyes. 'I meant what I said. Look at us now. The death of our own makes us different. One day we're children, the next we are grown up, no matter the years, and we are experts at death for the memories never leave us.'
'I understand.'
'No, you don't, Amal Bahrudi. Yours is an ideological war. For you death is a political act. You are a passionate believer, I have no doubt—but still what you believe is politics. That's not my war. I have no ideology but survival, so that I can extract death for death—and still survive.'
'For what?' asked Kendrick, suddenly terribly interested.
'Oddly enough to live in peace,, which was forbidden to my parents. For all of us to live in our own land, which was stolen from us, delivered to our enemies and paid for by rich nations to assuage their own guilt over crimes against a people that were not our crimes. Now we're the victims; can we do less than fight?'
'If you think that's not politics, I suggest you think again. You remain a poet, Azra.'
'With a knife and a gun as well as my thoughts, Bahrudi.'
There was another commotion across the courtyard, this one benign. Two figures raced out of a doorway, one a veiled woman, the other a man with streaks of white in his hair. Zaya Yateem and Ahbyahd, the one called White, thought Evan, standing rigid, aloof. The greeting between brother and sister was odd; they formally shook hands, looking at each other, then fell into an embrace. The universal guardianship of an older sister for a younger brother, the latter so often awkward, impulsive in the eyes of the older, wiser sibling, bridged races and ideology. The younger child would inevitably grow stronger, the muscular arms of the household, but the older sister was always there to guide him. Ahbyahd was subsequently less formal, throwing his arms around the youngest, strongest member of the Operations Council and kissing him on both cheeks. 'You have much to tell us,' exclaimed the terrorist called White.
'I do,' agreed Azra, turning to Evan Kendrick, 'because of this man. He is Amal Bahrudi from East Berlin, sent by the Mahdi to us here in Masqat.'
Above her veil, Zaya's urgent, even violent eyes searched Evan's face. 'Amal Bahrudi,' she repeated. 'I've heard the name, of course. The Mahdi's strings reach great distances. You are far from your own work.'
'Uncomfortably so,' said Kendrick, in the cultured dialect of Riyadh. 'But others are watched, their every move monitored. It was thought that someone unexpected should come here, and East Berlin is a convenient place from which to travel. People will swear you're still there. When the Mahdi called, I responded. In truth it was I who first made contact with his people about a problem you have here which your brother will explain to you. We may have different objectives, but we all progress by co-operating with each other, especially when our bills are paid.'
'But you,' said Ahbyahd, frowning. 'The Bahrudi of East Berlin, the one who moves anywhere, everywhere. You were found out?'
'It's true I have a reputation for getting around,' answered Evan, permitting himself the hint of a smile. 'But it certainly won't be enhanced by what happened to me here.'
'You were betrayed, then?' asked Zaya Yateem.
'Yes. I know who it was and I'll find him. His body will drift up in the harbour—’
'Bahrudi broke us out,' interrupted Azra. 'While I was thinking he was doing. He deserves whatever reputation he has.'
'We go inside, my dearest brother. We'll talk there.'
'My dearest sister,' said Blue. 'We have traitors here, that's what Amal came to tell us—that and one more thing. They're taking photographs and smuggling them outside, selling them! If we live, we'll be hunted for years, a record of our activities for all the world to see!'
The sister now studied the brother, her dark eyes above the veil questioning. 'Photographs? Taken by concealed cameras with sophisticated features to operate yet noticed by no one? Do we have such advanced students of photography among our brothers and sisters here, the majority of whom can barely read?'
'He saw the photographs! In East Berlin!'
