Even the years were obscured by his darkened flesh, and his eyes were shaded by the visor of a cloth cap. To complete the image he wanted, a sheathed knife was attached to his jacket and the bulge of a revolver apparent in the right pocket. The ‘trusted one' was trusted; he had saved the life of Azra, prince of terrorists, and moved freely about the seized embassy, from one sickening scene to another, one frightened, exhausted, hopeless group to another.
Hope. It was all he could give, knowing that in the final analysis it was probably false, but he had to give it, give them something to cling to, at least to think about in the darkest, most terrifying hours of the night.
'I'm an American!' he whispered to shocked hostages wherever he found three or more together, his eyes constantly glancing around at the roving punks who thought he was insulting their prisoners with sudden, audible bursts of anger. 'Nobody's forgotten you! We're doing all we can! Don't mind my shouting at you! I have to.'
'Thank God!' was the constant, initial reply, followed by tears and descriptions of horror that invariably included the public execution of the seven condemned hostages.
'They'll kill us all! They don't care! The filthy animals don't care about death—ours or theirs.'
'Do your best to stay calm and I mean that! Try not to show fear, that's very, very important. Don't antagonize, but don't crawl to them. Seeing you afraid is like a narcotic to them. Remember that.'
At one point Kendrick suddenly stood up and shouted abusively at a group of five Americans. His straying eyes had picked out one of Zaya Yateem's personal guards; the man was walking rapidly towards him.
'You! Bahrudi!'
'Yes.'
'Zaya must see you right away. Come, the council room!'
Evan followed the guard across the roof and down three flights of stairs into a long corridor. He removed his cap, now soaked with perspiration, and was led to the open door of a large embassy office. He walked inside, and four seconds later his world was shattered by the last words he could ever hope to hear, 'Good Christ! You're Evan Kendrick!'
The Icarus Agenda
Chapter 12
'Meen ir rdh-gill da?' said Evan, mind and body paralysed, straining, forcing himself to move casually as he asked Zaya who was the obese man who had spoken English.
'He says he is from the Mahdi,' Azra replied, standing between Yosef and Ahbyahd.
'What did he mean?'
'You heard him. He says you're someone named Kendrick.'
'Who's that?' asked Evan in English, addressing Anthony MacDonald, trying desperately to remain composed while adjusting not only to the sight of a man he had not seen in nearly five years, but to his very presence in that room. MacDonald! The fatuous society drunk from the British colony in Cairo! 'My name is Amal Bahrudi, what is yours?'
'You know damned well who I am!' shouted the Englishman, jabbing his index finger in the air, looking in turn at the four Arab councillors, especially Zaya Yateem. 'He's not Amal-whatever and he's not from the Mahdi! He's an American named Evan Kendrick!'
'I studied at two American universities,' said Evan, smiling, 'but no one ever called me a Kendrick. Other things, yes, but not Kendrick.'
'You're lying!'
'On the contrary, I'd have to say you're the liar if you claim to be working for the Mahdi. I was shown the photograph of every European in his—shall we say—confidential employ and you certainly were not among them. I would definitely remember because—shall we again say—you have a very distinctive face and figure.'
'Liar! Impostor! You work with Khalehla the
