know with a plan we've never seen.'
'If there is a plan,' said code Black. 'And not simply a debt owed by the Mossad to a disagreeable old man who wants to find an American, a Gentile “son” that isn't his.'
Weingrass turned around; the plane was climbing rapidly, the engines partially muted by the swift ascent. 'Listen to me, peaheads! he shouted. 'If that American has gone to Bahrain with a demented Arab terrorist, it means he's got a damn good reason. It probably hasn't occurred to you muscle-bound, intellectual crap shooters, but Masqat wasn't planned by those sub-human yo-yos playing with guns. The brains, if you'll pardon an obscure reference, are in Bahrain, and that's what he's after, who he's after!'
'Your explanation, if true,' said code White, 'does not include a plan, Mr. Weingrass. Or do we roll dice on that issue?'
'The odds may be worse, smart ass, but no, we don't. Once we've landed and set up shop, I'll be calling Masqat every fifteen minutes until we have the information we need. Then we have a plan.'
'How?' asked Blue angrily, suspiciously.
'We make it up, hot-head.'
The huge Englishman stood in rigid disbelief as the terrorist Azra started walking away with the Bahrainian official. The quiet man in uniform had met the Rockwell jet beyond the last maintenance hangar at the airport in Muharraq. 'Wait,' shouted MacDonald, glancing wildly at Evan Kendrick standing beside him. 'Stop! You can't leave me with this man. I told you, he's not who he says he is! He's not one of us!'
'No, he's not,' agreed the Palestinian, stopping and looking over his shoulder. 'He's from East Berlin and he saved my life. If you're telling the truth, I assure you he'll save yours.'
'You can't—'
'I must,' broke in Azra, turning to the official and nodding.
The Bahrainian, without comment either in his words or his expression, addressed Kendrick: 'As you can see, my associate is coming out of the hangar. He will escort you through another exit. Welcome to our country.'
'Azra!' screamed MacDonald, his voice drowned out by the roar of jet engines.
'Easy, Tony,' said Evan as the second Bahrainian official approached them. 'We're entering illegally and you could get us shot.'
'You! I knew it was you! You are Kendrick!'
'Of course I am, and if any of our people here in Bahrain knew you used my name, your lovely, besotted Cecilia—it is Cecilia, isn't it—would be a widow before she could ask for another drink.'
'By Christ, I don't believe it. You sold your firm and went back to America! I was told you'd become a politician of sorts!'
'With the Mahdi's help I might even become president.'
'Oh, my God!'
'Smile, Tony. This man doesn't like what he's doing and I wouldn't want him to think we're ungrateful. Smile, you fat son of a bitch!'
Khalehla, in tan slacks, a flight jacket and a visored officer's cap, stood by the tail of the Harrier jet watching the proceedings a hundred feet away. The young Palestinian killer called Blue had been ushered out; the American congressman and the incredible MacDonald were leaving with another uniformed man, who conveyed them through a maze of cargo alleyways that eluded immigration. This Kendrick, this apparent conformist with some terrible cause, was better than she thought. Not only had he survived the horrors of the embassy, something she had believed impossible nine hours ago and over which she had panicked, but he had now separated terrorist from terrorists' agent. What was on his mind? What was he doing?
'Hurry up!' she called to the pilot, who was talking to a mechanic by the starboard wing. 'Let's go!'
The pilot nodded, briefly throwing his arms up in despair, and the two of them headed towards the exit reserved for flight personnel. Ahmat, the youthful sultan of Oman, had pushed all the buttons at his considerable command. The three passengers on the jet were to be led to a stretch of the airport's lower-level
