'How…?'
'Another co-operative driver,' answered Khalehla, permitting herself a broader smile. '“Let's say,'” she added.
'Whoever you work for has a lot of input in a lot of places.'
'Oddly enough, the people I work for have nothing to do with it. They wouldn't go this far.'
'But you did.'
'I had to. Personal reasons; they're off limits, too.'
'You're something, Cawley.'
'Khalehla—Kah-lay-la—in English. Why don't you call your friend at the Aradous? He bought clothes at the hotel and also got a haircut. I assume these were your instructions. But call him; relieve his mind.'
'You're almost too co-operative—like the drivers.'
'Because I'm not your enemy and I want to co-operate. Call Ahmat, if you wish. He'll tell you the same thing. Incidentally, like you, I have the triple five number.'
It was as if an unseen veil had been lifted off the Arab woman's face, a lovely, striking face, thought Evan as he studied the large brown eyes that held such care and curiosity in them. Yet still he swore silently at himself for being the amateur, not knowing who was real and who was false!
Between eleven-thirty and midnight. That was the zero hour, the 30-minute span when he would catch a link, the link to the Mahdi. Could he trust this terribly efficient female who told him only so much and no more? Then again, could he do it himself? She had the triple five number… how did she get it? Suddenly, the room started to spin around, the sunlight through the windows became a sprayed burst of orange. Where were the windows?
'No, Kendrick!' shouted Khalehla. 'Not now! Don't collapse now! Make the call, I'll help you! Your friend must know that everything is all right! He's a terrorist in Bahrain!. He has nowhere to go—you must make the call!'
Evan felt the hard slaps against his face, the harsh, stinging blows that rushed the blood to his head, his head that was suddenly cradled in Khalehla's right arm as her left hand reached for a glass on the bedside table. 'Drink this!' she commanded, holding the glass to his lips. He did so. The liquid exploded in his throat.
'Jesus!' he roared.
'A hundred and twenty proof vodka and brandy,' said Khalehla smiling, still holding him. 'It was given to me by a British Mi-Sixer named Melvyn. “Get someone to have three of these and you can sell him a gross of anything on the rack,” that's what Melvyn told me. Can I sell you something, Congressman? Like a phone call?'
'I'm not buying. I don't have any money. You've got it.'
'Make that call, please,' said Khalehla, releasing her prisoner as she retreated to the gold-rimmed dressing table chair. 'I think it's terribly important.'
Kendrick shook his head, trying to focus on the telephone. 'I don't know the number.'
'I have it here.' Khalehla reached into the pocket of her flight jacket and pulled out a piece of paper. 'The number is five-nine-five-nine-one.'
'Thank you, madame secretary.' Evan reached for the phone, feeling a thousand aches in his body as he bent over and picked it up, pulling it to his lap. The exhaustion was spreading through him; he could barely move, barely dial. Azra?' he said, hearing the terrorist's voice. 'Have you studied the map of Manamah? Good. I'll pick you up at the hotel at ten o'clock.' Kendrick paused, darting his eyes up at Khalehla. 'If for any reason I'm delayed, I'll meet you in the street at the north end of the Juma Mosque where it joins the Al Khalifa Road. I'll find you. Understood? Good.' Kendrick, trembling, hung up the phone.
'You have one more call to make, Congressman.'
'Give me a couple of minutes.' Kendrick leaned back on the pillows. God, he was tired!
'You really should make it now. You must tell Ahmat where you are, what you've done, what is happening. He expects it. He deserves to hear it from you, not me.'
