a hooded parka and had a knapsack dangling from her shoulder.
“You killed her?” Stoke said.
“Yes.”
“Can I ask you why?”
“Self-protection, obviously, but I loathed that old woman. Anyway, we are almost finished with the Germans now.”
“Finished? What’s that supposed to mean, ‘finished’?”
“It’s complicated. I’ll explain on the way to Berlin. Let’s go. Have you looked out the window lately?”
“Hey, look at that. Wow. In summertime, no less,” Stoke said, moving to the window.
“Right. It’s snowing like crazy,” she said, walking over to take another look. Visibility was down to zero. A white-out.
Stokely said, “We’ve got to get out of this house, Jet. Now. We can’t afford to get snowed in up here.”
“Because?”
“Because maybe you can’t hear it, girl, but there’s a great big clock ticking and it’s getting louder by the second.”
Chapter Thirty-eight
Ras al Hadd
HARRY BROCK WAS WAITING FOR HAWKE OUTSIDE THE dusty little cantina in the coastal village of Ras al Hadd. The squat, unpainted tourist cafe had two large windows on a second floor overlooking the sea. The drive south along the coast road from Muscat had taken almost three brutal hours. According to his handheld GPS, it continued in much the same fashion for another thousand kilometers or so, south along the coast to the town of Salalah.
Of course, he couldn’t confirm that on any map. Maps were forbidden in Oman. It was intended to confuse the sultan’s enemies but it worked pretty well for his friends, too.
Hawke parked the brand-new Toyota Land Cruiser they’d given him under a dusty pomegranate tree. It was the only tree he’d seen in the last hour. He drained the last of the water they’d provided and stuck his face right into the stream of icy air coming out of the center console. As he reluctantly switched off the ignition and opened the door on the blast furnace that was Oman in summer, Harry Brock strolled around the corner of the building.
Despite the intense heat and dust, Brock appeared fresh and cheerful. He wore the beginnings of a new beard, a clean white T-shirt, a pair of worn khakis, and a brown felt hat that had seen better days tilted back on his head. Hawke kept expecting him to say “Aw, shucks,” or something similar, but he never did.
“Welcome to Oman,” Brock said, shaking Hawke’s hand as he climbed out of the Toyota.
“Is that yours?” Hawke said, eyeing the Royal Enfield motorcycle parked by the side of the building. It was a Bullet 350, black, a legendary bike among the cognoscenti.
“Yeah,” Brock said, “I just picked it up yesterday in Muscat. With these so-called roads, I thought maybe a bike was a good idea.”
Whatever else could be said about Harry Brock, he had excellent taste in motorcycles.
“Nice place,” Hawke told Brock, looking around at the bleak and sunblistered location. The restaurant, which for some mysterious reason was named the Al-Kous Whisper, was surrounded by a low garden wall of rough-hewn stone. There was a carved wooden portal through which you entered this little Shangri-la in the desert.
“Isn’t it? Ras al Hadd is considered one of Oman’s garden spots.”
“Because it’s got a tree,” Hawke said.
“Bingo.”
So far, from what Alex had seen of the benighted countryside, Oman didn’t have a lot of garden spots. It looked like Mars in the off-season. Reddish, stony ground, baked dry. Desolate riverbeds, cracked and empty. Abandoned villages hanging from the terraced mountainsides. Dead scenery, he thought, driving through the unremittingly hostile environment.
The unprepossing Al-Kous Whisper was clearly reserved for tourists. Omanis weren’t allowed to drink alcohol, and he wasn’t even sure whether they were allowed to eat. No hootch, no maps. It was a very strict country. The sultan ran a tight ship. The Al-Kous had a flat roof and was built of concrete block. There were a few houses scattered nearby, looking abandoned and empty. These were older buildings constructed of wood and palm thatch.
Omanis clearly didn’t believe in renovation or gentrification. When a town got old, they simply packed up and left. En masse. The townspeople moved further into the mountains or the desert and built a new town.
They passed through the portal into the withered garden. There was an old well just outside the restaurant and someone had left a noisy goat tied to it. Harry patted the dehydrated creature on the head as they walked past it up the path of crushed stone.
“Four stars in the Zagat,” Brock said to Hawke, swatting at the buzzing flies and sidestepping dogshit. “Amazing wine cellar. They’ve apparently got a specialty dish the chef prepares, sauteed lightly in a sort of pine nut sauce, that is out of this world. Fresh goat, so they say. Isn’t that right, little fella?”
“Is it always this bloody hot?” Hawke said, mounting the mercifully covered steps and ignoring both Brock and the goat. He was tired and thirsty. He hated dry heat and he felt as if he were being roasted alive in the sun. The white linen shirt he was wearing was plastered to his skin. He was tempted to have his meeting with Brock in the Toyota with the AC blasting. Would have, in fact, but he was hungry, too.
“Oman is actually the hottest place on earth,” Brock said. “No lie. Pretty mild right now, though. At eight this morning it was 120 in the shade.”
“But there is no shade.”
“Bingo.”
Harry followed Hawke through the open door. It was dark and cool inside, comparatively speaking. It was also empty, which was good. He was sure Brock had scoped the place out pretty well before suggesting it as a rendezvous. The two men mounted the narrow stairway and took an empty table by one of the open windows on the second floor. Brock ordered two cold beers. It was a local brew called Gulf and it was nonalcoholic. According to Harry it was liquid and it was cold and that was good enough.
A timid, giggling girl in a black chador delivered the beer. There were only two employees, the girl waiting tables and an old man behind the bar. The man was more sensibly dressed in the manner of most of the male population. Loose white garments and a turban. Like most Omanis Hawke had seen since touching down at Seeb International, he was on his cell phone.
The fact that Brock seemed unconcerned about this meant the proprietor was probably already on Harry’s payroll. Boots on the ground, the CIA called it.
Brock rocked his chair back on two legs and smiled at Hawke. “You look like shit,” he said, lacing his fingers behind his head.
“Thanks,” Hawke replied, studying the flimsy mimeographed menu. He opened his bottle and took a swig of beer. “I bet you say that to all the boys.”
“If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn’t have believed it.”
“Believed what?”
“Oh, come on.”
“What the bloody hell are you talking about, Brock?”
Hawke didn’t bother to hide his irritation. He knew Brock would bring up the incident as soon as they met. He supposed he’d have to tell him about it sometime, but not now. His aching and bruised body had been jammed into a cramped cockpit all day and every bone in his body ached. If the sadist who designed the F-16 seat were ever allowed to design prison furniture for Camp X-Ray at Guantanamo, the hue and cry from the world media would be deafening.
What Hawke did not need at the moment was an American with a sense of humor. But Brock wouldn’t let go.
“Your little mishap on the Lincoln?”
