'A gentleman from Langley is here with a drop.'
'Have him come in.'
A CIA agent whom Nichols recognized entered carrying an old-fashioned leather accountant's-style briefcase.
'You caught me just in time, Keith,' said Nichols. 'I was on my way home.'
Keith Farquar had a bushy mustache, thick brown hair, and wore horned-rimmed glasses. A large, no-nonsense type of man with contemplative eyes, he was, Nichols thought, the kind of agent who made up the solid bulwark of the Central Intelligence Agency.
Without an invitation Farquar sat down in a chair, placed the case on his lap and set the correct numbers on a combination lock that released the catch and switched off the circuit of a small incendiary explosive inside. He lifted out a thin file and placed it on the desk in front of Nichols.
'Mr. Brogan instructed me to tell you that hard data on Akhmad Yazid is extremely sparse. Biographical records regarding birth, parents and ancestors, schooling, marriage, children, or any mention in legal proceedings either criminal or civil, are virtually nonexistent. Most of what our Middle East section was able to put together comes from descriptions of people who have known him. Unfortunately, most of them, for one reason or another, became ene es of Yazid. So their accounts are somewhat biased.'
'Did your psychological section make up a profile?' asked Nichols.
'They put together a rough projection. Yazid is as hard to penetrate as a desert sandstorm. A shroud of security has covered him in mystery.
Journalists' interviews with people around him are met with ambiguity and vague shrugs.'
'Which adds to the mirage,' commented Nichols.
Farquar smiled. 'Mr. Brogan's exact description of Yazid. 'An elusive mirage.'
'
''Thank you for bringing the file by,' said Nichols. 'And thank everyone involved with assembling the information for me.'
'Anything for a client.' Farquar snapped the catches closed on his briefcase and ambled toward the door. 'Have a nice evening.'
'You too.'
Nichols buzzed for his secretary. She appeared wearing a coat and holding a purse. 'Anything I can do before I leave?'
she asked apprehensively, afraid she would be asked to work overtime for the third night in a row.
'Could you please call my wife on your way out?' asked Nichols. 'And tell her not to worry. I'll make the dinner party, but will be delayed for about half an hour.'
His secretary sighed thankfully. 'Yes, sir, I'll tell her. Good night.
'Good night.'
Nichols slipped his pipe between his teeth but didn't pack or light the bowl. He set his attache case off to the side of his desk, and, still wearing his overcoat, he sat down and examined Yazid's file.
Farquar had not exaggerated. It was slim pickings. Although the last six years were heavily reported, Yazid's life before his rapid rise from obscurity took up little more than a paragraph. His debut in the news media began with his arrest by Egyptian police during a sit-in demonstration for Cairo's starving masses inside the lobby of a luxury tourist hotel. He had distinguished himself by preaching in the worst slum areas of the country.
Akhmad Yazid stated he was born in squalid poverty in a mud hut among the decaying mausoleums of the City of the Dead that spilled into the garbage dumps of Cairo. His family lived on the thin margin between survival and death until his two sisters and father died from disease brought on by hunger and filthy living conditions.
He had no formal schooling except what was given during his adolescent years by Islamic holy men, none of whom were found to back up this assertion. Yazid claimed Muhammad the Prophet spoke through him, uttering divine revelations to the faiffiffil and urging them to return Egypt to a utopian Islamic state.
Yazid possessed a resonant speaking voice. He had the skilled mannerisms and delivery to enrapture a crowd of listenets, slowly building them to a fever pitch at the finish. He insisted Western philosophy was incapable of resolving Egypt's social/economic problems.
He preached that all Egyptians are members of a lost generation who must find themselves through his moral vision.
Though he vehemently claimed otherwise, evidence indicated he was not above using terrorism to achieve his goals. Five separate incidents, including the murder of a high-ranking Air Force general, a truck explosion outside the Soviet Embassy, and the execution-style killing of four university teachers who spoke out in favor of Western ways, were traced to Yazid's doorstep. Nothing was proven but through sketchy information gained from Muslim infomiants, CIA analysts felt certain Yazid was planning a masterstroke to eliminate president Hasan and sweep into power on a rising wave of public acclaim.
Nichols laid down the file and finally filled and lit his pipe.
A tiny, indefinable thought tugged at him from the far reaches of his mind.
Something about the report struck him as vaguely familiar. He laid aside a glossy photo of Yazid glaring malevolently at the camera.
The answer suddenly struck Nichols. It was simple and it was shocking.
He picked up his telephone and punched the coded number of a direct line, impatiently drumming the desk top with his fingers until a voice answered on the other end.
'This is Brogan.'
'Martin, thank heavens you're working late. This is Dale Nichols.'
'What can I do for you, Dale?' asked the Director of the CIA. 'Did you get the packet on Akhmad Yazid?'
