Ludlum, Robert - The Icarus Agenda

'Very few, sir. And I do not know who you are, I swear by Allah.'

'Then I have to believe you, don't I?' asked Kendrick, staring at the man.

'I would not use the name of Allah if it were not so. Please. Besuraa!'

'Thanks,' said Evan, grabbing his case and running towards the truck's cab. Suddenly the driver was gesturing out the window for him to climb into the back under the canvas that covered the bed of the ancient vehicle. The truck lurched forward as a pair of hands pulled him up inside.

Stretched out on the floorboards, Kendrick raised his eyes to the Arab above him. The man smiled and pointed to the long robes of an aba and the ankle-length shirt known as a thob which were suspended on a hanger in the front of the canvas-topped trailer; beside it, hanging on a nail, was the ghotra headdress and a pair of white balloon trousers, the street clothes of an Arab and the last items Evan had requested of the State Department's Frank Swann. These and one other small but vital catalyst.

The Arab held it up. It was a tube of skin-darkening gel, which when generously applied turned the face and hands of a white Occidental into those of a Middle-Eastern Semite whose skin had been permanently burnished by the hot, blistering, near-equatorial sun. The dyed pigment would stay darkened for a period of ten days before fading. Ten days. A lifetime—for him or for the monster who called himself the Mahdi.

The woman stood inside the airport fence inches from the metal links. She wore gently flared white slacks and a tapered, dark green silk blouse, the blouse creased by the leather strap of her handbag. Long dark hair framed her face; her sharp attractive features were obscured by a pair of large designer sunglasses, her head covered by a wide-brimmed white sun hat, the crown circled by a ribbon of green silk. At first she seemed to be yet another traveller from wealthy Rome or Paris, London or New York. But a closer look revealed a subtle difference from the stereotype; it was her skin. Its olive tones, neither black nor white, suggested northern Africa. What confirmed the difference was what she held in her hands, and only seconds before had pressed against the fence: a miniature camera, barely two inches long and with a tiny bulging, convex, prismatic lens engineered for telescopic photography, equipment associated with intelligence personnel. The seedy, run-down truck had swerved out of the warehouse parking lot; the camera was no longer necessary.

She grabbed the handbag at her side and slipped it out of sight.

'Khalehla!' shouted an obese, wide-eyed, bald-headed man running towards her, pronouncing the name in Arabic, 'Ka-lay-la.' He was awkwardly carrying two suitcases, the sweat drenching his shirt and penetrating even the black, pinstripe suit styled in Savile Row. 'For God's sake, why did you drift off?

'That dreadful queue was simply too boring, darling,' replied the woman, her accent an unfathomable mixture of British and Italian or perhaps Greek. 'I thought I'd stroll around.'

'Good Christ, Khalehla, you can't do that, can't you understand? This place is a veritable hell on earth right now!' The Englishman stood before her, his jowled face flushed, dripping with perspiration. 'I was the very next in line for that Immigration imbecile, and I looked around and you weren't there! And when I started rushing about to find you, three lunatics with guns—guns!—stopped me and took me into a room and searched our luggage!'

'I hope you were clean, Tony.'

'The bastards confiscated my whisky!'

'Oh, the sacrifices of being such a successful man. Never mind, darling, I'll have it replaced.'

The British businessman's eyes roved over the face and figure of Khalehla. 'Well, it's past, isn't it? We'll go back now and get it over with.' The obese man winked—one eye after the other. 'I've got us splendid accommodation. You'll be very pleased, my dear.'

'Accommodation? With you, darling?'

'Yes, of course.'

'Oh, I really couldn't do that.'

'What? You said-'

'I said?' Khalehla broke in, her dark brows arched above her sunglasses.

'Well, you implied, rather emphatically, I might add, that if I could get you on that plane we might have a rather sporting time of it in Masqat.'

'Sporting, of course. Drinks on the Gulf, perhaps the races, dinner at El Quaman—yes, all of those things. But in your room?'

'Well, well… well, certain things shouldn't have to be—specified.'

'Oh, my sweet Tony. How can I apologize for such a misunderstanding? My old English tutor at the Cairo University suggested I contact you. She's one of your wife's dearest friends. Oh, no, I couldn't really.'

'Shit!' exploded the highly successful businessman named Tony.

'Miraya!' shouted Kendrick over the deafening sounds of the dilapidated truck as it bounced over a back road into Masqat.

'You did not request a mirror, ya Shaikh,' yelled the Arab in the rear of the trailer, his English heavily accented but understandable enough.

'Rip out one of the sideview mirrors on the doors, then. Tell the driver.'

'He cannot hear me, ya Shaikh. Like so many others, this is an old vehicle, one that will not be noticed. I cannot reach the driver.'

'Goddamn it!' exclaimed Evan, the tube of gel in his hand. 'Then you be my eyes, ya sahbee,' he said, calling the man his friend. 'Come closer to me and watch. Tell me when it's right. Open the canvas.'

The Arab folded back part of the rear covering, letting the sunlight into the darkened trailer. Cautiously, holding on to the straps, he moved forward until he was barely a foot away from Kendrick. 'This is the id-dawa, sir?' he asked, referring to the tube.

'Iwah,' said Evan, when he saw that the gel was indeed the medicine he needed. He began spreading it first on his hands; both men watched; the waiting-time was less than three minutes.

'Anna!' shouted the Arab, holding out his right hand; the colour of the skin nearly matched his own.

'Kwayis,' agreed Kendrick, trying to approximate the amount of gel he had applied to his hands so as to equal the proportion for his face. There was nothing for it but to do it. He did, and anxiously watched the Arab's eyes.

'Ma'ool!' cried his newest companion, grinning the grin of significant triumph. 'Delwatee anzur!'

He had done it. His exposed flesh was now the colour of a sun-drenched Arab. 'Help me into the thob and the aba, please,' Evan asked as he started to disrobe in the violently shaking truck.

'I will, of course,' said the Arab, suddenly in much clearer English than he had employed before. 'But now we are finished with each other. Forgive me for playing the naïf with you but no one is to be trusted here; the American State Department not exempted. You are taking risks, ya Shaikh, far more than I, as the father of my children would take, but that is your business, not mine. You will be dropped off in the centre of Masqat and you will then be on your own.'

'Thanks for getting me there,' said Evan.

'Thank you for coming, ya Shaikh. But do not try to trace those of us who helped you. In truth, we would kill you before the enemy had a chance to schedule your execution. We are quiet, but we are alive.'

'Who are you?'

'Believers, ya Shaikh. That is enough for you to know.'

'Alfshukr,' said Evan, thanking the clerk and tipping him for the confidentiality he had been guaranteed. He signed the hotel register with a false Arabic name and was given the key to his suite. He did not require a bellboy. Kendrick took the elevator to a wrong floor and waited at the end of a corridor to see if he had been followed. He had not, so he walked down the staircase to his proper floor and went to his suite.

Time. Time's valuable, every minute. Frank Swann, Department of State. The evening prayers of el Maghreb were over; darkness descended and the madness at the embassy could be heard in the distance. Evan threw his small case into a corner of the living room, took out his wallet from under his robes, and withdrew a folded sheet of paper on which he had written the names and telephone numbers—numbers that were by now almost five years old—of the people he wanted to contact. He went to the desk and the telephone, sat down and unfolded the paper.