Ludlum, Robert - The Icarus Agenda

'Then do what you must do, ya sahbtee Khalehla.'

'I will.' The well-tailored woman reached into her shoulder bag and took out a short-barrelled automatic. Holding it in her left hand, she again searched her bag and removed a clip of bullets; with a pronounced click she jammed it into the base of the handle and snapped back the loading chamber. The weapon was ready to fire. 'Go now, adeem sahbee,' she said, securing the strap of her bag over her shoulder, her hand inside, gripping the automatic. 'We understand each other and you must be somewhere else, some place where others can see you, not here.'

'Salaam aleikum, Khalehla. Go with Allah.'

'I'll send him to Allah to plead his case… Quickly. He's coming out of the bakery! I'll follow him and do what has to be done. You have perhaps ten to fifteen minutes to be with others away from here.'

'At the last, you protect us, don't you? You are a treasure. Be careful, dear Khalehla.'

'Tell him to be careful. He intrudes.'

'I'll go to the Zwadi mosque and talk with the elder mullahs and muezzins. Holy eyes are not questioned. It is a short distance, five minutes at most.'

'Aleikum es-salaam,' said the woman, starting across the square to her left, her gaze riveted on the American in Arabian robes who had passed beyond the fountain and was walking rapidly towards the dark, narrow streets to the east, beyond the market of Sabat Aynub. What is that damn fool doing? she thought as she removed her hat, crushing it with her left hand and shoving it into her bag next to the weapon which she gripped feverishly in her right. He's heading into the mish kwayis ish-shari, she concluded, mixing her thoughts in Arabic and English, referring to what is called in the West the roughest section of the town, an area outsiders avoid. They were right. He's an amateur and I can't go in there dressed like this! But I have to. My God, he'll get us both killed!

Evan Kendrick hurried down the uneven layers of stone that was the narrow street, past low, run-down, congested buildings and half-buildings—crumbling structures with canvas and animal skins covering blown-out windows; those that remained intact were protected by slatted shutters, more broken than not. Bare wires sagged everywhere, municipal junction boxes having been spliced, electricity stolen, dangerous. The pungent smells of Arabic cooking intermingled with stronger odours, unmistakable odours—hashish, burning coca leaves smuggled into unpatrolled coves in the Gulf, and pockets of human waste. The inhabitants of this stretch of ghetto moved slowly, cautiously, suspiciously through the dimly lit caverns of their world, at home with its degradation, comfortable with its insulated dangers, at ease with their collective status as outcasts—the ease confirmed by sudden bursts of laughter behind shuttered windows. The dress code of this mish kwayis ish-shari was anything but consistent. Abas and ghotras coexisted with torn blue jeans, forbidden miniskirts, and the uniforms of sailors and soldiers from a dozen different nations—soiled uniforms exclusively from the ranks of enlisted personnel, although it was said that many an officer borrowed a subordinate's clothes to venture inside and taste the prohibited pleasures of the neighbourhood.

Men huddled in doorways to Evan's annoyance, for they obscured the barely legible numbers on the sandstone walls. He was further annoyed by the filthy intersecting alleys that unaccountably caused the numbers to skip from one section of the street to the next. El-Baz. Number 77 Shari el Balah—the street of dates. Where was it?

There it was. A deeply recessed heavy door with thick iron bars across a closed slot that was built into the upper panel at eye level. However, a man in dishevelled robes squatting diagonally against the stone blocked the door on the right side of the tunnel-like entrance.

'Esmahlee?' said Kendrick, excusing himself and stepping forward.

'Lay?' replied the hunched figure, asking why.

'I have an appointment,' continued Evan in Arabic. I'm expected.'

'Who sends you?' said the man without moving.

'That's not your concern.'

'I am not here to receive such an answer.' The Arab raised his back, angling it against the door; the robes of his aba parted slightly, revealing the handle of a pistol tucked into an undersash. 'Again, who sends you?"

Evan wondered whether the sultan's police officer had forgotten to give him a name or a code or a password that would gain him entrance. He had so little time! He did not need this obstruction; he reached for an answer. 'I visited a bakery in the Sabat Aynub,' he said rapidly. 'I spoke—’

'A bakery?' broke in the squatting man, his brows arched beneath his headdress. 'There are at least three bakeries in the Sabat Aynub.'

'Goddamn it, baklaval' spat out Kendrick, his frustration mounting, his eyes on the handle of the gun. 'Some asinine orange—’

'Enough,' said the guard, abruptly rising to his feet and pulling his robes together. 'It was a simple reply to a simple question, sir. A baker sent you, you see?'

'All right. Fine! May I go inside, please?'

'First we must determine whom you visit. Whom do you visit, sir?'

'For God's sake, the man who lives here… works here.'

'He is a man without a name?'

'Are you entitled to know it?' Evan's intense whisper carried over the street noises beyond.

'A fair question, sir,' said the Arab, nodding pensively. 'However, since I was aware of a baker in the Sabat Aynub—’

'Christ on a raft!' exploded Kendrick. 'All right. His name is El-Baz! Now will you let me in? I'm in a hurry!'

'It will be my pleasure to alert the resident, sir. He will let you in if it is his pleasure. Certainly you can understand the necessity for—'

It was as far as the ponderous guard got before snapping his head towards the pavement outside. The undercurrent of noises from the dark street had suddenly erupted. A man screamed; others roared, their strident voices echoing off the surrounding stone.

'Elhahoonai!'

'Udam!'

And then piercing the chorus of outrage was a woman's voice. 'Siboomi jihalee!' she cried frantically, demanding to be left alone. Then came in perfect English, 'You bastards!'

Evan and the guard rushed to the edge of the stone as two gunshots shattered the human cacophony, escalating it into frenzy, the ominous rings of ricocheting bullets receding in the cavernous distance. The Arab guard spun around, hurling himself to the hard stone floor of the entranceway. Kendrick crouched; he had to know! Three robed figures accompanied by a young man and woman dressed in slovenly Western clothes raced past, the male in torn khaki trousers clutching his bleeding arm. Evan stood up and cautiously peered around the edge of the stone corner. What he saw astonished him.

In the shadows of the confining street stood a bareheaded woman, a short-bladed knife in her left hand, her right gripping an automatic. Slowly, Kendrick stepped out on the uneven layers of stone. Their eyes met and locked. The woman raised her gun; Evan froze, trying desperately to decide what to do and when to do it, knowing that if he moved quickly she would fire. Instead, to his further astonishment, she began stepping backward into the deeper shadows, her weapon still levelled at him. Suddenly, with the approach of excited voices punctuated by the repeated penetrating sounds of a shrill whistle, the woman turned and raced away down the dark narrow street. In seconds, she had disappeared. She had followed him! To kill him? Why? Who was she?

'Here!' In a panicked whisper the guard was calling him. Evan whipped his head around; the Arab was gesturing wildly for him to come to the heavy, forbidding door in the recessed entranceway. 'Quickly, sir! You have gained admittance. Hurry! You must not be observed here!'