Ludlum, Robert - The Icarus Agenda

'That's not the point.'

'What is?'

'We're counting on the fact that when all these people, especially the leaders from the Baaka Valley, find out that most of what they paid for is a bunch of crap, Hamendi will be called a fifty-million-dollar thief. He's a pariah, an Arab who betrays Arabs for money.'

'The word will spread like falcons in the wind, as my people would have said only a couple of decades ago,' agreed the sultan. 'From what I know of the Baaka, hit teams will be sent out by the dozens to kill him, not simply because of the money but because he's made fools of them.'

'That's the optimum,' said Kendrick. 'That's what we're hoping for, but he's got millions all over the world and there are thousands of places to hide.'

'What is your point, Evan?' asked Khalehla.

'Maybe we can move up the timetable and with any luck ensure the optimum.'

'Speak English, not Latin,' insisted the agent from Cairo.

'That's a circus down there. The soldiers can barely hold back the crowds. All that's needed is for a movement to get started, people shouting in unison, chanting until their voices shake the damn city… Farjunna! Farjunna! Farjunna!'

'Show us!' translated Ahmat.

'One or two crates prised open, rifles held up in triumph… then ammunition's found and handed over.'

'And shot off by lunatics into the sky,' completed Khalehla, 'but they don't fire.'

'Then other crates are opened,' went on the sultan, catching the shared enthusiasm. 'Equipment ruined, life rafts slashed, flamethrowers fizzling. And Hamendi's right there!… How can we get down there?'

'You can't, either of you,' said Kendrick firmly, signalling a member of the Masada team. The man ran over and Evan continued rapidly, not giving Ahmat or Rashad a chance to speak, only to stare at him, stunned. 'You know who I am, don't you?' he asked the Israeli.

'I'm not supposed to but, of course, I do.'

'I am considered the leader of this entire unit, aren't I?'

'Yes, but I'm grateful that there are others—’

'Irrelevant! I am the leader.'

'All right, you're the leader.'

'I want these two people placed under cabin arrest immediately.'

The sultan's and Khalehla's protests were drowned out by the Israeli's own reaction. 'Are you out of your mind? That man is—’

'I don't care if he's Muhammad himself and she's Cleopatra.

Lock them up!' Evan raced away towards the gangplank and the hysterical crowds below on the pier.

Kendrick found the first of the five Palestinian 'cargomen' and pulled him away from a group of soldiers and screaming awed civilians surrounding one of the Chinese tanks. He spoke quickly into the man's ear; the Arab responded by nodding his head and pointing to one of his companions in the crowd, gesturing that he would tell the others.

Each man ran along the pier from one frenzied group to another, shrieking at the top of his lungs, repeating the message over and over until the feverish cry was picked up for the command it was. Like an enormous rolling wave pounding across a human sea, the shouting erupted, a thousand disparate voices slowly coming into concert.

'Farjunna! Farjunna! Farjunna…!' The crowds converged en masse on the cargo area, and the small elite procession in which Abdel Hamendi was the centre of attraction was literally swept aside, inside the huge doors of the run-down warehouse near the end of the pier. Apologies were shouted to and accepted by the arms merchant with false grace; he looked as though he had come to the wrong part of town and could not wait to get out, would have were it not for the rewards that could be his by staying.

'This way!' yelled a voice Evan knew only too well. It was Khalehla! And beside her was Ahmat, both barely holding their own within the tumultuous, frantic crowds.

'What the hell are you doing here?' roared Kendrick, joining them, bodies pushing and shoving all around them.

'Mr. Congressman,' said the sultan of Oman imperiously, 'you may be the leader of the unit, which is entirely debatable, but I command the ship! My damned troops took it!'

'Do you know what'll happen if she loses her hat or her shirt and these lunatics see she's a woman? And have you any idea of the reception you'll get if anyone has the slightest clue who you—’

'Will you two stop it!' cried Rashad, giving an order, not asking a question. 'Hurry up! The soldiers could lose control any minute, and we've got to make sure it happens our way.'

'How?' shouted Evan.

'The crates!' answered Khalehla. 'The stacks on the left with the red markings. Go ahead of me, I'll never get through by myself. I'll hold your arm.'

'That's quite a concession. Come on!' The three of them crashed sideways through the dense, constantly moving, jostling crowds, pummelling their way to a double stack of crates at least ten feet high held together by wide jet-black metal straps. A cordon of nearly panicked soldiers, too few to lock arms but gripping hands, formed a circle around the lethal merchandise, holding back the increasingly impatient, increasingly angry throngs who now demanded Farjunna, farjunna—to be shown the supplies that signified their own importance. 'These are the guns and everyone knows it!' yelled Kendrick into Rashad's ear. 'They're going crazy!'

'Of course they know it and of course they're going crazy. Look at the markings.' All over the wooden crates were stencilled dozens of the same insignia: three red circles, two progessively smaller ones within the largest. 'Bull's eyes, the universal symbol of a target,' explained Khalehla. 'And bull's eyes mean weapons. It was Blue's idea; he figured that terrorists live by guns so they'd flock to them.'

'He knows his new business—’

'Where's the ammunition?' asked Ahmat, pulling two small, pronged instruments from his pockets.

'The West Bankers are taking care of it,' replied Rashad, crouching under the assault of thrashing arms around her. 'The crates are unmarked, but they know which ones they are and will break them open. They're waiting for us!'

'Let's go then,' cried the young sultan, handing Evan one of the instruments he had removed from his pockets.

'What…?'

'Pliers! We have to snap as many of the crate straps as we can to make sure they all fall apart.'

'Oh? They would have anyway—never mind! We have to rush this bunch of maniacs forward and break the ring. Move back, Ahmat, and you get behind us,' said Kendrick, to the agent from Cairo, fending off the furious arms and fists, knees and feet that kept hammering at them from all directions. 'When I nod,' continued Evan, shouting at the sultan of Oman as they smashed through the frenzied bodies all trying to reach the crates. 'Hit the line like you just got signed up by the Patriots baseball team!'

'No, ya Shaikh,' yelled Ahmat. 'Like I just got signed by Oman—under fire, as it should be. These are the enemies of my people!’

'Now!' roared Kendrick as he and the young, muscular ruler crashed forward into the figures in front of them, shoulders and extended arms propelling the screaming terrorists into the circle of soldiers. The line broke! The assault on the ten-foot-high double stacks of heavy crates was total… and Evan and Ahmat surged through balloon-trousered legs and flailing arms to the wood and the wide metal straps, their pliers working furiously. The bindings snapped and the crates tumbled down as if exploded from within, the weight and strength of a hundred assaulters precipitating their violent descents. Wooden slats everywhere came apart, and where they did not, maniacal hands prised them apart. Then, like starving locusts attacking the sweet leaves of trees, the terrorists of South Yemen and the Baaka Valley crawled over the crates, yanking out weapons from their plastic casements and throwing them to their brothers while shrieking and straddling the large cartons that took on the grotesque images of coffins.