“The house is surrounded, crowds everywhere. Apparently the newspaper and television people all flew into Mesa Verde, where most were stranded, as three taxis could hardly accommodate such numbers.”
“All this must blow Manny’s mind.”
“What blows his mind, as you phrase it, is the lack of sanitary facilities.”
“What?”
“He refused to offer them and then observed acts of necessity on all sides of the house that caused him to rush to your shotgun rack.”
“Oh, my God, they’re pissing all over the lawn—his landscaping!”
“I’ve heard Emmanuel’s tirades many times in the past, but never anything like this. During his outburst, however, he did manage to tell me to call Mrs. O’Reilly at your office, as she was not able to get through here.”
“What did Annie say?”
“For you to stay out of sight for a while but—in her words—‘for God’s sake,’ call her.”
“I don’t think so,” said Evan thoughtfully. “The less she knows, the better at this point.”
“Where are you?” asked the professor.
“At a motel outside of Woodbridge off Route Ninety-five. It’s called the Three Bears and I’m in Cabin Twenty-three. It’s the last one on the left nearest the woods.”
“By which description I assume you need things. Food, no doubt; you cannot go outside and be seen, and there can’t be room service at a motel with cabins—”
“No, not food. I stopped at a diner on the way down.”
“No one recognized you?”
“There were cartoons on the television set.”
“Then, what do you need?”
“Wait until the late editions of the morning papers come out and send Jim, the gardener, into Washington to pick up as many different ones as he can lay his hands on. Especially the majors; they’ll have their best people on the story and they’ll reach other people.”
“I’ll make out a list for him. Then Kashi will bring them to you.”
It was not until one-thirty in the afternoon that Sabri’s wife arrived at the motel in Woodbridge, Virginia. Evan opened the door of Cabin 23, grateful to see that she had driven the gardener’s pickup truck. He had not thought of the diversion, but his two friends from Dubai had known better than to drive his Mercedes past the crowds around his house. While Kendrick held the door, Kashi made rapid second and third trips back to the vehicle, for along with the pile of newspapers from all over the country she brought food. There were sandwiches encased in plastic wrap, two quarts of milk in an ice bucket, four hot plates equally divided between Western and Arab dishes, and a bottle of Canadian whisky.
“Kashi, I’m not going to be here for a week,” said Kendrick.
“This is for today and tonight, dear Evan. You are under a great deal of stress and must eat. The box on the table has silverware and metal stands under which you place the Sterno for heat. There are also place mats and linen, but if I may, if you must leave here abruptly, please call so I may retrieve the silverware and the linens.”
“Why? Will the quartermaster throw us in the brig?”
“I am the quartermaster, dear Evan.”
“Thanks, Kashi.”
“You look tired, yasahbee. You have not rested?”
“No, I’ve been watching that damned television, and the more I watch, the angrier I get. Rest’s hard to come by when you’re furious.”
“As my husband says and I agree with him, you are very effective on television. He also says we must leave you.”
“Why? He said that to me several weeks ago and I don’t know why!”
“Of course you do. We are Arabs and you are in a city that distrusts us; you are in a political arena now that does not tolerate us. And we will not bring harm to you.”
“Kashi, this isn’t my arena! I’m getting out, I’m sick of it! You say this is a city that doesn’t trust you? Why should you be any different? This town doesn’t trust anybody! It’s a city of liars and shills and phonies, men and women who’ll climb over any back with their cleats on to get a little closer to the honey. They’re messing around with a damn good system, sucking the blood out of every vein they can tap, proclaiming the patriotic holiness of their causes while the country sits by and applauds what it doesn’t know it’s paying for! That’s not for me, Kashi, I’m out!”
“You’re upset—”
“Tell me about it!” Kendrick rushed to the bed and the pile of newspapers.
“Dear Evan,” broke in the Arab wife, as firmly as Kendrick had ever heard her speak. He turned, several papers in his hands. “Those articles will offend you,” she continued, her dark eyes leveled at his, “and to speak truthfully there were parts that offended Sabri and myself.”
“I see,” said Kendrick quietly, studying her. “All Arabs are terrorists. I’m sure it’s here in very bold print.”
“Very pointedly, yes.”
“But that’s not your point.”
“No. I said you would be offended, but the word is not strong enough. You will be incensed, but before you do anything you cannot take back, please listen to me.”
“For God’s sake, what is it, Kashi?”
“Thanks to you, my husband and I have attended numerous sessions of your Senate and your House of Representatives. Also, because of you, we’ve been privileged to witness legal arguments before the justices of your Supreme Court.”
“They’re not all exclusively mine. So?”
“What we saw and heard was remarkable. Issues of state, even laws, openly debated, not by simple petitioners but by learned men.… You see the bad side, the evil side, and no doubt what you say has truth, but isn’t there another truth? We’ve watched many impassioned men and women stand up for what they believe without fear of being shunned or silenced—”
“Shunned they can be, not silenced. Ever.”
“Still, they do take risks for their causes, often profound risks?”
“Hell, yes. They go public.”
“For their beliefs?”
“Yes …” Kendrick let the word evaporate into the air. Kashi Hassan’s point was clear; it was also a warning to him in his moment of self-consuming fury.
“Then there are good people in what you called ‘a pretty damn good system.’ Please remember that, Evan. Please do not diminish them.”
“Don’t what?”
“I express myself poorly. Forgive me. I must go.” Kashi walked rapidly to the door, then turned. “I beg you, yasahbee, if in your anger you feel you must do something drastic, in the name of Allah, call my husband first, or if you wish, Emmanuel.… However, without prejudice, for I love our Jewish brother as I love you, but my husband might be somewhat more composed.”
“You can count on it.”
Kashi went out the door, and Kendrick literally pounced on the newspapers, turning each over on the bed, their front pages in succeeding rows, the headlines visible.
If a primal scream could have lessened the pain, his voice would have shattered the glass of the suffocating cabin’s windows.
The New York Times
New York, Tuesday, October 12
CONGRESSMAN EVAN KENDRICK OF COLORADO SAID TO HAVE BEEN INSTRUMENTAL IN OMAN CRISIS
OUTWITTED ARAB TERRORISTS, SECRET MEMORANDUM INDICATES
The Washington Post
Washington, D. C., Tuesday, October 12
KENDRICK OF COLORADO REVEALED AS U.S. SECRET WEAPON IN OMAN
TRACKED DOWN ARAB TERRORISTS $ CONNECTION
Los Angeles Times
Los Angeles, Tuesday, October 12
DECLASSIFIED RECORDS SHOW KENDRICK, COLORADO REP., KEY TO OMAN SOLUTION
PALESTINIAN TERRORISTS HAD ARAB BACKING—STILL CLASSIFIED
Chicago Tribune
Chicago, Tuesday, October 12
CAPITALIST KENDRICK CUT SHACKLES OFF HOSTAGES HELD BY COMMUNIST TERRORISTS
KILLER ARABS EVERYWHERE IN DISARRAY OVER REVELATIONS
New York Post
New York, Tuesday, October 12
EVAN, THE MENSCH OF OMAN, STUCK IT TO THE ARABS!
MOVE IN JERUSALEM TO MAKE HIM HONORARY CITIZEN OF ISRAEL! NEW YORK DEMANDS A PARADE!
USA Today
Wednesday, October 13
“COMMANDO” KENDRICK DID IT!
ARAB TERRORISTS WANT HIS HEAD! WE WANT A STATUE!
Kendrick stood over the bed, his downcast eyes shifting rapidly from one black-lettered headline to another, his mind drained of all thought but a single question. Why? And as the answer eluded him, another question gradually came into focus. Who?
21
If there was an answer to either question, neither would be found in the newspapers. They were fraught with “authoritative” and “highly placed” and even “confidential” sources, most countered by “No comment” and “We have nothing to say at this time” and “The events in question are being analyzed,” all of which were evasive statements of confirmation.
What had started the furor was a maximum-classified interdivision memorandum under the letterhead of the Department of State. It had surfaced, unsigned, from buried files and was presumably leaked by an employee or employees who felt a great injustice had been done to a man under the unreasonable strictures of national security, the paranoid fear of terrorist reprisals undoubtedly heading the list. Copies of the memorandum had been sent out in concert to the newspapers, wire services and the networks, all arriving between 5:00 and 6:00 A.M., eastern daylight time. Accompanying each memorandum were three different photographs of the Congressman in Masqat. Deniability denied.
It was planned, thought Evan. The timing was chosen to startle the nation as it woke up across the country, bulletins mandatory throughout the day.
Why?
What was remarkable were the facts revealed—as remarkable for what they omitted as for those they paraded. They were astonishingly accurate, down to such points as his having been flown to Oman under deep cover and spirited out of the airport in Masqat by intelligence agents who had provided him with Arab garments and even the skin-darkening gel that made his features compatible with the “area of operations.” Christ! Area of operations!
There were sketchy, often hypothesized details of contacts he made with men he had known in the past, the names scissored out—black spaces in the memorandum for obvious reasons. There was a paragraph dealing with his voluntary internment in a terrorist compound, where he nearly lost his life, but where he learned the names he had to know in order to trace the men behind the Palestinian fanatics at the embassy, specifically one name—name scissored out, a black space in the copy. He had tracked down that man—scissored out, a black space—and forced him to dismantle the terrorist cadre occupying the embassy in Masqat. That pivotal man was shot—details scissored out, a black paragraph—and Evan Kendrick, representative from the Ninth District of Colorado, was returned under protective cover to the United States.
Experts had been summoned to examine the photographs. Each print was subjected to spectrographic analysis for authenticity with respect to the age of the negatives and the possibility of laboratory alterations. Everything was confirmed, even down to the day and the date extracted from 20X magnification of a newspaper carried by a pedestrian in the streets of Masqat. The more responsible papers noted the lack of alternative sources that might or might not lend credibility to the facts as they were sketchily presented, but none could question the photographs or the identity of the man in them. And that man, Congressman Evan Kendrick, was nowhere to be found to confirm or deny the incredible story. The New York Times and the Washington Post unearthed what few friends and neighbors they could find in the capital as well as in Virginia and Colorado. None could recall having seen or heard from the Congressman during the period in question a year ago—not that they would necessarily have expected to, which in itself meant that they probably would have remembered if he had been in touch with them.
The Los Angeles Times went further and, without revealing its sources, ran a telephone check on Mr. Kendrick. Except for calls to various local shops and a certain James Olsen, a gardener, only five possibly relevant calls were made from the Congressman’s residence in Virginia over a four-week period. Three were to the Arabian Studies departments at Georgetown and Princeton universities; one to the diplomat from the Arab Emirate of Dubai, who had returned home seven months ago; and the fifth to an attorney in Washington, who refused to talk to the press. Relevance be damned; the bird dogs were pointing even though the quarry had disappeared.
The less responsible papers, which meant most of those without the resources to finance extensive investigations, and all of the tabloids, which did not care a whit about verification, if they could spell it, had a pseudo-journalistic field day. They took the exposed maximum-classified memorandum and used it as a springboard for the wild waters of heroic speculation, knowing their issues would be grabbed up by their unskeptical readership. Words in print are more often than not words of truth to the uninformed—a patronizing judgment, to be sure, but all too true.
What was missing in every one of the stories, however, were truths, deep truths, that went beyond the astonishingly accurate revelations. There was no mention of a brave young sultan of Oman, who had risked his life and lineage to help him. Or of the Omanis who had guarded him both at the airport and in the back streets of Masqat. Or of a strange and strikingly professional woman who had rescued him in a congested concourse of another airport in Bahrain after he had been nearly killed, who had found him sanctuary and a doctor who ministered to his wounds. Above all, there was not a word about the Israeli unit, led by a Mossad officer, who had saved him from a death that still made him shiver in horror. Or even of another American, an elderly architect from the Bronx, without whom he would have been dead a year ago, his remains expunged by the sharks of Qatar.
Instead, a common theme ran through all the articles: everything Arab was tainted with the brush of inhuman brutality and terrorism. The very word Arab was synonymous with ruthlessness and barbarism, not a vestige of decency allowed to a whole people. The longer Evan studied the newspapers, the angrier he became. Suddenly in a burst of fury, he swept them all off the bed.
Why?
Who?
And then he felt a hollow, terrible pain in his chest. Ahmat! Oh, my God, what had he done? Would the young sultan understand, could he understand? By omission—by silence—the American media had condemned the entire country of Oman, leaving to insidious speculation its Arab impotence in the face of terrorists, or worse, its Arab complicity in the wanton, savage killing of American citizens.
He had to call his young friend, reach him and tell him that he had no control over what had happened. Kendrick sat on the edge of the bed; he grabbed the telephone while reaching into his trousers pocket for his wallet, balancing the phone under his chin as he extracted his credit card. Not remembering the sequence of numbers to reach Masqat, he dialed O for an operator. Suddenly the dial tone disappeared and for a moment he panicked, his eyes wide, glancing around at the windows.
“Yeah, twenty-three?” came the hoarse male voice over the line.
“I was trying to call the operator.”
“You dial even an area code you get the board here.”
“I … I have to make an overseas call,” stammered Evan, bewildered.
“Not on this phone you don’t.”
“On a credit card. How do I get an operator—I’m charging it to my credit card number.”
“I’ll listen in till I hear you give the number and it’s accepted for real, understand?”
He did not understand! Was it a trap? Had he been traced to a run-down motel in Woodbridge, Virginia? “I don’t really think that’s acceptable,” he said haltingly. “It’s a private communication.”
“Fancy that,” replied the voice derisively. “Then go find yourself a pay phone. There’s one at the diner about five miles down the road. Ta-ta, asshole, I’ve been stuck enough—”
“Wait a min
ute! All right, stay on the line. But when the operator clears it, I want to hear you click off, okay?”
“Well, actually, I was gonna call Louella Parsons.”
“Who?”
“Forget it, asshole. I’m dialing. People who stay all day are either sex freaks or shooting up.”
Somewhere in the far reaches of the Persian Gulf an English-speaking, Arabic-accented operator volunteered that there was no exchange in Masqat, Oman, with the prefix 555. “Dial it, please!” insisted Evan, adding a more plaintive “Please.”
Eight rings passed until he heard Ahmat’s harried voice. “Iwah?”
“It’s Evan, Ahmat,” said Kendrick in English. “I have to talk to you—”
“Talk to me?” exploded the young sultan. “You’ve got the balls to call me, you bastard?”
“You know, then? About—what they’re saying about me.”
“Know? One of the nicer things about being a rich kid is that I’ve got dishes on the roof that pick up whatever I want from wherever I want! I’ve even got an edge on you, ya Shaikh. Have you seen the reports from over here and the Middle East? From Bahrain and Riyadh, from Jerusalem and Tel Aviv?”
“Obviously not. I’ve only seen these—”
“They’re all the same garbage, a nice pile for you to sit on! Do well in Washington, just don’t come back here.”
“But I want to come back. I am coming back!”
“Don’t, not to this part of the world. We can read and we can hear and we watch television. You did it all by yourself! You stuck it to the Arabs! Get out of my memory, you son of a bitch!”
“Ahmat!”
“Out, Evan! I would never have believed it of you. Do you become powerful in Washington by calling us all animals and terrorists? Is that the only way?”
“I never did that, I never said it!”
“Your world did! The way it keeps saying it again and again and again, until it’s pretty fucking obvious you want us all in chains! And the latest goddamned scenario is yours!”
“No!” protested Kendrick, shouting. “Not mine!”