THE MECCA CONNECTION

by

Walter G.Willaert

All Rights Reserved.

© 2010 Walter G.Willaert

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic,
electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information
storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher. For
information, please contact:

This novel is work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is purely
coincidental.

To Ria

After the departure of the U.S. troops in Iraq, the Jihad resistance took its chance and started
offensive actions against its neighbors. Due to international protest actions, the western
coalition took the fatal decision not to interfere, and what had to come about, happened: the
Islam warriors wet their swords again and declared war against the infidels.
In no time they had the whole Muslim community in their hands, the Revolution went ahead
and the snowball kept rolling and became unstoppable. The western hemisphere weren’t
planning to start World War Three and due to intern laxities and their need for crude oil, they
let the enemy in via its back door, which was the republic of Ireland. And then I came in.
 Chapter 1
Let me tell you how I won the war. Or better still: how I saved the world from World War
III.
A bad introduction, I know, but I do play the leading role in this story. It started with my dad
inviting me to Balmoral Castle, which was more or less the Arabian League HQ for Western
Europe. I loathed the protocol that came with it, but he was my dad, and you couldn’t ignore
dad’s invitation, because he was also the supreme cream back then.
If I remember correctly, I was standing in the waiting room and looking out into the
garden. The sleet would hit the window in sudden squalls, then calm down to a soft, almost
tender veil of pouring water. It wasn’t actually that poetic, but it had a nice ring and made a
good opening. As a matter of fact, the room was wet and cold, as was to be expected in these
stately dungeons, with the bleak afternoon light slipping sparsely through the black velvet
curtains.
As I was standing there, thinking of nothing, I felt a slight gust at the back of my neck. I
turned on my heels to regard an olive-brown you man, with a wheeling smile, resting his
hands on the folding door springs. He was dressed in the green uniform of an Arab League
lieutenant, which came to no surprise at me.
“The general will see you now, major Halker.”
The young lieutenant stepped respectfully aside, one of the thousand slickers that always
surround the high and mighty. I followed him and we strode along the drafty south wing hall
and halted before a steel-plated door that was guarded by a closed-circuit camera.
My busy lackey pushed a button at eye level. While we waited, I asked him his name.
“Abdullah ben Smida Al Hussein, sir,” he replied in a husk tone. I nodded slightly. My dad
loved to place members of the old dynasties in his splendid background. I wondered why he
had singled me out to join his bashful beauties.
The door clicked open and Smida let me pass with a cordial bow. I wavered, as if I was
about to enter a sacred shrine. Smida discreetly withdrew, leaving me alone with the awesome
figure behind the broad walnut-inlaid desk.
I hadn’t been in his new office before, and I quickly took in the interior. The ceiling had
been redecorated in the Cordovan Moorish style, but the royal crystal chandeliers had been
respectfully saved. Magnificent tapestries covered the walls and, in a corner, a miniature
waterfall flowed across an artfully random arrangement of rocks, giving the room the
atmosphere of an Arabian Nights slumber party. The heavy drapes were drawn to keep down
the sound of the howling tempest outside.
A huge world map covered the wall. Yellow tags with Arabic characters delineated the
world after the Revolution. They were pinned all over. After taking this in, I looked over at
my sacred cow.
There was some resemblance. But the well-groomed General Dad, in his faultless, dark,
tailor-made pinstripe suit, when compared to me, was like an eagle to a woodpecker. Even in
my striking lead and sand colored Desert Foxes Brigade uniform I knew I looked sloppily
dressed, and felt perceptibly uneasy about it.
General Dad had the sharp, intelligent face of the born ruler. He was in his fifties, but
looked much younger. His slick hair had grown thinner, though. He stood straight as an
arrow, and his sinewy figure proclaimed a life-long discipline devoted to health. I, on the
other hand, was rather potty, of medium height, with untidy, curly auburn hair, a round face
gleaming of fat cells, and a small girly mouth, which explained my nickname of “Angel Face”
in my rookie years.
Also, I tended to back throbbing, which was the result of an unfortunate wheels-up landing
somewhere in the north of Egypt. It was one of the many injuries I’d suffered in the line of
duty.
The only thing we had in common, were our eyes, which were close-set. I knew my fellow
officers called it the snake’s gaze, just before the fatal stroke. Two nicks, one too many, but it
was meant as a backhanded compliment.
The general’s voice had a forceful, masculine timbre. I was soft-spoken, like the
introverted intellectual I pretended to be. But, between us, that image was deceptive, and I
had developed this mild outlook as part of my image.
He jumped up and stepped up to me with arms outstretched. Apparently he was about to
hug me, but placing his Arab descent before his paternalism, he grasped me by the hands
instead.
“Welcome, Hassan,” he exclaimed, in a solid voice. ” I trust you’ve have a peaceful
passage.”
His English was impeccable, demonstrating the fruits of the loom. On the other hand, I
spoke a large number of Arabian dialects to perfection, which was more than most could
manage.
“I did indeed, Father, thank you,” I politely replied. “There were no ambushes between
Cairo and Aberdeen.” Dad didn’t get the joke. He led me to the large facing sofas near the
blazing hearth.
We sat down facing each other, crossed our ankles over our knees, but avoided showing
the soles of our shoes. The general stretched out his hands toward the grate, trying to capture
the heat of the flames.
“This dreadful climate makes me ill,” he lamented. “Sometimes I have the urge to dream
about my retirement and count my blessing — whatever they are. I ’m getting old.”
The General was angling for the protectorate of Spain, to spill the beans. The resident
Caliph was going downhill, in the last years of his reign. Most importantly, he had no
successor.
There was a knock at the door, followed by the entry of a petty officer pushing a trolley
laden with a steaming teapot and several plates of sweet cakes. He vanished at a wave of the
mighty general’s hand. Dad poured us each a cup of tea; then he slid a plate of small, tasty
dates in front of me.
“They’re fresh from the palms, arrive on a weekly basis, so, let’s eat before we get down to
business.”
I meekly took a cake. They were, indeed, tasty, and we ate in silence. I knew the general
didn’t like to chat idly while having his favorite afternoon tea.
He had copied, and learned to appreciate this British tradition. Though he always
complained about the Brits, the weather, and their peculiar customs, he had fought to retain
his position as chief of MI1, Military Intelligence West, for nearly twenty years in a world of
endless oriental intrigues.
 After three cups of fragrant tea, he leaned back and focused his hypnotizing gaze on me.
Not that I was impressed, being equal to return the look.
“It’s been a long time,” he began. That was some understatement, I thought.
I wasn’t going for more than a polite reaction. After all, I was much more curious to know
why I’d been invited in such short notice. I was having ants in my pants, which he perceived.
“Before we go at great length, I’d like to revive some old memories regarding the reason
why you’ve been shifted to your current job.”
I sighed audibly. I had an awkward feeling. There were episodes in my life I’d rather keep
the lid on.
He didn’t use any information from documents or screen. He just there on that large
Chippendale couch, and went through his merciless monologue.
I wished I had a smoke, but didn’t dare to light one up. Dad had become known as a
fanatic health freak, and he would have shot me one of his glares, and that was just one too
many.
“You had your share of ideological training at Versailles, after which I sent you to the
Brigade at the age of eighteen. Am I correct so far?”
“It’s all in the files, sir,” I reluctantly answered. I hated that kind of grilling — it only
showed I was Dad’s kid.
“So it is,” the General went on. “And you’ve had your trial by fire here in the Highlands,
haven’t you?”
That’s it. I didn’t want to recall some of the awkward memories back then.
“Sir, if I may chip in,” I interjected, “is this necessary to evaluate my position?”
With a slight gesture the general — not my Dad — swept the argument away. “I only want
to refresh your memory, Hassan. Don’t make a fuss about it. You’ll see what I ’m getting to.”
So I gave up and sipped my tea. My stomach turned over, telling me to run away, but
instead, I chewed on a date and stayed on the alert.
“You earned your sergeant’s stripes after your trial, which was unique in the unit’s annals.”
Well, well — here he sounded like the proud father.
“There was a war going on, sir, and my sergeant was killed in action, along with a lot
more.”
“And you were the next candidate. Didn’t you ask yourself why you were chosen nearly
overnight?”
“I got an honorable mention for the Norwegian smugglers’ operation.” I was pleading my
case now, as if faced with a framed-up court martial.
Dad lifted his hand. “You don’t have to defend yourself. I ’m neither blaming nor accusing
you.”
The wind had shifted, and I could clearly hear the rustling of the sycamore trees in the
courtyard. My urge to run away grew by the minute. In similar situations I would actually
stand up and slip out, or make a surprise attack. But this was the general, and, by a weird
chance, he was my father, too.
“You discovered a forbidden act,” he went on; his long brown fingers interlaced to rest his
chin. His three gold rings and his platinum service signet ring reflected the candelabra lights.
 I had to go back a long way — almost ten years actually. I had somehow repressed that
shameful episode, though, on the other hand, it had marked the start of my career.
There was a good reason for this. It’s not flattering when you expose your best friend to a
humiliating military court hearing. I could still hear the flogging, and see Kaseem’s icy eyes
as he was carried away, bleeding from several whiplashes. The force had strict rules about
masturbation in those days. I sometimes wondered why the hell I had to screw Kaseem. He
was just a healthy boy, gratifying his lonely needs, and I had experienced my own lonely
moments ever since.
“I was just a squealer — a mole in the service,” I said, sulkily. “I had no right to shop my
friend.”
Dad all of a sudden jumped to his feet and stepped to the fireplace to warm his back.
“You know what makes an officer, Hassan? I mean, a good officer.” To my surprise, he
sounded good humored.
“I suppose what the manuals say, sir,” I answered, still on guard.
“After the smugglers ’operation, you were summoned to clean up their hideout — do you
remember that?”
Painful images raged through my brain. “By all means, sir — it cost me my stripes.”
The General smiled, though I couldn’t see the comedy part.
“That was very brave of you, indeed,” he said, to my surprise. I had a flashback. I had been
picked out early that morning to lead a small group of volunteers. Our orders were to round
up and trash everything, people included, as an example to those mulish Highlanders. I
refused however — officer’s code of honor and all that stuff — and I was dismissed and led
to a half-track, where I sat, guarded by two M.P.’s.
I watched death rage through the small village. I heard the crying, the shooting, and the
terrifying sounds of repeating kills. Genocide on a small scale it was, nothing more and less.
It happened so many times in those evolving days of the Revolution.
I saw my friends and companions return, covered in other man’s blood. Some were in
shock, but most of them had simply done their duty. They didn’t talk to me. I had turned into
an outcast, and the next day I was transferred to a pen pusher division. Not a smart way to
start a promising career, but yet it turned out to be the other way.
“Someone at the top read your file and decided you had the right guts for intelligence
work. Not because you were subversive, but because you could act against stupidity.”
Someone at the top? How translucent! Did he think I was one of his bum suckers?
“You did it just in time, Hassan. Central Intelligence was then in control of global
intelligence work, which was too harsh for everyone. So the brass hats cut the cake and sliced
it into East and West, and vacancies were just out and came up at the right time.”
“A case of happy circumstances, I suppose, sir,” I replied wryly, though I’d rather have
told him to his face what I really thought of it.
The general looked satisfied. It was plain to see that he’d heard what he wanted to hear.
“Now let’s settle down to business. Come with me,” he suddenly ordered. I jumped up,
relieved to follow him to his desk. I played the waiting game while he opened the curtains and
let the grey light flow in.
 He switched to a lighter tone. “What do you think of our Russian friends? Don’t be afraid
to give me your own findings. I’d like to have an objective one for a change.”
I couldn’t resist a smile, realizing how frustrating it must be for someone who seeks the
truth for a living, but sees himself buffered away from the real world by flattery and
adulation.
So I gazed at the world map. “I think we’ve been too soft on them, sir.”
The general nodded. We both knew that the Russians had taken advantage of our fragile
position in the wonder years after the Revolution.
There was no doubt we needed their rusty fleet, but it turned out we had invited an
unwanted cuckoo into our nests. After the U.S.A. had established law and order in the region,
they bailed out, not realizing they left behind a wide gap to be filled by the Jihad. In no time,
the Revolutionary Forces took over and a year later, the British seaports had become Russian
naval bases. Russian cruisers guarded the international dividing line between the Asian-
American hemisphere, known as “The Block,” and the Arabian League nations. Russia, the
most powerful of European nations, had become the gatekeeper of Pax Islamica. Talking of a
paradox.
“I like what I hear, major,” the general said. “And that’s why I know you’ll be the right
man for the job.”
I sat on the fence. Though I considered myself a true Arab and believer of the Faith, this
oriental beating around the bush got on my nerves. Still, I anticipated the next move would be
a major one.
He opened a drawer and took out a thin blue cardboard file. I spotted the “Confidential”
stamp. So he had a job for me. I breathed more freely now.
He slid the file toward me and I opened it.
“Don’t jump to any hasty conclusions,” he warned me. “It may not be what it seems to be.
Read it carefully, and then I’ll answer your questions. Take your time.”
The file was marked “Highly Confidential —Ranks 5 to 1,” without further clues. I
skimmed until I became absorbed in a close-up shot of Boris Rabinov, the Russian Prime
Minister. A tall, massive figure in his mid fifties, squarely built, with a mass of graying white
hair and a face with a reddish rockiness, square jaw, black, bristly brow, and broad lips.
I read some biographical notes. He was descended from a Jewish family, owners of a chain
of shop all over Russia. He didn’t pursue the business, but went for an academic career
instead. He had become a professor of economics at Moscow University, and then started in
politics with a left-wing party. The rest of his story was well known.
I flipped through the file. Three pictures were neatly clipped to the folder. The general
explained. “These pictures were taken near Zurich. Rabinov had a meeting with a Vatican
official, a cardinal named Rossi, and a Bahrain banker, the same who co-financed the
Revolution and, by the way, is a good friend of the Saudi royal family.”
I studied the hazy photographs, taken somewhere outside in misty, dreary conditions, most
likely shot with a candid camera. The faces seemed to be retouched.
“We don’t know the purpose of this meeting behind closed doors,” he clarified. “We can’t
get any information from Central or East, and that’s why I ’m - uh - sort of intrigued. I don’t
know whether you’ll be able to pull out the answer, but I think it’s important enough to give it
a try.”
 I chewed on the remarkable coincidence. The role of certain Arabian bankers in the
Revolution wasn’t something you hung on the peg. Arabian bankers weren’t supposed to deal
with such sinful deed as financial transaction that conflicted with Ryba rules.
“How’s the Vatican involved, sir?” I asked. The general dodged the question. “That’s for
us to find out, Hassan.”
“Does it have something to do with the other Pope in Mexico City?” I saw the flicks in his
eyes. “That’s possible, and if so, you know what this means.”
I did, and I wondered if Rabinov had made deals with The Block.
I knew the Vatican’s policies towards the Arabs. Being subjugated after the Revolution,
the Vatican State could no longer lord it over at high levels. The Pope lived a dead duck life at
his country house in the Tuscan hills. His function was now no more than that of an elder
statesman, surrounded by unscrupulous, incapable cardinals. And, for the Arabs, he was just a
handy instrument to keep a billion Roman Catholics at ease.
“That’s a lot of territory to cover, general,” I said, barely holding back my eager. I was
dying for the green light. I knew that he knew I wouldn’t trade the chance of a lifetime for the
world.
“You’re absolutely right, Hassan,” he admitted. “Though I may have a hunch as you know
that the Saudi are setting up a gigantic computer network, which they call the ‘Relational
Random Research Program,” or ‘Triple-R.’ It’s meant to hook on all databanks throughout
Europe. You know —intelligence services, population registers, home affairs, the works. We
don’t know a lot about it. Maybe they just want to simplify the administration of border
crossings, or keep an eye on criminal activities.”
“Who’s controlling the network, sir?”
“Muhammad Abn Ibn al-Saud, a member of the royal family.” The name rang a bell, but
vaguely.
“We don’t know what the sheikh and the Prime Minister were discussing. We presume it
was about the Odessa Conference, which will be held in September. But we’re not sure.
Central hasn’t reported the meeting yet, and that troubles us. It figures hole-and-corner affairs
with the sheikh, and therefore we’re even more curious to know.”
I didn’t ask who ‘we’ was. I figured it was none of my business. But I was anxious to
know my part in this spy drama. I went over the rest of the file and was thankful that the
general didn’t rupture my concentration.
“Wasn’t the place wired, sir?”
He shook his head thoughtfully. “No, the walls were perfectly sealed.”
Of course they were. It was somehow amusing, this cat and mouse game, and I began to
enjoy it. He eyed me out, but I passed over his gaze. I could see his indecision and I felt
affection for him as he gave me the opportunity to prove my talents.
The nape of my neck started to itch. After two years of pencil pushing, it really looked as if
something was bound to pop up.
“You will attend an extended Triple-R training program at Intelligence East,” he said,
without further ado.
 I came like a bolt from the blue. I stared tongue-tied at this elegant man, who controlled
the northern part of Europe, as well as the Maghreb. I started to ask, but then didn’t. I just
waited on tenterhooks.
“You’ll stay in Moscow for about two months. I don’t have to emphasize the giant step
forward to your career.”
He noticed the stare in my eyes. “Don’t underestimate the job, major,” he warned me,
pretty officially. “It could be more intense than you’d ever expect. In between, you’ll be
poking about and you’ll learn more of the hidden backgrounds.”
So that was the game. I was supposed to be his personal spy. I had to discover some trivial
facts that weren’t important except in this man’s obsessions —a man who lived in a world full
of suspicious shadows. A fine promotion this was.
“You know what our situation is with MI2, so be cautious,” he warned me. That had
crossed my mind too. It was no secret that political relations even since had troubled the
unification program. Propaganda couldn’t cover up the increasingly insuperable differences
between East and West, as a considerable part of both intelligence services tended to respect
tribal lines and regional traditions.
“Are there any fellow officers involved, sir?” He didn’t answer at first. He seemed to be
weighing the pros and cons.
“None whatsoever,” he said. “You’re the only West member. The others are mainly from
East —and some Russians, of course.”
“I’ll have to defend our honor, then,” I said, attempting to sound amusing, but he wasn’t
buying my joke.
Someone knocked discreetly at the door.
“We’ll keep on this conversation later,” he concluded, rather hastily, and I spotted a
glimpse of uneasiness. He locked the file safely away, and then he pushed the black button,
the door opened, and Smida slipped in.
Dad got up and, rather formally, invited me to dinner. I got to my feet as well, saluting off-
handedly, and thanked him for his hospitality.
I followed the lieutenant. We walked across the hall and entered a den-sized room,
occupied by a stout sergeant with a large grey beard, who returned my pistol and the
ceremonial silver-inlaid knife, having me sign for it.
Smida accompanied me to my new billet. We passed several corridors with frosted glass
doors. The offices behind them produced muffled voices and electronic noises, and then we
clambered up a stairway.
Then something remarkable happened.
When we reached my billet, Smida suddenly stopped, looking over his shoulder.

“Intaba, chatar …”
Before I could respond to his hurried words he had disappeared and left me puzzled.
Beware, there’s danger …Perhaps I was also getting paranoid in this immense living
graveyard, with suspicion and distrust for tombstones.
The door was unlocked. I noticed there was no keyhole, so I entered and looked about.
Sunset broke through the clouds and filled the room with a delicate copper glow. It was little
more than a shack, six meters square, filled with a camp bed, a small writing table, and one
folding hunting chair. They must have been in a great hurry. The bed had been quickly folded,
and the sheets lay in a heap at the foot —not very military. My blue nylon sponge bag,
containing my spare shirt and trousers, toothbrush, and electric razor, was already at the
bedside.
The room faced a corner of the courtyard, but a tree hampered my view. It’s wet twigs
tapped at the window glass with the gusts of wind.
The antique cast-iron radiator was cold. “Someone ought to keep an eye on the heating,” I
called out for the sake of the hidden mikes. I sauntered to the window, rubbed the mist from
the blurred glass, and caught sight of the tree. I noticed the small green butts on the branches,
became conscious that it was getting to be springtime. Spring in Scotland —well, well.
Then I came to order. I plucked a kola-stick from a new box, lit it with my silver Brigade
lighter, took off my belt, girdle and boots, and flopped on the bed, feet on the sheets.
I inhaled eagerly, letting the smoke waft up to the two crossed flags painted on the ceiling,
the red and blue British Federation one, and the white and green of the Arab League. I felt
beaten up. The rush from Cairo to Rome, and then the military cargo, had made me faint. I
didn’t like flying at all and was still airsick and feverish. I smoked with closed eyes, little by
little regaining control over myself.
I began adding up my present status. I was still disturbed with the general’s attitude, his
patronizing manners, as is he were entertaining some innocent or gullible adolescent.
That rap about the forbidden act, my foot. Still, he was my Dad. I took into account that I
had no experience with the Middle-East and beyond. The Maghreb was my working space —
I was an Africa man. So what’s the deal? I crushed my cigarette out and got out of bed,
switched on the light, and sat at the table for a while, staring at the image of my tired face in
the wet glass.
Someone knocked at the door. It was about seven, and I knew the general didn’t like
stragglers. Before me stood a petty officer, carrying a new white and black dress uniform,
wrapped in plastic. I changed into the ceremonial dinner clothes while the officer waited
outside.
It was time for one of the general’s legendary —or should I say notorious —dinners. They
were famous all over the civilized world; dietetic food alternated with smart one-liners on the
global political situation, mostly emanating from his mouth.
 Chapter 2

I wasn’t ready for what I was about to experience. On a snowy morning I took an early
flight and arrived at Sheremetyevo Air-port about noon. A cab drove me to the former GRU
headquarters at the corner of Lyublyanskaya Place and Kirov Street.
The massive cream-yellow building from the heyday of Communism had a depressing
effect on me, but my heart soared when I noticed the elegant Arabic characters on the front
entrance.
A fat, slovenly sergeant, smelling of garlic and strong tobacco, welcomed me. He put a
stamp in my passport with the green Desert Foxes print.
In the main conference room, several other new information officers were already
conferring, standing straight, smoking, and quietly conversing. I counted ten of them, all
lieutenants and captains.
They looked older than me, somewhere between 30 and 40, and most of them had
Caucasian features. They were all growing mustaches as a service symbol.
As the general, my Dad, had explained, none were from West, and I felt a bit out of place.
Then I spotted one young man who looked familiar, wearing the uniform of an infantry
lieutenant.
We gazed at each other, trying to recall shared memories. I had lost sight of Kaseem
almost ten years ago. He hadn’t changed much since then — still that beefy, good-natured
farmer’s face.
But the eyes were no long friendly. He ran them over me, his expression cool and blank. I
stuck out my hand in greeting.
“We’ll be seeing each other frequently, I suppose,” I said, a bit shook up, “so why don’t
we settle this once and for all?” Kaseem didn’t reach out for my hand, but kept staring at me
blankly and I strongly felt his disgust. Still enemies after all these years, it seemed. Why was I
to encounter him after all here, of all places?
“I was under the impression I was the only one here from West,” I continued, trying to
keep up a friendly conversation. “I ’m assigned to East,” he answered, flatly.
That was rather peculiar, and I wondered what else to say. Fortunately, a stocky,
bespectacled colonel, with an olive-brown moon-shaped face, came in, followed by a corporal
carrying a nylon bag. He wore the Lebanese colors, was about forty I’d reckon, with a prissy
voice and a notable limp to his walk. Standing firm, he looked us over, cleared his throat, and
the voices died down.
“Salamu Alaykum .”
“Alaykum Essalam ,” we chorused in greeting.
“I ’m colonel Ahmed. I lead this outfit and, as you know, you are our new draft. I expect
you will be cooperative. If you are, you will find a new game of modern intelligence, never
revealed to the world before.”
He smiled subtly, as if to emphasize the importance of our mission. Then he walked across
the room, freezing the men with his searching gaze.
 “We’ll spend a great deal of time together, so bare with me, gentlemen. We don ’t use
surnames here — forget about your parentage. In this place, you will be the Children of God,
and I am first in command after the Almighty.”
The picture was quickly set. The men had already started to adjust, willing to fit into the
project.
The colonel held up a familiar charcoal black device, showing it over our heads.
“This is your cellular phone. It ’s new, developed by our Russian colleagues. It covers the
world as we know it. Don ’t try to call on your spy friends from the Block. It doesn’t work
that way.”
The group started to laugh, but the colonel looked dead serious.
“You may use it as you like,” he kept on, “but your calls will be registered, both in and out.
Any offense will be severely punished. Your ears might be cut off, among other things.”
He smiled broadly, greatly enjoying himself at our embarrassment. The corporal starting
ticking off our name and handing out the phones. We were greatly keyed up about them. After
the Revolution, private phones had been severely restricted, and mobiles were just out of the
question, except for the high brass and officials in authority.
We were playing with our new toys for some time. The colonel ordered his aide to take
charge of us and then left the room.
The corporal led us to a refectory, which smelled of stale coffee and cooked cabbage.
Some orderlies started to serve us coffee, tea, and cucumber sandwiches, though no one
seemed to be very hungry. It was quiet while we were eating, as we were still dumbfounded
by our peculiar welcome and, frankly, we weren’t sure of our party still.
To our relief, colonel Ahmed returned after half an hour, telling us that it was time to get
acquainted with the new techniques, and we followed him across the building and down into
the basement.
I was in the lead, Kaseem at the back, so we wouldn’t bother each other.
We crossed a service car park and entered a desolate, dripping one-way subway that had
been constructed during the Cold War Age. A rusting single-car train was waiting for us. The
motor jerked and off we went.
The guided tour ended at the Lubyanka interrogation rooms. We were formed up in a
darkened, oblong room, with a black curtain at one side. The place was lit only by a small,
low wattage bulb, making us look like a bunch of ghosts. Colonel Ahmed started off again,
nervously clasping and unclasping his hands.
“For most of you, this will be your first introduction to our new techniques. Interrogation,
as you know, is one of our vital ways to gain information. We have two ways to do that. We’ll
start with the hard way first —the easy way will follow in due time.” He took hold of the
curtain and glanced over his shoulder.
“This might come as a shock,” he added, “even if you’ve experienced this before. Consider
this your first step toward the modern way of interrogation.”
He jerked the curtain open. The sight was like a hallucination. Behind the smoked plate
glass a dimly-lit oval room was disclosed. It had the appearance of a hospital room with
several operating tables. Electric discharges produced a delicate bluish fog that hovered
around the bulbs.
 People, completely naked, were laid out on the stainless steel tables, their arms and legs
strapped down. Their faces were wet, with throbbing veins standing out. They were attached
to electric wires hanging from the ceiling.
Shock therapy, I registered blankly — the mean way to torture people.
I concentrated on the three nearest tables, spotted a white woman, bald-headed, going on
forty. I counted several slightly burnt spots, the traces of violent electrical discharges. She had
her eyes closed, but I noticed her steady breathing.
Next to her was a man, somewhat older, and nearly unconscious. Then there was a boy,
oblivious to his situation; a head-strong die-hard, willing to give his life for the cause,
whatever that was. He wouldn’t leave the building alive.
The man would die first, by the humiliation of mental castration. The woman would come
through. Women could endure ever so much more pain and inhumanity, as if their love for
life gave them much more endurance.
The victims had terminals on their genitals, thumbs, and big toes, and rubber sticks
between their teeth to keep them from biting their tongues. I was glad I couldn’t hear the
screaming and groaning through the double-glazed window.
Three men, with oriental features, stripped to the waist, their hard muscles bulging, were
working at the benches. Sweat glided in tracks down their hairy backs.
The colonel spoke up.
“If you pay attention, please. You must consider this room as an assembly line in a
working place and the job as like an industrial one. Each suspect gets a fifteen-minute
treatment —no more, no less. After the hard way you come in. We handle from four to five
hundred each day, twenty-four hours a day, seven days in a row. Moscow station has the best
return and we’re very proud of it.”
An assembly line? What did they think these poor people were into? A car factory? I felt
nauseated.
He drew the curtain and the nightmare was over. We were all staggered, and some of us were
pallid-faced and about to throw up. Cigarettes were lit. The flames shown on ghostly,
distorted faces, and some seemed to be worked up as well. I knew what they felt. I had
studied what happened to executioners, driven to sexual harassment with defenseless victims
at their mercy. It was brutal, instinctive, animal behavior, let loose in a world hidden from
civilization —a world few people knew about.
We followed the colonel with weary minds, avoiding conversation, each with his own
thoughts. We had been experiencing a new and violent aspect to our work. Though the
application of torture was part of our schooling, this was something new. Some of us would
have a difficult time getting used to this brutal swing in their careers.
We returned the way we had come. At the refectory, tables were drawn up before a large
platform. Several bottles of vodka and mineral water, thick glasses already filled to the brim,
and snacks were displayed, ready for consumption.
Liquor was still forbidden to Shiites, and so was gambling, those prime means of Satan to
sow discord among the believers. But after the Revolutionary years, decadence had crept in,
so that wine and liquors had become tolerated.
I didn’t copy others and, to my pleasant surprise, neither did Kaseem. We picked a pale
gherkin from a plate and exchange conspiratorial glances.
 The colonel was a dedicated follower of spirits, and his pupils tried to keep up with him,
coughing and swallowing.
“Don’t feel put off with what you've experienced,” the officer said in a soothe voice while
he poured his second drink. “The treatments are equally hard on the executioners and the
subjects. Most executioners work on a five-year contract. So, if you feel upset, do not be
disturbed; it will digest with the vodka.”
His sick jokes made me rebellious. They showed a lack of dignity toward human nature,
and I felt an irresistible need to have him lose face in front of his supporters.
“Sir, if you permit me,” I cut in coldly, “this beverage is forbidden to members of the
Desert Foxes Brigade.”
Everyone gaped at me. The officer locked eyes with me in surprise and gave me a grouchy
grin. I could have slapped myself for my silly utterance.
He read my name tag. “Look here, uh — Hassan,” he said. “We’re not in Cairo, nor in
London — we’re in Moscow, and we have an awkward task to perform. Peace in this part of
the world lies in our hands, and we’re on the threshold of new developments. You will
experience stacks of work under awkward conditions. So why don’t you relax and enjoy the
few pleasures this country offers?”
He looked about, and the officers muttered their approval, which encouraged him to go on.
“The Prophet forbade the drinking of alcoholic beverages prepared from raisins, dates,
unripe dates and fresh ripe dates. I don’t recall vodka containing those ingredients.”
So the result of my meddling was a volley of hysterical laughter. He had them in the palm
of his hand and I felt greatly dejected.
To my surprise, Kaseem took my side, nibbling on a handful of sunflower seeds.
“That was very brave, indeed," he sneered. “Hassan Halker, still the same old moral
censor.”
I looked at him in a rumpled way, which made him grin. At last we shook hands.
“I ’m glad we’re friends again,” I said. “You have no idea how I suffered all those years.
I’m still sorry about what happened then.” Kaseem shrugged it off and spit some seeds on the
floor. Good old Kaseem, the fearless one, who jerked the authorities around and who gave
way to his emotions freely.
“How about a glass of quash?” he proposed. I agreed and heard someone ask why
Intelligence East had to do the dirty work. Ahmed took a huge heap of the iced caviar,
swallowed it down, and licked his lips.
“You’re an observant fellow,» he said. “The League forbids hard interrogation in the
federal states, so the job’s done here, through an agreement with our allies. Consider it as a
cultural exchange, okay?”
His statement met with general approval. We finished our drinks and then we were taken
two floors up. Three officers had to be supported, as they were too plastered to walk.
The colonel caught me on the way up. He tugged on my arm and blew a cloud of vodka-air
into my face. “Listen, Hassan, we’re all in the same boat, so don’t be a smart aleck. We’re a
team, alright? I strongly recommend you be a good boy from now on.” He sounded grim.
I freed myself from his grip and didn’t go into that. I was aware of his flustered mood. I
knew this whole affair could escalate, which would be a fine start indeed. Fortunately, he
forgot about me, and as we reached a steel-plated door the incident was long gone. Ahmed
turned on his heels and the mob stopped.
“Gentlemen, this is our information centre, the nervous system of Triple-R, which you will
be free to use at your convenience. That is, assuming you don’t push the wrong buttons.” A
small ripple of laughter was his answer as he opened the door.
About twenty men and women - the latter with shawls - were working at their stations.
Others passed by carrying stuff, and everyone seemed to be absorbed by whatever they were
doing. The temperature was low and the air was dry, as the result of powerful ventilation.
Colonel Ahmed clapped his hands and twenty faces turned toward us. They had a white
shine from the reflected light of their terminal screens.
“Good day to you all. This is our new group of information officers. Each of you will be
assigned to one officer only. You’ll be working exclusively for him, helping him any way you
can. You ’l be at his disposal night and day, seven days a week. You’ll feed him whatever he
needs, and that is information, basically. Anyway, you know the drill, so let’s not waste
time.”
The assignments had been made previously. I made my acquaintance with a tall, slender
man. He was Russian, though his narrow eyes and high cheekbones showed traces of Asian
blood. His brown, beetle brow had a distinguishing tic. They moved in time with his words.
His hair was a blond lion’s mane. He was likely from the other side of the Urals, I thought.
He also looked worn, like a traveler on a long, cybernetic journey.
We were ushered in and shook hands. The operator’s hand was calm and hesitant, that of a
sensitive man. I liked him at a glance.
He introduced himself as Viktor. His voice was surprisingly low and warm —not the voice
of a computer man. Of course, I had no idea of how a computer man might sound. Viktor
pulled a small, attached stool from under the table and I gratefully took a seat. His desk was
covered with notepads, papers, and a triangular ashtray with cigarette butts piled up. I studied
the twenty-eight inches screen, which was subdivided into six windows. Each window had its
own virtual life, full of scrolling encoded data.
I asked him about the meaning of all this.
His face brightened, and for a moment he looked a lot younger. He pulled his chair closer,
straightening his back. His nicotine-stained right hand went automatically to his pack of
Georgian cigarettes.
He put on a headset. “Okay, let’s try a research item.” His words were followed by a
hacking cough. “What would you like to dig up from our notorious restricted areas?”
My future partner seemed to have some sense of humor.
“Let’s try the obvious,” I proposed, “starting with my name.” Viktor’s lips formed a faint
smile. Clearly, he was used to this first item. He spoke rapidly into the microphone, producing
the word “Halker.”
A split second later my name appeared sequentially, filling the screen. I counted fifteen
ones. Two of them were Halker, H.
Halker, H., MI1-*********, (C15), WS15A2253-485DAA
“Not much for a start,” said Victor, puzzled. “Your name doesn’t ring a bell in the archives
department. It’s clearly not popular in the records.”
 “I suppose I ’m the one with MI1.”
Viktor nodded. “You may be right. Though we’ll never know, as you’re being encoded.
Those little stars would be your number. You have security clearance level 15, which isn’t
high enough to have unlimited access. Sorry.”
He clicked on my name. The screen came to life. “Access denied —call 1999.”
He pointed at the number. “If you want to pursue your quest, you’d start by calling this
phone number. You’ll end up in code red and from there on you’ll be questioned, distrusted,
shadowed. It’s up to you.”
“Forget it. What are the other numbers?”
“Your updates. You’ve been scanned 485 times up to now. Tomorrow it’ll be 486. That
would be your access here.” I was taken aback. “You’re saying that literally all of my
movements are being registered?”
“Not quite. Let’s say the important ones. The ones that could throw more light on your
behavior.”
“Don’t you have a higher clearance?”
“I don’t. Our primary job is information retrieval from the memory banks. Other people
enter the details. But if you want more of that stuff, you can fill in about sixteen forms to get
away with it.”
Two Halker, H. And one of them had the lead.
“Can you bring up the first on the file?”
Viktor moved to another screen and the first Halker, H., popped up.
“Not much here,” he said, sucking on his cigarette. “The usual stuff. It’s a man, as you can
see. Halker comma Henry. Lives in London, is 56 years of age, married. Checked into a
hospital three days ago — I could look up his medical file if you want — paid with plastic —
observe the bill — phoned London three times — let ’s see the numbers. Two of them are
calls to some Dolby comma Mary. Would you like to nark on him?”
It was tempting indeed. Maybe I’d be related to that Halker comma Henry. But then, my
assignment was more important, and this could wait.
“It’s amazing,” I muttered. “How far back can you track a person’s moves?”
“Almost infinitely. All countries —that are about half a million computer servers — are
linked into our networks. So you see no one escapes. At least, that’s the purpose.
Theoretically.”
I glanced at his hard profile. Was this meant to be a sneer? I decided to throw him a line
“So, we’re all kind of prisoners of the system.”
Now it was Viktor’s turn to be surprised. “That depends on how you look at it. We’re
divided into two camps, the pro and the contra. The English, for example, don’t like it.
Anyway, you can’t turn back progress.”
I held back to suppress my edginess. I ran my eyes over my fellow officers. Everyone
seemed to be absorbed by the enormous amount of data piling up. They would dig it all out in
the course of their jobs. They would be on top of things, a dream come true. It was all too
tempting to slam the dangerous issues of the game.
 Kaseem’s round face was glued to his terminal. He, too, was spellbound, blinded by this
staggering electronic tool.
We forgot about time and made excursions across the Eastern Hemisphere. Triple-R turned
out to be more than just a collection of linked networks. It also controlled street cameras, PIN
codes, social security numbers, private communication lines — everything was linked to a
sophisticated cross reference tool. Later that afternoon, all officers gathered in a state of high
excitation, exchanging experiences and explaining how they would handle the heap of
information. At Ahmed’s entrance they started to spontaneously applaud.
The colonel lifted his hand to stop the clamor. “I see you’ve had your happy hour,” he
exclaimed. His eyes roamed about the room, halted on me for a while.
“Now you’ll understand the importance of our mission, which I ’m about to straighten out.
To the briefing room, gentlemen, if you please.” So, we said ‘good-bye ’to our workers and
filed out for another walk and another surprise.
This time we entered a tastefully decorated amphitheater shaped auditorium, with indirect
lighting, and draped in lawn-green colors. Twenty crescent rows of comfortable seats
descended to a thirty square yard stage. A huge projection screen spanned the wall. On the left
was a small lectern, carrying the MI2 emblem.
The colonel took his place at the desk and waited until everyone was seated. The lights
dimmed, and the screen flared to life.
“Gentlemen, your first day is nearly over. After this presentation you' l be granted your
night off downtown. So, sit back and relax. Tomorrow we’ll discuss particulars and you’ll be
briefed in depth.”
It was a promotion film we were about to see. I sagged, fixing a hole in the seat, and
meditated on my first day as a fresh interrogation officer.
I knew I was in the centre of something both exciting and menacing. An unknown track led
to nowhere land, as far as I could see. I felt like a blind explorer a dark tunnel.
My mind drifted off to my information dealer. Would Viktor be my agent? Too many
questions, too much jumble for now. I eased off and concentrated on the screen.
The picture was about Triple-R’s birth. It was shown as a fictionalized documentary, with
a couple of well-known actors. Sometimes it was funny and sometimes it was frightening. But
we were under its spell, and little by little I forgot the nasty side effects of our work.
The history of information retrieval started in China, about three thousand years ago, when
the census was invented — chiefly for taxation and military purposes.
Due to their immense land program, the Romans felt that a huge bureaucracy was
mandatory. That was the cradle of western society. The English took the lead in Europe by
introducing land registration acts. However, it was only with the French Revolution that
social control came into the picture. State bureaucracy and the entire population were the
prime targets now. If you wanted protection ‘till your dying day, you had to submit yourself
to supervision, whether you liked it or not. During the nineteenth century statistical
departments were established in all industrialized nations to help the authorities with their
ambitious task.
During the last century most nations gained constitutional rights and become democracies.
They built up vast social security programs, with enhanced research and control systems.
About five decades ago, electronic money became popular. After the Revolution, the former
Arab-American satellite communication system fell into the League’s hands, and, finally,
Triple-R tied all the knots together. The movie ended with rousing marching music and the
lights came on.
We came out of a dream and strode off to the officers ’bar.
Kaseem joined me. He picked up three meat pastries. I felt done out. This morning I’d still
be amidst the Scotch firs, and now I was involved in something that went way over my head.
Kaseem garbaged the pastry down in three voracious bites, and then started to clean his
teeth with a toothpick.
“I wonder why they’re so jumpy,” I mused. “If you ask me, they’re too clumsy to deal
with it,” Kaseem said.
I laughed. That was so typical for Kaseem. Yet his remark could be right. Though the
Arabs had conquered western technological know-how, they hadn’t mastered it in full, being
used to foreign aid in exchange of oil barrels. They had to pull in specialists from Europe and
Asia to finish what they’d planned. Anyway, they were the rulers, so no need to soil their
hands.
“Well, what’s your opinion about all this?” I asked.
He shrugged and swallowed the rest of his dinner. “Go with the flow — I’ll see what I’ll
see. There are plenty of other things.” I couldn’t help admiring him and wished I had his
spirit.
 Chapter 3

Our draft spent the first month at Lyublyanskaya Place. The educational program was
aimed at drilling the stuff into our skulls. By and by we lost our critical sense; our bodies
were rendered insensible and our minds were benumbed. We were getting kind of monkish.
We got up at 6:00 am for lecture and drill, had breakfast from 7:00 to 7:30, then lecture
again and ideological theory until 10:00.That was followed by a short break, again lecture,
and practice until 1:30 p.m. and lunch until 2:00. Again lecture and cerebral training until
4:00, break, personal study until 6:30, diner, lecture and free time from 7:30 on. Lights out
around 10:30.
After two weeks of complete seclusion the grain had been sifted from the chaff. I landed in
the group with the best results. I noticed Kaseem got hopeless stuck. Soft interrogation
techniques were not much of his game, so we were separated once more.
Each officer from the rank of captain or higher was given his own quarters, an apartment
with a private bath. I got one overlooking the square. It was an unadorned room, four by four,
furnished with the standard corps equipment: berth, writing desk, stool and a small wardrobe,
all painted in army beige. The wall decorations dated from the Soviet era.
Fortunately I could revive through Victor. As I had foreseen, he turned out to be an
outsider as well, and to beat the system we both knew that our only weapon would be our
wits. He insisted that I should call him by his familiar name, Vitya, which was a sign we
were getting on a friendly basis from then on.
Russian spring had suddenly come, raising the temperature from minus 10 to 20 up
overnight, and the blossoming trees at Krasnaya Place promised a hot summer. We eyed the
endless parade of girls in summer dresses, and the girls looked back at us, two handsomely
unformed men, but we didn’t take the lead. Our minds were on our jobs. I had no idea how
Vitya satisfied his sexual needs, and frankly, I wasn’t anxious to learn either.
We ducked out by taking long walks down the arteries, from Gorky Park to the Red
Square, and along the river with Vitya acting as our guide. He was more at ease now, and his
tic was gone. Sitting over cups of coffee and glasses of water, we talked about our lives, our
expectations and our fears. Once, in Vladivostok, Vitya had worked as a systems analyst, but
after a sordid quarrel, his superiors removed him on the grounds of insubordination. His wife
left him, taking their three little daughters with her.
He had this theory that the network wasn’t entirely secure, and he kept warning everyone
with considerable tenacity. He wasn’t taken in earnest, being labeled unstable yet still useful.
It simply wasn’t safe because of the firewalls, digital fences protecting the classified data.
They weren’t tight enough and could be easily hacked down.
How? That he couldn’t act out, because it was pretty technical and I wasn’t much of a
computer man after all.
Vitya’s eyes wandered over to a woman pushing a pram. He had an impassioned
expression on his face. “God, I’d give anything to see my kids again.”
I focused on the man, whom I had grown fond of in time.
“Why shouldn’t you?” I asked airily, aware that he was slowly drifting towards the bait.
“Just get your permit — you’re in the military, you know.”
 Vitya shrugged. “I won’t get a leave without a fair reason, and this isn’t one. I ’m stuck
here forever.”
I weighed my words. “Maybe you’re not. Maybe someone has a reaching hand, if you’d be
willing to collaborate.”
Now Vitya looked me full in the face. “And this sort of cooperation concerns a person who
wants to dig into his background?”
I nodded cautiously. We picked up our cups and finished our drinks.
“Why did you suspect I would hack my way in for you?” I could see Vitya’s curiosity was
steadily growing.
“I just guessed,” I answered flatly. “You don’t talk of firewalls and stuff if you haven’t
tumbled into something.”
Vitya chuckled and his eyes narrowed, transforming him into a Siberian tiger.
“Clever monk. So, it seems we’re partners in crime now.” We looked like guttersnipes
swearing secret pacts. I settled the bill and we left the place. Curfew wasn’t near yet, so Vitya
proposed we’d make a short visit to his flat. We took the subway for the three mile ride and
arrived around 6:00.
He lived in the newly built Bakri Towers, four 200 meters of pyramid-shaped steel and
concrete towers, providing housing for thousands of members of the Force and Russian
officers, all paid and taken care of by the authorities.
We wandered towards the south tower across pleasingly cultivated flower gardens. I
enjoyed the scenery and felt great. My heart pounded, as always when I sensed my prey.
“I wonder if I can trust you,” Vitya uttered, with a faint smile.
“The feeling is mutual,” I answered, cheerfully. We ended up at the front door. Vitya slid
his keycard in the access lock. The door opened with a discrete click and a rapid elevator
took us up to the fifteenth floor.
We crossed a broad hall with several apartments. I could hear the human presence behind
the doors, radio and TV sounds, people conversing, and the obligatory cabbage smell was all
over.
His apartment was small, yet complete. According to service regulations, it had three
rooms and a kitchenette. Baths had to be taken at the kommunikal .Furniture was a hotchpotch
of different styles. Like so many of the assigned personnel, Vitya had refused the free
furnishings, preferring his own interpretation of style.
A comfortable couch in turquoise plastic took up one side of the room. Small paintings
covered the walls. A worn-out oak table and four similar chairs completed the living room. A
modern buffet with glass doors displayed Chinese industrial crockery. There were even cut
flowers in vases.
The view from the apartment was breathtaking. On the left I spotted the sunlit, gilded
onion-shaped domes of the cathedral and on the right were the unspoiled woods of the
Moscow East district. A fine film of white ground fog mingled with pink sunset streaks
softened the hard edges of the rigid architecture from the fifties.
Vitya didn’t pay much attention to my admiring comments. He came back from the
kitchen, carrying a tray with a chilled bottle of vodka, two 100-gram glasses, and salted
crackers. We sat down at the coffee table.
 “To our success,” he toasted, and finished his drink instantly. Due to colonel Ahmed’s
drinking rituals I had managed to overcome my aversion, but not at the same rate. I just took a
sip. It tasted like swill, and I put my glass down, for we had business to discuss.
Vitya smiled. “You’re not the drinking type, I see. That’s why you’re a major and I’m still
a sergeant.”
“Now, sergeant, let’s find out how we can extinguish our firewalls.”
Vitya laughed, then hung back and ate a cracker, staring distractedly at a picture on the
wall, representing a hunting scene with camels. I knew he was struggling with his inner
conflicts. Though he was a sideman, he was still a link in the infinite hierarchic chain, and for
any man that’s hard to defy. It was a delicate moment, and the outcome was treachery.
All he believed in was now at stake. But the love of his kids gained on it. He got up and
stepped over to his wardrobe. He hunkered down, rummaging between shoes and things, then
picked up a small, dark case.
He set it cautiously on the table and unlocked it. It was an old Japanese pocket computer. I
drew my chair up at his side.
“This is our first item,” Vitya solemnly explained. He then turned back to his kitchen, and
after an edgy while returned with a small red box and a phone cable reel.
“This is a modem,” he said. “An ancient one, but it suites its purpose. I bought it on the
black market from a Chinese junk trader. Something from the great days of leisure.”
I didn’t tell him that I had a better one, built into my notebook. State of the art, and made
in Korea. He unrolled the cable, inserted it into the phone jack and cranked up the system. It
displayed a welcome in Arabic, Muhammad’s seal glancing at me in gold.
“What you’re about to witness, no one has seen before,” Vitya mumbled. “You’ll partake
of the world of hacking priority restrictions. And we’ll both hang when this comes out.” His
words made me feel queasy. We were entering the forbidden wood. And, on the other side
stood the forest-keeper with a deadly shotgun.
Vitya started to explain the details. “Now, this cable reel looks pretty innocent, but I’ve
made some changes, so now became a scanner. Observe and learn.”
I had problems following Vita’s fast handling of the software, so I gave up and just
watched, letting the gizmo spawn its information. A digital clock in the right corner started to
count down from ten.
Vitya dropped his voice. “Now our scanner’s doing its job. It’s trying to locate a certain
address to jump on it like a flea on a dog. When it’s locked on, we’re in business.”
The clock had turned zero and started off again. “And now I ’m locked onto an officer
somewhere in Azerbaijan. If we’re lucky, he’ll be active and we’ll have our jump. He’s a
regular guy and he has a regular transmitting schedule, and it’s about his time now.”
“And then what?” I asked, still puzzled about his comment.
“And then we’ll be in rank seven,” Vitya answered, “and we’ll have jumped about twenty
ranks, for I ’m rank twenty-seven.”
Now it began to dawn upon me. So that’s how you got up the ladder, simply by logging in
on the digital freeway.
“And what comes next?”
 “Then we’ll play tiddlywinks,” he replied enigmatically. He lit a cigarette and the smell of
his Georgian tobacco filled the room.
I glanced at my wristwatch. Still about an hour before I had to return to my quarters. The
sunlight was perceptibly fading, and the blue screen light shone on Vitya’s set face.
Suddenly the machine emitted a quick melody and the screen changed in a trice.
“Got ya,” Vitya said in an undertone. He swung into action and picked furiously at his
keyboard. Now I could see he had established a connection with the outside world.
“I named him colonel Gotya.” I appreciated his pun.
“He’s transferring data now, so we can’t interfere, but that doesn’t matter. We’ll catch up
late on, or our way out.” I listened with half an ear, a pose I would later regret. Instead, I
wondered how simply a trusted man could turn into a criminal. Was it temptation?
Opportunity makes a thief — I should know. I recalled my last conversation with the
general on the scrambled mobile phone, before taking off for Moscow. Take good care of
yourself, Hassan, and always keep in touch with me. Always. Those were his final words.
Maybe this was a good time to be careful.
“A glorious moment,” Vitya muttered, much worked up now. I gaped at the fast-scrolling
data and tried to memorize what he was doing. Though I had a pretty good visual memory, I
didn’t manage in full.
“We’re in.” He typed some characters and suddenly my attention was drawn to the
screen.‘MI2 Section Internal Affairs —please insert your password.’
“Great, all we need is a password,” I grumbled. “Don’t worry, my friend, I’ve sorted this
out,” Vitya said, broadly smiling. There are ways to bypass codes and stuff, any child can do
it.”
His fingers glided over the keys and a new screen appeared. ‘Welcome to MI2 Section
Internal Affairs —select your item.’
A menu of about twenty items was shown and I read off the first column.’ Condensed Non-
Related Files.’
I knew this one. The Force’s Who’s Who. I didn’t think I’d find any surprises in it, but still
asked Vitya to call up my file for the sake of curiosity. He worked over the data. There were
six items: biography, education, career, FO, RRRP, and PP.
I was curious about the abbreviations. “What do the acronyms stand for?”

“FO means follow up. Let’s try it.”

I looked at a list number from 00000001 to 00000490. Vitya clicked on 00000489.

“Remember our first conversation at the station? Here you have the outline of your conduct
since your arrival.”
‘00000489. Officer arriving at Moscow Military Airfield BA-89 at 08:49 am. Collected by
Taxi #5839. Reception at M2-HQ and first encounter with training group (EO Col. A.
Muhammed)’
Nice. Next number. ‘00000490. Officer starts intensive training program at MI2
Educational Training Institute.’
 “Great,” I uttered dryly. “There goes my holy privacy. Where’s the update?”
Vitya mused upon it. “They’re probably behind schedule. That happens, you know. There
are about ten thousand people constantly poking around with their computers. Sometimes it
crashes down, or sometimes they can’t get through their stacks of data. Or maybe you’re not
interested anymore?”
“Let’s settle for the latter. Can you go back as far as April?”
“I’ll set the field value at 00000250. That should do.”
We read the contents in silence. It was all old news. Nothing to be scared of and my
suspense eased off a bit.
“Now try Triple-R. I ’m certain we’ll see more interesting stuff there,” I proposed. But
Vitya couldn’t evoke the item. It read ‘Restricted Area. Contact MC.’
“Central Intelligence,” I said, ruefully. Again the unavoidable wall. There must be a
bypass, but where to find it?
“How about your background?” Vitya asked. “That’s what we’re looking for, are we? If
you want to know about your mental profile, we could make a try at PP.”
Dear innocent Vitya.

“Skip the psycho,” I said. “I know who I am. Let’s find out where I came from?”
“All right, let’s dive in.”
A bunch of useless data scrolled out before my eyes. Most of it was irrelevant. Born in
London, mother Dolby, Grace. Father unknown. Mother died in riots during the year of the
British Revolution. Raised at several boarding schools (names following) with the Arabian
Hospitality Act. Selected for military schooling at age of eighteen. Married twice, spouses —
“Right, I’ve seen enough,” I said, wanting to cut it short. I felt awkward as the intimate
details browsed on. They were decayed items, fossils from an unknown past. The name Dolby
did ring a bell, but I had no time to brood over it at present.
“Search for the other ones, if you don’t mind,” I asked.
Vitya closed the item and got back to the top menu. He called for the second screen and
there it was.
‘SAHRA.’
I nearly cried out the name. The mental shock was so severe that I skittishly glanced at
Vitya to see whether he, too, had been struck by lightning. But he just sat there, biding his
time for further instructions, finger tops on the keys.
At last I had found what I was looking for. Even the general hadn’t dared to look up what
was now in front of me, waiting to be called up. It was so frightening, and at the same time so
tantalizing.
I pulled myself together. I wouldn’t be off guard, not at this crucial stage. I couldn’t allow
myself to share my cloak and dagger with this fine comrade of mine.
My watch beeped. A digital intruder saved me from an impulsive act.
“Damn!” I shouted. “I’ve got to go. Sorry, my Siberian friend, got to rush back or it’ll cost
me my stripes.”
Or would blow up my cover.
 Vitya took an uncertain glimpse at me. “What about my passport?” he asked, reluctantly.
His tic came to life again. “You’ll get it at our next encounter, promise. Just give me a week.”
He shut off the system, a bit drawn back. I wondered if he had been cruising down the
SAHRA issue yet. Anyway, he wouldn’t know what to do with it. Only I was supposed to be
capable of handling the information.
We arranged a new appointment. Already I had made my precautions, and had volunteered
for weekend duty. Vitya allowed a sly smile. “Great. I love a nice conspiracy. Reminds me of
the old days. I hope you’ve found what you ’re looking for.”
He wasn’t backward; he could see the excitement in my eyes. We parted with a warm
Russian hug and I rushed back to the subway.
Night had fallen. I felt lighthearted, but at the same time I asked myself whether it was
worthwhile to expose this man to my escapades. On the other hand, who would throw the first
stone? We both had our reasons; we both tried to gain something out of it.
The subway was quiet. It was about 10:00, and everyone was hurrying back before curfew.
Only three fellow passengers had a seat, safely sitting apart. I tried to recall Vitya ’s keyboard
moves and wondered how I could lay my hands on that scanner. Amongst other things, that is.
At the next stop before mine a young woman stepped on and sat beside me. I didn’t notice
her at first, but then she asked me for the time. She spoke English, with an accent I couldn’t
place at once. She had a jaunty, buoyant voice. I looked at my watch and then at her face.
Through almost covered by a white shawl, I noticed her soft, brown complexion, garlanded
by black, curly hair. Her eyes were chestnut.
Unintentionally, I admired her shapely, lithe figure while telling her the time. To my
surprise, she started a light conversation and I forgot about my wariness and abandoned my
vigilance.
She was about twenty-four, wore a clinging, skin-tight, floor length dress, buttoned from
neck to foot, flamboyantly colored and very feminine. I fell under her spell at the drop of a
hat.
I didn’t assume she was a prostitute, because of the shawl. An unveiled woman was a
‘giaour,’ a non-believer, and the colony considered non-Islamic women as outlawed. The
police reports about abused Russian women were systematically ignored, due to high political
pressures. So most young women had grown accustomed to wear a combination of Muslim
and European clothing by way of compromise. The obligatory shawl, combined with modern,
defiant looks, made a most intriguing dress combination.
I had to watch out. I wouldn’t be the first intelligence officer to fall to his knees for the
eternal enticement called woman.
“Don ’t look scared,” she whispered, “I ’m not a hooker. I have a message for you. Let ’s
leave at the next stop.”
She smiled, as if she was having a good time. I tried not to act embarrassed, turned my
head away and watched the flashing track lighting rushing by. My gut feeling told me she
didn’t represent danger whatsoever.
We were the last passengers when the train halted one stop from Gorky Street. The girl
stood up swiftly and walked out. I followed here, mesmerized by her elegant walk. She
moved naturally, in a way that illustrated the effects of work outs.
 She used the moving stairway, exiting to the Historical Museum. The full moon lit the
streets that were still packed with hurrying people. I stayed a pace behind her, ambling along,
never losing close distance.
The girl wasn’t in a hurry and stopped before shop windows. This annoyed me, as I had to
pass by her and then stall some distance ahead. Finally we reached one of those huge,
blistered and drafty quarters built during the Stalin era.
We entered by the darkened courtyard. She unlatched an unpainted door and pushed it
open. The nasty sound of scraping wood and the smell of decay and dead rats made me
queasy.
She closed the creaking door behind me, then leaned against the wall and uncovered her
face. The flat lighting didn’t decrease her beauty. On the contrary, it made her silhouette more
mysterious and sensual. Her copper brownish hair was thick and gleaming, and increased her
pale facial glow. But I braced myself and asked her, unwillingly harsh, about the meaning of
this masquerade. She put a finger to her lips and looked up. I followed her glance along the
winding stairs, but there wasn’t a human soul about.
She lowered her voice. “You’re being watched. That ’s all I can explain for now. Don’t say
a word. Leave the building and don’t ever come back. We’ll contact you. You’ll know before
long. Here, take this and get rid of it after reading.”
She conjured a small manila envelope from somewhere down her dress and slipped it over.
I fingered the outline of something hard, smooth, and circular, and pocketed it.
“Password is ‘Pebble,’ look under Mecca 2012,” she spit out, and before I could react she
had opened the door part way, peered out, and then gave me a push. I distinctly heard the
rusty creak of the spring lock inside. She had shut me out.
I walked away with mixed feelings. It had all gone so fast that I’d even forgotten to ask the
name of my volatile companion.
I was back in time not to rouse suspicion about. I locked my door, took a cold shower, and
dressed in boxers I climbed into bed and opened the envelope. It contained a flash memory
card, with no label or inscription at all. I slipped the disc into the slot of my PDA.
I was very edgy about all this. The conspiracy went way out of line, and I had the feeling
of something nasty hanging over my head. But the stakes were high, and this new question
mark simply asked for swift revelation.
I couldn’t trace her hint. ‘C.I.A. ’s Mecca 2012’ turned out to present a long list of assaults
and misfits — nothing more than the usual propaganda stuff the Americans would release
upon the world to slander Islam and the League in particular. Still, I started to write down a
summery on my device.
I steadily wrote, and only the sound of soft keystrokes filled the room. I was absorbed so
intensely that it took me a while before I heard my phone ringing.
“How was your first day, Hassan?” The general sounded far off, as if he was on the other
side of the planet, which could well have been the case.
“It looks all right, sir. Triple-R is a revelation to be sure. I hope we’ll have full use of it
before long.”
“So do I, Hassan, so do I. It should not be in one hand.” I could imagine the general ’s
anxiety: if Central should get a Triple-R monopoly, MI1 could kiss it ’s self-rule farewell.
“So, anything new?” he went on..
 “Nothing worth reporting, sir.”
Except for the information I was rigging now, but that was another piece of cake.
“All right then, I will contact you next Sunday afternoon. Have a good night ’s rest.”
“Same to you, general.”
After he had gone I felt crestfallen. I strongly wanted to believe that the whole thing all the
way. It even read like a badly-written novel, and probably that ’s what it was. But then again,
it could very well contain hidden messages.
Why should I trust the Americans? Why should I trust the girl above all?
In a whim, I deleted everything I’d written, took the disc out and shut off the PDA. For a
while I weighed the disc my hand. It felt so light and yet carried ever so much potentially
explosive stuff in it. If I only could have found out about. I resolutely broke it into four pieces
and disposed of each part by flushing it down the toilet.
“It ’s just a bad dream,” I said, loudly. “Moscow’s a nightmare and I’m in the middle of
it.”
The spell was broken. Evil had gone and I started to forget about it. I had more urgent
business ahead.
After a while I calmed down and began to analyze my situation.
Number one: Vitya couldn’t know about the disc. He wasn’t the type who overthrew
governments and collaborated with the enemy.
Number two: Did the girl know about Vitya, or did she work by herself?
Number three: The general. What was his part in this? Should he know about my findings?
And if so, was I to be sacrificed, as a gambit’s pawn in a ruthless global chess game?
This wasn’t a boy ’s play anymore. More than ever, I was determined to tie up the loose
ends and I knew I had to be extremely careful.
Number four: Who, or what, would be number four?
 Chapter 4

As a senior officer, I was entitled to an aide, who would prepare the interrogation scheme
for me. They saddled me up with Misha, a blotchy, twenty-year old Ukrainian corporal. He
didn’t look it, but he was an expert on information processing.
We’d got a whole working floor for our division. A hundred square meters, divided by
several movable partitions, forming small interrogation spaces, each containing a government
issue desk and two chairs. An attached spotlight was to shine on the quarry’s face, but not in
the KGB way. The modern interrogation techniques required special lighting for the hidden
infrared camera, which operated as a lie detector.
I didn’t speak to Vitya person to person anymore, as preparations for the job took most of
my time.
Colonel Ahmed had arranged for me to get the Central European female section. It was no
secret that he disliked me and assumed I was kind of weird. I didn’t want to argue with him,
as it was the perfect cover, and moreover he stayed off my back. Being a pro, I should have
been equal to handle the job neatly. Besides, I was one of the few who could handle several
European languages.
On the afternoon of the last training day, which coincided with the Prophet ’s birthday,
about a dozen newly trained interrogation officers in chief were mustered in the cabinet room.
The conference table was loaded with bottles and snacks.
Colonel Ahmed was in good humor and winked at his ex-rookies.
“The great day has arrived,” he called out pompously. “You have all pulled off, for which I
congratulate you. It’s up to you now. Do your job well and you’ll receive your rewards.”
To my surprise, I didn’t see any vodka bottles. All drinks were non-alcoholic. Ahmed had
turned into a Muslim again. We took our seats. Orderlies were sent for, providing us with
food, tea and coffee.
A group of musicians joined us and before long, they started a series of melancholy
Malhun melodies. Then the lights dimmed and the music became soft and sensual. A
cheikhat, a professional dancer, suddenly came out of nowhere. She was about thirty and
dressed in a traditional Berber outfit.
At first, the men were screaming, treating her like some ordinary nightclub dancer. But
when she started to dance, her grace and elegance were so enchanting that they became quiet.
Her hands, eyes and lips moved in perfect harmony, and her gestures were gracious and
elegant. Her feet were almost floating in the air, and her slim arms drew imaginary tales of the
long-ago past in the air. Then she started to sing an old love song about a woman deserted by
her lover.
I couldn’t help observing my colleagues and noticed that several of them had tears in their
eyes, which were bright with homesickness.
At that moment I came to believe that I wasn’t one of them. I was a northerner, a
European, and this sudden recognition would influence the near future, though I didn’t see it
then.
The merry part didn’t last long. We were too anxious, looking forward to the great
adventure. So everyone felt relieved as the colonel put down his tea glass and ordered the
band to leave. Work would start right away.
 It was about 5:00 p.m.. There was seemingly no time to waste. Every hour was important,
every suspect was to be treated without further delay. We got up and left for our quarters to
prepare. I took a shower and regained control over my body. I felt ready and willing.
Misha handed me my first suspect. The questionnaire’s list consisted of a code number, a
picture, and twenty items. Each item was to be answered by a simple “Yes ”or “No ”.If the
answer was a “yes,” I had to push a button under the desk.
The electronic signal went straight to Misha, who was to feed the outcome into a database.
I could end the interrogation, presuming I was convinced it was over. Statistics showed
that this would in the main occur between the tenth and fourteenth question. After that, it was
time to move on to the next suspect. The results were to be handed over to another division,
and after that it was no longer my worry.
Her picture was a bleary prison shot. She had short cut blond hair and white skin, a hard
face with narrow eyes, and was staring intently into the lens. Somehow I had a vague feeling
of recognition.
“They all look alike after detention and the first treatment,” one of the veterans told me,
with a cynical grin. The first five minutes were to be for her alone, to make her feel at ease.
Then I entered, moving deliberately, with a tight little smile on my face, the way I’d been
told to present myself. I sat down, rested my elbows on the desk, and glanced at her. And got
a shock. It was the woman from the bench. The woman with the torture clamps on her body. I
tried to persuade myself that I was wrong, but I knew it was she. Her image was stamped in
my memory.
She sat up straight, trying to look decent and scornful in her prisoner’s dress.
If you can ’t cope, stand up and leave the room. I wouldn’t. I took a deep breath and
studied her file with mixed feelings. The picture did her wrong. She was a beautiful woman,
and it showed, even with the ill treatment. I closed the file. This wasn’t the way to interrogate.
I struggled with my embarrassment. “Look, I know what you’ve been through. You have
certain information. It’s my job to get it from you. If you play along you’ll be free to go. No
more brutalizing, no more treatments.”
Her eyes seemed to soften, but she didn’t’ t alter her pose.
“If you cooperate, we’ll drop all charges and you’ll walk away from this place save. If you
don’t, then it’s out of my hands. I have the power to release you, and I ’m willing to do so.”
Suddenly, tears erupted. She started to weep passionately, with jerking shoulders, as
though her sorrows had been bottled up too long.
Then she suddenly pulled herself together and wiped off her tears with her sleeve.

Now we could begin. First question. Start pumping discreetly.

“What is your number?”

She went on sobbing, but seemed to cooperative. “Number 1052586, sir.”

I couldn’t place her accent, though I sensed Polish undertones. But trivial information,
such as name and address, occupation and hobbies, were of no interest to the organization, nor
to us officers.
 “What have you been charged with?”

“Recidivism, sir.”

That, too, was the right answer.

The next question was a tricky one. If our torturers hadn’t done their job well she would try
to save face by an honest answer. But I was lucky.
“Have you offended the laws of Islam?”
She instantly nodded, head bent. I couldn’t see whether she was telling me the nuts and
bolts, or just playing my game.
“Do you confess your sins?”
To my surprise, she instantly said, “Yes.”
I wasn’t ready for such a fast ending. An intuitive idea came into my head.
“How many times have you been treated?” I asked in a sudden inspired mood.
“They have tortured me three times,” she answered, choking with emotion.
It ’s just the normal 15-minute routine of breaking up their physical strength. Then you
come in.
Someone was distorting the truth here. Someone was cheating on me.
“It wasn’t meant — ” I rambled. It wasn’t meant to be tortured more than once.
I was breaking up myself.
“Haven’t you been screened by a doctor?” I asked. “Medical assistance is obligatory.”
Her eyes were begging for help and I couldn’t stand it any more.
How in heaven’s name could they restore her personality, give her life back, after these
treatments? Who was responsible for this hideous plan?
I dropped my head in discomfiture. I was not a butcher, I was an intelligence officer, one
of the best. My psychological profile showed a great sense of intuitive understanding, but in
this situation I was just a pawn, working for a monstrous instrumentality. With a thud I
closed the file and got up.
“I’ll make an official complaint,” I said, resolutely, and started to leave.
She got up in despair, tugged my sleeve, and looked up at me with bleary, pleading eyes.
“Don’t leave me with these people,” she cried. Teardrops fell on the desk. “They’re bad,
they kill without mercy. You don’t know what’s going on down there. Please, get me out of
here. I can see you are a decent person.”
I stared upon her with mixed feelings.
Her file didn’t mention any particular offense. It just stated that she was accused as an
accessory to resistance groups. Which groups were concerned wasn’t mentioned, nor had she
been sentenced in the proper ways. She was just one of the items in an assembly line, picked
up by accident in the process of the general clean up.
Clean up. I recollected the formal word. Purification. The purging of state enemies — of
the enemies of the conquering League —was at stake.
 And I was contributing to it. An uncanny idea sprouted in my brain. They hadn’t told me
everything. What did they do with these people after they had broken them?
“They dragged us out in the middle of the night,» she told me in whispers.» We hadn’t
time to pick up some clothes —they pushed us into their cars and drove us to the internment
camp.”
“What happened then?”
“We had to spend some time at the camp. Then they sent us to this place, and as soon as
we ended up here, they took us to this torture room and gave us electric shocks.”
“Who were ‘we'?’”

“My husband and son.”

“My God,” I moaned. It was her, and that was her family in the room, reunited in hell. I
couldn’t stand it any more. The images of those three defenseless people were still burned on
my retina. I anticipated another crying fit and pushed her tenderly back to her seat.
“I’ll make sure that you’ll be treated well,” I said. “No more torture, I promise.”
She tried to kiss my hand, but I gently removed her fingers from my hand, picked up the
file, and went out. She must once have been a person with an education — civilized, middle-
class background, and a Christian believer. They had torn down all that was good and noble in
a human being, just for the sake of some sick scheme.
‘SAHRA .’
There was the answer, right before my nose. Suddenly I saw the light, and grasped now
why the general was so eager to raise the curtain. It had something to do with that giant
operation. A mass purification leading to something so big that it wasn’t even known to MI1.
Something wicked was going on between East and Central.
I turned my steps to colonel Ahmed’s office. While passing the other boots I heard the
murmuring, and the begging voices, and the filth of it all turned my stomach. I stopped in the
hall leading to the office and leaned back against the wall. Automatically I took a cigarette
from my crumbled packet and rested.
“What are you doing here? Why aren’t you at your post, major?”
Colonel Ahmed’s high pitched voice brought me back to reality. I stiffened and plucked
my cigarette from my lips.
“I was on my way to see you, colonel,” I answered. My voice was tense.
“Step into my office, we’ll discuss your problem.”
I followed him. He flopped down into his chair, but didn’t invite me to sit.
He leaned back and drummed his left fingers on the desktop. I straightened up and started
to talk. I asked the colonel why the suspect had got three treatments.
“Who wants to know?” the colonel snapped. “This matter is none of your bloody business.
Our allied friends are in charge of discipline — of which, by the way, you know nothing. And
it had better stayed that way.”
“I’m sorry, colonel, but I have the impression that you lied to me. The treatments are
supposed to be single, and I’m certain there’s no reason why they should be multiple. The
suspects are enduring severe damage with no evidence of success.”
 Colonel Ahmed ’s face flushed. He jumped up and walked across the room. I remained
standing, listening to the deadened noise of street traffic.
Then he came to a decision and flopped into his chair again.
“I see now you’re incapable of handling your job. You disappoint me, major, and you’re a
discontent to the department as well. You’re dismissed for now. We’ll have a board meeting
later on. Now go and await the news — and don’t leave the building.”
“But, sir,” I tried, but he bent his head over some papers, so I left the room.
The word traveled quickly. When I arrived at the refectory, officers began to shun me. I
had become bad news — I was their whipping boy, the worst example of how an
interrogation officer shouldn’t act.
A shadow made me look up from my cup of coffee. Kaseem picked up a chair and joined
me.
“I heard you had a fight with Ahmed.”
“That’s one way to put it,” I said. “I think my interrogation days are over.”
Kaseem tried to hide a malicious pleasure, but I spotted the glee in his eyes. Oh well, all
right.
“You certainly have the record of the officer-with-the least-result-in-no-time.” He smiled
wryly.
“Okay, everyone’s having a ball,” I said.“ So I’m the whipping boy — someone’s got to
be. Next time it could be you.”
“Not so, ”Kaseem replied. “I’ve done four interrogations this morning, and all with nice
results.”
After he left, I got up and went straight to the communications centre.
The computer people gave me a quick look. It wasn’t regular for officers to drop in at
inconvenient times. So what? Just another black mark on my report.
Vitya looked up from his screen, eyes red and swollen after a seven hour shift. His work
was nearly done and he looked tired.
“Can we meet at your place?”
He tried to read my mind, then nodded slowly. “Meet me at the subway station in half an
hour,” he answered flatly.
I turned and left the room. I realized I would have to act swiftly now. They shouldn’t catch
me before I had resolved my mystery.
I walked to my office and informed Misha, as I was supposed to do. I presented him with a
simple memorandum: “Going for a walk until 10:00 p.m..”
Misha looked pretty shaken. While he read my message, he told me colonel Ahmed had
ordered him to hand over my agenda.
“Don ’t worry, my friend,» I said, in an attempt to sound airy. “Do what you have to do. I
don’t have anything to hide, you know that.”
I took a cold shower and dressed casually, in a white cotton shirt, blue jeans, and brown
moccasins. I clipped on the mobile, a last gesture to my sense of duty.
 I crossed the car park, waved at the camera, and slid my pass into the reader. The shutter
rattled open and I was outside in two minutes. I breathed more freely now. Nobody had tried
to stop me yet. Maybe they just couldn’t imagine a Corps member being AWOL.
I hadn’t been on the streets for two weeks, and inhaled the soupy evening air. A happy
feeling overwhelmed me. The dying sunlight embraced the ochre-painted housing blocks and
the city looked a good deal friendlier now. I enjoyed my stroll to the underground station.
Vitya sat on a park bench, gnawing on sunflower nuts, and waiting patiently for me.
Good, I thought. He doesn’t attract attention. First home base for this team.
I joined him, and for a while we eyed a pair of old chess players who were lost in their
game. Vitya didn’t budge —he just went on chewing and spitting sunflower seeds.
He was perspiring, but he air was dank and sultry, and so was everyone else.
“Thanks for waiting,” I said, looking straight ahead. “I need some information from your
notebook. It ’s very urgent.”
Vitya fumbled in his pocket for more nuts. “News’ going around is that you’ve been
sacked,” he said. I couldn’t help smiling grimly. Gossip seemed to be faster than the speed of
light.
“Too soon,” I answered, “but nevertheless a pretty fair chance.”

“What do you want from me?”

“You have an item that read SAHRA. I need to know how to get it. And I need it badly.”

“What ’s in it for me?”

“I have your transfer ticket,” I answered, fingering my hip pocket.

I could see Vitya becoming watchful. He nodded slightly and spit out the rest of his seed
husks. He got up. “Let ’s go.”
I waited for about half a minute and then followed. Vitya strolled along the shops and
descended the underground steps. He entered a boxcar and waited for me. I took the opposite
seat. We avoided eye contact. The car was loaded with returning workers and gawking
tourists. There were many turbans and head cloths, on people from all over the Islamic world,
joined together in the metropolis. Moscow had been proclaimed haza mashura — an object of
interest — in the League’s guidebooks.
At first, the Russians had developed a xenophobic attitude, not in the least because of the
Muslim intruders who took over whole quarters and turned them into residential precincts,
guarded by their own police forces, and run by their own civil servants. But now everything
ran smoothly. It was no different from the other favorites, such as London, Paris and Rome.
I didn’t notice the arrival of some youngsters, dressed in worn-out western jeans and nylon
jackets. They came straight to Vitya and, before I could react, they surrounded him and
started to shout and push. The passengers looked the other way. I jumped up, ready to rumble,
but they were gone before things got rougher.
Vitya was all right. Apart from the fright, and a slit in the shoulder of his jacket, he had no
injuries.
I sat next to him. “What was that all about?” I asked, slightly dazed.
 Vitya shrugged in resignation. “That ’s the other side of Moscow,” he said in a grim voice.

I didn’t go into this. Some people do, indeed, draw trouble. But still, it was peculiar, the
way they had come after him.

We got out and, as we passed a church and heard the choir singing Psalms, Vitya suddenly
halted. He lingered for a while, and then went inside. I followed him, surprised by this
spontaneous detour.
The church was very old. In the last century it had been more or less restored, but still wore
the traces of Communist neglect. It was dusky, lit by numerous candles, and the heavy smell
of incense made me queasy. I couldn’t see the altar, and had to be content with the sight of
hundreds of praying and singing people. To my surprise, I saw many youngsters looking up in
devotion. From the corner of my eye I saw Vitya making the sign of the cross repeatedly,
praying with closed eyes. A man wedged between his faith and the crazy world of computers,
taking his moral strength from his belief.
This was another side of his personality. I hadn’t expected him to be a pious man. I didn’t
know anything about Russian religion, but it did fascinated me, and when the priest started to
break the bread I watched the ceremony with interest. All those people, believing and
worshipping, taking communion and chanting about Christ and his Apostles, had so much
spiritual strength that I felt afraid of it. I had to admit that Islam wasn’t the only religion ever,
and that wasn’t a pleasant idea. After the last ‘Amen ’we managed to get out before the crowd
started off, and continued our walk in silence.
We fetched up at his place, and only in the elevator did was start to talk again.
“Show me the ticket,” Vitya eagerly requested. I fished out the blue and white passport.
Vitya snatched it from my hand.
“My God, I can ’t believe it,” he said, in a muffled tone. “After all this time — at last.”

He stared at the paper in disbelief and read over it slowly.

“It ’s due for next week,” I explained. “You should return within eight days — after that, it
’s expired.”
“No problem, man. Thanks a lot.”
He was ever so grateful. I felt a sort of affection for this unspectacular man, who spent all
his time watching digital data, and trying to forget his past. We really seemed to have a lot in
common.
We weren’t alone in the flat. Someone was busy in the kitchenette, and the room had been
cleaned. I saw fresh flowers in the vase. Finally, I would meet Vitya’s mysterious companion.
“Fatma, I ’m home,” Vitya called out. He didn’t bother to undress, but went straight to his
computer and started to link up. I gazed at the person who came in. Fatma turned out to be
the subway woman with the disc.
“Oh, I ’m sorry,”Vitya said, sheepishly. “This is Fatma — Fatma ’s from America, you
know. This is Hassan — kiss, or shake hands, or both.”
The girl who walked in from bogey-land, smiled at me and at the same time making eyes at
her Siberian. If that wasn’t a bit over the top.
 She didn’t show any recognition. She just offered me her hand, which I automatically
squeezed. I feasted my eyes on her. She looked very seductive in a tight-fitting summer dress,
with red and yellow painted flowers. I tried to utter something bright, but my words didn’t
come. I felt oafish in my clumsy attempt to stay cool before the girl.
I admired her long, sleek legs as she bent over Vitya, kissing him on the cheek. Vitya
absent-mindedly returned her kiss. I was envious of him, and that made me grumpy
somehow. I wondered what was going on here.
“Glad to meet you,” I said. I almost added, “again.”
Then I was brought to my senses by the tuneful beeping of Vitya ’s computer. The login
was established, and for Fatma that was the sign to start off for the kitchen again. The screen
lit up, and there it was. The Azerbaijan fellow was riding again, transferring dutifully
enciphered data to Central Intelligence.
Now I paid attention to what Vitya was doing, trying to replay the keystrokes he’d used,
and asking him about the passwords.
Vitya, still enraptured, was more talkative than ever, and freely told me what I wanted to
know.

I followed his progress anxiously.

Darkness had fallen now. The curtains were still open, and I wondered whether it would be
safer to have them closed. You could see the flickering screen for miles.
I walked toward the window and reached for the curtains. For a short while I admired the
magnificent view, the glinting towers, with hundreds of illuminated flats, a fairy tale of solid
steel and concrete. I wondered what all those people were doing at this moment. Certainly
they weren’t spilling the beans.
I reached for the curtain cord and took a last glimpse outside.
A fireball started directly towards me. It grew within seconds, and instinctively I sidled
away and dove for the floor. I registered the impact in slow motion.
A bluish shine, scorching heat, a heavy wind, splintering glass, lights going out and,
finally, the hard blast of a rocket explosion. I gasped and heaved, as oxygen burned out
rapidly and fire started to spread. I shook of hot debris and got clumsily to my feet. I stared
down at my left arm. It was on fire, and my hand had disappeared. In a survival reflex I hared
toward the front door, which had been blown away, and stumbled over a heap of furniture
gone to hell, smashed away by the tremendous air pressure.
The girl. I turned back, only now seeing the fire spreading all over, burning in thick, black
smog. I could barely see more than an arm length away.
My eardrums weren’t working any more. I had to absorb this infernal scene in deadly
silence.
She loomed up from nowhere, bleeding from a head gash, and apparently in shock. I
tugged her out of that burning hell, reached for the hallway ,and just then though of Vitya. I
made an attempt to go back, but being blinded by the smoke had to give up.
I dragged her along, and we ran away from the disaster. People were joining us, crying out
in panic. Someone took the initiative of throwing me onto the floor to put out the spreading
flames. Fortunately, the pain of my lost left hand came simultaneously with my collapse into
oblivion and the peace of a dead faint.
 Chapter 5

I slowly opened my eyes and rolled onto my other side. My left arm fell aside. My ears
were still ringing, and made crumpling noises, as if I was eating from a bag of crackers. That
was a good sign — it meant that my hearing was recovering properly.
I had been spending several weeks at a private hospital, north of Moscow, where once the
Soviet jet set had plunged into leisure time. Now the League had bought some of the
properties, and converted them into housing for retired veterans amidst the luxurious dachas
of the newly rich.
They had treated me well. I had been at the mercy of the skillful hands of therapists of all
sorts, and was recovering remarkably. My physical, as well as my mental bearing was
looking up. My weight lessened to a hundred and forty pounds, and I felt a lot more alive and
kicking.
The specialists had replaced my demolished hand with a perfect synthetic prosthesis. After
my recuperation, I should be able to perform my daily tasks, such as picking up a fork or a
drinking glass. And a mobile phone would become handy, too.
Again I looked over the results of the surgery. Crumpled dead flesh, traces of skin
transplants, all still itching. Rumpled red meat spotted with UV-radiated areas. Blood
circulation was still a bit slow, due to the renewed veins.
I had still other damage — my left leg had suffered second degree burns, but skin
transplants were no secret to the Force, either.
I was to be released in about a week and longed for my discharge. I had feared for my
career but, to my surprise, the Force had remained friendly and understanding. They even
provided me with a notebook computer to stay in contact, and before long I would find out
why.
The night before, two petty officers had pushed in a portable satellite dish with built-in
camera, and plugged it into my notebook. They adjusted the fine tuning, took my bedpan
along ,leaving me without further ado.
I sat up, pillows comfortably fluffed, and watched the technological process with
increasing interest.
Suddenly the screen came to life. The general was on. I gaped at the picture. A dedicated
line from HQ by military satellite — how convenient. Dad came in clear and plain. He didn’t
look much happy.
“At last you’re back with the living,” he started off. “It ’s a terrible thing that happened.”
Something of an understatement. I pulled my wizened hand from under the sheet and
showed it to the camera lens. “They’ve done a fine job, sir. ” I said, a bit smirking. “It ’s just
another trophy.”
The general didn’t find my remark very funny. He looked at me intently.

“You were lucky to be saved in time. You could have lost your entire arm.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” I replied with compunction. “I heard a rumor I’ve got the sack, sir.”
 “Nonsense. You ’re just no longer a part of the Ahmed team. From now on you’re under
my direct command. You’ve done the job.”
I sighed with relief. Once again I was saved. A huge salving hand had replaced the sword
of Damocles and I wondered why.
“What ’s my next mission, sir?”
“I’ve arranged for you to work temporarily as a liaison officer with the Force at the Odessa
Conference. At this point I can ’t tell you more. First we’ll get you a new mobile phone.
You’ll get it tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir. I ’m raring to go back to work.”

I was careful with my words. I contemplated the general’s famous one-liner: The whole
world is bugged. Never use public communications if you can avoid it.
He tried to read my mind, but then gave up, wished me the best, and cut the line.
I sank back, feeling feverish. I closed my eyes and listened to the relaxing murmur of the
screen display.Vitya’s image crossed my mind. Vitya, who had been teamed up in chips and
plastered all over the room. Vitya’s children would never see their dad back.
I inspected my new hand over again. I was seemingly becoming a human robot — an
android from a Bollywood movie. I smiled wryly and wondered about my future. It was clear
that the offensive was to be launched before long. The general had made this clear with the
covert part of his pep talk, and now I was in the centre of things. I would be in the lion’s den
— a great prospect to be sure.
The image of Fatma suddenly appeared before my eyes, as lively as if she were present in
the room. I fancied her, leaning over Vitya’s shoulder, just a few minutes before all hell broke
loose, and by this vivid picture I once more felt a strong urge to clutch her by that slim waist
and push her onto my body. The fingers of my right hand instinctively crooked.
The entrance of a police inspector, who was followed by his assistant, suddenly cut off my
feverish thoughts. I noticed they were Metropolitan Police.
The inspector was about forty, with close clipped, straw blond hair and a pimpled face,
looking pushy. He shoved a chair to the edge of the bed. His assistant, a young man with
coiled eyes, stood respectfully aside.
He introduced himself. “I ’m chief-inspector Borin. I ’d like to ask you some questions
about the outrage. Are you feeling well today?”
“I’m all right.” I hid my left arm under the blankets again.
The inspector plucked a notepad from his pocket and flicked the pages.
“You’ve got a high protector, you know,” he said intently. “It took us two weeks before we
could go over your file.”
He sounded unexpectedly high pitched. I wasn’t in the mood to be cordial and kept my lips
tight. He noticed my unwillingness, but wasn’t impressed. Not a type to go for a clinch, I
relented and allowed some slack.
“You had an appointment with Mr. Viktor Andreyevitch Ulinov,” he started off. “Can you
describe the purpose of your visit?”
 “Must I go over all this again?” I said,, moaning theatrically. The inspector smiled broadly.
I noticed his right incisor had been replaced by a gold one — a peculiar Russian tradition that
was hard to uproot.
“I know how you feel, but I’d like to hear it from your own mouth, if you don’t mind.
Sometimes the mind is able to retrieve new information at another place and in another time.”
A philosopher, great.
“I’ve told everything I know to my service people,” I ruffled. “What do you expect from
me? He was my information retrieval officer and we became friends. Then some nut threw a
bomb at us.”
I didn’t tell them more, or less, than I had told the Force investigators, the Brigade, and
some sort of agency, which I had not encountered before.
I told the matter-of-facts when I explained I hadn’t the faintest idea why anyone would try
to kill Vitya, though Vitya’s subversive way of life must have been a well-known fact to the
police.
“Do you know a Fatma, alias Jane Denwick?”
I froze. “Never heard of such a name.”

“She was Ulinov’s girl friend.”

I felt an unreasonable envy. At least now I knew her true identity now.

“Her stay was paid for by some American Muslim organization,” Borin went on.. “But we
think she’s a terrorist.” The two watched me intently, and I had to pull myself together. My
face twitched as if I was in great pain. “I ’m sorry, inspector. I don’t know anyone by that
name, and terrorism isn’t part of my job.”
To my relief, he switched topics. “Are you absolutely certain the bomb — or the rocket,
for that matter — came from outside?” His question shook me. This was the first time
someone looked at it from a different angle.
“What ’s your point?” I asked, somewhat in a fog.
Borin seemed to be enjoying this. “Our ballistics experts have noticed there was more glass
outside that inside. That ’s very odd. Usually windows are blown into the room when hit
from the outside.
“The room was air-conditioned,” I objected. “So, supposing there was a difference in air
pressure; that could be the case, don ’t you think?”
The inspector nodded and turned his face to the window. He, too, knew the tricks
compressed air could play in a small room. “Then we’ll never know,” he said. He asked his
assistant for some document. The man drew a paper sealed in transparent plastic from his case
and handed it over.
“Can you tell us if any of the names on this list ring a bell to you? Anything that catches
your attention.”
I took the list. About thirty names and addresses had been printed out in alphabetical order.
I browsed them quickly, and just once my eyes froze. I handed it back.
“I’m sorry. Except for that Denwick girl, I don’t see a familiar name on it.”
 The inspector let out a sigh and got up.
“Anyway, the investigation is not closed as far as the Metropolitan Police are concerned,
so I will kindly ask you not to leave the city without informing us. If we make any progress
you’ll be the first to know.”
I started an official protest, but they weren’t impressed. The Force had no jurisdiction over
Moscow city.
After they left, I sank back and felt wiped out. My blood rushed and pumped painfully in
my shriveled veins. For the first time I thought on my feet. What if the bomb wasn’t meant for
Vitya, but for me? What if Fatma had something to do with it? Was she the trigger or the gun?
The general unexpectedly promoted me to rank fifteen. That was his way of thanking me
for my dedication. It suited both of us fine, as it was high enough for me to be admitted to
Triple-R ’s routines. I amused myself with my new notebook, gathering information about
myself, and reading my diary back.
‘658: Officer involved in incident at operator ’s quarters. See Victor A. Ulinov (2517).
Transmitted to Moscow northern district League Hospital.’
‘659: Officer underwent skin transplant. Resting for three weeks in hospital.’
No further data. They must assume I wasn’t presenting a danger any more. Then I tried to
search for Jane Denwick and her alias, but that didn’t work either.Viktor A. Ulinov ’s file was
emptied and buried with him. The person I liked the most had been erased from my life.
A nurse came in and provided me with food. I put my computer aside and started to eat,
Borscht soup, with soldatsky, the nutritious black bread that has fed Russia for ages, and
which I had grown fond of.
Then I enjoyed my spare time, until my long expected appointment knocked on the door
and came in.
Doctor Mahmud was an old acquaintance, way back to my early military days in
Aberdeen. Before he had earned his degree, he had been one of the paramedics who helped
cleaning up the beach where I experienced my first encounter with Norwegian smugglers.
Amongst frozen pork, we collected pieces of human flesh, and I had helped him with it.
Besides that, he was the only one who knew I had wet my pants during the operation. He was
about my age, and hooked on some Afghan drugs. He was certainly in the right place for his
needs, and made skillful use of his privileges.
With the exception of kola tobacco and hashish, drugs were forbidden among the believers.
But the League couldn’t, or wouldn’t deal with the prosperous drug market. Though the
eastern supply had been taken over by the Turks, Mahmud could still lay his hands on stuff
used for chemical lie detectors. I knew from my training that some of that stuff was very
effective at getting a suspect in a serene state of mind, and even trained agents couldn’t resist.
They cheerfully babbled away while under sedation.
He closed the door, sat at my bedside and took a small pencil-like device from his pocket.
Then he took my plastic cup and injected its contents. I gazed at some green liquid.
“It ’s completely harmless, Hassan. It ’s based on Mexican nopale juice. The effect is
working as soon as the hallucinogenic enter your brain.”
I emptied the cup and instantly my head went light. For a minute I had trouble focusing my
eyes, but then I felt very relaxed and in the mood to waffle away.
 Mahmud’s voice came from far off, reverberated in my ears, and this had a hypnotic
reaction on me.
“Now, Hassan, let’s recall the day you were injured. What were you doing before the
incident took place?”
A heap of images and impressions whirled across my brain cells. And suddenly a door was
opened, and I was in Vitya ’s room, staring at his hammering fingers.
Some peculiar things popped up. Though he was tapping very fast at his keyboard, I was
able to rewind the scene and run it forward in slow motion. It was so fascinating. I was like in
my own movie and was equal to arrange the images at my pleasure.
Vitya’s fingers seemed to grow before my eyes. I could register every keystroke he made,
and I had the impression I was loudly reciting them.
Then he entered his password, and now I could see how he did it. I formed the letters into
one word. ‘Maya.’ His elder daughter’s pet name — how typical. Even an elaborate computer
freak as Vitya chose for the obvious.
Then we were in, and I traveled along, and was one with the computer. I was a cybernetic
voyager and rode on colonel Gotya ’s back into the world of garbled codes. And then I saw
myself walking to the window, reaching for the curtain, and there was that blue blur once
more. But this time I didn’t see a missile coming in, but a reflection of something in the glass,
and it didn’t’ t look like a bomb of any sort.
At that point, the images rushed away, and the tunnel broadened. My body liquefied, and
for a moment I had the horrible sensation of being in the centre of the bomb explosion, but
then it was over. I opened my eyes and felt sweat dripping. My brain seemed to be in flames,
but as the feedback went off, my nerves came to rest.
I watched the doctor working on my data recorder and rewinding it. My throat was dried
out, and my heart was still pounding, but I regained control.

“You’ve made a great feat,” the doctor said, cheerfully. “I think we have what we’re
looking for. I didn’t get it, but I assume it’s something to do with breaking into computers.”
He handed me the recorder and got up. “I’ll leave you be for now. Mind you, you can’t do
it twice, so don’t try to get your hands on more of that stuff. It’s too risky to your sanity, I
know what I’m saying.”
He stopped at the door. “And another thing. There’s a slight possibility that the drug’s
residue will try to override your perceptions. You could have some unpleasant side effects for
a couple of days. Hallucinations will occur, so be careful.”
He left the room and I was alone, staring at the recorder. I put the headphones on and
listened to my mumbling voice. Then I wrote the necessary information on a paper napkin and
memorized it to the point I was certain I could hum it by rote. Now the great moment was
over. I would be able to take up where Vitya had left off.
I switched the notebook on. While the screen turned on, I sent a short prayer to wherever
Vitya had gone. He simply deserved better than his ending.
At that moment my phone rang. I closed the computer and grabbed my phone. The general
was on the other end.
“Hassan, how are you?” He came in loud and clear.
“Very well, sir, thank you. They’ll release me in a week. I can ’t wait.”
 The general grinned. I imagined him at his massive desk, half turned toward the window.
Was it still raining in Scotland?
“I heard you had a visit from Moscow police.” He sounded concerned. Rumors travel fast.
“That’s right, sir. Just a friendly call. I suppose they’re ready to close the file.”
The General didn’t react for some seconds. I had the awesome feeling that he wasn’t much
pleased with the police twist.
“You be careful, Hassan. We don’t know who’s responsible for the assault. It could be
anyone.”
I didn’t go into that.

“If it has something to do with your mission, which I’m inclined to take for granted, it
could affect our agreement.”
“I know, sir. I’m fully perceptive of my present situation,” I said. Which I was not — I
hadn’t a clue what was to come about, but I didn’t want to quit at this crucial point. I wished
he would make an end to this useless conversation. Why was he so friendly to me? I was just
one of his couriers, one of his pawns in his chess gambit.
“Right. I’ll leave you now. Recover well. I’ll contact you in three days. Until then, enjoy
yourself while it lasts.”
I chewed over his last words. While it lasts. Nicely put.
Then I concentrated on my digital travel again. I pinned back my ears. My voice sounded
a bit outlandish. I took notes and step-by-step the reality of Vitya ’s world came vividly to
life. Finally, I glanced at my watch. It was about 4:00 p.m., so my colonel Gotya should be
preparing for his transmission.
My anxiety grew, and my hands felt clammy. My neck was itching, and I had the urge to
run flat out, as always when I was in an awkward situation. But my fingers led their own life
and tapped on the keyboard. And there I was, in the middle of the most dangerous place to
be, in the world of digital malice. Would disaster be released as I opened Pandora’s box?
Still, I was an efficient information officer, and someone was waiting for my findings two
thousand miles away. And time ran swiftly.
Suddenly, as I was staring at the unrolling encrypted data, I had a vision of Fatma leaning
over me, her lips touching my cheek. The image was so vivid that I looked over my shoulder.
What was that all about? Was I being transformed into Vitya? A scary idea — Then I
recalled Mahmud’s words about the side effects. The drug was apparently still active, and I’d
had a kind of mental quantum leap. I should be more attentive from now on.
At last the scrolling stopped, and I read the menu of Central Intelligence. The game was
on. I was instantly catapulted to rank 5, the best I could do. It took me about two seconds to
pull out the ‘SAHRA ’ item.
‘Welcome to SAHRA. Your password has been approved. You are clear to enter Level
One.’
There were four levels. Well, that was more I could dream of. Thanks, Vitya — your death
has not been in vain.
I entered Level One to another screen. It read:1/Counties; 2/Prognoses; 3/Weekly
Contingents; 4/Mail .
 I started with the first item, and forty-seven nations were set on the screen. I counted
fifteen European, twenty-five African, and seven Asian countries. Beside each nation a figure
was printed. With Spain came 151,350, with Italy 223,914, and so on. Even Luxembourg had
2,507. It struck me that Poland had a number about half a million. I didn’t see any of the
Malawi countries, those who, before the Revolution, had favored Islam, such as the British
Federation, France, Germany, and the Netherlands. I made a quick calculation and ended up
with about a million units, whatever that meant.
Then I entered Prognoses. More countries were added ,about eighty, practically all the
European ones, and a giant chunk of the African and Asian nations.
The numbers went as high as two point two million. Was that in terms of money, or
people, or production rates? I skipped the third item and took the fourth.
The incoming mail. This was more of interest. I opened the first, and most recent message.
‘To all Heads of SAHRA Operation. The contingents delivered must match the prognoses
within three months. Deadline for the first prognoses is December 31. Reports are to be
forwarded with two weeks from now.’
The date read July 13. The message was about five weeks old. Apparently our colonel had
been too busy to erase it. A lucky break for me, you might say.
I tried some other stuff. It was all bureaucratic mumbo jumbo with nothing to interest me.
Still, someone could take advantage of it, and so I slid my credit card into the copy unit. A
tiny microchip had been built in by the General’s tech wizards. It was meant to copy
confidential data for his eyes only. No one would suspect that the card contained confidential
information amongst my daily financial transactions.
I felt very relieved, not that I had done the job so well. But something was preying on my
mind. I still had no idea of what was going on, and once more I did some snooping. I
compared the figures of item 1 with item 2. The colonel had to make up a lot of arrears,
whatever he had to make up.
My screen went blank. I was startled for a second, and then I grasped that the colonel had
gone and I had dropped off his back.
I shut off the machine and sank back into the pillow, feeling much feeble. My brain was
very active still, and numerous thoughts whirled in a mental merry-go-round, until I had to
hobble to the bathroom.
Next morning, I had two hours of tests. My new hand was gone over scrupulously and
found satisfactory. I asked the doctor if I could have an X-ray, to see what was inside. He
seemed shocked at the thought, and I didn’t make a second attempt. It was clear that the X-
rays could damage the wiring. I was explicitly warned not to come near any radiation source
or magnetic field. It could harm the circuits.
Though I was a bionic man now, my sexual desires were still normal, and at the end of the
week I longed for female company. With the passage of time, I noticed the male nurses were
becoming carefree, and at some point a female nurse was allowed to join our small
community. Her name was Sonya. She was about thirty-five, short and plump, bound to spend
the rest of her life in this secluded environment. I smelled an instant opportunity. I became
extremely friendly and helpful, and she seemed to appreciate this. Then I started to flirt,
making innocent compliments.
 And the next Saturday night she finally gave in and showed up around midnight. She was
still dressed in her nurse’s uniform. I knew I had a certain sex appeal to some women. I had
abused this advantage on several occasions, but that was all part of the spy game.
Now my needs were urgent and I wasn’t in a position to be dainty. She came in, sitting on
the edge of my bed, chatting, but I felt her shivering.
She had a round, warm and friendly face, not spoiled by years of sacrifice to ungrateful
patients and doctors. I took her hand and asked her where she came from. She turned out to be
genuine Muscovite. No, she wasn’t married, and hadn’t any affairs, recently.
Since the fall of Communism, the male population rapidly dropped, and all non-essential
men had been called up for military service. Women had to fight for a male partner, or they
turned to older men for company. A young one, as I was, was a gift from heaven and she took
advantage of that. I drew her to me, and before long we were kissing and making love without
restraints. She was so willing and ready for me. One of the advantages of having a nurse as a
love partner was that she knew how to handle my body. She was particularly careful with my
wounds, didn’t touch any of them, and concentrated on what was healthy and sensitive.
Our lovemaking was intense, and satisfied us both. She then slipped away, but visited me
once more the next night, and the night after until her shift was over.
She paid me a last visit, looking very earnest, and asked me whether I could lay my hands
on any protection. That was a surprising request, as it belonged to a world I didn’t know. I
hadn’t the faintest idea of where to get this stuff. Not from the Force, obviously.
“I’m fed up with abortions,” she said. “My last one was six months ago.”
Abortion had always been a Russian plague, but I didn’t apprehend it was that bad. I made
her a promise and on Sunday morning I told Dr. Mahmud about it.
“I’m afraid she can ’t get them,” he explained, “assuming she’s not on friendly terms with
the doctors or doesn’t associate with the better classes. You know the Arabs’ attitude about it.
In better days, condoms and other stuff came from Europe and America, but now it’s only on
the black market.”
I felt sorry for the girl.
“Is it someone I know?” the doctor asked. I decided to fill hem in about the matter, and it
appeared he knew the girl. “I’ll look out for her,” he promised. “Don ’t worry — any friend
of Hassan is my friend.”
That was a great relief. I thought of our new post-revolutionary era, as some League
sociologists used to label it. Was it really that great?
 Chapter 6

The General had pulled his strings and proved to be a great manipulator. He managed to
get me into Rabinov’s takeoff party at Moscow international airport.
But before assigning me to my new post, I had more important matters to finish. After my
hospital release I had a restless night at HQ. I was up early and wanted to start my
investigation where I had abandoned it. I took a cab to Bakri Towers. Thick August smog
hung around the buildings, and all was still quiet. I went across the gardens to the tower
opposite Vitya’s apartment.
While the city faced a serious water shortage from the heat wave, this restful Service resort
enjoyed all the blessings of the secluded residential areas. It even had its sprinklers working
constantly. There were small palm trees, carefully maintained by the Service’s own gardeners,
and flowerbeds that flourished. This was definitely not a place for a murder case.
I pored over the dramatic spot and tried to recollect the event, but it was hard. My memory
blanked as soon as soon as I tried to reconstruct the events from scratch. I had a time window
of two hours before reporting to the transportation department, so I had to hurry. I walked
with a limp, but the scarce passers by were used to cripples. More and more veterans were
being sent back home as casualties of war.
Lebreton, Kaseem: the one name on the Inspector’s list that had drawn my immediate
attention. My mind speculated about Kaseem, my devoted friend at Fyvie Castle, the
Highland training centre near Aberdeen. A short, but brawny figure, pathetic reddish, short-
haired terrier-like, that I turned fond of. We had built up a fine relationship. Kaseem was a
farmer ’s son from Normandy, France.
A few years ago the Arab Council for the Northern Region had come to the conclusion that
the rich French pastures were to produce linseed oil instead of dairy products, and that meant
an end to the prosperous rural belt. The greater part of the productive population emigrated to
more affluent provinces. Others, like Kaseem, joined the ranks of the first all-European
Brigade.
Our match was unusual. Kaseem was a country boy, whose tongue was going all the time,
in particular about women and sex, and who lacked the slightest awe of his officers. I, on the
other hand, was very much to the point at that time, knew the Manual for Non-Arabian
Servicemen by heart, and considered the military as the logical continuation of my boarding
schools.
I started toward his apartment and it struck me that it looked out at the same level as Vitya
’s. The coincidence was so obvious. Could it be that Kaseem had taken revenge after all these
years? How vindictive can one be? His hate must have grown as a poisoned plant, flourishing
at night, when no one was watching.
I turned my head and watched Vitya ’s flat. A man had been slaughtered there, blow into
shreds of flesh and bone, and life went on. Nobody cared. The explosion hole was repaired,
new plaster hid the dreadful wound. Wind and rain would wear away the last details of color
contrast.
After the incident, the Force had taken some precautions, including placing a makeshift
police station, with two agents, in each tower. I produced my identification and they let me
pass with a brisk salute.
I pushed the button next to Kaseem ’s nameplate. The digital voice came to life.
 “Bakri Tower B, please, identify yourself.”
I spelled out my name and rank.

“Show your ID to the camera in front of you, please.”

I held it to the lens.

“Thank you. What is the purpose of your visit?”

“To visit my friend, Lebreton, Kaseem, flat twelve-fifteen.”

“One moment, please.”

I was automatically connected to Kaseem ’s intercom.

“Yes.” His voice, unmistakably.

“Kaseem, it ’s Hassan. Let me in, please.”

Kaseem wavered. “Why should I?”

“Look here, Kaseem. You know what happened to me. I was nearly a dead duck and I
badly need some information.”
“You mean, I’m a suspect?” Kaseem asked in a pugnacious tone.
“I didn’t say that. I want some facts cleared up. You’re on my list, so don ’t play cat and
mouse with me.”
“The police have already interrogated me, and I’ve had strict orders from the Force not to
meddle in this matter. So leave me alone, I’ve nothing to add.”
I knew he was about to interrupt the call and I raised my voice.
“Listen, Kaseem, don ’t make me use my power over you. I’ve got full authority, and you
know I can pull strings. That won’t do any good to your career.”
It was all bluffing, but Kaseem didn’t talk back. I could imagine his inner struggle, being
torn between his duty and his scruples. Then he gave up. The buzzer unlocked the door, the
camera light dimmed, and I was inside.
I knew exactly where to go, as those towers were all constructed in identical order — a
great way to attract terrorists. I took the elevator and went up to the fifteenth floor. My
adrenaline was building up, and I mechanically fingered my gun, hidden in my shoulder
holster.
The door opened and I stepped into the hall. The smell of home cooking crept to my nose. I
realized I was faint with hunger. Apartment 12B15 . I rang.
An elegant-looking middle-aged woman opened the door. She wore a purple, leaf-printed
dress and had expensive looking jewels to her fingers. I gaped at her, and for a moment I
thought I was confronted with Kaseem’s mother, but then it dawned on me that she was his
partner instead, which seemed a quaint commitment in a land with a female surplus.
 “Can I help you?” She spoke familiar Algerian, pronounced it the way I had heard it a lot
while in France.
“My name is Hassan Halker, madam. Could I have a word with Kaseem, please?”
Lucky for me, she was impressed by my uniform and she let me pass willingly.
The flat was similar to Vitya’s, as I expected, but the interior was sumptuous. I gazed at the
expensive furniture, clearly classic French styled, with original paintings on the walls,
representing idyllic country scenes. I figured it was a warm nest for Kaseem. She probably
was paying for all this. So he had chosen comfort over passion.
He came in from his bathroom, toweling his hear and looking very unfriendly. He didn’t
offer me a chair, but his woman did. I crossed my fingers. Kaseem eyed my left hand.
“So, they did a fine job,” he said. “You can ’t see the difference.”
“They did,” I answered. We both lapsed into silence. The woman asked me if I’d like a cup
of coffee.
“Thank you, madam,” I gallantly answered, grateful for her tactical intervention, and
watched her leaving the room. I turned to Kaseem. “She looks a nice woman. You’ve been
lucky.”
“I know. Yvette’s over the hump now.” He finally sat down opposite me. I didn’t grasp
what he meant by that.
“Is she your woman or your mistress?” I asked. Kaseem gave a reluctant shrug.
“What if she’s both?”
“Never mind,” I muttered. “I’m not interested in who you’re living with. If it’s all right
with the Force.”
“You bet she is,” Kaseem retorted, disgruntled. “So, what’s the point of your visit?”
My eyes were fixed on a particular spot, and Kaseem followed my gaze.

“You can see your friend’s flat from up here, can you?”

I nodded.

“And you want to take a look where I had been stalling my rocket launcher.”

“I found your name on the police list. You’re the only one I know around here, so I found
it appropriate to get in touch with you. After all, it’s obvious nobody knows anything. A
rocket doesn’t remain unnoticed.”
“I’ve told them everything I knew, and that’s nothing. We weren’t home when it
happened. We were at the ballet. You can check our alibis.”
“I won’t.”
Kaseem thawed. Yvette saved the situation; she placed a plate on the rugged table — fresh
coffee and cookies. “They’re homemade,” she said. “Take one, please, you’ll enjoy it.”
I took a bite. They tasted very buttery and milky, and I had to take another one. Although I
was at ease, I felt somehow an inconvenience, as if I was burglarizing their private lives, but
that was part of my job.
 “Kaseem has told me you lost your parents in your very early years,” Yvette said in a
compassionate tone.
“Oui, Madame, je suis un orphain.”
She shook her head and caressed Kaseem’s hand. He didn’t mind, and I was abashed by
this act of love.
“Tell me about your friendship,” she asked, with a mild smile. Now we had something in
common. Kaseem took the initiative.
“Hassan’s always been our hotshot,” Kaseem explained, seeing her questioning look, he
added: “Service talk, you know.” Silence again. Yvette poured coffee into my cup.
“He got his break in Scotland,” Kaseem clarified. His eyes brightened, thinking of the
good old days.
“Tell me,” Yvette said, eagerly, and made herself at ease.
“Let me do the talking,” Kaseem urged. “We had our acid test at the end of our training.
We were to intercept some smuggling operation near Aberdeen, you remember?”
“I do,” I answered, somehow reluctantly, as Kaseem was clearly fantasizing. He hadn’t
been at the operation at all, being confined in the hospital, his back having been shredded by
twenty-five whiplashes. His information was purely second hand, and I was curious how he
would manage.
“We reached the beachhead around midnight,” he went on.
So far, so true...
“We deployed in a crescent fire line and waited for the ships to come in.” I noticed he
angled for some assistance.
So I took over. “They came in after two hours. It was cold and rainy. It was our first
encounter and we were terrified.”
“Not you,” Kaseem cut in.» You were hopping around, ready to open fire.”
Much more ready to release my bladder, actually.
“Where were you, Kaseem?” Yvette looked as though the situation frightened her.
He was on a fence and I came to his aid.
“He was in the back,” I explained. “He was too worthy to die for pork.”
She didn’t know what I meant and I clarified.
“They were smuggling in forbidden meat from Norway.”
“Oh.” She had known a time when pork was a delicacy instead of forbidden food.
“There were two boats,” Kaseem went on. “We first called on them to drop everything and
give up, but they didn’t. Instead, they opened fire and we engaged.”
Yvette looked as if she didn’t like the idea of boys killing other boys.
Anyway, it actually didn’t work out as Kaseem said. The smugglers produced a machine-
gun and started to spray fire, and some of us got hurt. Panic was all around. They hadn’t told
Kaseem about that incident, since it had been a degrading one.
“And then Hassan jumped up and ran onto the boats and started to fire like hell.”
 I was in a panic as well, and I lost my nerves. Instead of hiding and crawling back like the
others, I managed to get up, defying death, and killing the crew of one of the boats. It was just
my lack of discipline and excess of luck that kept me alive.
“And he got promoted on the spot, as our sergeant had bought it,” Kaseem completed his
report..
Yvette sighed. “You boys are always playing with death. When will war ever end?”

“There’s always some war going on,” Kaseem said, and glared at me with penetrating
eyes.

“And then your lives separated,” she said, coming quickly between us, sensing the tension.

“That ’s right, Madame,” I said. “I went to Cairo to work as an Intelligence officer, and
Kaseem...” I didn’t finish my sentence — this was his story, and I was ’t such a great talker
anyway.
“I went on, fighting our holy wars,” he said, with a jeer.
“Where have you been all these years?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Almost everywhere it was getting rough. Siberia, Pakistan, Nigeria.”
That surprised me. I’ve known him as the one who could easily get away from knotty
situations, such as front line service.
“And now you’re easing down,” I completed.
“I’ve done enough for the Revolution.”
It was a paradox, as I felt some contradiction in itself. I envied him for his life in military
service. And, boy, how I deeply missed the old Brigade.
I got up. “I have a plane to catch; I won’t bother you any more. Thank you very much for
your hospitality, Madame.”
“You must drop by anytime,” she said. “After all, you’re Kaseem’s best friend.”
I glanced at Kaseem, who bit his lip and let his eyes stray away from me.
In the elevator I cursed several times. What was I doing, for the Prophet’s sake? It was
obvious Kaseem wasn’t involved in my paranoid world of conspiracy.
Outside, I calmed down and wandered through the park in a sulky mood. At the centre I
turned my head and let my eyes wander along the site with its unsolved questions. I hadn’t a
single clue, and obviously, everyone else on the premises would have some sort of cover-up.
And how can you hide a rocket launcher in a protected building without being noticed?
At the south side, I noticed a fire break, a small metal ladder, which I couldn’t see from
Vitya ’s flat. Someone would have to climb up the steps, the launcher strapped to his back and
somehow manage to shoot it off. The ladder ended about three meters from ground level. No,
that was madness.
In a state of frustration, I retraced my steps and returned to the city.
I hadn’t left time to go deeper into the mystery. Still, I was not willing to accept the
Inspector ’s statement about it being an inside job — not at this stage in my investigation. So I
came to the conclusion that I would do one more thing before rushing off to the airport.
 I rode to the station where I had gone off with Fatma and reached the building where she
had handed me the disk. It looked less decayed in daylight. The door was ajar and I pushed it
open. I hated those places, they reminded me too much of my border school years.
I started to ascend the stairway. At the first landing I heard distinctive western pop music
behind a door, painted in yellow with a red crown on it. I started my quest from here and
knocked on the door. Inside, someone turned the music down, and then footsteps came
stumbling by.
“Who is it?” a male harsh Russian voice asked.
“Police,” I replied, as gruffly as he sounded, and it worked. I heard the creaking of a rusty
lock, and through the crack of the doorway I took a glance at a small, nervous-looking man,
about twenty-five, dressed in a paint-stained white overall.
“I haven’t done anything,” he said in a protesting tone.

I leered over his shoulder. It was definitely a painter’s studio. I sniffed the smell of fresh
paint.

“Do you know a female person by the name of Fatma, or Jane Denwick, an American
woman who lives here?”
To my surprise, he instantly nodded. “She moved a couple of days ago.”
“You know where she lives?”

He wavered.

“If you don ’t answer, you have to make a full report at the station.”

That was enough. “I heard she was going south,” he answered swiftly. “But that’s all I
know. Her room’s been let again.”
He sounded honest. I contemplated whether I would pay a visit to her former room, but
then convinced myself I wouldn’t find other clues. I had no further questions and turned
away.
“Wait,” he said, and swung the door open. “Is she in some kind of trouble?”
“Who wants to know?”

He looked away from me. “I’ve heard she’s with the government.”

I tried to hide my impatience. “What else did you hear?”

“She had visitors three or four times,” he went on, lowering his voice in conspiracy.
“Sometimes they came in the middle of the night.”
“And why do you think she’s with the government?”
He looked sharply at me and then started back. “You re no police,” he said. “I don’t want
to talk any more. Sod off.”
“Wait,” I said, seeing he was about to close the door. “I’ll pay for information.”
He mused upon it for a couple of seconds, and then asked how much.
 “I’ll give you twenty Euros.”

He showed the palm of his hand. “All right.”

I paid him off. He stuffed the money into his back pocket.
“Fire away, ask me.” He leaned against the door, his expression less hostile now.
“Describe to me how the visitors looked.”
He tried to dig up his memories. “I remember a big one, very strong and dangerous
looking. He had a mustache just like you. I think he came from the east.”
I couldn’t picture the man. Some sort of authority figure, maybe Secret Service?

“And the others?”

“The other fellow was smaller, rounder I’d say. Oh, there was a woman, too.”

Now I looked surprised. I had more or less hoped the man would describe Kaseem, but he
came with a woman instead.
“What did she look like?”
He shook his head. “Can ’t say. Too much twilight around here. I think she was blond,
young and short. Anyway, I was just minding my own business.”
I knew I wouldn’t get more information out of him and thanked him for his cooperation,
but he slammed the door in my face.
I was quite successful, but the information confirmed the Inspector’s findings.
I had to hurry now. I hailed a cab, reached the airport around noon, and was just in time to
be intercepted by Rabinov’s body-guards. After an hour of waiting, they let me enter the VIP
Lounge and there he was, surrounded by about twenty people, mostly men with shoulder
holsters.
I couldn’t get nearer than ten meters, and stayed at the entrance with some of the guards.
I managed to take a quick glance at Russia ’s emperor. He was a forceful man, about six
foot two, towering over everyone in the room. His broad, sanguine face was gleaming, and he
was constantly talking and waving his big hands. A man of the people, with great intellectual
power. If I didn’t know he had pursued an academic career, I ’d be convinced Rabinov was a
big-time corporate manager. His thick, wavy hair was ruffled, and he had strong body
language, and the two reporters, who held recorders to his lips, hung on his lips.
I watched them with half an eye. The bodyguards, being bored and irksome, couldn’t
prevent me from moving forward, and I managed to get within three meters before all hell
broke loose.
The two reporters had suddenly dropped their mikes. One of them, a muscular man, flew at
Rabinov ’s throat, while the other one produced a stiletto-type knife, long and sharp. God
knows how he had managed to it through security, but that wasn’t the issue now. I seemed to
be the only person to come to their senses and threw myself at the knife man, bending his
arm with such violence that he started to whine.
 After then, the surprise was gone, and everyone did their best to save Rabinov, all acting
like heroes before the cameras. After the panic subsided, and the company had been expelled,
Rabinov was back on his feet and rubbing his painful throat. He beckoned to me.
“That was very much to the point,” he said, grinning. His face had reddened to some more
degrees, but considering circumstances, he seemed all right. “How did you know?”
I couldn’t explain. It sounded so silly to say that my intuition had done the work.
“I saw the knife,” I just replied. Rabinov turned to his bodyguards, who had rallied up and
stood there sheepishly, staring at each other.
“Let ’s go to the other room, where we can talk at ease.”
He directed me to a small, elegant suite overlooking a part of the runway. The guard in
charged closed the door on some of the crowd, who were still hyperactively running up and
down. Rabinov fell into the leather chair and sighed deeply. He took a handkerchief from his
vest pocket and wiped off the perspiration.
“You’ve seen that sort of knife?” he growled.. I nodded.
“You know what it means?” he went on, making a dramatic wiping stroke alongside his
throat. I didn’t say it out loud, but we both knew the Mafia wasn’t happy with Rabinov.
“They ’re not the only ones,” Rabinov went on, obviously reading my mind. “I have to live
with the prospect of being targeted by about seven nitwits.”
I couldn’t help smiling, as I had to admire his guts. In the Communism age, no Russian
leader had been in mortal danger, except for two. Since Perestroika, the Russian version of
freedom, had also given birth to lunatics. And these two were non-alcoholics. Was there a
connection? Could it be that Russians could only endure their leaders when they reigned in
constant vodka vapors?
“Now, tell me more about you.”
I told him I was to be liaison officer for the Force at the Conference. That idea pleased him
and, to my surprise, he leaned forward and tapped his thick index finger on my knee.
“I want to take advantage of you; I want you to stay on my tail for the duration of the
Conference. I personally will make the arrangements.”
I couldn’t dream of a better opportunity.
‘Try to gain his confidence, and stay at his side all the way.” That were the General’s
instructions. Well, talk of acting quickly.
Coffee was brought in on a silver tray. Then Rabinov continued. “So don’t bother about
your superiors, you’re with my office now. Congratulations.”
I thanked him with a nod. I knew he would not trust his own people any more. He
practically laid his life into my hands now. For some time I was to be the guardian angel for
one of our world leaders. But I wasn’t quite enchanted by that idea.
Dignified, high-class financial potentates, Arab and European collaborators and civil
servants, drew up the post-Revolutionary world economy. And one of them was Boris
Rabinov, a promising young civil servant, still unknown to the world at the time.
In contradistinction to former wars, the Islamic Revolution didn’t stop at the Swiss border.
It first blocked all escape routes, telecommunications lines included. The Arab generals
weren’t interested in who was trying to get out. They had orders to keep everything in. Swiss
 money traffic stopped within a day, and Switzerland was blotted out as an international
financial centre. Not a single U.S. dollar, Euro, or other international currency was getting out
any more. Everything was tied up.
Next step was the disclosure of bank accounts. This was almost as revolutionary as the
Revolution itself. The outcome was tremendous. It shook the world and made its political
success complete. Naturally, the Arabs kept their own financial matters to themselves.
After that unholy glee, the League had the Swiss in the palm of their hands, without a shot
fired or bullet wasted. From now on, they could control monetary traffic all over the world.
And Rabinov had entered the annals of the Revolution.
“You know what made the Revolution a success?” he asked me unexpectedly, without
anticipating my answer. “Taxes.”
I waited for the rest, but instead he drank his coffee. It was quiet in the room; I heard
slurred voices on the other side of the closed door.
“It was not ideology or propaganda that made it work, it was pure tax politics.”
“War at a financial level,” I said, trying to click. His eyes looked at me for some seconds,
then wandered off again. I wasn’t that keen after all.
“It’s more than that,” he said. “You’re too young to know how the Revolution actually
worked. It was not only a military operation — I’d say this was minor. Old men in burnooses,
who deliberated years before what the world would become in Muslim hands, have figured
out how to make it work. And they concluded the best way was to apply the Quran in a literal
manner. All non-Muslims should follow the same rules as Muslims, and one of the benefits
was the abatement of taxes.”
He brought me to remember earlier times, when income was subject to taxation.
“The world didn’t fold up,” the President kept on. “Wages were bisected, inflation was
kept within a safe range. Employment guaranteed. The upper classes collaborated or fled, and
it didn’t hurt the economy.”
I listened with full interest. I knew Rabinov was explaining something to me, but at this
point I hadn’t a clue. His behavior was in contrast to his words. He didn’t look to be
particularly happy with history, but who was?
“It was a situation that couldn’t last forever,” he went on, after sipping from his lukewarm
glass. “You can’t generate new capital by giving it away for free.”
He paused and suddenly became aware of me. He seemed to be embarrassed by his
statement, as if he just realized it wasn’t really meant for my ears.
“Listen, ah — Hassan.”
His tone took a dramatic turn. “The Conference will be a harsh one. There are too many
countries with liquidity gaps. Some of them are forlorn, and they’re here with one purpose —
to return with funds. Some of them have trouble with terrorist groups. They have to show
results. Money has always been a tense subject. It ’s more than funds, it’s the eternal war
between rich and poor, between power and impotence.”
I didn’t know what to say, nor did I catch what he was willing to tell me.

His leonine face was all red, and sweat was pouring out, the result of the backwash. A
Secret Service agent came in unexpectedly. I was saved by the bell.
 “Time to go, Mister President,” he mumbled and watched us both for a second. It must be a
tragic thing for him to see his trusted position was now in danger, due to an unimportant
liaison officer. I just hoped he wouldn’t turn into an enemy; I had my own tribulations.
“Right,” Rabinov said. He turned to me again and kept his voice down. “Watch every step
you take, I smell trouble in the air.”
“I will, sir.”
I saw now that he was no more than a weary, melancholy man who had lost his illusions
and after he had left, I finished my cold coffee and sat back and wondered.
Capital. Was that the key word? Has SAHRA something to do with the lack of capital in
the Islamic world? I wished I could pull out Rabinov’s brain and search through it for some
clues.
I studied the photos taken near Zurich, Switzerland. A Bahrain banker and Rabinov — the
coincidence was so obvious. Had Rabinov sought after money, and what was the deal? Or did
it have something to do with Ryba, the Arabian dilemma about lending money and dealing
with exorbitant profits? All premises were probable — none contained the final solution.
More than ever, I was set on to resolve the puzzle. It was all too tempting. I knew my
professional honor was at stake, and I wouldn’t rest until I ’d got the answers.
 Chapter 7

Before embarking on the presidential plane, an officer from the Force had come by jeep to
hand me a brown leather briefcase with the reliable, gilded Force monogram.
At the last minute I got aboard, a twin-engine turbojet, painted in the Russian national
colors. I was seated in the rear, with three stewardesses, who took a quick glimpse at me and
decided I wasn’t their game.
I nestled into my seat and watched the takeoff. The plane was undoubtedly designed to fly
important people. Even this service compartment had a cream interior, with side-facing chairs
and tables, and deep-pile carpet in pale colors. I could barely hear the roar as the engine sped
up.
“Fasten your seat belts, Mister President, ladies and gentlemen, we ’re taking off. ETA
6:00 p.m. — have a nice flight,” the pilot roared over the intercom.
The plane lifted smoothly into the blue expanse. I took the briefcase, snapped it open, and
started to study its contents. I took out each item and eyed them over, feeling like an
international spy while reading and absorbing.
There was a special clearance passport, allowing me to be keeping pace with the President.
I also had different vouchers establishing my financial credibility, tickets, and free passes for
transportation, lodging, security passes and so on. As a liaison officer I had some diplomatic
privileges, which was very useful for courier purposes.
Now I had become practically inviolable — an important figure with infinite prerogatives.
I found a file bearing the confidential stamp. I started to read carefully, but the peaceful
and relaxing flight conditions made me heavy with sleep. I dozed like a baby in its cradle, and
the file slipped through my fingers to the floor.
I woke up with a start. Someone was tapping me on the shoulder — one of the
stewardesses, looking uneasy.
“Are you all right, sir? We’re coming in for our landing. May I help you?”
I saw my papers scattered on the floor. The stewardess started to collect them. “Never
mind, thank you, I’ll manage,” I said hastily. Had she seen things she better not see?
My first slip, even before I began... I quickly stuffed the material in my case and belted
myself in.
The landscape had changed to the dark, fertile soil of southern Ukraine. Giant harvesters
were getting the crop in. Profits and returns were never so high as after the Revolution. The
League ’s propaganda tools made it a triumph of the new era. But it might just be the fine
weather, I thought.
As we descended, I spotted the Black Sea, wrapped in a hazy fog, marking the end of a
scorching day.
The plane landed at Odessa International Airport. I grabbed my traveling bag and the
briefcase and descended the stairs. I started perspiring instantly, as it was still boiling hot. The
tarmac seemed to be melting, and the sky was vibrating with ascending steamy air.
A jeep appeared to be waiting my arrival. My mouth fell open.
“Dobre vetcher, gaspadin mayor, I’m Corporal Valeria Oblomova, and I’m taking you to
Hotel International,” Jane Denwick said, in a high pitched, cheerful voice. I was unable to
utter a single syllable and just kept staring at her beautiful face, which on the face of it, hadn’t
suffered a thing from the explosion.
I was a pro, and didn’t yell something like, “Jane, what are you doing here? You, being an
American, and now wearing the tight blue uniform of the Irish Women Auxiliary Forces?”
I just sat back in the passenger’s seat, pulling myself together, as she went flat out. The
vehicle slid, and threw up a mass of dust.
I observed her profile. It was remarkable how she’d adapted herself to her new situation. It
was remarkable how she’d adapted herself to her new situation. I was staring at that pleasant
young face, with her sensually painted lips, made up the Russian way, and a thousand
questions were trying to pop out. She didn’t pay attention to my muddling, looking intensely
forward, flinging the car across the heavy traffic, and every so often pointing to building and
recounting sites of interest, thus performing a freaky sightseeing tour for me personal.
I let the wind caress my face. I was shaken but, though she was playing with our lives, I
did enjoy the ride. I stole a glance at her high bosomed figure and firm thighs. At my glance,
she used her left hand to pull her hiked up skirt over her knees, attempting at the same time to
avoid an oncoming car.
I quickly regained confidence. “Easy now, Corporal,” I shouted, over the sound of
squealing tires. “I ’m supposed to arrive in one piece.”
She laughed, roaring like a young girl, and I caught a glimpse of her perfect teeth.
The jeep reached the suburbs and she started to slacken her speed, finally coming to a
standstill at the hotel entrance.
“Well now, Corporal, my compliments. It seems we’ll live after all.” She started to go for
the luggage again, but I was still faster. I grimaced, and she returned a warm smile, and off
she went. I watched her departure with a feeling of pity, but I knew there would soon be
answers. It was just a question of time before she’d explain why she was playing a double role
in this amazing riddle.
Maybe it was the climate that made everything so cheerful. People were ambling jauntily,
in an unrestrained manner, and so far cry from grim and suspicious Moscow.
They had me registered under my own name, and I was taken to a room with a seaside
view. It had some luxury, a separate bathroom, a comfortable couch with coffee table and
cable TV. I looked over my new lodging with approval and started to undress, then took a hot
and cold shower. Dressed in white shorts, I picked one of the old-fashioned rush chairs on my
balcony to welcome my new environment.
Sunset was shoulder high, throwing long, collateral shadows across the noisy street.
I felt fine, apart from the feel of starving. If they’d continue to offer their great service, I
thought I’d best take advantage of it and I reached for the phone.
I ordered a big meal, consisting of heaps of black bread, boiled eggs, fried chicken, and
caviar, which had become a regular part of my eating habits. I had a whole bottle of excellent
Crimean sparkling wine along with the food.
After supper, I picked up the phone again and told the manager what any healthy, but
lonesome, man would do in my situation. The hotel man was very willing, and explained
there was a new load of young girls from the Sahel Belt coming in to meet the demands of the
Conference people. I didn’t like his way of speaking of these girls as ‘the load,’ but I
pretended to be in physical need. He assured me they were all clean, and taken care of by the
authorities.
I could choose between the ages of eighteen and thirty-five, all black, willing, and ready to
please. The prices were moderate and would be billed to my card. I gave him a precise order,
returned to my balcony, and worked out a plot for my possible appointment tonight. The
knock surprised me, as just a few minutes seemed to have passed. I jumped up to answer the
door, somehow feeling steamed up.
She had grown since our last meeting, still looking very young, very ebony, and was
dressed in a black leather mini skirt and a short imitation fur. She was small and looked
fragile. Her eyes had a blank expression, and before I could invite her in, she asked me if she
could use the bathroom. She slipped past me and closed the door. I heard distinctive sounds,
and I knew she was preparing a dose of something. She had turned into a heroin hooker, a sad
price to pay for her financial freedom.
Her retinas had narrowed as she came back. She jumped on the bed. I sat beside her and
put my index finger to my lips. She nodded. It was the universal sign that the room was
bugged.
“What ’s your name?” I asked in Egyptian Arabic, picking up a sheet of hotel paper and
starting to scribble. “Gina,” she answered. She blinked.
“Okay, Gina, you know what I’d like for a change?” I showed her the written message. She
again nodded.
I got up, went to the mini-bar, and made a sweet tropical cocktail. She drank it with
smacking lips, and ate the crisps with vigor.
“I’ll pay you the price agreed,” I went on, “so don’t be bothered if I ’m not in the mood.”
“I can make you happy,” she said..
She leaned back, sipped from her glass of mango juice, and looked as if she was enjoying a
good time. I switched the TV-set on and zapped until I had found a noisy music channel.
To my relief, the drugs hadn’t blurred her thinking, and she listened intently to what I had
in mind. In a few years she would be all skin and bones, living just for the needle. What a
waste of a young life.
After she left I felt lonesome. It was a typical reaction, one I always encountered when I
was getting into trouble. Still, I was enraptured by my progress and decided to take a stroll
along the promenade, the most likely spot for any rendezvous.
I put on summer clothing, a white shirt, dark blue pants, and sneakers. I clipped on my
phone, then descended and passed the desk.
I notice the lobby was nearly empty. Everyone seemed to have left for the Odessa nightlife.
I heard muted bass tones coming from the hotel’s nightclub. The night porter wished me a
pleasant time and there I was, on the brink of a warm and inviting night.
The Milky Way was flickering over the waving palms, and I heard the relaxing sound of
the Black Sea breakers. After the fall of Communism, private enterprise had turned the town
into a well-provided vacation site, with numerous bars and peepshows. The multi-colored
neon lights were inviting tourists in Russian, Arabic, and Turkish.
Odessa’s popularity was mainly based on the fact that liquor, sex and drugs could be easily
obtained just a step away from Muslim territory.
 I was in a very good mood and, falling in with the flow of pedestrians, walked toward the
old port. I knew Odessa well, for I had been here on two occasions, which I preferred to
forget. The nineteenth century street lamps had an inviting glow, and shined on the Italianate
promenade. I reached the great Potemkin steps and sat down amongst some youngsters who
were enjoying a good time, talking, singing, and playing the guitar.
I riveted my eyes on the festively illuminated cruise ships. Streams of people were spilled
out by the passenger terminal each time a new ship tied up to spit out its load of tourists and
conference members.
I lit a kola stick and inhaled with narrowed eyes, watching the smoke dissolve in the warm
summer breeze. I came to rest and let this peaceful world absorb me.
That was my second mistake.
I didn’t realize someone had joined me. I heard a strong masculine voice, with an
outlandish accent. A massive figure sat beside me, smoking heavy roll tobacco. He was in his
forties, had a large, waxed mustache and remarkable dark eyes that reflected the street lamps.
He smelled of garlic.
I immediately recognized military. Also, he was wearing a white sport coat, which was too
smart for here, but allowed him to carry a gun. So I was pinned to my feet. My rendezvous
had shown up.
“Riches have wings and fly away,” he said, in broken Arabic.

I managed to smile, exhaling the smoke.

“Are you on leave here?”

His innocent question confirmed my suspicion. No civilian would use the word ‘leave.’ He
was definitely some bloke from the Army or, worse, from Intelligence.
I looked him in the face.» You’re with the Force?” I asked, in a controlled manner.
He was visibly uneasy with the exposure of his poor cover, and then produced a broad grin,
with healthy white teeth, and a hint of cruelty around his lips.
“You can’t hide what you are,” he sighed, blowing smoke in my face. I couldn’t sort out
what to do next. If I dumped him, he could turn into a persistent hunter, and I knew my sort of
people well enough.
“I ’m with MI2,” he said, and that gave me a quick shock.
“Do you know who I am?” I asked blankly. This time I watched him brooding, and then he
smiled again. I noticed he had a dental plate. Someone had knocked his teeth out in the line of
duty. That gave me a secret pleasure and I decided to play along.
“I’ve read your file,” he replied.
He didn’t know anything more than I did. I told, vaguely, that I was on some mission. His
thick brows curled and his eyes flickered.
In an impulsive gesture, he put his arms around me and pulled me towards him. I tried not
to resist — maybe it was just his way of expressing friendship.
Then his left knuckles went straight for my jugular vein and started to push. I froze and
awaited my death. It was simply a matter of seconds before he’d crush my vertebrae .No one
would ever notice the murder. Then he release me, and I let my emotions flow.
 His eyes were hard as he observed me.

“You ’re no pencil pusher,” I said, still wrestling with a growing panic.

He started a long, gargling laugh.

“Let’s go for a stroll,” he ordered. I wasn’t planning to refuse. I was no match for him, and
I had been too close to dying. We rose. He was taller and much stronger than I, and I wisely
let him direct me along Suvobova Street toward the park.
I wasn’t afraid any more. We were amidst people, and he wouldn’t dare to try something
silly as long as we hadn’t reached the park. He read my thought and grabbed me by the arm.
His grip was even more painful than his fingers.
“Don’t be stupid,” he snarled. “I just want to talk.” He stopped at the Arcades and we sat
down on one of the crafted benches.
My eyes spotted two men doing nothing. They were dressed in the same outfit as my
companion. I had a strong impression that unfriendly people were surrounding me. The giant
spread his legs out, showing he was in control, and let a deep burp escape.
“So, what ’s with your friend Ulinov,” he started. I froze as my thoughts whirled around.
“What about Ulinov?” I retorted sharply.
He glanced at me. Sweat oozed from his temples and made his waggling mustache sparkle.
He looked jumpy, and I realized I still had a good hand.
“Don’t tell me you don’t know he was encroaching in our system,” he grumbled. So it was
obvious he didn’t know my part in it. I began to feel more assured.
“I don’t know what this is all about,” I flared. “I ’m taken hostage here, and I don’t even
know who you are or who you represent.”
Now he calmed down and drew his right arm back. At least he wouldn’t try to break my
neck any more.
“I’m colonel Azybey,” he said. He sounded very important but, then , he was merely one
rank ahead of me. My heart started to pound again. Could he be our colonel Gotya?
“You know who I am?” I asked, in the same tone.
He nodded. “Of course I know. You’re major Hassan Halker, assigned by West to the
Conference. We’ve followed your footsteps since you and Ulinov were working together.”
I retorted. “He was my information retrieval officer. If you want more on where I came
from, I ’d strongly suggest you talk to colonel Ahmed, the commander in charge.”
Azybey was visibly confused. It was self-evident he had only poor background
information. I stayed clean for the time being.
Now it was time for a counter attack.
“You tell me why he was killed,” I flamed up. “Has East something to do with his
murder?”
He scowled. “I could court-martial you for that.” We weren’t going any farther, and
colonel Azybey wasn’t a great help. But the two bodyguards hadn’t moved, and that was a
good sign.
 “Is the word ‘SAHRA’ ringing a bell to you?” he suggested, in a pitiful attempt to conceal
his own bewilderment. I frowned and didn’t answer. He gave up, visibly indecisive and
afraid he would have spilled his beans. He got up and I followed his example.
He looked down at me and his words sounded threatening, but I knew the storm cloud had
blown over. He wouldn’t trouble me any more, as we had reached a stalemate. Then he
suddenly thawed and his teeth glinted at me. “Let ’s be friends. We’re colleagues, all the
same. How about a drink?”
“All right, as long as you keep your gorillas off my tail.”
He guffawed and made some gesture to his men. They disappeared. I knew they would still
hang about, but that wasn’t the point. We were on better terms from now on. And if I wanted,
I could eliminate him instantly.
A full moon lit the esplanade, and tourists took advantage of the last of the summer nights.
No one seemed to pay attention to us; we were just buddies as we strolled back to the town
centre.
The bar was hidden in an alley near Preobrazhenskaya Street, the former Soviet Army
street. Ex-Navy men sustained it as a relic from the glorious past. It read ‘Aurora ’s Place ’ in
red Cyrillic neon lights, and had a particular clientele mingling Navy and Army people, who
alternated drinking with gossip. It was half full when we ended up at the back of the café.
The old porter, an Afghan veteran with a Cossack mustache, let us pass with a nod. We had
a back table for two. The bar music was constantly informing us about the invincibility of the
ex-Red Army, producing loud marching songs from the past.
The place was decorated with Communist slogans, portraits of Lenin, Stalin, Karl Marx,
and other outpaced blokes, but the comfortable plush sofas breathed bourgeois decadence. I
scanned the tables. Mostly seamen, with different backgrounds, occupied five of thirteen
tables. I noticed Indian or Pakistanis conversing with Caucasian military men, and Africans
laughing and rapping.
A traditional Ukrainian country plate of sour beets, salty gherkins, boiled potatoes with
onions, and whole cooked celery accompanied the first Krepkaya vodka bottle. I saw Azybey
flare up. We toasted, and he gulped his shot down. The booze was bitter, and I man-aged to
drink half of it. He fell on the food like a hungry tiger, and for some minutes we didn’t talk. I
wasn't a big fan of Russian food, as it made my stomach upset. I filled his glass to the brim,
and again he tossed it up instantly.
He didn’t notice how I was juggling my drinks. After half an hour, and another bottle, he
was settled into a flustered mood. His eyes were washed out, and his voice cracked. But I
knew he ’d easily sober up in a flash.
“What’s your mission here?” I casually asked, with a mouth full of red onions.
He gulped his potatoes down. “Same as yours, I suppose. Making the Conference a success
to show the power of Islam.”
I noted some irony. “Where do you come from?” I asked.
“Baku,” he answered, weighing the question first. Azerbaijan’s capital. Junction of oil
pipelines. Now I was dead certain he was our colonel Gotya. There couldn’t be two of them. I
felt my back itching.
“Are you with Bektashi?” I asked.
 “That ’s not of your business,” he snapped.

Bektashi was an anti-Soviet political movement in the last century, with tight Turkish
connections. It had proclaimed Islamic power and full absorption in the Ottoman Empire. The
country finally turned into a Turkish protectorate and Turkish Intelligence took over the lead.
It was known that its members were ruthless ,and Bektashi provided the best hired killers
and candidates to the Turkish Gray Wolves. Maybe their well-trained torturers were included
in the pack. They had proclaimed themselves as Saudi’s competitors as protectors of Islam,
but I would rather regard them as the guardians of the oil pipes.
I chatted about my work at West, but he wasn’t very much interested. He knew the stuff
and concentrated on his plate instead.
Around midnight, the bar became empty. I went to the counter to collect a fresh vodka
bottle. I knew these bars had an undersized room for special services. I shoveled some cash to
the bartender and mouthed for him to prepare the spot. He took the money, nodded, and
disappeared behind a red curtain. I went to the toilets and made my phone call.
As I returned to my chair, I noticed the colonel ’s contented grin. His mustache and chin
were full of crumbs. He burped and fumbled with his roll-tobacco.
There was nothing so effective as cheap sex to enmesh hot-blooded men. It was the oldest
trick in the service and, amazingly, kept on working.
She came in after the colonel had tossed off half the fresh bottle. The bartender instantly
put an audio-disk in his player and winked at me. A melancholy Turkish melody, sung by a
female singer, did the right thing. It had a staggering impact on the colonel.
The temperature had risen to a sultry level, and Gina’s appearance made it steeper still. As
soon as she made her entrance, the colonel was hooked. She leaned on the counter like a
veteran and sat on one of the stools. She wore the same outfit as in the hotel, so I supposed
she was still working her shift.
She demonstrated sprawl the way she took a long cigarette from her little bag and held it
showily upwards. As if drawn by a magnet, Azybey pulled himself to his feet, knocked over
the vodka bottle again, and took the seat next to her. He offered her a light and forgot about
me. Soon they were entangled in an erotic conversation. I nodded at the bartender and left,
throwing Gina a wink, which she returned with glazed eyes. She must have taken a double
dose, and I felt remorse over her. I hoped he wasn’t some sadistic brute and would respect her
fragile youth. Anyway, she was handsomely paid, and did this of her own free will. And she
was my only chance now to discover the truth behind SAHRA.
I left the bar and stood on the sidewalk for a moment, inhaling eagerly the sea breeze and
then returned to my hotel. I wasn’t in a hurry — no one was on my heels, not until tomorrow
anyway. I took a cold shower and washed away the commotion of the night. Yet I was left
with unfulfilled wishes. So I relieved myself of an annoying burden while cold water was
showering over me, and felt much better afterwards.
I was still rubbing down as my phone buzzed. I ran with wet feet and groped for the
device. It was she all right. She sounded a bit breathless, but on the other hand seemed to be
composed. I heard muffled music — she must still be at the bar.
“Are you all right?” I asked, a little uptight.
 “I ’m okay. I ’m afraid he’s too sloshed to talk straight, but I managed to get some words
and phrases. I can’t imagine what it’s all about. I’ve written them down, so that you can make
sense of it.”
“Hold on, I’ll get my notebook.”
I grabbed my PDA en started to type down what she was reciting at the other end. It made
little sense indeed, but it was better than nothing. I thanked her from the bottom of my heart,
and she said she was willing to more work for me. Then she hung up.
I studied the material. She had undoubtedly dominated the conversation and had pulled the
sort of answers out I would never have been able to. I collected all words and phrases, which
sounded less or more logical, though logic wasn’t the issue here. But it was a start.
I constructed two great sounding versions.
Azybey seemed to be in charge of the safety of an important person, a high-ranking
politician. An assault was likely to occur. A conspiracy, with the Conference at stake. In
short, the future of the Allies was at hand.
Another version would be as follows: SAHRA was the code name for some operation in
which Azerbaijan was involved. It had something to do with oil or Baku in particular, and
some big cheese was involved and therefore in danger. Maybe those enigmatic figures on
Azybey ’s modem were merely production statistics, such as gallons or barrels.
Two outcomes, and both of similar merit, spouted from the mouth of a drunken and
overheated officer, and passed on by a hooker. Talk of vital information.
What was I to do with it?
At top level, someone could be murdered, and the consequences would be of great
importance to the success of the Conference. This knowledge troubled me. After all, I was a
liaison officer, and the information involved me personally. I wondered whether I had to put
the General into the frame. But, again, my detective work wasn’t brilliant enough to wake him
up. So I went to bed, with an annoying feeling of insecurity.
 Chapter 8

The Odessa Conference of the Arabian League was the tenth since the Revolution. A new
pack of converted nations had joined the League’s membership, and it had now outstripped
the United Nations ever after.
The new order was remarkably successful. All you had to do was publicly convert to
Islamic belief — or at least to Islamic law by means of referenda. It didn’t matter what your
politics had been before the Revolution. All that was wiped out. Compared to the United
States, there were no election games, no lobbying, and no concern with vote quotas. You
simply entered membership by declaring that you had become a devoted fellow believer.
Eire was the first European nation without a vast Muslim community to be converted.
After NATO had admitted several Arab countries into its ranks, Arab military units had
gradually started to occupy turbulent territories on a permanent basis. As the Revolution
began, Eire was the League’s first bridgehead to the West. After the decline of Christianity,
Irish politics grew to favor Islam, and the Islamic Party got half the seats in Parliament. The
Irish Federation was now being honored as the opening guest. The Conference was to be held
at the Sports Palace, which had been expanded huge, enabling two thousand attendees to work
in comfort. The premises expanded up to the sanatoriums, and buildings hooked up by
spanning bridges.
I was summoned to the 9:00 am security meeting, so I woke up at 7:00, took a shower, and
ate eggs with sour coffee. The meeting took place at a small hotel, which had been reserved
by Central Intelligence for the duration of the Conference. A female officer, who pinned a tag
to my lapel and led me to the hotel’s meeting room, welcomed me. Some twenty officers were
seated. A few of them greeted me, which I returned. I allowed my eyes to wander across the
room. No sign of colonel Azybey. I wondered if he had overslept or, perhaps ,his hangover
was simply playing tricks on him.
A round table, and about thirty chairs, filled the room. Each chair had a nametag. I looked
for mine and sat next to a Captain, who looked at my insignia and treated me with due
respect. Sometimes rank had its advantages.
I didn’t recognize any of my colleagues. They were much younger than I expected. It was
obvious I was getting old. A new draft was marching on to take my place. Though I was not
older than most of them, my years in the Force made me senior, and I wondered how long it
would take before I was stuck behind a desk, doing paperwork, and ordering other men to
kick the bucket.
Then I devoted myself to my mission. Most of my fellow officers were heavy smokers, and
the room was filled with a fine tobacco haze.
We spoke in low voices. Everyone seemed to be anxious. For most of us, it was our first
job in the security business. Tea and coffee were being served, and after half an hour two men
came in.
One of them, a small, bald-headed intellectual type, introduced them. He turned out to be
in charge of inside security. The other was from Central, an impressive young black man with
stars, dressed in the Brigade’s uniform. General Bara. I knew he was a war hero. His roots lay
in the Sudan.
It was no wonder he outranked most of us, though he was younger than me. From the south
had come the fearless, fanatical Islamic warriors who fought during the Revolution with such
cruelty that the reports of their actions were locked away in the archives for several decades.
They were of great help then, and they still supplied the League with butchers if necessary.
He was the one who led the first assault wave across the Punjab. It was a disastrous
campaign that had killed half his men, but it made him a legend. If he was to be our emir,
things could get rough around here.
The intellectual type was a Ukrainian. He was about forty, and looked washed up. Each
Conference was a nerve wracking experience, for each time some rebel group tried to foul up
those laboriously planned schemes.
But this particular one would be a nightmare for security. There were too many exits, too
much hidden spots, and an overall inspection was out of the question. Some of the conference
rooms had adjacent private homes. The whole scene was a dream come true for terrorists and
hit men. The decision to hold the Conference in this bustling town had been a political one.
As usual, no one had bothered to lend an ear to the security specialists. After he stopped
talking, the emir took over. He quizzed us, freezing us with his piercing eyes.
He explained the makeup of the security units. Then each officer got his assignment,
except for me. I felt annoyed, and knew there was something fishy.
After the instructions were given, we took a break. As we got up to leave, the emir
gestured to me. I joined him.
“Major, I know you’re wondering why you weren’t given an assignment, so let me
explain.”
He tugged my arm and led me to a small office equipped with fax machines and an Army
field switchboard. He towered over me, and I felt very tiny.
“You’re being assigned to President Rabinov as his personal aide. So, you won’t have to
assist the seminary any further.” I noticed he didn’t know what was going on either, which
muddled his perceptions.
“So I guess I’ll have to leave you now,” I said..
He put his massive hand on my shoulder. “It ’s a great honor — you must have made quite
an impression up there.”
I couldn’t agree less. And I could see why he was disturbed. A Russian statesman had
called in the help of some obscure officer who wasn’t even with his own division. What was
that all about? I concentrated on his words again.
“At 1300 hours you’ll attend Rabinov’s meeting with the press, and afterwards you’ll be
introduced to him. In the meantime, I suggest you study the grounds and do some field work
to make yourself useful.”
I thanked him and we separated. He went back to his life and I started to wander about.
The Conference site was very busy, everyone trying to catch each possible problem before
it could go wrong. Every where the final touches were complete, and the whole place was
crawling with security people, running to and fro in an agony of suspicion.
The grand opening was Sunday at 10:00 sharp, with a noisy troupe of Irish dancers, all
primly dressed for the occasion in accord with Arab custom. I watched their peculiar dancing
for a while, then walked across the fields, absorbing everything and enjoying every minute of
it.
 I was impressed by the work done to make the Conference successful. Odessa would
certainly enter the League’s history book as one of its landmarks. Tomorrow, thousands of
representatives and delegates from some hundred nations and allies would convene and, after
the grand parade, the real work would start up. I wondered what Rabinov had up his sleeve
for me.
“Dobre den, mayor .”A merry, feminine voice called out my name and I turned my head.
It was she, all right. She wasn’t in uniform, but wore a long, white cotton dress and an
embroidered shawl instead. Her stacked physique and toothy smile made my heart jump.
Once again she was holding the steering wheel of a vehicle. This time it was an electrically
driven model, an open two-seater, likely built for the occasion.
“Hello, corporal,” I said, smiling.» You and cars seem to be inseparable.”
She laughed and got me under her spell again. She was so refreshing after all the glum
faces and sulky looks. I imagined that even the religious police, or whoever was in charge of
decency supervision around here, would be seduced by her spontaneity into not bothering her.
“Can I drop you off somewhere?” she yelled.

“As a matter of fact, you can.” I took the passenger ’s seat. “Drive me to the Sport Palace,
please.”

She turned the steering wheel and drove off, this time less in Kamikaze style.

It was time for some answers, and I fired off the questions.
“Okay, Jane, or Fatma, or whoever you may be, you seem to be everywhere. You’ve
proven to me that you’re an excellent spy. Now, who are you, and what are you doing here?”
“They have a shortage of drivers,” she explained.. Before I could interfere, she pulled to a
stop at the Palace. I remained seated and stared through the bug-splattered windshield.
“I want answers. There are no eavesdroppers around here, so what ’s stopping you?”
“I’ll be at your place around eight,” she answered instead, and I let out a deep sigh.
“Great, I’ll see you at eight. Pick me up at Aurora.” I stepped out and she cranked audibly.
I watched the car curve away.
I was in a very expectant mood when I entered the Palace. The new geodetic dome was a
smaller copy of Jeddah ’s airport terminals, so the whole place looked like an oversized
Bedouin tent. The building could accommodate thousands of people. A giant TV screen was
suspended for the far off spectators. The whole place breathed high technology, and I was
properly impressed. I began to systematically search for weak spots, for any clues that would
trigger my subconscious.
I watched some security men doing the same, and I was fairly convinced that the
organization was to the point. Then, about lunchtime, I decided to have a bite at the counter
and joined the queue. I ate a salad, drinking hot tea with it. I wasn’t that hungry, being a bit
worked up with the upcoming encounter with Rabinov.
Still, there was an hour to go before the press meeting. I asked my self how to pass my
spare time.
 And, speak of the devil, I heard an unmistakable voice: Azybey. I looked over my shoulder
and saw him waving at me. He was queuing up to get his meal, and clearly was willing to
talk. I waited for him with resigned curiosity.
He sat down at my table, looking drowsy, with a beard shadow around his chin. He eyes
were bloodshot but watchful.
“Sorry, old boy, I’ve had a rough night.”
So, it seemed Gina had done a good job. I had the impression that he didn’t recall a thing.

“How was she?” I asked, with a conspiring grin.

He rolled his eyes. “A little devil,” he answered, in a scraping voice. “I didn’t know you
had a side-job as a pimp.”
“I’ve nothing to do with her,” I refuted..
He smirked. “Of course not — still waters run deep. Anyway, you’ve made my stay a lot
more pleasant now. I’d like to see her back.”
“So would others,” I said. “Listen, I ’m not her matchmaker. We met some days ago and
that ’s all. It was pure luck we came across each other again.”
Azybey shrugged and let the subject go. “What do you think of security?” he asked.
I was glad I landed in safe waters. “I can’t see imposing quandaries,” I replied cautiously.
“Perhaps we’re just a suspicious race. Anyway, it ’s not my problem any more.”
I couldn’t help sounding triumphant. He was wavering whether to go for my throat again,
or to ask why. To my relief, he did the latter.
“I ’m assigned to Rabinov himself,” I explained, and awaited his reaction.
It came all right. He forgot to chew and, to my amazement, I saw him stiffen.
“What do you mean?” he asked. He watched me with devouring eyes. I was somehow
bewildered by this unexpected turn, but didn’t tell him more than he ought to know. For a
moment he was lost in a deep silence, then he got on with his chewing. I noticed he had
slowed down, as if he was brooding over my statement. Something must have shocked him.
He shoveled the rest of his salad into his mouth and got up. “Take care of yourself,» he
muttered, and took off. I was left wondering.
Take care….How may times would I get to hear this phrase? I remembered the shy
Lieutenant Smida at my dad’s Scottish place, who had warned me in his own mysterious way.
It proved the service knew things I didn’t, but nobody cared to fill me in. What foul play
was going on?
I was in a worked up state of mind, when I entered the pressroom. It was packed with
fervent reporters, and it took me some time to cross the room. Finally, I managed to get back
stage.
“Rabinov will go on in a few minutes,” a stage officer told me. “I ’d like you to keep an
eye on the audience. My men will handle the reporters.”
My reputation as a clairvoyant had clearly preceded me. I positioned myself behind a
curtain that divided the stage and watched the agitated crowd with its equipment of cameras
and recorders.
 I had to go for the eyes. They wouldn’t lie — they weren’t capable of betraying, like the
rest of the human body. There were reporters from all over the world, meticulously picked to
do their job — namely, transmitting Rabinov ’s speech to the world — and everyone in the
room knew this was an historical event. Three public broadcast cameras were being adjusted.
Smoke was filling the room, and the fans couldn’t fight it. Then I glowered at the back. I
observed some female reporters, their presence made distinct by the shawls and long dresses.
I froze. I couldn’t overlook those big eyes and the translucent skin. Jane, or Fatma, almost
unrecognizable in a sort o chaste capuchin. I was startled and uncertain what to do. Should I
go for her? But then, should I unveil her and cause a scandal if she wasn’t ? Fatma, alias
Jane Denwick, terrorist, U.S.A. Pieces began to fall into place.
Maybe I was too dumb to see Rabinov coming in from the other side of the stage. It was
too late to warn him of the immediate danger. He had reached the desk and waved to the
audience in a friendly gesture. At that moment the world collapsed.
A bluish fireball came from nowhere, went up to the ceiling, came back in myriads of
shimmering blue chips, and within a split second burst over Rabinov’s head.
I hooded my eyes while air pressure lifted me up and I landed some meters backside, and
then came the ear-splitting burst of the explosion. The curtain split and covered me. Debris
glanced off in deadly bullets, and then came the agonized sounds of pain and suffering.
A ghastly smelling blue mist filled what remained of the room. I struggled free from the
protection of the curtain and, at the sight of the damage, I emptied the contents of my stomach
and went on all fours, slipping over limbs, guts, and blood, away from hell, and somehow
managed to reach the outside world.
“Not again,” I moaned aloud. I was deaf, but the tormented squalling kept urging me on. I
reached the Palace, where I was collected by paramedics and taken to the nearest emergency
post. I saw several wounded people being carried in, most of them with ugly burns, and in a
state of shock.
I quickly regained my senses, and after a quick treatment of a head wound, I was put in
new clothes and released. I was wistful, and unwilling to accept the news about Rabinov ’s
death. But I knew it had to be that way.
When I was back in my room, I started for the bathroom to get rid of the unbearable sting
of death. I took a long, hot shower, and then made a swift inspection of my body. I was still
doggedly shaking my head, and my heart was pounding away. I realized that, within days, I
would have to dig for answers, and I felt reluctant to do so, since
I knew I would hit filth. I didn’t want to go any further. I didn’t want to play the hero while
others were sitting safely at some desk, standing by to complete their reports. It was over,
over and over, I repeated. I didn’t want to be part of it anymore. Let others play the dummies.
Then I had a kola stick and, after a while, regained my self control. I needed something
more ardent to keep me on my feet. So I placed a room service order, and within minutes a
bottle of vodka and a box of crackers were brought in. I didn’t bother to use a glass, gulped
the liquid in from the bottle. The alcohol burned, but it worked. I had finished half of it when
the phone rang. I knew I would be too legless to make a decent conversation, but I managed
to grab the horn.
“John, it ’s me, Jane. Are you okay?”

John? I let go of the bottle and stared at the phone. Was I hallucinating now?
 “What ’s this all about, who is it?” I asked in a thick voice, stumbling over my words.

“It’s Jane. Can I come up?”

Someone was playing dirty tricks on me, but the voice was unmistakably hers. I heard
myself agree and hung up. Why was she still alive? I had seen her amidst the crowd, and I
knew most of it had been transformed into a heap of bleeding flesh.
A modest knock on the door made me freeze. I opened the bedside cabinet and took out my
service gun. Then I tottered to the door.
“Who is it?” I asked harshly. I had trouble adjusting my eyes.
“It’s me, Jane. Please, John, let me in.”
She sounded as in despair and I answered the door, my pistol at the ready.
She pass by swiftly by me and closed the door with a crash. She looked as though she was
on the verge of passing out. Her face was twitching with pain, and she started to sway to and
fro.
I intercepted her in time and dragged her onto the bed. She leaned heavily on me while I
was taking her capuchin off. Her dress was messy, and covered with burn holes. She came
around and seemed to see me for the first time.
“Thank God you’re all right.” She started a fit of crying. We sat cheek by jowl, and she
lowered her head onto my shoulder. I couldn’t resist and started to comfort her by putting my
arm around her. That made her stop sniffing. I slipped her some paper tissues and watched her
while she made herself presentable again.
“Now tell me everything.” I tried to sound menacing, but my words came out plodding,
and my tongue was still playing tricks.
“You’re drunk,” she stated. “We can ’t talk here, the place may be wired. We’ll have to go
elsewhere.”
It was amazing how quickly she was back in control. Like a real professional.
Here I was, with this desirable girl, and I felt my lust grow. It was nature’s reaction to
human disaster.
I still had my arm around her and gently pushed her down. She tried to free herself, but I
was coming on to her, and then she didn’t resist any more.
I tried to undress her, but there were too many buttons, and finally I tore her dress open.
Underneath she wore no more but a red bikini. This symbol of western decadence drove me
mad, and I tried to rip off her bra.
Then she made for me. She dealt me a terrific blow, and I was so startled that I let go of
her. I rolled off and rubbed my jowls. It didn’t hurt that much, but it sobered me up at once.

She hid her swollen knuckles in pain.

“I’m sorry, Fatma.”

She didn’t react, but started to arrange herself, looking despondently at her frock.
 “I’ll buy you a new one,” I said, sheepishly.

“Don ’t worry, I’ll see to it .But don’t you dare try this again.” Her feminine warning
seemed to be misplaced in these circumstances, but I said I was sorry.
I searched for my kola sticks, lit two, and gave her one. We stayed on the bed, with a safe
distance between us. I had so much to ask, but I didn’t. I was reluctant to go for an
interrogation, as we were both too much taken up to give way to despair.
At that moment my phone rang. It was the General. I got up and headed for the bathroom,
where I closed myself in. We talked for some minutes and I explained what had gone on, and
asked if he had some clues. But he couldn’t tell me more than I already knew. We were
certainly in a dead-end alley.
“What about that bomb, Hassan? Have you any idea about the – erm - phenomenon?”
I couldn’t help being amused by is choice of words. In spite of the technologic web he had
helped to create, he was groping in the dark as well.
“I think it’s the same kind of bomb I encountered before, sir,” I told him in a whisper, so
that Jane pick it up.
The General paused. I fancied he was staring out his favorite window now, or looking at
the giant wall map, with its numerous tags of allies. He must feel awfully helpless.
“I’m afraid the situation’s becoming too risky for you, Hassan. Tomorrow you take the
first flight to London. I’ll see you there. Get some rest now — I’ll contact you in the
morning.”
I was relieved, but after he hung up I was left with a feeling of non-appeasement. It was
against my nature to give up on an unsolved mystery. First of all, Jane had to provide me with
some answers.
I returned to my room and saw the empty bed. I ran out into the hall, but she was gone. I
returned and found a slip of a paper napkin on the coffee table. It had three words: ‘fl MECCA
2012 .’
I brooded on the short sentence in capitals, double emphasized, and, on the face of it,
written in a great hurry.
How dumb can you get? Never trust a woman in the line of duty — one of the first lessons
in spy school.
I looked at the time. The night was still young, and she couldn’t be too far away. I dressed,
took my gun and phone along, and ran downstairs.
The night porter hadn’t seen anyone pass in the last half hour, but that figured. She must
have taken an emergency exit. She could be anywhere. In a state of despair, I scampered
across the streets. Though curfew was on, people were running me by, and ambulances were
still on the move. After half an hour I gave up and turned around.
I tried to figure out what to do next. I had no idea, but being an upright guy I wanted to
take the ultimate step. So I phoned the General back. That’s something you didn’t do except
in an emergency, and I was hoping this was a big one. It was extremely hard to reach him in
person. Some animated voice directed me through several departments, in search of tracing
me down. That wasn’t so knotty, as my phone had a direct communication line.
I heard a familiar voice. Smida sounded surprised to hear from me.
 “Major, I’m glad you’re in one piece,” he said. I could hear he was on edge.

“Put me through to the General, please.”

He wavered. “I don’t know if I have the power to do that, major. He’s in an important
meeting right now.”
At two in the morning? But then I remembered that I was on Ukrainian time.
“It’s a matter of life and death, lieutenant. If you don ’t follow orders, I’ll be obliged to
report it to the General.” That was very unfair of me, but I was close to breaking down, and I
wanted to have answers right away.
The lieutenant’s tone was wronged. “The General has ordered me to hold all calls, major. I
can ’t break the rules, you know that.”
I gave up and, with an audible curse, broke off. Something was way off the mark here.
Why was I left on my own?
How much time could I borrow? Time was a question of life and death now, and Mecca
wasn’t that far away. I should be there about noon, and I supposed that someone or something
would be waiting at Jeddah airport to pick me up. And I would be back with a regular flight to
London before all hell broke loose. I had a small advantage with time zone differences —
there was enough to figure out a good case for my late arrival in London.
I made a call to the airport to book for Jeddah. The first available plane was a pilgrim’s
flight, which was at 4:00. I could have a seat in the freight room if I didn’t mind. Thanks to
the ever-increasing pilgrimage, flights went on a twenty-four hours base a day.
My first offense against the service was to get rid of the communication chip in my mobile.
I broke the seal and had the chip in my hand, wondering what to do with it. Then I flushed it
down. It contained dangerous stuff, and could represent still more danger.
Then I collected my gear, which was nothing more than the usual handbag, and left my
dress uniform behind, visible for the cleaners.
I took a last look around the room, taking in the whole place a glance, and felt scared.
And, at that moment, the desk phone rang. I froze, and had to suppress my urge to run, but
then I regained control and picked up the receiver.
“Gaspadin mayor, please, come down.”

It was a man’s voice and it sounded familiar. It had a military nature, ordering me to obey.
For some reason, I felt I had to follow the command. I went downstairs.
 Chapter 9

I noticed the lobby was empty and the porter had disappeared. I inched along with caution
towards the revolving doors. I saw a stocky figure outside, in the darkness of the street,
seemingly waiting for me to come outside, which I did. Before I could react, he started to
shout rudely. Among other slaps in the face, I was a ‘svoratch,’ the Russian word for bastard.
Then someone other popped out of the dark and offered me a vitriolic kick at my crotch.
Reflexively, I tried to dive away, and the soldier’s boot hit my groin. I staggered with pain
and fell into a fierce grip.
I looked up to see Ahmed, his face distorted with hatred. He dragged me, hard-handed,
toward a waiting delivery van. I was thrown into the back and the door was slammed. While
licking my wounds, I felt the van rocking as the two climbed in. They pulled away and drove
off flat out.
I tried to force the door, but the handles had been removed, and I resignedly sat back,
trying to get a grip in the wobbling van. After about ten minutes the van stopped and I heard
them come out and open the door. A flashlight blinded me. I spotted a hand with a pistol
aiming at me.
“No tricks,” Ahmed snarled.. “You’re dispensable.” I didn’t go into that — I wasn’t that
foolish. With the pistol barrel poking at my spine I wouldn’t stand a chance. We seemed to
have parked in a deserted garage. They dragged me to a workspace containing an oblong
wooden table, with electric wires hanging over it.
It looked like a surgeon’s table.
“Hello, Hassan, we meet again in unusual situations.”
I didn’t have to look up to see who that was. Azybey, in person. I started to shudder. The
place was dark and cold and smelled of decay, but that wasn’t the cause of my physical
aversion. It was simply the fact that I had stupidly fallen into their trap.
“If you kill me, you’ll have the entire Force on your tails.”
Azybey chuckled. “I don’t see how the Force will be of any use,” he said enigmatically.
Then, in a hard voice, “Okay, we’ll have some answers now. Colonel, he’s all yours.”
He left the site.
A third man came into the light to clutch my legs. I had a clear view of him, and the shock
was even greater now. I gasped at Kaseem and my mind went blank. He didn’t look at me —
he just groped for my legs and hefted me up. I swung in the air for some seconds before they
plopped me down on the table. I was struck dumb and, without further resistance, I let them
strip off my pants.
There I lay, staring up at the single, naked bulb, feeling dead beat. A man can push his
limits, but there’s always a boundary. Ahmed and Kaseem bound my neck, upper arms, and
calves to thick rubber cords, and then took the loose wires and attached them to my genitals.
They finished their job by sticking tape over my mouth.
They stepped back to admire their work and, for a while, I was left by myself. I could
barely turn my head for the risk of suffocation. I could hear them mumble, and then Kaseem
seemed to wander off and I was left alone with Ahmed. His face blocked the light. It was
covered with sweat that fell on me, filling me with disgust. His spectacle lenses reflected my
distorted features.
“You don’t have to give answers right now,” he grumbled. “First you’re about to
experience the works yourself. I haven’t forgotten what you did to me.”
I was unaware what I had done to him, but didn’t reply. I wouldn’t make it worse.
I knew he was a maniac, a sadistic freak, who was gloating over my suffering even before
it happened.
“And after you’ re done, then we’ll talk.”

He disappeared from my view.

I closed my eyes and felt my sweat flowing in slow trickles. A long time ago I had taken a
training program to raise my pain threshold and, as it turned out, I wasn’t all that good at it.
So I prayed that I would pass out after the first shock wave. The overhead light bulb popped
out, and my heartbeat burst through my veins. I pressed my fingernails into the palms of my
hands and jerked my tongue back from my teeth. The first shock wasn’t that severe, except
for my uncontrolled muscle spasms. My body jumped up, my skin crawled, and static
electricity crackled all over me.
But the next stream of electrons made me nearly faint. I heard myself crying for it to stop,
and felt warm blood seep over my chin . An intense stench of excrement burst out as my
sphincter lost its grip. I had fouled myself.
Ahmed enjoyed his work so much that he sent another two shocks into me. Eventually I
lost consciousness. When I woke up, I was tied up in a chair in some dark storage room. My
arms were strapped at the back, and I was sitting bolt upright in the chair, a yard from a small
metal table. My genitals were badly done. They burned like hell. But my will wasn’t broken.
I started to hate Ahmed. I lost track of time and sat crouched over.
After a while I started to explore my surroundings. The room was empty, no windows, just
a single door, bolted from the outside. I was trapped.
Why had they abducted me, and why this third degree treatment?
This was pointless. Then my mind rested on Kaseem, and again I was upset by his role in
the conspiracy. If he wanted revenge for something I had done a long time ago he had
certainly succeeded now.
I heard footsteps drawing near, and instinctively I braced myself.

Someone stopped at the door. Then Ahmed entered, smoking a thin cigar, blowing smoke
rings at me and having a good time. He sat at the table and gloated at my burnt crotch.

“I don ’t think there will be many more little Hassan’s in this world any more,” he
smirked..
My look must have been devastating, for he wiped off his grin and put on an indifferent
expression. Kaseem came in, too, and sat on a worn-out sofa, watching me attentively.
I threw Ahmed a look loaded with hatred to Ahmed. “So what’s your point?” I asked with
a snarl.
“Still the same bravado, huh? I must take back, you folks from West deliver fine material.”
 He grinned and turned to Kaseem. “Is he always like that?”
Kaseem nodded. “You won’t break him down with your electric toys.”
“That’s not what I have in mind,” Ahmed said. He got up and neared me. I hugged myself.
“Look here, Hassan, I just want you to tell me all you know about SAHRA.”
I looked up with an innocent face. “I don’t know what you’re saying.”
“Don ’t fool around, Hassan. I know everything about your friend Ulinov and that
American girl — what’s her name?”
“Denwick,” Kaseem said..“Fatma Denwick.”
“Right. So, give me a straight answer. What’s your role with SAHRA? And give me the
names of your accomplices.”
So, they trusted me to be the key figure. That was definitely to my advantage. It
encouraged me not to fall into his trap.
“You've killed Ulinov, and eventually his girl, too,” I put in. “And about SAHRA, that ’s
Arabic for wasteland.”
Ahmed came at me. His right fist split my lower lip and I tasted blood. My pride was more
hurt than with the electric dealing.
“Don ’t underestimate me, major,” he hissed. To my relief he returned to his chair and put
his cigar in his mouth.
“Now, once again, you intercepted colonel Azybey ’s messages. Don’t try to deny it.
We’ve been watching you for quite some time. We’re not stupid.”
I had decided to prove otherwise.
“I had no idea what Ulinov was doing,” I explained rather laboriously, due to my swollen
lip.
“We were working together on the project. You ought to be proud of us.”
Ahmed sucked on his cigar and sent me a glazed look. I noticed he was uncertain, and that
gave me a satanic pleasure.
“Why did Denwick come to your hotel?” Kaseem came in between. I tried to stay calm,
though I had several insulting answers in mind.
“What do you mean?”
“After the attack Denwick came to your room and stayed there for an hour,” Kaseem
explained patiently. So they knew. They had followed her and had waited, like spiders, for
their prey.
“Okay, I take it back. We were lovers,” I explained, and that I meant. They didn’t react for
a while. Then Ahmed sighed and put out his cigar.
“We’re not getting any further with you. What shall we do with you now?”
You could release me and let me leave with a hearty handshake.
“I’ll leave you with your friend,” Ahmed decided. “If you don’t collaborate, I’m afraid
we’ll have to dispose of you.” He left the room and there I was, alone with Kaseem. My odds
were growing now.
“What ’s your part in this?” I asked him.
 Kaseem shrugged his shoulders. “I was ordered to keep an eye on you.”

“So you joined the program to stick on my tail. Why, and who gave the orders?”

Kaseem laughed. “You’re not in any position to question me — that’s my job. Anyway, to
answer the first part, my reward waits for me in a farm outside Bayeux. I’m fed up with all
the fighting and I’m planning to leave the Force as soon as possible. But you’ll have to be
somewhat more talkative.”
“So what do you want to know?”

“Tell us about SAHRA, and what you know about it, that’s all.”

“And after that you’ll dispose of me?”

At last I’d gotten a rise out of him .“I won’t do anything of the sort. We’ll figure out what
we can do. Ahmed isn’t the only one involved, you know.”
Involved in what? And who were the others? I didn’t ask, but concentrated on Kaseem’s
moves.
“You’re not entirely corrupted,” I said. “Thank heaven.”
“Don’t thank heaven yet. He wants answers, and if we work together I’ll have my life with
Yvette back.”
He gave me a black look. He didn’t feel rancorous — he was only having a crack at getting
away from this old life.
“So you ’re doing this for your woman.”
He considered my words. “Maybe I do. With her mother gone, the farm’s all ours.”
I knew he was about five years older than I, and early retirement was alluring. He would
have his own farm and live prosperously at Yvette’s side, maybe breeding some kids, too. I
never did see Kaseem to be a real Mujahidin, anyway.
“What about the rocket?” I asked.

“What about it?”

“Did you launch it?”

Now he looked as if I ’d made an indecent proposal. “I ’m not a murderer,” he answered in

an indignant tone.
I was relieved. Not because my former friend couldn’t kill me, but a tiny piece had now
fallen into place.
Kaseem changed the subject. “After what you’ve done to Ahmed, he won’t give up until
you’ve made up your mind.”
“What have I done to Ahmed?”
“Your friend the General has relieved him from active service. Didn’t you know?”
 I didn’t know, but I couldn’t help feeling satisfied. Now I knew my hidden messages
hadn’t been in vain. The General had pulled the right strings and Ahmed had got what he
deserved.
It was time to start the battle now.
I started to groan .“My legs and arms are cramped. Can’t you loosen those cords? I can’t
talk in this condition.”
Now everything depended on how much he trusted me, and the amount of friendship that
was left between us. He was in doubt, but then started to loosen the cords behind my back.
In a split second I had his fingers in my grip and broke two of them. He let go of me,
squealing like a pig, and before he could regain his position I had released myself by
smashing the chair to matchwood. I managed to scramble to my feet before he had come to
his senses again.
Now we were on even terms, crouching like predators, menacing and ready to kill.
“I don’t want to kill you, Kaseem,” I snapped. “Just don’t try what you’re thinking — we
can work this out.”
But Kaseem was too much involved and knew his life wouldn’t be safe anymore if he let
me go. He was entangled in his dream, and he would fight for it. He also knew that he was the
weakest, and it was a mere act of desperation as he took the initiative.
I caught him easily as he leapt at me, pushed him to the ground, and the next moment he
was down, his neck broken. I hadn’t time to mourn over him. The racket had alarmed Ahmed,
who burst in, pistol in hand. He took in the scene at a glance and his mouth fell open.
“What the …” he started, but before he could pull the trigger I smashed one of the chairs
into his face and he staggered, swaying back. His pistol went off, a dry, sharp sound, but the
bullet glanced off.
My hatred was so intense that I freaked out, jumped at him, and took him in a stranglehold.
He was stronger than I had thought, and he started to push me back. He managed to get a grip
on my testicles and began to squeeze. The agonizing pain sapped my strength. He got on top
of me, and now the roles were reversed. He had me down.
“Get it over with,” I said, in weak undertone. His mouth was open wide, and I noticed his
teeth were bleeding. Again a shot. Ahmed stiffened, moaned, and rolled away. I saw Jane
standing in the door with a smoking gun in her shaking hand.
I crawled to my feet and watched her carefully.

She just stood there, teary-eyed, incapable of doing anything else.

I took her pistol with gentle care.

“Don ’t be afraid, I won’t hurt you,” I said, in a comforting tone, but she seemed to be
more upset by what had happened.
I heard Ahmed say something and pricked up my ears.
“Qibla …”he murmured, repeating the word several times. Then I caught the light. I
wasn’t impervious to a dying man’s request and, to the best of my knowledge, managed to
turn his head toward Mecca. He started to say his shahada. I left him alone; he was in peace
with himself now, and ready to die.
 The first thing I had to do was to look decent again. My shirt was bloodstained. I needed a
jacket to cover it up, and started to undress Kaseem. I heard a thud, turned, and saw that Jane
had fainted. Even better.
Now I wondered where Azybey was hanging around. I hadn’t seen him since my
treatment, and I knew he was far more dangerous. I should hurry up.
Ahmed’s gun had two more bullets left, so I took it along as well. I stepped over the dying
man and searched him for anything useful. To my joy, I found my wallet in his shirt pocket,
passport and credit cards neatly put away. I found the car keys as well. I hesitated with Jane.
But then I decided she saved my life.
I didn’t have the courage to kill her after all, and I left the room, crossed the workplace,
and ended up at the van. I put the key in the slot and the engine came to life.
I opened the garage door and was blinded by fierce sunlight.
I estimated that it was high noon now. Next day, or the day after? My crotch was burning
like hell, and my lips were swollen, but what the heck, I was alive.
The fuel gauge showed almost full. I could drive for hours, but that wasn’t what I had in
mind. My destination was coming closer by the minute.
Someone shouted at me. I stopped dead, to see Jane running toward me. Automatically I
reached for the gun, but she was unarmed and apparently agog about joining me.
She knocked at the door. “Please, John, let me in. I want to go with you.”
I let her in. We drove in silence. She acted as my guide until we reached the town centre.
From there on I could find my own way. While slowly advancing in a traffic jam, I asked
what that was all about.
“You did that awfully well back there,” I said, flatly. Traffic started to move again.
“I had to protect you,” she said. Her attitude was composed now, like a real pro, which she
undoubtedly was. I wasn’t planning to get answers; there were more urgent issues now, like
how to save my own skin. I was certain, though, that she didn’t have any part in the SAHRA
game. Sometimes you have to rely on your own judgment.
Still I needed some reassurance.
I had to admit that she was more useful than I’d thought. I asked her whether it was the
first time she had shot anyone. She nodded and shivered for a moment, but she regained her
self-control quickly.
“I didn’t know I could do it,” she said.

“The first time is difficult.”

That was a self-reassuring answer. Actually, it depended on who you were shooting at.
With most of my killings I didn’t feel any regrets.
I drove to the airport, parked the van and went into a restroom and cleansed myself up until
I looked like a worn-out heavy mileage-passenger.

The hall was packed with returning pilgrims, mingled with all manner of businessmen, but
I didn’t join the queues. I went straight to the airport police desk, drew my pass and credit
card, and booked a direct flight to London. While the clerk was making the arrangements, I
asked myself whether I should take Jane along, if she had no plans of her own.
 The clerk interrupted my thoughts. He sent me an inquiring expression on his face.

“I ’m sorry, major, but your credit has been cut off.”

Cut off? What was that all about? I tried to hold my temper.

“Try again, please. Maybe there’s a malfunction. I have unlimited credit, as you should
know.”

I started to perspire. The clerk lifted his head from his screen. “Sorry again, major, but the
orders come directly from London.”
London .What’s the point of that? What was going on now?
“May I place a call to London?” I asked, and the clerk handed me his phone.
It took a while before I was hooked on. I wasn’t familiar with the voice — it wasn’t the
General or Smida.
“The General isn’t available, major. Where are you calling from?”
“Odessa,” I answered, honestly. They would find out anyway.
“You were ordered back yesterday,” the man went on.» You didn’t show up.”
I tried to hold back my frustration.» I know, I had a slight inconvenience.”
“Stay where you are, we’ll pick you up tonight.”
“Why’s my credit cut off?” I asked, but he broke off and left me upset. I was dazed by the
fact that, for the first time in my career, I had to undergo the humiliation of having all of my
privileges taken away. I had become a fugitive outlaw overnight. For most of the unfortunate
ones, this was the first step on the way down.
I returned the phone and left in a bad dream. I entered the van. Jane was still sitting there,
like an obedient child. She saw my expression and asked in something was the matter. There
was a tremor in her voice, and I knew I couldn’t let her fall into the panic trap.
“Change of plans,” I answered airily and, starting the engine, drove off.
We reached the harbor site. I parked the van in a discrete corner and we continued on foot.
Then I told her what had happened. She didn’t comment, but took my hand and squeezed
it. Again I felt her tremble.
“Don ’t worry, we’ll be all right,” she said, a bit unctuously. I’ve still some money in the
bank that I can withdraw now.”
We found an ATM, and while she was getting the cash I looked warily about. I was in a
state of permanent paranoia now.
The sun raised a blazing heat from the pavement, and my lips throbbed painfully. I hoped I
wouldn’t attract too much attention, but with this pretty girl at my side I should be safe for the
time being. No one would suspect a young couple of having killed two people an hour ago.
Jane inspected my lips and took command. “First,” she said, “we have to get rid of this
ugly scar. We’ll buy some medicine and stuff. I’ve had first aid training, so I know what to
do.”
“How much did you take?” I asked.
 “All of it — some thousand Euros.”

That must have been all of her assets. I wondered what would be left after I had made the
necessary arrangements. We bought some stuff in a shop — food, summer clothes — and I
began to relax as we took a cab to drive us out of town.
We followed the seaside road. The sun cast long shadows, and the scenery, with its
numerous bays and creeks, was fabulous. The cab driver chatted as we drove along, and the
world seemed to be a peaceful place in which to live. I squeezed Jane’s hand comforting and
saw that she looked content. After some twenty miles, the driver left us at a small harbor. The
season was on, and we didn’t attract attention among the other strolling couples and families.
The never-ending pollution had done a great deal of harm to the Black Sea fishing
industry, and the minor ports had turned to other means of earning money, such as tourism
and the black market.
I knew my way around the fishing port. It was known as a smuggler’s nest, mainly dealing
with Bulgaria, and the man I wanted to contact had once been a service mole.
We found him in a small shop at the Quay. The sign on the blue-painted storefront said
“Ivan ’s Souvenirs.” We entered a small, dark room, reeking of fried fish, and my stomach
instantly began to protest. I hadn’t eaten in more than twenty-four hours, and I felt faint.
Ivan was alone in his shop. He looked up from his fish meal, recognized me, and put his
plate away.

“I don’t do jobs any more,” he greeted me, reluctantly.

“Don’t worry, Ivan. This isn’t about service.”

He ran his eyes over Jane.

“She’s with me,» I said, by way of warning. He grinned, showing his ugly teeth. His skin
was dark brown, weather beaten, and showed hideous scars, the result of the endless battle
against nature and the harbor police. I wondered if he could have many customers with a face
like that but, then, the shop could well be a cover for something else.
“Look here, Ivan,” I said. “I need a boat, and I need it now.”
He licked his lips, sucked on a fishbone and nodded.
“Could be arranged. There’s trouble ahead, though.”
I knew what he meant. Though Bulgaria had become part of the greater Turkey, the
Bulgarians themselves weren’t so happy. Nationalists didn’t cease to stir up trouble, which
resulted in increased Turkish coastal patrols. So what Ivan was telling me was that prices had
come with a high-risk surcharge.
“How much?” I asked. He told me a figure with three zeroes.
“Nine hundred,” I firmly said. “I can’t go any higher — I have a woman, you know.”
That he understood, and he exposed his discolored teeth again.
“I have a suitable boat for you. I won’t be needing it any more, so you can buy it for nine.”
“It ’s a deal,” I said, much to my relief.
 I turned to Jane, who joined me with two life jackets.
“These would come in handy,” she said, “if we meet a storm.” I appreciated her practical
sense.
“I’ll throw those in for free,” Ivan said, so we shook hands on it and Jane paid him out.
He closed his shop and we followed him to an out of the way corner of the Yacht Club — a
pretentious name for a spot smelling of dead fish.
We found the boat bobbing at its line. It must have been his former smuggler’s cutter, as I
counted a lot of bullet holes in it.
No doubt the engine was hopped up. Ivan explained he had rebuilt it as a motor launch. It
had a small wheelhouse and cabin, a tiny galley ,and two worn but comfortable chairs on
deck.
We clambered aboard and I sensed a penetrating smell that upset my stomach. The cabin
was a real trash heap of old twine, plastic bottles, paper and wood, and everything was
mildew soaked.
“I don’t think you’ll have much use for the boat afterwards,” Ivan said, candidly, while
adjusting things as he made the boat ready for its voyage. “The keel’s rotten.”
“Thanks for the warning.”
He filled the tank — the boat had an extra tank as well — and then I started the engine.
After some coughing, it was turning smoothly, with nothing more than a throaty whisper. I
backed out of the slip, then put the engine ahead. The boat passed the old pier, and as soon as
we were at sea Jane started cleaning up the cabin. There were frequent cries of disgust, but
eventually she managed to turn into a snug refuge.
The waves grew higher. While I was steering, a smell of fried fish penetrated my nostrils
and made my head spin. We ate cooked squid, accompanied by lumps of bread. Then I
crawled into the cabin and quickly conked out.
I had an odd dream. I was back at the annual races from Les Invalides to Versailles Palace,
where the Brigade had its headquarters. Each year a number of selected staff members from
all units ran for their lives, cheered on by numerous spectators, and followed by cameramen,
beaming the race to all Muslim nations.
I had won the race twice in a row, but now Kaseem was aiming for victory, and I couldn’t
keep up. He was visibly gaining on me, and my feet slowed to a standstill. Then I froze to the
ground. Everyone else was passing me, and some spectators were yelling and jeering. After
the last competitor had passed, and the streets emptied, I stood alone and it was getting dark.
Then Ahmed appeared, and I felt very frightened. He saw that I was immobile and he
started to undress me. I was deeply ashamed, especially when his hands touch my genitals,
which came to life. The mixture of shame and lust made me feel forlorn, and I started to cry
like a child.
I was still terrified when Jane shook me awake. Her anxious face was close to mine.
“What’s going on?” I tried to lift myself up, but she pushed me gently back. My crotch
burned with a consumptive power.
“Lie still, you ’re not to move right now. You need a good rest.”
“Who ’s sailing the boat?”
 I didn’t wait for her reply but dozed off again, and when I awoke it was dark, and Jane was
steering.
I felt better now, so I went up and joined her. The sea was frisky, and the sky was studded
with thousands of stars, shining upon the steady swells. We must have gained a pleasant
distance.
“What have you done to my private parts?” I asked her. I could feel a tight bandage on my
wounds.
She blushed and told me that she had put an ointment of after sun on them.
“If you take over, I’ll make tea,” she said. I wondered how she would do that, but then I
found that she had a small gas brazier, and a water kettle, too.
I didn’t conceal my admiration.
“You thought of everything,” I said, and that made her smile happily.
She was back within minutes, carrying two steaming mugs.
“You won’t have much trouble after all,” she stated.
It was so good to be back in the hands of a caring woman.
Maybe, when things were back to normal, we might want to discuss our future. But not
now, in this rocking tub. We both felt tired, now that the stress had diminished. I proposed
that she take a nap and she agreed. She crawled into the cabin, and I heard her build up a
niche for herself. Some minutes later she raised her voice from her nest, likely not able to lie
down.
“John, have you killed many people?” Again that question, that seemed to hover in her
mind. I faltered. It was a thorny one, with some many possible answers.
“I’ve done what I had to do,” I finally answered. I had no desire to fill her in on my dark
side. Besides, I was a soldier; it was my fate to kill or to be killed.
“Why do you ask?”
She peered out of the cabin. “I ’m thinking of Ahmed. I can’t get him off my mind. I can
see him dying on the floor.”
“Don ’t let yourself go on about it,” I warned her. “It’s no use. You’ve saved my life and
sacrificed his. It’s just a natural exchange. If you hadn’t done this, you would still be in
Azybey’s hands.”
She became quiet, and seemed to accept my crippled philosophy.
I reminisced about Kaseem for a while. I knew I would have some waking nightmares, but
I also know that was just a reaction, as was usual after I finished a job. It always wore off.
“What do you think about death?” she asked, unexpectedly.
I felt a bit off-hand. Here, in the middle of the Black Sea, we were discussing philosophical
axioms.
My attitude about life and death was pragmatic. You were born and, if you were lucky, you
had a nice life and, it was to be hoped, a serene death.
But instead, I started to tell her about the Prophet’s way of thinking, about heaven and hell,
and I somehow knew that she would get wise about all that stuff. And I was right — she
looked relieved and composed.
 Some people should not die, I said to myself. A girl like Jane should live forever by
passing herself over to a new generation. My genes were of no importance. They just served a
life of violence and destruction.
I must have dropped off behind the wheel, but the motor kept running smoothly, and the
boat steered itself, thanks to some ingenious smuggler’s trick .As I woke up, I noticed Jane
had managed to take her nap after all.
I peered out over the water. A fine film of haze blocked the horizon. I saw some birds
hanging over the scow. We were about thirty hours underway, so w should have passed
Constanca by now. Then, I looked over my shoulder to see the white shape of a fast boat
coming on strong. It wasn’t one of those hydrofoils that passed us in a steady progression,
sweeping waves at us and making us roll. This had the look of a patrol boat. It was still far
away, but it meant imminent danger.
I yelled at Jane, who woke up with a start, looking bewildered. I told her to get ready,
pointing at the silhouette on the horizon.
“Oh, my God, what’s going to happen to us?”

A good question.

“I suggest we jump ship,” I said and watched her reaction. She took it like a pro and
agreed that it was the best thing to do.
“We’ll just go overboard,” I went on. “We’ll strip to our underwear and tie up our goods
and shoes. The water could be cold, but that won’t last. We’re about to reach land.”
I reckoned the Bulgarian coast would loom up any time, as the fog was visibly dissolving.
I secured the boat to a straight on course. We put the life jackets on and I helped her
overboard. The salt bit my wounds, but it also acted as a disinfectant. The boat steadily
continued its course. The water police would ask themselves what had happened to the
passengers, but by that time we would be well gone.
The water wasn’t that cold. After a while we became accustomed to our new environment
and began treading water. The waves lifted us up gently.
“You okay?” I shouted, swallowing salt water. She laughed at me.
It was a very tiresome crossing, but our will to live was stronger, and after an indefinite
time the fog lifted and we could clearly see the Bulgarian surf.
“We should reach the beach in an hour,” I estimated. “Can you hold on?”

“Of course I can,” she answered, with a touch of temper.

“I apologize.”

“Taken.”

We didn’t talk for several minutes, as our treading took all of our energy, but as the wind
stiffened we gained speed, and the closer we got to land, the more we blew our tops. While
heading for our destination, I brooded over our new problems. Fortunately, Bulgaria was part
of the great Ummah, and thus obedient to the Five Pillars.
 The beach was getting closer, and we could distinctly hear the sound of breakers. This
seemed to be a rough coast, with rocks and small, pristine sandy beaches. A great niche,
assuming you wanted some privacy, but not if you came in from the sea with nothing more
than a life jacket.
We aimed for a sandy creek, managing to reach it with no further hindrances. We hauled
ourselves along to a safe shelter, made by bushes and pine, and there we started to guffaw and
couldn’t stop for some minutes.
 Chapter 10

I dropped on and off. Instant images of the breakers, the rushing of tree leaves, the warm
sand beneath me, the smell of rotting seaweed, and small insects crawling over me. The
burning pain, in addition to a tremendous thirst, alternated with feverish dreams.
I woke up in a small room, lit by a single bulb covered with dead insects. I tried to rise, but
it looked as though I was tethered to my couch, or my legs weighed a ton. I was covered by a
worn out wool blanket, and the bed was more of a stiff plank. Someone had dressed me in a
gown — I supposed it was a woman ’s gown. They had done a good job on my wounds, for I
no longer felt a lot of pain. But where was I? What was this place? Where the hell was Jane?
The room was sparsely furnished with a small, blue painted wooden table and two old, red
plastic covered chairs. I spotted some clothes in a linen cupboard. A small washbasin and a
flawed mirror completed the scene.
The walls were crudely plastered, whitewashed in some obscure color. There were neither
pictures, nor the obligatory tapestry on the walls. I saw a few old magazine pictures of movie
actors pinned to the wall. This was likely a female visitor ’s room, hurriedly taken over.
I heard someone stepped in and I turned my head toward the door.
A small man was standing in the doorway, watching me with interest. He wore farmer’s
clothes, had a felt hat shading his tanned face, and wore his grey beard with pride. He was
followed by an old woman, who was also dressed in farm style. She held a tray with some
small, brown flasks on it. The man asked me, in surprisingly cultivated Turkish, how I felt. I
said I felt great, though with some envy. Just then I found Jane, standing unobtrusively at the
back. She wore a kind of peasant costume with green gumboots. A churn would complete the
picture of a nice, hard working milkmaid.
She joined me, and told me that I had been in a coma for three nights. The old woman had
treated me with herbals, and I had regained my life, little by little.
She had also taken care of my lower parts, and I should praise her for not having lost my
manhood. I felt an overwhelming desire to urinate, and that was a good sign indeed.
“You won’t leave the bed until the day after tomorrow,” the farmer said, in a stern tone.
“Until then, your companion will help you meet your needs.”
His wife had me drink a bitter liquid from an old medicine flask and I sunk back. She
started to talk, but I couldn’t understand her Bulgarian accent. Then the old people left the
room. Jane took one of the chairs, wiped of imaginary dust, and sat next to me.
“What’s this place?” I asked..
“It’s a farm, five miles down the coast,” she explained. “These are good people. We’re in
skilled hands.”
“I must take a leak,” I said, reluctantly.
She fetched a bedpan from under the bed. Apparently she knew the routine, and I could empty
my bladder with groaning gratitude while she disappeared considerately. I was frightened by
the look of my scrotum. The burns were healing great but the flesh was a kaleidoscope of the
weirdest colors. But everything seemed to be in place.
 She came back with a steaming bowl of cabbage soup and thick sliced bread. I was so
hungry that I didn’t talk for several minutes, spooning the tasty meal down my throat. While
I was eating, she told me what had come off.
It turned out that she had gone for help while I had passed out in the sand. She had found a
small inland village road and, after walking for an hour, a truck driver had picked her up. He
had delivered her to this farm and there we were. The farmer lived alone with his wife, Maria.
Their only son was a civil servant in Sofia. They had sold their stock, except for some goats,
sheep, and poultry.
We were lucky all right. We could have stumbled into the wrong hands.

In the meantime, Jane helped the woman with her kitchen work and with the cattle.

I returned the bowl and sat up cautiously.

“We must go on,” I said. “I need to phone right away.” My voice grated, and my legs felt
numb, but I didn’t want to waste time. I had a date with London.
She pushed me back. “You’re in no condition. The imam won’t let you travel in your
present state.”
The imam? I was in the hands of the cloth?
“Listen, I don’t want to be involved,” I said. I was half asleep, and wondering if they had
put some soporific stuff in the food.
“You’re too tired,” she decided. I felt rebellious against my handicap but, in the state I was
in, even the girl could overpower me.
“Do they treat you right?” I asked..
“We haven’t a thing left,” she said. “All my money’s gone. I tried to collect some at the
local ban, but my account has been closed. I don’ t know why.”
“That was a foolish thing to do,” I said. “Now they’ll know where we are.”
Tears came to her eyes and her shoulders shook. At the same time, I felt sorry for my rash
remark.
“Don’t worry. You said he’s an imam, so he must help us — that ’s his duty.”

She dried her tears and sniffed. “I won’t go back,” she said, in a decisive tone. “I know
Azybey is looking for us. I can’t go back— he’ll kill me.”

I had numerous questions about Jane. Such as: why she kept addressing me with “John”
and how she had ended up with Azybey in the first place, but again this wasn’t the time nor
place.
And I wasn’t sure how to react. She was right, but what then? I had my feedback, but she
was an alien in a foreign country. She wasn’t even a Muslim.
“I’ll talk to the imam.” I said. “We’ll work something out, you’ll see.”
My words sounded false, and far from persuading. I was dusk outside, and I heard dogs
howling and yelping from far away. We had landed in the middle of nowhere. The imam
came back. He had changed clothes and was wearing now a laundered burnoose and skullcap,
and he had trimmed his beard. He had transformed himself from an old farmer into an
authoritative religious figure.
His glance at Jane was benevolent but pressing, and she understood and left us.

The old man watched me, frowning. His pose conveyed an image of wakefulness.

“Are you a believer?”

I told him I was a European Mujahidin and a member of the Chabor Movement.
Al Chabor, The Word that once started the Revolution from within the walls of Al Ashar
University. He told me he had been too old to be an active part of the great Revolution, but in
his youth he had fought famous battles, and he mentioned some names, such as Afghanistan,
Kazakhstan, and Takishtan. We were involved in military history for some time, until he
asked me about Jane.
“Is she a believer, too?” This was a tricky question. He ought to know by now that she
didn’t pray, nor was she planning to.
“She’s a Russian,” I explained, choosing my words with caution. “She has fled her
country because of the political situation and she won’t return.”
He nodded, obviously content with what he heard. I got a flash. “She can ’t go back,” I
repeated. “She doesn’t know what to do.”
He nodded again. His lips had a mischievous streak. “She ’s not your woman, is she?”

“No, she isn’t.”

“Whose woman is she, then?”

“She’s all alone.”

“Is she willing to live in this country?”

“She might be. If she’d be in good hands.”

“Is she willing to become Muslim?”

That was the ending of the crossfire. If I said yes, I would lose Jane. If I said no, she would
be lost. This pat solution was something to think about.
“I will ask her,” I said, after a short pause.
He got up. “I’m off to divine service — we’ll talk tomorrow.”
He disappeared and I laid back. I had just sold Jane to this man. But she would be safe in
this God fearing country, and my hands would be free at last.
Jane came back, looking curious. She took off her shawl and a curl popped out.
I told her the Imam was concerned about her, and we would discuss her future tomorrow.
“What right do you have to fix my life?” She sent me a withering look, but beneath it I saw
relief as well.
“It’s not as black as it’s painted,” I hushed her. “Anyway, you have the final word.”
 She calmed down and started to arrange the bed. I couldn’t help noticing her lean body,
made fit by days of healthy work on the farm. Suddenly my mouth dried, my heart started
pumping, and my manhood came to life. Jane took it into account, but she didn’t make any
remarks, and I was grateful for that.
“I think I ’m ready for action,” I said, unwillingly ambiguous.
She looked at me and smiled.

“I think you are.”

I took her arm and pushed her gently into the chair.

“You’ve saved my life,” I said quietly.

Her eyes became moist and she blushed. “Have a good night’s rest first — you’ll be
needing it.”
“You’re right.”
She bent over me. Her cool lips stirred me, but I didn’t make a move. Then she left the
room and I was alone again, her scent resting in the room for a while. I closed my eyes. The
sexual fire was extinguished, and the residue was a serene, almost religious feeling. That
disturbed me the most. It could mean I hadn’t recovered my sexual drive yet.
I slept for some hours, but was awake at dawn, roused by the noisy livestock outside, and
Maria’s shrill voice, which seemed to never stop. The morning sun shone into the room
through dusty window glass, and the light was filtered, softening the paltry interior.
This was the big day. I didn’t wait for my nurses and climbed out of bed. I put my naked
feet on the stone flagged floor, took off my gown, and inspected my battered body. There was
damage everywhere, with scars and bruises — not to mention the Ahmed therapy. I had
clearly lost weight and was trembling on my feet, trying to keep myself from staggering. But
I managed to get control and started looking for my clothes. I found them on the cupboard,
neatly ironed and folded, and getting dress greatly improved my mood.
I crossed to the small mirror over the sink and studied my reflection. My face wore the
unmistakable traces of the painful experiences I had endured, with sunken cheeks and
bloodshot eyes staring into an abyss of abomination. My beard had grown noticeably, and this
emphasized my haggard state. I stumbled through the door and ended up in the kitchen, which
was mainly taken up with a large, antique wood-burning stove that also served to heat the
house. A door led outdoors, and a heavy smell of excrement penetrated my nostrils. I had
landed in the back yard, looking out onto a mud pool. I turned back, and just then found the
door that led to the living room.
They were all there, Jane, the old man, and another man, who was a lot younger, and
apparently speaking Russian to Jane with driven sympathy. They stared at me simultaneously,
and then Jane shouted my name, jumped to her feet, and took me by the arm.
“You should have called me,” she rebuked. I didn’t talk back. Maria also rose, speaking
rapidly.
“We’ll have breakfast now,” he husband translated. “You can sit with us if you feel strong
enough.”
 I was curious about the other fellow. He was in his early thirties, already balding, wore a
neat suit, and had the manners of the staunch white-collar worker. I’ve seen them in many
way and forms, always punctual and reliable, competent to a degree. The world depended on
his sort.
I could also see that he was making up to Jane and, of course, I felt envy.
The imam observed both with the cunning smile of a match-maker. He left us alone to look
after his tasks, and for a while we form a triangular partnership. Jane was cheerful, and
introduced me to the man.
She addressed him as Tim. He was their son, working as a civil servant with the Ministry
of Health in Sofia, and he was willing to help us out. In what way I wasn’t sure yet.
Maria brought in porridge, black bread, and sour kippers. I started to eat and, for a blessed
time, I forgot about my troubles and the tenuous future ahead.
Tim said he had to go now. He had a pleasant, staid voice, and I could imagine that Jane
was enchanted by his politeness. I couldn’t give her my world, so she was happy with a small
part of the better one. She accompanied him to the door, and for a while I heard them
whispering, like two conspirators in love. I finished my meal and felt my blood rushing.
Strength and energy were building up by the minute, and I knew I was coming back in the
game.
She returned, her cheeks flushed, and took me aside. “Something’s bothering you,” she
stated..

“It’ll pass,” I replied, unwillingly blunt.

She didn’t react at first, tried to ignore it, then, “Azrirrak will help us.”

“Azrirrak?”

“The imam. He is the town’s mayor, too, and he’s promised to help us.”

So the old man had worked it out neatly and I could imagine the outcome.

It was high time to make that call. The phone was an antique one, with pulse dialing, and it
took me some time before I could reach a nodal point from which MI1 could be reached.
All I got was a continuous busy signal. I replaced the phone after a minute or two. Jane leaned
against the door post and watched me attentively.
“I’d like to go for a walk,” I explained. “Would you come along with me?”

She cheered up at my invitation and went to fetch some old farmer’s boots.

“Try these on. I hope they fit you.”

I pushed my feet into the boots. They fit well.

“They’re Tim’s,” she said. Of course they were.

We took the dirt road. It seemed to have rained heavily during the night and the boots came
in handy. The muddy ground squelched under me. We plodded along, and in some ways I
enjoyed myself. We passed fields covered with sunflowers, their heavy head hanging. Thick
clouds created a greenhouse effect, warm and dank.
Jane seemed to turn into a country girl, collecting wildflowers in a colorful bouquet, and
she looked lovely with it. I felt a compelling urge to embrace her, but instead I held my hands
behind my back.
Small, tumbledown farms, with their characteristic red-tiled, pyramid-shaped roofs, were
dotted all over — white, sleepy houses in the middle of nowhere.
We passed a mosque. Though it had been constructed after the Revolution, wind, rain, and
the hot sun had crumbled off the paint, giving it a depressingly desolate look. Far away from
the money belt, Islam kept its traditional image of the poor and resigned instrument delivered
at the will of fate. We reached the concrete road and our gait became more relaxed.
“You know how Muslims think about women?” I asked, set on to be her first teacher if she
was planning to stay. Decades of propaganda had turned the Arab world into something of a
fairy tale, and I had an urge to protect her from its seductive image.
“I know men can have four women,” she answered. She had picked a daisy and sniffed at
it.
“That’s just a particularity,” I said. “Only the rich and famous have it that way. For most
Muslims, women are what they’ve learned from the Quran and the traditions.”
“Tell me about it.” Her eyes glistened, and she seemed greatly happy at the prospect of
entering a mysterious world.
“To Muslim males, women are a synonym with desire and lust, and thus marked as
forbidden. To them, pure love means detachment. The Prophet has told us that women should
be kept away for their devilish influence, and that lust should not be forbidden, but accepted
as a reality. Therefore, women are considered by as a bad influence and as the ultimate way to
handle a male’s sexual needs, and that’s a dilemma Muslim men have to deal with. A man
who can resolve this will reach the highest state of deliberation.”
She eyed me with a serene smile. I knew I hadn’t impressed her with my poor pedant ’s
explanation.
“And how do you look at it?”
Her question affected me. “I don’t know,” I said, in all fairness. “I had two wives — I
didn’t treat them well, I have to admit. But I didn’t do them any harm, either.”
“I’m certain you didn’t,” she said, in a warm tone, hanging on my arm. We passed some
children playing in the mud.
“What about children?” she asked.
“No children,” I said briskly.
She was very inquisitive and I tried to satisfy her demands, but it wasn’t easy. Suddenly I
knew how to explain what I thought about marriage, with that marvelous story I knew word
for word.
“A woman came to Allah’s Apostle and said, ‘Oh Allah’s Apostle! I have come to give
you myself in marriage.’ Allah’s apostle looked at her. He looked at her carefully and then
lowered his head. When the lady saw that he did not say anything she sat down. A man from
his companions got up and said, ‘Oh Allah ’s Apostle! If you are not in need of her, then
marry her to me.’ The Prophet said, ‘Have you got anything to offer?’ The man said, ‘No, by
Allah, Oh Allah’s Apostle!’ The Prophet said to him, ‘Go to your family and see if you have
something.’ The men went and returned, saying, ‘No, by Allah, I have not found anything.’
Allah ’s Apostle said, ‘Go again and look for something, even if it is an iron ring.’ He went
again and returned, saying, ‘No, by Allah, Oh Allah ’s Apostle! I could not find even an iron
ring, but this is my coat.’ He had no dowry. He added, ‘I give half of it to her.’ Allah’s
Apostle said, ‘What will she do with your Izar? If you wear it, she will be naked, and if she
wears is, you will be naked.’ So that man sat down for a long while and then got up to depart.
When Allah’s Apostle saw him going, he ordered that he be called back. When became, the
Prophet said, ‘How much Quran do you know?’ He said, ‘I know such Sura and such Sura,’
counting them. The Prophet said, ‘Do you know them by heart?’ He replied, ‘Yes.’ The
Prophet said, ’Go, I marry her to you for that much of the Quran which you have.’”
I was in a spiritual mood, and hoped I hadn’t sounded too lofty, but she seemed to love the
tale and kept smiling constantly.
“I hope you'll get used to this place,” I said.
“I won’t live here, we’ll leave for Sofia.”

“That’s even better. You wouldn’t fit in here.”

That was certainly great. In the capital she would be anonymous — better off as long as
Azybey was on our heels. Apparently she had the same idea.
We reached the house and she stopped at the door. “Promise me you’ll take care of
yourself,” she said. There was something sad about her, and I didn’t know what to say.
The old couple had gone to bed early. Tim was waiting for us at the kitchen table and we
started to talk. He was particularly curious about my work, but I didn’t open. I wasn’t sure of
his intentions yet.
Then I got tired and went to bed, hearing them talking in soft voices before I drifted off to
sleep.
I didn’t dream this time, and woke up refreshed .It was noon when I entered the kitchen.
Tim was there, sitting at the table and eating pickles from a cracked enamel plate. Jane wasn’t
around.
“Everything’s been taken care of,” he explained. “You can ride with me. The bus leaves
tomorrow afternoon.” He sounded very game to get rid of me, but at last a decision had been
made.
“Are you well enough to go?” He sounded a bit eager.

“Don’t worry; I’ve been in hotter places.”

“I’m sure you have.” He gazed at me curiously. How much had Jane told him about me?

“I need to make a call,” I said. “If you’ll excuse me.”

This time someone picked it up and I was about to start talking, but a digitized voice told
me that the number was no longer in service. Then the line went dead. I gaped at the receiver.
What was going on there? Were they playing nasty tricks on me? Where the hell was my dad?
When an officer showed no sign of life within forty-eight hours, all connections were
severed, all legitimization was denied, all credit cut off. The Service assumed that something
bad had happened. Instead of mounting a rescue, it cut all lines and the officer stood on his
own, whatever the situation. It was a perfect way of cutting risks, but now I was out in the
cold, at a point where I badly needed a helping hand.
I came back and Tim noticed my expression. “Something the matter?”
“I can’t get through. I need to be in London right away.”
“You can catch a direct flight from Sofia tomorrow at 6:00,” he said. Obviously he had
done his homework thoroughly.
“No flight,” I objected. “And not from Sofia. Is there another way?”
Tim didn’t ask why. He made a swift decision. “You could go to Istanbul first and make
your connection there.”
That proposal was more preferable. “That sounds fine.”
Jane came in with a string bag full of groceries. She looked relieved when Tim told her the
news. Her thoughts were already on their union and I was getting in the way.
Tim went on. “I could get you into a pilgrim’s caravan to Najaf. With your beard and all,
you could easily carry on as a genuine Baadh pilgrim.”
I ran my fingers through my beard. I hadn’t been in the mood to shave, so I had the right
camouflage. If they were looking for me they would be looking for a clean-shaven man.
“Okay,” I said. “So, when does this caravan leave?”
Tim jumped up and went to the phone and I heard him speaking in an authoritative
manner.
Jane took my left hand and whispered something about seeing each other soon.
Before I could respond, Tim called out, “They’re willing to take you in. I explained that
you are a government man, and therefore solvent.”
“Let’s hope so.” I still had my pass, which was of less use now, but there was a good
chance I could trick them upon arrival. After that, the Istanbul section would take over.
Tim was willing to accompany me to the gathering point.
“Are there camels involved?” I joked, and Tim started a rolling laughter from within. I
noticed Jane bit her lip in an attempt to avoid tears, and I got up.
Tim did, too, and stretched out his hand in a warm handshake.

“You’re a great guy, Hassan. Thanks for taking care of Fatma.”

Taking care of? What sort of acts of heroism had she told him? I was simply a man with a
wounded crotch who fell asleep in times of peril.
“Thank Jane,” I said abruptly. “She’s the one to be congratulated.”
I turned my back and felt their eyes resting on my back. I fell on the bed. I was conscious
of the strain that lay ahead of me. I was still weak, and again I sank into a deep, dreamless
sleep, not waking up until the sound of people speaking softly reached my ears.
They were conversing in an agitate manner, and I could hear them distinctly. They were
talking about me. The old woman seemed to be upset, and she argued about the danger they
were involved in. The old man tried to soothe her, but with little success.
 Then Tim came through. He sounded irritated.
“Don’t worry so much, he’ll be gone tomorrow.”
“Some men were asking at the mosque,” the imam said. “Is this man a criminal?”
“He’s a civil servant, father, just like me.”

Talk of a simile.

Azrirrak was no old fool. “They didn’t talk like policemen. So why do they want to
know?”

“It’s a small world and a small community, father. People start to talk.”

The imam was headstrong. “I can t protect him any further.”

“Can’t he go earlier?” That was Jane, to my disillusion. But then she said that she was
worried about me, and it would be safer for all if I would go away quickly. Well, she
definitely had made up her mind.
Nobody spoke for a moment.
“It can be arranged,” Tim finally said. “I could drive him to Haskovo tonight, and there he
could pick up the first caravan.”
“That’s a splendid idea,” Jane said, in a greedy tone, and I agreed.
“Right. Let’s eat now. Jane, would you wake him?” Tim was already in charge, and Jane
seemed to go along.
I had to try to find out who the three strangers were. I had a clue, and if I was right we
would be in danger — very much in danger.
I feigned to be sleeping, and she had to shake me before I opened my eyes.
“John, we’ve great news. You can go after our meal.”
She sounded so excited that I didn’t want to spoil her delighted mood. Suddenly she put
her arms around me and pressed herself against me, quivering and unable to express her
emotions. I felt helpless for some seconds, and then I gently removed her arms.
“You’ll be much happier with Tim,” I said, not knowing how to say otherwise.
We had been partners for some time, but not lovers. We had shared bad experiences, and
that had created a bond between us. But we both knew that link would dissolve as soon as we
parted.
Maria had made a great meal, sticky and lasting. I wouldn’t starve on the way. Several
meat plates, roasted doves, bread, and potatoes baked in onion sauce.
Our conversation was flagging. We ate earnestly, like gluttons, except for Jane, who kept
to herself. But then Tim ogled her and she cheered up.
“Bear in mind Allah’s with you,” Azrirrak said suddenly. “If you’re a believer you ought
to attend services before leaving. It will help you on your way.”
“You’re right, imam.” I said .I felt grateful to him for reminding me of some of the more
important things in life.
“Faith will be your companion. If you want, we can worship together.”
 “I want it ever so much,” I said, from the bottom of my heart.
I had been a long time since I had attended to my prayers. After our meal, the imam took
me into his bedroom and let me choose one of his suits.
The afternoon was grey. The scudding clouds had wrapped a dark cupola over the land,
and the wind was becoming unpleasantly cold. We headed for the mosque. I could see its
lamps from far off, and the wind carried the electric muezzin voice to us.
We entered the courtyard and did the ritual cleansing. As I had expected, the building was
also used for Quran school, municipal government, and hospital. The ancient traditions were
still lively in the hinterlands.
About ten men had gathered and were already praying, their knees on their mats. They
didn’t pay attention to us — we were just one of them.
Azrirrak left me for his duties. He was an excellent singer. He sang beautiful suras, and
prayed in a loud, powerful voice, and got everyone’s attention.
I became a warrior once more, a warrior for God, and I brought into mind the true meaning
of Islam. I submitted myself to Allah and his Prophet, and pled for their blessings and, for
once, Mecca wasn’t a town full of intrigues, but the seat of billions of believers, and I was one
of them.
I came back another man. I had recovered my roots and my confidence, and felt able to
face any outcome. Tim was preparing for my departure. A grubby canvas bag was waiting for
me.
“Keep the suit on,” the imam said. “It’ll bring you luck.” He slipped me some money. “It
’s not the world, but you’ve made my son very happy.”
I thanked him. It was dark when I said good-bye. Jane had wet eyes, but as I hugged her
she calmed down. Maria had prepared an oversized survival ration, which I stuffed into the
bag.
“We should hurry,” Tim said. “The bus leaves in ten minutes and we have to walk to the
stop.”
“Let’s get down to it,” I agreed.
I didn’t look back as we stumbled over the mud puddles and we were just in time as the
bus arrived. Tim paid for both of us, and we took seats in the empty rear. It was a long trip.
Tim wasn’t in a great mood for conversation and after a while he fell asleep.
I made myself comfortable. We had a hundred and fifty miles to travel, across a
mountainous landscape, and the driver was revving the engine to reach the train connection in
time.
I had plenty of thinking time, and I tried to comprehend why Jane had chosen this boring
man over me. And suddenly it struck me, like a blow.
Jane had been my guardian angel. All that time, she had been watching my back, and I
hadn’t even thanked her for that. That’s why she had chosen Tim over me. Such a fool I was!
I could have slapped myself in the face. A great lover I was…
 Chapter 11

I dreamt of Azybey. I was naked, strapped to a bench, and Azybey was torturing me with
electric shocks, but they didn’t hurt me. They gave me instant pleasure instead, and all the
time he was laughing at me. Then his face suddenly changed into a former boarding school
teacher, who had initiated me into sex. I woke up feverish, and in a state of arousal and
confusion.
It was still dark, and I was still on the same caravan train that was taking me to Istanbul.
Everyone seemed to be asleep. I was among some two thousand pilgrims, with different
origins, different nationalities, though mostly with Caucasian features ,and all were heading
for Iraq, to worship at Ali’s tomb, and to honor the Shia traditions.
The dim light bulbs made the compartment gloomy, and the penetrating smell of sweat and
spicy food made me gag. I shared my compartment with three fellow pilgrims. Two of them
were older, one about my age. We managed to hold our space, amidst legs and luggage. I was
just one of them, one of a long trail of believers, going after their lifelong mark of spiritual
status. They were farmers and city slickers, poor and less poor. The rich came by air or cruise
ship, filling their bellies with wines and caviar, and arriving ashore in a state of light-headed
devotion. These people had saved years and years for their trip, and their belief was real.
Since my departure, it had been raining torrents, and the train was uncomfortably fuggy. I
peered out the blurred windows to watch my reflection in the dark. I realized we were getting
near the border, where my trial of strength was to be performed. The train increased speed.
We were shaking, and rocking from one side to the other, and the bumping sound of the
tracks had changed into a steady rub-a-dub. Faint light was breaking through. The eternal
struggle between darkness and light had begun, and it held a symbolic worth for me. I was
relieved the night had gone, and felt better, prepared for coming events. The rain stopped as
we traveled further south. The horizon took on color, and the sunlight scattered over the brims
of the clouds.
I focused on my travel mates. They were still fast asleep. One of them broke wind, another
mumbled in his sleep. The one opposite had a beard, and with some luck could be my look
alike. I had been playing with that idea since boarding. I started to push my foot against his.
He woke up, stretched, and yawned, his mouth wide open. I observed him across my eye-
lashes. It was time for his morning rituals.
He stumbled over the outstretched legs and I followed him to the lavatory.
I got him on the way out. I jammed my elbow into his solar plexus, knocked him out, and
down he went like a puppet with its strings cut. I dragged him to a seat with sleeping people
and, as I returned, I had his passport in my pocket and some money as well. He wouldn’t get
up before we came to our stop and I felt more secure.
I memorized his credentials. Until further notice I was Ali Schmidt, 27, from Munich,
Germany. Muslim-pass since he was 18.The perfect disguise.
The trained slowed to a stop. Everything got busy, with vendors popping in and out, selling
snacks and knickknacks, and the check-in was nonchalant. As Bulgaria was a Turkish vassal,
border inspection was little more than a formality.
About 6:00am we were on Turkish soil. As the train moved on, people started to converse
and food was distributed, rice and meat, sardines and sweets, serving as breakfast. I
remembered Maria’s lunch and explored the contents of my bag. I produced a roast pigeon
and salted bread, and I sent her a quick thanks.
 The pilgrims sensed their approaching destination and started to be more devoted than
ever. They tried to pray, or were discussing the Quran. An old man got into a singing mood.
Most of them would not leave the train in Istanbul. They would remain in their seats and
endure the bumpy trek across the Turkish mainland to Iraq. The happy few would get off and
take a flight or a boat, avoiding the worst part of the trip.
Ali Schmidt had a combined train-boat ticket. As the trained rolled into Istanbul, people
got to their feet to collect their belongings. There were no further inspections, and I was
swiftly directed to an exit.
It was seven-thirty. Standing at an exit at Sirkeci Station, amidst the swirl of passing and
pushing people, I gazed at the imposing Suleymany Mosque that was still wrapped in a fog. I
was overwhelmed by the eternal metropolitan ambiance ,the turmoil and fragrances, the
mesmerizing magnetism of the oriental and occidental clash, and I knew I was heading home
again.
I managed to grab a dolmus. I was the only passenger. The driver, a broad-shouldered man
in his fifties, with a grey flat top haircut, was in a perceptibly good mood.
“Where to, friend?” he asked. I told him the address. We passed Topkapi Palace,
enchanting as ever, crossed Galata Bridge, and were in the Beyoglu district before I knew it.
“You’re not Turkish?” the driver asked. He maneuvered his battered Mercedes through the
traffic jam at the Tersane bottleneck, and then we passed the Marine base and turned north.
“I’m not,” I said. “I ’m from Egypt.” Egypt had always been my favorite disguise.
“Egypt. I’ve never been there, friend. Is it true they want war with us?”
I was surprised, and when he saw my reflection in his rear-view mirror, he started to
explain the recent political situation. Clearly I had been away too long.
“Last week some Egyptian bloke warned our prime minister about Cyprus.”
It appeared the Turkish parliament had declared Cyprus to be a part of national military
strategy. Consequently, a garrison with heavy artillery was brought in to protect Turkish
interests. Guns had been installed near Nicosia, their muzzles pointing southward.
I knew the League was in a stew with the increasing of Turkish power. Due to its mere
numeric superiority it could successfully lobby at Cairo and Baghdad. It had conquered, or
repossessed, several historic satellite states, such as the Balkan countries and the protectorate
of Syria and some belligerent die-hards were dreaming aloud of a new Ottoman Empire.
“I don’t think Egypt can be a threat to Turkey,” I said, weighing my words. You never
knew who was steering. Indeed, the world after the Revolution has its fresh problems. We
reached the city limits and I got out and tipped the man with the rest of my money.
I stood in front of the Irish consulate, accommodated in a modest flat in the heart of the
European quarter. I had always loved this district, with its awkward taste in architecture and
style, its dark alleys and passages to obscure shops, it 24-hour sex cinemas, and it numerous
smelly pubs where the other side of life sheltered.
In better times, Britain had a Venetian palace as an embassy, through which it could
proclaim its grandeur as a world power. After the Revolution, all embassies were closed
down, replaced by the obsolete consulates.
It was still early when the hall porter led me to the southwest corner.
 I had paid a number of visits to our man in Istanbul, a pudgy and fey Irishman educated at
a state school and married to a Turkish girl. For some unknown reason, we got along quite
well.
He wasn’t at his desk yet. His secretary let me into the waiting room. I bided my time with
a telescope, overlooking the Bosphorus and the city’s marine life. I felt like a spy from an old
war movie.
The consul arrived, studied me from head to foot, and took my hand in surprise.
“Hello, Dick,” I said.
“Where have you been, John?” I certainly must have looked like dirt, and as we sat down I
explained how I had escaped Odessa after the bomb attack. Of course, he knew about it, and
seemed to be satisfied with my account.
“There’s an adventure, major. You’ll have a lot of stories to tell your grandchildren.”
He was about thirty-five, dragging his fate along, and somehow a victim of the system as
well. We were both survivors, though we came from other backgrounds. We clicked very
well, so I wasn’t afraid to go into details.
“And you need a fast passage to London,” Dick completed my tale.
“I do,” I said. “How long will it take to send for a safe conduct?”
He thought it over and then, with a resolute gestured, picked up the phone and started
talking in Turkish. I heard he was calling London.
“It could take a while,” he said. “Why don’t you have breakfast with me.”
I wasn’t hungry, due to Maria’s sumptuous food, but I wanted to go for a walk and enjoy
the fresh morning air. I asked him for some money and he put his hand in his pocket and
tossed some coins to me.
“Be back within the hour.” He went back to his phone call.
I got out of the building and entered a small snack bar to have a cup of strong coffee at the
counter. The bar was crowded with passing workers and unemployed locals, playing
backgammon all day long. No one was paying any attention to me. Still, while I ate, I had the
distinct feeling that someone was watching me. Yet, when I looked around I couldn’t sense
any trouble, unless my weariness was playing tricks with me. My intuition had never failed
me, so I quickly drank my cup and got out.
I had gone only a few meters when I noticed a big man in a finely-cut blue suit. I
immediately recognized him and got a shock.
Azybey.
Then I pulled myself together and relaxed. He hadn’t seen me, being busy with what he
was doing, and in my pilgrim’s outfit I ought to be safe for the moment.
I couldn’t avoid getting closer, watching my back, as I knew his bodyguards couldn’t be
far away. I nearly brushed against him in passing, but he was too absorbed by his toy and
didn’t notice me.
I made a fist, ready to fight for my life, but managed to control myself and just passed him
with crooked shoulders, an inconspicuous little man minding his own business in the big city.
I’d seen enough, and at the next corner hid behind a street vendor. I watched Azybey like a
bloodhound. He seemed to be in agony, which gave me a devilish pleasure. Finally he gave
up and started to stroll away from me. I didn’t budge until I observed two men closing in on
him. They got into a waiting car and drove off. I felt dizzy, my stomach roiling, and was
trembling on my feet.
A Azybey was tracking me down with the same device commando troops were using in the
field. It helped to find the way back, and it was also useful for ferreting someone out.
Provided that person had a transmitter on him. Or in him…
It scared the hell out of me. How long had he been on my tail since I fled Odessa? And
where had he hidden his transmitter? I gave me a horrible feeling, knowing merciless killers
were chasing me and I couldn’t do anything about it. I could be hiding in the most remote
place on earth, but they would still hunt me down. I had no more unholy glee, for I was now
the one to pity.
When I got back to the consulate, Dick had good news.
“Sit down, John. They’ll pick you up within the hour.”
“That’s great new, Dick.” I just hoped Azybey wouldn’t be back in time. He would be
screen his toy for flaws by now and then get another one.
Dick offered me locum on a dish.

“So who’s picking me up?”

“That’s another story,” he answered. “Brace yourself. They’re not military intelligence. I
think they’re Irish police.”
I was surprised. Irish? Here in Istanbul?
“They come straight from Odessa,” he explained. Now I grasped his words. The
Conference. They might be chasing me as well.
“How convenient,” I said. “Kill two birds with one stone, so to speak.”

A buzzer went off.

Dick acted jumpy. “That ’s fast.” He pushed the intercom button and the hall porter told
him two gentlemen were waiting in the lobby.
He rose. “Well ,it seems you’re departing now.”
Before I could answer he shuffled a paper toward me. “Be a sport and sign this, please. It’s
for the expenses, you know.”
I couldn’t help smiling. Dick always followed the book, which was very reassuring in
times like this. I put my signature on it without reading the contents, knowing he would add a
zero to it ,but I gladly granted him this little offense.
Two civilians came to pick me up. They weren’t from the Force or MI1, I could tell
instantly. But they weren’t Special Branch, either. They were clean-shaven, had no
mustaches, and behaved rather skittishly.
I was parked between them in the back seat of a waiting cab and felt imprisoned. I tried to
start a conversation.
“You’re Secret Service men, aren’t you?” They didn’t react. They always acted the same,
always playing games at high levels. In their minds, the whole world was a minefield.
 To my surprise, the driver looked over his shoulder to provide me with an answer.
“Something’s going on back home,” he said. “We had a hell of a time finding you. We’ve
been on your tail for some time now.”
I wasn’t in the right mood to debrief them.
“So you were,” I said, unintentionally sharp. “It would be a great help if you could fill me
in.”
“Sorry, we can’t. It’s beyond our jurisdiction.” End of conversation. I knew none of these
chaps would tell his own wife, assuming they had one.
We were headed to Yesilkoy International Airport, a ride we made in about ten minutes
after we had passed the city limits. We had a scheduled flight. Again I was heading for
Britain, squeezed between my own guardians.
I took a farewell glance at the diminishing Turkish soil, relieved that Azybey wasn’t on my
tail any more. My two companions kept their image as reticent types. They made themselves
comfortable and I did likewise.
We fetched up at Heathrow in late afternoon and passed through the exits without further
delay.
I was accompanied to a waiting car. There my companions handed me over. This time my
carriage was an official one, judging by the flags at both sides of the hood. A diplomatic cab
— how about that?
There was only one passenger in the back.
“Abdallah Ben Smida,” I called out in astonishment.
He had changed. He wasn’t the shy and discrete assistant any more, but an energetic
grownup, who took my hand and pressed it firmly.
“Welcome back, major,” he said, and his neatly tended teeth flashed for a second.
Then he was being earnest again. I sensed the turn in the air. It had a wicked sense.
“So, why don’t you explain some details to me, lieutenant?” I urged.
To my surprise, we drove up north instead of to London.
“I’ll explain some details when we arrive, major,” he answered, and I heard a warning
undertone. Apparently some of the news wasn’t fit for our driver.
“First and foremost, you’ll have to make a full report about your whereabouts,” he went
on. “You left us quite anxious after you disappeared from the Conference. We know you
hired a boat in Odessa. So, what went on then?”
I explained to him how I succeeded, but left out some details, such as Jane, and the friendly
Bulgarian family that had offered me shelter.
He congratulated me warm heartedly on my successful escape, though I had the impression
that he didn’t grasp why I had fled in such haste. He kept it to himself, but he must have come
to the conclusion I had fled in panic. Not very honorable, but I wasn’t planning to contradict
him.
“So why aren’t we heading for London?” I asked. “I was under the impression the General
was there to see me.”
 I had the feeling Smida shrunk his shoulders when I mentioned the General. I read a road
sign with the word ‘Ruislip.’ It vaguely rang a bell. Wasn’t there a psychiatric hospital?
Smida guessed my thoughts. “The General’s hospitalized,” he explained. “I’m afraid we
can’t do much more for him.”

I was out of my senses, sinking back in my seat, my head spinning at the horrible aspect of
his totally unexpected answer. The general dying? My dad? That was impossible. Not this
man. He would live to be a hundred years, as the enlightened despot of the Iberian
protectorate.
Then I pulled myself out of it. “What happened to him?” I asked, pressing for relevant
news.
“You’ll have to be patient, major. I know it’s hard, but it’s no less so for us. We’re facing a
mess up here.”
I saw he wasn’t going to tell me more. Obviously, there had been some palace revolution.
The General was gone, and someone had come in from the backdoor. Things worked that way
in our world. No fuss about it. The game didn’t end here, it perpetuated, on and on, and we
were all spare parts on red-tape shelters.
This part of England, with its quiet, natural stone churches, thatched roofed houses in soft
and sloping green pastures, had a gentle touch, not that harsh outlook I had become used to in
Russia and the Balkan. The bleak sun shown on autumn leaves, and nature was as friendly
and inviting as could be. I even watched some people having a pleasant picnic by the
riverbank, a quite surprising image in my world of violence.
It seemed the English managed to keep their traditions and customs, despite the Arabian
cultural domination.
“Britons never will be slaves,” once written on walls during the war, seemed still a relevant
phrase. I wondered how they would react to the imminent change of power.
I was right — it was definitely the hospital. We stopped at the gate, which looked like the
entrance to a maximum-security prison.
The guard spoke into his radio and read out Smida’s credentials. The barrier was kept
closed and we waited for the arrival of an escort. I couldn’t spot the hospital at first. Trees had
been strategically planted to prevent unwanted peeping. Only a small, poorly maintained
asphalt road led to nowhere.
At last a jeep pulled in and a young man with sergeant’s stripes jumped out.
He took Smida’s papers and indicated for us to follow him. We drove on for some minutes
across what seemed to be a forest, but as the oaks receded, a gravel terrace gave way to a
large country house. We had to drive around a small pond, overgrown by water lilies, before
we reached the house.
It had that typical English half-timbered manor style, with lots of chimneys and pinnacles
in mellow stone. I estimated it must be some five hundred years or more old, the perfect
hideaway for important people with mental problems. The whole scene took my breath. I had
seldom seen such and idyllic and romantic environment. It could well compete with the best
of historic sites in the Orient.
We stopped at the main door. Through a wildly growing garland of climbing plants I
noticed an old stone plate with a Latin inscription and wondered who had lived here in the
pre-revolution era.
 But I had little time to contemplate. The sergeant led us to a reception desk, where two
corporals were seated, surrounded by several small TV monitors and computers. I was
properly impressed, and even Smida looked uncomfortable. One of the corporals took the
paperwork with a hasty salute and invited us to sit down in the plastic seats.
The sun spilled spectral rays through the mediaeval leaded windows. In better days the hall
had been monumental. Now it had been turned into some sort of reception lobby, with Arabic
propaganda inscriptions and several pointers indicating several doorways. The walls had been
stripped of their original covering, most likely during the first years after the Revolution, as
part of the huge compensation due for war efforts.
The lobby had a gallery. A lot of people were going in and out, all wearing white coats.
Smida started a monologue, not allowing me the chip in. In fact, I had no intention of
doing so, for his account was so shocking I fell into a state of weariness and confined myself
to listening with bowed head.
The General was taking his daily horseback ride. He was accompanied by two aides,
Smida was one them. As always, he had a tight schedule ahead and he took the last hill at a
gallop. Smida and the other were some distance behind and saw him disappear over the slope.
Then there was a flash, and an explosion. Smida had the distinct impression he had seen a
blue flash before the explosion.
The General’s horse had taken the worst of it and was scattered all over the meadow. The
General had lost his limbs and most of his intestines, along with his right lung. Smida could
see his heart beating. He called Security and in not more than two minutes the General was on
his way to first aid. There was nothing they could do for him. He would rub out within days.
Still, he was carrying vital information and they decided to extract it with the aid of
sophisticated technology.
“You’re saying he’s on some lung machine?” I asked. I felt numb, and the scope of things
to come was beyond my capacity to assimilate.
Smida continued his monologue. “That wasn’t enough. He’s hooked up to several devices
now, and their only purpose is to keep him alive as long as they need him.”
“Who’s ‘they ’?” I asked, but Smida shrugged and kept silent.

They were the new leaders, obviously. I hesitated. Things would be awfully different from
now on.

“So he’s kept on machines while they’re interrogating him?” Smida nodded.
“He doesn’t feel a thing. Only his brain is working well. I don’t know if he’s aware of his
situation — but who wants to know?”
“God,” I muttered, and I put my head in my hands. On the face of it, Smida didn’t know he
was talking about my father, otherwise the choice of his words would have been otherwise.
An elderly man in a white doctor’s coat came to fetch us. We rounded a corner and took an
elevator to the third floor. Here there was only silence. The lamps were dimmed, and the thick
carpet deadened out footsteps. We reached a door with a red warning light. The doctor pushed
a knob and the door was opened by remote control.
It was dusky and cool as we entered. A small corridor was disclosed, with four doors on
both sides. The doctor opened the first one to our right and we entered a neon-lit room.
 “Disinfecting room,” he explained. “You must strip to the skin and pass through that
door.”
He pointed as a small Judas in a parapet wall.
I exchanged glances with Smida and we started to undress. In our nudity, the racial
difference between us was visibly marked, as Smida was more tanned than I.
But we weren’t in a beauty contest, and I pushed the door open and we stepped into a
clean, white-tiled sort of shower cabin with high-pressure water jets at regular distances. At
the other side, the doctor was sitting at a small desk with a portable console on it.
“Stay where you are, gentlemen,” he commanded, and started to manipulate his knobs. A
glass panel slid between him and us, and with a shriek the jets came to life and lukewarm
water sprayed down our bodies.
The water ran for about two minutes, up to the moment when we were safely sterilized,
and then powerful fans blew warm drying air from everywhere along our skins. The doctor
handed us both a new set of paper shirts and trousers.
“Please, go on, gentlemen.”
We stepped into disposable thongs and followed the man. We entered a four-foot square
room, almost fully covered in darkness. A tiny blue laser light was pointed at a glass cube.
After my eyes had adjusted, I observed a silhouette in the cube and, with a shock; I
recognized the General’s head.
“My God,” I uttered, having trouble to gain my self-control.
“Please be seated, gentlemen,” the doctor said, not a bit impressed by my dismay.
Not before I spotted a thick glass panel dividing the room. Two microphones were placed
on a small desk on our side.
“Let me tell you how it works,” the doctor went on. “We have managed to keep him alive
by using our newest technology, which is still in the experimental phase. You’ll have to
pledge secrecy when you leave. Now, Lieutenant Smida knows the procedure, so I suggest he
fill you in on how it works. In the meanwhile, I’ll awaken the subject.”
He returned to his console.
What I stared at was beyond reality. I was overwhelmed by the dramatic impact of the
Dantesque scene that unrolled before my eyes.
The last time I saw the General, he was a hard man who looked twenty years younger.
Now he was just a dead-eyed head, connected to tubes and sensors, cruelly captured in a
trance. His face had the cadaverous color of an embalmed man.
“Does he feel any pain?” I muttered laboriously. I could barely control the trembling of my
body.
“We don’t think so,” Smida answered. He could handle the situation better, as he had
experienced it before.
“What we’re trying to do is an attempt to retrieve information from his brain before he
passes away. You know the General didn’t take notes or keep a diary. His archives are in his
head.”
“This is inhuman,” I burst out. The doctor looked worried.
Smida made a dismissive gesture that everything was all right.
 “We know, major, but it’s the only way to retain his knowledge. You know things are
getting changed around here. We must share his experiences. It’s a question of life and death
to the service.”
I calmed down and kept staring at the wonderful man who had been a surrogate father to
me. I sensed a horrible desolation watching him. A hidden speaker came to life.
“Right, gentlemen, you may start now. I’ll accompany you all the way. When you pose a
question I’ll rephrase it if necessary, as the General can only answer questions posed in the
right way.” I observed Smida curiously.
“His emotional intelligence doesn’t work any longer,” Smida explained rapidly. “So we
have to ask direct questions, which he can answer.”
The doctor intervened. “Not quite. We’re using nanotechnology that leaves his brain intact.
But please go on.”
“I’d like to know, first, why I’m here,” I asked into the microphone, not being up for this
masquerade yet.
“You were on the General’s list,” the doctor said.
Smida expounded to me. “During past interrogations, the General mentioned your name.
We know you were working on SAHRA.”
“I don’t know any more than you do,” I protested. “What can I possibly ask?”
“Just ask,” the doctor pressed on. I began to hate this man, for whom this was just another
experiment.
“Introduce yourself,” Smida proposed. I gave in, deciding that it was no use arguing.
“General, this is Hassan. Hassan Halker, do you hear me?” The speaker produced a
horrifying death rattle and I looked up, palsied with terror.
“Don’t be upset,” the doctor said. “His bronchial tubes are cleared periodically. He
understands you quite well.”
“I can hear you, Hassan Halker.”
The voice wasn’t the General’s — it was an electronic version, and thus less painful.
“Ask him about SAHRA,” Smida urged.
“General, is there anything I should know about operation SAHRA?” I asked, after some
thought.
No response.

“You’ll have to rephrase. He can ’t cope with it,” the doctor said.

I felt sweat ooze from my temple. “How, dammit? I can’t talk to an android.”

“I’ll do it for you. General, has the SAHRA project high priority?”

The answer came immediately. “It has.”

“General, is Hassan Halker authorized to know about SAHRA?”

“He is.”
 “General, does Hassan Halker need to be informed about SAHRA?”

“He does.”

It was amazing how fast the General’s brain reacted, as if there were no barriers or
obstacles between his receptors and his nerves.
“General, what is the first item Hassan Halker should know about SAHRA?”
“Hassan Halker should know about foreign interference.” The doctor didn’t know what
else to say, but now I got the knack of it and carried on.
“General, is Russia the key to SAHRA?”

“It is not.”

“General, is another country the key to SAHRA?”

“It is.”

“General, which country is the key to SAHRA?”

“The United States of America.”

The U.S.A? What was going on here? Another door to another mystery?

“General, can you tell me more about the role of the United States of America in
SAHRA?”

No answer. I tried to rephrase the question, but couldn’t think of a decent way.

Now Smida came in.

“General, are the United States of America involved in the Relational Random Research
Program?”
“They are not.”
We weren’t getting anywhere. I glanced at Smida to see how troublesome this scene
looked to him. All he had lived for was at stake now, and that made him perceptibly
frustrated.
“I’m afraid I can’t do more,” I said, feeling defeated.
“Well, gentlemen,” the doctor interrupted, “I think our session is over for now.”
“One more thing, please,” I said quickly. It was now or never.
“General, who is Hassan Halker?”
It seemed a ridiculous question in this clinical environment, but before leaving I had to
know. It was my way of saying farewell to the man I had loved and respected.
“He is my son.”
 I exhaled and felt relieved. I went on, catching on quickly.

“General, has Hassan Halker other relatives?”

“He has.”

“General, has Hassan Halker another name?”

“He has.”

“General, what other name does Hassan Halker have?”

“John Halker-Dolby.”

Smida turned to me, his eyes popping, breathing hard in my face.

The doctor’s indifferent voice chimed in. “Gentlemen, the session is now over. No more
personal stuff. All of this is being recorded.”
I looked for the last time at the bleak image of an enigmatic man who had just revealed his
last secret on his deathbed.
The curtain came down. We got up and changed clothes, then followed the doctor to his
cubicle. Three MPs were waiting for us, pointing their guns at me.
A red-faced, bucolic man stepped to my side, distinctly Englishman.

“Major Hassan Halker, you’re under arrest.”

“What?” I shouted.

“You are charged with high treason and the killing of two officers. Follow me, please.”

Smida returned a sad look. “I ’m sorry, major,” he said and stepped aside. The fact that I
was the General’s son had outwardly no effect on him.

Surrounded by the gunmen, I descended the stairway, got out of the building, and into a
waiting Jeep. They didn’t handcuff me, which was nice of them but, on the other hand, their
guns were aimed and ready to fire.
Anyway, I was too beaten by what I had experienced.
 Chapter 12
They took me into the director’s office. An old acquaintance had barged in to pay me a
visit.

“Omar,” I shouted. “You old bastard, am I surprised to see you back!”

Omar McCane looked prosperous. He was about my age, a Glasgow undergraduate who
had interrupted his studies for voluntary service in order to more easily gain his admission as
a kutab teacher, a prime target for educated Europeans in those days. But apparently it hadn’t
worked out the way he planned.
“So what brings you here?” I added. We sat down. He had grown stout. I remembered him
as a robust type, with thick legs, lanky hair on a freckled face, and speaking with a remarkable
kind of Arab accent.
“I’ve come to fetch you, Hassan.” He didn’t look very delighted to see me.

“So what’s the trouble, then?”

“You’re accused of treason and murder, Hassan. I’d like to ask you that same question.”

His rigid demeanor toward me cooled me down. “Come on, Omar, this is your pal,
Hassan.”

I put my hand on his shoulder and felt him freeze. Something dreadful was going on here. I
had figured the service would welcome me in, the prodigal son coming back and all forgiven.
But it didn’t work out that way.
He explained they had found my Brigade pass, which Ahmed must have taken as a
souvenir, and my fingerprints were all over the place. Our man in Istanbul had covered up for
me; otherwise I’d be spending the rest of my life in jail.
“I’m sorry, Hassan, but someone at the top seems to be soured on you. I ’m to arrest you
on grounds I can’t speak about.”
“I know — it’s not your problem,” I said, bitterly. “Just take the Mickey out.”
I saw him double up and felt sorry for him. He was just following orders — someone had
to do it.
“What’s up now?”
“You’ll be committed for trial soon. I’ll try to arrange for the best lawyer in the Force. But
I’m tied hand and foot. Don’t shoot the piano player.”
I tried not to seem pathetic. “Do me one favor, Omar.”

“All right — whatever you ask.”

“Try to get in touch with a Bulgarian imam.” I explained how to reach Azrirrak. Omar
nodded. He didn’t mind, for old time’s sake.
“No tricks, man. I just want to know if his daughter-in-law’s well and safe.”
Omar took his leather agenda and wrote down the information in his schoolmaster’s hand.
 “I’ll keep in touch, Hassan, don’t worry.” A piece of cake for him to say.
“Right, I ’m ready now,” I said firmly. “Do what you have to do.”
Omar glanced at one of the M.P.’s behind my back. “Okay, boys, escort him to the truck.
No handcuffs.”
“Thanks, Omar.”
He seemed to notice my embarrassment and softened. “You were lucky we got their first.
If the Ukrainians had caught you, it would be murder, first degree.”
Well, another stroke of luck.
A soaking drizzle welcomed us as we cross Stroud, one of those lovely Cotswold town,
now depressingly foggy and wet. They took me to a former Roman Catholic Reform
Community near the River Severn where, in the past, problem priests had been re-educated.
It had been turned into Transition Camp FB01. I knew I was lucky to end up here, as it was
known to be tolerable. Nobody stayed long enough to be subjected to a harsh prison life. The
community was chiefly made up of political prisoners and white-collar criminals, which
covered a rich variety of society’s scum.
An open prison you walked in and out provided you stayed within the perimeter of
cameras and watchtowers. It was freedom within limitations. The main obstructions were the
wrist bracelets. They sent signals every quarter hour to the prison’s switchboard. The
institution was overpopulated. Originally, all cells were designed for individual occupants, but
with the recent overflow of suspects we were forced to double up.
I had to sleep on a floor mattress, but didn’t mind. The cell was equipped with everything
you’d need if you were a priest on retreat, washstand included. The rigid Catholic morals
being strict on hygienic affairs, we didn’t have to share public showers. My cellmate was an
aged gray friar who had committed some political offense. He didn’t talk of it. He just lay
there on his plank bed, reading the Bible and doing nothing more. At curfew I watched him
kneeling and praying to his God and I wondered why he didn’t accept the Quran as his lead.
Was it not all from the same source?
One time I watched him wash up and noticed burn scars, and I wondered if they could be
related to ‘hard way’ treatments. I had enough time on hand to reflect on past events now. I
had nothing to hand, having to wait for my departure, and I was able to reconstruct my
situation in a more logical way. I was by myself, lying on my mattress, smoking my beloved
kola, which you could get here at triple price, and minding my own business. I listened to the
prison sounds and tried through my experiences and put everything in a row. I even got back
to my five prayers a day.
It wasn’t such a bad living, after all, as, thanks to an unknown do-gooder; my bank account
had been freed again. I got full wages so long as there was no verdict. So I could benefit
generously from the black market blessings and send back rashers and bangers.
I reminisced about the fact that I was aka John Halker-Dolby, and that Jane had known
about this. I wondered what she knew next. If I’d ever see her again, which I doubted
strongly. I was the General’s son, but I was also someone’s other’s son. Just to put in some
more entanglement to my case.
The fourth morning I was called to the interrogation room.

Two men were waiting for me, one of them being Omar.
 He offered me a quick nod. He still wore his pallbearer’s expression.

“Hello, Hassan,” he mumbled. “May I introduce you to Captain Ishmael Cunningham.

He’ll be your counsel for the trial. He’s our best service lawyer.”
Cunningham was small, strong and brisk. The kind who could pull the best straw, and I felt
better already. We shook hands. He opened an expensive looking red leather case and took
out his papers.
“How did you get into this mess?”
I leaned back and started to tell. I added some more information to my tale, but not that
much that I would jeopardize my mission. Thus, no SAHRA and no fireballs.
He interrupted me at crucial points, clearly preparing his arguments in advance.
“Have you anything on the treason case?” I asked.
“In fact, I do.” Cunningham picked up a paper and studied it for some time. I sensed a
sudden change in the air.
“It seems you’ve been poking around in a bunch of hush-hush information. They’ve
tracked you down, picked you from the air. In short, you’ve violated the Information Act,
which says that all vital data should be cleared and authorized before access.”
“By whom?” I asked, warily.
The Captain had the impression of a confused man. “We don’t know yet — maybe we’ll
never know. They can do things, major, that we don’t ’know about.”
He closed his book and looked to be satisfied. He got up and so did Omar.
I remained seated, showing I wasn’t planning to be solicitous.
“How are we going to please?” Cunningham sat down again and so did Omar.
Cunningham sounded conciliatory now.
“I apologize, major. I’m convinced that, with your kind of background and your service
conduct, we’ll have you off in no time. I’ve decided to plead for code violation — the least of
all transgressions.”
“All I did was acting in the line of duty,” I raised, already defending myself.
“I know, major. I’m pretty sure we’ll clear the treason accusation as well, you being a true
believer and all.”
“And where am I to appear?”
They exchanged conspiratorial looks, leaving out the victim.
“I’ve heard that would be Riyadh,” Cunningham said, skittishly.
“Riyadh!”
Riyadh meant trial by a court of justice, and that was practically a court martial.
“Remember, you’re charged with high treason,” Cunningham said. “We’ll invoke minor
degradation to satisfy the court. And you’ll have your stars back in no time. Have no
worries.”
Why did he have to convince me all the time I didn’t have to worry?
 He got up again. “Right, major, that’s it for now. We’ll see you at your new destination
soon. I’ll be your shadow until this case is over and done. Afterwards, we’ll have a couple of
drinks together.”
“Thanks, Captain,” I said and waited until Cunningham had left. Omar wavered.
We were quiet for some time. I could see he didn’t share the Captain’s enthusiasm.
“No worries, Omar,” I said, in an attempt to appease. “Now, tell me what you’ve found out
about my past.” He brightened up, glad to be relieved of the burden.
Jane and her fiancé had moved to Sofia, and it appeared she now led the life of a
housewife. That was all he could tell me, but it was great news. It made me feel better.
Omar rose, watching me thoughtfully. I managed a faint smile.
“Thanks anyway, Omar — I owe you one.”
“Take it easy, Hassan. Things could be worse.” He called for the warder and left the room
with a quick good-bye.
I made it back to my cell and sprawled on my bed with my eyes closed. I took up the
thread again.
I had encountered three assaults. With the first blow, Fatma was there all right. She hid in
Vitya’s kitchenette, so she wasn’t hurt by the blast. The second bomb hit Rabinov, and again
she was present. The third was for the General. Here I couldn’t calculate her in as she
definitely had not been around. There was no way she could enter the General’s territory
without inside help. But that was merely hypothesis, with all sorts of paranoid answers.
Azybey, on the other hand, was an insider. He could have been in Moscow at the time of
the first bomb. He certainly was around for the second one. He could also have been with the
third one, providing he or his accomplice had an entry to MI1. He definitely knew my
geodetic locations, which was not a comfortable idea at all.
I had another unexpected visitor, Abdullah ben Smida. We had to communicate during
visiting hours now, through bullet-proof glass. I asked him about my father and he looked as
if he was caught in a spotlight.
“He always talked about you the way a father talks about his son. So, at some point, I got
curious and ran through some old files until I came across service conduct files from the
aftermath of the Revolution. I found out had had an affair during his days as military attaché
in London. Then it was just a simple matter of deduction.”
He looked remorseful. “Listen, major …”
“Don’t call me Major any more. I’ll loose my rank, you know that. From now on I’m
Hassan — or John, if you prefer.”
“I’m sorry, ah, Hassan. I just wanted to say that I’m behind you. I won’t let you down.
You’re the only one who’s likely to expose SAHRA. You have to go on, for the General’s
sake.”
He hit a sensitive chord.
“Not from here on, I suppose.” I didn’t want to encourage him, I wanted to let him take the
first step.
“If you were hospitalized, I could help you to find your relatives.”
I let his remark sink in. “You can arrange an encounter with my other family?”
 “I’ve already established contacts,” he whispered.

I was flabbergasted. I had an ally on my hand, and I hadn’t known all the time.
“Are you sure this place isn’t bugged?” I asked, still suspicious of the whole thing.
“Not at all. The English have still their sense of fair play.”

“Why would you do this for me?”

He shook his head. “I’m not doing it for your sake. I’m doing it for the sake of the Force.”

That I could accept. I dropped my reticent attitude.

“So how’s the front-line work these days?” I asked..
“Everything’s getting worse. There’s a new General, and Iranian, and a real shark. He was
the youngest fighter pilot in the Second Gulf War. Most decorated soldier of his time. We
haven’t met him yet, but he’s about to show up before long. Half of the staff is trembling with
fear. The worst part is, he’s no Shiite.”
That could only mean one thing. “So they’re changing politics. They want to get rid of the
Shiites.”
“That’s right. The League is slacking down, they say. The Revolutionary spirit has gone,
they say. Everything’s becoming lax. It’s no go for the sake of the faith. They’re blaming the
Shiites for all their sins.”
Always the same story. When things go wrong, scapegoats are picked, and some fanatic
jerk takes over and louses up everything.
“I’m afraid you’ve become sort of an example — a guinea pig for the coming conduct.”
Smida had hit the nail on the head. Just my luck.
“Wonderful,” I said, resignedly. “And how do I get out of this hell’s gate?”
“Try to get into sickbay, and then leave it up to me.”
“Great, I’ll chop off my arm,” I joked, but Smida wasn’t in for a laugh. Anyway, it wasn’t
much of a joke.
After his departure, I immediately started to work on my strategy. That same evening I
volunteered for a job at the workhouse. The workhouse was the previous director’s idea of a
way to lift the spirits of the inmates by diligent crafts. A healthy mind through healthy work.
But most of the prisoners hadn’t work a day in their lives — at least, not with their hand. So
all the machinery and tools were a waste of money, and anyone who wanted to work with
them could do so on a voluntary basis, no strings attached.
It was 8:00 p.m. when I decided it was time to go. It was on a Thursday night, less than a
week since my arrival. Tomorrow, half the hospital staff would be on leave. I had done a lot
of thinking, and had decided that, whatever bug had been planted in my body, it would be in
my artificial left hand, the one that had charcoaled in Vitya’s apartment.
No question about it. Who had done it, and why, was of no interest for the time being. It
could have been the General, as a way of protective measure, or the Azybey's of MI2. All
possibilities stood.
 We were threesome in the workshop, the others working at a lathe, making a lot of racket
and paying no attention to me. I stood at the circular saw and my body started to shake. I
broke out in cold sweat. Thinking about it was easy, but doing it was something else. I hung
onto my left hand, poised my wrist precisely before the screaming metal, and jerked my hand
across the screeching blade.
It slid through like butter. As the metal cut bone I felt a tremendous shock through my
nervous system and collapsed instantly. I didn’t feel pain at once, but seconds later it began,
and the streaming blood was accompanied by an unbelievable burst of pain.
I was covered in blood, and I cried and rolled on the floor, with my hurt arm clutched
against my breast. With a last flash of lucidity I looked at my cut-off prosthesis and didn’t see
any electronics or wiring amidst the blood, muscles and bone chips. I had done a clean job.
Good-bye, Azybey.
It took the others some minutes before they started to react, and when they finally did, I
had lost so much blood that I blacked out for some time.
When I woke up, I found Smida sitting at my bedside. My left arm was in bandages.
“I had something less drastic in mind,” he said. “Some soporific pill, for instance.”
“I was tired of my hand,” I said, phlegmatically. His oriental mind didn’t work like mine,
and he disliked my cynical humor. “In Riyadh, they’ll treat you like an ordinary thief.”
I had forgotten about the Saudi way of dealing with thieves. Chopping off the left hand
was still an overt entertainment, broadcast all over the League.
“Sorry.”

“Now, when you’re back on your feet, I’ll arrange an encounter with your aunt.”

“Who?”

“I’ve located your aunt. Mary Dolby, your British mother’s sister. She lives in London, but
is willing to come over and talk to you.”
“Why should I meet her?”
“The General has insisted on it .If you recall, he did speak about her. So I’m certain he
wanted to tell you something through her.”
I regarded Smida with more awe than ever. A clever monk, as Vitya would say. In twenty
years he could be the new General — if he was capable to survive the old one.
“You’re right. I’ll talk to her. In a week, I should be fit enough to walk away from here.
Have you thought about a safe way out?”
Smida nodded. “Everything’s ready. I know a way out. If you can do on Friday, a door will
be left open.”
“Great.”
I felt dizzy. Those painkillers were effective, but they made me foggy, and this
conversation had tired me out. Smida got up.
“I’ll be back on Thursday. Be sure you’re ready by then. Take it easy now.”
 After he left, I noticed how restful the place was. It was late afternoon, and most of the
patients were asleep or in the cafeteria. Smida was right. This was a great place to escape,
provided you had outside help.
I concentrated on the upcoming family meeting. I wondered how I would react and I
brooded on my mother. For the first time in years, I wondered how she must have been, and I
imagined her to be a beautiful, tall and oriental-looking woman, a combination of a well-
educated Arabian household and a sophisticated lecturer at Baghdad University. It struck me
that I hadn’t picked out a white English woman, which would have been the obvious choice.
My armed healed marvelously, and the specialists were happy that they could save the rest
of it. Thanks to the wonders of modern medical science, I should be capable to appear before
the court on time.
On Thursday, Smida brought me the good news. At midnight, most of the late shift would
have left the building and there should be a four-hour gap — time enough to run off and back.
Smida instructed me to pay a visit to the toilets, collect a key from the bowl, and then take
the fire escape door and then a second one to the left, to let myself out.
I counted the hours and, when the last nurse had gone out; I slipped my feet into my
sandals and started a run for the lavatory. I got to the toilets, found the key, and hurried to the
fire door, which was unlocked. I found the second door. My hand trembled when I stuck the
key into the hole and I sighed as it clicked open.
A cold draft dried up my sweat and I was out, running across the wet grass to the garden
house, where I was to meet Smida. I squatted in the undergrowth and felt damp rising, and
water dripping in my neck.
It was cold, nearly freezing, and I shivered in my cotton shirt and pants. My sandals were
soaking wet. But black rain clouds covered the moon, and my trail as well.
“Hassan.”
I started and cowered. Smida had stepped up behind me without a sound. I needed to be
more watchful.
“Come quickly,” he said. “We haven ’t much time.”
He knew his way out, across small, neglected grounds and a former chapel. We reached a
stone wall. I noticed a small wooden door, almost hidden in ivy.
Unlike me, Smida was in good shape. He pushed the door open and we were free, in the
open air and on a narrow dirt road. He ran, and I scampered behind him, wishing my painful
arm would stop reminding me of its presence.
As we reached the banks of the Severn, the clouds broke, and the crescent moon scattered
some light over the river. I spotted a car along the bank, its shape gleaming in the moonlight.
“There she is,” Smida hissed. “Go to her. I’ll be on watch, just in case.”
He saw me wavering. I wasn’t sure there was an actual, real aunt waiting for me, and not a
bunch of killers ready to do me in.
“Go on, she won’t bite you.”
“Okay.”
Through the windshield I could distinctly see a woman in the back seat. I opened the right
rear door and got in.
 She was in her fifties, a delicate figure in an inconspicuous raincoat and headscarf, and she
smelled of freshly cut flowers and peaceful gardening. If she was my aunt, she must certainly
have been very otherwise from my mother.
“Mary Dolby, I presume?” I asked rather clumsy, feeling uncomfortable with this situation.
Not only was my arm itching and burning like hell, but I also felt no connection whatever
with this strange woman.
“Oh, John, you look so much like your mother,” she cried out. “The same nose and lips.”
I sat dumb, too agitated by the situation to answer.
“You couldn’t have known her, you poor thing,” she went on, touching me spontaneously.
“You were only two when she died.” My vocal chords were constricted as I asked what had
happened.
“She died in a bombing, November 21 — I remember it well. Her body wasn’t found. You
were in the care of a nursemaid while she and that awful man she lived with were having fun
in some nightclub.”
My mother going out with her lover, and me left alone. Well, that had turned out much
better for me than for them.
“Who was my father?”
She sniffled, took my hand and caressed it lightly.
“Your father was an Arab officer. After she died, he took you in and then I lost track of
you. I ’m so happy you survived those strange times.”
I hid my wounded arm in my pocket. So it was true — the General was really my father.
“How come my last name is Halker?”
“In those days, orphans were named after their closest relatives. My late husband, your
uncle, was Henry Halker .He died last month from intestinal cancer — God bless his soul.
That Arab put you in schools, never to see you again.”
So much for my background. I wondered why she hadn’t taken me in. Her hatred of the
Arabs must have been bad — and I was part of them.
I asked if she had a picture of my mother, or some other relic. She dug a photograph from
her purse. It was protected by transparent plastic, and the colors looked fresh, as if it were
only taken yesterday.
I held it in the moonlight. It showed a nice young woman with hazel-brown hair, leaning
on the banister of some hotel terrace, smiling at the lens. My aunt was right — I looked a lot
like her.”
“You know, we’re Irish in part,” she said.
“May I have it?” I asked, in a beseeching tone. “Of course you may,” she said, in a warm
tone. Then her lips touch my cheek and I felt embarrassed. I made a sudden gesture and
showed my stump, which had begun to bleed again. The sight of it upset her. “What have
they done to you?” she hissed with big eyes.
“Never mind, auntie — just a hunting accident.” She sniffed and turned aside from the
horrible sight .“It’s so sad she wasn’t there to see you grow up, and that you couldn’t be at her
side.”
 Quaint impulses of sadness and despair crept from my chest to my throat, and I felt a tear
slide from my left eye.
“John, come back with me,” she pleaded, holding me by the arm. “You must come back
where you belong. You don’t belong with those people. You’re British — you’re no Arab.”
She spit out those last words, full of disdain. Her words shocked me. “I was raised as an
Arab,” I objected. “I can’t go back. I am an Arab.”
“You’re not. You’re white — look at you in the mirror.” She adjusted the rearview mirror
so that I could view myself. “You’re not a stinking, lazy camel driver!”
She spit out those words with great anger and scorn. It was the first time in my life that I
heard someone calling the grand Arab, conqueror of half the world, a camel driver.
“Why do you say that, auntie? Was it better before the Revolution?”
She leaned back. Her face was white and drawn — not the face of a happy, aging woman,
sipping afternoon tea and nibbling on buttered scones, and gossiping with her friends. This
was the face of a rebellious woman and it frightened me.
“It certainly was,” she retorted. “Before your Revolution we were free, and we had
everything we needed. Then they came, plundering and taking us into slavery.”
I gazed at her, being none the wiser. The Revolution had brought peace — no more wars
and political quarrels. The rich had to give in, the poor enjoyed a safe and protected life.
Crime had ended, and the streets were safe places to be. I told her all this, but I didn’t
impress her. She had heard these propaganda phrases before.
“You poor thing, they’ve raised you with all those lies. You’ve been brainwashed, John.
Try to see the world with your eyes open. Try to find some documentation on the old days.
You’ll be surprised.”
“I’ve read everything I need to know,” I replied, closing up.
“You haven’t, love. They’ve fed you everything you need to know, but not what you ought
to know.”
Well, she could be right. Since Moscow, I wasn’t sure of anything.

“I could tell you stories,” she said in a tearfully voice.

“Please, aunt, I want to know everything about my mother.”

I also wanted to know about the world my mother lived in. It was the only way I could
discover my roots and know about myself.
“We haven’t much time,” she said. “Your friend told me you have to be back at 3:00.”
“That’s right. I’m to leave Britain for a long time.”

She wavered, scared of what she was about to tell me.

“I have a phone number for you. Don’t ask me where I got it. Just memorize it. Call it and
they’ll help you out.” She told me the number. It started with the international code and then
301.

“That’s not Britain,” I said. I knew all the European zip codes by heart.
 “It’s in the States.”

I tried to catch her words. “You mean America? The Block?”

She shuffled, put her arms around me, and again her lips touched my cheek.
“America is not the bogeyman, John. It’s not something from a bad fairy tale. You’ll see.”
That wasn’t what I meant. American was Jane’s home base, and my dear aunt was in
league with the enemy. How many more surprises could I endure?
We held hands for a while. Then it was time to go.

“Take good care of yourself, John,” she whispered.

“Good bye, auntie.” For a while I felt tender feelings for her. Then I left the car and didn’t
look back. I heard the engine roar as aunt fired it up.

Smida popped up from behind a bush, shivering with cold. “Everything all right?” he
asked. I nodded and he looked relieved.
“Go right back. You know the way in. I hope you’ve got wise.”

“I do. Thanks, Abdullah — thanks for everything.”

“No thanks needed, Hassan. I rely upon you. It’s the only way.”

“Why don’t you help me escape?”

“I can’t,” he said, with a shake of his head. “Sorry, Hassan, but you re on your own from
now on.”
I shook his hand and he disappeared into the car and they drove off, right out of my life,
and I knew I wouldn’t see them again.
I managed to get back unseen. By the hall clock, I discovered I had been away for only an
hour, and the sickbay was quiet and peaceful. I took off my wet sandals and headed for bed.
My room-mate was snoring, masking the noise I made.
I crouched under the sheet, and for a while I was trembling with cold until my body
warmed up. I held the key stiffly in my hand, as a child with a new candy in the darkness. I
took the photo out. In the dim night light I absorbed my mother’s face on the picture once
more.
I wasn’t disappointed by the fact Smida didn’t want to help me with my escape. He had a
life before him, and he had already stuck his neck out — way out.
I mulled over auntie’s bewildering comment, and then fingered my bracelet.
Something was amiss here. If everyone was free, why did such nasty things as mobile
phones, GPS, and transmitting bracelets exist?
Next noon, I was on my last meal, working myself single handed through a tacky slice of
lamb, when my roommate came in, sat aside me, crossed himself, took over the slicing and
started to carve the meat.
“So, you’ve been out,” he said. He looked down at his plate. “Was it worthwhile?”
 I stared at him reluctantly, forgot to munch on. “What do you want to say?”
“I wasn’t much asleep last night,” he continued. I froze, and he noticed my fear.
“Don’t worry, I won’t give you away. I just want you to know that something dreadful is
going on. Do you know about the raids?”
“What raids?”
“They’re picking people up, mostly Catholic women, single and still young enough. They
disappear without a trace. I’ve been in the resistance, and I know some village that have lost
half their female population.”
I hadn’t the faintest idea what he was talking about. Surely round-ups took place all the
time. I had took part in several while in the Brigade. But we hunted for armed and dangerous
criminals, not for women.
“They’re shipped away to the east,” he said in a low though rapid tone. “Nobody knows
where.”
“That can’t be true — it doesn’t work that way. You must be mistaken.”
“I’m here because I’m right,” he said laconically, and stopped cutting. I wasn’t hungry
anymore.
I drank a glass of water. “Why should they do that?”
“Who knows? Maybe they need breeding stock. Maybe it’s the same story all over again.
Conquerors tear families, groups and societies apart to create a new breed of people.”
“I can’t believe what you’re saying.”
“Ask that man.” With a short nod he jerked his thumb toward a man who was eating on his
own at a corner seat. Then he started to gobble up the rest of my meal, indicating our
conversation was over.
“Maybe I will,” I said.
Orderlies came to fetch the dishes, and when they were gone I decided to take the bull by
the horns and approached the man who knew things.
His right leg was in a sling. He looked much young from up close, though his hair was
snow white, and his slouched body arched as if he was in great pain.
“Sorry to disturb you, but I must know. What about those raids? Please tell me. I’ll be gone
in a couple of hours and your knowledge could be valuable to me.”
He gazed at me with vacant eyes and I felt uneasy. That look told me that this man had
experienced too much hell.

“If you want to know, go to Mecca.”

His words got me a shock. Mecca, once more .What was going on there?

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, bluntly.

“They’re all going to Mecca,” he repeated in a soft voice. “No one returns.”
“Why? And who’s going to Mecca?” I asked, feeling silly to find myself conversing with
this character, who was obviously mentally disturbed.
“They’re taking them, along with the water.”
 I didn’t know what else to say. I left him to return to my cell.
My mate was on his bed, reading as usual in his thick, well-thumbed book. He looked up at
me..
“So?” he asked.
I lied down and pressed my left arm to my chest. The excitement made my blood pressure
rise with itching pain, but that was a good sign. It meant my muscles were coming to life
again.
“I haven’t the foggiest idea of what he told me. Something about Mecca and the water.”
“That’s right. They’re taking the water as well. Soon there will be nothing left for us.”
“What, taking the water? In bottles or what?”
He turned toward me. “Don ’t make fun of it. They’re not from here. They’re coming from
the East, Central Europe, we think. They talk in foreign accents. They’re run by the
occupying forces and the federal police. They raid the villages and take the women, the
unemployed, and the homeless away.”
Before I could say more, a doctor came in, followed by a stocky man in civilian dress,
carrying a clipboard in his hand. I knew they were coming to tell me to pack. It was time to
leave.
The doctor made a quick scan of my stump and looked satisfied. He nodded to the civil
servant, who put a document on my bed.
“Major Hassan Halker, you’re discharged, and will be transported to Al-Riyadh for your
upcoming trial. You’ll be at the reception desk in half an hour to sign for your leave.”
They left the room. I picked up the paper. It was my official release, signed by the
superintendant. They were obviously in a hurry to get rid of me.
My neighbor interfered with my reading.
“Keep in mind what you’ve heard today. You’ll know once you get there.”
I put my hand under my mattress. No one was watching when I pulled out the exit key and
tossed it to him.
“This is the key to your freedom,” I said, in an undertone. “Fire escape, second door.
Friday about midnight’s your best chance. Take your friend with you.”
He was dumbfounded.
“Take it or leave it,” I went on. “Here you’ll croak, whatever you do. Outside you can run,
or fight for your life.”
It was a blunt lie and we both knew it. But it was the least I could do. He had given me
vital information, and this was my way of thanking him. Perhaps he would go down, shot like
a dog, but he would run like hell first. I hadn’t the guts to do the same, for I was still a
member of the glorious League, and my honor was at stake. And above all, I wanted to solve
the mystery in my own way, more than anything else. I felt I was on a sacred mission in awe
of my father. Or to wreak vengeance for his death …
 Chapter 13
I had no idea that things would be getting this rough from now on, though it started with an
easy, scheduled flight in business class. I was seated between two army captains, who seemed
to feel uncomfortable with me.
I understood why. I was the General’s son, after all. Cunningham had scattered this
information all about, and it bore its fruits. I had in mind to take advantage of his tactics and
make a profit from it. So I slowly grew into my new personality and went into some sort of
spoiled sheikh-type nephew. Without raising my voice I could ask for anything I wanted —
except for my release.
I was still wearing my uniform, but otherwise they had left me little. I felt naked without
my status symbols, my stripes, my pistol, and my Brigade knife. The only personal thing they
had left me was the picture of my mother, which I had safely stowed in my breast pocket.
About 4:00 p.m. we landed at King Khalid International Airport. Two military Jeeps with
armed National Guard officers and four MP’s with automatic weapons were waiting for me at
Terminal Three. Things rapidly changed now. They treated me as some ordinary criminal,
hand-cuffed me and then dragged me to one of the Jeeps. Two grim faced sergeants sat
behind me, leering at the slightest movements I made. Clearly, I had made some reputation
over here.
We drove at high speed across the airstrip, and then took the high road downtown.
I was in another world now. It was my first visit to Riyadh ever, and I wished conditions
had been a little better. The afternoon temperature was high, but dropping, and felt pleasant.
Air blew over the open Jeep and dried the clamminess of my uniform. The afternoon sun
colored the farms and villages in soft terra cotta shades. Bedouins transporting their camels by
truck were heading for the new housing development projects where they had settled down.
This was a good world, the kind of dream world the Saudi, with their immense wealth,
were able to afford. This part of the League experienced no suffering whatsoever. Everyone
and everything looked prosperous, healthy, and happy. The contrast with my companions was
striking. Their brown faced looked straight ahead, expressionless, but their dark eyes flashed
around.
We arrived at Arabia’s capital, that thriving place north of the desert. Not so long ago a
minor Bedouin campsite, and now a modern looking town, constructed with western
technology. The Saudi had proclaimed their city as capital of the world, and the League had
to play along, though Teheran, Baghdad and Cairo took more credit, due to their major part in
the Revolution. Propaganda footage about Riyadh, with its white and sand colored buildings,
its huge mosques and trade centers, kept showing its fabulous motley of traditional splendor
and dynamic energy.
We drove on Mecca Road, and then made a left turn. We passed the horse race track. The
Jeep slid to a stop before an inconspicuous four-storey building in the traditional style, with
the typical blue and white painted front. A plate showed that the Ministry of Culture and
Public Health had settled here. I knew for certain this wasn’t the home base of Central
Intelligence and began to worry.
The MPs hauled me roughly from the Jeep and pushed me down the cool, blue marble hall.
I realized that the building’s peaceful front was just a façade. Behind it lurked a dark world of
austere hangmen, waiting for my head.
 The elevator sent us three up. I was weary when we reached our destination. The rough
treatment had again declined my physical condition, and I could use some sort of mental pick
me up.
They put me in a bare room with closed window panels, so that light could scarcely peer
in. It was brooding and musty, and had apparently not been ventilated for days. I sat in a
creaking chair, about three meters from a stretched wooden table with six chairs. First degree
interrogation — I knew the stuff and better prepare for it. They left the room and the key
turned in the slot. Suddenly it was quiet and even peaceful. I longed for a cigarette and a glass
of cool water. I hadn’t had a drop of water for hours and was nearly at the end of my tether.
I looked around with the scouting eyes of an interrogation officer. It was the perfect setting
for a psychological treatment, and I involuntarily thought of my Moscow days. I surmised
they wouldn’t do the hard way. I could well endure the mild interrogation, wit for wit, the
battle of mind and will.
The door opened and four men came in, lined up in rank order; first a general, then two
colonels, and a major at the rear. They wore their green National Guard parade uniforms, with
white skullcaps, and looked very grim. Their chairs scraped as they sat down. The major,
about my age, looked smart in his perfect uniform. He carried a black cardboard file box. I
didn’t rise for them. I was a military intelligence officer and had nothing to do with these
doormats of local royalty. It was my way of expressing that they had no power over me. The
major coughed and opened a box.
“This court martial is now in session. Hassan Halker, you’re charged with high treason. If
you cooperate, your penalty will be allayed.”
I couldn’t grasp at once what was going on and my heart began to speed up. I pulled
myself to my feet and started to protest. “What do you mean, court martial? You have no right
to court martial an officer of my rank. This is a matter for a military tribunal.”
“As you see, this hearing is behind closed doors.” The man who spoke was one of the
colonels, a massive figure with a friendly attitude. He undoubtedly represented the nice type,
the one who could break you down by offering you a cigarette.
“You have no authority in this matter,” I shouted. My voice was husky and I audibly
gulped. “This is not a regular court.”
That was explicitly sneering, but it had some effect. The major quickly selected a paper,
got to his feet, and held it before my face. He smelled of a heavy perfume.
“You’re no longer an officer — read this fax, please.” He help the paper up. I read the
General’s signature. My father, signing this masquerade? No way!
“This is a fake document,” I cried out. The other colonel, the dangerous one, slowly
cleared his throat. His mustache was perfectly trimmed, like a painted pencil stroke, and he
had thin, sullen lips. He was perspiring profusely, wiping a handkerchief constantly along his
neck. He voice had Bedouin harshness.
“You’ve lost your stripes, Halker. Don’t make a fuss — you’ll just make it hard on
yourself.”
I knew when I was beaten and, besides, my mouth was too bone dry to make a dignified
reply.
“We’re still in a state of war, you remember?” The major said, in an attempt to make it
easy on me. “You’re a front line soldier. We could’ve charged you with desertion, and then
you would be sentenced on the spot.”
 Before I could assimilate this, and orderly came in, pushing a trolley loaded with two
sweating water carafes, and I heard ice cubes tinkling as he put the carafes and five water
glasses at the judges’ table. Before he left, the orderly switched on the overhead light. A
fierce spotlight clicked on, and bathed me in a pool of fiercely hot beams from the ceiling.
This kind of torture was just be worse than the electric shot treatments. I’d be happy to
undergo them again in exchange for a glass of cool water.
The major filled the glasses and the cubes seemed to beam their coldness at me. The soft
colonel smacked his lips to show how much he enjoyed his drink, then put down his glass and
watched me with friendly eyes.
“Listen, Hassan, don’t make it worse. You’ll be off in no time if you confess.”

“What do I have to confess?” I asked, in a rasping voice, fascinated with the drinking
scene.

“Tell us to whom you’ve sold information about Operation SAHRA.”

I pulled my eyes away from the water to glare at him. My mind was working at an
unnaturally slow pace, and I had trouble focusing my eyes.
“I haven’t sold anything.”
Due to the intense tension, my neck muscles started to contract, and I had the feeling my
head was shaking in a detached way, which was even more embarrassing.
Again they exchanged glances.
“You have been breaking into the Operation SAHRA file during …” The major picked up
a document and slipped it over to the soft colonel, who unfolded him gold-rimmed reading
glasses to read the dates and times aloud.
They had been on my tail since the very beginning. Without any doubt, they had followed
Vitya ’s hacking around from the moment he had discovered the password. So, some driven
desk worker had the bright idea we were flogging state secrets — a most logical conclusion,
given the nature of things. I had botched it and knew it.
My head was now trembling so intensely that it seemed to have a life of its own.
“So, why does this file interest you so much?” the soft colonel asked.
“It was just a game,” I explained in quiet resignation. “I was thrilled by what the
knowledge Triple-R could reveal whatever I needed.” They seemed to buy it.
“A dangerous game,” the colonel said, grinning cynically. “With high treason as the
result.”
“Some intelligence officers can’t keep their noses clean,” the other one grinned.
“Now, Hassan, what have you learned about SAHRA and who’s your contact?” This time
it was the major who joined the interrogation.
His eyes were icy, and I regarded the zealous man and I started to hate him and the whole
sickening comedy they were performing on me here.
“I won’t take any more without my lawyer,” I muttered. I bent my head and, to my
surprise, saw a puddle of water at my feet. There went the rest of my body fluids.
 “Give him the water.” It was the first time the General spoke. I nodded thankfully. I was
cracking up, and in my state of mind I would be grateful to my torturers for any small
consideration. The major filled a glass to the rim and I drank it with closed eyes. Never
before had water tasted so heavenly. My body cried for more, but the major took the empty
glass and returned to his seat.
“Now, Hassan, tell us all about SAHRA.” The soft colonel hadn’t intended to let me go
without good results. I knew these men — I had once been one of them.
“It has something to do with numbers,” I said. I wasn’t planning to lie. If they wanted, they
could easily pull the truth from me in a hundred ways, and it would just prolong my suffering.
The hard one was playing with his spectacles, barely able to master himself.
I gazed at the general, a refined man, about my father’s age. Suddenly, my bleary brain
came to a rest. I was able to think clearly again and my voice wasn’t rasping any more.
“With all due respect, general, you look like my father, general.”
“You are tired, Hassan. Answer our questions and we’ll call it a day.”
My mind opened. I loved this man, who was like a father to me, and my gratitude was
overflowing. I started to tell everything I knew about SAHRA. I rapped and rapped, and while
I was talking, I looked at my glass on the desk. I hadn’t noticed the small black felt pen mark
before. They had mixed something into the water and marked the glass that was destined for
me.
A kind of truth serum, likely Pentothal based. I wasn’t angry or upset. It was part of the
game. No harm done. If they’d got what they wanted, they’d release me upon lots of drinks, a
cold shower, and a fresh bed. After I had finished, they asked nothing further. They seemed
to be satisfied, and gazed at the General, who contemplated the scene, his chin resting on his
right hand.
I wondered why they didn’t ask about the killings. I assumed they weren’t interested in
such trite matters.
Then he nodded and rose. They followed him example, respectfully waiting.
“You’re confined to solitary in preventive custody. Please rise before this court,” the major
said, and before I could react they were gone. The major threw me a last pitiful look. “Peace
be with you, and God ’s mercy upon you,” he muttered and left.
Two M.P.’s came to fetch me, and I hadn’t even the time to take a shot at the carafes. They
dragged me two floors down. I tottered on my legs. The serum had worn off, leaving me
disoriented.
Second floor down was cool and gloomy, lit by red emergency lighting. It had a number of
steel-plated cell doors. We first passed by the jailor’s desk. He took his bunch of keys and
preceded us downstairs. My cellmates were asleep or minding their own business. They
dragged me to a remote corner, took off the cuffs, and pushed me into a cell.
The lock made a hollow click. The cell was dark and empty. I landed on the floor and
smelled muck, urine and the sewer. The space was cool, and despite its inhumane setting, I
was relieved to be able to come to my senses. I had experienced jails before, and quickly
became conversant with my new surroundings.
I measured the room. About two by two by two. Eight cubic meters — hardly enough to
get some rest in a vertical position. I wasn’t going to stretch out anyway, as I slid on
excrement and I heard something scrabbling at the corners. A rat, looking for food, entering
and leaving by a tiny hole I couldn’t locate just now. This was obviously an isolation cell,
intended to break me down, so that tomorrow I would be clay in their hands. At least, an
inexperienced man would be.
I groped about until I found a niche to squat in. They I rested. I felt liquid permeating my
back. Cold condensation dripped down and crept to my shirt. That was a piece of luck. I
started to lick the wall until the worst of my thirst had gone. The chill would keep off the
house bug population as well. Then I wrapped my arms around my legs and curled up, my
head sunk to my knees, the universal fetal position of the despairing. This morning I had still
been in Britain, unaware of what was about to happen to me. I had trusted that I would
encounter fair justice, with the help of my military status and my father’s reputation, but none
of that had worked.
Now I had been handed over to a deadly organization and made part of a vanishing trick. I
would dissolve in the middle of an indifferent wasteland and no one would ever know what
had happened to me.
My soul refused to accept this as fact. My instincts told me to fight back, and my mind
started to find ways. The first thing to do was to file an official protest. I would take them to
court, with Cunningham’s help.
Then my exhaustion took its toll and I sank into oblivion.
I was awakened by the harsh sound of slamming doors reverberating along the hall. It was
still dark, and I had trouble getting oriented. The door opened and a faint red light shone
inside. In its beam stood the silhouette of a stubby jailer.
“Time to get up, halluf, come on, piss call.”
I staggered to my feet. My knees hurt and I began to massage them, but the jailer bellowed
at me. I asked him for the time.
“Time to go to hell, halluf — don’t worry about that.” I manage to walk tall in an attempt
to save the last bit of my self-respect, but he roughly dragged me by the sleeve.
As my eyes adjusted to the light I noticed several other prisoners lined up by their cell
doors, and holding jugs in their hands. They were all dirty, unshaven, and wore dirty, even
ragged uniforms.
Most of them were emaciated, had shallow faces and jaded eyes.
They looked like ghosts under the dim illumination. The jailers had stun guns, pepper
sprays, and other mean looking devices dangling from their belts. Some of the men cried out
when they were bludgeoned.
I got a nasty sting from my warder and automatically joined the file while the jailers were
shouting and screaming with popped eyes. This was a living nightmare.
“How’s the cooler?” I heard a man behind me, asking with a foreign accent. A civilized
voice, though. I felt a bit better now.
“All right, as long as the rats don’t bite.”
“Which rats?”

One of the jailers came toward me and pointed his stick at me, scowling.

“No talking, halluf. Keep that for your trial.”

 I didn’t look him in the eyes and he moved along.

“Double quick now!”

The double file started to move on. They ran in place at first and then, on a sharp
command, started to move. I did the same and we headed for the washroom.
There were only two open toilets for about twenty people. As I was practically dehydrated,
I had no need to go, but the others were fighting to be first. They emptied their jugs in such a
hurry that the toilets were filthy in no time and stinking unbearably. I let the men pass and
loitered about at the end of the row. With four men to go, jailers began to drive out the ones
on the bowls and we were headed back to our cells in the same running file. I felt silly, but
didn’t want to demonstrate rebellious. I knew the jailers were inclined to look for dumb heads
to show off their power. I was back in my cell before I knew.
The first signs of despair were becoming perceptible. My mind was dull. I couldn’t think
normally, and my train of thought was incoherent. I stared into blackness and tried to think of
nice things. I could evoke none.
After a while I heard a slight scraping in one of the corners.

The rats.

“You there, are you well?” someone hissed. The man with the foreign accent.

I had some trouble finding out where the voice came from. He repeated his question and I
located the corner and shuffled to it. I got down near the crack.
“I ’m great, who are you?”
“I ’m only your neighbor. You’re new — why are you here?”

“High treason.”

“Same as all of us. How was your trial?”

“I didn’t get one. They simply put me in here.”

He didn’t talk for a while. “That doesn’t look good,” he finally said. “That means you’re
getting the death penalty, or at least twenty years of hard labor.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. “What do you mean?”
“They want to get rid of you in every possible way. Make you vanish from the face of the
earth. You have family — relatives?”
“No.”

“So much the better.”

I took the initiative. “What are you in for?”

“Same as you, but they can’t kill me. I’m not important.”

“Why?”
 “You see, I don’t know any intimate information, nor any state secrets. They can’t do me
harm.”
I knew what he meant. The obsessive compulsion of being honorable prevented the Arabs
slaughtering innocents. The Saudi were faithful pennants of Wahhabism. The old tradition of
granting the vanquished an honorable retreat was still functioning, even with their overall
powers.
Before I could ask more, I heard noise outside, the clanging of pans and the opening of
doors.
“Dinner. Let’s eat first,” the man whispered, and then he was gone.
I crawled away from the door. Dinner? How late was it now?
They didn’t open my door. After they had left, I had to assumed that they did this on
purpose. A next step in the process of breaking me down.
I wasn’t hungry yet, but my fear grew. If they wouldn’t let me have a bite, I would
dehumanize rapidly and before long I would be groveling for them, dancing on one leg to
entertain them in order to get a slice of moldy bread.
Then my new friend was back.

“How was the food?”

I dragged myself to the hole. “They’ve passed me.”

“That’s bad. Here, I have some for you.”

I reached my hand to the hole and I touched a soft fingertip and a ball of wadded wet rice. I
put it in my mouth. It tasted awful, but it gave me instant strength.
“Thanks very much.”

“You have any money?”

“None whatsoever — they took everything.”

“Can you get your hands on some?”

“I don’t think so. Unless I can reach my lawyer.”

“Forget about your lawyer. They’ll have one of their own, and your trial will be a joke.”
“Great.”

“I’m glad you can still laugh. That won ’t be long.”

“Thanks anyway.”

“Without money, you’ll have a hard time here. It can last for months before they’ll do your
ass. They say the courts are overworked these days.”
 “So what can I do?”
“Nothing, I ’m afraid, unless you can find a way out of here in one piece.”
The thought had crossed my mind. Somewhere in the back of my head a cogwheel was
running overtime.
“And if I don’t?”
“Then you'll go insane, or maybe end up as someone’s love pet. I can get you some
grease.”
The idea of being a sexual toy on Vaseline didn’t please me greatly. I considered my
situation. If they had fixed my death, there was no sense in straddling the fence. On the other
hand, I wasn’t planning to spend the rest of my life in some desert hard labor camp, shuffling
sand from one spot to another.
But first I had to build up my strength. I needed food and drink, and preferably before long.
That night my wishes were unexpectedly fulfilled. I dozed off, but was awakened by a rat
that rummaged at my feet. I waited bold still until it reached my loose hand and then I caught
hold of its tail. It began to bite me. I wrung its neck and then put my teeth to its head. The fine
bones crackled. At the same time, I skinned the body, groped for its belly, ripped it open and
drew the entrails out.
The animal wasn’t bleeding much, and the flesh was poor, but I had food now. I sucked the
rest of the blood and ate the back. It tasted worse than I imagined, and for a while I gagged as
I swallowed, but I managed to eat all of it, even the hard paws.
I sagged back and tried to wash the taste of blood and bone chips from my mouth by
licking the moisture off the wall. It was quiet now. I had no clue whether it was day or night.
My biological functions were messed up, and I had lost my sense of reality. I had to get out of
here — if not today, then tomorrow. My primitive meal made me sleepy, and I dragged
myself to my cozy corner again. I was accustomed to my space now, and knew how to avoid
the heritage of past inmates. It wouldn’t be long before I had to go myself. That would be the
next step in going downhill. It was so easy to degrade a human being — simply cut him off
from normal life, force instinctive fear out of him, and deprive him of his natural needs.
I felt in my breast pocket and caressed my mother’s picture. For now, she was my anchor
to keep on living and, in a way, my ticket out of here.
Suddenly the jailer was in my cell. “Out you go, halluf.” He ordered this in an indifferent
voice, but it made me tremble. I got up and wobbled outside. He slammed the door and put
his hand tight on my shoulder. He was about a head taller, and his hand was like an iron
spade.
“No jokes this time. Man, you stink.”
Not much of an understatement. He drove me across the corridor and one floor up to his
desk. Two other jailers were waiting there. They, too, looked like oversized orangutans, with
their well fed bellies hanging out. One of them sat on the edge of the desk, the other leaned
against the closed door, and both were slowly rotating their sticks in their hands.
“Undress yourself,” my bodyguard ordered.

“Why?” I responded. My voice sounded weak and obedient.

“We want to know whom we’re dealing with,” the man said. His colleagues grinned.
 I had no choice. I undressed clumsily what with my left stump and, when I stood naked, I
considered that they weren’t pleased by it.
“Where have you been?” one of the apes asked. They had stopped grimacing to study my
ravaged body. I hadn’t seen myself in weeks, but I knew I must look like a scarecrow. A one-
handed scarecrow.
The ape aimed his gun at my scrotum.
“How about that, a fidel. Well, this is a pleasant surprise! How does a Muslim come to
mingle with the unfaithful?”
“He’s had the full treatment,” the other oaf said, in a sort of awe.
Despite this annoying situation, my ears were cocked. The intelligence officer in me
wasn’t dead yet.
“Where did you get it, halluf?”

“Moscow.”

“Moscow, huh? Didn’t know they did the full there. I’d have sworn it was the Palermo
treatment.”
“Yeah, definitely Sicilian.”

The one in the chair opened his mouth.

“Right, halluf. You have two choices. The first is buying us off for your own protection.
We need fifty euros every month to save your ass. The other one isn’t so nice, but we won’t
tell you now. We’ll give you some time — until next week.
“I need my lawyer to make the arrangements,” I mumbled. I was unsteady on my feet, and
at the same time felt my aggression growing.
They burst into laughter. A great joke, worthy of spreading around — inmate on death row
wants his lawyer. Room service at hand.
“That’s way past,” the ape said, after they had calmed down.
“You won’t see daylight again. Men die quickly around here. Tragic accidents happen.”
Meanwhile one of the apes had rummaged through my gear and produced my photo. He
had a lecherous smile. “Look what I found. The halluf has a chick here.”
They glanced at the picture. “Pity she isn’t here. I’d like to jump that right now.”
The one who said that licked his lips and let his eyes wander over me. He took the picture,
got up, and came to me. His eyes were foggy.
“Open your mouth, halluf.” He pointed his stick at my mouth.
“Do it now, or it’s shish-kebab to your lips.” The others laughed coarsely.
I opened my mouth. He crumpled the picture and shoved it between my lips. They he
raised his stun gun for the first stroke and told me to eat it.
 A dark veil covered my eyes and my blood rushed to my legs. I spit the photo his face and,
in that split second of surprise, I shoved my left arm under his and turned it over. I spun, and
in a twinkling I stood behind him.
I was so fast that they reacted too slowly to see what was coming next.
I held the man’s arm tight to his back, drove him up against the wall, and banged his head
against it. He was instantly groggy.
“Ishmi!” I shouted. Get lost, assholes.
That was a turn they didn’t expect, and it took them valuable seconds before they got into
action. The one at the desk jumped up and fumbled for his gun, while the other started to
move toward me, his stick and spray aiming at my face.
“You won’t lick your lips again,” I growled at my first victim. I caught him by the hair,
took him a solid headlock, made for his throat, and took a bite of his Adam’s apple. I heard
the beginning of a squawk that was smothered by his blood welling up. The ape who was
nearest to me halted for a second, looking at me open mouthed.
I broke the wounded one’s arm with a short snap and pushed him forward. They both fell
onto the desk, which turned over, taking the third one along. They were jumbled in a ball of
arms and legs. I took a chair, held it against my body, and rammed one of the metal legs into
the nearest chest. My frenzy gave me enormous power, and I managed to drive the leg
between two ribs and into the heart.
The third ape was the one who had reminded me I was stinking. He had freed himself, and
was desperately searching for his gun. I found an electric gun, and it took several blows
before his skull cracked.
It was a mess. The splintered chairs, two apes dead and the last gagging on his own blood.
I choked and vomited up the rat I had eaten.
Then I took the bunch of keys that hung on the corpse’s belt and slipped into the corridor.
The prisoners had been awakened by the turmoil, and some of them had started to yell. I ran
downstairs and stopped at the cell containing my friendly neighbor. I found the right key and
opened his door. I could scarcely see his features in the cell’s obscurity. He groaned in his
sleep. I stepped inside and shook him by the shoulder.
“Wake up, friend, we’re leaving.” He sat up, bewildered, thinking they were coming for
him.
“I’m your neighbor,” I hastily explained, while pulling him up his feet. “You know, the
one you shared your food with.”

Now he was awake and gazing at me with round eyes. “What ’s happening here?”

“Come with me, we’re going out. You’ve got to assist me. I can’t manage by myself.”

He scrambled to his feet. “What the hell’s going on here? Is everyone on the move?”

“Just you and I. Come on, let’s beat it.”

He followed me like a robot and we ran upstairs, passing the guard room. He stopped to
gaze at the mess. “Did you do this?”
“Yes.”
 “Man, I’ll follow you wherever you go.”

I explained my next step. He obediently undressed and we changed into the apes
’uniforms.
We looked ridiculous. Both out-fits were baggy on our slender bodies and we had to tuck
them in. Lucky for me, the boots fit okay, and that was the most important thing.
We searched the pockets and found rolls of money and gold. I took a golden ring along.
“Bastards,” my partner said. “They took it from the dead.”
We found more stuff. From the desk drawer I picked up a penknife, some more small
change and, most important, a passport.
“Do you know the way to the gate?” I asked.
“Of course, I do. I’ve been there several times. Actually, now it ’s the best time to do it.”
I looked at the wall clock. It was 2:00 am.
Then I took a good look at him. He was about fifty, very skinny, with a ravaged, heavily
pocked face, a long salt and pepper beard, and hair to his shoulders.
“You’ll have to work on yourself first,” I said. “Cut your hair for starters — we can’t pass
by the guards this way.”
“No need to pass them,” he said, taking one of the sticks and trying it on an ape. It sizzled
and smoked.
“Great stuff,” he said respectfully. “Listen, I know a way out, across the kitchen. This is
the best time. You were lucky — they were bored. In two hours they’ll change shifts. So we
have plenty of time to slip out.”
I buckled on a pepper spray, just in case. Now I was ready.
We retraced our steps. We didn’t care about the screaming in the cells. My partner took
another door at the end of the corridor, which I hadn’t seen before. It wasn’t locked. We
entered a dark hallway with two doors, one leading to the kitchen, the other to the emergency
staircase.
“Why don’t we take the staircase?”
“No, it leads along the jailers’ rest room. We can’t take that.” He opened the kitchen door
cautiously and, once more, we were lucky. It was dark and abandoned. Moonlight poured into
the filthy room, cluttered with unwashed dishes.
“We’d better take some rations,” I said, and he nodded. We found several plastic boxes of
fresh dates. I collected a heap of them and stuffed them under my shirt. Then I remembered
how thirsty I was and opened a faucet, letting the water run into my mouth. I took a long time
before I was satisfied, while my companion jumped edgily from one foot to the other.
The water was lukewarm, but it tasted divine and it perked me up instantly.

“Now I ’m ready,” I said.

“Let’s get moving then.”

 He took another door and up we went, lit by faint bulbs. We reached the ground floor. The
entrance hall was deserted. My companion glanced at me. Sweat was beading on his brows.
“So far, so good. Now comes the tricky part. We’ll have to jump about nine meters down.”
I didn’t catch why we had to jump down. To my surprise, the windows had no bars. But,
then, this was no ordinary prison. I looked up at the moon, and the urge for freedom was so
fierce that my body started to shake uncontrollably.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “We’ve not been introduced.”
He grinned and put his hand in mine. “Jean Martin,” he said. A Frenchman, like Kaseem.
“Hassan Halker,” I said. “Originally John Halker.”
“Englishman, huh? I’ve seen them come and go here. They can ’t cope at all.”
He turned toward the window and studied the outdoors. “The building’s built on a kind of
a hump, and below there’s a spot that’s being used for things that can’t see the light of day. If
we jump, we’re practically out.”
He pulled the window latch cautiously. A cold breeze dried my sweat, and I greedily
inhaled the cool air.
Jean glanced at me. “For the best now. Be careful, it’s higher than you think.”

“Wait,” I said. “Hang on to my arms, I’ll help you go down.”

“Sounds good.”

He climbed over the windowsill and I helped him down. I let go of him and heard him
touch down. I peered out, but the wall opposite blocked the moonlight from my view. His
voice was subdued. “I ’m all right.”
Then I followed his example, swung for some time on one hand and let go. It seemed an
eternity, but I landed on both feet. Sand absorbed the shock. We stood in a dead-end alley
with trash cans and litter.
I watched Jean limping with an awkward feeling.
“You okay?” I mumbled. I knew this could mean trouble and I felt uneasy about it.
“No worries. Just pulled a string or something. It ’s worth it. Now, let’s get the hell out of
here. Stay on my tail.”
He started to run with a peg leg. I hoped he could stand the obvious pain. But anything was
better than being confined to hell. In my soldier days I had seen men run for their lives with
one foot hanging on shreds of skin, or both arms blasted.
We ended up at a small, blue-painted wooden door.
“The other side’s freedom.” Jean’s face was distorted with pain and strain.
I heard those enchanting words and pushed the door. A padlock held it closed.
“God, not this,” I moaned.
“Let me do it,” Jean said, and pushed me away. He studied the lock. It was old and rusty. If
we had the materials we could unlock it easily.
 He raised his head. I followed his example, looked up at the twinkling stars, the wonder of
the Milky Way shining before my eyes. The wall was about five meters in height.
“One of us must try to clear the wall in one leap.” I caught his drift. One of us should use
the other to jump the wall. The other needed to be strong enough to pull himself up. And what
if the lucky one left his partner behind? He read my mind. “We’ll stick together or die,” he
whispered, and he sounded sincere.
“I’ll push,” I decided. He nodded. He knew I was in better shape after he had seen my
stunt.

“You’re special,” he said. “You’ll be my guardian angel. I’ll stick to you like glue.”

I sank to one knee and grabbed his right leg, which made him moan and swear. Then he
pulled himself up and put his other foot on my shoulder. I raised him up and felt him
climbing. Then the pressure was gone and he was sitting astride the wall.
“Take my hand,” he muttered, and I reached for it. It took me three jumps before I could
take hold of the top and he almost lost his balance, but then I had my grip and we jumped
free.
Again he moaned as he came down and now I saw him limp quite clearly.
We were on the street, in a dazed mood, and still not anticipating our next move. We hid in
the shadows until I decided we had to go south to reach the railway station.
“Are you all right?” I asked. He nodded and felt his sprained ankle all over.
“Let’s go,” he said. “I don’t want to stay near this Godforsaken place. We must be far
away before the next shift comes on.”
We picked deserted streets and dark corners and slowly progressed by following the stars
due south, dodging the night patrols and late dwellers. Curfew was our ally. I enjoyed my
escape, and even the loss of my mother’s picture didn’t temper my revived mood. At a public
fountain I drank a lot of cool water. There we made a break and sat behind a bush. I took my
knife and started to cut off the uniform’s badges, then fell on Jean’s wild hairdo.
“Now we don’t look like some crooks any more,” he sourly said. “Now we look like
crooks on the run.”
By the time we arrived at the train station, Jean couldn’t keep pace with me any more. He
trailed after me, limping very hard, his face tight lipped and his strength diminishing by the
minute. I felt sorry for him. I could pretend to be an Arab, spoke the native tongue, and with
my beard and chopped off hand I could pass for some Bedouin vagabond.
But Jean was a Frenchman, picked up in a hasty arrest from a civilized life and dragged
along to an Arabia bound boxcar. He wasn’t fitted for this cruel country.
We halted for a while and, sitting in a dark street corner, took the time to eat our dates.
I asked him what he’d been charged with.
“I’ve done nothing,” he said, in a weary tone. “They picked me up from my lecture hall at
the Sorbonne. I’m an historian. I teach pre-Revolutionary history.”
“And so?”

“I’m charged with recidivism, as I had spoken badly about the Revolution.”
 “In what way?”

“All I did was explaining to my students that the old days weren’t so bad after all.”

I took a glance at him, that undernourished, ill-looking professor who had dared to criticize
the victors.
“And why did you do that?”
He didn’t reply at first. We got up again, crossed a small park with another fountain, where
I plunged my head into the water. He stood patiently waiting.
“The truth, my dear John,” he said, in a theatrical voice.

“Some can’t stand it, as you see.”

“And what did you tell your students?”

“I explained that the Revolution was the mere result of the weakening of Europe, both
militarily and spiritually. Nobody seemed to care any more about the European mission.”
“A mission?” I was curious now. I didn’t know Europe had a mission, for all that was
worth.
“A mission all right. Europe’s the cradle of western civilization. Without Europe, Arabia
wouldn’t exist any more.”
“I’ve heard otherwise,” I said, dryly. Everyone knew Europe was born from Arabia ’s
womb. When the night fell in, Arabia had oil lit streets. When Europeans were murdering and
plundering along, Arabians philosophized about life and death at their coffee tables. When
Europeans were still rocking along in their primitive coaches across decayed Roman military
roads, Arabs were crossing Africa, India, and as far away as China, negotiating and trading
and spreading the Word of God.
To our relief, we reached the railway station in one piece.

“If we can catch a train, we’ll be on our way.”

“No train,” Jean said, sounding afraid. “Too risky.”

“Before they know we’re gone, we’re out of town’s limits, and then we’ll see again.
Besides, you have a leg that won’t last.”
He had to agree and trudged after me, head bowed, and trying to overcome his sorrow. I
offered him support, but he declined. I was in a stew — we were sitting ducks to search
parties.
Yellow bulbs shone on us as we crossed the shunting yard. We reached a junction and
spotted a train on the move. It’s most logical destination was Damman, and that was actually
the place I was heading for.
The train was picking up speed. The tanker cars bumped against each other, loosening
again and, with increasing speed, pulled out eastbound. I started to run and managed to grab
onto a small ladder. I hoisted myself up and looked out for Jean. He was about four meters
behind, hobbling along with smoking breath, and I saw tears in his pained eyes. I stretched
out my hand and he tried to grab for it, but he was out of reach. The train was speeding up and
curving out, and Jean was about ten meters behind when I recognized that he wouldn’t make
it.
“Catch the last one,” I yelled, but my voice was carried away by the wind and the noise of
the bouncing cars. I clung to the door and kept my eyes fixed on Jean, who was desperately
chasing after me, his eyes wide opened with terror.
I had only one alternative, to jump off and go for another train, as we must stick together. I
had to make my decision now — in a minute it would be too late. But I couldn’t. My hands
were cramped and didn’t lost their grip. My eyes watered with the ice-cold wind slapping
around my face.
I managed to crawl to the back of an oil tank, where I found shelter in a small-railed
corner. I doubled up, in an attempt to hide from the squealing jet stream, and had barely room
to stretch my legs. As I huddled up, I didn’t think of Jean any more. I was too relieved to be
safe for now.
The train was going along at full tilt, and the wheels rumbled over the sleepers at a steady
speed. I estimated Damman was about three hundred miles ahead, so I had about four or five
hours left to think of my next step.
 Chapter 14

It was still freezing cold when the train started to slow down.

Dawn had come yet, but I decided it would be time to leave. I peered out into the pitch
darkness and sensed new odors. The Gulf was nearing.

I waited for the right moment and then jumped, right into a field of greenery. I rolled end
over end without injury. I had made it.
I discovered I was in the middle of a date plantation. I smelled the fine flavor of ripening
fruit and plucked a few off. They tasted delicious, and I ate like an animal, crawling, sniffing,
and grumbling with delight.
The cold was perceptibly going. In an hour the sun would be up. I had no idea how far
Damman would be, but that was less important, as I had another purpose in mind. First I
needed to reach the highway, which couldn’t be far away, as both road and railway followed
the route of an old caravan trail.
I kept up a stiff pace, crossing endless cultivated fields, and heading for human habitation.
Not long after, I heard the unmistakable throbbing of a northbound truck and spotted its
headlights. There it was — the Riyadh-Dhahran freeway.
When I reached it, darkness had faded, and I could distinguish the silhouettes of trees and
small cottages. Roosters were crowing, and dogs barking. The world came to life.
Road traffic was increasing fast. More and more tank lorries and gigantic fuel trucks were
driving on and off, spouting thick black smoke, and a heavy stench of gas fumes was in the
air. I got to a parking lot where I freshened up and tried to thumb a ride.
The driver seemed to be happy to have company, and he asked no questions about my
messy appearance. He was a dark man in oily overalls, with a grimy cap on his head. He skin
gleamed of cheap take away food.
He took me for a poor farmer, heading for a more lucrative job in the oil business. He did
the talking, which suited me fine. “So, my friend, you’re looking for a job?” he yelled over
the noise of the big engine.
“Yes,” I yelled back, with no further explanation. But that wasn’t necessary. He started to
talk about the oil business, and the amount of money you could earn.
“If you’re not picky, you may want to try Aramco — they pay well and don’t ask
questions.”

That was good. “I’m visiting my brother. He’s working as a driller.”

“I see.”

“Let’s see. I ’m due at Khobar in one hour. I could drop you off at the crossroad.”
“I’d appreciate that very much, sir. Thank you so much. May Allah protect you.”

As we merged with the coastline traffic, I automatically dodged for a police car passing us.
My driver grimaced at my reaction. “Don’t worry. They’re used to all sorts around here.”
 He headed his truck along the coast. We drove on the oil road, passing the refineries, and
further on to the ports. He explained to me that the business was full of people such as I. Poor
workers, without permission, but willing to work very hard and enabling them to sustain their
families.
“You have a wife?” he asked.

I weighted his questions from all sides.

“I do,” I said, thinking of Jane. Why her? I wasn’t sure.

“You want to earn enough money to have more?” he asked.

“Maybe,” I said, “if God wills.”

He stopped with squealing brakes and I jumped out.

“Hayyakallah,” I cried out, while trucks were thundering by. He yelled something back
and drove on, leaving me behind in a cloud of dust. I was the only pedestrian, and hurried
away from the swelling traffic along the freeway. Far away I saw the slim bridge leading to
Bahrain, the wealthy island.
The sun spread its warmth on me. I was in the open now and couldn’t hide any more.
Would they be after me? Everything was possible. Or they might file the incident and forget
about it. I was gambling they’d rather keep the lid on it.
I hurried to my new destination. I passed oil rig outfitters, saw the pipes, frames, derricks,
tanks, and all the signs that were pointing to Aramco, the seat of a quarter of the world’s oil
production. The Arabs had kept the old name for whatever reason. It was a modern building,
in dark glass and concrete, built inside a green compound with watch posts and uniformed
guards. Hundreds of white-collar workers drove on to the extensive parking lots. The number
of cars dazzled me, and I pondered Europe, with its restricted car traffic and limited fuel
consumption. Was all the wealth running to the Saudi?
The guards were fussily checking the incoming stream of employees and didn’t pay any
attention to me. I was out of place here, in my smudged clothes. I didn’t have any papers on
me, except for the stolen pass, which was of no use around here. They could run me in where
I stood, and I knew the Saudi weren’t soft on trespassers.
But I had to take the risk. I went to one of the guards, who was screening his visitor’s list,
and acted like an impressed oil worker in the wrong place.
I hid my left arm in my pocket. “I must see Mr. Khalaf Abdullah. It ’s very urgent.”
The guard threw a distained look at me, hesitating whether he would do me a favor or send
some bullies over. He decided on the first and took his receiver from the hook.
Another bridgehead was taken. After some minutes, a two-person electric car neared the
gate, carrying Khalaf ’s unmistakable figure, squeezed uneasily into the narrow vehicle. I felt
warm at the sight of my old friend. He was a small, corpulent man, with white balls of hair at
his temples, about forty-five of age, still cultivating his Brigade mustache, and for a minute I
was back in Cairo. He stared at me with astonished eyes, and I could see his shock, but then
he pulled himself together.
“Issalam alaykum, Hassan.”
 Before I could answer I stumbled and sank to my knees. I heard Khalaf yelling at the
guards. They picked me up and dragged me to their shelter, where I was given a glass of
water. I asked for another. Khalaf watched me patiently.
I returned his look. “Hello, Khalaf.”
“Al Hamdulillah —thanks be to God.”
I smiled and rose into a sitting position. “I ’m sorry to bother you like this, Khalaf.”
“How did you get here, in heaven’s name?” I had forgotten the way Khalaf would
interlard religious stuff with this conversation and I couldn’t help but smile again. I was in
good hands now.
“We’ve a lot to talk about,” he said in my place. “We’ll go to my house. I’ll call for my
car.”
He summoned one of the guards. His clear-cut authority impressed me. The old Brigade
man, who had once taught me all he knew, was still in him. He had found a new way of living
and had clearly managed well. Some people had all the luck.
The car came, a brand new Russian model. Khalaf dragged me into it and that was the last
thing I remembered. Within minutes we had left the coast for the country. No more oil
pipelines and the thick smell of crude — only greenery, palms and small, whitewashed
houses, Arabia’s peaceful backbone. I didn’t speak for a long time, and then my curiosity
won.
“Where are we?”

“Oh, you’re back. Great. We’ve arrived.”

He parked in front of a condominium type housing project.

My presence was definitely very visible in this small community. Bands of children
clustered around the car, and some kids started to throw stones at me, but Khalaf scattered
them away. He nearly dragged me, with a firm grip on my sound arm.
“So where are we?” I repeated. I felt very sleepy.
“I’m sorry. We’re in Qatif, my hometown. I’ve an apartment here. You’ll meet my family
and then you’ll take a good rest.”
Qatif, formerly a small fishing village in an oasis near the coast, had been on the drawing
table to be transformed into a dormitory town to meet the ever increasing demands of oil
workers for appropriate housing. But the population, mainly of the Shia belief, had resisted
and refused to let them in, proclaiming they had religious immunity. This had involved some
quarreling, and the intervention of the National Guard. Since then, Qatif was known as a
fervently religious community and wasn’t bothered any more. Foreigners and non-believers
were safely kept in Damman, where they could live their pagan lives and drill for oil.
That’s what I knew about this town. As it had turned out to be a kind of Shia fortress, the
Saudi didn’t like it and kept away from it. I was dried out and longing for a shot of cool water.
My skin was burning, and I had a splitting headache and a burning stomach twitched. The toll
was being paid now — I was on my way to a nervous breakdown.
Khalaf lived in one of the new blocks assigned to the true faithful ones. His apartment was
on the third floor. The building looked worn out, and showed a lack of maintenance.
 The elevator seemed to be out of order as well, and we had to climb all the way. The
stairway was empty, dusky and cool. I was so dead tired that it took me some time to reach
the floor, and Khalaf was calmly waiting for me at the door.
Inside, curtains were drawn against the sun. For some reason, my brain was playing tricks
on me. I had the impression I was back in my cell and I tried to get out, but Khalaf didn’t let
go of me, and pushed me down to his living room couch. My eyes didn’t focus well. I could
vaguely see some people running off and on, and I had the vivid impression they were
shouting at me.
Two women, likely mother and daughter, watched me from a safe distance, whispering
amongst themselves. The mother was dressed in the traditional black cloak, the girl in mixed
modern, scarf and jeans. I managed to grin. They disappeared.
“You wash up first and then we eat.”

“Thanks, Khalaf.”

I managed to get up and he helped me to his tiny bathroom. The tub was filled with hot
water. While I undressed, I wondered how lucky you can be .Hundreds of miles away from
death, and going to breakfast with a nice family, it seemed to me I had made it after all. It had
only taken me three corpses and a friend left behind.
I faced myself in the mirror and was startled. I now grasped why everyone was upset. I was
a living nightmare. My eyes were deep set, my jaws gaunt, and my beard was an overgrown,
hairy jungle. The rest of my body didn’t cheer me up, either. My skin was wrinkled, my
handless arm was blue and bleeding from small inlets, and I must have lost some ten pounds.
But I was still alive.
The hot water was both a torture and a blessing, and after some minutes I started to feel
human again. My feeling of weakness was gone and my energy grew by the minute. They
wouldn’t floor me yet, not with a little help from some friends. After my bath I started to cut
off my beard. It was an awkward operation, with just one sound hand to work with, but the
outcome was rewarding. I was becoming presentable at first blush. Those lovely Khalaf girls
wouldn’t be scared of me any more. I used a lot of lotion, a heavy stuff that would overcome
a camel’s stench. I inspected my teeth and saw one cutting tooth half broken, likely during the
fight last night. I brushed them with one of the toothbrushes. I cut off the overgrown hair at
the nape of my neck and then I was content. Good old Hassan Halker was back, along with
his fierce, mesmerizing stare. I welcomed him as a trusted, long lost friend. Khalaf had
supplied some clothes, a white shirt and brown trousers — leftovers from the time when he
was a lot slimmer — and they fit neatly. I picked up my old stuff, emptied the pockets, found
the golden ring, and stuffed the clothes into a trash basket, never to be seen again.
I entered the living room. Khalaf came out of the kitchen, still in his working outfit. He
looked me over and seemed to pleased.

“Sit down, old boy. Your meal’s coming in a minute.”

I dropped onto the bench.

“Now, tell me what’s happened to you.”

“Can I have a glass of water first?” My voice sounded stifled. “I’m not feeling too well.”
 He jumped to his feet, and hurried back to the kitchen. I took in the modern furnished
interior. It was the home of a well to do man, and I was a bit jealous. I heard Khalaf in the
kitchen talking in an agitated way, and I tried to remember how many good people I had been
bothering over the last months. I wondered how to pay them back.
Khalaf’s girl came in, bashful and shamefaced. She placed a glass on the low table in front
of me and then went off again. I got a quick glimpse of her. She was unbelievably beautiful.
A child on the verge of maturity, carefully protected from the world. She had a tanned skin, a
lean body, and dark , thick curls. Somehow, she looked more Oriental than her father, with
those almond shaped black eyes.
Khalaf came in, carrying a plate of food in his hands.
“Eat now,” he ordered. He poured two small cups of light coffee. I devoured the bread,
cold lamb and dates and didn’t talk for a while, my mind and body too much absorbed by the
chow from heaven. He respected my weariness and smoked a cigarette while observing me.
After I had finished, he started to question me. I knew I had to be fair to him. After all, he
could be of tremendous help to me.
“So, what brings you here? Homesickness? For old time’s sake?”
“First of all, I thank you and your family for your hospitality, Khalaf.”

He nodded. “Accepted.”

He presented me with a cigarette. It was an American one. I held it upright.

“That’s the reason I came here,” I said. “America.”

“Yes?”

“I must get in touch with someone in America.” Khalaf stared at me with inscrutable
eyes.» What’s so nice about the Block?”
I leaned over to him. “I escaped from some confinement in Riyadh. They’re after me,
Khalaf. High treason.” Khalaf looked startled and shuffled uneasily. “That ’s quite an
accusation.”
“It’s false, Khalaf. Someone’s playing dirty tricks on me. I’ve got to find out — orders
from the General.”
Khalaf came to life. “How’s the General nowadays?”
I gaped at him. “You don’t know he’s dead? Murdered?”

Now Khalaf was visibly disturbed. He quenched his cigarette and tried to conceal his
dismay.

“Since when?”

“About a couple of weeks ago. There’s another one at the helm and it’s not the same any
more.”
“That’s not good news — not at all.”
 We didn’t speak for a while. I heard the women at work in the kitchen, talking in low
voices. Probably they were talking about me. I hoped they would keep their mouths shut.
“You seem to do well,” I said.
“I’m an executive security officer,” he answered, with some professional boasting.

“Really? With Aramco?”

“That’s right.”

“How did you manage to get in? The Saudi aren’t so happy with people like us.”

“They had to choose between me and some outlander.”

“I see. So they picked one of their own kinds.”

“Don’t tempt me, Hassan. I ’m not in a great mood today. You’ve put me in an awkward
position.”

“I apologize, Khalaf — I didn’t mean to. What are you going to tell your family?”

“I’ve already explained that you’re a former student of mine, and that you were lost in the
desert.”
“Nice lie.” A lie is simply a twist of the truth..

“So, try to stick to my story, shall we.”

I tipped my cup and Khalaf refilled it. Before I could go on, his daughter came in, carrying
a dish of cookies. I stared at her furtively, and once more was struck by her chaste figure. She
set the dish graciously on the table, glancing at me for a second with a shadow of a smile
before she ran off.
“Salma’s only seventeen, you know,” Khalaf said, and it sounded like a word of warning.
“I ’m sorry, Khalaf. It’s been ages since I’ve led a normal life.”

“She’s spoken for.”

“I imagine. Take good care of her. If something would come to a bad end, it could affect
you and your family.”
I grabbed Khalaf’s elderly attention instantly. “Right. So what can I do for you?”
“For starters, I’d like to talk to you in private.”
“You’re right. When you’re fit again, we can go for a walk and you can tell me everything
I ought to know.”
I didn’t feel fit. In fact, someone seemed to be banging my head against a wall, and my
stomach had switched to vomiting mode.
Khalaf saw my desperation. “I suggest you take a good nap before we go into the matter.”
“All right, Khalaf. Forgive me if I ’m a burden to you.”
 My eyelids were heavy and the fatigue was starting to get me. I saw him getting up.
“Stay put. I’ll go back to work again. I’ll be back at 2:00, and then we’ll have plenty of
time to talk.”
“Okay, Khalaf.” Now I truly felt run down. I closed my eyes and instantly fell into a deep
sleep.
I woke up, finding myself on a settee bed. They had done their best to accommodate me
with traditional Arabian hospitality. I still had my borrowed clothes on, and was relieved that
they hadn’t exposed me in full. Khalaf stood near me, watching me while I ate a sandwich.
“So, how are you now?”

I felt remarkably better and sat up. The rest had done wonders.

“I’m all right now. Let’s go for that ride.”

I jumped up and he showed me a grin.

“You’re a devil, you know. A real genie, you are — a mahnun spirit.”

“Keep in mind I’m a desert fox, Khalaf, and so are you. Besides, I earned my title thanks
to you.”

We left the apartment. The sun was shining fiercely. The village, though clearly not one of
those wealthy seaside oil towns, now looked more cheerful. We strolled across a dirt pathway,
along the edge of a prosperous plantation.
Qatif profited from the vast oasis of Al Hasa, once a role model of the Saudi economic
boom. After the Revolution, it had lost its status and was now one of many, created by those
foreigners who had fled the country with the upheaval of religious rigor. We got into his car.
“You seem to do all right,” I said. Khalaf turned the key and we drove off.
His behavior was that of an aging man. This wasn’t the Khalaf I had known before — that
vital man who believed in the course of history, and who had crammed us for our mission
work. Well, we all change. That’s a biological fact, and you can ’t fight it.
We drove in silence for about five miles up the coast. Then we merged with coast traffic
and I sensed a sea breeze. We were heading west, toward the Gulf again.
“Where are you taking me?”

“The shore. There we can talk undisturbed.”

“I don’t have any papers whatsoever, so let’s be prudent.”

“We will, don’t worry. This community doesn’t fink.”

“Do the Saudi make it difficult for you?”

“They’re trying to isolate us. You know how bitter they were after the Gulf wars. Anyway,
we ’re doing all right for now. And we have certain means.”
“You’re saying the oil business?”
 He nodded and steered onto a narrow asphalt road. “A couple of years back they agreed
that we had some rights to the oil profits. After all, it’s our land they’re making the money
from.”
“Can you travel freely?” I asked.

“I’ll tell you when we arrive.”

I didn’t ask further, feeling it wasn’t the right time. We stopped opposite Tarut Island. I
noticed we were alone, the site being something of a holy place to the Saudi. Khalaf didn’t
make any attempt to leave the car, so we sat and smoked and looked over the Gulf waters.
“Before the Revolution, the Americans controlled the Gulf,” Khalaf explained. “It was like
a wedge between east and west. They divided Islam into pro and contra, and that’s why it
took us so long to act united.”
“What’s happening with the oil now?”
“We control nearly 40% of the market — our crude price is about half cheaper than the rest
of the world.”
“So, oil is now in the hands of Islam.”
My statement took him by surprise. He looked at me with a grimace. “You could say that.
I’ve never though this way. Oil ’s always been a political instrument, and now it’s working
for us.”
I was in the mood to step out of the car and into the open air. “I’d like to leave the car, if
that’s alright with you.”
“Why not, let’s go for a stroll.”

We descended a slope and headed for a small bay, overlooking the brown Gulf. A rusty
bulk carrier passed by, throwing huge rollers off its stern.
We sat under the shadow of a palm and Khalaf ran sand through his fingers. He followed
the tanker’s steady course with a faraway look.
“You haven’t told me why you’re being pursued.”
“Are you still working for the service?” I wanted to make out that first. He shook his head.
“That’s history, old boy. I’m married with children, as you can see, and I’m not getting any
younger.”
I was relieved he was out of the business. It meant that I could speak more freely.
“Listen to me, Khalaf. Something’s in the air. I don’t know what, but I have a clue. It ’s
coming your way. It ’s growing like fungus, and if not stopped it could mean the end of
Islam.”
I used strong language, but it worked. I had his attention. I knew religion was his breath of
life. He was a member of a group of fanatic believers in the religion of Ali, with important
global connections.
“I’m interested,” Khalaf said, sitting up straight. I inhaled the smoke of my cigarette and
wished I had a kola stick with me.
 “For what it’s worth, I found out that the Arabs are taking people away from their home
countries. I know they did it in France, Spain and Poland. I don’t know where they ’re taking
them, but all signs point in this direction.”
“Why should they do this?”
“I don’t know yet. I can’t go back to my old beat any more. They ’re waiting for my neck.”

“Who do you want to call for help, then?”

“Someone gave me a phone number. It’s in America. It seems I ’m to call this number for
help, or whatever. I know that you at Aramco have your own phone exchange system, so it
shouldn’t create a situation for you.”
He was heads-up, and could barely hide his anxiety. “Where did you get this phone
number?”

“I don’t think I want to jeopardize the operation, not at this stage anyway,” I said, looking
away from him.

Khalaf stroked his lip and picked at his mustache. “You’re asking a lot for someone who
’s escaped a certain fate,” he said. He was clearly struggling with his conscience.
“I know. As you said before, for old time’s sake.”
“And you want to save the world on your own. Don’t you think you ’re overdoing it a
little?”
“Every faithful has its own jihad, Khalaf. You should know.”
Khalaf grinned. “Yes, but the days of glory are over. The Revolution ’s growing old, and
so are we.”
I dug the golden ring from my pocket. “I want to return the favor. You saved my ass. Here,
take this — call it a token of my gratitude. If you don’t want it, then it ’s my contribution to
Salma’s dowry.”
He took the ring without grumbling. “Thank you then, on behalf of Salma.”

He got up and flicked the sand from his pants. “I’ll see for that phone number.”

We drove back. He seemed to be preoccupied, and I respected his mood.

Before we entered the building, he came to a halt and made eye contact. “You can’t stay
here too long — people will talk. I’ll see if I can smuggle you out of the country. For old time
’s sake.”
“Heaven will be your reward, Khalaf.”
“Don’t make light of it, Hassan. It ’s not a game any more.”
The apartment was empty, as the ladies seemed to be out. We changed shoes for sandals
before entering the living room. “They’re probably shopping for tonight’s dinner now,”
Khalaf said. “We’ll have a good one, in your honor. Now I ’m going to freshen up. Make
yourself comfortable.”
I sat on the bench, piled up some pillows, and found a remote control between the
cushions. I zapped from one TV station to another. A lot of propaganda clips, traditional
singing and dancing, and the occasional taunting of enemies. I wondered if anyone at all was
watching this tedious and familiar stuff. The League provided its nations with nearly a
hundred channels, all from Islamic countries, but I noticed that Khalaf had subscribed only to
Turkish and a local Shia station.
No sign of the women yet, when Khalaf came back, neatly brushed. He watched my
zapping for a moment.
“At the plant we can watch American TV. The national broadcast.”
He carried glasses of cold camel milk. He sat next to me and we watched a game between
the Saudi and a team of Filipinos. Then I shut off the TV set.
“Tell me about America, Khalaf,” I asked.
Khalaf struggled with words. “I don ’t know what you want. If you cut the scorn, it seems
to be a peaceful part of the world.” He smiled. “You’re so interested?”
“It’s that phone number,” I explained. “I wonder what it will tell us.”
I used the ‘us ’willfully, as I wanted him to be personally involved, and I knew he’d like
that.
“We’ll soon find out. Now I’m off. Be back in an hour. I’ve told the ladies how to deal
with you. Don’t be offended if you’ll be on your own a lot. We’re not the social types.”
He left, and for a while I was on my own. The women had returned. I listened to the
rattling pans and cutlery in the kitchen. I picked up the remote again, and watched a theatrical
arrangement of Ibn al Faryd ’s poetry, but its beauty didn’t strike me any more. It was the
same thing over and over again. No renewal — the revolutionary spirit had gone, as Khalaf
had stated. .Society was revolving in its own conceited world, unconcerned with what was
going on abroad. An inert society persuaded of its own divine rights. The same attitude that
once caused the end of Arabian domination ages ago. They’ll never learn.
Then the girl appeared at the doorway. Her long, black hair hung sensuously along her jaw.
She spoke softly and her words were like honey.
“Father’s back. We can eat now — please follow me.” I got up and followed her to the
kitchen. Khalaf was already seated at the kitchen table and his wife, still in her abaya, was
cooking at an electric stove.
Salma placed dishes and seasoned bowls of salad on the table, and then sat down in front
of me. I smiled to her and she drooped her eyelids. Her mother didn’t join us, which didn’t
surprise me, as I had met with Khalaf ’s strict social rules. I wouldn’t dare to even ask her for
her name.
So the three of us ate one of the best meals I ever enjoyed. We ate the traditional way, with
our fingers, eyes skimmed on the food and left hand out of the way, which suited me fine. We
didn’t speak a lot. Khalaf told some stories from work, which I listened to with half an ear.
Though I was on pins and needles, I couldn’t ask him about his findings, and he made no
attempt of telling me either, which was understandable given the situation.
We had small dishes of humus and mutton, followed by a large bowl of white rice,
different salads, grilled mutton and bread slices. I at with concentration, knowing this could
be the last delicious meal for some time to come.
Khalaf and I left the kitchen for the sitting room. We made ourselves comfortable. It was
getting dark outside. He flicked the switch of a small naked bulb. It produced long shadows
and an oriental atmosphere of mystery and secrecy, turning the room into a warm shelter.
 I could wait no longer. “So, what have you discovered?”
“I haven’t made the call yet. Instead, I’ve invited an American.”
I looked at him with surprise.
“You have Americans at the plant. How come?”
Khalaf rubbed his nose. “It ’s simple. We have an American shipping company, run by
Jews, who know their way around. They live a solitary life, but being a security officer I can
edge them on without suspicion.”
“And?”

“And someone’s interested and will pay us a visit later in the evening.”

“I thought all Americans had fled the country after the Revolution.”

“They keep buying our oil. Business as usual. It’s not something the League blaze about.
Since the Revolution the Americans have switched to other energy sources, such as hydrogen
and electric vehicles. So the Saudi are glad to get rid of their stockpiles. It’s not like the old
days any more.”
I bent closer to him and him straight in the eye. “Can he rustle up something for me? The
American, I mean?”
Khalaf folded his hands. “Not so fast, I’ve something to say. I was brooding over it,
whether I ’d tell you or not. But you’d find out anyway.”
He brought his face closer to mine. “After the Revolution, which as you know didn’t
include Turkey at first, some Kurds started to set up a kind of escape line to Syria. It was
meant to get political prisoners out of the country. Nowadays it’s all ancient history, but the
line’s still there. And sometimes we still use it.”
“We?”
“That’s right, we. This village is a transit junction. That’s why you’re in a relatively safe
position.”
“The old wolf hasn’t lost its teeth.” I was really pleased that Khalaf hadn’t turned into
some docile civilian on his secure way to retirement.“ So you’ll be sending me to Syria.”
“That’s not what I had in mind, Hassan. Just wait and see.”
I took his hand and pressed it firmly.
He seemed to be bothered by my rash attitude. “That is, as long as you don’t endanger our
plans.”
“Don’t worry, Khalaf, I have nine lives.” But I wondered how many I had been spoiling
away lately.
Then it was time for Khalaf to fetch his mysterious guest. I heard his car driving away and
asked myself what to do in the meanwhile. The bell, in the shape of the girl, saved me. Salma
came in. She set a plate of fresh fruit on the table and, without raising her face, she whispered
that her mother wanted to talk to me.
I was surprised. I had come up with the idea that the mistress of the house was even more
fanatic about her religious position than her husband, and that she was happy in her seclusion.
 “Shall I go to the kitchen?”
“Please do. Mother doesn’t want you to be trapped with us.” I could see her point.
I stood up and followed her. To my surprise, the mistress was now dressed in plain, casual
clothes. No scarf or cloak, either — just a white blouse and a long, knitted skirt, in which she
looked very attractive. The most unexpected thing about her were her features. She was a
genuine Asian woman, and now I knew where Salma got her looks.
“Don’t worry, Hassan, I ’m not so obsessed as my husband.” He voice was smooth and
melodious, and her Arabic nearly flawless. How had this good looking woman got so tied up
in Khalaf ’s life?
I felt uneasy with this new situation. I didn’t like the idea that Khalaf ’s wife was leading a
double life behind his back. She seemed to read my mind. “I ’m Khalaf ’s second wife. His
first wife divorced him.”
“All right, sayedah Abdullah, I ’m listening.”
Her hands trembled, and she looked upset. Somehow, I felt sorry for her.
“I’d like you to know that before the Revolution I had been a Taiwan MP. I met Khalaf
during a seminar in Teheran, and we fell in love. Later on I learned he was politically
involved with the Shia. At first he wasn’t much of a fanatic, but then, after a bomb outrage
that killed several of his friends, he started to change. I don’t buy his story about you being an
Egyptian officer stranded in the desert. You’re here for a purpose that involves Khalaf.”
She was a clever lady.

“I won’t deny this, sayedah, but I won’t tell you about it. It would mean danger to you and
Salma.”

“I see. Would you like some tea?”

She poured steaming tea into our cups. We drank in silence.

“About Salma — I’d like you to take her with you.”

I gaped at her and almost choked on my tea. “What?”

“I’m telling you, I want you to take Salma out of the country.”

“Why, in heaven’s name?”

“Because she’s already in great danger. Don ’t contradict me, please. I’ve made up my
mind.”

She looked very determined indeed. I wondered what she would do if I refused.

“You’re asking something that’s not realistic, Mrs. Abdullah. I don’t know how on earth I
can take a young girl along. I don’t know the dangers yet, But believe me all right, it’s dead
certain there will be lots of trouble.”
She didn’t seem to pay any attention to my warnings and went on to bear down on me as if
I was some retarded pupil. “Look at me, Hassan. What do you see? Since America left us, the
 Saudi attitude toward women has become unbearable. Especially to foreigners. We’re
being sent back to the Middle Ages.”
“That’s not true — I must disagree,” I protested. “Woman have equal rights in all League
countries. You have universities and …”
She chimed in, and I sensed sadness in her voice. “I don ’t want Salma to grow up like this.
She’s been spoken for. Khalaf has made the arrangements without my knowledge. I don’t
want that to happen.”
“So why don’t you talk it over with your husband?” She hung back, staring into an abyss
of sadness. Then she lifted her head to show her tears forming.
“I’ll leave him before time, Hassan. And I would take Salma with me if I could. I can’t
bear the thought of leaving her behind.”
“Look here, Mrs. Abdullah. If Salma wants to stay with her father, that will be her
decision. I can’t be involved in family affairs.”
“Tell Hassan what you want, Salma.”

Salma stood before us, a small, slender girl, innocent and unaware.

“I’d like to go to America.” She had clearly made up her mind.

“What’s so great about America that you’d risk your future?”

“They’ll destroy me here.” she answered, and I sensed the despair in her voice.
“But why would you leave? You can go to university. Just because you’re a woman
doesn’t mean you can’t live up to your dreams.”
Salma shook her head. Under that timidity, I sensed her mother’s stolid eyes and her
father’s tenacity.
“We’re no Arabs, Hassan. They won’t accept me.”
Her mother interrupted our conversation. “Hassan, you don’t know what’s going on here
— and everywhere in the League. There are new laws regarding foreigners, which in Saudi
context means everyone who’s not genuine Arab. It ’s a tribal thing, Hassan. If you ’re not
part of some clan, you’ll be leading the life of a slave.”
“Is this affecting your life?” I asked, and at the same time realized how pointless my
question was.
“Khalaf doesn’t fight it,” she replied. “I think he’s happy with it.”

I wasn’t happy with it either. “And what if I refuse?”

They glanced at one another.

“Then I’ll have to turn you in,” Mrs. Abdullah said, in a stern voice.

I had no idea what she knew about me.

I turned the ball back. “And what if I shop you to Khalaf?”

“You won’t. You couldn’t bear to hurt him.”

 How right she was. We were so vulnerable, with our damned code of honor.
I tried to look at another angle. “Let’s assume I take Salma along. How will I explain that
to the organization in charge?”
“Don’t worry about that. Salma will be there at the right time.”
She was beating about the bush, and that annoyed me. I had other issues to come, that
involved my own security, and Salma was not included. Still, I decided to play along, come
what may.
“Okay, you’ve convinced me, at this point. But it ’s understood she won’t get in my way
when things go to pieces.”
“Nothing will go wrong. We trust you.”
I was touched by her confidence. She was about to hand over her daughter to some figure
with a dark past and an uncertain future.
“What will happen once we arrive at our destination?” I asked..

“Salma will have a place with relatives of mine.”

“We’re not going to Taiwan, Mrs. Abdullah.”

“I know.” She made no attempt to go into it, and I didn’t either. She took the teapot,
freshened our tea, and we ate cookies and chocolate. I felt at ease with these two women. I
spoke about my past, and they seemed to be mesmerized by my shoptalk, though it could just
be a pose to set me at ease.
Then we heard Khalaf’s voice outside, and the women suddenly got up and disappeared.
I walked back to the sitting room, where I found him in the company of another man. He
had brought back a short, stubby man with Semitic features. He was balding, had an olive-
colored, round face with a beak of a nose, thick lips, and a double chin. He wore an expensive
business suit and a flawless white shirt and blue tie. He jumped up and stretched out his hand.
“Baum.”

His voice was loud and energetic, his grip firm. His hands were flecked with brown spots.

Khalaf introduced him further. “Mr. Baum works at the plant and mediates with the United
States civilians, and he’s interested in what you’ve told me.”
I didn’t ask about Mr. Baum’s credentials. I could see that he had something to do with
intelligence. It wouldn’t surprise me if I’d find he was with the C.I.A.. It takes one to know
one.
The fact that he was American was enough for me. My heart jumped, knowing things were
picking up again.
 Chapter 15

Baum, whose first name I never knew, turned out to be the most persistent interrogator I
had ever run into in my career. We started by 9:00 p.m.. The coffee table was loaded with a
plate of goat cheese and American biscuits, Baum’s own contribution to our meeting. Khalaf
brought in a trolley with an electric coffee machine and poured three small cups.
Baum didn’t need intimidation or degrading ways to retrieve his information. I recognized
a pro. His routine was all too well formed to leave it to improvisation. He first drew a small
cellular phone from his pocket, which impressed me a lot. If he had his own phone, he must
be at the top of things.
He started by asking the usual — my name, date of birth and service number, and then
phoned someone to pass along my ins and outs. He listened for some seconds and smiled
faintly, looking relieved. At this point, he left off his uncommunicative attitude and became
more intimate with me. I seemed to have passed my first test.
Feeling fit, I was willing to undergo his treatment, provided it would lead me to my
freedom.
Khalaf sat withdrawn from the light and observed me without emotion. He had lost the
initiative, and looked more at ease now. We drank a lot of coffee, and my mind was clear and
sharp.
“Right, Hassan, or, if you don’t mind, I’d like to address you as John. If everything goes
according to plan, you will leave your past behind. John would be a great name to start over
with.”
I glanced at Khalaf’s disappointed face. He knew he was losing a friend, and a part of his
life. I wondered how he’d react if he also found out about his women.
Baum asked for a glass of water. We awaited Khalaf ’s return in silence. I had my fourth
smoke and watched the insects dancing around the naked light bulb. We looked like some
renegades, planning our next revolution.
Baum drank half his water and smacked his lips.

“Why were you involved with Rabinov?”

His first question was a blow to my face. I had been certain about my cover.

“How did you know?”

Baum dismissed my question with an impatient gesture. “I ’m posing the questions, if you
don ’t mind. We know a lot about you, John. Don’t underestimate us and what we stand for.”
I was curious to know what he stood for, but didn’t ask twice.
I was learning my lesson fast. And who was ‘we,” anyhow?
“President Rabinov wanted me as his liaison officer during the Odessa Conference.”
“Right. What did you discover with your job there?”
“Nothing much. He was killed before I could found out anything.”
“And what were you looking for?”
 His questioning technique was very much to the point, and he was a good listener.

“Nothing special, only what my … the General was asking for...”

“I know he died the same was Rabinov did.”

“How did you know?”

Again I was surprised he knew about it.
“As I said before, John, we know a lot of things. I know you were hit by the same weapon
as Rabinov and the General.”
For the first time I heard the word ‘weapon.’ Not bomb or rocket — just a weapon, and
that could mean anything. He asked me who and why they were after me. I had no clue, I
replied in honesty. Even Azybey didn’t seem to fit the picture anymore.
“I don’t know,” I said. I felt quite moody and sullen. Baum, on the other hand, seemed to
be in great shape. His eyebrow lifted, waiting for a better answer.
“I was aiming for operation SAHRA.”

Baum shoved in the bench and looked relieved.

“Right. Now we’re getting somewhere. Let ’s talk about SAHRA.”

He filled our cups and watched the smoke of my cigarette spiraling up.
“SAHRA’s the code name for an operation that involves millions of people. I’ve
discovered they ’re spread out all over Europe, and particularly in the southern parts. I don’t
know why. But I definitely know people are being taken away from their homes and
disappearing without a trace.”
“Nacht und Nebel.” Baum’s German phrase, meaning ‘Night and Shroud’, sounded
ominous, enhanced by the gloomy atmosphere.
He jumped up and started to pace, his fists in his pockets. “During World War II, millions
of Jews were taken away by the Nazi commandos and put away in Vernichtungsläger —
death camps. They were gassed, burned and wiped from the face of the earth.”
I understood what he meant by ‘Night and Shroud’: people vanishing without leaving a
single trace, as if they had never existed on earth.
His words were so sinister that Khalaf and I sat silently staring at him. Baum swept the
sweat from his forehead. “You haven ’t any other clues about SAHRA?”
I shook my head.
He gazed at me, waiting for more, and then I perceived some light in the darkness.
“Wait a minute; I nearly forgot what I was being chased about. They were after me
because I knew too much — or so it seemed.”
“Who was chasing you?”
“Some MI2 officers.”

“Did you get away with vital information?”

 “I think they believed I had discovered what SAHRA meant, so they had to get rid of me.”
“But you managed to escape?”
“I did. Not without trouble.” I lifted my left arm to show him the result.
“I ’m sorry,” Baum said. He licked his lips deliberately. Maybe he just assumed my story
was a bit farfetched. When I thought about it, there was much ado about nothing. I hadn’t
found anything, just lost a limb.
Nevertheless, Baum seemed to enjoy that fact I was gradually seeing the light.
“They’re using Triple-R to sort out the proper people for the League’s purpose.” He
explained.
“To fill the vacuum left by the foreigners,” I said, struck by the evidence. and Baum
nodded affirmatively.

“That’s what we think.”

Again the ‘we.’

“So you knew it all along.”

“We weren’t sure of it, but now we have a good indication, thanks to you.”

I didn’t like what he said. Again, Baum read my mind. “Listen here, John. We need you to
be a primary witness. We know a lot of things, but you have to collaborate.”
“All right, but you’re accusing the League of Nazi practices.”
“It’s all real, John. I can’t prove it yet, but that’s just a question of time.”
I turned to Khalaf. “What do you think, Khalaf? Do you accept these allegations?”
Khalaf looked unhappy, huddled in his chair. He must have known it long before — this
appalling truth he couldn’t share with his family.
“Khalaf has his reasons to go along,” Baum said in his place.
I kept staring at Khalaf.
“You’re collaborating, Khalaf? You want to swindle your own people?” I cried out
furiously, and clenched the armrest with my healthy hand until it began to crack.
Baum throttled down. “Let ’s drop the subject for a while. I ’d like to know from first hand
about SAHRA. What was your task with MI2 in Moscow?”
Baum knew enough about my work there, but he wanted to hear it from my lips.
I had no choice and started to tell him about the ‘hard way’ interrogations.
“Those poor women are deported without further ado. They ’re being tortured, just for the
fun of it, and when their spirit ’s broken, they’re shipped away to live on like slaves.”
“Go on,” he urged.
 “It was a kind of conveyer belt, an assembly line,” I continued. “We had our daily
contingent of suspects. Our principal task was to break their will to the point they were ready
for shipment. That ’s all I know about the operation.”
“As it was with the Jews.” Baum listened with his head in his hands.

“Why do you always make comparisons with the Jews?” I asked him.

He lifted his head and I saw his eyes blink, as if he was fighting tears.

“In 1944, most of my ancestors were gassed in Poland. The Nazis had broken their will
after endless harassment, by separating the family and transporting them to camps and
destroying their personality. When facing the ovens, they had lost their will to live.”
“It’s not the same thing,” I tried to disprove Baum’s innuendo, but I knew I was fighting a
losing battle. We calmed down. Khalaf had got up to peer through the curtains, as if he were
expecting visitors.
“Shouldn’t you decide now, Baum?” he asked.

Baum shook his head.

“I want John to be one hundred percent certain that he wants to cross over.”

“Why?” I asked..

“You’re important to the United States. It’s up to you. If you’re up to facing the
consequences, I’ll see that you have a safe passage to America.”
America wasn’t exactly what I had in mind — but I’d be glad to have a hideaway
somewhere out of Arabia.
“You can’t stay in League territories,” Baum went on. “They’ll hunt you down and kill you
like an animal.”
Somehow I assumed I was still a member of Intelligence, and if I encountered the right
man I’d be rehabilitated. But Baum had all things considered.
“You know there’s been a turn at Intelligence. Your general’s been killed, and we ’re
pretty sure we know who was responsible for it.”
I was right awake now. “Who did it?”

“I can’t talk now; it’s classified, as you should know. Only after we ’re in protected
surroundings — then you’ll have the full story.” Baum was definitely defying me, working
hard to pull me over to the other side, and he was very good at it.
“Now,” he went on, “I need some more information — anything, even if it sounds trivial.”
I tried to spout more detail, and then my eyes lighted on the bottle of mineral water.

“The water.”

“Go on.”
 “There’s something about water.” I repeated. “When I was in jail another of the inmates
told me they were taking the water. Whatever it meant. But he sounded very serious.”
Baum exchanged glances with Khalaf, and then his whole attitude changed.
“I knew it,” he muttered. “I knew it.”
I didn’t ask what he knew. I just felt tired of the whole muddle. Baum jumped up, took his
phone along, and left for the kitchen.
I glimpsed at Khalaf, who seemed rather displeased by the way the interrogation was
dragging on.
“It looks like he’d take me to America, Khalaf.” Khalaf nodded.
“You’re too valuable to stay here. I wish I could keep you, when things start to happen.”
“What’s going to happen, Khalaf?”
He didn’t answer, avoided my eyes and looked like he had said too much.
“If we’re not going to see each other again, I think you ought to come clean with me. After
all, it ’s my neck.”
Khalaf seemed to arouse from a bad dream. “You’ll be safe. You don’t have to worry
about your future, Hassan. I’ll be stuck here and my family will have to endure hard times.”
“Why, Khalaf?”
He lingered over my question, but then gave vent to his bottled up frustrations. “Hassan,
remember our talk yesterday? You ’re right — there’s going to be a war soon.”
So my forebodings were right after all.

“But that’s all you ought to know, Hassan.”

“It’s between you and the Saudi?”

“I won’t discuss it, Hassan.”

Baum came back, looking much anxious. He plopped down, the rhythmic digital beeping
of his phone hitting us aggressively. “So what is it about the water?” I asked, somehow
perturbed by his theatrical gestures.
“Oh, right. Sorry, let me explain.” He put the phone down and stretched his back.
He started on a lecture about new water reservoirs set deep in the desert, the Rub ’al-Khali
quarter, which had been spotted about 40 years before the Revolution. They offered a
tremendous water supply to the newly constructed areas, and provided the basic elements for
this modern Arabian Eden. But it had a nasty side effect — it dried up the subsoil, which
effect was visible along the Mediterranean. It was a real environmental scandal, but nobody
seemed to care. The Saudi were acting dumb, and didn’t bother. It was the usual ruler ’s tactic
of denial and hushing up. I was a bit disillusioned. I had expected more.
“They couldn’t care less,” I said, meaning the Saudi government.
“True,” Baum answered. He looked happy, as if he had struck an unexpected gold mine.
 “You know, John. This water thing will be the last straw.” He was speaking in riddles
again.

I dropped the subject. “I need to know something else, Mr. Baum.”

“Shoot.”

“I want to know about the fireballs. I mean the weapon that killed Rabinov and the
General.”

“And ended the Conference,” Baum finished. “Okay, John, I ’m going to level with you
now. The weapon was an American prototype. Some organized crime syndicate stole it. We
suspect either the American or Russian Mafia. We’ve had no clues up until now, but we’ve
lost five of the prototypes. Four of them have been used, so there’s still one on the loose.”
He described, in crisp words, how it worked. It looked like a 7.35 mm bullet, with a
computerized head — a sort of miniature rocket that could be programmed at a certain point
and time.
“Since then, the C.I.A. is developing a new type, and it’s a promising revolution in
weapons technology.” He stopped. The C.I.A. — again this link with Jane.
“What’s the relationship with SAHRA?” I asked, in wonder. The fact that the Mafia was
involved opened up a wider scale of perspective. Since the Revolution, the League had taken
on the once powerful Russian Mafia. It had fled Russia and the rest of Europe. That was one
of the League ’s major victories, which had established a moral consensus, and some
enlightened politicians spoke of a new era, where crime would be wiped out.
“Actually, the League couldn’t deal with the Mafia either, so it kept it in a secured
environment. It let it migrate to America and Asia,” Baum explained.
I knew all about that. And I knew something better. The Mob was still in Russia, making
deals with the government.
“The Mafia has fraternal ties with its colleagues abroad,” I said. “So, again, what about
SAHRA?”
Baum was clearly ill at ease with my obstinacy.
“From what we know, they’re handling the operational side. They ’re acting like raiders,
taking care of transport and providing warders for the labor camps. That ’s their contribution
to SAHRA.”
“And, naturally, they’re well rewarded,” I added. In what way? Free access to the drugs
and prostitution markets? Now things were starting to fall into place. There was one thing,
though.
“Is Intelligence involved with the Mafia?”
Baum hung back and then nodded. Another issue classified. So there it was, the whole
scheme: Intelligence, the crime syndicate and the Saudi working together, each with their own
intentions, and forming a formidable power, capable of getting millions of people on the
move. I knew I couldn’t know all the details about this gigantic operation, and actually wasn’t
that curious about it. It was well over our heads, as Khalaf had stated.
 Baum interrupted my thoughts. He turned to Khalaf. “By the way, Khalaf, I left my
notebook at the plant. Would you mind getting to fetch it? You know I don’t like to drive, and
I want to have a word with John in private.”
It sounded peculiar to me, but Khalaf didn’t find it unusual. He looked rather relieved to
find that he could be of some help and left the apartment. Baum watched Khalaf ’s departure
through a slit in the curtains and, as soon as the car drove off, he turned to face me, hardly
able to control his emotions.
“Listen carefully, John,” he said in a low voice. “W don’t have a great deal of time. Before
we continue, we need one last proof that you’ll be equal to work for us.”
I gazed at him in wonder. Hadn’t I betrayed enough of my roots?
“I know it’s a lot to ask, John, but we need a final test.”
I sighed, felt resigned. “What do you want from me?”
He paused for a moment, doing his impression of a C.I.A. director who was saving the
world.
Then he took a deep breath. “I ’d like you to blow up the Bahrain satellite tracking
station.”
He watched my reactions intently.
“Great,” I said. “You want it done now?”
He didn’t react to my jeers. His expression was cold, and in clear contradiction to his round
features.
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
There it was. If I volunteered, it would not only give me a free passage to America but
also, to me personally, it would mean a late revenge for my father ’s death, and that cunning
Jew knew that as well.
I tried to not to sound too eager. “So, what do you want me to do?”
He drew a tiny tube from his breast pocket and passed it over. I weighed it in my palm. It
had the shape of a matte black, two inch long and one inch diameter pipe. I noticed a screw
top.
“Time bomb?” I asked, and he nodded.
“Three full turns clockwise and then get the hell out of there. It ’s already set up, so don ’t
try it now.”

“Where do you want me to put it?”

“How’s your pitching?”

“What?”

“How far can you throw?”

“About average, I suppose.”

 “That’s fair enough. I want you to throw it into the main dish. You can’t miss —it’s fifty
meters across.”

“Why don’t you simply drop a bomb on the island?”

“That has also crossed our minds,” Baum affirmed, in sober sincerity. “But we can ’t throw
suspicion on our side. It must be done by someone like you.”
A disposable asset. Well, I was used to that, too. My middle name ought to be
‘haphazardly.’

“Let’s see, you want me to go to Bahrain. First, when? Second, how?”

Baum looked relived now that I had taken the bait.

“I’ll fill you in on the way.”

“On the way?”

Baum got up and raised his voice. “Kim, Salma — it ’s time to go.”

I stared at him, taken aback by this unexpected turn. He turned to me and pushed a button
on his phone. While he spoke, he kept looking at me.
“Be ready, we’re on our way,” I heard him say. The women came in, both dressed in
Western clothes — woolen jackets, jeans, dark shawls over their heads, and carrying traveling
bags. I remain in my seat and must have looked like some sort of idiot.
“Relax, John, it’s all part of the plan,” Baum said. “Come on — we need to be off before
Khalaf gets back.”
I moved toward Mrs. Abdullah. “What ’s going on here? Is this a new trick?”

“I ’m sorry, Hassan,” she answered, avoiding eye contact.

Salma was nervously shifting her feet.

“Are you taking these women with us?” I almost shouted to Baum, pointing to the ladies.

“I’ll brief you on the way,” he said. “On the double, John, if you want to live.”

I hopped up in an irate mood, though this wasn’t the time to be indignant. But they
definitely would have a lot to explain. Salma hurled Khalaf ’s jacket and another bag into my
arms.
She had tears in the corners of her eyes.

“Are you leaving your father alone?” I asked her in disbelief.

Before she could reply her mother came between us.

“You promised to take her along and now you’re backing off.”
 “I know, but you weren’t part of the scheme.” I tried to fight back against her irrational
pretext, but it was obvious I couldn’t stand up against her female logic.

Baum chipped in. “Come on, people, scrap on the boat. We can’t wait any longer.”
Mrs. Abdullah halted at the door, running her eyes over her habitat for the last time with
trembling lips. I put on the jacket, feeling glad that it fit well, and followed the runaway party.
It was after midnight now, and the neighborhood was quiet and peaceful. We managed to
get out without drawing any attention. A rusty Toyota pickup truck was waiting for us, with
the engine running and an angular man behind the wheel.
“They ladies will be so kind as to climb under the tarpaulin and stay low,” Baum urged. He
pulled it up, and I helped the two climb into the cargo space. We adjusted the tarpaulin over
them. It smelled of muck.
I sat next to the driver, a brown man, who was minding his own business. While we were
bobbing and bouncing down the local road, Baum quickly filled me in.
When the car came to a halt, I wasn’t grousing any more. A last painful bump, and the
dreadful engine racket came to an end at the shoreline of the Gulf.
We climbed out, and I had a quick glimpse of the thousand-fold illuminations of the
continuously working refineries and plants. It was all like a fairy display, even in these
circumstances. A cold breeze made my flesh creep. I took my bag and followed Baum along a
dirt trail up to a small creek cluttered by uprooted palms. A worn out, outboard driven dhow,
its sail struck, was bobbing and waiting for us.
Baum halted. I could hardly see his facial expression in the dark, but he sounded on edge.
“We’ll have to separate now, John. You’ll be on your own. Do whatever you think is right
— you’re the pro. Keep in mind that you have a time window of only two hours. We’ll be
waiting for you, or we won ’t. It ’s up to you.”
He extended his hand and we shook on it. Two gentlemen having made a constructive deal
— except that my part was still between the devil and the deep blue sea.
For a moment I considered saying good-bye to the ladies, but then I didn’t want to be
confronted by them. It could bring me bad luck.
I had to wade through chest-high water to reach the boat, and was helped aboard by a tall,
Indian-looking seaman type. Water spattered as the engine came to life and the boat roared
off. Before long, we were swinging and rocking, heading for what I hoped was to be my last
misadventure.
I took a swift glance over my shoulder, but my party was out of sight. I hoped they ’d
make it. Three out of four wasn’t so bad after all.
The land was swallowed by darkness and, as we navigated at a crawl along the sandbars, I
tried to evaluate my situation. By this time, Khalaf would be back, wondering why the house
was empty and then, little by little, building up his rage and despair. He might be phoning the
police right now.
We passed the dam, and soon reached the slim contours of the ten-mile long King Fahd
Causeway that connect Bahrain to the mainland. Baum had primed me on the party that some
banker was throwing at his country house on the upper seaward side of the island. It should be
my decoy.
 We set course along the bridge, and halfway rounded to port. I heard continuous traffic
hovering over our heads, the numerous invitees in their cars, heading for the party and
unaware of what was going on beneath them. It was the perfect time to strike. The island was
overflowing with thousands of important people, and the local police force had its hands full.
They wouldn’t pay attention to some working class hero prowling about the hills.
After Bahrain’s oil wells dried up, it turned into an offshore banking facility and, with the
help of the Revolution, overtook Switzerland as the global financial center. After the local
rulers were overthrown, the bankers were now plucking the fruits by the handful.
The dhow steadily sailed southward along the seashore. After it had rounded the island, we
beached on a heap of limestone and sand washed up on the shore. Now it was about two miles
of walking to the tracking station. My captain had strict orders to sail off again whether I
showed up in time or not. They hadn’t give me ample time for contemplation, and I set out for
my destination at once.
Temperature was sultry, and my shirt was soon sweat stained. A vibrating cloud of insects
clung to my skin as crawling parasites and lizards crept away under my feet. I clenched the
bomb in my hand. The rough surface made me skid, and I realized that if I lost the device I ’d
never find it again in this wilderness of weeds. To the good, the headland had moonlit,
sloping hills and I had no trouble finding my way. I just had to verge the light, as Baum had
explained in Biblical terms.
The Arabs were so certain of themselves that they didn’t bother about blacking out, and the
tracking station was floodlit, welcoming me from a distance.
I started to stalk, but the site itself wasn’t guarded. Apparently the banker ’s joy for life had
infected the station personnel as well. The checkpoint was unoccupied. I heard voices from
the offices, but I passed by unnoticed. The white metal, high-legged radio telescope seemed to
be mocking me — to double dare me. I hated these electronic watchdogs, whether they were
for our side or not. It stood on leveled concrete, and it was huge. I climbed the stairs until I
couldn’t get any farther. I was still about twenty meters below the dish. I realized I had to go
for one powerful heave. If I missed, the bomb would land out of reach somewhere.
I looked about for danger, but there was nothing alarming in immediate sight. The site was
peaceful, only disturbed by the suppressed roaring of generators and rotating antennas. So I
rested and measured what I had best do. I weighed the light device in my hand. There was no
treacherous wind to divert my throw. Everything came together in perfect harmony.
I turned the tube top and took up the position of a thrower. I imagined I was in an
American football game, and thousands were rooting for me, cheering and applauding. My
arm felt as it was almost ripped off by my throw. I could see the bomb vanishing over the top
of the dish. For a moment, I was afraid I had missed it, but then I heard the distinct sound of
clanging metal and knew I had struck home. The bomb rolled up and down for some seconds,
and before the sound had stopped I was streaking off, loping for safety.
Though Baum had offered me a time window, I couldn’t help being edgy. At least, I was
trusting he ’d do me this one favor. My captain was patiently waiting for me, and as soon as
he noticed me he lowered his gun and started the engine up. He didn’t make any remarks, but
headed directly for our destination. I was safe now, and on my way to a better future.
At least, that was the idea.
 Chapter 16
As we rounded the island in the opposite direction, a giant upright obstruction loomed
before my eyes — a steel wall, scarcely outlined in the dark. As we came nearer, I observed
the ponderous shape of an oil tanker. I entered a new faze, that of the stowaway. The dhow
neared the starboard bow, lined up abreast, and a gangway was lowered. The ship didn’t slow
down, keeping up a steady speed of about four knots.
I started to climb and two seamen, Indians again, helped me up. The dhow’s engine roared
and it disappeared, heading toward the stern. It was the first time I had ever set foot on a
sailing fortress of these dimensions.
About a decade ago the Japanese tanker construction business had collapsed and the crude
oil trade went flat on its back. The League favored its own members with rock bottom prices
and the rest of the world had to pay full cost. The major consequence was the end of the
supertankers. The ones that remained were built in the final year, such as this one. I estimated
its length from keel to stern to be five hundred meters.
The seamen didn’t talk. They beckoned me to follow them and we crossed the platform to
an open hatch near the winch. I glimpsed at the impressive bridge far away and followed my
guides. We descended four decks down.
The powerful engines sent deep vibrations along the metal hull, and I could clearly hear the
sound of the passing slipstream. We crossed a labyrinth of pipes, tanks and bypasses, lit by
emergency bulbs, which drew ghostly shadows on our faces. As we descended toward the
bilges, I noticed how dirty and greasy everything was — clearly a lack of upkeep due to
excessive frugality. We passed barrels, paint drums, chains, trapdoors, pipes and valves.
My guides had halogen lamps and followed a path know only to them. We progressed
swiftly on winding, slippery stairs. I lost track of place and distance, and was relieved when
we stopped at a sort of trap door at the far end of the bow. One of the seamen knocked softly,
using some sort of code. Baum made his appearance in shirtsleeves. He stood in the
fluorescent light, looking ghostly in its glow. My guides vanished into the darkness and I
entered.
Baum asked me one question. “Did you do it?”
Before I could respond, the women almost jumped me, shouting and crying with relief, and
it took some minutes before things fell into place again.
Then Baum took me outside and repeated his question. I asked him for a cigarette and he
fished one out of his pocket.
“What did you expect?” I countered, teasing him.
“Well?” He wasn’t in the mood for playing.
I exhaled smoke into the gasoline-scented air and felt at ease. This was one of those rare
moments that made me reconcile to life. The job was finished, a smoke afterwards, and the
reward to come later. As always, I had an orgasmic feeling. Then I told him of my success,
and notice how he revived on the spot. He put his arms around me and there we stood,
hugging and laughing.
We reentered our shelter.
The ladies were filling the small space with their bustling presence, at the sight of it very
much delighted by my return. The return of the prodigal son, and I felt like one. I took in a
narrow, but well furnished sleeping and resting chamber, with four bunk beds. In between
was a small table, with four folding chairs. The metal walls were uncovered, and painted in
matte blue tones. A small fan was attached to the overhead, turning full tilt.
Our toilet was behind a mold bath curtain, which gave way to a dark space with a hole in
the middle. Fixed to the wall stood a tiny washstand.
They had reserved me the bunk above Salma. I made a quick inspection, found a new
sweater, shirt and jeans — all from Khalaf’s — and a fresh toothbrush and comb.
I leaned over and thanked Kim. She gave me a quick smile. I asked Baum how long we
were likely to remain in this shack and he replied that the tanker would cross into
international waters in about a week.
“A week?” I echoed.
“Don’t worry — everything will be all right. They’re taking care of us. We’ll be out of
here in no time and freedom is beckoning at the horizon.”
To my surprise, Kim stretched her arms and they intertwined their fingers. They looked
into each other’s eyes with such warmth that I knew now why Baum was risking his neck. He
was simply over the top, blindly in love with Kim. I wondered how long this affair had been
going on under Khalaf ’s nose. Did Salma know about the romance? I had the impression she
didn’t. She was only an innocent young girl, living in a dream world, unaffected by the world
’s turnings.
She was lying on her bunk, reading some magazines and minding her own business.
Seated at the table opposite Baum, I told him about the disc Fatma had presented me in
Moscow.
He was interested at once, and asked what was inside. I said it looked like a C.I.A.
promotion disc, composed of thousands of messages pasted from a network or several
networks.
“Did you read those messages?” he asked.
“A few,” I answered. “I hadn’t a great deal of time.” Or interest for that matter.
“So, what have you learned from it?” He sounded like a schoolmaster.
I tried to recall fragments. It had been so long ago. I remembered threats to the C.I.A.,
people complaining about its increasing power with the power. It had absorbed the FBI and
other national services since the American had lost Europe, and democracy was at stake.
“I know that stuff,” Baum said. “Don ’t worry about it. Uncle Sam is a free nation —
everyone has the right to express opinions.”
“Which I admire,” I added. “But I had the impression that most of the complaints came
from American Muslims.”
“You can’t make comparisons,” Baum said, in a loud and irate voice. “It ’s plain to see the
Muslims are uneasy with the fact that the League ’s in a cold war situation with the States, but
that doesn’t affect their right to practice their religion. And furthermore, you have to accept
that some of the Muslim groups have dreams of building their own nation. But we can ’t
allow that.”
“Why not?”
 Baum grinned. “That’s political stuff, John. We’re only civil servants, not world
reformers.”

“Remember I’m Muslim, too. I don’t want to live in a country that ’s harassing my co-
religionists.”

By the look of it, Baum seemed to place me into a totally new niche, as if he hadn’t
thought about this before.

“Let’s not argue, John. We’re in a difficult situation here. We have to try to make
ourselves as comfortable as possible.”
Before I could reply, we heard the sound of an explosion, far away, but still powerful
enough to know that it must have been tremendous. The second shockwave pealed less
perceptibly than I expected it would, and the women didn’t even notice. I had just blown up a
billion dollar installation.
“I think the party’s over,” I said.
“Now the operation won’t be troubled any more,” Baum said, expressing his deep relief.
At last he seemed to be persuaded, and I couldn’t blame him for his mistrust.
So that was what it was all about. The tracking station had something to do with the
operation Maybe it was the main gate to Triple-R.
Someone knocked at the door. My reaction was so fast that I was on my feet before I knew,
ready to fight for my life. One of our helpers stuck his head inside and looked about, smiling
broadly.
Baum got up and walked to the door, soothing me with a hand wave. “Stay loose, John, it’s
only food.”

He took a rattan basket, filled to the brim, thanked the man, and closed the door.

“Food!” Salma shouted. She got up as well and was visibly enjoying herself, anticipating a
great meal.
“The real stuff, folks,” Baum said. He put the basket on the table and Salma started to
unpack. She drew out several wrapped sandwiches, two bottles, one filled with mineral water,
the other with a reddish soft drink, and boxed dates and grapes.
We sat down, gender opposite gender, forgot our sour feelings and started to eat. The
sandwiches were delicious, and one bottle of water was nearly finished before we thought of
rationing our consumption. Salma had the soft drink from the bottle, acting worked up by her
initiation to western customs.
“Where’s the ship headed for?” I asked, chewing on some seafood.

“The Pacific Ocean.”

“So we’re going all the way?”

“Not so. After we’ve reached clear water, we’ll have a new escort.”

“Please, level with me, Mr. Baum.”

 “I apologize, Mr. Halker. I ’d better keep still. We’re not safe yet.”

Mysterious, irritating Mr. Baum… But, on the other hand, why should I make a complaint?
We had a special bond, due to our strained companionship. It could have been worse.
After dinner I felt settled and, with renewed interest, gave my lodgings a careful
inspection.
“How much did you spend for this luxurious suite?”
“You don’t want to know. Anyway, it’s all paid for by the U.S. taxpayers”
“Of course it is. However, I was expecting some recreation space — preferably a
swimming pool, and breakfast on the sun deck.”
“Not for us, John. We’ll remain in our quarters until midnight. Then we’ll have a short
dive in fresh air for about five minutes. That ’s captain’s rule , and we don’t want our dear
captain to be embarrassed by our presence.”
“What are you talking about?” Kim asked. She had finished her meal and was blushing
with joy. She looked to be back on the mend.
“I ’m sorry, dear, we’re only fooling around. Better to see the bright side of life then to
worry about the future, right?”
“You’re so right, my love,” she whispered and caressed his hand. I felt uneasy with this
outburst of love and got up.
“I ’m going for an evening walk,” I said.
Baum’s expression hardened.
I tried to sound conciliatory. “Don ’t worry, I ’m only walking to the other side of this
door. I have to be on my own, if you don ’t mind.”
“Don’t do foolish things, John.”
“I won’t, trust me. I ’m too much attached to life.” I nodded to the women and went out. I
gently closed the door and breathed in deeply. The mixture of oil, seawater and rust filled my
lungs. I leaned back against the door and had a smoke.
After a while I went back inside. It was dark already. My companions had switched off the
light.
“Couldn’t you wait for me?” I asked, a bit disturbed.

“We’re changing, John, do you mind?”

It was Salma’s voice.

“Sorry.”

I fumbled my way up and fell into my bunk. Baum was already snoring.

“Good night, everyone.”

“Good night, Hassan.”

 “Sleep well, John.”

I felt like a schizophrenic. It was time I cast aside one of my two names.

We passed the week remarkably well, considering our differences in personality. We knew
we were in the same boat, in both senses. We depended on each other and intuitively decided
that we didn’t need any quarreling added to our relationship.
The only thing I missed was water to perform my religious rituals every day. We had to
ration, and slowly I forgot about it. I generously offered my liquid portion to the women for
their hygienic affairs.
Around midnight, we ascended the stairs to the deck. That was the trickiest part of our
daily life, but we needed the fresh air. We didn’t actually get on deck — barely peeped out
the hatch, seeing nothing but the gap us presented, but it gave us a sensation of liberty. The
hazard of being discovered was nil, our helpers had assured us. The ship was simply too big
to controlled in depth by the undermanned crew. The odds were that some diligent sea patrol
would make a grand tour across the ship ’s bilge, but time and again they invariably lost their
way before they could reach the ballast section. Not in the least due to the filth they had to
face on this badly serviced vessel.
At last I got a pack of cigarettes, light Virginia tobacco, and my stay became more
agreeable from then on. Room service was great — three meals a day, not fancy banquets,
but nutritious sandwiches. Warm meals were out of the question, but we had Thermos flasks
with warm tea and coffee. I became acquainted with our aides. They came from Calcutta, and
hated everything that involved Islam. But I respected them for their punctual and
unconditional assistance.
Our biological functions lost their regularity and, after some days had passed, sleeping
time had moved two or three hours depending on the person. Our biorhythmic took control
and lived to their own rhythm. Though I had nothing to do, I felt better. I hadn’t been that
healthy in ages.
One night I woke up unexpectedly. Moonlight shone inside, and I saw Baum leaning out
from his bunk, eagerly licking Kim’s fingers, a most erotic sight. I turned around and went
back to sleep. I had to respect their mutual feelings, and that was a tacit agreement for each of
us.
Salma was spontaneously drawn to me, and we spoke for hours about America, school and
youngsters’ stuff. We didn’t talk about her father. I enjoyed her company. In other times, I
would have approached her with sexual propositions.
The Indians had brought us some old newspapers, magazines and paperbacks. We studied
them with gluttonous eyes. They were written in English, and I had to read them aloud to
Salma, since she didn’t know that language. The language had been stricken from school
curricula in favor of Turkish, which I now considered an irresponsible political decision.
Salma wasn’t interested in the papers or books. The magazines were Indian, full of colorful
pictures, the latest fashions, and love stories, and she was fascinated by this exciting new
world. She had a lot to learn, and I was proud to be her first mentor. One of the papers was an
Indian version of the New York Times , which I absorbed with full concentration. It dated
back to October, and was thus fairly up to date. To my unhappy surprise I found nothing
about the League.
 I told Baum about it. He explained that India was still feuding with Islamic Pakistan, and
worried that the still growing Islamic power would endanger the delicate balance of peace. It
had already lost touch with the southern Tamils, and also some parts of Punjab.
“There’s your freedom of opinion,” I sneered, and Baum laughed loudly.
The paperbacks were the usual stuff to beat the long and boring hours aboard, thrillers and
crime novels from American and British publishers. The differences between the two were
striking. The Americans were daring and used native wrongdoers. The language was full of
slang, and written in the common parlance. The British followed the Arabian Code of Honor,
which meant that the enemy was invariably someone from outside the League, and the hero
was well educated, well spoken, and will to grant full pardon to the unfortunate losers at the
end of the book.
I had long conversations with Baum about America. I asked him about that intriguing Bill
of Rights he had mentioned as we were discussing censorship.
We were sitting at the table, talking in whispers, while the women were having a lie down.
“Freedom’s not a right, John. It ’s a struggle. A continuous, endless battle for the rights of
individuals, or little people you might say, against powers that tend to outgrow them. If they
succeed, they create what we call freedom.”
He decided that he hadn’t been clear enough and added more weight to the matter.
“All American rights have been fought for by individuals, by persons who were confronted
with injustice, with violations of basic human rights. It started in the eighteenth century, when
people had had enough of absolute rulers and their ruthless vassals. Dictatorship basically
wipes out all freedom of opinion. It controls the media and takes care of its own historical
course.”
“So what’s with America?” I asked, a bit disturbed by his pedantic view of history.
“What I mean to say is there’s no perfect system. If you want rights, you have to fight for
them. All basic rights, which are included in the Bill of Rights, have been fiercely fought
over. Insignificant individuals taking powerful organizations to court and winning their
lawsuits. That’s something you can’t do in your world.”
I was properly impressed by his words, but still wasn’t persuaded.
“Liberty and justice, that what it’s all about, John,” Baum concluded.
“Muhammad has commissioned the believers to submit to the Five Pillars,” I argued.
“They are the mainstays of religion, of what it stands for. Without them, you can’t have a
decent society. Islam means surrender to the will of God. No individual can hide from it.”
“That’s what I ’m telling you, John. Don’t you see how authoritarian Islam is? It can’t
afford to be controlled by individuals. Everyone has to submit, and you can ’t fight it.”
“That’s not true. I ’m a Shiite, and I have learned to be critical. All Muslims have the right
to fall out with their imams, and the Quran is not sanctifying. We have traditions and
jurisdiction.”
“I know you have, John. But you can’t drag your president to court if you ’re convinced
you ’re being treated unfairly.”
That was a ridiculous remark. Who would drag their leaders to court? All League
presidents had to obey the Law unconditionally. It didn’t make sense what Baum was telling
me.”
 “Islam is a dangerous religion, John.”

“I don’t see your point.”

“It can generate millions of people to be committed to global warfare. Each Muslim is born
with the knowledge that he has to face and conquer his original sin, his Jihad, as you call it. If
he succeeds, he’ll wind up in heaven. So, assuming the League tells him his sins can be
forgiven if he joins a greater Jihad, he’ll do so without more ado.”
“You can say that of any religion.”
“You can, but there’s a difference between powerful and non-powerful religions. Islam is
ruling the roost right now.”
A voice interrupted our conversation. Kim leaned over on one elbow toward us.
Apparently she had been listening to Baum ’s monologue for the last few minutes.
“That’s why I fled from Korea,” she said. “After the Chinese invasion all personal liberty
was eliminated. It was simply unbearable if you’ve had a taste of freedom — nothing can
compare to it. It ’s like a drug, an addiction. Some people would rather die than live in
slavery.”
It took me quiet some time to absorb this, and the result was that I wasn’t sure of anything
thereafter. My deepest beliefs had been critiqued. I was outrun and upset, and didn’t want to
argue any more. I went to bed and lay tossing and turning for hour, wondering what was
going on with me.
Was I turning into an American? A bogeyman from the Block?
Next morning, our guardian angels came to tell us that we were passing Ras al-Had, and
that we were heading for the high seas now. This meant that we were only one day away from
international waters.
This was incredible news. It took us some time to realize we were being given back our
lives. Just twenty-four hours to go. The ladies seemed to have been looking out for this
moment. Somehow, they had arranged an agreement with the Indians and that last night,
around eleven, our helper brought in the usual basket, but now filled with delicatessen. Baum
was very much surprised that they had managed to overcome his control, and seemed to
realize now that his leadership was coming to an end. The women had taken over command.
We ate Iranian caviar which, for an obnoxious moment, reminded me of colonel Ahmed,
and drank light bubbly as a side. As the pièce-de-résistance, a small gas burner was produced
and Kim cooked large shrimps. Our first warm meal in days.
Kim and Salma were slightly affected by the wine’s spirit.
Their eyes sparkled and their skin seemed to radiate a warm glow. At one moment, I
couldn’t help notice Baum’s arm diving under the table and Kim trembling for a while.
I could see what had brought Baum to his decision to abduct this woman, even at the risk
of losing everything he stood for. This was simply love, the eternal, indestructible act of man
and woman driven together by the greatest mystery in life, and nothing would stop it from
blossoming.
Suddenly I felt queasy. We could distinctly feel the ship taking higher waves. It had
become warm, the cabin smelled stale, and the fast food was too demanding for my battered
body. I got up and excused myself.
 I left the room and leaned against the wall, taking deep breaths and wondering whether the
nightmare was really to be over. I had some nasty feelings, and somehow not everything had
come together. There were still missing links, and my life was still at stake. I was too much a
pro to ignore these perceptions. I had to get some fresh air and started for the deck. Baum and
Kim wouldn’t notice that I was gone; he was too involved in his love play and Salma with her
festive meal. Once again, I came to the belief that I was the outsider. That made me the
perfect agent, but it was a lonesome life and I knew it wouldn’t change a bit upon our arrival
in America.
I took covered glances from the hatch, inhaled the sea air in deep drafts, and felt much
better then. I had an urge to walk to the railings to throw a last glimpse at the ship. As usual,
no one was on deck. Our Indians had told me that this giant ship was operated by only twelve
men, officers included. It was fully computerized and satellite piloted, and could navigate
smoothly along the sandbanks of the Strait of Oman. I crawled from my hole and scouted out
the deck and bridge. Then I peered into the darkness, but couldn’t’ t see the peninsula coast.
When I turned back, now ready to face my last night, a specter had materialized.
The phantom was a big man, with a well-groomed mustache, cruel eyes and an obscene
grimace.
It took me valuable seconds to accept that Azybey was standing before me, pointing a
small gun at my belly. It can’t be possible, I managed to think. I had cut off my hand, but he
had found me anyway. Azybey had the same flash. “Hello, Hassan, I ’m glad to see you
again.”
My adrenaline stirred up, preparing my body to fight for its existence.
Azybey held the gun up ostentatiously. “You see, Hassan, you can ’t escape fate. It was
only a matter of time before I ’d get you in front of me. I must say, you've given me a hard
time. It was touch and go.”
He was standing between the hatch and the rail and I couldn’t break away from him. The
gun was an unusual one, matte black, with a tiny telescopic sight.
“It this the weapon you’ve stolen from the Americans?” I asked, in a grating voice.
He raised his brows in surprise. “How do you know about it?”
“I know enough to hang you,” I answered.
He grimaced. “You know, Hassan, I wasn’t planning to kill you — just wanted to know
you better. Now you leave me no choice. But before I do, we still have time to chat. I ’d very
much like to know what the Americans have told you.”
I sighed with relief. His pride would be an advantage to me. If I could temporize with him,
and entangle him in a more suitable boxing ring, I ’d still have a way out. I estimated I had
two hours before we entered international waters. His gun was of no use here, on this highly
flammable tub. I was convinced he was only carrying it as a trophy. But it still contained the
bullet with my name on it.
“How did you find me?” I asked, to gain time.
“It took an unexpected call from Damman before I found out you were on this ship.”
Khalaf, of course.
“I see. So what are you to do about it?”
“I suggest you and I go for a walk. We have the captain’s permission.”
 Azybey followed my eyes as they looked about for his gorillas.

“Don’t worry. They have other priorities.”

His words ran a shudder along my spine.

He pointed to the bridge and I started to move. It was the most terrifying walk I ever made,
with Azybey pushing his terrible weapon to my backbone. He ordered me to put my arms up.
I had to be careful not to stumble with all the pipes and gang-ways. Azybey could be less alert
than he appeared to be. The white painted bridge was a huge skyscraper as we cam nearer. I
saw several people watching us from lighted windows. So they knew there was a terrorist
aboard.
My mind was working at full speed. I wondered if he had taken into account that I wasn’t
alone on this trip. But, on the other hand, he could care less. He was after me and that was all
that counted. He would bring my head back, showing he wasn’t that dull fool who let his prey
get away on several occasions. It was his glorious hour, his time of payback, his safe-conduct
to restore his name, and therefore he might be sloppy.
I stumbled. Azybey pushed me harder. I turned my face halfway.

“Before you kill me, I’d like to know why you were chasing me half way around the
world.”

“You’ve given me a hard time. I don ’t like to be harassed by some soft egg from West.”

That was good. Not only was he offended in his self conceit, but he also looked on me as
some despicable rookie. He had lost his sense of proportion. He was in a triumphant mood,
and this could be his Achilles heel.
“I didn’t know about the SAHRA operation until last week,” I went on.

“Keep moving and keep talking.”

I made some clumsy pauses and stopped again.

“You’ve been following me since Istanbul. Why?”

“You knew I was in Istanbul?” He sounded sincerely surprised.

“As a matter of fact, I did. I was three meters away from you. You were fumbling with
your tracking device.”
Azybey swore. “Rotten things. They never work when you need them.”

“So why?”

“So you do know about SAHRA. Great. Now I must definitely kill you.”

“Is East involved in some Saudi conspiracy?”

“You don’t know? Why didn’t you ask your American friend?”
 “Actually, I did, but he kept mum.”

“He’ll be kept mum forever in a while.”

I didn’t want to imagine what he meant by that.

“Did Kaseem Lebreton commit the assault on my friend’s flat?”

“No way. Your little buddy wasn’t clever enough. I did it. I was in the yard, biding my
time. You were such a great target with that computer screen lit up.”
So Kaseem had nothing to do with it. I might count myself lucky with that thought.
He sized up how he was gassing away. “Let ’s cut the talk. We ’re going to make the
acquaintance of the captain. He ’d like to see who ’s trying to take over his ship.”
So they were planning to frame me. They would lock me up as some ordinary criminal, an
inane terrorist planning to hijack the ship. Then they would beat the crap out of me. I would
tell him what I knew, and then I would bite the dust while escaping.
“You see, Hassan, we have scheduled our operation for years now. How did you know
about it?”
“I didn’t. West thought there was something going on in Russia and they sent me.”

“Oh, yes, that good old General. Pity he ’s dead now.”

“Did you murder him?”

“No.”

“Who did?”

“Some Turk. You don ’t want to know. But we don ’t want to talk any more, Hassan,
m’boy. Move on, we have a waterline to catch.”
I didn’t ask for more. Azybey had unwittingly provided me with vital information. I knew
now Khalaf was right. The operation was over my head. I had to concentrate on keeping alive.
My lucky chance came when we passed the blue hole of the dry swimming pool. A crane
blocked our way and we had to make a tricky maneuver to get around it. This was the
moment I had been waiting for. I drew back to clear the passage. For a split second he had to
use his free hand to grip the pole and I lurched at him with such power that we both landed
down on the pool floor.
Azybey lost his gun, but didn’t seem to be hurt, for the simple reason that he had landed on
me. I had the feeling my lungs were shriveled up by the smack on my back, but I managed to
crawl to my feet and, snapping at the air, I kept my eyes on my opponent. He tried to find his
gun, but it must have slid back into some shadowed corner. Then he gave up. Again I had
outnumbered him by my wits.
“Bloody devil, I ’m going to wipe you out once and for all,” he stammered. Blood seeped
from a flesh wound at his temple. With an impatient gesture he swept it away from his
eyebrow and made to wade into me.
 I saw him coming, aiming for my belly, and I made a dive for the floor and rolled over. He
couldn’t stop his charge and smashed against the wall. He shook his head, groggy from the
impact, and made another try for me.
But now I was more confident. He was blind with anger, enraged like a mad bull,
pummeling me with brute force, going for my throat to suck my blood. Yet he was a lot
stronger than I in my present condition. If he caught me, he ’d break my limbs like straws.
In desperation, I made a run for the ladder, but didn’t make it. His fist hit me in the back
with such power that I doubled over. Before I came to my senses he was on top of me. He
started to hit me again and again, wherever he could. I didn’t feel his blows, but my skull
cracked and I could taste blood in my mouth. I tried to parry his continuous blows. My
eyelids started to swell and my heart was pumping as it had never done before. Then my
instincts broke loose, took over, and my wild beasts slipped out. The wolf in me bit his hand
and I got his right little finger between my teeth. My tiger slashed his paw in his face and his
nose burst. The bear developed such strength that I managed to roll atop him.
I acted like a bloodsucking automaton. The blood that spurted from his nose made me long
for more. I stuck my thumb in his left eye and he cried like an animal.
He pushed me off with violent force and then struggled up, moaning and whining.
We started to circle, slipping on our own blood, arms spread, glaring at one another with
upper lips pulled back, showing our teeth ready to devour.
He was clearly losing his strength. I could see how his pounding heart was rushing blood
to his swollen veins and his breathing was agitated. It was now a question of who would go
first. While turning around he looked for his gun and, as he noticed it in a corner, he uttered a
scream and made a dive for it. I couldn’t prevent him. He got the gun and started to ready it. I
had only a second before he had programmed the devilish thing. I fancied myself being
pulverized in a flash and made a jump for him.
He was still on his knees, too busy to rig his deadly device, growling like a dog and then,
in a flash of despair, he lifted it to my head before I could reach him.
I dodged as he pulled the trigger. I felt hot air stream along my face and then heard a
tremendous explosion. For a while a bluish glare lit the ship and then it was over. I hadn’t
died still. I scrambled to my feet, took him by the hair and smashed his skull in a violent
swing against the pool wall. The cranium fractured with a sickening sound and Azybey
slackened with each slam. His skull finally burst, but still I couldn’t stop. I had reached the
point of no return and went over the top. The pool was covered in blood ,streaked out over
the tiles. I could easily follow the course of our fight as we made to finish each other. I
hobbled away from him. My senses were dead. I automatically clambered up the steps and, at
the rail, started to vomit blood. I was dying, and eager to lie down and dismiss the world. It
wasn’t worth living for.
The bridge wasn’t there any more. A gaping cave of about five square meters had replaced
it neatly. A faint wisp coiled up to resolve in the air. People were running up and down the
stairs, and then I understood that Azybey had fired his last bullet into the bridge. The ship ’s
control room had been ruined and it must be out of control now.
“John, what are you doing?” Baum came running, ducking for no reason.

When he found me he was left speechless, and he stared at me with his mouth agape.

I freed my mouth of blood clots. “Hello, Baum.What brings you here?”

 He blinked and then regained speech.

“Man, you look like shit. Has the explosion done that to you?”

“You may as well say so,” I answered. “Where are the girls?”
“I’ll go and fetch them. Man, we heard the explosion like a thunderstorm. Salma nearly
went into an epileptic fit.”
I was glad he had his senses back and I promised I would wait for them, if he would hurry
back. And please bring some water along — I was a bit dried out.
I hunkered down against the crane that had been my lifesaver and watched the bedlam in
front of me. A fire alarm had gone off and kept blaring, while a water cannon was quenching
away the smoke. Its vaporizing steam enveloped the bridge in millions of sparkling water
droplets. The bridge lights had gone out, and the gap looked ominous. There was no life up
there any more. The fireball had wiped it out completely — I knew its effects. Baum and the
ladies came running. Baum slipped me a fresh bottle of water and I emptied it voraciously in
three mighty draughts. I didn’t pay attention to their frightened comments. Kim knelt beside
me and tried to wipe off the blood, but I fended off her caring hand and crawled up.
“We must go for the bridge,” I uttered, with swollen lips. “Can ’t stay here forever. They’ll
hunt us down.”
“Relax, John,” Baum soothed e. “You’re in no condition to do anything. Let ’s hurry back
to our shelter and I’ll call for help.”
“Call as long as you like, Baum, I ’m going for them.”
They couldn’t stop me for the world. Baum knew he was powerless against my rage and
had to sort out what was best for him and the ladies.
“John, do what you’ve got to do. We’ll stay here and watch you snuff it.”

“I ’m not that easy to carry off, you know.”

He shut up, showed me his back and took the women by the arms.

“Don’t look into the pool,” I warned them and turned away. My decision was fed by my
frenzy. I had to get my revenge for everything the had done to me over the last months.
Something had broken inside me. My soul had changed into a bloodthirsty killing tool,
looking for more prey. Someone had to atone for my misery.
Ten meters from my destination I halted to assess the scene. I counted seven men. If the
officers were on the bridge and control room, that meant five had been killed.
One of the seamen spotted me and pointed at me.

“There he is! That ’s the one!”

I jumped at him and he went overboard, but grabbed the rail, shouting for help.
 Another came at me, carrying a long, adjustable spanner, wanting badly to knock me out. I
ducked and was behind him in a blink. Before he knew it, I had disarmed him and knocked
him down. I took the spanner.
The others were discouraged by these events. I stood before them and they fell back.
“Listen, I don’t want to hurt you. I just want to know if there were others with the man-
hunter.”
One of the men, presumably the boatswain, made a gesture.
“There’s one up there,” he said. “The other’s gone below.”
I froze. I knew it would be too late to save my friend. Baum wasn’t the aggressive type. He
was a desk man, and the women were no match for Azybey ’s killers.
“Lead me to the one up there,” I said. “He ’s a murderer. I ’m with the government.”
“You can pass,” the Indian calmly said. “We don ’t want to make a fuss, but we won ’t
help you either. We’ve crossed the line and it ’s none of our business any more.”
I started up the ladder, very prudently, and peering in each deadlight, into each dark corner.
I found a door ajar, opened it partway, entered an empty room and I was inside the
skyscraper. The silence was complete. A faint fuel film filled the passage-way. I smelled the
unmistakable sharp fireball odor and it took me back to Vitya ’s flat. But now conditions had
changed. I grasped the spanner in a firm grip.
I kept on climbing until I reached the control room. It was dark and desolate, scorched and
full of simmering debris. Two completely carbonized bodies lay in grotesque postures on the
melted deck. A gust of wind blew in and I was faced with the huge hole the bullet had made. I
saw the deck stretching out into darkness. Then I heard a noise and turned to the left. A man
was bent over a radio set, fumbling with the knobs.
He showed his back to me and at first he didn’t hear me coming, being too much involved
with the appliance. I got a quick glimpse of his heavily burned face. Before he was able to
react, I knocked him down with the spanner and it kept stuck in his scalded head.
I searched his jacket pockets and found a lightweight automatic pistol and a knife, the
contract killer’s material. Now I definitely knew this had been Azybey ’s private war.
Intelligence would never allow such foolish modes of revenge. I continued on my way. I
stumbled over charcoaled bodies in rags of officers ’clothes. I counted three of them. They
must have died in horrible pain.
I had nothing to do here any more. I now focused on the other killer, who was on his way
to our cabin. Most likely he had already reached his target. I could only hope Baum and Kim
could handle the situation.
But I was more concerned about Salma, so I rushed back as fast as my condition allowed.
The first light of dawn was breaking and, to my concern, I saw the banks coming nearer. The
ship was decidedly off course. I wondered what distance it would take to bring it to a stop.
I reached the hatch and went below, gasping and panting. It took an eternity before I
reached our cabin. The door was unlocked. I pushed it open and was aghast at the horrible
picture. Kim lay with torn pants on the table, presumably raped and with her face blown off.
Her blood was oozing to the floor. Baum lay on the deck, moaning still. I knelt beside him
and turned his face toward me. He had a small hole in his forehead, shot at close range. Death
had reached him, but he recognized me.
“Phone …Number nine star …” I almost couldn’t hear his last words.
 I got up, ransacked his bag and found his phone. It was on hold. I pushed the buttons, but
didn’t hear it activate. Then I pushed both at the same time and now it was buzzing.
“Please identify yourself.” A human male voice took the call.
“Has …John Halker. Baum ’s been shot. He ’s dying. We ’re on the …” I tried to
remember the name of the tanker.. “Stay put. We’ll pick you up.”
“Hurry up then, the ship’s of course.”

The man disconnected without reply and I was on my own again.

Just then I thought of Salma. She wasn’t there. Maybe the killer had taken her along. Then
I heard a smother mewl coming from the toilet room. I opened the curtain and there she sat,
squatting in a coiled pose, her thumb in her mouth. She seemed otherwise undamaged.
“Salma, it’s Hassan, John. It ’s all right; you come with me now. Don ’t worry.”
She had had a severe shock, and without demur she let me lift her up and I carried her out
like a young child in my arms, and tried to avoid the sight of the bodies.
We ascended the stairs and I put her down gently on the deck. She remained in the same
position as before. Now I had to find the man who was responsible for this.
He couldn’t have climbed to the deck, as we would have come across him. So he was still
below, most likely looking for me. I peered through the metal grids. It was a frustrating job. I
roved silently along tanks, pipes and pumps, a real labyrinth constructed for the sole purpose
of carrying oil. I seemed to be off the scent. The killer could be anywhere. He could be
waiting for me in some dark corner, aiming at my brains. I knew how devastating these
automatic guns were. They could literally blow off a man ’s head.
I found him unexpectedly, taking a leak midway down. He was an easy target, and I calmly
aimed the gun at his cranium and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened, as I had forgot about
the safety catch. The man heard the sharp click, swiveled on his heels, swung his machine
pistol from his shoulder and fired a short burst upwards while ducking to the deck. One of the
bullets hit me in the left shoulder, a sharp and short pain, but I felt it was but a flesh wound
and returned fire, trying to avoid the metal laths. The bullets spit in all directions. I wasn’t
used to this sort of gun. I swore and hid behind a pipe.
He now laid down a spreading fire and hundreds of vicious beryllium bits hammered up
and down. Then it was quiet.
“Your pal’s bought it,” I yelled. “Give it up, man. Police will soon be here.”
He answered with a second burst and I had to crouch hastily.
I crawled along the pipe, making as little noise as possible, and when he fired again I knew
he didn’t know my new position. I estimated that I was to his left now. My survival senses
were blunting. I had seen too much death around me in too short a time. I didn’t want any
more of this ‘search and destroy ’ madness. After a while, I realized there was no more
shooting going on. He must have taken to his heels. Then I could see why. I spotted him,
lying crumpled against the hull with wide-spread arms and legs, his fly still open. His eyes
expressed disbelief. His shirt showed several bleeding holes. He must have been killed by his
own ricocheting bullets.
My body started to shake. My arms jerked in a curious manner, out of control. I dropped
the gun and leaned against a pipe. Myriads of colorful particles flashed on my iris and I
wished I would never have to open my eyes again, but would always be able to see these
fantastic fireworks.
But then I though of Salma and struggled up again. A strange, hallucinatory scene unfolded
before my eyes. A large silver painted helicopter was hovering about twenty meters over the
ship, with slow rotating blades. Four heavily-armed soldiers were holding Salma on the deck.
My mind was going as I saw them carrying her to a basket, hooked on a line to the
chopper. I had to save her from these bastards. They had done her harm enough. I started to
run toward them, yelling and cursing and reaching for my knife. Two of the soldiers aimed
something at me and it seemed as if two butterflies came fluttering on with huge white wings.
I stumbled and fell, caught in rope netting. I tried to struggle free, but the nets just tightened
up with each move and then I gave up and started to howl.
When I came back to the world I noticed, with a peculiar sense of clarity that I was in the
helicopter, flying away from the ship.
Salma was lying on a rolling stretcher. The soldiers were watching me warily with their
hard faces. They were fully equipped for fast commando interventions, sharp men, living on
the edge of life. I got a serene feeling, knowing I was now in good hands, and that I was
leaving death behind with every second we climbed.
We flew due east and sunbeams burst in, coloring the cargo hold in a golden glow, as a
symbol of life conquering death. After some few minutes one of the soldiers leaned over and
announced our arrival. He pointed with his chin and I gazed at what was the most astonishing
image I had ever seen.
We were about to land on an American aircraft carrier.
 Chapter 17

I blacked out again as we started in for the landing. Afterward, I would hear that they had
been forced to drug me. I woke up in the sickbay, my arms and legs tightly strapped to a
bunk. I seemed to be alone in the compartment. My private hospital — how convenient.
When I opened my eyes, the first person I saw was a man in a white shirt and black tie. He
was about forty, had tawny features, primed lips and eyes hidden by sunglasses. I noticed a
large, hairy scar above his right eyebrow.
“How’s it going, John? I ’m Harry. I ’m with the C.I.A..” My mind was dull. The
anesthesia, or whatever they had administered, was still wearing off and I had a strong urge to
drift away again.
“Where am I?”
He watched me with interest. “You ’re on the U.S.S. Vindicate, and we ’re sailing on the
Indian Ocean.”
I tried to recollect the events before I landed here, but my last image was of Azybey, and it
wasn’t a pretty one. My body came to life again.
“Don’t move, John. You've been beaten pretty badly. Doc will be here first thing. Just tell
me what happened to Dr. Baum.”
Doctor Baum? “I don ’t know any Dr. Baum.”
“He got you out of Arabia, John, try to bring it back. I gotta know what happened to him.”
My memory came back with a thud of horror. “Yes. He ’s dead.”

“I know. You warned us.”

Did I? That was nice.

“Now, John, try to remember your last hour on the tanker.”

The tanker? My mind whirled by a torrent of images from hell. Azybey, the gorillas.
Baum. Kim. I tried to get up, but the straps held me down.
“Where’s Salma?”
“Salma? Oh, you mean the little girl. She ’s taken care of, John. Don ’t worry about her,
she ’s in safe hands now.”
“Where are we heading to?”

“San Diego — the Naval Base.”

“If you don’t mind, I feel bloody rotten. I want to catch some rest first.”

Before the C.I.A. man could make up his mind, another person entered the compartment. I
had my eyes closed, but my mind was clear and I could overhear their whispered
conversation.
“Are you crazy? He came back from the death and you’re working on him already?”
 “He’s in possession of vital information, Doc. I gotta know. Lives depend on it.”
“And on my job. Not before I give full clearance.”
“Okay, Doc, don’t be so itchy. I’ll be back at oh-four-hundred-hours. Catch ya later,
John.”
He went out and I was alone with the doctor. I opened my eyes to see a tall, uniformed
black man, about my age, with the features of an athlete. He wore a bright, comforting smile.
He released me from the straps. I straightened my stiff legs and blood started to fill my
numb limbs.
“How do you feel, John?” he asked, while pulling up my T-shirt.
“On and off, doctor. What ’s with me?”
He placed his stethoscope on my chest and ordered me to take regular breaths. Then he
studied my eyes and grumbled.
“Everything seems to be working fine. You’ve got several injuries, two broken ribs, teeth
smashed in, kidney swollen, and slight skull fracture and your right lung ’s penetrated.”
Just then I spotted the small incision below my right nipple. Another fancy trophy to my
scars collection.

“Why was I strapped down?”

“You were going berserk, John. You had recurring nightmares and you were in a delirious
state of mind. We had to do this for your own safety.”
I had some vague idea. Somewhere on that line my mind refused to go any farther. I had
endured too much hell.
“Are we going to America, doctor?”
“First we have to bunker at Pearl, but that won’t take more than a day. Then we ’re going
back to the States.”
That sounded great. I closed my eyes again and immediately dropped off.
When I woke up, the ship seemed to lay still. Harry was at my side.

“At last, John. You gave us a hell of a time.”

“What’s the trouble?”

“You were out for twenty-four hours again. It seems we pulled too many strings on you —
my fault. How ya feeling today?”
“Much better, thanks. Were are we?”
“We’re at Pearl. Pearl Harbor, I mean, the Hawaiian Islands, you know. We’ll be gone
tomorrow.”
“I feel hungry.” I tried to sit up, but a heavy stab of pain crossed my right arm and I sank
back.

“Take it easy, pal. You got a lot of stitches there.”

 “I see. I should be glad to be alive.”

“I hear ya.Way to go.” Harry rose and pushed a red button above my head. A male nurse
came in.
“This patient wants to eat,” Harry said.

“I’ll fetch you a meal,” the man said and left.

“John, I ’m glad you’re in one piece. Now ,let ’s get down to business.”

“Okay.”

“Has Dr. Baum told you anything about our Operation WARGAME?”

“Never heard of it.”

“Or TARGET?”

“Nothing.”

“Did he tell anything to any of the other passengers?”

“You mean Kim and Salma? I don ’t think so. Besides, Kim ’s dead.”

“I know, but the girl — what’s with her? Do ya think she told the hit men anything about
the operation?”
“I know nothing about an Operation WARGAME. I can ’t imagine your Baum told her
about it, either. She ’s only a little girl.”
“For sure. Let ’s assume for now that Baum kept it to himself. Is it possible the hit men
could have extracted the information from him before he died?”
“I really don’t know. Anyway, the one who got him is dead, too. So, whatever information
you want has gone with them.”
“There was another fellow, what’s his name …”
“You mean Azybey?”
“That’s him. Is there a chance he could have informed his superiors while he was on the
ship?”

“I really don’t know. But I didn’t give him much time to get anything from me.”

Harry looked relieved.

“There’s the other, though,” I said.

“What other? Was there another? Run that by me again.” I enjoyed this conversation. It
was fun pulling the leg of an American colleague.
“I saw him fumbling with a radio set. But I had the impression it was broken. Anyway,
before he could talk I made him be reticent for good.”
 “Johnny, old pal, let’s hope for the best.”
The doctor came in, followed by the nurse who carried a tray.”
“End of the story, Harry. Let this poor creature have a decent meal for a change.”
Harry got up unwillingly and promised to be back in an hour.

It wasn’t much of a meal, but the hot tomato soup and tuna sandwiches did taste good.

The doctor made a quick physical examination and seemed satisfied.

“We’ll have some fresh air after lunch. I think you ’re well enough to have a walk
outside.”

After his departure I swiftly finished my meal, excited by the prospect of being released
from that cool, dry air-conditioned room. I had a radio above my head and, when I turned it
on, I heard Hawaiian music, soft, joyful sounds filling the compartment.
I had to go to the bathroom, so I knocked off the sheets and slowly put my feet on the
floor. The rubber tiles felt cool to my toes. I rocked on my feet, my broken ribs making an
official pro-test, and a mist of light sparkles rose before me. I fell back and got to my feet
again, and this time I found my balance and headed for my private lavatory.
I released the results of three days ’constipation and was a reborn man thereafter.
I found a white doctor’s coat hanging in the closest and put it on. Then I sat in a chair,
listened to the music and the newsreader droning on about furloughs, and found out it was
Friday, the day of prayer.
I remained in my seat, evoking some divine spirit to poke me up to perform my duties, but
nothing cropped up. My body didn’t respond and my soul slept. Far away from the Islamic
sphere, the spell had broken.
The doctor and the nurse came to fetch me. We passed along a broad hospital
companionway, passing corpsmen and patients in wheelchairs, and then took a freight
elevator up. I wasn’t impressed by the view of hundreds of ship, cranes and wharves, but the
far off snowy mountains and the well kept greenery made everything good. The weather was
fine and a pleasant sea breeze carried exciting aromatic scents from inland. It was awkward
to realize that this was part of America, too. The sparse images I had of it were of
overpopulated towns, with high crime rates, never ending racial quarrels, and of a nation
living on a volcano of potential pressures. This didn’t fit the picture. I wondered what else
propaganda had been twisting.
“How do you feel now?” the doctor asked. He leaned on the rail, absorbing the joyful
iridescent picture of the island.
“I feel better. When do we arrive in America?”
“We’ll leave for the States in a few hours. Stay on deck if you can, it ’s always a great
show.”
I wasn’t sure what he meant. Americans have their own native tongue, and I was never
sure what they were talking about.
The sight from the carrier was impressive. Mechanics were working on planes, choppers,
guns and rockets. This was a plant in full production, showing off America ’s strength and
efficiency to the world. I looked up at the bridge and suddenly a nasty image of a black hole
in it made me shiver.
“You all right?” the doctor asked. He quizzed me professionally.
“It’s okay, I ’m sorry. I still feel feeble.”
“I can deal with that. My mistake. We’ll return now and you stay in bed. I’ll make sure that
our C.I.A. man doesn’t bother for the next twenty-four hours.”
Or better, never again, I thought.
Harry was back in another day, while I was having my first hamburger ever. I took a bite
and returned it indignantly, as I had tasted pork. The cook made me a huge steak and, for the
first time in my life, I drank a Coca-Cola. It tasted odd, but I’d get used to it as well.
Harry was in a good mood. “So, how s that Texas steak taste? I’ll bet you don ’t get
another one for a long time to come.”
“If the poor cow knew, it would hit the dirt from misery.”
He looked at me curiously, though his thick glasses kept me from seeing his expression,
and then started to grin.
“You’re an okay guy, John. I think you’ll do fine in the States.”
I wasn’t that hungry. I set down my plate and wiped my mouth. The taste of cooked blood
reminded me of unhappy moments and I washed it away with a swallow of Coca-Cola.
“What are your plans when we arrive?” I asked..
“You’ll be transferred to another department. But don’t sweat it, you’ll be safe. And, by
the way, your girlfriend ’s been taken to Washington for further examination.”
Salma had gone. Evidently for good. I wondered whether I would see her again.

“Is she properly protected?”

“You bet she is.”

“And what about me? I can tell you about Operation SAHRA, but that ’s all I know.”

“SAHRA’s old news. We need you for something else.”

To my surprise, he took his spectacles off. I saw his eyes for the first time — they were
squinting, a familiar sight to me.
“Since you’re on American territory now, I’m allowed to debrief you. Ask me what you
want to know.”
“Baum told me about the Mafia being involved in SAHRA. Can you tell me about it?”
“Jews. We have strong beliefs that the Jewish Mob is behind it.”
He spoke with an earnest face and I didn’t smirk at his remarks. “The Jews are financing
this whole damned business, and that ’s why Rabinov ’s been taken for a ride. He was pissed
off and got up against them.”
It could make sense, though Jewish bankers, whether they were straight or belonged to
some crime syndicate, had negotiated with both East and West for centuries. Even the Prophet
had vouchsafed their important economic role in civilization. And a huge organization,
whether it ’s profane or spiritual, can ’t survive without the knowledge of bankers.
But Jews killing Jews? I was unaware of anything history told about fratricide. Was it the
Biblical reference to Cain and Abel that made Harry ’s words something to think about? Still,
it sounded insane, like the quirk of a deranged brain. But, on the other hand, to assume the
Vatican had granted permission for the raids in exchange for fresh money was even more
implausible.
Harry noticed my skepticism. “I assure you, John, these facts are for real.”

“Are you sure? I heard otherwise.”

Harry shrugged. “That ’s what we know. And we ’re preparing our next step right now.”

“Are you going to do something about it?”

“We sure are. And you’ll be part of it.”

He made me curious. After all, he was a representative of the Block, and despite his mad
train of thought ,he knew what I needed.
The key question now was: had Rabinov dealt with the Vatican and the Mob as well? That
was a mind boggling idea .I knew he was a man of integrity, lured by his allies, and probably
too weak to be in the same league as other world leaders. Another great man sacrificed for a
less than noble cause.
“How did the Vatican react to Rabinov’s death?” I asked..
“They didn’t It was the usual thing, nose bleeding and all. Anyway, in Baum’s opinion,
you ’re the man to grasp the situation.”
“I’m most flattered. Hopefully, you ’re not wanting to send me back.”
He chuckled, but I wasn’t sure if he found this a silly idea. My thoughts were interrupted
by three deep blasts from the carrier’s whistle.
Harry put his glasses up again and jumped to his feet.
“We’re gonna sail again. Let ’s go up on deck for the wave out.”
I followed him to the elevator. The ship stirred as we were going up. Just then I spotted
another agent, a young black one, who was modestly keeping a low profile, carefully
watching my moves.
It was a pleasant spectacle indeed. Hundreds of people waving us good-bye, and a
marching band playing cheerful military melodies. I hadn’t seen so much fun in years. We
stayed on deck for a long time, until the islands were lost in the evening haze and melted into
a colorful kaleidoscope. The sea was calm and warm. Swordfish accompanied the ship, and
drew silver stripes across the water. This was paradise, and I wished it could last forever.
Harry was pacing, acting a bit jumpy, so we went below again.
“Is there anything else I ought to know?” I asked, while we were descending.
“Not that I know of. If you have questions, go ahead. But I think you’ll get better answers
upon arrival.”
“Is it far yet?”
 “Not that far.”

I had had it up to here with hearing the wrong answers and stopped asking. It was clear I
was not to mingle with the crew, being government property now. I couldn’t blame Harry. He
was my watchdog, and had to be constantly on my tail.
“Let’s go to my shack, it’s my treat now,” Harry said. His shack, as he called it, was a
spacious cabin, about a hundred meters to the ship’s center and located right under the bridge.
It had its own washstand, toilet and even a shower. There were two bunks. The American
standard of comfort, I reckoned.
“Park your butt, John.” We sat down at the fold-up table and Harry ducked under his bunk
to juggle a bottle of Scotch. He cocked it before my nose.
“Tell me, are you sticking to your belief?” he asked me, with doggy eyes.
“Let’s have a drink,” I resolutely said. I might as well get used to the American way of
having fun.
“Great, it won’t kill you, and your God won’t know, I promise.”
That was a ridiculous remark, but it made me laugh. He took two plastic cups and
unscrewed the bottle. “The best,” he said, and smiled happily. Well, it was our night off —
why not? He poured it to the brim. “You know, Johnny, the best Bourbon ’s made from
percolating Kentucky limestone. That ’s the secret. What you ’re about to experience is
nothing like that, but it ’s the best we can do. Without this stuff, life would be useless. Down
the hatch.”
“God bless you,” I said, lifting my cup. He mused upon my toast, thinking I made some
wisecrack. He smacked his lips and took another draught with clear delight. The nectar of the
C.I.A. man. I tasted my drink and found it no worse than vodka. It was, perhaps the only
match America and Russia had.
“No rocks. A fridge wasn’t included, you see.”
I didn’t see anything, but I agreed with everything he said. Harry looked happy and
comfortable, and I seized the opportunity to ask him about Baum.
“Baum. Yeah, Baum’s a great guy. Pity he ’s gone. It ’s a bitch.”
“Why was he so eager to fight the Arabs?” I asked. My tongue seemed to have slowed
down.
“You see, he lost his ancestors during World War II, with the Nazi’s and that stuff.”
“I know, he told me.”
“Then, in the nineties, he lost his parents in a Palestinian suicide bomb explosion, while
they were eating ice cream.”
“I can see your point.”
“That’s not all. After the Israel defeat, the Palestinians picked him up and let him work on
the blown up railways. Double misfortune, you might say.”
“Was he C.I.A.?”

“No way. I only know he had a direct line to the President himself.”
 “A great man he was.”

“You bet.” He slurped his cup down and refilled it. I declined my fourth — I had had
enough of the stuff. It wasn’t so great after all. I longed for a cup of coffee.
“So, why did he abandon his post at Damman?”

Harry’s eyes flickered. “It was time.”

Time for what? Harry seemed to be annoyed by all these questions and changed the
subject.

“Actually, we don’t need that many agents any more. That time ’s over. We developed
something much bigger and more effective. We call it WARGAME, after the old movie, you
know? War in cyberspace.”
“You mean you have an army up there?” I thumbed loosely heavenward.
“An army?” He grinned, finding this remark funny. “No, it ’s nothing of the sort. We have
hundreds of satellites in orbit and they do the work for us. They take pictures, record phone
calls, register transports all over the world. They ’re connected to computers that are
programmed to signal suspected anomalies. That ’s how we discovered SAHRA. Our
computers told us train transports he doubled in just a few months, and our cameras took
pictures of the work camps in Arabia.”
I took it for granted that the League had the world in its hands. But, compared to the
American system, Triple-R was nothing more than a whippersnapper.
“Tell me, Johnny, where did you get that ugly scar?” He threw a close eye at my stump.

“I chopped it off to hide my trail.”

Harry cackled. “I have one, too,” he said and rolled up his sleeve.

A nasty scar ran from his elbow to his wrist. “Got it from an African knife fighter.”

“I think I have about fourteen scars,” I said, enjoying this bravado.

“You outnumber me, then. We’ll drink to that.” He emptied his fifth glass and seemed
surprised by the sight of the empty bottle. Then his expression changed. “Let ’s yak about
baseball.” To my surprise, his eyes no longer squinted. The drink must do something to his
eyeballs. I asked him why the Americans were so keen on the game. I always found it a rather
dull entertainment, which seemed to drag on and on. In my opinion, I was far from being a
match to a soccer game.
“You see, Johnny, I was third base in college.”
He watched my reaction. I raised my eyebrows. It didn’t mean a thing to me, which he
sensed.
“When we’re in the States I’ll take you to a game. It ’s a shame we can ’t be at the finals.”
He started to explain that the Cleveland Indians were to win the World Series.
 And it was a pity the Houston Astros were out of the league. He still hoped Florida
wouldn’t join Texas or they would lose the Marlins, too.
He glowered dreamily. “There ’s nothing to compare with front row seats, eating great hot
dogs and drinking cold beer.” Then he jumped up and, to my amazement, he assumed the
position of a baseball pitcher, left leg pulled up to his belly, handling an imaginary ball.
“The field of dreams,” I heard him mumble. “That ’s what it ’s all about. You know,
Johnny, if you wanna know about America, learn the ball game.”
He started to hum. I heard scraps of it.

“Take me out to the ball game,

Take me out to the crowd,
Buy me some peanuts and cracker jack,
I don ’t care if I never get back.
Let me root, root, root for the home team...”
He fell back in his sad posture and his eyes started to squint again.
I crawled up. “I suppose it ’s time for a nap,” I said. I tottered to the door. “Thanks for a
great evening,” I said and I meant it.» I wish you a good night ’s rest.”
“Likewise, Johnny. Take care. See you in the morning.”

I went off to my bed. Some sailors observed my ungainly quest for my cot and finally
piloted me to where I belonged.
I fell down with a thud and plunged into a dreamless sleep.
 Chapter 18

Someone roused me. A double-headed man was obstructing my view. It took me a while
before I could focus my vision. My doctor looked disapproving. “What have you been doing
to yourself, John? Your eyes are bloodshot. Have you been drinking?”
“I had a party with my guardian angel last night.”
“Last night was about three hours ago. You’re due for the next flight.”
Next flight? I started to rise and felt my head banging several times against an imaginary
wall. It didn’t stop until I reached open air. I drew in clean air and felt better. It was dark, and
we were at sea. So much for my observation ability. Harry and his partner were waiting for
us. He seemed in better condition than I was. He blinked at me.
“Where are we going?” I asked him. He threw me a yellow oil-skin.
“Put this on. It may be rough.”
I tried to ask more, but a helicopter unexpectedly came to life. The doctor gestured for me
to follow the party to the helicopter. The machine rose before I had belted up. We flew along
the carrier and then turned north by northwest.
“Orders from the Pentagon,” Harry yelled in his headset. “I asked for a ride back, so we ’re
both hiking.”

“Why the hurry?” I yelled back.

“Someone needs you right away, I guess.”

The chopper flew very fast and, as it was dark, there wasn’t much in the way of distraction.

The noise level abated and we could converse at a normal level now.

“Say, John, I thought Arabs didn’t drink whisky,” the doctor said.

“I ’m not an Arab. I ’m partly Egyptian and partly Irish.” He looked at me flatly.

“Whatever. Isn’t it so that Islam forbids liquor?”
“It’s not exactly forbidden, but it’s more or less disapproved of.”

“What’s the difference, then?”

I didn’t react at once. It was too complicated for linear western thinking. Only Orientals
could understand such refined statements. You had to make a distinction between law and
traditions, centuries of old customs that were doggedly kept alive.
“Are you a Christian?” I asked..
“I am baptized, if you want to know.”

“Do you attend your Sunday gatherings?”

“Not really.”
 “And still you consider yourself to be a true believer.”

The doctor looked surprised. “I think I’ve got your point.”

Now that we were on religious terms I was curious about Islam’s situation in my adoptive
country.
“Are there many Muslim organizations in America? I only heard of one movement.”
“There are several organizations,” he answered vaguely. It clearly wasn’t his kind of
conversation.
Harry’s assistant opened his mouth. He had a melodious voice.
“There are about six million Muslims in the States. They ’re organized with the NAACP,
which originated from the black community, and they ’re concentrated in the big cities. Some
of them were prosecuted after the Islamic Revolution for subversive acts, but they were
acquitted under the First Amendment.”
“I think it’s the Fourth,” Harry said...
“No way, Harry, it’s definitely the First.”
They started to bicker about their laws, which I found very entertaining. They looked like
two old muftis, quarreling over bits and pieces.
The pilot broke in on us, telling us we had visual on San Diego Naval Base. I peered
through the window and, after a while, I noticed a reddish glow above the ocean, the mark of
a big city at night.
My heart started to hammer. I was arriving to America. We arrived at the heliport near the
bay. I gazed at a million lights. No blackouts here — they seemed pretty sure of themselves.
As soon as we landed, Harry jumped off and helped me down. We headed for a waiting
car, a black limousine with smoked windows. The doctor waved at me as we drove off. I felt a
bit sad, having lost a friend. Harry sat next to me and his assistant next to the driver. I didn’t
seen much of San Diego, except for a fast glimpse at the docks.
“Where are we headed?” I asked..
“I ’m to hand you over to another service,” Harry explained, vaguely. “Don ’t worry,
everything ’s gonna be all right.” Then he addressed the driver. “Step on it, we gotta be there
by oh-five-hundred.”
The limo spurted forward and entered a brightly-lit freeway. It was filled with numerous
cars, despite the early hour, and its numbers flummoxed me. This country didn’t seem to
suffer from any shortage of fuel. Another blow to the League ’s propaganda machine.
According to it, America was flat on her back and millions of cars were rusting along the
abandoned roads.
“What’s the matter?” Harry interrupted my thinking. “You seem to be kinda down.”
“Nothing —I ’m thinking of my homeland.”
“I see. It must be tough for you, but that will change. You’ll meet your own folks soon.”
My own folks?
I had a sudden hunch. “Do you know a Jane Denwick?” I asked.
Harry squeezed his eyes. “Negative. One of your English friends?”
 “Not quite. Anyway, it doesn’t matter.”
We drove in silence. The assistant switched on his radio. I heard raucous music, nothing
like I had heard before, but somehow it uplifted my spirits. The was America all right,
challenging and self-complacent, and it gave away the soul of a vital country.
We exited the freeway after half an hour and entered a country with the familiar look of
desert land. Huge cactus plants and dried out bushes. The car’s air-co hindered me to sniff the
dry sandy smells I was so familiar with.
“Here we are,” Harry said. “End of the road. We have to deliver you here.”
We turned in through an ornate, indigo-painted gateway and drove down the length of a
motel complex to a room at the end of the block. It was exactly 5:00 a.m. when I got out.
Two men came out of a motel room, dressed in black suits, clean shaven, and looking very
determined.
One of them, a young, lean one with a tiny microphone at his lips, exchanged some
information with no one in particular, while the other one, big and burly and older, talked to
Harry, who nodded and shook his hand.
“That’s it, John, you’re in capable hands now. I leave you to these gentlemen.”
He shook my hand. I had barely time to wave a good-bye as they instantly drove away.
The two accompanied me to the room. It had indigo carpet, blue drapes, lilac lampshades and
turquoise seat cover. A great place to feel blue.
Inside, a woman was sitting on the bed in front of a notebook. She was about thirtyish,
with short-cut blond hair, dressed in an attractive beige suit, though looking very official. But
her smile was ingratiating. She had rouge on her lips, which to my feeling was more sensual
then sinful.
She laid the notebook aside, got up and gave me a firm handshake, which I returned
feeblish. She obviously had to be some high ranking officer.
“Hello, major Halker, may I call you John? I ’m Martha, but you can call me Mitch. We’ll
be spending some time together. Oh, by the way, welcome to the States.”
“Thank you, Martha — uh, Mitch. I’ve been in the States already, in Hawaii.”
I was beginning to get the hang of it. She sent me a warm smile, showing a row of perfect
teeth.
“Why don’t I introduce you to these gentlemen? This is Tom and this is Bill. They ’re both
with DoD, Department of Defense.”
Tom was the youngster, with affable manners. Bill looked worn out, and he was a chain
smoker.
“Can I have a cigarette?” I asked..
“Oh, sure. Bill, give John one.” She had a commanding voice, and Bill didn’t argue about
that. He presented me with a filter tip.
“Would you care for a cup of coffee?” Martha went on..

“Thank you very much, Mitch, it’s been a long journey.”

She winked at Tom, who started for the coffee machine to fill four cups.
 “Sit down, please, John. We have a long way to go. I ’m very sorry it has to be like this,
but the orders cam directly from the White House.”
The White House. .I seemed to be very important to the Americans.

“Are you from the same service, too?”

“I ’m not. Actually, I ’m a psychiatrist.”

“I ’m not mad,” I protested, which started Tom to laugh, but Martha sent him a warning
look and he stopped abruptly.
“I know what you’re telling me, John. My task is to acquaint you with your new
environment and study your personality. These two boys will fill you in about your mission.”
My mission?
“If you don’t mind, I’d really need a bite first.”
“Where are my thoughts,” Martha muttered. “Tom, order breakfast for four. We’ll talk
while we eat.”
Though her way of acting was clearly studied, she didn’t annoy me. I was getting to like
her. She presented a great comfort after all the commotion I had experienced lately.
 Chapter 19
The four of us were democratically installed on the bed. Food was spread all over,
scrambled eggs in warmed up cardboard boxes, toast and coffee cups. I was appreciating the
American casual way of eating, so very different from the formal Oriental style.
They had their jackets off. I couldn’t help admiring Martha in her neat outfit of white
blouse and gray trousers, and I wondered why the men were acting rather cool toward her. It
was more like a team of colleagues, rather than a men and woman commitment. Martha ate
little and worked steadily, asking me a lot about my background. She was especially
interested in the period from my escape on, and I had my suspicions about that.
“Can you copy Triple-R?” I asked her, point blank.
“What’s Triple-R?” she flatly asked. She sounded surprised, but also watchful.
“The Relational Random Research Program.” She wiped her mouth with a paper napkin
and sent Bill and inquiring look.
“Okay, let’s level,” Bill said. “The RRRP, or Triple-R, as you call it, is more or less the
Arab equivalent of SID, our own research database.”
“Bill’s our computer wizard,” Martha explained. “He knows a lot about the Arab
information systems.”
“We know everything about your networking,” Bill corrected. “We know you ’re in their
files, but since our tracks ran down we ’d like to know what was in the offing from then on.”
“I can’t imagine you ever knew about it,” I went on, though this didn’t surprise me
anymore.
“Okay, show him, Bill.” Martha got up and took the full ashtray with her.
Bill took the notebook. I couldn’t see a parabolic dish like we were used to have. Had the
American ’s developed better wireless systems? He pecked at the keys and then turned me
the screen. Its display look familiar to me, and as I read out the data my neck hair started to
itch.
‘00000752. Suspect committed to Transition Camp FB01.’ That was all.
I was tongue tied and gaped at Bill. He nodded triumphant, and for an instant I looked upon
him as the personification of Vitya.
“We’ve been following you since you entered your training program. You ’re not the only
one. I estimate our list consists of about a thousand other potential candidates.”
I was taken aback. Triple-R was as leaky as a sieve. My world was coming apart. I had
been hunted down, checked up on by invisible men, who were acting like gods from the skies.
And all that time I was certain I had a perfect cover and the best alibis the service could offer.
“That was the last item. We lost you from then on,” Bill proceeded. “And we ’d like to
complete your file very much.”
“This means you knew about SAHRA all along.”
“Exactly. Since the start of it.”
“Let’s say we know a helluva lot of it,” Tom added. I felt very bitter about that. I had
risked my life in the field, while these white-collar workers were having a good time playing
with their computers behind my back.
 “So, John, what went on next?” Tom asked, an edge to his voice.

I turned to him. “You know Nacht und Nebel?”

Tom looked at Bill, who nodded affirmatively.

“That was a deportation technique the Nazis set up during World War II.”

“That’s what’s been going on with me.”

Martha was back and sat on the bed again. I was feeling uneasy with their probing looks.

“Before I tell you my life, I’d like to know who you people are and whom your represent,”
I said, and they seemed surprised about this turn of events.
“Why not?” Martha decided. “As you already know, I ’m a psychiatrist, working for DoD.
Bill here ’s our CSS advisor and Tom is with NSA.”
That was a lot better. I asked them for some proof and they immediately produced their
official identification. I read them carefully, making a show of it, and they seemed to be fairly
impressed when I gave them back. Of course, they could have been faked, as could everything
I had encountered to then.
“You’re not with the C.I.A.,” I stated.
Bill and Tom exchanged non-committal glances.
“Not in their dreams,” Tom said, with an arrogant smile.
“Right, so let’s move on,” Mitch urged, obviously pretty disturbed by this annoying turn of
events.
“Wait a second,” I said. “Before I give you my life, I ’d like some favor in return.”
Martha smiled. “Okay, shoot.” She wasn’t the type to be overwhelmed by some obscure
eastern spy. Maybe if I ’d had the looks of an Arabian prince she would, I thought.
“Since you’ve got all the equipment, I’d like to know about a certain person I ran into in
prison. He first name is Jean. He ’s French, a former professor at the Sorbonne. He couldn’t
get away.”
“Seems no problem,” Bill said. “Anyone else?”
“The other one is Khalaf Abdullah, from Qatif, Saudi Arabia. He ’s got something to do
with the underground Shia movement. He was my former instructor at Cairo Training Center.
I trust you have a file on him.”
While I was speaking, I saw Bill and Tom exchanging glances and I seemed I had touched
on something sensitive.
“We can’t interfere with the latter issue,” Tom set me back. “I ’m afraid this is
confidential.”
“So he’s in your files,” I went on. Why was I not surprised.

“I ’m sorry, John,” Tom replied.

 Martha made a run to break the growing suspicion. “All right, you guys, he ’s not the
enemy, he ’s on our side.”
“As long as he’s not cleared, we can’t give him this kind of information,” Tom stiffly said.
“You’ll have your answers before long,” Bill added, in a conciliatory manner.
I surrendered and started to give them what they wanted. I told them about my escape from
Riyadh, my stay in Damman, my encounter with Baum and, finally, about Azybey, but I left
out the gory details. They were fairly impressed. After I finished my tale, Martha was the first
to open her mouth.
“Great. If you agree, guys, I ’d like John to take some tests now.”
She asked me to sit at the writing table and set the notebook in front of me. It was all very
simple — I had merely to complete possible answers to a list of questions.
“We’ll go out now. Take as long as you need. After you’ve finished, click the red button
on the screen.”
She wished me good luck. Bill doggy bagged what was left of breakfast and then the three
of them left the room and I was alone.
This was all new to me. We didn’t have this kind of interrogation techniques back home.
Our admission to the Force was our belief, not our psychological profile. That came
afterward, with our conduct and behavior files.
The questionnaire started with simple items, such as the course of my life, then followed
by intriguing ones, going from ‘How many happy experiences can you think of from your
child-hood?’ to cunning ones, such as ‘Would you kill your father if necessary?’
It was easier that way. I didn’t have to face Martha and endure her personal reactions.
It took me more than an hour to fill out the questionnaire and, at the end; I was itching all
over and having chest pains. I clicked on the red button and heard the distinct sound of a
phone dialing. I shoved the computer aside and leant back. After a minute the door opened
and Martha came in alone. “You’ve finished, John?”
I affirmed with a nod.
She bent over me and felt her warmth and sensed her body. It had been a long time since I
’d had a woman.
“That looks great, John. Now, I’ll finish the job and you may go out for a walk.”
“Wait a minute, Martha. I ’d like to know what ’s going on here.”

She reluctantly released her notebook.

“I mean, how are you planning to work out my psychological profile with this game play?”

“I apologize, John. I’ve put your Triple-R data in our main-frame and all I have to do is
find matching elements. It won ’t be long.”
A match to what or to whom, I wondered.
“Okay, I agree. By the way, do you study dreams, too?” Now she was surprised. “I’ve had
my Jung schooling, if that ’s what you mean.”
 “I had some nasty nightmares lately,” I explained. Maybe she could give me some answers
about my erotic dreaming.
“Why don’t you tell me about it,” she said and sat down to watch me attentively.
She listened in silence and put some notes into the machine. I couldn’t help feeling
sexually aroused, telling my dreams to this attractive woman, who seemed not to notice my
adoration.
“That’s interesting, John. I’ll see what I can find out. Why is that so important to you?”
Now I felt a bit silly. Like most Orientals, I was keen on dream stories. The Prophet
himself had said, ‘A good dream of a righteous man is one of forty-six parts of prophecy.’
And he also said, ‘A true good dream is from Allah, and a bad dream is from Satan ,’ and I
was worried that this aphorism would become true.
“Never mind, I ’m ready now.”
I went out. Tom and Bill were waiting for me and we lolled about the motel site. The sun
was burning. We sat down at a shad-wed table under a crooked tree and aimlessly watched
the numerous cars passing by endlessly on the freeway.
“What happens now?” I asked. Bill provided me with the answers.
“She’ll make adjustments to your answers and then the program will do a quick evaluation
of your personality.”
“Is that important?”
“It is to the operation.”

“I hope she knows her job.”

“Relax, John. he a Ph.D., MD, APA and the works. She ’s your gateway to the Agency.”

I looked at Bill, wanting to figure out what he meant.

“Is this concerning WARGAME?”

They were on guard again.

“Who told you about WARGAME?” Tom asked sharply.

“The C.I.A. man, Harry.”

“That goofball,” Tom hissed. “I’ll have him in my report.”

Bill softened down Tom’s anger. “Relax, Tom. Harry ’s pissed because he ’s got to miss
the World Series.”
“Who’s still watching that stupid old game, anyway?” Tom snarled, looking much upset.
“All in good course,” Bill said, appeasing Tom’s flare up.

So I did hit on something interesting, and I chuckled to myself. “Supposing I pass?” I

asked.

“Then you’ll proceed to the next stage.”

 “And that is?”

Tom paused for a second. “Then you’ll get off at McLean.”

“McLean. That would be the C.I.A.?”

“Right. C.I.A. Training Center.”

I let his words sink in.

“Let’s not hasten things, John,” Bill said. “We’ll see what Mitch says.”

“Mitch’s quite a character,” I said. “Is she seeing someone?”

They exchanged glances again.

“Don’t think about it, she’s a dedicated bachelor,” Bill said, and it sounded like a barbed
comment. Seeing my wondering eyes, he explained that a lot of women nowadays
deliberately put over or reject the idea to be married with children in order not to jeopardize
their careers.

I didn’t see how to interpret this. Declining children for a career seemed a trivial idea to
me. I tried to recollect what the Holy Book said about women and children, but was unable to
find a proper response. Still, I recalled Kim’s words: women are increasingly becoming
subject to absolute submission, which for the educated ones meant a lot of doors were shut
down to their face. So, maybe, these American spinsters were right about certain things.

“She’s our best profiler this side of the U.S.,” Bill went on. “They pay her attention at the
top.”
“What’s a profiler?”

“She can detect who’s the best for the job.”

“And that would be me.”

They didn’t react. Bill lit a new cigar and Tom shoved chewing gum into his mouth.

Then Tom’s phone went off and my neck muscles tightened.

“Let’s go back,” he said, and we got up to return. Martha looked satisfied. She smiled at
me. “Congratulations, John, you’ve passed the tests successfully.”
She shook my hand and Bill put his on my shoulder.

“So what does that imply?” I asked, somewhat taken aback.

Tom looked straight at me. “That means you’re qualified to become a terrorist.”
 I didn’t catch what he meant, but then things started off. Tom installed a black suitcase on
the table and took 3D photographs of me, made fingerprints, scraped some saliva from my
mouth, filled out forms and finally declared I was a resident alien now.
“I don’t follow,” I said, while Tom was cleaning my stained fingers.
“It means you can travel freely across the States and do what every American does.”
“So I ’m an American civilian now?”
“Not quite, but that’s only a matter of opinion. There are about ten million illegal aliens in
this country, so one more doesn’t count.”
Martha chipped in on our conversation. “I must leave you now, John. Fend for yourself.”
She looked as though she was staring into a freshly dug grave, gave me a last warm
handshake, collected her belongings and left the motel room.
Then I heard a car come to life and drive away. Farewell, Martha, I thought. Thanks for
choosing me as your favorite terrorist.
“John, do you like your BFC rare or medium done?” Bill asked, while putting on his
jacket.
Tom explained what the abbreviation stood for: hamburger, lettuce and tomato. An unusual
and untactful way to define food, I imagined.
“As long as it’s not hog, I’d eat anything now.”
“Let’s move,” Bill said.

They used a rented car, a perfect hideaway in this car blessed country. We were heading
east. Bill drove, while Tom sat next to me, chewing furiously.

“Now tell me about that terrorist stuff,” I asked him.

“You’ll have your full briefing at McLean,” he explained briefly.

“We’re not C.I.A. people, so it’s not in our hands any more.”

“I know. You’re with Security Counsel. Whatever that means. But I’d like to know why
Mitch referred to me as a terrorist. I ’m an intelligence officer, just as you are. I find it an
insult.”
“I can see your point, but I can’t tell you more. But bear in mind that you’ve been hand
picked from a thousand candidates and you should be proud of it.”
That’s one way to call it. I assumed I still had trouble with American humor.
We were back in San Diego before long. Tom drove the car to the airport and piloted us to
the VIP Lounge, where we ate the promised burger and, half an hour later, we took off on a
regular flight.
Bill immediately took it easy. He ordered Scotch on the rocks and started to read a car
magazine. Tom sat next to me again, obviously watching every step I made.
“No government plane?” I teased him, but he took it earnestly.
 “The government’s cutting our budget,” he said. “After the loss of Texas, we ’re facing too
many cutbacks.”
“What’s with Texas?” I asked. I knew Texas was a U.S. state, and it had great steaks and
oil as well.
He gazed at me with surprise. “Don ’t you fellows know anything about the States?”
“We prefer to call it the Block,” I stiffly explained, “Which means it’s forbidden territory
to us. If it ’s bad, then we’ll know.”
“It’s certainly not good. I reckon you haven ’t been in this world since you escaped, so let
me fill you in.”
He told me that, two months ago, Texas had proclaimed its independence and formed its
own sovereign nation, free from Congressional supervision. The reason was discontent with
the U.S. policy regarding oil prices, but Tom was convinced that the Texans wanted to take
over the lead while the States were struggling with their internal problems.
I asked what sort of problems. For starters, California had segregated ten years ago, which
I knew, therefore creating a dangerous precedent for other unstable states. After the Chinese
takeover of Japan, an endless stream of Japanese and South-Korean émigrés joined the west
coast population, and presented a formidable political threat to the system.
They gained power in California, eventually took over government and local authority at
the next elections. Los Angeles had become the biggest Asiatic region abroad. They had taken
along their dollar reserve and their technological knowledge, which suited America fine, but
their preponderance also formed a threat to the Latino population, which led to regular rioting
and a civil war remained a serious issue ever since. And this inflicted oil prices as well.
“Fuel is America’s success,” Tom explained. “Take away people ’s right to drive and you
take the American soul with it.” Again that hang-up with liberty and rights. What was so
special about that?
“You’re an oil eating nation,” I said. “Without the oil you ’re lost. Your freedom is
depending on the cost of fuel.”
He didn’t argue with that. “Absolutely correct. If we feel our freedom is menaced, we take
steps, whether the theater plays next door or ten thousand miles away.”
“So why did you give up the Middle East so quickly?” I had stepped on sensitive feet
now. I heard him gnash his teeth.
“That was the fuckin’ politicians. If I had my way, I ’d drop a bomb on them, too.”
“Is that your President’s opinion?”
He was sitting on a fence. “Listen, something big ’s coming up, I can assure you. We’ve
been planning this for years now, and it ’s going to blow up and sooner than we expect. We
have a new President now, and he ’s not willing to lick their asses anymore. No soft-boiled,
country-selling Democrats any more.”
I had not seen him that furious, and his obscene language shocked me. Was that what was
American mentality all about? Behind the clean-shaven facade of these people ferocious
predators seem to hide, ready to shake off their skins and swing into devouring action.
The League was right. America was an ogre and you can ’t trust this nation that was born
from violence and mistrust. Tom seemed to read my mind.
 “You see, John, our popular presidents were those who started a war. Whatever the
outcome, their popularity rating raises to an average of 25 percent when they declare war
somewhere. The only thing a misfit of a President has to do is having a war and his place in
history is secure.”
“From what I know, it seems to me your President is not beloved around here.”
“Not at the present day, but wait until after we come in.”
“So he’s planning a war on the world, only to make his position safe?”
“If you put it that way, yes. But there ’s more at stake, John. Think of Operation SAHRA.”
“I think that’s internal affairs,” I protested. “The Saudi will never allow you to take over
power and wipe out their paradise.”
“You don’t understand the power play, John.” I felt rebellious. I had mixed feelings about
all this. I could see now that they were going to use me for their morbid purposes.
“You want me to kill my own people,” I argued.
Tom shook his head. “They ’re not your people, John. You ’re no Arab, you ’re European.
The Arabs have conquered Europe, but that doesn’t make you one of them. The Saudi have
taken Italy, the Iranians Germany ,the Egyptians Britain, but that makes you no Egyptian.”
“My father was an Egyptian,” I protested.
“All right, chill out, I won’t argue. Blood runs thicker than water. But the Egyptians don ’t
belong in Britain, nor did the British belong in Egypt.”
“Tell them about it.”
I wanted to tell him about western colonization, about the destruction of cultures all over
the world, dating from the time the Europeans first broke loose. Even the Americans had done
their part in the massacres, this was common knowledge you learned at primary school. But
the landing was near, and as we rolled to a stop I caught sight of my new life and forgot our
discussion. I had to go on and leave my past behind me.
This time it was an unmarked Ford station wagon waiting for us. Again dismissing
formalities; I was getting used to them. Tom and Bill wished me good luck and I was off
again, not realizing at first our short friendship had ended here.
They were always in twos, I had now figured out. Now I had a tall one and a tiny one, both
with grim expressions, wearing plate glass goggles and not willing to be on familiar terms. I
was alone in the back seat and that was an improvement. It meant we were in a trusting
relationship now. I was becoming one of them.
They were in a hurry and drove the car at high speed. The landscape had changed
considerably since I had boarded the plane. It was green and forested, and local temperature
had dropped by a good ten degrees.
Fall was in the air and the leaves were turning. Life was peaceful, and the scenic beauty
was overwhelming .It was hard to imagine a terrorist training camp around here.
We drove into a courtyard, delightfully decorated by a garden specialist, which emphasized
its unawareness, and stopped at an extensive parking lot. I knew how openly American
Intelligence worked, but all this seemed more of a corporative headquarters rather than a
highly secured government area, and I wondered what would happen if some terrorist decided
to go for immortality. The two strong and silent types delivered me to the reception lobby and
signed me over. Their package had safely arrived and was now to be unwrapped.
 I ran my eyes over the place. It had a modern design touch, full of light streaming in from a
glass dome. I even heard faint music coming from hidden speakers. A pleasant looking your
Asian woman passed me a red leather map, pinned a printed tag on my jacket, which read,
‘John Halker, CETP,’ and invited me to follow her, down the broad gangway, where a lot of
people passed me by, without wising up to my presence.
Then we entered the auditorium, again plunged in bright sunlight and, to my surprise, the
scene was buzzing with numerous people, already seated and talking in low voices along. The
girl pointed me to a chair in the third row and I sat between a black man, about fifty, who was
absorbed in reading a map, and a Caucasian with a puffy, pox-ruined face. I looked around
and counted about a hundred people, on the face of it all candidates for the vacancy of
terrorist.
I opened my own map. It read ‘Counter-Espionage Training Program. Operation
WARGAME. For your eyes only.’ I seemed to be right on time for the grand opening. I
addressed the man with the battered face .“Where do you come from?”
“Serbia.” A European state.

“Are they all from outside the States?”

“I think so.” He observed me more intently. “You ’re not from these parts, either, are
you?”

“No. I ’m from Europe, too.” For the first time in my life I said ‘Europe’ instead of ‘Egypt’
and I didn’t know why I had this slip of the tongue.
“So I see. You know, I heard Chinese and Indonesians. They ’re coming from all over the
world.”
A tall, tanned man entered the room and the noise dimmed. His suit was dark striped and
his black silk tie and shined shoes reflected the light. A smooth man with dark, combed back
hair and wearing a big smile with lots of healthy teeth. I estimated he was of middle-age. He
wore smoke spectacles. He stood in front of the large C.I.A. logo and the eagle seemed to
charge him, but it also made him look powerful, as if he had the whole agency behind him.
His voice sounded metallic over the speakers, with an American touch.
“Good morning, gentlemen. My name is Tekin. I hope you’ll enjoy your stay at C.I.A.
quarters. As you know, tonight there will be a party and you ’re all invited to it.”
His opening sentenced got the approval of the audience and they started to applaud, but I
got a nasty feeling. Where had I heard all this before? Where did this déjà vu come from?
Then I knew. Moscow. Ahmed. The grand tour. The torture chamber.
Not again, I moaned. Were intelligence services the same all over the world? Did they
copy from one another? I didn’t pay much attention to the man on the platform. He was
gesticulating, and everyone seemed to be hanging on his words. My mind drifted back to
Moscow and Vitya and Fatma and suddenly I wanted to get away from it all. Sweat started
from every pore and I felt sick and miserable. I got up from my chair, and stumbled to the
entrance. I felt the audience watching me. Someone collected me at the exit and I was just in
time to waddle to the bathroom. I fell on my knees and gushed my lunch into the pot. My
broken ribs sent me a knife sharp protest and I started to burn and freeze at the same time.
Then I started to cry. My tears gushed in a never ending flood. Long bottled up misery
poured out and it didn’t stop before someone knocked at the door.
 They drove me to the medical section. For the rest of the week, I was subjected to several
medical tests, which involved brain scans and genetic analysis, a diagnostic technique the
homeland didn’t practice. C.I.A. had its own facilities, including a state-of-the-art equipped
hospital and medical research center. I was underwent psychiatric sessions, which resulted in
an introspection I didn’t very much like.
I learned I was a born survivor, highly intelligent, but not intelligible, far more suited to
field work than to office work. Also, it turned out I was a latent homosexual, though with a
poor drive, which I compensated by an impulse to violence. A remarkable intuitive power,
which led to quick responses in unusual situations, completed my profile.
The Freudian references might be Martha’s contribution. It didn’t worry me, assuming she
had troubles with her own sexuality. They prescribed me all sorts of medication, which helped
me through my ennui, and at the end of my first unfortunate week I was capable to get along
on my own, feeling better again.
After my first lunch in the cafeteria, I enjoyed the bleak sunshine peering through the
window and admired the Virginian fall season. The humidity had dropped, and it was
expected to be a snowy winter, which I was looking forward to. I wasn’t allowed to leave the
premises, but that didn’t bother me. I was safe here and not in a hurry, sitting in my cozy
wheel-chair that I was still not allowed to put aside.
She came upon me unexpectedly, from behind, as if she wanted to surprise me, or give me
the shock of my life. I was seated in the glass-domed solarium, still in my patient ’s outfit,
digesting one of my last pills, and I felt two hands on my shoulder. I turned my head.
For a moment, I was back in Bulgaria to pick up a lost thread.
Jane — my guardian angel. Our eyes were hooked and we didn’t speak. I was at ease,
thanks to my medication. Then she broke silence.
“How do you feel, John?” Her voice was soft and sweet. I absorbed her presence. She had
kept her good looks, and the C.I.A. uniform fitted her well. Actually, I liked it better than the
Russian version. She kneeled at my site and grabbed the wheel-chair’s arm with both hands.
“I ’m all right, I guess.”
“I know you’ve had a dreadful time. I’ve been waiting for you since you got aboard that
tanker.”
“How...” I started. But then it came back to me — they knew everything. She had been
waiting for me all that time. I was odd to see her uncovered and in plain clothing. She had
turned into a totally different personality.
“You’re with the Agency,” I stated. She appeared to look for words and more than ever I
was inclined to help her with them. Come on, girl, spit it out, once and for all.
“What about Tim? You remember Bulgaria, the nice Sofia shack?” I sneered. I sounded as
if I meant a love nest. She took a deep breath. Her words tolled. “Tim was the leader of the
local resistance group, John. He was involved.”
I gaped at her. “Involved in what?”
She looked me straight in the eyes but kept still. “This is madness,” I muttered, and I
meant it. It went way over my head and I wanted to stop all the cheap scheming behind my
back. It wasn’t really the right time for confessions like these. I wished we had better
opportunities than in a C.I.A. building.
 “I was trying to tell you in Moscow, and then at Tim’s, but I couldn’t. Somehow, the times
I saw you in the flesh, I wasn’t able to do so.”
I could understand that. Apart from our mutual experiences, it was hard to imagine we
could have been tied much closer.
She looked beaten and her eyes filled with tears. “I ’m sorry, John. I really did my best to
protect you.”
“To protect me from what? From who? That fireball at Vitya ’s place?”
“It’s not my fault, John. I had to discover who had stolen the weapon. I didn’t succeed and
you were almost killed.” I made some slack. She didn’t think of herself, though she had been
in far more danger than I suspected. The Mafia could have hurt her so much she ’d be better
off dead.
“Why did you come to Odessa?” I asked, more at ease now.

She sniffed. “I was going to take you away. The Agency knew you would be in great
danger. But you turned out to be most unwilling that night.”
For her brave attempt, I had nearly raped her that night. “I ’m sorry, Jane. I was sloshed.”

“You were in such a state that I couldn’t get through to you. So the only thing I could do
was to drop you a note.”

“I know. Mecca 2012 and something.”

“I knew you’d brood on it, and I hoped you’d try to understand.”

I looked straight faced. “You couldn’t foresee that I was to be taken to England again.”

“I couldn’t, and I fled. I warned the Agency and they followed your footsteps until you
went up in the air.”
I showed her my left arm. “I had a small accident.”
“If you hadn’t cut off your hand, you would have been here already, » she whispered.
Come to think of it, it wasn’t that sly of me after all.
“Why was it so important to the Agency that I got away?”
“Tekin had deliberately postponed deadlines until your arrival here.”
Much honor for a blazing ass of a MI officer. I had no urge to ask about these deadlines.
Another question crossed my mind. “Still, I ’d like to know about your affair with Vitya.”
She cast her eyes down. “We had an affair. I know it ’s not right, but it was the only way
to get in touch with you. That ’s the truth. And I didn’t want you to think of him as an
accomplice. He was just an innocent man.”
“Another thing, what about that disc? I couldn’t find anything about Mecca that I didn’t
already know.”
Her face softened and she started to smile.

“What’s the matter?” She made me feel silly.

 “I’ll fetch you a copy and we’ll study together.”

“Okay. So how did you manage to become a C.I.A. woman?”

“That’s a long story, John. I’ll tell you about it tonight.”

I looked her over with mixed feelings. Feelings that disturbed me. I was on the verge of
asking her the question that had played in my head since our farewell, when some buzzing
sounds disturbed the intimate moment. She took a quick glance at her pager and got up. “I ’m
sorry, John. It ’s time for your tests. I’ll take you there. And after that, we’ll have lots of time
to talk it over.”
The test involved a long stay with a dermatologist and some specialists who screened my
left arm. I felt a bit crestfallen at their blunt remarks.
I remained in my small, though nicely furnished den in the left wing and had lowered the
blinds to the setting sun. Jane was back late that night. She showed me a similar flash memory
card, which brought me back to Moscow and that gloomy apartment. I watched her slide the
disc into my notebook. She pointed to the item ‘Mecca 2012.’
“I’ll read it out for you. In 2012, about 2,000 Iranians and Turks invaded Mecca in an
attempt to blow up the Kaaba. They failed and it turned out the conspiracy had been set up by
the C.I.A.. Saudi Arabia sent an indignant protest, pointing at the friendly relations between
the United States and the League.”
“So?”
“You still don’t get my hint, do you? It concerns Operation WARGAME.”
At last I was seeing the light down the tunnel. I raised my voice. “Are they doing it all over
again? They ’re raving mad! It can ’t be done, that ’s simply impossible!”
“Don’t shout, John, it’s feasible. Our computers had shown a ninety-five percent
probability of success.”
“Computers! Are you going to give your life away to some dumb machines?”
She seemed nettled by my outburst. “The new technology can do it, John. You don ’t know
what the latest generation of computers is capable of.”
I had to restrain myself. I had experienced small wonders over the last weeks, and it
wouldn’t surprise me if the C.I.A. computers were capable to do things beyond human
capacities. But it was a madcap idea, descending from a deranged mind, and all indications
led to this one man, Tekin.
“Poor John, it must be true that women and men had different approaches to language.”

I didn’t quite catch her meaning. Jane ’s face had gone overcast by the recognition of
horrible things.

“I suppose it’s time I tell you about my life, John. It ’s not pleasant, but otherwise I won ’t
persuade you, I know.”
“If it’s too hard, don’t persuade me then,” I said, though, frankly, I was eager to know
more about her background. She started to tell me, her hand in mine, and I felt her trembling.
It was a hell of a story. She originated from Los Angeles, where her dad had turned into a
Muslim. He joined the revolutionary forces at the outburst, was rewarded and could get his
family over. Jane was still a small child and was raised, both as an American and a Muslim.
Spoke Arabian fluently at the age of fourteen, but never forgot her native tongue. She studied
at the International School at Beirut. Then her luck changed. Her parents were killed in a car
accident and she was taken away to Yemen as a nanny for a family that owned a shipping
line. At fifteen she was raped by the youngest son and was then sent to a man for a marriage
of pleasure, the way some Muslims mistreated the laws against adultery. She managed to flee,
but didn’t get far and was then obligated to enter into a ‘sighe,’a three year’s contract
marriage, for which she was paid. She had two children, a boy and a girl, both taken away
from her as soon as she gave birth. After the contract period she was outlawed and ended up
in a Dubai nightclub, where she entertained tourists and participated at huge parties during the
Ramadan season and festive days. There she met an American and he managed to get her out
of the country and into the Agency.
A sudden hunch made me ask her who that man was. But I already knew the answer.
Baum. And that’s how it all came together.
After she had finished, I put my arms around her, but didn’t talk. Jane had put up a brave
fight against her fate and I was so deeply impressed by her account that I couldn’t react for a
while. Her lips were quivering as the memories had poured out. I gave her a tender kiss on
the cheek and she answered with a warm hug. For a precious moment we were closely united
in our common experiences.
But she didn’t answer my question: why had she volunteered to be part in the hazardous
spy business?
So, eventually, I asked her. Her answer was straight and simple.
“I need my children back.”
 Chapter 19

I was invited to Tekin’s. For the occasion they had supplied me with the typical Agency
outfit, the dark blue suit, white shirt and dark tie. I traveled along the maze of long,
underground corridors and entered the right wing of the main building, where I stepped in an
elevator that brought me directly to Tekin’s office.
Tekin had a great top floor suite, overlooking the park and the Memorial. It was a bright,
luminous room with a large, modern designer desk and thick wall to wall carpeting. On his
desk were the typical attributes of the modern executive, a phone, and intercom connected to
his secretary’s desk, and a laptop. He had his own espresso machine which he constantly
used.
He was taller than I had imagined, and his English had a clear-cut American touch. He had
a two-inch knife scar over his right eyebrow.
As I entered his office, he immediately put his spectacles on his nose. I noticed the glasses
were double layered. I sank down in a brown leather chair. He asked me how I felt and I
answered how great it was to be back and how it was a pity I ’d skipped classes.
“Don’t worry, John. You can play hooky — you ’re a professional. We ’re very lucky to
have you here with us.”
He poured two cups of espresso coffee. “They come from everywhere,” he vaguely
answered. “Our rule of thumb is that they should be accustomed to Arab culture, and have a
fluent knowledge of at least two Arabian dialects. And they have to be determined to follow
our program.”
“To start with the good news, we’ve arrange for the best surgeon available. You’ll have a
new hand and plastic surgery as well.”
“Plastic surgery?”
“Exactly. We don ’t want you to end up in some dark alley. Your features are too familiar
to the enemy. It ’s standard procedure to give full protection to our agents who have been in
tight spots.”
“I don’t seem to have an opinion on my own,” I protested.
He looked surprised. “I see we’ve neglected your psychological profile. I ’m sorry, John.
We’ll make an appointment for it.”
“Before you do, sir, I’d like to point out that I was abducted by your people. I see you have
made up your mind about my future, but I ’m not willing to risk my life on some, if you’ll
permit me to say, barmy and preposterous proposition.”
He seemed to be hurt by my sneering.
“John, we’re not playing children’s games, we’re fully aware of the risks involved. You ’re
here for one purpose, and that ’s because you ’re one of the best. We simply couldn’t let you
go.”
I felt rebellious. “And who are you, anyway? You speak American, but you don ’t seem to
be one.”
“Touché. I ’m a Turk, if that ’s important to you.”
“Why is a Turk leading this operation?”
 “Before I go into that, I’d like you to look at this screen.” He turned his laptop partly to my
side. I distinctly recognized the Triple-R logo again.
“I ’m aware of your skills,” I snarled.
“Not of this one.” Tekin clicked the button of his wireless mouse.
The pie-shaped pointer move to the item ‘Fatwa.’ He clicked it open and scrolled the list
until my name came up. They had put a Fatwa on me, a ban, and that could mean anything,
but certainly meant no good.
“I know how you feel,” Tekin said. “I ’m also on this list.”
“And you want me to go back and blow up the most sacred place ever?”
“Sacred to Sunni Muslims, John, not to us.”
“It represents all Muslims, for heaven’s sake!” I didn’t want to shout, but I was upset and
my mind was still out of control.
Tekin remained calm. “Not anymore, John. We’ll discuss this in due time, but for now...”
I cut him short. “You’ve sent that girl to persuade me to do this insane suicide mission.
This is not the kind of freedom I want. This smacks of a disgusting conspiracy.”
“I ’m sorry, John. But Jane is determined to go to Mecca even if no other does. She drives
a hard bargain. You must be proud of her. As a matter of fact, she’s preparing as we speak.”
“What?” I stared at him open mouthed. This man was simply crack brained. “Have you
pulled strings on her? What did you tell her about me?”
“Calm down, John. We don ’ t fool around with our people.” He poured two new cups and
presented me with a Virginia tobacco cigarette. “I ’m sorry we have no kola tobacco around
here. But, if you wish, you ’re free to have a joint.”
I calmed down. “I ’m okay.” I puffed in silence, realizing now I couldn’t fob him off.
Tekin picked up a remote control to point at the blank wall. The wall split into a huge
covering projection screen. He pointed to the window and the curtains closed.
“Let me explain our situation, John.”

A slide of the world came to life on the screen.

“This is the world, with the American continent in the center. That ’s our point of view. It
will enable you to see our global position.”
America lay proudly in the middle of the planet, with the League at the right and the Asian
block at the left, squeezed between two powerful enemies. It made a whole difference, the
way you looked at a world map.
“Before the Revolution, the United States of America had practical economic and military
leadership over the world. After the fall of Communism they were on their way to realizing
their centuries old dream, which is total global domination. They wanted a unified world, a
world in which American values would be universal. The values of freedom, of individual
rights and of constitutional power, to be precise. This dream was shattered after the Islamic
Revolution. They had to withdraw to avoid a new worldwide conflict, which undoubtedly
would end up in a nuclear winter.”
 “The Americans supported the Revolution,” I said. “That ’s correct, and that was their
biggest mistake. They supported Islam as a buffer to Communism, and when Communism
was wiped out from Europe, a giant gap was left behind, ready to be filled in. And it was
Islam that took it.”
“So they want a piece of their own cake,” I said maliciously, but Tekin didn’t react.
He produced another slide. This time it was Europe and the Middle East in one picture.
“After the Gulf Wars, the Saudi, who were our allies at that time, got a severe punishment.
They came out of the wars with enormous debts. For the first time in their dynastic history,
inflation and unemployment had caused a severe political issue. And the Saudi began to
panic. They weren’t so keen any more on American help, as the League began to question
their dominant role. Ultimately, they made a fatal mistake. They started to negotiate with Iraq,
their sworn enemy. This was the start of the Revolution.
Tekin was giving me a lecture on apocryphal history and, frankly, I was put in irons by my
curiosity.
“After the death of Iraq’s leader, its Baath party members started hush-hush negotiations
with Iran, which the Saudi had no knowledge of.”
He zoomed in on a portion of the map, the part forming the peninsula, with Iraq and Iran as
center pieces.
“They started to talk about the price of oil, without obviously involving the Saudi. Their
purpose was simple — they wanted complete control of the oil market.”
Now Tekin zoomed in on the European theatre. “But as long as Europe was working with
the States, there was no way they could succeed. So they had to take other measures. They
had to take Europe, invade it, and turn it into Islamic territory, and thereby bring the States to
its knees.”
“Which was a successful operation,” I added, not with certain smugness.
“Absolutely. Now things got into the rapids. After the fall of Western Europe, Russia came
in for a piece of the action. It took Poland and tried to have their grip on Romania and
Bulgaria as well, but then Turkey didn’t talk over with that and they had to give in.” He
returned to the global slide projection.
“As you know, the introduction of Islam into western Europe had a devastating effect on
Christianity. Millions turned away from it, being disappointed by the Vatican ’s weak offense,
and a million others started to collaborate and work for the League and were gradually
turning into Muslims as well.”
He took a sip of his coffee and I did the same. It was cold now, but I didn’t care, being
under the spell of his tale.
“To speed things up, the League ordered that every person less valuable to society had to
live in accordance to the Quran. This greatly afflicted the lives of numerous women. The
Vatican had to give in and, as you know, they started this horrible thing, raiding innocent
people and taking them away.
“Nacht und Nobel.” I loved to pronounce Baum ’s phrase time and again.

He nodded with surprise. “You know your history.”

I didn’t go into it. It was Baum, speaking through me.

 “How did Rabinov fit into the picture?”

“The countries with a vast population of Christian believers were rapidly depopulating.
Many Christians had fled Europe, or tried to hide in Poland, France, Italy and Spain, the
traditional Christian strongholds. It took Intelligence no pain to trace them down; they were
sitting ducks for the League. With the help of their computer network, they could easily rule
over Europe and Russia would be virtually on its knees.”
“I know,” I said, though I still had my doubts, his explanation being too vague and full of
loose ends.
“So, to go on, Rabinov, who at first agreed with the operation, clearly saw he had picked
out the wrong horse and wasn’t so keen any more and tried to negotiate with the Saudi. But
the Russian Mafia was having talks with Turkey as well, about the eastern drug connections,
and weren’t keen on coming to terms.”
“The fireballs.” It flashed through my mind.

Tekin looked at me questioningly.

“The secret weapons,” I explained.

“The Bluebird 3.0,” Tekin clarified my words. So that was its official appellation. “Now
comes the part where you get involved.” I pricked up my ears.
“While they were fighting over the bone, they made the classic mistake of being unaware
of the third dog, which was the Shia movement. After being oppressed for centuries, the
Revolution granted the Shia so much honor and glory that they gained political power and
control. And they started toward a second revolution.”
So far, his historical interpretation sounded plausible.
“What you’re telling me, is that Intelligence East made a contract with Turkey and the Shia
movement to beat the League and, if not, they would start a war.”
“You see my point and I ’m glad you do. Now you can see why you were so snarled up by
all those different signals.” Everybody seemed to be hunting everybody else in the world, I
thought.
“Let’s go on.” Tekin zoomed in on the peninsula. “American Intelligence knew about the
coming events and wanted to play it safe. They started to negotiate with the Mob and Turkey,
but on the condition that the Shia would not be part of it. That was their main object. They
didn’t care whether Turkey would win the war, as long as they kept firmly in the saddle
themselves.”
“Is this related to Doctor Baum?” I asked.
“You’re absolutely right. Baum was one of the architects of the counter intelligence plan
we call WARGAME. He had organized the Shia of Saudi and the escape routes from Turkey.
He was ready when they killed him. We owe him a lot.”
No doubt I did. “So everything ’s about to get going,” I concluded. “But how does the
Vatican fit into the picture?”
“It’s very simple. We couldn’t get our budget through before we brought Congress around
to our purpose. As you probably know, Roman Catholics are powerful in the States and, in
South America, Catholics have always defended the Vatican in rough times, giving shelter to
refugees, lobbying in papal elections, and providing funds for several Catholic organizations.
If, or better when we succeed in overthrowing the League ’s power, we will establish a new
religious leader in the Vatican. We have two candidates ready and willing.”
I couldn’t help being impressed. Tekin observed my changes as well.
“First and foremost, let me remind you that you’re not alone. We have Japan ready to
come in and the European nations, of course. They ’re all waiting to go.”
I had heard enough. “By the way, how did you end up collaborating?”
Tekin pulled a face. Obviously he didn’t like my phrasing. “I don ’t like that word, John.
You’ll be part of it, too, and I trust you won ’t see yourself as a collaborator — or a defector,
for that matter.”
“You’ve got me there." I admitted, but still, I wasn’t going to give away everything I had
lived for, and betray the ones who had given my life a purpose. What was worse, then?
“To answer your question, I was a former functionary with the last democratic
administration before it was radicalized. The fanatics took over and started their purification
among the truthful.”
His voice broke down and our conversation flagged. I longed for a break, but I had still
another question.
“Baum and Khalaf Abdullah were working closely together. Is Abdullah actively involved
in WARGAME?”
“Abdullah is responsible for a sub plot we call TARGET. He ’s the one who’ll eventually
do the Kaaba.”
My stomach was contracting and my hands were clammy.
Tekin observed this with his calculating look. “I can see your confusion. But it has been
tried before, and this time we’re intended to succeed.”
Tekin hadn’t the faintest idea of how deeply shocked I was. I had never dreamt of such an
undignified act. Even with Jane ’s broad hint about Mecca 2012 I would never accept this
desecration for real. Blowing up the Kaaba? Why not the better part of Jerusalem while we
were out busy? Then all religion wars would be over in a flash.
Tekin surmised I was grieving over Khalaf. “John, you have to realize that Abdullah has
nothing to live for except for his belief. We feel we have a spiritual obligation to save the
world from tyranny. And we trust you will cooperate, John.”
I giving in, step by step, but was still too mulish to take it back. Tekin clearly kept working
hard on me, though.

“I see you still have doubts, John. Five hundred men and women are waiting for the sign.
More than a hundred thousand personnel are working exclusively on WARGAME. This
involves all the wit and muscle we can lay our hands on. Our computers have worked out all
the details and solutions. You can be sure we haven ’t overlooked the slightest detail.”
“I don’t trust computers,” I objected. “You can ’t win a war from behind a desk.”
“Since the Revolution, computer science has dramatically moved along a new course,
John. We can go further than you’ll ever imagine. Let me show you how we operate.”
He swung his notebook to me.
 “You are free to browse our databases. There ’s a section explaining WARGAME. All this
stuff is free, with the understanding you can ’t bring it out in the open or we’ll have to kill
you.” That sounded credible.
“You can use my password. It ’s ‘God’. Not very original, I ’m afraid, but I hate
passwords.”
I could imagine he was fed up with the epidemic plague of passwords. He left and I started
the computer. A digital voice came to life.
‘Central Intelligence Agency. Enter your password, please.’
I entered ‘God.’
‘Thank you, Tekin. Which site would you like to go to?’ I scrolled along, skipping
everything I knew, which wasn’t that much, and stopped at a section called ‘Restricted
Areas.’ I was much too anxious to skip this one.
It had several areas, among them Operation WARGAME. I tried to enter, but it read
‘Access Denied.’ Yet there was a section in this area, called ‘EVIL BANK ’— a very
intriguing name, which, in my opinion, fit the C.I.A. mentality very well — and switched to
it. The screen produced a dark background with red characters.
‘Welcome to EVIL BANK, Tekin. Please retype your password.’ Again? I was surprised,
as this didn’t make sense. But I did it at any rate.
‘Retype your password, please.’ The voice urged. Again I did so.

‘Your handwriting does not correspond to our database, please hold.’ I was stunned. How
on earth did that machine know who was on the keyboard? Again, I was faced with another
mystery of advanced technology I wasn’t aware of.
A message flashed on the screen. ‘Please identify yourself. Type in your first and last
name.’
So I did and, after a split second, a new message appeared. ‘Thank you for your
cooperation, John Halker. Enjoy your stay at EVIL BANK.’
I entered the area and spent about half an hour in it. When I left I felt physically sick. I had
visited hell on earth. EVIL BANK was the supreme storage of all human evil since the
invention of handwriting. Thousands of interrogation, torture and other treatment techniques
were full described, complete with pictures, photos and movie clips. Everything the
Americans could have laid their hands on, they had inserted. The Japanese contributed with
medical experiments on humans, the Nazis had changed warfare into a science. Then there
were the Russians, with their refined psychological torture techniques. I noticed items such as
biochemical warfare during the Iran-Iraq war in the eighties, the Rwanda genocide in the
nineties, the European raids just before the Revolution. Each age brought its own knowledge
and each war its own inhumanity. Anyone who was dead certain that evil was gone after the
last conflict had better come to his senses. Evil was stored right up in this computer here,
forever, and ready to pop up when needed. Wasn’t it Julius Caesar who said that evil outlived
its instigators? I had no desire to drop in on other areas. The rest couldn’t be worse.
It was obvious that Tekin had intentionally led me to this — and only this — section.
He entered his office again half an hour later, and watched me intently, apparently with
great expectations.
 “Forgive me if I misled you, John. I didn’t mean to impress you. I only wanted to illustrate
why we are the best in handling information. We are a nation of information reservoirs, it ’s
our strength and our trump card to the world.”
“I see your point .I can imagine you’ve stored everything that could possibly be stored
away.”
“You’re damned right, John. Nothing escapes us. We have constructed an information
sanitary cordon around the globe, controlled by thousands of nodal points, on the ground, in
space and beneath the water. Since the Middle East wars, we’ve learned we can dominate by
means of information weapons. Since then we’ve lost fewer than a thousand casualties in
conflicts. The Viet Nam war cost the States over fifty thousands casualties. So you see, we ’re
not afraid of engaging, whatever the outcome.”
I couldn’t argue with this. I was really impressed and I realized the League wouldn’t have
a chance. Tekin’s laptop had shown me the light. WARGAME was synonym of information
war, a whole new type of war, intangible and moving with the speed of light.
“You know, John, if I had to chose between the annihilation of an obscure relic such as
that black stone in Mecca and lasting armed conflict, I’d make up my mind at once.”
So would I. “I’d like to know, though, what the operation is all about.”
Tekin let out his breath with perceptible relief. “That ’s what I ’m going to do, John. If you
’re convinced, we’ll get the program started. It ’s up to you.”
“One last thing. I don ’t want the girl to be part of it.” I stacked to my guns and must have
looked obstinate, as he finally gave in and promised he would take up my request with his
superiors.
“In due time, you’ll meet our coordinator, and then we’ll talk about it.”
I had my reasons for not taking Jane along, and not only because I didn’t want her to be
hurt. It was also that she was putting too much faith in Tekin, and I was having second
thoughts about him.
Next morning they came to fetch me for a preliminary plastic surgery checkup. I was glad
things were on the move, but I told Tekin the idea of being deprived of my natural looks
didn’t much please me.
But, again, he would parry me by saying that my features were too well known by the
enemy and, anyhow, part of the program design involved the creation of a new John Halker.
So I had to put up with it, and started to wonder what my new person would look like.
I had but one more encounter with Jane, and we spent a lot of time in the cafeteria, talking
about life in general and ours in particular. Jane told me the sequel to her story.
After her emigration to the States, she was contacted by the Agency, who used her for
undercover work in Muslim communities. Her knowledge of Arabic came in handy. She spent
two years doing desk work for some underground movement and living with a white Muslim
in Los Angeles. After they separated, Tekin took over her life.
When Intelligence found out I was heading for Moscow, they had instructed her to stay on
my tail and work on me. From then on the picture was clear.
It was time now for the big turn. On a Monday morning I entered the beauty parlor, as they
called it, underwent the surgery and, when I came to, I was another man.
 They had turned me into a genuine Arab. I now had a typical Semitic nose, my lips were
broader and my eyelids heavier. My old nickname of ‘Angel Face ’ had lost its meaning.. I
still had some bandages on my chin and left jowl, but all was healing well.
They had done a grand job on my left hand. I got a new one, which was better than the old
one, as it was American, the surgeon informed me in sober earnestness. Full of neurons and
sensors, more organic than mechanical.
It was all right. It weighed less than the former one, and was a lot more flexible, too. I
crooked my new fingers and noticed the tiny, gingery skin hair growing in the right direction.
Fine veins made it very realistic and the fingernails looked natural enough. This was
technological perfection at its best. Tekin splashed in, looking happy. “It even has its own
body temperature adjustment,” he explained..
“I hope you didn’t put anything else in it,” I said, turning my hand in all directions, unable
to handle my enchantment.
“As a matter of fact, we have." He said, to my unpleasant surprise. “If you’re severely
harmed, your hand cut off again, or if you should lose some other part of your body, a built in
Bluebird will come free and flatten your surroundings.”
I swallowed and tried to hold my temper. “Including me.”
“Including you,” he repeated, with a straight face. “But we may take it for granted that by
that point your life will be in mortal danger. And we can ’t afford you falling into the hands of
the fanatics down there.”
A shuddered traveled up my spine. I hadn’t thought of it, but Tekin was right. If I were to
be discovered, my life wouldn’t be worth my own shadow. So, I let it go with oriental
resignation.
“I suppose you’ve got me a new identity as well?”
“You’ll be an American businessman, member of a Muslim community, fulfilling his hajj.
You’ll have a hajj visa issued by the Saudi embassy at Cape Town.”
“They needed a businessman, and I was at hand,” I said bitterly. All that time they had
been angling for me. They had already calculated my little person as a variable in their
computer program.
“That’s right, and we’ll finish the job after your training program.”
“And when will that be?”
“As soon as you’re released. It ’s December now, and time is becoming short.”
I didn’t realize we were heading for the Gregorian end of the year, when Christians
celebrated their religious rituals.
“I’d like to share the Christmas feast,” I said.
Tekin looked surprised. He hadn’t expected to see me converted so rapidly.
“We’ll arrange something.”
I hadn’t fulfilled my religious duties for weeks now, since I had sworn I wouldn’t until I
set foot on Arab soil and had fought devil with my own hands. Then, when we had won, I
would go and pray on the Arafat and ask God for forgiveness.
 My surgical wounds were healing remarkably fast and I was back in the world in no time,
where I got a sped-up program in political history at the auditorium, in the presence of
university lecturers.
As I wasn’t obliged to follow the complete course, I preferred to watch TV in the
recreation room. There I could catch up on whatever I had missed during all those years of
misinformation. I especially enjoyed the commercials, which in my view bore witness to the
American soul, and should be seen as the art form of the 21st Century.
Little by little, our small community of kindred spirits grew into a tight unit, though not
that close. Tekin didn’t encourage camaraderie, and I would soon discover why. I developed
and on-and-off friendship with the older Serbian man, with whom I had been in the
Auditorium. He had fled his country during the Egyptian Campaign, leaving his family
behind. His constant worrying about his kin had turned him into a vengeful fanatic. He talked
endlessly away about what he had in mind for the enemy. In my opinion this was the wrong
way to retaliate. It showed how poorly the selection had been made. It had no pros in it,
except for myself, of course.
I explained my doubts to Tekin, but he waved it away and assured me that everything
would go as planned. I wished I had his kind of optimism. I had trouble with the naïve
confidence Americans had in life itself and the indestructible faith in the rightness of their
moral values.
The team was spontaneously driven together, like flocking animals. We joined ranks at
meal times, where we grabbed up a number of tables, but then Tekin drove us apart again and
directed us to disperse among the other Agency members. I had no objections however, as I
didn’t want to fraternize, thinking of my unfortunate time in Moscow. A solid team is
wonderful, but it ’s also inclined to build walls against the outside world, and Tekin knew this
and evidently had his reasons. As we had little time to party, with all that ideological stuff to
memorize, our only recreation time was at meals. Most of the time I sat alone, and the others
respected my lonesomeness. We were not allowed to leave the compound yet, and our days
were an endless chain of computer sessions and we were very much rigged to turn into what
they had in mind with us.
I had a complaint about that and several of my companions supported me.
Tekin showed his leadership now. We rallied round in the cafeteria.
“I’ll speak frankly,” he started out. “Our program has anticipated this evolution. We know
you carry a cultural baggage you won ’t or can ’t get rid of. Our sessions are meant to prepare
you for this culture shock, and we think everything ’s working great.”
His eyes wandered. I noticed how downbeat he looked with his heavily wrinkled, washed-
up face.
“Some of you can’t or won’t adapt to it, but that’s not important right now. Everyone will
get his rightful chance to prove what he can do. Afterward, we’ll sum up our findings and
draw the right conclusions. For the time being, we ’re trying to empty your minds and fill
them with other stuff. You’ll feel schizophrenic for some time, and that ’s normal. We want
you to think in dual terms. Once you ’re on the battlefield you’ll be partly yourself and partly
with the organization, and that ’s the only way for the operation to succeed.”
That was a new vision all right and, again, I could sense that the computers were taking
over. I wasn’t concerned with the fact that our brains were mashed up, but that it was done by
machinery, and I made a remark about that in a loud voice.
 Tekin pointed his hollow eyes at me, though his face was as set as ever.
“Some of you are having troubles realizing your fate is in the hands of computers. Well, let
me tell you that over the last fifteen years, 98% of all C.I.A. actions have been prepared by
our systems and, of that figure, 99% were successful. In comparison with the early days, our
rates have improved by a five hundred percent. So there should be no discussion about that
any more, and I advise you to play along, as the computers will have a large impact on your
tactical moves in the field.”
After the meeting, Tekin too me aside.

“John, I have an assignment for you. You had a wish to attend a Christmas event, but I’ve
decided for a New Year ’s Eve party.”

“I don’t suppose I ’m very keen on western parties, Tekin.”

“It’s a special one, John. I ’d like you to pick out a certain person who can provide us with
important information. Information that could be of use to the operation.”
That was another thing. It was something in the line of duty and I was glad to be able to
use my experience again.
“At last, Tekin. I supposed I ’d never see daylight again.”
“Don’t worry, John, you’ll have plenty of opportunity to perform your skills. I have picked
you, as you ’re unknown to the outside world. The subject is a member of a Muslim terrorist
organization and we think he ’s something to do with a recent attack on one of our branches. I
need to know the who’s and the why’s.
“Can I have his file?”
“I think it better not, John. I want you to meet him with a fresh mind and draw your
conclusions without being involved with his past.”
“Sounds interesting. When do I get to see him?”
“I’ll have one of our girls accompany you to the party. She knows the guy. They have
some off-and-on passionate commitment. He ’s particularly fond of a certain sexual
technique, but that ’s not important right away.”
The man had awakened my hunting instinct. I was itching to go and I told Tekin. He put
his hand on my shoulder. “I know this job ’s right up your alley, John. My instinct never fails
me.”
“I ’m glad you didn’t need your computers to find out, Tekin.”

His lips curled. “Man’s still the master, hey?”

“I hope so, Tekin.”

“Anyway, after you’ve encountered our man, you can enjoy the party. I assure you, you’ll
have a great time.”
“As Allah wills it.”
 Chapter 20
She came to fetch me with her own car, a small Buick, filled with loose things unheedingly
thrown on the backseat, and stinking of stale tobacco. As soon as I got in, she introduced
herself. Her name was Conny. For the occasion my case name was Amir. It sounded odd,
after a long period of being John. I was a little bewildered by her uppity attitude, still not
used to the frank American approach. I couldn’t picture her as being rakish and we started off
as acquaintances. Thin slanting snowflakes clung to the windshield as we drove off. The
heater was turned up to blast level air and made the car turn into a snug shelter.
She was about my age or less, had long, blond, shining hair and a puppy face with a pearl-
mint lip-gloss, the ideal image American had of girls according to some survey I read. The
most striking aspect was her eyes. They were deep blue pools filled with mysterious longings
and promising expectations.
Apart from her face, Conny wasn’t a beauty in the classical sense. She had a short, plump
figure, a nose that seemed to be reset and her hoarse, guttural proved she was also a chain-
smoker. She radiated the image of a young, vivid and worldly woman who knew her way
around. Her sable coat came above her kneecaps and I couldn’t help admiring the nice
coherence with the brown skin of her thighs.
She didn’t know anything about the operation. I had the impression that, to her, I was only
some other foreigner, but then was a bit surprised hearing she liked the Arabs a lot. I never
regarded myself being a native Arab, but with my new looks, there could be no mistake. So I
had to accept my new situation to play along.
While we were driving across the winter wonderland she told me how much she enjoyed
Arab tales.
Her knowledge of the Oriental cultures was the usual stuff she’d watched in movie
theaters, with its tradition of fake Arab lovers. She was persuaded that all Arabs were great
lovers, tender and caring, and when I pointed out rich Muslims had more than one wife, she
found this an enthralling idea. She asked me whether they all slept together. It was all part of
her imaginative approach towards an exciting world, fed by the media. I started to enjoy her
company. She had a way to make me feel at ease. I found it a pleasure to make up tales about
my life as an Arab.
I was surprised that she clearly made it with male domination, knowing now how
emancipated America women had grown, but she simply had a strong need for romance, as
most hustlers do.
She didn’t know much about Islam, which was just another religion to her. Grown up in a
country with a self-evident constitutional separation of Church and State, she couldn’t
imagine what it was to live in the pious Old World.
The New Year’s parties I had encountered back home were unalterably irksome, as they
took place on ceremonial occasions, in full functional outfit, sipping warm non-alcoholic
beverages. Conny promised another kind of frolicking.
The road was slippery. She cautiously steered through the slush. Night had fallen and she
clasped the wheel firmly in her hands, peering through the condensing windshield that could
barely take the thickening snow shower.
Conny told me about great snow landscapes from were she originated, painting the world
in black and white nuances. She and her cousins would have fun and afterwards they ’d
cluster round burning logs to sing carols. It was a charming picture, and I sensed a deep
nostalgia to an irrevocable past. The snowdrift suddenly died down and the sky cleared out.
She took the main road to Richmond, but didn’t come as far as the suburbs, where she
wheeled about to halt in a nice lane with Christmas trees in the front meters.
The mansion she parked in front of was an old wooden colonial house, set amidst dogwood
trees, standing alone with an access of about a hundred meters.
Strong spotlights were shining on the snow-covered roof. The mansion ’s outline was
decorated with a million small light bulbs in different colors, and all windows were invitingly
lit. There were several cars parked in front, all looking dashing and expensive. Conny
stopped at a free lot. “Our host is a famous artist,” she said while stubbing out her fourth
cigarette. “Last year we had great fun. He throws wild parties.”
We got out and she started to greet people and introduce me loosely as one of her pick-ups.
Nobody seemed to care who I was, and that was fine with me. There was a reception desk
where we left our coats. Conny looked very desirable in her short white dress. Her neckline
was quite low and showed her chest prominently. She had a healthy skin color with no traces
of whatever she did for a living, looking very fit and ready to party. The hall was trimmed as
a giant Christmas tree, with hundreds of ornaments hanging over our heads, and un-Christian
music blaring from four giant speakers.
Conny had to shout and so did everyone else, and everybody was having a great time. We
were welcomed by the master of the house, a lean, elderly man strapped in black leather, with
a golden chain at his neck and rainbow painted hair hanging over his shoulders .An artificial
suntan and a fit, workout toned body completed the image of pansy well being.
“Hi, Conny, I ’m so thrilled you could come. And who ’s this handsome friend of yours?”
He sounded as I expected him to be, slimy and drawling. I didn’t like him at once, but I
drew a wreathed smile and let him hug me. I smelled a sweet perfume and felt a short, but
forward pressing move to my hips. I had a strong urge to kick him in the crotch.
“That’s Amir, Barry, an Arab friend of mine.”
“That’s so nice. Come on in, Amir, snap a drink and have fun.”
Before I could make a genteel reply, he slipped on to his next customer and I heard him
repeat his welcoming tune.
Conny had laughing eyes. “You don ’t like him, do you?”
We passed the last speaker before I answered.

“Don’t worry, Conny my dearest, I’ll behave myself.”

We entered a huge room, packed with about a hundred guests, babbling higgledy-piggledy
with increasing racket, sipping from odd drinks and smoking tobacco and hashish or whatever
they were using. Most of them dressed in richly colored outfits and the women showed more
skin than I had seen in months. Apparently the season ’s hairstyle was something that looked
like two white, spray-painted icebergs colliding on top of their scalps. So this was the
contemporary cultural emanation of the most powerful nation west of the demarcation line. I
didn’t find the sight very reassuring.
We lined up at a large banquet table, loaded with numerous dishes. I took mussels soaked
in Vermouth and garlic, and a glass of Champagne. I saw Conny searching the room for my
butt.
 “Stay with me,” she shouted. .“I’ll look for your guy.” Before long she dominated the
conversation and her glass, filled with some transparent liquid, swung dangerously with her
motions.
Then she spotted my man and started to wave emphatically.
“Hi, Amos, come over here.”
She acted like she was presenting me with a nice surprise. I looked up at a tall man, about
thirty-five, dressed as a corporate executive. He was handsome, with short-cut, woolly hair,
his dark eyes set well apart in his smooth ebony face, though looking grim and out of order in
this bohemian scenery.
He seemed to be on his own. In the right corner of his mouth dangled a black cigarillo. He
came directly to me, looking perceptibly distrustful.
“Are you a brother?” he asked. He had an impressive, deep and powerful voice.

“If you’re referring to Muslim, Ummah, I am.”

He sized me up swiftly.

“Are you American? A U.S. citizen?”

“No, I ’m an Arab.”

I forgot that Arabs could be U.S. citizens as well, but I had got his attention now. He
beckoned me. “Let ’s go some place where we can talk.”

I followed him, nodding slightly at Conny who was stuck with her admirers, and we came
out into a hallway filled with chatting people leaning on the walls and each other. We worked
our way to the back.
The frisky night air was a relief. The Christmas lights shone on the snow covered garden,
which extended to the obscurity of the nightly backyard. We were on a porch with as wing,
and we sat on it. Amos presented me with a cigarillo and I took one. He switched to Arabic.
It had a strong American accent and he used typical school phrasebook sentences.
“So, how come you’re here?” he asked, puffing away.
“For oil business,” I answered vaguely, the way Tekin had instructed me.
“You can be straight with me,” he said, flinching. “You ’re here to have sex, aren’t you?
Conny doesn’t get involved with anything else.”
I wondered what sort of relationship he had with Conny, but I wasn’t in the mood to ask
him. I wanted to stretch out this peaceful moment for as long as possible. The swing was
gently rocking with Amos ’ absent— minded gestures.
“Did she tell you who I am?” he went on, set on to push the envelope.
“She didn’t, and actually I don’t care,” I answered bluntly.
“I ’m a minister of the Muslim Liberation Front,” he said, with an air of high-spirits.
“I’ve heard conflicting stories about your movement,” I said after a well-considered pause.
 “You did? What do they know about us in your country?” he asked, excited by the idea the
movement was taking into account by the Arabian Peninsula. “We have no communication
with our brothers from the Old World anymore. They disconnected us about ten years ago.”
“Not very much, I ’m afraid,” I said. I was conscious that I was with a man who
represented a population group which spent most of its life in prisons or on the streets, which
resulted in an endless history of broken family tragedies. At least, that was the cliché I knew.
He went on. “Since your Revolution, we’ve been chased around like dogs. They drag our
leaders into camps or exile them. Don ’t they tell you about that?”
“I ’m afraid I ’m only doing business.” I didn’t want to step out of my role at this point.

But he went on, driven now in his role of people’s liberator. And he seemed to confirm my
opinion.

“Our race is degrading at a fast pace. We have five times more women then man. The
whites take the best of us away for their entertainment and cheap labor. We don ’t have
scientists, or doctors or scholars anymore. Those who made it collaborate with the whites and
have forgotten about their own race.”
“It’s getting cold, don’t you think?” I felt the need to intercept him, as I knew he would go
rambling on and on. He didn’t pay attention to my invitation.
“We want our own state, a Muslim, sovereign nation with an assured future to our people.
We can make it, we have the means. We have thousand of youngsters waiting for the signal.”
The signal .The Word. Al Chabor .Put the spark to the tinder and the beast is loose.
I had to use my words with care. “Your demand for a black nation in U.S. territory is not
realistic,” I said..
“There’s no other way,” he replied, enigmatically. “Besides, now that Texas has separated
we think it ’s time we do the same. And we want you to help us.”
“How can I help you? I ’m only making trade deals here. Some of the white Americans are
friends of mine, and I don ’t want to be involved in dangerous liaisons.”
“You’re an Arab. I ’m asking you to tell your people about us. How we suffer and how we
long for the Promised Land.”
This was a desperate man, bearing the full weight at his shoulders as the representative of a
degenerating race. Against my will I felt sympathy for his revolutionary spirit.
“So, how can I help?”
“We want you to help us. Import your revolution over here,” he said. “Tell your people
what you see and what you hear, how they treat us and tell them that our brothers want
freedom. Freedom for Islam, freedom for the black man. Ask them what we have to do.”
Again that freedom hang up, America’s pet subject. I didn’t tell him the League had no
intention of invading America, and it didn’t attach much importance to whatever Muslim
movements abroad. It was simply too far away. An ocean divided the world, and the Russians
guarded it, not the Arabs. At the same time it dawned on me why the Russians were so keen
to keep their role of guardian angels. They didn’t want the Americans to come over — they
simply wanted Islam to be stopped at the border. No Muslim Liberation Front or whatever
would be entering Russia ’s sphere of influence without their approval.
 I was freezing and longed for warmth. The party was going on with increasing fun and I
actually wanted to go inside and mingle. It was time to cut the knot.
“I know I ’m playing a dangerous game here, but I’ll go along, so tell me what you want
from me.”
Suddenly he left the swing. He looked upon me with his shining eyeballs, round and white.
“I ’d like you to contact one of our people in Africa. That’s all I’m asking, no begging you.”
Africa? Was he planning to emigrate?

“No problem, just tell me his name.”

“Mbuyi Mbuebue is the name. He ’s an armaments agent in Cape Town, South Africa. He
’s simple to find.”
“And what’s your proposition?”
“Just give him a phone call and say the word ‘Hijra ’. He’ll know.”
Hijra. The Arab word for the Prophet’s emigration from Mecca to Medina, and the start of
the Muslim calendar. What was he aiming at?
“Why don’t you call him yourself?”
“No can do, we’re bugged constantly. Besides, we don ’t have access to the international
lines anymore.”
That seemed a weak excuse to me. There were plenty of other opportunities, but I didn’t
want to argue. Maybe the FBI was on his tail, too.
“I’ll do my best,” I promised. He didn’t go on however, so we went back inside where he
left me to mingle. I forgot about him, seeing Conny hanging with some kids and visibly over
the top. She leaned onto a bearded young man, dressed in women ’s clothes, so it seemed, but
coming nearer I saw he wore a Scottish kilt, and that brought me back to my Highland days.
“Are you a Scot?” I asked and he and Conny had a scream. Before I ’d figured out why
my question was so jocular, Conny swapped the Scot for me and grabbed me by the arm. I
had a slight erotic shock staring at her breasts. Her dress had been lowered by the fumbling of
her escort and she pressed her body shamelessly against me.
I had had enough of this party. I had Tekin ’s information and I wanted to return to my safe
harbor. But Conny had other plans in mind for me.
“Let’s go upstairs. I know a bedroom where we can bang all the way.”
I didn’t want to bang, and said we ought to go back now, since it was clear she needed a
good night’s rest.
“Don’t be silly, Amir. Hey, that sounds like ‘Amor’. Anyway, there ’s a blizzard heading
this way. You ’d be lost in minutes and tomorrow you ’d be an icicle.”
We climbed the broad oak stairs. “So, has it worked out well?” she asked.
“Maybe,” I answered vaguely.
Then, in the middle of the stairs, she halted, pressed herself against me and gave me a long,
wet kiss. Her tongue searched mine intensively and my resistance broke and I surrendered.
She knew her way around and went for a vacant bedroom. We snooped at three of them, all
occupied with lovers twisting and swirling and those erotic sights had an infectious
impression on me.
“There’s still another one, let’s hurry, I ’m getting all wet.” Her words emphasized my own
lust and I obeyed like a servile eunuch.
The next bedroom was empty. I didn’t pay attention to the wealthy furnishings, the French
bed and the paintings of nudity of all sorts on the walls.
Conny fell onto the bed, blinking at me with wild eyes and she asked me in her hoarse
voice how I wanted it. I stood rudderless at the end of the bed, enchanted by her lust. She
started to squiggle and then invitingly spreading her legs.
“Come on baby, I’ll take you for a ride.” I pressed myself against her and we started to
make passionate love.
Occasionally the door opened and closed again, but we didn’t pay attention to the
intruders. The music kept playing loudly and I moved at its rhythm.
I didn’t hear the noises of screaming revelers as the clock struck twelve. We made love for
hours; I couldn’t get enough of her. My chastity and strained celibacy now paid off. I made up
for the loss and didn’t stop until I was fagged out.
Morning broke with fleeting patches of dim light and I watched the rise in a glum mood. I
stared at my reflected image in the gilded ceiling mirror. A meager, unhealthy stranger with
forced Oriental features. Not the face I was born with. I didn’t like it. It belonged to another
person.
Conny woke up with a start and burst out in tears.
“What’s the matter?” I asked, uneasy with this unexpected bout.
“You were so tender,” she sniveled. “Not like the others. They treat me like dirt.”
Little did she know. My hurt manhood was itching like hell after its first performance in
months. I was more relieved I was still able to perform than acting a lover boy.
I wanted her to ask about Amos, but didn’t. She was obviously redeeming her debauchery
with a nasty hangover.
“You shouldn’t’t drink so much,” I said, like a punishing father.
“It’s New Year, goddammit,” she answered, her voice raspy.
She let out a heavy sigh. “Happy New Year, Amir.”
“What do you have in mind now?” I asked, fumbling about for a cigarette.
“I ’m going to sleep like a log,” she said. “You can do what you want — take my car, the
key’s in.”
I was very fit after my petting-session and got up, took my clothes and went to the attached
bathroom. I took a cold shower, which perked me up instantly.
As I entered the room again, I saw Conny was deeply asleep. I passed her silently and went
downstairs. I took my jacket off the hook.
The house was ravaged, an after-party still life of New Year’s Eve with scattered confetti,
broken glasses, food scraps, and torn garments all over and the Christmas tree pulled down.
Two men, in a brotherly hug, were snoring on the stairs. I found my way outside and inhaled
the cleared up morning air. It was acrid cold, and the overcast clouds were snow laden.
 The car was still parked in front of the house. I wiped off the snow layer on the spattered
windshield and got in. I found the ignition key in the lock and managed to kick the engine to
life and drove off.
Tekin was having his breakfast at the self-service restaurant.
He sat alone. He didn’t carry his goggles with him. At this early hour the place was half-
vacant. I had a coffee and walked up to him.
“I want to talk to you, Tekin.”
Tekin looked up from his plate. “You need a shave. We don ’t want our people looking
like they belong on an FBI wanted poster.’
I subsided into a chair and took a sip from my coffee.

“Was it good?” he asked with a full mouth.

“What do you imply?”

“Conny.”

“I guess she was meant to be my queen for the night.”

“I read your report. I had to know.”

“Why?”

“If you were gay, you could jeopardize the mission. But now I know everything ’s going to
be all right.”
“So that was the whole idea, testing my sexuality? Does the operation involve
homosexuality perhaps?”
Tekin let it pass. “Among other things. The place is one of our cathouses. We use it for
information and testing agents. If you ’d made friends with one of our queers, we ’d know
you could be a hazard to our plan. I trust she showed you a good time.”
“You’re a bastard, Tekin.”

“I know. That ’s part of the job. Someday they’ll ask you for it, and it ’s better to be
prepared.”

“I ’m not interested.”

Tekin grinned and smeared butter on his roll.

I got up and got me another coffee and a roll, too.

We ate for a while.

“Conny will become a hazard,” I said. “She ’s a gushy drinker.”

“I know. She can ’t handle the situation very well. We think she should be replaced.”
 “Why does she do that? She ’s young, smart and pretty. She doesn’t need this.”

“Actually, she does. She does the kinky stuff. Before this she was some second rate-
waitress acting in porno-movies. We saved her skin.”
“Okay, I’ll buy that. Another thing. Your man told me things I don ’t like.”

Tekin wiped his lips with his napkin and gazed at me with his sly eyes. .“Give me facts,
John. Names, addresses, hints.”

I told him what I knew and he listed intently. After I was through, he leaned back, musing
on it. “You see, John, this man represents a terrorist organization. After the attack on one of
our branches, a warehouse was blown up. Twenty kills. We think it ’s the Muslim Liberation
Front.”
He sipped his coffee. “Another thing, has this man talked about arms deliveries?”
“He mentioned something about his followers standing by.”
“I think he’s bluffing. I think he ’s badly in need for arms. But he doesn’t have the proper
channels.”
“Is that African fellow involved in MLF?”I asked. Tekin was silent.
“There’re some affairs you don’t want to be messed up with,” he explained baffling. “You
’re important to the mission. To know too much is pretty dangerous — you should know that
by now. So, let ’s concentrate on your assignment. By the way, I have news for you.”
He knew quite well how to divert a knotty situation and succeeded in inciting me, so I
dropped the subject. Tekin drank the rest of his coffee and watched me with the air of an
important news-carrying courier.
“We found your French friend. He ’s been arrested and taken to the heavily guarded work
camp of Al-Saba, in the Empty Quarter.”
I breathed out. “So he ’s alive.”

“He’ll live. For how long is another question. Let ’s hope he can face the back breaks.”

At least my debt was somewhat scaled down.

Tekin interrupted my thoughts. “That was the good news. Now for the bad, your Fatwa
has been changed in a death warrant. You ’re now outlawed for the rest of your lifetime.”
My heart sank.
“You know what this means?”

“I have a pretty good idea,” I answered, dejected. I cast my eyes to my plate, not willing to
grant Tekin his malignant triumph of being right all the time.

“You aren’t safe any more, let alone around here. You see why this operation must
succeed. It ’s the only way to save your own neck.’
He went off and I was left, flabbergasted.
 Then I got up and overtook him on the way to his office.
“One minute, Tekin. I don ’t like the way things are working out for me. I ’d like some
honest answers for a change. Like what about Jane Denwick.”
He wiped his lips with his tongue, before he said that Jane was in Mecca.
This came as a shock. I had a nasty feeling of resignation. It seemed to be written in the
stars that Jane would always slip away from me. I should submit to my fate, I reckoned.
“Okay, you have me cornered. Why didn’t she call on me before leaving?”
“It’s all confidential, John. Part of the master plan. I couldn’t bring it out in the open
before. She ’s in Mecca to prepare our mission. You’ll meet her again, I promise.”
He noticed how struck I was and softened a bit at the sight of my defeat.
“I ’m sorry, John. I couldn’t take the risk of informing you at this early stage. But now we
’re heading for the big times. Things will change overnight.”
He took me by the arm, realizing how ill treated I’d been in these last weeks and looked as
if he was deeply sorry. “You can ’t back out now. You ’re our key figure. Wipe out your
conscientious demurs, or whatever is playing tricks on you, and be ready for the grand day.”
His pager went off.
“Oh, I almost forgot. Briefing at 2:00.The small auditorium. Hope that we’ll find the last
merrymakers in due time. Now go and do whatever you have to do. You’ll feel a lot better
when things get started.”
I spent the rest of my morning at the gym, sweating away my fret and preparing mentally
for the things to come. After a light lunch I was ready to meet my fate and I headed for the
auditorium.
I counted twenty of us, I included, and we wondered where the rest were hiding. Then they
brought us to a secluded room in the depths of the building. They left us alone and sealed the
door.
The room had indirect illumination and was soundproof. It must’ve been decorated by an
interior designer and had both a snug and a businesslike presence. A hidden space, for
important people gathering to discuss important secrets. An extended circular mahogany
table with twenty-five chairs took up the best part of the room. Each chair seemed to have a
small adhesive tag at the back. I found my name in one of them. On the lectern stood an
overhead projector. I couldn’t spot any other electronic equipment, any cameras or detectors
whatsoever.
Tekin came in, went straight to the chart, summoned us to sit down and started off without
further ceremony.
“Firstly, for those who celebrate New Year, my best wishes. And now, let me tell you
about myself.”
He cleared his throat and looked as though he was on the verge of revealing something he
had trouble with. Then he lifted his head.
“In 2012, about two thousand warriors made an attempt to destroy the Kaaba. They made
several tactical mistakes and their aim didn’t work out. I ’m afraid to say that all were killed,
except for one.” He tightened his lips and took a deep breath .“I was the one who got away.
Since then, I have made a solemn pledge I’d never rest before my holy task has completed.
I’ve worked at it for fifteen years, with the help of American Intelligence, and now we ’re
ready to go.”
He didn’t go into more details. I knew from historical records that the crowd had lynched
most of the rebels. The rest were dispatched after torture and mock trials, which were avidly
followed by the media. It was a warning to the Shia Movement, which humbly paid the price.
The unsuccessful, forlorn hope caused an enormous pogrom on the Shiites, who gradually fell
back, and only in Iraq and Turkey kept their power. I wondered how Tekin had escaped, but
that would remain a mystery, and it didn’t matter anyhow.
“You won’t experience the same mistakes all over again,” Tekin continued. He turned a
knob on the desk that dimmed the lights and switched the projector on, which lit a large
screen over his head. He took a felt-tip, drew a pyramidal shape and divided it diagonally into
three parts.
On top he wrote ‘WARGAME,’ in thick black characters, then in each section of the
shape, starting with the next level, he wrote in red ‘TARGET,’ ‘SEVENERS ’ and
‘TWELVENERS.’
“No doubt you vet wondered why we are so few here. That’s because you’re the elite. Our
computers picked you out as being among the best. The ones who will fulfill the mission. The
ones who’ll be able to succeed with Operation WARGAME.’
After some seconds, a light rumble started in the room. Suddenly everyone seemed to bear
an aureole of pride, and even a glimpse of happiness. This was the sort of goal men were
willing to give their life for.
Tekin went on. “WARGAME is the master-design. It’s entirely conducted by our system,
which I’ll be happy to reveal to you in due time. ‘TARGET ’ is the codename for our field of
operation.”
We all peered up at him intently. This was the day we had been waiting for.
“Two parts divide WARGAME. The first one, which we call ‘SEVENERS,’ consists of the
warriors allotted to lead us to success. They will have the best training program and their
honor will last for generations to come. The other part is the ‘TWELVENERS,’ the ones who
will lead the SEVENERS to their location. Are there any questions?”
It was still for a moment. I raised my hand.

“Who will finally drop the bomb?” I asked.

“This will be revealed upon arrival, John.”

“Is it one of us?”

“I can assure you it ’s not, John. You all have a specific task. Any other questions?”

Another one took the lead. Most of the questions fragmented, with Tekin ’s reluctance to
give full details. He asked us to have patience.
“We’ll depart for our new destination at midnight. At this moment your personal
belongings are assembled and will await you at the plane. You can’t go back to your quarters
anymore. You’ll stay in the seclusion of this part of the building. We’ll have our last meal at
the cafeteria. Furthermore, your credentials will be obliterated. You do not exist any more
within the U.S. boundaries. You only exist within the C.I.A. administration. Is that clear?”
 We didn’t object, as we had grown accustomed to the Agency peculiarities.

“Well then, gentlemen. Let Operation WARGAME begin.”

While I queued to leave the room, Tekin took me aside. “John, your mission will not be
directly guided by WAR-GAME. You'll take a different approach. You’ll be part of a sub-
routine, which is known to a handful of men only. I ’m not in charge of this one, so you’ll be
attached to the designating office itself. The assistant director will be your direct superior,
and you’ll be accountable to him and his team only.”
I was disconcerted by this turn of the events and it took me a while before I realized what
had become over me.
Tekin went on, undisturbed. “You’ll have a meeting with your superiors at 4:00. I’ll take
you to them personally.”
He stretched out his hand and I shook it automatically. How many surprises can one
suffer?
 Chapter 21
We pulled off in an unmarked military cargo plane with covered windows and the sunrise
behind our backs, Tekin and his twenty warriors.
During the long flight, with no way to be diverted by the scenery below, I had time to
reminisce about the Kaaba and what it stood for. I was raised with it — my brain had a special
spot for it. It was the highest objective a Muslim could strive for in this world, to be on the
spot was the fulfillment of his belief. After the hajj, a Muslim would be sacred. He’d go
straight to heaven, to be surrounded by his loved ones, along with everything the Prophet had
promised. But I also knew the hajj was a business matter, with an enormous flow of money
involved. A strict bureaucracy, controlled by a state department, reined over a billion
pilgrims, existed for this purpose alone. It took care of their primal needs, taking their money
along the way, and offering nothing more than scanty accommodation, food and some sense
of spirituality.
On one side, the Saudi claimed their untouchable spiritual leadership, and on the other, it
enhanced profitability beyond words. They had long forgotten about their sacred Wahhabi
faith. The Prophet had spoken of the corrupted high priests before, but history was repeating
itself.
After all, was the stone in the southeast corner of the Kaaba not merely a symbol, rather
than the living proof of God’s presence? Nature and human hands had ruined this spot before,
and it would be ruined again.
Once more it was time to renew faith. A new revolution was due, and now it had an
indisputable spiritual meaning. And it would be a Shia revolution, guided by Ismaili Muslims.
Shi Imami Ismaili Muslims were a small persuasion of Islam, making up only about one
percent of the global Muslim population. The historical distinction between Ismaili and
Muslims began after of the Prophet’s death, when the Sunni Muslims elected Abu Bakr as
their first caliph, while another group of Muslims, who later had gone as ‘Shia ’, believed that
the Prophet’s cousin and son-in-law, Hazarat Ali, was the rightful imam. The Shiites believed
that the imam was both a political and a spiritual leader and that the Immamat was hereditary,
beginning with Ali.
Since their impressive upheaval during the Revolution, which brought military intelligence
into their hands, Shiites had encountered more and more restrictions about do’s and don'ts.
The Saudi, who claimed to be the spiritual leaders, commented on the power of the imams
and tried to divide the Shia community in every possible way.
We started to descend. A valley loomed up and seemed to be our destination. It was
enclosed by low-rimmed hills, notched by nature, the perfect hideaway for our sort of people.
In the expanse I perceived hundreds of military barracks, trucks, even tanks, all surrounding a
peculiar formation of one-storey buildings, the shape of which had a familiar ring to me. Two
exit routes were the only escape lines through the hills, and I spotted several sentry boxes
along the way. Between the barracks and the building complex, I noticed a well protected,
barbed wired no man’s land in perfect seclusion. We went over a steep hill and then the plane
landed on a strip north of the compound and started for the main runway. I saw several
military jets and cargo planes and personnel were in the act of preparing for a new day.
A Hummer and an Army truck drove up to us and some armed soldiers jumped out of it,
forming a half circle around a big Mexican looking man with colonel ’s eagles. He stood
firmly, hands behind his back, legs firmly spread, watching us in an unmoving way.
 Tekin saluted and handed over some papers. The colonel read them out and then ordered
his soldiers to get us into the truck. Tekin shook hands with the colonel and started an
animated conversation. Then they got into the Hummer. We took one of the exit routes and
entered the compound with sun to our faces. Now I noticed we were in a desert-like
environment, I could smell the mixture of sand and salt. Dried-out bushes grew in tufts and
gave some relief to the otherwise desolate landscape.
“We’re somewhere down south,” the passenger on my right murmured. “It could be
Arizona or New Mexico.” We would soon find out. I wondered why the heavy artillery.
Were we so important that it took a whole infantry division to welcome us? Or were other
things going on? Beyond a shadow of a doubt, Tekin had picked out a grand place to prepare
us for our mission. I was convinced this area didn’t exist on the geographic mapping. A
restricted spot amidst America’s wasteland. One of the barracks proved to be allocated to our
team only. It had its own woven wire fence with a swinging gate, thus forming an island in
armed territory.
The colonel was waiting for our arrival and watched each of us with a sort of curiosity. He
was very tall and big, a massive structure planted in the soil. A man you could trust with a
task like this.
We grouped together. The truck rode off in a cloud of drifting sand.
The soldiers stood emotionlessly, waiting at some distance.
“Welcome gentlemen,” the colonel started on. As I had expected, his voice was sonorous
and deep-throated. “You’re now at Arrow Base for the duration of your training program.
We’ll take care of you. You’ll be put up in this barracks here, where you’ll find everything
satisfactory for your needs. You may not leave the site without written permission. Otherwise,
you will be shot at the spot. You may not enter the no man’s land, which is mined by the way.
You may not enter the WARGAME zone without authorization or you will be confined and
court-martialed. Every step you make will be monitored with cameras every hundred meters
and all kinds of detectors and sensors will watch your backs. You’re under military
jurisdiction now. Any complaint must be directed to me and me personally. I hope you’ll have
a pleasant stay at Arrow Base.” He gave us a military salute, nodded at Tekin and left for his
jeep.
We were staggered by this terse and heavy welcome. Tekin broke the aggravating silence.
“Well, gentlemen, you’ve heard the colonel. We’ll see that our stay will be pleasant, indeed.
Follow me please.”
We followed him into the barracks. It was at the edge of the mined land, and I could see it
was impossible to enter the forbidden zone. The chances of leaving the compound would be
nil. The windowless, box shaped barracks seemed to be built exclusively to us. It smelled of
new wood and paint, had a neat row of ten double-decker plank beds at one side and, on the
other side, there were separate rooms with a diner, which also served as rest room, ten
showers and a lavatory, built to the usual high American standards. They had even provided a
fitness facility, stuffed with brand new equipment.
“As you see, gentlemen, you’re on the C.I.A. payroll now. This will offer you the best of
comfort. This will be your living place for the next four or five months. As you’ve heard, it’s
impossible to leave the terrain unnoticed. I strongly suggest you don’t try. Anyway, we won’t
have time for fun trips. Starting tomorrow, we’ll be following a very strict program, which I’ll
explain to you after breakfast. Pick your beds and get acquainted. Breakfast will be served in
half an hour. One more thing, from now one, we speak only Arabic. No English, or Spanish,
for that matter. We will have nothing to do with the outside, and they will have nothing to do
with us. So, Alaam.”
He left the barracks and we started to stake out our individual territorial for the next five
months. We didn’t talk very much, as we were greatly impressed by this powerful
manifestation. I had another kind of welcome in mind, something with parading soldiers,
delighted spectators and flowers under our marching feet, as it had been in the glorious days
of the Brigade. Still I didn’t mind my sour mood. It could only get better. I had the lower
bunk. My upstairs neighbor seemed to dislike the course of events.
He growled at me. “I tell you, they’re using us for their bait. I ’m thinking they’re not
really going to train us for Arabia. They’ll employ us for their frontier wars, or whatever they
have these troops here for.”
That was an interesting point of view. If the U.S. was in a kind of war with Texas or
California, it was certainly possible they were playing tricks on us. Tekin had a lot to explain
in every way. He came around 07:00, followed by several NCOs with food, coffee, tea and
root beer on trolleys. The fragrance of fresh baked bread, toast and eggs filled the barracks.
“Right, gentlemen, I invite you to join me in the mess hall, if you please.”
He let us pass and we watched the personnel spreading ten small tables, covering them
with cutlery and a heap of food and drinks. It seemed we had our own restaurant service. One
without a view.
To my very surprise I sat next to Tekin. He patiently waited till the noise had died down,
rubbing his spectacles with a napkin. “As you see, gentlemen, we are being well taken care
of. This situation will proceed as long as we stay here. That’s one of our prerogatives. There
will be others. I suggest you take advantage of the food, as our training will be harsh and
intensive.”
My topmost bunkmate had a question. He repeated what he had told me and Tekin listened
patiently. He poured his coffee and nodded.
“I ’m glad you want to express your doubts. As a matter of fact, these troops are part of the
U.S. National Guard. But they’re not watching the borders. They’re exclusively here for us.
They’re our password, so to say. To the world, they protect U.S. territory against possible
Texan aggression, and they’ll be conducting artillery exercises when we’re practicing our own
mission.”
It sounded implausible, and Tekin noticed our skepticism. “Gentlemen, we have 15,000
troops at our disposal. Operation WARGAME is not only a Shia matter, but concerns the
U.S., too. It’s international politics at the highest level. And we’re the assault pawns on the
battlefield.”
Pawns. Chessboard pieces, to be sacrificed for the king’s life.
“How can we be sure you won’t send us to Texas, for that matter?" I asked. “We’re
completely isolated here — you could be using us for your opening gambit.”
Tekin smirked. He knew the game of chess. “I see you’re suspicious. We might have
failed to indoctrinate you properly, as you’re not supposed to behave as a team. That’s our
faint link, but it was necessary, since the whole operation is based on individuality. See
yourselves as commando fighters. On the battlefield, you’ll be on your own, next to God. But
still, you’ll be a part of the greater picture. On the other hand, you’re Shiites, and this means
you must trust in yourselves and be willing to defy authority. So, it’s natural you have your
doubts. But after breakfast, you won’t have any left, I promise.” So for the time being, we
stored our critical sense and took the food by storm.
The dining room had indirect lighting, and I had also been convinced it was soundproof .I
didn’t see any cameras hanging over us, nor any other screening devices.
After we’d finished our meal, we entered the recreation section. It had an oblong table, a
large TV set hanging on bolts and a video-projection screen .It had several habitability
features, such as music, videos, books, computer games, a limited network connection and
even a small pool table. A soft drink vending machine and several comfortable club chairs
completed the picture of a snug holiday resort. We wouldn’t be bored. We took our places
and Tekin dimmed the lights. He worked at a console built into the wall and the projection
screen came to life.
First, we met with a brand new logo. It had ‘OPERATION WARGAME ’in gilded Arabic
characters, and an overwrought, digitized picture of the Mecca pilgrimage shrine. He zoomed
in, and there it was. The Kaaba in its full splendor, shrouded in the famous embroidered
black veil. The image had both a challenging and sobering impact on us. It wasn't merely the
symbol of our religion and Muslim unity, it was a target to be destroyed, and we were to be
the instigators.
“The Kaaba will not be your primary focus,”Tekin said. “Your tasks will be performed at
the perimeters. I’ll explain that later.”
He zoomed out and the resort was now in full view. The clear picture must have been taken
in a relative calm period, and from not too far away.
“This picture was taken by one of our stationary satellites. We’ll launch a new one in
April, chiefly built for our purposes. Now, let me explain how this operation works. It’s been
drawn up by the C.I.A. computers and programmed exclusively for Operation WARGAME.”
Now the picture dissolved and a map of the familiar looking building complex was
revealed. It was a diagram, showing the outlines.
“Maybe you’ve already guessed what this complex represents,’ Tekin went on, gazing at
us in expectation.
“It’s the Sacred Mosque,” I said, amazed I hadn’t noticed it before.

“Correct.”

Now every one started to mumble and some were pointing at familiar spots.

“None of you has made the hajj,” Tekin went on. “That was one our sorting filters. You’re
unknown to the pilgrimage authorities. None of you has a record with the Saudi State
Department.” Except me, I added in thought.
Then he started to point out the different strategic sites, starting with the Mosque. We saw
towers, representing the seven minarets and even a construction that imitated the Zamzam
Well. The map was divided into squares, and each square was tagged with a codename.
“You see, we didn’t exactly rebuild the site. That would be too obvious for certain parties.
We concentrated on the part representing the battlefield. You don’t see a Kaaba replica,
either, as that is of no importance to you. The whole construction is built on exact scale
measurements. As you can see, we’ve even built the galleries though, as their role will be
important. What you don’t see right now are the red lines painted on the ground — they’ll
indicate your working space. You will not cross these lines, I repeat, do not cross the lines.
Beyond them you’re trespassing and you’ll obstruct whoever will be working there.”
The lights came on again and he shut the console. “As you now know, there will be two
parties involved, the one we call the TWELVENERS, who will work in the building itself.
The SEVENERS will work on the surrounding routes. I’ll pass out your codenames now.
They’ll be used in the field, so I suggest you memorize them.”
He started to tick off the names. I looked out for my code, but it didn’t show up. I
seemingly wasn’t involved, and gazed at Tekin, wondering. But he hadn’t forgotten about me.
“For John here, we have a special one, as he’ll perform his task outside the perimeter. As this
is not of importance to you all, I suggest we call him CB99.”
They gaped at me, the outsider, and a few laughed. It was time I had a word with Tekin.
“Right. Now comes an important part.” Tekin showed a tiny brown thing, cast in plastic
and looking like a computerchip. He let it pass on the tip of our indexfingers. It felt organic,
even skinned.
“This device will be planted in your ear canal. It’s a very sensitive receiver, the latest in
technology. It’s specially designed for our purposes only, and its task is to establish a
communication channel with our geodetic orbital satellite. You’ll have an excellent hearing
device, unnoticeable and untraceable. It will be implanted during the last phase of our training
schedule.” We were duly impressed.
“Before that, you’ll have a standard receiver, which is hooked on to ground control
center.”
We were interrupted by the arrival of drinks and the tense atmosphere loosened up.
Now I had the opportunity to question Tekin. “It worries me that you’re constantly putting
me in the margin, Tekin. When do I get to know my role in this play?”
“Patience, John. After this training program, you’ll have additional schooling. So, in the
meantime, just concentrate on the program.”
I didn’t like the way he was treating me. I didn’t feel the need for more surprises; I had had
enough of them, and I told him so.
“I know, John,” he said in that conciliatory tone of his. “But it’s part of the program, and
we can’t alter it any more. Just be patient. Watch your partners, John, how thrilled they are.
With this group, nothing can go wrong.”
Anything can go wrong with pitched battles, particularly when you put your fate in the
machines. These people were amateurs, blinded by their enthusiasm and motivated by ruthless
people to a task they’d hardly bring off or fulfill.
Tekin felt my skepticism and patted me on the arm. He wore his wreathed smile again. I
could hardly see his eyes, hidden by his glasses. There was something weird about them. He
seemed to wear them only in our company, like a schoolmaster trying to produce an austere
impression.
“Now, gentlemen, let’s move on. For the time being, we’re not going to sort out whether
you’ll be with the SEVENERS or with the TWELVENERS. Your training will determine
that. For now, we have to figure out the moment to go into the field. This would be between
March and May, when weather conditions are similar to the Mecca climate, in order to put in
more environmental realism.”
 He drew the pyramidal shape, as he had done at the C.I.A. compound. “For now, I’ll
regroup you at random. CB02 to CB11 will be the TWELVENERS, CB12 to CB18 will be
the SEVENERS, and CB99 will take part in both groups training.”
“What will our weapons be, Tekin?” one of us asked. “You’ll have but one weapon, and
that will be the Bluebird 4.0.”
I started to shiver at the recollection of my ill-starred adventures with Tekin’s weapon.
“The Bluebird 4.0 has been developed from the experiences we previously had with
version 3.0. The Three-dot-Zero is a direct descendant from the sophisticated bomb briefs
used in the Gulf Wars.” I had seen what it did. Yet, despite my aversion, my interest began to
grow.
“Three Zero is not restricted any more,” Tekin explained. “It’s entered production lines. It
has limited properties, as it can only be activated in two ways. That is, by a specially designed
gun with a programming unit, or by sticking a radioactive glue to its target, after which it ’s
locked on and ready to fire.” Now I knew how Vitya had come to his end. I recalled the
Moscow subway dart with the youngsters. There and then his death had been sealed.
“Version Four dot Zero is not only much more sophisticated, but can also be used as a kind
of plastic bomb, with the distinction that it ’s in liquid form. This means a whole new idea of
technological warfare. Never before has man been able to use this kind of weaponry and
we’re still exploring its hidden opportunities.”
He conjured up a small, transparent tube, filled with a turquoise liquid and held it very
cautiously aloft. “This is a sample of the Four Dot Zero. This tube contains about two
milligrams, enough to destroy this compound.” He tossed it nonchalantly onto the table and
some of the braves dodged away.
“Don’t worry, it can’t go off.” Tekin had a twinkle in his eyes. “It can only be triggered by
a high frequency, encrypted signal, sent from a safe distance.”
A digital liquid bomb. What next?
“It’s actually a kind of oxygen-bomb. It consumes all carbon dioxide at anti-matter-level.
Our scientists are still experimenting with several formats. For instance, we injected a drop
into a hog’s circulation, and it blew it to pieces. We couldn’t find more than some bone
chips.”
For some, this was very amusing, but I couldn’t laugh. I just asked myself whether they
were planning to use me as their next guinea pig.
“I think, gentlemen, w ’l call it a day. Enjoy your stay tonight. Tomorrow we’ll have our
first case study. I suggest you relax and make advantage of the facilities. Wakeup call at
0600.”
While we left, he motioned me to a halt and I followed him outside. ‘Come with me,
John.” Tekin had to yell to overcome the turmoil of Army vehicles passing by.
“They’re conducting drills constantly, John, but it’s all bluffing. Anyway, the brass thinks
it’s very effective.”
“How long is this going on?”
“About three months, since the Texans began to roar. It gave us the opportunity to set up
our plan. It came in very handy for us, as you can see.”
“Is this a former nuclear bomb testing area?”
 Tekin smiled. “So you know we’re in New Mexico. That’s all right, it’s not confidential.
But to answer your question, it’s not. We can’t risk our Bluebird picking up on residual
radioactivity.”
We entered another hut, this time much smaller, at the far end of the site. Obviously, this
was Tekin’s HQ and, furthermore, it had to be the control room he was talking about. I
wondered why he was sharing his secrets with me. A rubbery looking young man was sitting
at two large computer screens, passionately beating his keyboard and concentrated too hard to
pay attention to us coming in. The barracks was spartanly furnished, military style. A radio set
was blasting hard rock music. The man started when Tekin tapped him on the shoulder. He
had a swollen, unhealthy skin, wore thick glasses and his blond beard covered most of his
face. His belly hung out as a token of his long working hours, perked up by junk food and soft
drinks.
“Oh, it’s you Tekin. Don’t do that, I’ve got a weak heart.” He spoke mildly, and his speech
had a southern touch. Tekin switched to English. “Sorry, Mike. I want to introduce you to our
man.”
Now Mike watched me with curiosity.
“John, meet Mike .He’s our top programmer. He’s the one who created the logistic side of
WARGAME.” Mike was a C.I.A. man, beyond the shadow of a doubt; though I was pretty
sure he worked for himself, likely on an independent contractor basis, filling his pockets with
obscure orders. Where they come from and what they aimed for, was none of his business.
Well, everybody has to make a living.
“Hi, pleased to meet you,” he said, without much enthusiasm. Tekin took two chairs and
we sat down, watching Mike doing whatever he was doing. One of his screens showed a
peculiar matrix, which I deduced was the plan of the sanctuary. The other screen was filled
with line of program code.
“You’ve nearly finished, I see,” Tekin said.
“Give me another week.”
Tekin pointed at the monitor. “Look, John, this is how things work out. Each section of the
plan represents the whereabouts of the CB’s, the troops on the field in other words. Suppose
one CB has to move to another section, the computer will guide him by means of verbal
commands. We don’t have to interfere manually. We take the men out of the loop, which
means fewer mistakes overall.”
“What if one of the men doesn’t make it,” I asked. “Suppose he gets a sun stroke and can’t
go on.”
Mike took a surprised glimpse at me. I hoped he had foreseen such trivialities in his
program. Then he zeroed in on a window and filled in a small code, and immediately a
smooth digital male voice came to life.
“CB03, proceed Ready-Zero-Six. Forty steps at Zero-Two. Speed One.”
“Great,” I said, “but what does it signify?”
“It’s only tactical speak, John. What the computer says, is that number three must cover a
distance of forty steps with a casual pace north-by-west.”
“That’s impressive,” I said. “But did you calculate a mass of some hundred thousand
pilgrims all aiming for the Kaaba, and your man trapped in the flow?”
 “That won’t happen, John, trust me.”
Tekin sounded so certain that I felt I had to show some more deference to their work.
“So I’ve got to trust my life into your hands. Now, why should I know this stuff before the
others?”
Tekin got up, tapped Mike on the shoulder again and we went out. The trucks were gone
now, except for some jeeps, and the clouds of thrown up dust had faded.
“You know, John, this was once a lake bed. You see how it’s rigged perfectly to our
purposes.”
I looked over the cracked jigsaw of alkali hardpan and wondered about the mysteries of
nature that granted mankind so many evil facilities.
“As I’ve explained, your part will play a key role. Tomorrow I’ll tell you why. Just try to
be less skeptical about the operation, John. You know the others are merely pawns — they’re
the subjects and you’re the king. But we can’t set you on the throne yet, as we don’t want to
sow discord, which I ’m sure you’ll perfectly understand.”
I wondered if he was buttering me up, or was simply happy to have me around.

We returned to the barracks. Before we entered, Tekin made a stand.

“One more thing, John. I’d like you to observe your partners for a while. We’ve got a
hunch someone may be a mole. I know you have mental skills that come handy for
intelligence affairs. Make sure to inform me if you find out something’s fishy.”
Tekin didn’t join me and left me with a conspiratorial feeling.
The subjects were getting used to their new situation, enjoying their time off American
style, and apparently got adjusted fairly well to their life as secluded prisoners.
“Subjects,” Tekin had called them. Slaves of the realm of computer warfare. The new type
of soldier, the sort the brass had dreamt about for thousands of years. Led by men who were
commanding the battlefield from a safe distance, covering causalities with digitized charting.
I took a Coca Cola from the machine and subsided in one of the easy chairs to watch TV.
Nobody paid attention to me, all were absorbed by their new toys.
There was a news flash. My attention was focused on the news from Europe. I fetched the
remote and amplified the sound. “Several environmental groups are today protesting the
lasting water shortage, due to irresponsible underground experiments in Saudi Arabia. The
Saudi have promised the supply will be restored after the last water drainage in the southern
desert will be done. In the meantime, water consumption will be rationed.”
Baum’s words crossed my mind. Baum, who was so thrilled about the water affair. Was
this the start of the new revolution? Revolutions began with small elements, unobserved by
the rulers, stacking up, accumulating in an epidemic flood of complaints and building up
frustration, then finally spreading around and affecting social life irremediably.
Baum could have been right about it. I sent him a posthumous salute.
Without warning, I was being throttled by a pool cue, pressed to my neck. Some
determined ass behind my back pulled the cue very tightly down my throat. I had to act
swiftly, before it could hurt me. My head leaned in my neck and I could observe the twitching
features of my assailant, who was obviously trying to do me harm.
 In one giant jump I managed to squeeze his head between my knees and started to reshape
it. He let go of the cue and we both fell on the floor, taking the chair to pieces. I fought
frantically, but controlled my anger, and the other men separated us before someone would
lose his mind.
“What’s the matter with you?” I yelled at my assailant.
“What’s the matter with you?" he echoed, gurgling. “What’s all that with Tekin? Are you
some fucking mole or what?” I shook off my protectors and rubbed my neck, gasped for air
and regained my composure.
“All right, I see your point.” I looked at all nineteen of them. Young, powerful and
willing-to-die-Mujahidin. Ready to clear situations in one stroke. I felt my destiny was at
stake and I had to do something about it before suspicion rose to menace me.
“I ’m not an informer, friends. I ’m CB99. I have a special assignment. It’ll probably kill
me. Your task will be more secure than mine. Trust me, I know.”
They didn’t make further attempts for my neck. I ’m a Desert Fox Brigade officer and I ’m
also an intelligence officer with five years in the field. I’ve been recommended on one or two
occasions and if it can be of any consolation, my father was commander in chief of
Intelligence West.”
My words were impressive, which was the reason I spit out my resume. I went on, now
very much in shape.
“I dare all of you to match my achievements. I don’t think you’re in a position to question
my acts.”
Nobody spoke. Then my sparring partner came to me and presented me his hand.
“I ’m sorry,” he lisped. “We like to think of ourselves as one group, and we don’t want
outsiders in our midst.”
“You know what Tekin said,” I replied dryly, taking the offered hand. “No friends, no
prisoners, no survivors.”
Some burst into wild laughter and I sighed with relief. A first crisis suppressed, but how
many more would follow? Since we were getting on good terms again, I had to make a run for
it.
“Remember, friends. We’re all Shiites. That means we’re Ali’s partisans. Our movement
holds about one tenth of the total Islamic population. We’re a minority. Tekin told me our
future depends on our mission. If we do succeed, we’ll have everything the Prophet promised
— we’ll have paradise. If we fail, they’ll wipe us from the face of the earth.”
I finished with a solemn “Inna lillahi wa inna illaihi rajeoon.” To God we belong and to
God is our return. I sounded like an old mufti, but it worked.
“Okay, boys, let’s join ranks for once and for all,” one shouted. “Say, Nineteen-nine,
what’s the Brigade’s war yell again?”
I took a deep breath and give them the famous battle cry.
“Friend or foe, go Fighters go!”
A simple but effective way to perk up the mood and it didn’t miss its effect. They all
repeated the yell, and the barracks’ wooden walls resounded from its powerful force. It
wasn’t all truth, what I’d said, but at least I would sleep soundly and wake up in one piece.
 Chapter 22

We were all steadily growing accustomed to Tekin’s queer warfare. After endless
theoretical sessions on WARGAME, Tekin decided it was time to proceed to the next stage.
April had come, and we were scheduled for five weeks of field training. We entered the so-
called ‘battlefield’ by Army truck, after passing two heavily guarded barriers, the minefield
and more barbed-wire fence. It was morning, and a bright sunrise promised a hot day.
Tekin had assured us this would be a real Mecca simulation, in almost equal climate and
environmental conditions. We entered the Sacred Mosque by one of the look-alike gates.
Though the interior consisted of nothing more than plywood and a sandy floor, the surface
measurements were exact, and it explicitly showed the grandeur of the real thing. Just now we
came to sense how close to our mission we were.
The sun spilled dusty pencils of light across the huge void of the complex. A warm desert
wind blew through hundreds of open windows and drew circles in the sand. Some lost birds
were hovering for a way out, chirping away across the spacious place. The only indicators of
human presence were a folding table and two chairs. They represented Tekin’s earthly
command center. I imagined how the real mosque would be, with its double row of arches, its
glamorous chandeliers and Persian tapestry, its artistic arabesque decorations and colorful
ceramics.
“We shall use this place for prayers, also,” Tekin explained. His voice sounded hollow,
which gave it a religious touch. Automatically I looked for the mihrab, but didn’t find it, but
then it occurred to me that we were supposed to be on the sacred spot itself.
We crossed the oratory and got out into the open plain where the ‘tawaf ’, the seven times
surrounding the Kaaba, would take place. I tried to imagine the flood of pilgrims, singing and
praying, driven unstoppably to the center of the square. The proportions of the look-alike
courtyard impressed us. It was more spacious than it seemed from the outside and I felt
uneasy with the idea I would be in the center of it, doing whatever I was meant to do.
I fancied the fifty feet high sanctuary in the midst of the courtyard. All over the world,
Muslim were bowing in its direction, and there it was. At least in my fantasy.
Tekin attached his earphones and we did the same. “Now, gentlemen, let us begin,” he
started off, solemnly. He sounded a bit edgy and reflected our own moods. He shifted five of
us and summoned them to take positions, just as we had studied. In order to learn from their
mistakes, we all would have simultaneous sessions.
A computer voice came to life. It had a masculine drill-wise tone.
“CB01, proceed Delta-Zero-One, forty steps at Zero-One. Speed One.” Immediately
CB01 started forward. I followed his stiff motions as he proceeded in the direction indicated.
It was like a hallucination, the way this soldier obeyed orders from a contraption.
“CB04, proceed Delta-Zero-One, twenty steps at One-Two. Speed Two.”
The next one did precisely what he was trained for. His walking speed increased and he
passed CB01.
When it was my turn, I decided to lure the machine. “CB99, proceed Delta-Zero-One,
twenty steps to One-Five. Speed Three.”
I changed the direction to One-Two and held Speed One.
 Within seconds it corrected me, repeating its first summons. It was amazing. I followed
the new instructions, which lead me to the initial spot.
“Nice try, John,” Tekin rebuked me. “I didn’t expect anything else from you.”

I heard laughter from my earphones, and felt stupid with the rap.

The simulation went on until sunset, only interrupted by prayer and a snack around Tekin’s
table.
Apart from the military terminology, which included such words as ‘combat,’ ‘deploy ’and
‘engage,’ most of the commands had a computer programming language background. This
meant an entirely new approach for most of us. We were all greatly impressed by it. The
computer had made no mistakes whatsoever. Its cool observations and immediate response to
our human blunders made us realize how much we were depending on this technology.
We returned in the same truck. We didn’t enjoy our leisure time now. Only a few men
watched TV. The rest crawled into bed. I was kept awake for some time by a restless, raring
to go feeling from all this. This wasn’t warfare anymore. It was a simple game of chess, with
invisible masters in cyberspace. No single human emotion was involved; not one individual
initiative was expected.
I was surprised everyone else seemed to have enjoyed the simulation game. I couldn’t
reconcile myself with this kind of warfare, but they all loved the idea that their own
responsibility was lifted. Maybe it had something to do with the way Muslims think. The fact
that religion acted as an unfailing ruler made them put their lives into the hands of a similar
spiritual gizmo and they didn’t even find this abnormal.
Next day, and up to Thursday, we did the game over and over again, until everyone,
including myself, was so much trained up that we blindly followed instructions, and even I
started to trust the computer voice. At least, I got used to it.
It was a complicated procedure, the way Tekin wanted us to operate. All moves were
exhaustively repeated, recorded and corrected when necessary. Mike was doing a great job,
and as soon as a hindrance rose, he made the right adjustments to his lines and off we went. I
couldn’t catch the strategic techniques Tekin had worked out, and I had to reluctantly admit
that this was a combination of masterful moves and state-of-the-art technological warfare. It
seemed every pawn on the battlefield had its own task, but Tekin didn’t tell us which task or
what it was.
All in all, it came to that one final connection, the siege of the courtyard. The
TWELVENERS guarded every gate, while the SEVENERS were making complicated moves,
all ending up at the red crossing lines. To sum up, no one but Tekin and Mike were capable
of unraveling the structure and trying to put the pieces together made no sense.
The month of Ramadan was due. We followed its rules very strictly, didn’t smoke nor
drink nor masturbate. We made our prayers five times a day and stayed the best part of the
day at our quarters.
We had sessions on technological warfare and satellite communication and, at night, we
had spiritual exercises and discussed the future of the Shia Movement.
We were all dead certain that after WARGAME things would turn for the better. The
whole Islamic world would come to sense and admit the Shiites to their rightful heritage,
which was independence within the League and, for certain regions, their sovereignty. Some
started to dream of a glorious position in newly made nations.
Tekin didn’t seem to enjoy the strained time schedule, which he was forced to adopt during
the Ramadan season, and I wondered if he was a Muslim at all. He came from a nation with
the longest unbroken secularity in the League, and this had certainly left its marks on the way
Turks approached religion.
When Ramadan had finished, he dropped in the following day to announce we would
move on to a more realistic performance. He would throw in a thousand National Guard
troops onto the courtyard to perform the tawaf.
“The gloves are off,” he said. “Tomorrow we’ll have the real thing. And we’ll see how
well trained you’ll be.” He beckoned me to come with him and we went to his office.
The wind had increased for the last few days, and we had to avoid the tumbleweeds
bouncing across the road. Sand piled up against the barracks. The whirling dust clouds
blacked out the mountain rims.
To my surprise, I counted about twenty men in civilian clothes, all wearing sunglasses,
prowling about the barracks. Definitely Secret Service.
“We’re having a big cheese on the premises,” Tekin explained. “It’s time you get to meet
him.”
We entered his barracks. Mike was away, and the screens were dead, but in his place sat a
tall, slim, blond-curled bespectacled man, in a white silk shirt with golden cuffs. He didn’t
stand up, but offered me his hand. It was dry and cool and had a stiff grip.
“This is Gerald Hixon, Assistant Director of the C.I.A.,” Tekin ushered him to me. I shook
the hand mechanically and held my standing position.
“Hello John,” the man said, in a warm tone, which contrasted to his hard expression,
showing a long life of suspicion and mistrust in human nature.
“How do you do,” I said, somewhat taken aback. So this was our big man behind the
scene. As my eyes adjusted, I became aware of two men hovering in the background and
watching every step I made.
“Grab a pew, John. I’ve heard so much about you I wanted to see you in person.”
I sat down. “I had no idea how famous I seem to be, sir.” Hixon exchanged glances with
Tekin.
“He has gumption, that’s for sure,” he said. Now, John, let’s come to the point.” He
motioned his bodyguards to leave the room and after they had, he began to ask my about my
stay and how I took to the new way of belligerency.
“Very well, sir. I must say, I ’m very much impressed by the technology.”
“It’s costing enough,” Hixon said and again glanced at Tekin.
I knew what he meant by that. They were after that hit they could brag about with their
backers. They were desperately in need to score. It was a problem every Intelligence service
had to deal with.
“Mister Hixon heard about your psychic powers, John,” Tekin stepped in. “We’d like to
know what you have discovered that could endanger our mission.”
 I told him what I thought about two of my colleagues and didn’t even feel an impostor.
Somewhere in the course I, too, had turned into a dedicated member of the well-oiled team.
Hixon growled his approval when I had finished. “Well?” he asked Tekin. Tekin seemed to
be stupefied. “He’s right, sir. One hundred percent. We’ve been following those two since
their arrival at HQ. According to our computers they’d be the weak spots.”
It was merely foreboding. Those two, who proved to fit well into the group scheme, had
caught my attention with minor things, such as casual remarks and body language.
“Okay, those slackers will be removed,” Hixon said. He clearly had no idea of the
consequences, which I felt I needed to clarify on the spot.
“If I may say so, sir, I’d suggest you should withhold their discharge until after the final
selection. Otherwise we could have a mutiny on our hands.”
Tekin nodded and Hixon also seemed to agree. “That sounds all right to me. Now, you’ve
possibly wondered about your own task. So I’ll let Tekin explain what we’re expecting from
you.”
I looked up at Tekin. He had his arms crossed in a restrained manner.
“You know you’ve not been exactly playing a key role till now. That’s because we have
other plans for you. Your task will be the abduction of sheikh Muhammad Abd Ibn al-Saud.”
He stopped abruptly and filled the silence with dramatic tension.
Muhammad Abd Ibn al-Saud. The reminiscences of my father came rushing in, and for a
moment I was back in that glum Scottish palace, sitting in front of the General and talking
over files. Tekin saw my expression of grief, but he didn’t know. That was one thing that
hadn’t been recorded.
“What’s up, John?” he asked. I sensed anxiety in his voice.

“I ’m sorry, the name rang a bell.”

“In what sense?” Hixon sounded suspicious. I’d have to watch out for this man.

“I mean, sir, he’s royal blood, and I was raised to respect the Keepers of the Faith.”

Hixon looked at Tekin, questioningly. Tekin came to help, put his pedant voice on.

“The Saudi, as you know, sir, represent the symbol of Islam. For ages, they’ve been the
protectors of the sanctuary. What John means is that, by abducting the sheikh, it would harm
both our religious and political relations with the rest of the world.”
“Nonsense,” Hixon said determinedly. “We’re better off without him. People should know
what he’s doing to the religion. If we let him go on, he’ll wipe out everything these people
belief in. Islam deserves better than this pathological case of a human being. So I want you to
bring me back his head.”
I assumed Hixon was using a metaphor, but he could well be serious, and for a moment a
vivid sight of my father’s head on wires loomed up.
Both Tekin and I said nothing. I, for one, had my own reasons to get on with the job.
“That’s settled, then,” Hixon concluded. “Tekin will fill you in on the details. You know,
John, once I was like you. Fervent to defend moral values, willing to give my life to a noble
cause. Now I ’m getting old, and I ’m not so sure any more. Perhaps I need someone like you
to keep me on the right track.”
“Thank you, sir,” I lisped, not knowing what to reply properly. He was in a good mood
now. “Is there anything we can do for the group’s motivation, John,” he asked.
I was glad we came to terms again. “As a matter of fact, you can, sir. The men have natural
needs, it’s been a long time they had sexual intercourse and, in my opinion, they’re not fit to
live like monks.”
Hixon kept a straight face. “That’s noted. Tekin, take care of it. Anything else?”
“The stay in the barrack is becoming monotonous, sir — dull, and to be precise .It would
help to lift up their spirits if you could provide us with some medical aid.”
“Such as?”

“I’d say some of your excellent chemical preparations, which make the soul cheerfully.”

“I see. We’ll do what we can. I take it there’s no drug abuse around here?”

“None whatsoever, sir.” Tekin hurried to answer. That wasn’t completely true, but what
the eye doesn’t see, the heart doesn’t grieve.
“Right, then.” Hixon got up and shook my hand again. Tekin accompanied him to the door
and took his leave from the director. Then he turned to me with an expression of surprise.
“How did you do that?” he asked me. “You’ve managed what I’ve been hustling for
weeks. No wonder the computer handpicked you.”
Did it? Nice score then.

I filed off to the barracks in a state of enlightenment. The last hindrances had been taken
off and I felt ready now. My partners started to question me as soon as I entered, and I told
them I had made an official demand for sex & drugs, and that helped me a lot to overcome
their last reserve towards me. For the first time since our arrival I slept like a log.
The so-called realistic scene turned out to be a hilarious misfit. The soldiers managed to
perform an outstanding, though unexpected example of parading military performance,
instead of circling and praying and chanting. And so, the computer tilted and the program
finally crashed as I had predicted. I had furtive fun with it. The drill was postponed till next
week.
Tekin assured us that it was only a temporary setback, nothing to worry about. In the
meantime, he had good news. This night we’d be on leave for twelve hours, to make for a
certain hut at the compound’s perimeter.
That hut turned out to be a mobile brothel, rented from some obscure employment agency
and run by the C.I.A. When I heard this, I refused to accompany my partners and stayed at the
barrack with two others, who also had religious reservations about the affair.
I was much happier with my supply of kola-sticks and spent the night in peace, reading
American science fiction. I was surprised how much confidential information the novelist had
put in his book without being censored. Also I was aware how heavily the Americans relied
on their technology as if it were some kind of religion.
 My fellow-warriors were back around 1000 hours and some of them looked properly
happy, and some didn’t. I didn’t want to hear all the details, as I knew they ’d end up in
dinginess, and I ignored the bragging and bidding and went to sleep.
At daybreak, we had a second drill, and now the troops looked very determined in their
role as worshipping Muslims. They kept a civilized distance from one another and started to
circle the spot representing the Kaaba. Some were so caught up in their act that they started to
fight their way in to get nearer to the mockery cube, but were instantly recalled by the big
bellowing colonel.
“Easy does it, men. This ain’t no sweet ass you ’re kissing, dam-mit. This is goddamned
religion.”
I watched this poor manifestation of U.S. Army discipline and wondered how this nation
could possibly understand what religion was all about, with that bunch of TV preachers and
their tax advisers.
But afterwards I seemed I had misjudged. The soldiers got their grip on it and, at sunset,
they formed a formidable group circumambulating the spot seven times counter clockwise.
Mike ’s work had paid off. After some adjustments, all things worked out very well and, at
last, I could see now what the program was able to.
I was struck dumb by the elaborate precision work. Not only did it enable our men to avoid
the endless stream of incoming and outgoing pilgrims, but it managed to keep them with the
red lined sectors, continuously and indefatigably ordering them with its mechanical voice,
never slipping nor having second thoughts and always exactly right.
That night Tekin and Mike were with us to celebrate the end of our training program.
Mike wasn’t at ease first, but the overall enthusiasm infected him too, and he listened
intently to our war songs, as if he was trying to cut them into bits and bytes. He clearly felt
misplaced though, and I took advantage of the situation and asked him straight out just how
Bluebird could be deactivated.
“Ah, that ’s a cinch,” he promptly answered. “As you know, we use low level
electromagnetic fields. You only have to get some plain household aluminum foil. No sweat,
man.”
Then he realized he had given away vital information and looked skittishly at Tekin.

“Never mind,” I said. “This remains between us.” As always, the answer is right before
your nose.

Tekin let us party, but at midnight he brought us to attention. “I hate to break up the fun,
but it ’s time now to select the happy ones.”
In dead silence, he took a paper and started to read aloud. To our surprise, he told us the
TWELVENERS unit was to be abandoned. The program had learned the number was too
large to succeed. So, only the SEVENERS-unit was to be retained. I ironically, the
SEVENERS were the genuine shock troops in ancient Shia history.
I wasn’t one of them, of course. I ’d get my own troubles.
“So, good luck to the unfortunate ones. Please, take your personal belongings, you’ll leave
the compound at once.” That was awfully rude of him, but also very effective. Within minutes
the losers were picked up by soldiers, heading for a truck with roaring engines and they drove
off to an unknown destiny. No hearty farewells, no exchange of emotions.
 “And now, gentlemen, you’ll have a couple of days ’rest. As you know now, this was more
or less romping, looking for the right stuff. In two weeks time we ’re due to leave. I trust
you’ll be prepared. If in doubt, drop in at all hours. I ’m at your disposal until the last
minute.”
I asked him what would become of the unfortunate ones. He explained they would be
confined securely until we had left for our mission. Then the would-be Sacred Mosque was to
make way for Army tents and heavy equipment. No trace was to remain. “At least, I'm sure
we’ll all be happy to get rid of the hamburgers,” he concluded.
He left, and the barracks seemed empty now. We were left, eight lonesome souls, now
very much aware of our vulnerability and our spirits were low. I wasn’t in the mood to give a
second pep and just watched some talk show and, again, was struck how far lampoon was
allowed to go in the bastion of freedom of speech.
For two days, we didn’t see Tekin or Mike and, being abandoned to passivity, we were
growing irritated. Our nerves were stressed and we longed for action. As we had ample time,
we talked about ourselves, though I didn’t take the floor, as I found I had told them enough
about my person. As expected they had many similarities. All were true Ismaili Shiites, with a
history of rebellion and they all had fled the old country. They were all devoted beyond
expectations. A dangerous, fanatical pack and, to Tekin and his superiors, they must look like
the chosen ones. But I disliked their blind belief.
Two dull days passed, only interrupted by nightly fake strafing by the National Guard. We
enjoyed the tracer bullets in the dark sky very much. Our American friends were certainly
doing their best to lure the enemy on our behalf. We all greeted Tekin ’s return with
excitement. He sat amidst us, beaming. “The final adjustments have been made, gentlemen.
Now it ’s time to explain last details.” We were as still as mice. He started to talk, his long
fingers spread open on the tabletop.
“You’ll have asked yourselves how we ’re planning to monitor you on the battlefield. I
must remind you, and emphasize for the second time around, that you won ’t be acting as a
group, but as individuals. Each of you will have his own monitoring partner. Of course, it will
be the computers that’ll be doing the work. You’ll have implanted earphones. Each phone has
its own frequency, which means you can ’t hear the other monitors. That ’s for safety
reasons.”
He pointed heavenward. “Seven human monitors and I will stay in our operational room,
about three hundred miles over Mecca, in a steady geosynchronous orbit. We’ll be in
continuous visual and auditory contact, so none of you will be lost without communication.”
Now I understood why the operation was called ‘WARGAME ’. It was a remote control
computer game, created by Tekin ’s designers. We were the good guys, moved about by
joysticks in space.
My thoughts drifted off. I tried to catch the true meaning of all this, for I had a nasty
feeling, as I always did in awkward situations when my intuition was ignited.
Then Tekin called my name. “As John is our expert on religious matters, I ’d like him to
describe the hajj procedures, so we can become familiar with the process. John, please.” I
wondered whether he was pulling my leg, but he kept a straight face.
“John ’s been with the religious police for a while,” he explained, seeing how
uncomfortable I looked. Frankly, back in Cairo, I had simply taken a short course on hajj
history in the line of duty, but to the others I must seem some eminent expert, and it was in
the records.
 “Right,” I said, got up and went to the chart. I drew a square, then to the right of it three
cubes, and farther away the contours of hills.
“First off all, for about ten years, the main body of hajji consists of newcomers. Those are
Muslims from the new League nations, such as Europeans and Africans. Not everyone is
willing or capable of fulfilling the whole ceremony. Actually, most of the pilgrims are
satisfied with the circumambulating routine, and then go home or to Medina, or simply take
some holiday time-off. You can imagine it ’s not a real fun-trip. The complete hajj runs over
seventy days, with the last twelve days of the religious calendar as its highlight. It ’s then that
the Kaaba is circled, and most people will be in the courtyard of the Sacred Mosque.”
“And forming a bottleneck situation,” Tekin stepped in. I ignored his intervention. “The
day after, most hajji go home, not only since they’ve completed what they came for, but also
because Saudi regulations are very strict on residential rules. Your passport runs up till the
first day of the New Year and then you ’re supposed to leave the country.”
“So that means that we’ll have to get you out within hours,” Tekin interrupted me, for the
second time.
Some one asked how that would be done.
“This is nothing to worry about,” Tekin answered. “Do your job and your private monitor
will guide you through the day up to your departure.”
Or after he knew how many casualties they had allowed for.

“Okay, do go on please, John.”

I pointed my pen at the Mecca dot.

“After visiting the Kaaba and drinking from the well, pilgrims start a seven-days ’ trip
between the hills of Safa and Marwah. On the eighth day, they walk to Mina for the five
essential days. That ’s about twelve miles east of Mecca. There ’s also the encampment for
those who can ’t afford better lodging facilities.”
Tekin stepped in again. I wished he wouldn’t. “You see, that ’s one of the reasons we have
to break the Saudi influence over Mecca. It ’s time we get rid of these social discriminations.
The poor live in tents, the rich in luxurious hotels. To Islam, we ’re all the same.”
I couldn’t imagine that Tekin had sleepless nights over this injustice, but picked up the
thread again.
“Next morning they ’re heading for Arafat, about twelve miles east of Mina, where they
pray till sunset at the site where the Prophet ’s farewell sermon took place.”
I had left out some minor details, such as the stoning of the devil and sacrificing of
animals. Tekin smiled his satisfaction and I returned my seat.
“That was a well-defined explanation, John. Now you have a clear view about the
whereabouts of the pilgrimage. Of course, your task will be at the Mosque, the rest is of no
concern, except that you must bear in mind that, on your way out, that you might run into a
counter-current of the flocking drove, which could hinder your path. But always bear in mind
that we ’re monitoring you all the way.”
His reassuring words took away the last reserves and the men showed how overeager they
were to go by applauding. Tekin looked us imperturbably over.
 “First you’ll have a new identity. You’ll all be South-African businessmen of Muslim
faith. This gives you the opportunity to bear a business passport, which provides you with
better facilities than the hajj-pass. Further more, the religious police is less obtrusive to
business people than to the ordinary pilgrim.”
He stopped to take breath and I seized the opportunity. “Isn’t it risky to put us all on the
same plane?” I asked..
“You won’t be leaving together. Each of you will have a different scheduled flight, coming
from Cape Town and heading for Jeddah. You’ll stay at different hotels and keep a low
profile.”
He studied my drawings, his back half-turned to his audience. “This, gentlemen, will be the
most daring and provocative action taken since the 1979 assault. And it will be the most
successful ever.”
The audience started to applaud again. Tekin bent his head slightly, as though this outburst
was ever too much credit.
As we left the room, he stopped me on the way out. “We still have to discuss your part of
the mission, John. Please, come with me.” He said this in an almost casual way, as though my
ante was of less importance, and I had to admire him for his shrewdness.
“I have the gut feeling things are going too smoothly,” I said, as we entered his room. I
noticed Mike ’s equipment was gone. “Mike’s work is done here,” Tekin explained. “Our
people are taking over now.”
We sat at his desk. He looked worn-out. These last weeks must have been very stressful for
him either.

I came straight to the point. “So what ’s the real meaning of the sheikh’s abduction plan?” I
asked.

Tekin didn’t react at first, but searched for his cigarettes. He presented me one and after he
had lit them, he gave me a probing look.
“I can ’t catch you out, can’t I? Indeed, you ’re not easy to convince. But I know you’ll
finish the job — that’s one thing I ’m sure of. So, don’t you worry about your partners. You
won’t see them again. You do ’t have to say good-bye, either. Someone will pick up your
things and you’ll move out within the hour, since you’ll be the first to arrive. You’ll be our
pathfinder.”
I digested this unexpected course. “Okay, I buy that. But what about the abduction?”
He ignored my key question. “You’ll be staying at the newly built International Resort
Hotel, near the Mosque. The topmost floor is occupied by the sheikh himself, who uses it as a
permanent suite. There you’ll await our messages.”
“What about Jane?”
“Jane’s working at the hotel as a chambermaid,” he answered. “For two months now. She
has established contact with our TARGET man. I can tell you she’s all right. She’s scouting
the sheikh as we speak and lucky for us, he’s a creature of habit.”
“I ’m glad she ’s still alive.” If she ’d disappeared I ’d have called the whole thing off.

“Don ’t worry, John. Everything will run according to plan, you can trust me.”
 “I will, Tekin. I take it you’ve worked out the abduction plan?”

“We have, John, but for safety reasons we won ’t get into that. Jane will fill you in and, as
you know, we have alternatives to stand by in case something ’s going the other way.”
I glanced at him with raised eyebrows, at which he felt obliged to elaborate on it.
“Actually, your partners are very willing, very well trained and worked up, but they don ’t
have your professional insight, and your psychic skills .If something would bang up, which
we don ’t expect of course, there ’s a possibility the program would have to be altered
drastically. But that ’s not of your worry. You’ll be way gone by then.”
“I ’m glad you don ’t put our lives entirely in the hands of the machines.”
“Let ’s say, we have a ninety-nine percent security. Of the last ten missions, nine were
successful, thanks to our computers.”
“That ’s only ninety percent.”
He unfolded a wry smile.
“You see, Tekin, I still have second thoughts. I think you ’re playing with fire. If anything
would affect the royal family in an unfortunate way, the whole Saudi nation will turn against
us, and eventually half of the League as well.”
“Not according to our computer prognosis, John. Intelligence ’s working on a denigrating
campaign against the Saudi, who, as you know, are not much popular in the League.
Furthermore, the guilt question will be laid to the Shia Movement. When this comes about,
Turkey will invade Arabia from the north and the south, as part of their Shiite rescue
operation. If the Arabs offer resistance, then the U.S. Navy will steam up to rescue peace.”
“That means war.”
“According to our computers, that will not happen,” Tekin said decisively. “The Saudi are
too weak, and their army has lost its head start since the Revolution.”
“And how do I get to recognize the sheikh?”
“He’ll be wearing a mask, because of a nasty cold he’ll catch next week.”
That seemed to cover the job ’s basic idea, and I had to admit its simplicity could well be
the best part of the whole operation.
“You have convinced me. But again, why the sheikh?”
Tekin exhaled audibly. “If anything might evolve otherwise, the sheikh will serve as a
hostage. You’ll have safe passage and, through him, we’ll have better dealing conditions than
without him.”
“If war does break out?”

“If it does, we’ll have the sheikh ’s knowledge and his political value to trade with.”

“What about the Turks? Is the sheikh ’s value important to their ambitions?”

Tekin expressed grieved pride .I could imagine how his roots were playing tricks with his
conscience. But he didn’t make for repartee. He was still a member of his nation, which, for a
thousand years, had been the typical spoilsport throughout the Orient.
Instead, he opened a drawer and took out a pistol shaped device.
 “This is the ear implant,” he said. “Just lay your head on the table and make sure your
mouth is wide open.”
I wasn’t very much at ease with this turn of the conversation, but did what he requested. In
no time I heard a sharp noise and felt a cold blast of air enter my ear canal.
“Now turn your head, we’ll repeat the treatment to the other ear.” Tekin said.

Suddenly I was deaf in both ears. Then, he held three fingers before me and mouthed
‘minutes.’

So I waited patiently while he stored his gear away and poured fresh drinking water. Then
he took a sort of voltage pen and drove it prudently to my ear canal. He glanced at the digital
screen and nodded satisfied. After a minute or so, by and by, I regained my hearing.
“Now you ’re implanted in both ears. The receiver is not much bigger than a skin cell. It
contains thousands of organic conductors, strung out over your tympanic membrane. You ’re
the only one who’ll be hearing us loud and clear, even if somebody would be busy cleaning
out your ears.”
I sagged back and felt overwhelmed by all this weird witchcraft technology. My head
pounded from the brutal force of the injection, or whatever it was, making me feel
disoriented.
He got up. “Stay here. I’ll fetch your partners for our last joint encounter.” He went out..
I scouted the place. Now that Mike was gone, it looked clean and impersonal, the typical
lair of the mastermind. On several occasions I had wondered who Tekin truly was. All that
time, he hadn’t wasted ant information on himself, which could bring more light to his
personality.
Why had he defected to America and why had he chosen for the C.I.A.? He could have
retreated in honor to a hideout, no true Shiite would have betrayed him. He could have
become a people ’s hero and caused the rise up from within.
My reveries were interrupted by the arrival of my companions. They reluctantly came in,
as it was their first visit to HQ. Tekin was last and closed the door.
“It ’s a bit crowded, but you don ’t have to sit down, gentlemen. We’ll have a wake, as
tomorrow some of us will be departing at an early hour, and this will be our final gathering.”
Just now we were realizing how fast things were moving and some had visible trouble in
adjusting to this outlook. Tekin stopped for a second to let his words sink, then proceeded. “It
’s appropriate that we prepare in a spiritual sense, for our mission has a religious target, to
free Islam from its corruption and indecency. And to do it properly, I have invited a spiritual
leader. So, if anyone feels the need to say something before his arrival, I suggest you do it
now.”
It was the calm before the storm. Outside, the army traffic had stopped as well, as an
unexpected contribution to this sacred moment.
“I ’d like to officiate at our last prayer,” I proposed. “Now that we ’re on our way, I realize
we haven ’t lived up to the Prophet ’s words for a long time. It ’s also proper we start our hajj
by not cutting our hair, nor by clipping our nails any more, as it is written.”
“Fairly spoken, John,” Tekin admitted. “Now, let us proceed, please.” We kneeled in the
direction of the Kaaba and started the ritual praying. I was so fully absorbed by my prayers
that I forgot about the time.
 Tekin ’s imam arrived as my prayers ended. He came in, dressed in civilian, carrying a
nylon bag. We rose to a man and he greeted us in a friendly way, then went off with Tekin to
change clothes.
He came back, dressed in the cloth and had turned into a spiritual leader and looked at us
with penetrating eyes, holding a prayer book in his hands .He was an old man, crooked and
worn out, and I was disappointed, as I had expected someone more apt to the occasion. Then
he opened his mouth, took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
We stood, our heads down and ready to receive his blessings.
He was a Turk, I could see, but his tongue was fluently Arabian.
“In the name of Allah, the Gracious and the Merciful. Say ‘He is Allah, the One! Allah the
Independent and Besought of all. He begets not, nor is He begotten, and there is none like
unto Him.”
“Allahu Akbar,” we muttered..
Tekin introduced him as imam Rakan. He had a rasping voice, but his language was very
polished.
“Issalam alaykum ,”he addressed us, and we answered with “Wa-alaykum is-salaam.
”Peace upon you and ourselves.
“Let us pray.”
“God is most great. God is most great.
God is most great. God is most great.
I testify that there is no god except God.
I testify that there is no god except God.
I testify that Muhammad is the messenger of God.
I testify that Muhammad is the messenger of God.
Come to prayer! Come to prayer!
Come to success in this life and the Hereafter! Come to success!
God is most great. God is most great.
There is no god except God.”

“La ilaha illa’Llah.” We repeated this last phrase several times, with increasing passion.
Then we kept mum, and watched him with devoted interest.
“A demon has landed in our beloved religion. It’s called Satan and it is with us, within us.
We have to stop it before it destroys the whole world. We have to fight it without further ado.
The Day of Resurrection has arrived. Our Prophet has declared, ‘While sleeping, I was given
the treasures of the world and two golden bangles were put in my hands, but I felt much
annoyed, and those two bangles distressed me very much ,but I was inspired that I should
blow them off, so I blew them and they flew away.’”
The imam stopped briefly, breathing heavily, his wise eyes strolling across the room,
taking us with him on his spiritual journey.
“The Prophet said, ‘I saw in a dream that I waved a sword and it broke in the middle, and
behold, that symbolized the casualties the believers suffered on the Day of the battle of Uhud.
Then I waved the sword again, and it became better than it had ever been before, and behold,
that symbolized the Conquest of Mecca, which Allah brought about and the gathering of the
believers.’”
Now, he had us in his spell and we hung on his words like young Quran students.
 “The holy book is clear on the necessity of going to war when the situation demands it.
That is the way of life, as lived by our Prophet. He, himself, had expelled the demons that
possessed the holy place. Once again it is time to drive them away. The holy stone is not a
material proof of divinity any more. It must be destroyed, and then the day will arrive.”
At each of the loaded phrases, Rakan paused and, except for his eyes ,the rest of his body
didn’t budge. He was a statue of indisputable certainty, a rock of faith to us, the unworthy.
Then his words suddenly gained force.
“We must destroy the demons of Mecca. That is our day of resurrection. You will be the
chosen ones to await the return of the Eighth Imam.”
The Eighth Imam? The spell was broken. Someone didn’t seem to know his history lessons
well. There were only seven, as I recollected. But no one else seemed to have noticed the slip
of the tongue. We had all been raised with the certainty that once the lost imam of the Shia
Movement would return. Now, this man, who spoke with the Prophet ’s tongue, was declaring
that time had arrived.
“We have lost battles before. Our two bangles were our discord and our misplaced trust in
the leaders. They don’t follow the rules anymore. They’ve become infidels, and are selling
our beloved religion to the highest bidders. This shall be stopped. Your leader, Tekin, will
guide you to the battlefield. He did it several years ago. Now he will not be defeated, but will
be triumphant and so you will. Inch Allah.”
“Inch Allah ,”we agreed. The imam looked washed up by his powerful speech, but still
smiling and lifting his hands towards us, he offered his soul in ours and we were filled with
the true spirit of submission to all that it stood for.
Then he precipitated a sacred moment and opened his Quran. He was now trembling with
emotion. “You are fulfilling a holy deed. For centuries, Ismaili Shiites have awaited the
coming of the last Imam. According to the Holy Prophet, Muslims need the Imam Mahdi.
Why do we need Imam Mahdi, and why are we waiting for Him, and what will the status of
Imam Mahdi be? I ’m sure you never thought of that. If you should think of it now, you will
be surprised that Muslim belief and Ahmadi beliefs are exactly the same. Not an iota of
difference can be found between our two beliefs.”
He coughed, with shaking shoulders. Americans were babbling and laughing outside and it
was all so unreal. “All Muslims believe that Imam Mahdi will be appointed by Allah, and is
not going to be elected by the Muslims. There should not be a single Muslim who believes
that Imam Mahdi will not be appointed by Allah, but will be elected by the masses. If any
Muslim claims this, all the ulema of the world will declare that that person is a kafir, because
he ’s holding a belief contrary to the belief of the entire Ummah.”
What was I doing here? I fell back to earth. What happened to horse sense? This was not
what I wanted to hear.
“So, Imam Mahdi is a person to come, if he has not come already, who will be directly
raised and appointed by Allah. However, this is but one part of the belief. The other part of
the belief is that whoever refuses to accept him will become Kafir. Our Ummah believe that
Allah will appoint Imam Mahdi himself, and there will not be an election. They also believe
that Imam Mahdi, once he is appointed, will be the imam for the whole Ummah and for the
whole universe. Whoever denies him, and whoever opposes him, would go out of the pale of
Islam.”
The Quran trembled in his hands. I saw Rakan just an old man, speaking of fossilized
traditions, trying to harangue a legal explanation to us dogs of war.
 He raised his voice now; it grew stronger. “These are your fundamental beliefs. Out of the
six principles quoted above, only one refers to man. Yet, Muslims themselves ascribe to
Imam Mahdi. Whoever is appointed directly by Allah, is a prophet. So Muslims maintain that
they do not believe even a subordinate prophet would ever come, while they believe in Imam
Mahdi, and that Allah himself will appoint and raise him. So they are most surely
contradicting their own claim.”
All this idle, hot air. This was not my war. My mind drifted off to the woman on the
torturing bank, and to Jean, who was now slaving in the hot desert.
“The truth is that Muslims believe in a subordinate prophet the moment they believe in
Imam Mahdi. If you call him man or not is not important. What is important is definition. If
you call a man a dog, he still remains a man. If someone enjoys the two qualities of Imam
Mahdi, he will remain a prophet, whatever you call him. Even if you do not believe in him, he
will still remain a prophet.”
Who was to be the imam Mahdi, the seventh one, or the eighth, as they preferred to refer
to, who was to return at the Day of Resurrection? Did the Prophet choose him, or did the
C.I.A. choose him? I wondered.
The imam slammed the book to end his address .“And who obeys Allah and this
Messenger, of His shall be among those on whom Allah has bestowed His blessing, namely,
the Prophets, the Truthful, the Martyrs, and the Righteous. And excellent companions are
these.”
“Allahu Akbar!” The party yelled, carried away by the imam ’s words.
Everything was all right now. We were all blessed, we were all immortal, and we were all
inspired.
Allahu Akbar. Allah is great.
But I didn’t enjoy this sort of fanatic brainwashing. It reeked too much of cheap deception,
and as I observed my fellow warriors, I made my final decision.
I wouldn’t be one of Abraham’s lambs — that you could bet on.
 Chapter 23

It was a long flight to the Republic of South Africa, and I didn’t get to see much of the
world below. I slept through it and I woke up only as we touched down. As soon as I entered
the VIP lounge at Cape Town International, I asked the barman for a certain locker key. Then
I continued to the cloakroom and pulled out a thick, white envelope. I sat down to search
through the documents. My business passport, stamped by the Saudi Embassy, had a
hologram picture of my new features. I also got a golden credit card from a major South
African banking company, a letter of recommendation from a mining company, two certified
bank drafts for lodging and fees to the Saudi pilgrimage agent, a vaccination certificate and
some cash in different currencies. I put everything in the correct order and I was now ready
for my hajj.
Still, I needed to know one more thing. I had the phone number of Amos’ South African
contact and I made use of the short delay before boarding to get in touch with him. I was in
for a surprise. The number lead to an armament agency and a woman told me Mbuebue had
been involved in a tragic accident. He had died some weeks ago without coming out of a
coma. I called Cape Town ’s city paper and asked the editor about the nature of the accident.
He described it in proper newspaperman words and it sounded like a typical C.I.A. set up —
broken fuel lines, gasoline running out on some slope near Cape Town. The coincidence was
clear cut now, and I asked myself about the relationship between Tekin and Amos.
Business class was half empty, mostly with business-people, who were heading to get into
the Saudi ’s good graces. As I was dressed in a proper suit, dress shirt and tie, completed with
a morocco leather briefcase, I could easily pretend to be one of them. The C.I.A. had booked
me a royal seat in business class and I enjoyed the comfort and the attentiveness of the South
African flight personnel.
We flew over Cairo. Since the Revolution it had become a real boomtown, doubling its
population to thirty-five millions and turning the city into a chaotic tangle of slums and
shantytowns. Cairo was the seat of the Al-Chabor Movement, the Shiite student ’s uprising at
the old university that made the Word circulate across the League. It became a legend in its
own time and the center of Islamic revival.
Due to intense air traffic, we had to circle for about an hour before landing on Jeddah
Airport. We took advantage of it to switch our uniforms. Since the seventh century, pilgrims
have been obliged to wear the ihram outfit, composed of two pieced white cotton terrycloth. I
took my attaché case, containing my outfit and started to undress under uneasy conditions.
As we debarked, I got a cultural shock at the sight of thousands of pilgrims, a melting-pot
of Orientals, Negroes and Caucasians, males and females, spit out from the numerous planes,
forming lines in a hectic hullabaloo, their voices amplified a hundred times by the huge entry
hall ceiling.
It was getting hot, a drought heat, but I started to shake as soon as I got out of the plane.
My body reacted violently and sweat burst out of my pores. I left the row for customs and
hared for the lavatories and I was just in time to let go of my flight lunch. I sat on the pot and
felt despondent. What a great way to start a revolution. Then I freshened myself up, took my
case and went back and out to get some fresh air.
“CB99, pay attention, please.”
 I froze, looked over my shoulder, and then up. The voice came straight from my brain, and
was so crystal-clear and disturbance-free that I could have sworn someone was talking at the
back of my head.

It wasn’t Tekin speaking, or the computerized voice. It was a real living being, breathing in
my ears and coming from a couple of hundreds of miles over my head. My personal monitor
in space had finally shown up.
Things were perking up all right. I shook off my weary mood. I was perspiring all over my
body and got a terrible itch on my shoulder blades, but nobody seemed to notice.
The heat gnawed at my skin. I sauntered to the main gate, along the taxi rows, avoiding
physical contact with hasty travelers.
“CB99, we don’t see you. Please walk towards the B-parking lot.”
“Leave me alone,” I mumbled.
They couldn’t hear me, as it was a one-way-communication matter. So, I cursed to myself
and felt slightly better. I was in the parking lot, playing the role of a man lost in the
automotive wilderness.
“CB99, we have visual contact. Please put your case down and wipe your face with your
handkerchief.”
I fulfilled their wish.

“CB99, turn toward the coach at your left.”

I neared the coach, wondering how sharp their images would be. For a while, I felt like a
puppet, held up by invisible string way up the sky.
“CB99, now pick up your case and return inside. We’ll contact you in due time. Thank you
for your cooperation.”
“Get lost,” I said half aloud, and went back. But I felt impressed, and also very humble,
knowing now the gods were watching over me.
It was my second visit to Saudi-Arabia, the first one as a prisoner, but this one was
supposed to be as the liberator. But I didn’t feel like it. As I again entered the entrance hall,
which was known as the ‘hajj-hall’. A mutawwif came on to me to offer me his services. The
pilgrims who were not packaged into a traveling group had to be separated and divided into
parties on nationality base. My Meccan guide, a friendly young man, took my ticket, passport
and money and instructed me to follow him. He led me to a waiting party of South African
travelers. None of them were SEVENERS. That was fine with me, as I didn’t want to be faced
with possible complications.
The King Abdul Aziz International Airport near Jeddah had cost about five billion dollars
back in the previous century .It covered an area of a hundred square miles, larger than any
other international airport I knew..
The Hajj-terminal, where I was waiting, was composed of two vast, tented halls, making
up the world ’s largest fabric structure. The tent clusters forming the ceiling were suspend
from cables and steel pylons high above floor level, and resembled the great tented city of
Arafat, where the pilgrims foregather at the high-point of the hajj ceremonies. The fabric
itself, a spin-off from American space-research, was made from an insulated fiber, which
reflected back most of sun ’s heat and passed enough of its light to make artificial
illumination unnecessary during daytime. It was able to process ten thousand pilgrims an
hour, and two million per season. Before the recession there was talk of a third terminal, to
collect the increase of new League pilgrims, but it would also involve doubling the hajj
prices, which lead to protests from far away Muslims.
The whole impression reflected more of the power of the Saudi than it did in a spiritual
way. It fit well in the Saudi mentality of showing off, the royal family being relative upstarts
compared to the old dynasties.
My heart was in my mouth when the guide came back. He returned our passes and the hajj
visa as well. So I was clean now. We followed him to a waiting bus and off we went.
The bus was loaded. I had a halfway seat at the dirty window. Next to me sat a pudgy
Negroid man, who was continuously mumbling surras.
We left the airport in a hurry. The driver blasted his horn continuously and managed to
reach the expressway in a relatively quick time. After some miles we had to stop at a
checkpoint that divided Muslims and Non-Muslims, and police boarded to check our passes
and, again I was itching all over, but nothing fishy here, either. We had still about fifty miles
to go. We made the obligatory stop at the Mosque of Hudaybiyah, the site of Mohammed ’s
truce with the Quraish tribe, which marked the birth of Islam. I bought a bottle of water. Then
we passed the white pillar that marked the entry into the sacred territory. The point of no
return. From here on, the dice were rolling.
Unexpectedly, I was thrown into the middle of a hectic city, with thousands of cars and
pedestrians flowing toward the center, passing teeming shopping streets, and, finally, we
parked amidst hundreds of other coaches at one of the vast parking lots near the Mosque.
Mecca was greatly benefiting from the hajj. Several international hotels surrounded the
Mosque, and the city had a vivid business center in which, during the pilgrimage, deals were
closed and nightclubs and restaurants buzzed of life and joy. Prices also doubled, though the
Ministry of Pilgrimage tried to control it.
The bus stopped at the gate of King Abdul Aziz al-Saud, and the minute we got out, most
of the passengers started for the Mosque, chanting “In the name of God, God is most great.”
Some shed tears, very much conscious that they had achieved their ultimate dream, after
several years of longing and saving their trip money.
I took a quick glance at the extended complex with its equal, slim built towers, and then
headed for my hotel. I imagined the impact on the pilgrims when entering the courtyard and
seeing the Kaaba, with the Black Stone in the east corner, which, according to legends to be
the original remnant of Abraham ’s temple. But I hadn’t the time to be one of them — I had
other business to complete.
Vehicles of all sorts picked their way through the dense current of passers-by, many of
them carrying their belongings wrapped in blankets.
“CB99, proceed to the hotel entrance.”
Again I startled. My orbital watchdog had intruded unexpectedly.
“CB99, you ’re clear to enter. At 7:00 p.m. we want you to go to your balcony and watch
the scenery. Thank you for your cooperation.”
“No, thanks, my unknown friend,” I muttered. My voice was lost in the crowd.
The lobby was cool, and gave way to several salons with exotic names. It was filled with
people all dressed in the same way I was. The ultimate Ummah, as described by the Prophet,
meant the religious leveling of Islamic society. Everything and everyone should be focused on
worship, and to do this it meant abolishing class and individual differences. This came in
extremely handy for me, as I didn’t attract risky attention. My reservation, made by my put-
up trading company, was neatly listed under the name of Aziz Collins, assistant sales
manager.
I took my keycard, followed the valet to the elevator, and rode up to my room on the fourth
floor. It was very elegant, with fresh flowers, a TV set and my own bathroom. The air
conditioning was working properly and the room would suit a spoiled businessman. I went to
my balcony, where I had a grand view of the Mosque, though I couldn’t see the Kaaba. My
attention was gripped by the intensity of the world below. I almost forgot about my guardian
angels high above me, when they intervened in my relaxed moment.
“CB99, we can ’t see you clearly. Please bend over the railing and stretch your arms for
two seconds.”
I tamely did so.
“CB99, thank you. We have a clear visual contact. Have a nice day.”
I returned to my room and closed the window. The double paned glass dimmed the traffic
noise instantly. Then I took a cold shower and ordered lunch. Now all I had to do was wait,
biding my time for the moment to strike. And waiting for Jane.
After a light veggie meal in my room, I decided to take a late catnap to build up my
strength. I had my clothes off and was stretched out on the bed and, for a while, watched the
hajj TV channel, which was now broadcasting live from a hotel roof somewhere nearby. The
anchorman commented on the ever increasing flood of pilgrims ,and the expanding tent
camps at Mina, which could scarcely accommodate all of them. I saw a sky picture of the
camps covering the valley, a white sheet of about fifty thousands tents.
This was a dangerous situation. In the past there had been fires and ,in wintertime, floods
from the mountains. For the last fifty years several skirmishes over tribal affairs had thrown a
black veil on the ceremonies. I wondered if Tekin had fed this probability to his computers.
Then I quickly dropped off.
Next morning, I had my anticipated meeting with Jane. She came in to clean the room,
dressed in an outlandish looking long skirt and scarf, dragging a vacuum cleaner along. So
she was in the hotel business now — what a little cat she was. I couldn’t resist to admire her
for her chameleon abilities. She seemed tense. I opened my mouth to welcome her, but she
put her finger to my lips.
“My name is Amale,” she whispered.
I had many questions, but I had to keep them to myself as long as I wasn’t sure everything
was all right. She turned the TV sound louder and switched the vacuum cleaner on. Then she
gave me a hug.
It gave me a warm feeling, being in her presence again, though we had so little in common
and our lives seemed to separate time and again.
We sat on the bed, snuggled up. Again I felt warm feelings, but this wasn’t the time nor for
soft soaping.

“How are you, John?”She asked, loud enough to overcome the noise.

“I ’m all right, but how are you, Jane? You ’re like a genie, popping in and out.”
 “I know, and I apologize,” she answered, but didn’t show any repentance.

“Don’t be sorry — we’re both in the same boat.”

She observed me questioningly. “Are you ready?”

“Ready as anyone can be. But I don ’t know the rest of this story. So, what ’s next?”
“I’ve got a duplicate keycard to the private elevator. I know when we can reach him
without taking risks.”
“Great, so when do we get to see him?”
“Sooner than you might suspect. The royal family has decided to do the washing ceremony
tomorrow, before the crowd gets too big.”
The washing was an annual event in which members of the Saudi royal family, its
ministers and dignitaries, perform the hajj ritual, after which the gold-and-silver door of the
Kaaba is opened to clean up its interior. Why the haste, and was Tekin to be informed? The
first unexpected variable had leaped out, as I had feared it would.
“Where ’s the TARGET guy?”
“You’ll see him tonight. Tekin has instructed me to bring us together, as he had to shift the
ground with the washing ceremony.”
“Sounds fair.”
“I’ll go on with my work now. At seven we’ll meet again in the old quarters in a
coffeehouse. Memorize the address.”
She quickly explained to me how to reach it, and then she blew me a kiss and left the room
with her cleaning equipment. It was suddenly quiet and I felt lonesome. Once again she had
disappeared from my life and left me with a thousand questions. Why in God ’s name had
she volunteered? She was undoubtedly making a good job of it, but I couldn’t imagine she ’d
get out of this place in one piece. I was a born survivor — I could save myself from nearly
any hopeless situation.
I involuntary looked up and tried to penetrate the ceiling, sniffing the sheikh ’s presence. I
felt my blood pounding in my veins and knew I was ready to go, and I had to concede I was
enjoying it. It was my fate and my destiny.
I spent the rest of the afternoon in restlessness, with the curtains pulled, and thinking of
Tekin and his crew in orbit, counting off time. The evening passed and dusk crept in.
About 6:30 I took another shower and went down and out.
The Mosque was illuminated like a scene from a fairy tale. Strong spots lit the courtyard.
It was a warm night, agreeable and filled with a peaceful and caring spirit.
The Medina was just a few minutes away and the coffeehouse was located in a remote
maze of small medieval alleys. As it was high season, the streets were still crowded and the
shops did great business.
The coffeehouse had its front wide open to the street and was bursting with customers. All
were sitting on low banquettes, with coffee tables between them. The place was dimly lit. In a
shadowed corner I spotted my fellow zealots at a low copper tray, sipping from teacups.
 I fought my way through the animatedly conversing crowd. I stiffened as I stood in front of
Jane’s companion.
Khalaf.
Despite the dim light I could see how old he had become a used up man with vacant eyes
and a dispirited attitude. He had the resigned look of the quarry in the presence of death,
ready to be sacrificed. His ritual dressing showed how much he had slimmed since our
unexpected separation.
At first I wavered, wondering what to do. Khalaf had good reasons to go for my throat —
after all, I had betrayed him and had taken his family along. But he didn’t alter his pose when
he caught my presence. He just looked me over for a while and then seemed to wake up.
“This is Abdul,” Jane said, waving at Khalaf. Abdul? So, she didn’t know who he actually
was. I decided to play along with the game.
“I take you know Amale,” Khalaf said without changing his stance.

We ogled. “I do. How are you, Abdul?”

“Never been better,” he said, and his lips creased in a pathetic effort to look friendly. But
his eyes were cold and blank. Jane filled a third cup. “We can ’t stay here for long,” she said.
“We’ve got to hurry before we attract too much attention.”
“So, what ’s the news?” I asked.
“First of all, Abdul is to be our plot axis. When his job’s done, we’ll get going. Tekin will
instruct us when.”
“Are you both hooked up to the satellite?”
They simultaneously said yes.

“Your ears, I guess?”

Jane nodded.

“I don’t know anything about ears,” Khalaf answered. “I’ve a small transmitter built into
my voice box.” I glanced at Jane. She didn’t blink.
That could only mean one thing. Khalaf was not on-line with Tekin. His communication
channel was a reversed one way traffic, where he did the talking and Tekin took the listening.
This would also mean that Khalaf had strict orders not to be diverted. He was going for the
gold, and nothing less.
“I reckon you can ’t explain what you ’re supposed to do,” I tried, but Khalaf wasn’t
planning to tell and we sat mum until Jane went on.
“Abdul will be at the washing ceremony,” she said. “At precisely eleven, he will slip in on
the ceremony and start a riot. At that point we come in.”
I didn’t comment on that. She clearly had no idea he was to be blown to pieces.
She got up and said she had to go to the rest room and after she had gone, I looked Khalaf
sharply in the eyes.
“Come on, Khalaf, you ’re acting like a fool. It ’s not worth the effort. Nobody will profit
from it. It ’s just useless suicide and you know it.”
 Khalaf was not in the least impressed by my arguments.

“Your death will solve zilch,” I went on. “It won ’t serve the cause and it won ’t help the
movement.”
“I’ve made up my mind on this a long time ago.” It sounded like a statement, and I knew
him too well to think he would be easily led astray. He had his mind made up, for whatever
reason.
“Is it because of your wife and daughter?”
He didn’t react — just had this introspective look, which made me feel uncomfortable.

“Do you expect to succeed and go for the shrine with your pockets full of explosives?”

“I don ’t need them,” he answered. Then he tapped his breast.

“In here I have all I need.”

Now it dawned upon me what was going on. He had a Bluebird stitched to his body. I was
certain it was the liquid one, the 4.0 version, waiting for the activating signal from above.
“You ’re raving mad, Khalaf. You’ll be blown to scraps and you’ll take hundreds of
innocents with you. It may even be that Mecca will be entirely erased from the face of the
earth. You don ’t know the weapon ’s power.”
“It won ’t happen,” Khalaf said. “My body will be gone, and some of the enemies, too.
You know, I ’m the eighth imam.”
The eighth imam .It seemed I was not mistaken, it was not a grammatical slip after all.
“What about that eighth imam. We’ve only seven, Khalaf. And it ’s about a legend. No one
’s supposed to return after thirteen centuries.”
“Not the eighth,” he retorted. “The eighth is the real one. I ’m the eighth, and my death will
free all Shiites and paradise will be within reach.”
I wasn’t intending to go into some dubious religion debate, as I now clearly saw that this
man had gone nuts.
Jane was back to rescue me.“ Another cup?” We both turned it down. She glanced at us
questionably, had ostensibly no idea about our dramatic confrontation.
“So, is there anything to add?” I asked her. I wanted badly to leave this place and this
creepy specter of a man.
She winked at Khalaf, who returned her a lover ’s smile — at least, it looked like one.
“Abdul has updated control center. They will get to us at sunrise. The only thing I know so
far, is that a stealth chopper will pick us up at noon.”
I peeked at Khalaf. “And you’ll give us the sign.”
Khalaf nodded in slow motion. “I’ll give the sign, and the sign will be the start of the new
era.”
He sounded proud. He straightened his body and, for a moment, he was Khalaf of better
days.
 I left him behind with his delusions. And, though it was oblivious it would be the last time
I ’d ever see Khalaf, I didn’t’ t feel any regrets.
Instead, I couldn’t help myself to unburden my fury about him. As we were on the streets, I
expressed my grief to Jane. “He ’s a silly sod, can ’t you see? He’ll endanger the mission.”
“Don ’t think about it, John. He ’s determined, and we can ’t pull out any more. We ’re all
part of an inevitable course.” She sounded resigned. I looked at her. She was dressed in the
mandated black clothes, though unveiled, and I noticed how sad she was.
“Why are you involved?” I asked. “You know you ’re in great danger. Is it worth to you?”
She didn’t react. We reached the Medina ’s thoroughfare. I halted and pulled her gently
into a corner.
“Listen to me, Jane, while you still have the chance, get out of here. It could be rough. You
don ’t have to give your life for the mad dreams of gone off the rails lunatics.”
She turned aside. “It ’s not that, John. If I could reverse things, I ’d go back at once.”

“Why then?” I almost shouted out. I was fed up with all that corny secretiveness.

“If I don’t, we'll all be dead, John.”

I looked her over. “Have they injected something into your hand? Don ’t lie to me, Jane, I
’m entitled to know.”
She returned me an uncomprehending look and I knew she was clean. Tekin wasn’t that
low, to play underhanded tricks with women. Not everyone involved had been transformed
into a time bomb. I ’d have to keep this in mind.
“I know enough. Don ’t be afraid, Jane. I ’m going to get you out of here. Tomorrow,
you’ll see.”
She lifted her head with eyes full of tears. “You ’re a sweet boy,” she whispered. She
gently touched my cheek. But she didn’t believe me, and frankly I didn’t either.
“We haven ’t had a moment for ourselves,” I went on. “Let ’s go to your place and we can
talk this over.”
“I ’m staying at the women ’s lodging house,” she said. “I ’m risking being picked up if I
’m too long away on the streets. I can ’t go back with you, either. We’ll have plenty of time in
the morning. Be patient, John.”
Then she slipped away. I tried to locate her in the passing mob, but it was to no avail.
Volatile Jane, always gone before I could get her in my grip. I jacked it up and started for the
hotel, feeling much in despair.
“CB99’, we ’re following you. Please look to the window dressing at your side.”
I sent a silent curse to the starry firmament, but did what they wanted.
“CB99, we advise you not to wander about. Please, stay in your hotel room and await our
next message.”
“Sod off,” I shouted and some passers by looked at me in surprise.
I passed the Mosque and wondered where my fellow combatants might be. Were they
waiting in their rooms, too, or had they already taken up their positions?
 I knew Tekin wouldn’t venture to kill Jane as long as the sheikh was at our side. So there
was something else going on and I ’d give my left hand to know what.
Come to think of it, losing my left hand at this very moment would suit me fine. It would
prevent Tekin from activating the Bluebird in it. But, on the other hand, it could also cost me
the rest of my body if he knew.
I wasn’t hungry, being too much pepped up by my train of thoughts and lied down, went
over my present situation and building up a clear outline.
So Khalaf had a transmitter somewhere in his throat. And Tekin was planning to loose him
at the Kaaba. The key question was: how would it be done?
I mused upon it and then came up with a solution, which, as always, was very simple.
Khalaf was infected all the way, through his whole body. Tekin wouldn’t do half work. If the
Kaaba were to be blown up, he would use a hundred percent success formulae. If he obeyed
the computer ’s logical circuits, he would have injected Khalaf with enough of the liquid to
assure the best result.
The computers wouldn’t lose any sleep over the idea of killing thousands of believers and,
in the process, destroying a central symbol of Islamic faith. They wouldn’t give a damn about
conscience and moral afflictions.
Suddenly, my phone beeped and I was out of bed in a second. Then I realized nobody
knew I was staying here. I braced myself for what was to come.
It was Jane. I recognized her voice, rather than her talking. She spoke fluent Moroccan
Arabic, the variant mot often used in France, and was using codes, like an agent in enemy
land.
“Ahlan, seehyud, the company sent me a message.” She sounded appalled.
“What ’s the message?”
“They want me to close the deal and get rid of the order at once. Something ’s come up and
I’ve got instructions to keep it quiet.”
That meant that the operation had slimmed down and that the sheikh was to be killed
instead of being kidnapped. And it also meant I wasn’t supposed to know about it.
“Damned bastards. Do you know how to end the deal?”
“I don’t, that makes it even worse.”
“Don ’t worry about it, lellah. We’ll see about that tomorrow.” She sounded relieved now,
knowing I was on her side. She must’ve been in desperation all those months, working alone
and always on the verge of being discovered at any time.
“Sorry for calling you at this hour, seehyud .”
“Never mind — call me when you need me.”

“Buslemmah, seehyud.”

She hung up and there I stood, my mind blank and mixed-up by Tekin ’s unexpected
change of plans. Or were his computers having second thoughts?
 Chapter 24

I had a dream about Jane. She stood before me, stripped to the waist. Her chest was
heaving, and I was worked up by her large pink nipples and wanted to touch and caress them,
but couldn’t reach her. Suddenly, a flame sprouted from her mouth and she crumpled before
my eyes, rolling in horrible spasms on the ground. I was infatuated and saw her being
consumed to ashes. I started to cry.
I woke up in a dim room and my skin had goose flesh from the chill. The air-conditioning
was rattling away. I got up, went to the window and drew the curtain open. The illuminated
Mosque was still full of activity and I could hear the street noises. Life was going on and
Mecca was brimming over, as ever.
It made me restful and I forgot about the weird dream. The alarm clock showed it was six
in the morning, I had slept for about five hours. In another five hours I would have to face a
new and unknown danger, with Tekin as a supplementary element. I had decided to mark him
down as the unpredictable item in my plan.
I showered and chewed over my peculiar dream. Being an Arab, well half of it, I’ve always
been interested in dream interpretation, not for what they were meant to be, but in why they
hit me. I was a strong believer in the theory that dreams were instruments of unprocessed
experiences. But I couldn’t find a clue in this particular one; except for the knowledge that I
desired her, despite the fact we had no future at all.
Jane had told me her working schedule was from 7:00 a.m. till noon. She would be in my
room about half past ten, with plenty of time to discuss the little campaign on our own. I
ordered English breakfast, one of the few relics left by the former British protectors. It had
pouched eggs, toast, muffins — no bacon, however — fresh grapefruit juice and plenty of
boiling tea. I put on my ihram costume, installed myself on my balcony and ate serenely,
overlooking the scenery and thinking of the coming events.
Orange light converted into turquoise clearness. The night cleared away for the battle to
come.
At 9:00 I was ready for our man in space.
It came out of the blue while I was leaning over the banister, having a glance at the endless
stream of street traffic.
“CB99, put your hands over your head, please.”
I did so, very curious about what they had in mind next.
“CB99, your mission is postponed. Please stay where you are and await our next bulletin
at 11:00 a.m.”
The message confirmed my suspicion.
“Tekin, you’re such a bloody bastard,” I yelled. “But I send you my regards — you’ll be
needing them.” They didn’t answer. I had expected a better explanation. I took a glimpse at
my wristwatch. A bout 10:00 o ’clock. Then the phone rang. The receptionist told me
someone was waiting for me in the Aisha salon.
I overlooked my tactics on the run and then went downstairs, hoping they wouldn’t play
the same trick on me as they had in Odessa. But it was Jane, sitting on a settee and reading a
magazine. I noticed her hands were trembling. I sat opposite her and she lowered the
magazine.
 “Sabah icheer, seehyid, I’ve got a new message. They want me to get outside to the
underground garage, to deal with the order.” She spoke rapidly and looked very anxious. She
tried to hide her fingers in her long sleeves.
“Relax, Amale. I can see what they ’re planning to do. Someone ’s taking over, obviously.
They seem to be in a lot of distress.”
“Oh, seehyid, I don ’t know anymore. What must I do now?”

That question crossed my mind too. Had I the right to endanger her life?

“You do nothing of the sort. We’ll do what we have to do.” She was quiet for a while, then
she agreed. Her voice trembled, but it was clear she wanted to go all the way. She was the
best of partners.
Frankly, I was quite satisfied with Tekin ’s next step. I knew he wouldn’t override his own
procedures without a defined purpose, and I had a good idea what his next move would be.
Great programming, Tekin. But then, he didn’t know who he was dealing with. I was’ t one of
his procedures.
“I ’l be at your room about ten thirty.” She hastily got up and I made a quick bow before
she left me and faded away in the streets.
To smooth my nerves, I decided to go and visit the Mosque. In these early hours the town
was still scented with morning freshness. The spray cars were watering the dusty roads and
the southern wind carried different scents of flowers from the mountains. The streets weren’t
so full now, though most of the shops were already open for business. It was the hour between
two circumambulations.
I managed to get in quickly and when I entered through the Gate of Peace, my training
took over and I was a terrorist for a while, looking for recognizable spots and clues. The New
Mexico replica had been laboriously copied and I could find my way around blindfolded.
When I reached the well, I looked around, taking a shot on my comrades, but couldn’t spot
one. Chances were that they ’d probably show up around half past ten as well, when I was in
the midst of my own plans.
I felt secure here, amidst thousands of kneeling, praying and singing fellow faithful, and
their enthusiasm infected me. I started to sing the well-know chant, “In the name of God, God
is most great,” over and over again..
I did but one circle, just to throw a glance at the Kaaba, and for minutes I couldn’t take my
eyes off it. The black-clothed cube, splendidly decorated with golden Quranic lettering, was
in my reach and, with some pushing I managed to touch the Black Stone, set in silver at the
east corner of the cube. A stream of joy filled my body and I was light headed, when I
reached the gate.
Then I drank water from the Zamzam well and now I felt immortal. Nothing would harm
me any more. I was destined to live forever.
When I was in the streets again, I sobered up and started to think of the ways I could save
both our lives. At a leather shop, I bought two pairs of gloves, one size too large. I had more
or less assumed they would've been following me from orbital control center, but I didn’t hear
from them and that could only mean they were busy with other problems. I was back in due
time. At 10:25, Jane knocked on my door, and she came in with her vacuum cleaner. I jumped
up and gave her a kiss. She started the tool and fell into my arms. I felt her uncontrollably
trembling.
“Don ’t worry,” I said, in an undertone. “Everything ’s going to be all right.”
These were such meaningless words, yet I couldn’t think of others, for my adrenaline was
boiling up too furiously for futile contemplation.
I studied her with a professional look at arm ’s length. She was all right. Her emotions had
dried up along with her tears and she was as ready as can be.
“We’ll live, trust me,” I said and then I made the opening game.
“I’ll need tin foil, the kitchen kind. Can you fix that?” She was a bit surprised, but said she
would fetch it immediately. The storeroom was down the passage. I said to hurry and when
she had gone, I turned the vacuum cleaner off and went to my balcony for the last time to
overlook the battlefield. My companions should be in their place by now. And Khalaf was
most likely near the shrine, waiting for the arrival of the royal family.
The sun was high up and shining hard on me. It was the first of the last twelve days, and it
could be the last as well for me. Control center didn’t respond to my appearance. I had some
pleasant thoughts of eight people sweating over a now useless computer programs and trying
to switch to human thinking. And Tekin in panic, as I hoped.
Jane had come back. The vacuum cleaner came to life again. I took the glistering foil from
her. She watched me while I was unfurling a fair sized piece.
“That should be enough,” I said. “Now, wrap this around my left hand, please.”
She made a good job of it, and then I asked her to help me pull the glove over my hand.
Though she hadn’t a clue, she didn’t ask silly questions.
“Now I’ll do the same to you,” I said and started on her hand. “You won ’t be needing
this, but prevention is better than cure, isn’t it?” I sounded like a nurse..
“Is it because of what Abdul said?” she asked. I could see her shudder, a normal reaction in
the face of unknown danger.
“What did he say?”
“He said there would be explosions to distract people from his arrival.”
“He ’s right. So don ’t be afraid if things start off with a bang. I don ’t know the effect of
the explosions, but the sounds are always more impressive than the results.”
At least, not within the first hundred odd square meters. Then, I decided it was time to
level with her. We sat on my bed, my arm around her shoulders. She was a smart girl and she
listened quietly. I told her what was really happening.
“So people are going to be sacrificed for Abdul,” she concluded, which wasn’t that far
from the truth.
“That ’s right, so you see you won ’t have to feel sorry for Abdul. He ’s an accessory to
their death.”
It was hard for her to accept these facts. Obviously, Tekin hadn’t primed her about it, as
she wasn’t up to it. Until now. I kissed her softly and she threw her arms around me and for a
while we were hugging with fierce though tender passion. Before I lost my self-control, I had
freed myself and told her about her first task and she said she could do this. Then we left the
room and walked up to the elevator. We didn’t encounter people, as most guests were either
out or still asleep. I pushed the button to the upper floor, which was right beneath the sheikh
’s.
The elevator was warm. We started to perspire and I was relieved when it came to a stop.
I lowered my voice. “So far so good. How do we go on?” She took a small security
keycard from her pocket. “This is the hotel ’s master key,” she explained. “It should fit, as
they told me.”
I didn’t ask who had told her. She had her own ways. She slipped the card in the slot right
above the upper telltale. I held my breath, but the elevator started to move again, with a slight
shock and a big breath from us.
“We don ’t know what ’s beyond the door. Stay behind me and watch every move I make.”

She stepped back. The elevator stopped briskly and the door slid open.

Now things went fast.

I jumped out and took in the situation in a glance. Two armed soldiers of the National
Guard came at me, very much surprised but not anxious, assured of their supremacy and
convinced they were dealing with servants, and that was their mistake. The first one, a small
but muscled man, I knocked down to the ground with such violence that he instantly passed
out. The second one was more troublesome to overcome, but he was overweight and that
proved fatal in this situation. I think the first one was dead instantly, the other laid moaning
on the ground knocked out for some hours. I dragged him to the sheikh ’s apartment door.
It had all happened so quickly that hardly a noise was made, which anyway would be
smothered by the thick carpet. Jane followed me closely ,not yet fully grasping what had
come about. I told her to pick up the pistols, which she did. The door had the Saudi emblem
painted on it in gold, a quite arrogant sign of royalty. I didn’t see any detectors — just an
elegant golden knocker instead of a doorbell. I made some noise, until the door was ajar and
the questioning face of an old man emerged. I banged the door in his face and down he went.
Then I asked Jane to give me a helping hand with the bodies. We dragged them into the
apartment ’s hall and lined them up, face up, in an orderly way.
The door had an inside latch, so I shut it. We were in a small corridor with blue marbled
walls and dwarf palms, indirect lighting and a thick green wall-to-wall carpet.
I heard the wavering voice of an old man, who was asking what was going on. Then I lifted
the groggy valet, and held him before me as a protective shield. I entered the room and, for a
while, was dazzled by the luxury. Then I pulled myself together and hunted for our prey.
Sheik Muhammad Abd Ibn al-Saud had an antiseptic bandage on his right cheekbone, so I
couldn’t be mistaken. His small body expressed the rigid pose of the born ruler, next to God.
He was well in his sixties and about my height. He was dressed in the ceremonial gutra,
wearing the dynastic white and green colors, ready to go out and fulfill the annual ceremony
of the Kaaba washing.
But not this year.
I let the servant go and he measured his length on the floor. The sheikh sent me a dead
straight look. “I don ’t think I will welcome you to my house,” he said in a tiny voice, his
dark, heavy-lidded eyes wandering over the both of us. They halted at Jane, making an
attempt to comprehend the presence of this woman. He stood dignified in the center of the
broad, luxuriant apartment, his feet in embroidered sandals, which sunk in the Persian carpet.
The sumptuous room was filled with valuable things, from all over the world, gifts of other
friendly rulers.
The interior was surprisingly skimpy, supposing you didn’t count the golden furniture, the
old English crafted benches and medieval tapestry on the walls. An unfit but significant
collection of interminable wealth.
Against my will, I put my right hand to my breast and give him a polite salute.
He took a formal bow and I spotted a glimpse of fear. He was still a human, not God ’s
own little helper after all. He knew emotions, he was vulnerable.
“Your Excellency, we represent the Muslim Liberation Front.” I felt more than I heard
Jane ’s breath faltering for a while. It was simply a crazy inspired find.
“I’m afraid I don ’t know this movement,” the sheikh responded. His manservant came to
life and I offered him some help by pulling him up.
“And I don’t appreciate what you did to my valet,” the old man went on.
“I ’m sorry if I ’m taking advantage of the situation, Your Excellency,” I said. “Now, with
all due respect, sit down, please, and lend an ear to what we’ve got to tell you.”
The sheikh reluctantly sat on the edge of his sofa, legs contracted, stiffly playing with his
worry beads and looking absorbed in praying. Watch out for the old fox, I said to myself.
Maybe this place was filled with electronic engineering, maybe they were picking up our
presence and assistance was underway.
“We haven ’t much time, as you will see. A bomb will go off at the Mosque, followed by
several others. If we don ’t rush, the odds are that the whole place will go up as well,
including your family.” Now he was all ears. He didn’t seem to be impressed by the fact his
family was at stake, but the shrine should not be harmed. “What ’s your intention?”
“I want you to clear the courtyard immediately, before it ’s too late. Obviously, the royal
family should not enter the premises.”
“That can be arranged,” he said, after careful consideration. “How can I be sure you ’re
not one of those idiots going for the world ’s attention?”
“That we can discuss later, if you don ’t mind. It ’s getting on for eleven o’clock. Can you
manage to clear the yard within five minutes?”
“It will be done, if you’ll let me pick up the phone.”
“Go ahead, your Excellency. Mind you, I speak several languages and dialects. Do not use
any code or your life will be ended.”
“Trust me. I ’m old, but not senile.”
He beckoned his servant to hand over the mobile on the table five feet from where he sat
and wasn’t a bit impressed by the huge swelling on the man ’s brow. Then he pushed a button
and started to talk rapidly and very much to the point and I had to admire him for that. The
result of life long training at the best schools abroad showed off.
He cradled the phone. “We have several emergency plans. As you Americans say, this
would be Defcon Two.”
“We ’re not Americans, Your Excellency. Let ’s say we don ’t want a third world war on
our conscience. We've come here to convince you to stop Operation SAHRA.”
“SAHRA.” He willfully let the word slip from his lips. “So that ’s your problem.”
 “It ’s not a problem, Your Excellency. It ’s a disgrace to Islam. And a shame to the Saudi.”

He raised his brows in question. I turned toward Jane, who was standing behind me all the
time, still numb at the speed things were going. I had to pull her out of her distraction.
“Amale, would you mind helping the servant to the kitchen for a nice cup of coffee?”
She nodded and clinched to the man. I knew she ’d knock him over if he tried to resist, but
he was just another wretched human being.
“Why don ’t we sit down,” the sheikh gallantly offered. “We could talk this over while the
Mosque is being cleared.”
“And when might this be?”
“You could go to the balcony and look for yourself.”
“I might,” I said, “but I ’d like you to come with me.” He got up, groaning, but came by.
His gait was notoriously sissy, and just now it dawned on me why both my father and Tekin
were so concerned about my sexual inclinations. I was amused by the idea that they thought I
would be charmed by this old, gay man. Still, though I was master of the situation, I couldn’t
help feeling small in front of him. It must be a genetic matter, not mind over mind, but genes
over genes.
He jerked the curtains open and there it was, in its full splendor. My breath stopped at the
sight of the shrine.
“Isn’t it beautiful, a Godsend?” he muttered. I n its simplicity it ’s more powerful than any
other relic whatsoever.”
I had to admit I was very much impressed, now overlooking the Kaaba from this high
elevated spot, both in a physical and in a spiritual sense.
The authorities were clearing the site with great efficiency. Thousands of pilgrims were
being driven out of the courtyard and I could see they already had freed the Kaaba within fifty
meters. Still five minutes to go before all hell broke loose. Tekin should know by now.
I turned to the sheikh. “Your Excellency, there ’s a man amongst the crowd who won ’t
stop. He’ll be hiding somewhere in the galleries. He ’s carrying a deadly weapon on him. He
’s actually a walking time bomb, set to go off within minutes. I don ’t know its strength, it
could be meant to destroy the shrine only. I suggest that you send your armed guards around
the Kaaba, ready to fire.”
The sheikh looked perturbed, but again took his phone and spread the word.
Within a minute I spotted armed policemen and soldiers heading for the Kaaba to form a
close circle around it. There was a last issue still.
“I know only one way to deactivate the bomb, Your Excellency. It ’s sounds odd, but if we
could manage to cover the man in aluminum foil, he would be isolated properly.”
“I ’m certain our experts can arrange that as well,” the sheikh said, straight faced, and
pushed the buttons again. My earphones came to life.
“CB99, we cannot spot you. Step up to your balcony and wave your hands. Now.”
Obviously they didn’t know I wasn’t where I was supposed to be. Their cameras were
focused to the wrong spot. I wondered what would have come off otherwise, assuming I had
been at my own place.
 Someone knocked at the door, initially more civilized ,then more daring. We had to speed
things up now. Jane came in, followed by the servant, who was pushing a trolley, carrying an
antique teapot and small trays of cakes. I nodded to her in a comforting way. Then I glimpsed
at the outside a second time and, to my satisfaction, everything was tightly secured. The
streets, the parking lots and the buildings were cleared within some five hundred square
meters around the Mosque. Armed men mushroomed in the courtyard, forming an
impenetrable boundary.
From the corner of my eye sprouted a white flash, followed by a thundering clap ,which
hammered in my ears and banged to my stomach. A pillar of blue smoke rose from the east
side of the courtyard. Tekin had made up his mind.
I forgot about the sheikh for the moment, involuntary fascinated by the cruel fate the
SEVENERS were faced with. Another explosion, now from the west side, precisely timed,
and completely useless. Tekin was going nuts. This was nothing more than sacrificing human
souls without a cause. But then, I understood what it was all about. Tekin was having a
religious ball.
I leaned over the balcony and suddenly I heard confusing sounds in my ears.

“Why isn’t he activated?” something yelled in the background.

“Show me the readings, now.”

“I don ’t get it. We’ve searched the whole area. We’ve found a very weak signal, but it
doesn’t respond.”
“Pull the damned trigger, man, or you’ll end up in space trash.”

“Everything ’s crabbed up here.”

“Maybe he ’s cut his hand off again, sir.”

I had a pretty good feeling they were talking about me .I froze to death, looking at my hand
and realizing I could turn into a cloud of blood any moment now, but nothing popped out.
“CB99, report. Now. CB99, report or you will be killed.”
The voice had a panicky tone and I enjoyed it ever so much. I could vividly imagine Tekin
’s mounting impatience and his urge to finish the job.
Then the voices died down. Apparently they had swapped targets.
The third explosion was at the north side. It was a heavy one. The windows creaked in
their sashes, and Jane screamed with fear. Tekin seemed to be working in sequential order,
each blast more reckless, and I recognized the computer ’s contribution. But his attempts
didn’t pay off. The guards stayed rooted in place, remarkably collected and disciplined, ready
to repel the real descendants of the proud nomads. They must have an eerie view at what was
left over after the explosions.
The sheikh had joined me now, holding his phone at his ear and babbling on. He was
fascinated too, though showing a slight, dismal expression.
Suddenly I could see a small figure running towards the Kaaba. Khalaf, without a doubt.
“There he is,” I yelled. The sheikh said something in a suppressed voice.
 A police helicopter unexpectedly showed up, carrying what I ’d describe as a giant
sparkling fishing net. It was an incredible sight.
The chopper hovered over Khalaf, who stopped at the sight to gaze up, at which point the
soldiers killed him with a shower of swishing bullets. His limbs were torn off and spilled all
over the courtyard.
The chopper let loose the net, which majestically folded open, releasing zillions of
whirling, silvery shining particles that covered Khalaf ’s remaining with a merciful shroud.
There were no further explosions. Tekin had understood. He had given up.
I turned away from the battlefield, feeling intensely sad. Jane was sitting in a chair,
covering her ears like a child in stormy weather. I stood beside her and embraced her gently.
The sheikh sat back in his own golden chair, wondering again who, for the Prophet ’s sake,
these rescue-workers were.
“It ’s not over yet,” I said. “As long as SAHRA is operating, you’ll be our hostage.”
“SAHRA doesn’t operate anymore,” the sheikh calmly said. He gestured to his servant to
fill the glasses and offered us some of the chocolate cookies.
I asked him what this meant.

“This means that we ended the operation a few days ago. Don ’t you follow the news?”

I couldn’t react. At least I knew now why Tekin was so willing to shift his ground and
thereby ruin his computer generated plan. To the last minute he must have been determined
the sheikh ought to be killed, so as to have the last blow in a political crisis and to save his
own guts in the process. A poor alternative to his project, and a droop it really was.
“What happened?” I asked.
Jane had recovered and now sipped from her gold-rimmed glass. She looked beat, and
seemed to be at the end of her strength .It was about time to get us out of here, as the door
banging had become louder and more demanding.
“Mister Rabinov convinced us to cut down the SAHRA budget. He knew the C.I.A. was
trying to rouse Europe to rebellion by using the water shortage as a political weapon.
However, it turned out their forecast didn’t work out quite sophisticated as well. I must admit
that we were uncomfortable with the people’s ire. You should be grateful the Russians still
have their common sense.”
“SAHRA was an act of slavery,” I said..
The sheikh raised his voice. “It has nothing to do with slavery, my dear sir. Besides,
slavery can be very useful.” He took a small cake between index and thumb, his little finger
held out in a delicate manner.
“All civilizations have grown thanks to slavery,” he went on sorely. “Ancient Greece and
Rome had about fifty percent of the population in slavery.”
“That ’s two thousand years ago,” I said, feeling I wouldn’t win this battle of words. It
wasn’t my kind of war. “You don ’t have the right to smear Islam that way.”
“All violations of human rights go with power, sir, whether it ’s political or religious
power,” he stolidly contradicted..
 “John, we must leave now,” Jane whispered. She looked pallid and at the point of
collapsing. The racket outside clearly showed that more people had fetched up at the door.
“One more minute, Jane,” I said. I was seeking for the right words and the sheikh seemed
to be following my struggle with sympathy.
“Tell your people at home how we feel about the American government ’s conduct,” he
proposed.
“I will, sir, I will tell them how lucky they are living in a democracy.”
“Democracy, my friend, is an invention of Capitalism. Now America can ’t expand
anymore, it ’s frightened its ideology will crumple and therefore will take the wind out of
Wall Street, which is the worst thing that can happen to your country.”
Someone shouted outside, first politely, then more urgently. The sheikh was a too
important a man to be disturbed, so I surmised they would hang around some more, until
someone with a lot of clout had the courage to break the door in. The sheikh was having a ball
now and we needed his help, so I let him carp on.
“And talking of slavery. It ’s not us who are to blame. The Christians have made an art of
it. They conquered our trade lines and increased them to an extent never seen before. They
plundered Africa and transported the best of it to their colonies. We’ve always treated our
slaves well, in accordance with our belief.”
The reviling outside became louder. I gestured to the servant not to respond. The sheikh
didn’t seem to notice our entanglement.
“When our slaves became Muslims they were freed. As the Prophet said, ‘Whoever frees a
Muslim slave, Allah will save all the parts of his body from hell fire as he has fed the body
parts of the slaves.’”
At last I understood now what had been going on. It was a matter of economics. The
recession had weakened Saudi ’s feudal structures and foreigners had become simply too
expensive. Instead, the sheikh had decided to go for wasteful labor. SAHRA was the
nickname of modern slavery.
I got up. “Right then. Your Excellency, we have two choices before your troops come
busting in. We could kill you, after which your time ’s up and your place in history secured,
or you could get us out of here by diplomatic protection to leave the country.”
The silence was overwhelming. I reckoned our odds of staying alive were even. If this man
was eager to go on living, he ’d help us. If his historical mission were more important, he ’d
die for it. But I wasn’t mistaken. I knew how Arabs think. They ’d prefer an earthly paradise
to eternal heaven.
“You've saved the shrine and with it the image of Islam,” he finally decided.» So, you have
the right to ask for a favor. I trust you want to get out of here as soon as possible and I will
help you.”
Jane choked. We were free, but I had a final question.

“Before we leave, Your Excellence, please answer honestly. Did you know about the
torture methods that MI2 were using?”

The sheikh looked surprised. He chose his words carefully. “There ’s always someone
who carries out rules and programs to the letter. Pitifully, we can ’t control down to the last
step, how our instructions will develop and deteriorate. That ’s the cruel reality of ruling the
world.”
He was clearly beating about the bush, but I didn’t want this to drag on any longer. One
small spark would rip my plan to tatters.
He resumed his discourse. “Now, go to the upper floor before I change my mind. There
you’ll see a Bedouin tent, the last one my ancestors had been using before they became kings.
At the right corner, you’ll lift up a carpet and there you’ll find an emergency escape elevator.
Downstairs you’ll find a car waiting for you, which will lead you to your freedom.”
We had to trust him, but I knew he would keep his word. His honor was at stake now.

“Are you going out, Your Excellence?”

“We’ll do the ceremony after all. As a token of our strong will. People must know we
submit to our faith, as anyone else.”

“Then keep in mind that one or more hit men could be waiting outside.”

He dismissed this. “I’ve lived through several attempts in my time. I ’m not afraid to be
scarified.”
I took a bow. The sheikh gave us the Arabian salute and ordered his servant to lead us to
the upper floor. We departed without delay.
The man pulled up one of the mural carpets and showed us a small, built in door .He
opened it with a golden key and took a step back.
I tapped him on the shoulder. “Thank you. And, by the way, I ’m sorry for the lump.
Didn’t mean to hit you.” A cordial farewell from one proletarian to another.
He didn’t blink, and kept his imperturbability. He made a slight bow and impassively
watched our departure, which would put his life back to normal.
It was a cold draft that welcomed us. Narrow, corkscrewing stairways, lit by pink
emergency bulbs, led us upstairs and behind another narrow door, we landed in an odd world
and in another time dimension.
It was morosely dark and the temperature was muggy. The whole apartment was blacked
out and filled by an enormous Bedouin tent, very old and weary, but still intact. The floor had
a thick white sand carpet. For a moment we absorbed this picture from the days the Saudi
were no more than nomads, roaming from well to well. There was even a faint animal smell
in the place, as if camels might appear at any time. We witnessed the cradle of the illustrious
kingdom and, despite its humbleness, it expressed unexpected grandeur.
We entered the tent, which was richly draped with tapestry, carpets, and silk cushions. We
passed a large bed on golden legs. This was definitely the sheikh ’s private love nest, where
he would rest with his pick of the night. I hefted a hanging cloth and there it was, a one-
person elevator to freedom. I pushed the button and it opened for us. Just enough room for
both. It was a very fast elevator and we were down in less then half a minute. Our bodies were
pressed and I felt the softness of Jane’s breasts. She was still shivering, and I was afraid that
she would go into shock, but she was gritty and gave me a faint smile.
Obviously, it was not the first time she had seen me in my worst form, as a man who was
used to killing before breakfast.
 The sheikh had kept his word. When the door opened a man in driver ’s suit, black hat, tie
and gloves was waiting for us, his hand on the black limousine ’s door. The extended car had
the royal ensign, which granted us immunity.
“Good day, his Highness has ordered me to drive you to the airport. Please, step inside.”

We sank down in the soft leather and drove out of the garage and into the world.

“His Highness would like to know your destination, in case there should evolve a
situation.”

I hadn’t decided up to now, but I knew it had to be a place where I could look for help.
“Moscow.”
Jane looked at me curiously. I had no intention of telling her I had to do another killing,
which, I hoped, would be my last.
 Chapter 25

We had a long conversation during our flight and Jane spoke candidly about her career
with the C.I.A..
She had requested for asylum at the U.S. embassy in Dubai, the only place the League had
granted The Block a place in the Arabian sun. Baum had picked her up there to deliver her to
Tekin. Tekin saw opportunities in her and took advantage of the situation and turned her into
a double agent. It was only when the Americans detected my kinship with the General. I
asked her how they had found out, and she told me that the British émigrés had taken along
their DNA databases, which a tremendous found to the Americans, something to be compared
with the code breaking in World War II.
So, there we were headed back to Moscow. Again it was springtime, but we were
welcomed by fierce, icy gales.
Still, we had got our lives back. We now were under the good wings of the Saudi nation,
thanks to the sheikh ’s private secretary ’s care and our diplomatic immunity proved to be of
lifesaving importance.
The secretary hadn’t accounted for the Russian weather and we hovered in our cottons.
We arrived at Hotel Metropol at Sadovaya Street, around 7:00 p.m., and all my troubles
and worries fell from my shoulders when we checked in. Only then did I feel assured enough
to remove our very efficient gloves.
The sheikh had a good sense of humor. He had booked us into the bridal suite and the
impressive bedroom made us squirm. Electric interplay was palpable in this quite erotic
scenery, with its plush and pastel shaded coverings and impressive nineteenth-century
canopied bed.
The inevitable occurred. It nested in nature ’s mysterious plans to happen. After Jane had a
long, hot bath, and I had made some phone calls, the release of bottled up emotions paid its
toll.
Soldiers entering a conquered town after fierce fighting, follow the same conduct pattern.
They hunt for women with an instinctive impulse to compensate for careless death — to
maintain the human species.
We were both soldiers, fighting in the frontlines and we weren’t any different. Jane came
in, dressed in a nice pink bath robe, her hair under a bathing towel, and her glance was
yearning and begging for consolation.
“How do you feel now?” I asked. I, for my part, felt feverish and uncontrollable.
“I ’m better now,” she answered, in a thin, vulnerable tone, which induced my protective
instincts.
We were standing at a safe distance, about a meter apart. She surrendered first. “Please,
John. Hold me, I need your arms around me,” she pleaded, with sad and begging eyes. I held
her tight. My lips went spontaneously to her neckline. I smelled a sweet perfume. We kissed,
hesitantly at first, but then giving in to our needs. We made love till both of us were satisfied.
She hid her face in the cushions, perceptibly mixed up. I lay on my back, staring at the stucco
ceiling, and wondering how many couples had lost their virginity here. I imagined not many
of our sorts. It seemed a good time to ask her an important question.
“Maybe we should separate now.” It sounded like a divorce decision.
 She didn’t move, but seemed to leave the initiative to me.

“I’ll talk to someone who’ll watch over you.”

Her head was slightly turned aside, but she was listening.

“You’ll be protected till you’ve made your own decisions.”

She expressed a sudden fear. “Are you going to make problems again?”
I didn’t want to go into that, not after our love-play anyway. “I think the best thing for you
is to keep still for a few weeks, until the sky ’s cleared and you can go back to the States.”
“As long as Tekin ’s there, our lives will always be in danger.”
I slipped out of the bed. “Don ’t worry too much, Jane. Tekin will be no longer part of our
lives.”
At some point in time, she drifted away into a sound and restful sleep and I descended to
the phone booths on the ground floor to take the plunge.
I waited in the lobby, drinking tea and smoking American cigarettes, which to my surprise
were freely sold in the hotel stands.
I hadn’t to wait very long. The minute chief-inspector Borin knew who he was dealing
with, he asked me to stay put and wait on his arrival. As I wasn’t planning to go anywhere, I
waited in patience in the lobby for him.
Borin came alone, dressed in an inconspicuous looking raincoat. He had a wet umbrella
with him, which he placed neatly in the umbrella stand before looking for me. He looked like
a lost tourist, surprised by the unexpected heavy rain shower. As soon as he had sat down,
memories burst out. Borin, at the end of my hospital bed, hopelessly trying to disentangle my
case. He drew a pipe from his coat pocket, but didn’t light it. “I ’m drowning in red tape.
You’d better have a good reason to draw me away from my work.”
His laments suited me fine. I came straight out with him. “Did you close the Bakri file?”

“I ’d love to close them,” he answered, chewing on his pipe stem.

“I can help you with that,” I said.

He straightened up .“You have the answers?”

“I have, and I ’m willing to make a deal. I need only a small favor from you.”
He sank back. “And that would be?”

“You have to get me in touch with your most important Mafia-boss.”

He lit his pipe and puffed ardently. “You mean the Moscow Don?”

“Whatever. I mean the big chief around here. Numero Uno.” I tried to sound like a Sicilian,
but he didn’t appreciate the wise-crack .“In exchange for the safety of my girl friend, I’ll tell
you all I know. To start off with Operation SAHRA.”
 His interest was piqued now. Maybe he had heard of SAHRA, maybe he hadn’t, but it did
sound very important indeed. Anyway, SAHRA was over and done and I could speak away.
“All right. Tell me what you know and we’ll see about the Mob man.” He was cautious,
but willing to trust me. He wasn’t a man who ’d betray on me, not after what I had to tell him.
I talked and he listened to me without a break. I talked for half an hour, leaving out
everything of lesser importance, and yet bringing him up to date in a way that he could
underline a big ending to his file.
“Very impressive,” he said, with unconcealed excitement. “Would you care to start over
again in the presence of a Home Affairs official?”
I mused over that. I knew I ’d have to leave this safe place and loose my protection shield.

He read my thoughts.» We can arrange a meeting at your convenience.”

“That sounds good.”

“Right.” He took out a notebook, made some notes, and tore the page off.

“Here you are. I won ’t be involved in this, of course.”

He handed me the address and I was surprised to find it was in Saint Petersburg.

Borin clarified. “You won ’t find him around here — that would be too obvious. He ’s very
hard to reach. This phone number leads to his cover, some import trading house downtown.”
“Okay.” I stored the precious page and then made a proposition for Jane ’s safety. I warned
him that his file and Jane were inseparably joined and if he wouldn’t guarantee full protection,
the deal was off.
Borin had no idea how close we had come to another war. A war with weapons beyond
imagination. That knowledge was almost unbearable. Suddenly I needed Jane ’s company
badly to share my agony, and hastened back to her after Borin had left.
She was putting on her make-up, and her rest made her look better. We both felt hungry
and went down for a bite. The grand restaurant was closed, but we could eat in the Russian
room. As we entered, it turned out there was a party going on. A small balalaika group was
playing up in the gallery, and a group of Asian business people were eating from zakuski
plates and liquoring up vodka galore.
We had a table for two near the kitchen passage. Jane chose a beef stew and I did the same.
I ordered tea for the both of us and, as we waited, we looked about the tatty eighteenth-
century gilded ornaments and the waiters dressed as muzhiks . Jane was the first to pull down
our mental walls. She asked me where I had been while she was asleep. I took the bull by the
horns and told her about Borin.
“So you want to get rid of me,” she said. It caused me to have an unhappy feeling.

“I want you to be safe. They’ll offer you full protection.”

“In exchange for what?”

I couldn’t palm her off with some limpid excuse. “I’ve told him about Operation SAHRA.”
 “You know, the police were looking for me.” She spoke in a snubbing tone, but I found
this an improvement over her apathy.
“Trust me, you won’t be in their records any more. You'll have police protection instead.”
“And what ’s in it for you?”

The stews came and they were great, hot, spicy and beefy. Just what we needed.
“I’ll have Tekin hanging,” I said and made an assault to the bowl.

We gobbled up our food.

“You ’re mad,” she said, with a mouthful of meat.

“I know.” I took a bite of the salted bread and filled our glasses with tea.
The drunken revelers had sweaty, puffy faces and made an unbearable racket. The room
was stifling. Its old-fashioned fan couldn’t bring much relief.
“Would you go out on the streets?” I asked her, after we had finished our meals.
“No. I don ’t want to leave the hotel.” She was very determined, and I had no urgent plans
to go out, either. Moscow bared too many obnoxious memories and I didn’t want to encounter
Vitya ’s ghost — or worse.
“Then I suggest you go and have some rest. Tomorrow you’ll be leaving.”

“What will you be doing then?”

“I’ll stay here for a while, don ’t worry.”

Her eyes filled with tears. “You’ll go on killing, I know. I can see it. You have that hungry
expression again.”

A hungry expression? That was novel, but I had to admit that she was right. I already felt
bucked up.

“I won ’t be killing any more,” I said, defending myself. “It ’s simply that I want us to be
safe and alive when all this is over.”
“You know it ’s not over and it never will be,” she said in a rising voice.
I didn’t want to spoil our last evening to get her by arguing over moral questions.
She took my right hand and her nails pressed into my flesh. “Come with me to the States,
John. You’ll be safe there, no more killings. You can live like a normal human.”
“Maybe I will. If Tekin doesn’t waylay us at Customs.”
“So that ’s what ’s going on. You ’re after Tekin.” Her tone was resigned.
“I won ’t be killing any more,” I repeated, and I meant it. Someone else would do the dirty
work.

“I have a hunch we won ’t see each other again.” Her brown eyes were fixed on me and I
tried not to avoid them. I didn’t comment on that. If it was my fate, then so it be.
 I didn’t accompany Jane to the room. We kissed at the elevator, a hasty and impassioned
kiss before we said good-bye, and we both knew we wouldn’t be seeing each other for a long
time to come. But I felt more relieved, now that I knew that others, good people, would take
care of her as for long as it took to get rid of Tekin.
A man in a raincoat, wet and benumbed, came to fetch me. I followed him outside. The
rain was pouring and the city lights reflected on the wet pavement. A white unmarked BMW
was waiting for me.
We drove off to Borin ’s place, which was the Metropolitan Police HQ, and I sat back with
closed eyes, feeling emotionally dried up. Jane was right — if, in good time, I didn’t switch to
another life, I would lose my sense of humanity. I didn’t want to end up in an alley, like some
ordinary hit man, or living a life that could end the next morning. I was entitled to have more.
They owned that to me.
HQ was a modern building, erected in the heydays of Russian Capitalism. The car drove
underground and a fast elevator took us to the upper floor. I was quite taken by its luxury,
remnants of that golden age a long time ago. Borin ’s office was a kind of disenchantment.
Though the room had its original carpeting, the furniture was unmistakably state property.
Someone had stripped the room and left a poor outfit of metal desks and worn out file
cabinets.
Borin was at his phone, facing the window. Condensed water was flowing alongside the
glass and made the city lights glisten. The room was cold, and sparsely lit by the desk lamp,
which had a desolate effect on me. He ended his conversation and swung around to face me.
He rose and offered me a hand.
“Sit down, please. Sorry if it ’s a bit cold for you. I prefer temperatures below twenty.”

“Minus zero?” I tried to joke. He didn’t react to that.

“Tea?” he asked. He didn’t await my reply, but pushed the button of his intercom and
ordered tea. I seized the opportunity to ask him about Jane ’s protection.
“It ’s all taken care of,” he answered cautiously. Tea was taxied in and a minute later a
new man came in, a sturdily built one, with receding forehead and grey temples, thick lips and
a double chin. He filled the room with his imposing figure and Borin jumped up, very
attentively.
I got to my feet as well and waited to be introduced.
“Alexander Danshenko,” the man said in Borin ’s place. His abdominal voice suggested
authority, and I was willing to accept it. He didn’t shake my hand, but took the other chair and
flopped down.
Danshenko glimpsed at me with a rather perturbed expression.
“I trust you know what you ’re doing?” he asked. His eyes were nearly hidden by fatty
bags, which gave him an inscrutable look. They didn’t care to inform me about his person, but
I felt this man was a decision maker.
So I started to tell again. I told him everything he had to know and pleaded emotionally,
knowing the Russian ’s sense for drama and theatrical pathos.
After I had finished, Danshenko seemed to be lost in thoughts. Borin sat stiffly in his chair.
Then Danshenko made up his mind. “We’ll give you free hand,” he said.
 I had trouble to hold my temper, but this wasn’t the place to frolic in excitement.
Borin came to life. “But you know you’ll bear all responsibility. Either Russia, Turkey, and
for that matter the United States will deny all involvement.”
“I'll be in touch with my American college,” Danshenko clarified and glanced at his Rolex
watch. “He might be in his office.”
He got up from his cracking chair, and we did the same. He offered his hand. “I wish you
the very best. Russia will be grateful to you. If your plan succeeds, you’ll have saved the
world from another useless war.”
Borin accompanied him to the door and, when he came back, he looked relieved. Things
were going fast now.
“So, when do I get to see the Don?” I asked..
Borin looked at the teapot and seemed to realize he hadn’t presented a glass to our
mysterious visitor. He poured the hot water in the glasses. “I take that someone’s placing an
important call right now,” he said enigmatically.
So ,that ’s how power worked. The real power that is, to make one phone call and get
things started.
Borin ’s phone buzzed. He immediately picked it up and listened attentively.

“You have your appointment,” he said, while putting down the receiver.

“So?”

“So, drink up your brew and prepare for a long ride to Saint Petersburg.”

“Who was that man?”

“Who wants to know?” Borin countered. He looked at his desk clock. “You should go
now, they ’re waiting for you. You’ll get your briefing underway.” As usual..
We ascended to the helicopter launch platform. A small but fast unmarked chopper in
white and blue was warming up, lighted by spots.
Borin shook my hand. “Good luck, and do zwydanya.”
Good-bye. As long as it didn’t mean “farewell ” I ’d play along. I had hardly time to give
him my regards, as we lifted off before I had belted in. Moscow disappeared in the rainy
clouds. My accompanying police officer gave me a thin file, not very confidential at first
sight. I flipped the reading lamp switch and started to read about Pashkov, head of the Russian
Mafia. While we were crossing cloud covers and overcoming air pockets, I managed to get a
clear view of the man I was to meet in his private world.
I learned his grandfather was head of the Mafia since the fall of Communism in 1991, but
had been killed in a mysterious plane accident in 1999, at the height of Russian Mafia power.
He was involved with the export of nuclear waste and had connections with Iran and other
Islamic countries. After the Revolution, Pashkov had taken over the business, but this time at
an ever so much larger scale, which involved arms sales, racketeering and slave labor. About
ten years ago, Turkey took over the eastern drugs lines, which was a severe blow to the
balance of power. The League, in its turn, cleaned up Russian criminality with big sweeps,
and took some ten thousand Capos along. Since then, the Mafia had lost much of its political
and economic influence. Pashkov himself didn’t suffer much from the fall. He turned his
group into a chain of respectable firms, with family connected shareholders, and remained
active in the informal economy. Russian authorities didn’t work against him any more, as his
activities took care of about two hundred thousand employees and their families.
Without a doubt, he should have met Rabinov’s family, both belonging to that select club
of the very rich. But I didn’t brood on that; I had enough of those kinds of complications.
I also read a psychological profile. He was described as a chameleon and an octopus. In
other words a typical modern business tycoon.
“You’ll have an appointment at his dacha,” my companion told me. “I hope you like
lukewarm cabbage.”
Cabbage? Let ’s hope my digestion was ready for it. The gloomy clouds broke, and pale
light shone inside, as the chopper took a right turn. Then, unexpectedly, thick raindrops came
smashing onto the windshield as a dismal welcome. We descended toward a dense forest of
birches that still carried the wounds of a fierce winter, and got near a green, boggy spot
steaming with early morning dew. Self-evidently, my rendezvous had its own chopper station
in the middle of it, and three men in warm fur coats were waiting for me. My escort didn’t
leave his seat. He looked uneasy, and as soon as I touched the ground, the aircraft took off
again. I had a quick glimpse at my last safe resort, before I was taken away to a standing-by
SUV.
As I stepped in, the rain stopped instantly and we drove off on a muddy path, splashing
through puddles with slipping wheels.
My fellow passengers didn’t talk. One of them was hooked on a wireless a cell phone,
ready to answer it at the first ring, but nothing happened. The car was unheated and our
breath was visible in the cold air. After some minutes we reached a sentry box with a barrier,
guarded by two armed men in combat suits. The barrier went up and we drove on. One of the
guards spoke into his phone as we passed him.
Pashkov ’s dacha was more or less an old-fashioned twenty-room country house,
completely enclosed by fretwork porches and a genuine Italian entryway, with marble
classical statues and a non-functional, Roman designed fountain.
The old trees closed in upon the house, hindering sunlight getting in, which gave the scene
a spooky outlook. I was dragged into a dark hall, cold and humid, and I felt very squeamish.
My confidence was taking a severe drop and I was wondering what on earth I was thinking of
by challenging the Mob.
I looked up to find a metal footbridge spanning from the east to the west side, a curse for
the overall architecture and a practical blessing for the subtenants.
My three new friends didn’t budge an inch. They besieged me without mercy and they
were getting on my nerves. Then someone ’s voice cut across the space.
To my surprise a small man in a wheel chair drove up the weird alley construction and
halted at the stairs.
“Come on up, my friend. Welcome to my house, and mind your steps, as this staircase is
about three hundred years old and taken over by wood-worm.”
He sounded amused and intelligent and cut a slice of my distrust.
My bodyguards followed me at a safe distance, but Pashkov sent them away.
 It was a quaint encounter. I looked down at a powerful sovereign, squeezed in a high-
powered, sound-controlled wheel chair, capable to rule over a big slice of the world, but not
over his bodily functions.
I knew he had trouble with arthritis ,but I didn’t expect it to be that bad. How queer life can
be.
“Don ’t worry about the chair,” he said grinning while he drove to an open double door. “A
Siberian bit me in the legs.”
I hoped it wasn’t an endangered species. I glanced at him sideways and spotted a rather
thin man in his forties, bespectacled, with a lined face expressing the toughness of his
existence.
“Would you lock the door, please. It ’s still chilly, don ’t you think?”
I closed the doors and found myself in a room that seemed to be a collection of Russian
artifacts, a miniature museum of the Russian soul, memories saved before Communism took
over. But I had no intention to absorb the genuine mediaeval wood cut interior and its
magnificent old icons and golden relics from Orthodox churches.
Two men, sitting on a sofa, watched me with interest. They were both small and
bespectacled, impeccably dressed in modern western dark suits, without a trace of early
morning grouchiness. Pashkov joined them, driving his chair beside the sofa, and it looked
like a meeting of the old boys, all three of them staring at me with mixed feelings.
Light beams streamed across the room. The room was very robust, built in black northern
oak. A genuine samovar was boiling tea water and its vapors mounted to the blackened
ceiling. A Siamese cat jumped on Pashkov ’slap and started to drone. It had something of a
scene from a Chekov play. Pashkov sent me a reassuring smile.» Well, my dear John Halker,
take a seat and tell us what you keep in reserve for us.”
I had no idea of the fact I was to be cross-examined and I opened with my usual intro.
“With all respect, gentlemen, I ’d like to know with whom I’ll be having this conversation.”
As expected, they looked surprised and then Pashkov burst in a gargling laughter. The
twins were content with a throaty approval.
“Borin was right, you ’re something special.” He held up some papers, which I recognized
as faxes. Borin had obviously not wasted any time in preparing my entry.
“I’m sorry, John. Let me do the honors.” Pashkov pointed with two fingers at his
colleagues.
“May I introduce you to Yuri, head of Security Department of the Minister of State
Affairs.”
The SD was the most secret unit in Russian counter intelligence. I had read about it, but
our intelligence had never found real proof of its existence, and now the top man was sitting
face-to-face with me.
Yuri sent me a short nod. .
The other person took the initiative. “My name is Leonid Andreyevich Zorov, maybe
you’ve heard of me.” Zorov was Rabinov ’s successor.
“I ’m honored, your excellencies,” I muttered, pretty much shaken up by the presence of
three of Russia ’s most powerful leaders, a triumvirate in the true tradition of Russian rule.
 I sank into an antique wooden chair with silk cushions and tried to feel at ease. Then
Pashkov pushed some button on his chair and one of his bodyguards came in almost instantly,
making as little noise as a hunting cat.
“Tea for three,” Pashkov bluntly ordered..
The old boys waited in patience while the servant mixed the strong black tea extract with
the boiling water and offered us gold embraced glasses on silver trays and cherry jam to go
with.
“If you ’re hungry, help yourself,” Pashkov said, pointing with his chin to the massive
stretched table, with several dishes and platters, but I declined. I wasn’t in the mood for food
right now. After the servant left, we enjoyed the great Crimean tea and Pashkov talked about
his tea plantation at the borders of the Black Sea. I was evidently drinking his very exclusive
blend and it was a great delight indeed.
It was time to fire a question. “Mister Pashkov, did you kill Rabinov?” It was a blunt but
effective question.
Pashkov didn’t change his composure. He put his glass down before answering.
“You know, John Halker, Rabinov was a very good friend of mine. This may surprise you,
taking into consideration our different life styles, but we ’re both Jews and this creates a
special bond, as you can imagine.”
Jews and the Mob. It reminded me of my lucid conversation with Harry, the C.I.A.-agent.
Maybe he had made some sensible remarks after all.
Another one. “Have you been involved in any way with operation SAHRA?”
I had a vivid impression I wouldn’t leave the dacha in one piece. But they seemed to be
impressed by my self-destructive audacity.
“And if we had?”
All three of them were playing a waiting game, observing me with their chilly eyes. My
nerves sent warning signals across my spine.
“I can ’t finish the job if you ’re planning to stab me in the back.”

That was a language they understood.

“Trust me, John. We ’re on your side. We never break our promises.”

“Moscow police have informed us you have a plan to scotch Tekin?” Yuri asked, in a
sharp tone, used to get immediate follow ups.
I let the subject go. It was high time I ’d better butter them up. “I do, sir. I can ’t do it on
my own, as you will see. I need your help, your know-how and your logistic power.”
“So tell us how you want the job done.”
I explained what I had in mind and they shushed and listened. Zorov made a nod every so
often, Pashkov ’s eyes kept sparkling and Yuri sat emotionlessly, though absorbing my ideas
intensively.
“You ’re convinced that Tekin ’s death will end an upcoming conflict?” Yuri asked. He
sounded skeptical. I had made up my mind about him. He was the one I had to bring around.
If he agreed, the others would follow.
 So I kept my eyes skinned on him and spoke exclusively to him.
“According to Tekin ’s computer programs, the war will break loose if Turkey crosses the
Arabian borders.” A small twist, but who cared at this moment.
Yuri nodded and turned to Zorov.
“We’ve satellite pictures of Turkish troops assembling at the Syrian border. I suppose they
’re waiting for some signal, presumably coming from Tekin.”
Zorov ’s bearings were those of a worried man. “And you think the Turks will blow off the
operation if Tekin ’s dead? I ’m not convinced.”
“The Americans won ’t venture an intervention, providing their computers don ’t go off the
rails,” I threw in.
“Maybe you’re right,” Yuri said deliberately. “They rely too much on electronic warfare.
Their successes have made them dependent on their systems.”
Pashkov backed me up. “Your guess is as good as mine, but what ’s in for us, then?”
Yuri and Zorov looked thoughtful, though I had the impression they seemed to be
disturbed by his egoistic thinking. It was time I produced some fireworks.
“The U.S. wants the East back. If Tekin gets his way, he’ll offer the U.S. a safe passage to
the East and the League will be besieged both from the south and the east.”
“I see,” said Zorov. He sounded sarcastically. “That we can ’t allow, can we?”
Altogether, they weren’t very much impressed. I needed a bigger finale.
“Tekin ’s aiming for both the Colombian and Afghan connections. He needs them to
finance his war.”
Pashkov was touched on the raw. “That he can ’t do,” he said, looking much disturbed.

Now I released my bouquet.

“I’ll give you the Bluebird 4.0,” I said, and three hard faces synchronized on me.

“I know you can hardly believe it, but I have a prototype at hand,” I went on, totally in
control and enjoying my temporal power over them. “With the Bluebird pointing at them, the
Turks won ’t dare to make the first move.”
“That ’s true,” Yuri said. He folded his bony hands and I noticed his left pinky finger was
missing.
“If we have the Bluebird, we ’d be back in business,” Pashkov said, approvingly. I had no
intention to arbitrate between the three old men and just watched them deliberating. My
cooking was in another sort of kitchen.
“There ’s still another snag,” I said, “Sheik Muhammad, the brain behind Operation
SAHRA.”
“Tell me about him,” Zorov insisted..
“Tekin will have full access to the sheikh ’s reserves, and this could be his stick behind the
door.”
“Sheik Muhammad is dead,” Yuri said briskly, and this came as a shock.
 Dead? He was very much alive when I left him.

“He died the same morning you got away.”

“You mean...he ’s really dead?” I asked sheepishly.

Yuri gave me an allusive answer. “Let’s say he won’t play a public figure any more.”
I had liked the old bastard anyhow, but this was no time to revive old memories.
“In that case, I have a pretty good idea he won ’t go after me,” I said.
“I don ’t think that ’s a major item on his agenda. We know Tekin ’s still in orbit. He and
his crew are awaiting the arrival of the next Space Shuttle, which is due in a week. So, we
have plenty of time to make arrangements.”
“One moment, gentlemen,” Zorov chipped in. He got up and started to pace up and down,
hands behind his back. The wooden floor was creaking under his feet.
“What about military intelligence?” he asked. He had obviously done a good deal of
thinking, and his question was a typical political one. “I ’m thinking of Triple-R.”
“That has crossed my mind,” Yuri said. “We’re thinking the same, my dear Losha. Maybe
we ought to shut it down for once and for good. It ’s not worth a third world war.”
I seized my opportunities. “If I may say so, sir, I think you ’re right. As long as Tekin has
the benefit of the tool, he’ll have the full support and trust of the Americans.”
My words seemed to make some impression.
“You could be right. He fizzled with WARGAME,” Yuri said. “But, on the other hand, he ’s
still holding the trumps, and I don ’t think the Americans will dump him after all. He ’s their
key to the Middle East.”
“Then we ’re on the same wavelength, so it seems.” Zorov said.
“Well gentlemen, how about a great breakfast now?” Pashkov proposed, in good humor.
This time we all agreed. Zorov and Pashkov started for the table. Before I could join them,
Yuri called me back. “I ’d like to know your strategy, in case you need my assistance.”
“I do not want the world,” I said. “Only Mr. Pashkov’s backing to get me to the Bahamas,
and your files on Tekin, if possible.”
Yuri looked suspiciously at me. “Why Pashkov? We can do the same?”

“I want the American and Russian organizations to work together. I have my reasons.”

Yuri let my words sink in. “I suppose you have. I only hope you won ’t create another
Trojan horse.”
Or a horse’s head in my bed, for that matter.
 Chapter 26

Thanks to Pashkov ’s friends I was able to spend a most agreeable time as I brooded on my
plan in an elegant, colonial style mansion, edged by trim rows of shrubs, on a small, private
island near Cat Island on Exuma Sound. A twinkling and glittering emerald under the broiling
sun.
Russian intelligence was still working great, maintaining a long tradition since the Cheka,
Lenin ’s secret service. Yuri provided me with the thick bundle of Tekin’s profile, and it was
full of surprises. His parents were Armenian political refugees at the time the Revolution
started at Turkey ’s borders. The proximity of Azerbaijan, and therefore the likelihood
Azybey ’s presence, seemed obvious but not plausible and I let this starting point go. Three
items got my attention while reading his files. Tekin was a vain man, which didn’t surprise
me. Like all dictators, he was a megalomaniac with an obsessive belief in his inborn rights.
He had paranoid, schizophrenic and intriguing inclinations. I learned his glasses were actually
camera lenses, transmitting images to some recorder. Mistrust and suspicion at its most
extreme.
Secondly, he was a genuine womanizer, with an unceasing appetite. He had his own
network of call girls, who worked for him day and night, and who served his personal needs
as well. The returns were split between Hixon and his own contracting firm. Part of the
profits were spent on bribes, extortion and illicit commissions.
And thirdly, he was a typical technocrat of the twenty-first century, with a religious faith in
technology. It was his destiny to become a tech-ruler, and his court consisted of a thousand
linked computers. He was a new type of despot, who lent his authority means through digital
networking, in which electronic warfare was but a segment.
In a glance, I knew why Jane had no way of retracing the Bluebirds. They had been in his
custody all the time. The whole affair was just a frame-up to cover his affairs with the Arabs
and, at the same time, to divert delicate questions from Washington. Part of his capital was
tied up in some obscure shelters in the Bahamas, which brought me to the idea to start from
there on. There was no way I could kill Tekin by simply putting a gun to his head. It would
be a political blunder, which could catalyze the immanent war threat and, as long as he was
being protected by the Agency, I wouldn’t’ t succeed in penetrating his fortress. Moreover, I
was persona non grata to the C.I.A. for the time being, so I had to operate from abroad, but
still within Tekin ’s reach. I figured out how I could entice him to come over. I knew I had to
overcome his natural suspicions first.
The idea came out of the blue when I was jogging along my private beach. I had the island
to myself, except for a cruising white fishing boat, which actually housed Mob people who
acted both as bodyguards and suppliers to my needs. I was looking at the passing yachts,
crossing in the far distance, and tried to comprehend the world of the rich. Since the arrival of
the British Royal Family, who had fled their islands during the Revolution, taking the best of
it along, the Bahamas had become the place to be.
This attracted the rich from all over the free world and they huddled around the royal
household, transforming it into a mediaeval court. This incited an economic boom as well,
and everything and everyone were available as long as you had the money. Dons were
fraternizing with nobility, tycoons with famous artists, transforming the islands into an
exciting place under the Caribbean sun. They in their turn drew fortune hunters and people
like me. The Bahamas were a hotbed of spies and criminals, and the difference between them
was narrow.
 That was another reason why I picked the islands. The police couldn’t handle the criminal
influx any more, and the next killing was to be filed in the unsolved cases section. Yuri had
warned his law abiding American colleagues about the conduct of C.I.A. Assistant Director
Hixon, and they were keeping a close eye on him. I knew it would be a trying task to have
him pilloried, as the Agency protected its clients with the utmost care. But it would stir up a
small storm at the White House and the Pentagon, and it would string the invasion along for a
while. Long enough, I hoped, to have the job done properly. In May, the British King, in a
forlorn effort to enhance his diminishing power, had composed his annual lists of new
knighthoods. A whole new bunch of nouveaux riches came to fill the isles, chiefly Americans
hunting for a new level of status, for which they ’d gladly pay a million bucks.
It was a preposterous attempt to save the British monarchy, as it was a public secret the
British people didn’t want their royalty back. Polls had never shown such little desire for
their potential return. During the Irish invasion the rushed departure of the elite class had
stirred up long suppressed rebellious feelings among the people.
I figured out how I could persuade Tekin to come over. As for my part, Operation
WARGAME had tanked, and his suit of armor could very well need a bit of polishing. I
trusted he would be too vain to resist the temptation of being knighted, even if this could lead
to a possible ambush.
That was the simple part. The hard part was to convince the King of the necessity of
having him knighted. Now a hidden network came to life. I hadn’t the slightest idea how it
worked, but it involved different sources. I was almost certain Zorov would push the
proposition into the daylight. The C.I.A. wouldn’t object to it, as it had some extra prestige to
have a Sir Tekin in its ranks. The exiles of the British Federation were not opposed to it, as
the idea applied to that stashed away, still living longing for a new colonial empire.
So, I wasn’t actually surprised to read Tekin ’s name in the social gossip column on the
oncoming knighting event. The first step was taken with ease.
My scheme was simple, yet very complicated in terms of timing. It involved the presence
of another two leading parts, to be entangled in my spider ’s web.
I needed a man who was eager to cross swords with Tekin. A man who could easily loose
his temper at a vulnerable moment. It would be a man who was willing to kill if the aim was
important enough — such as a reward in the shape of his own nation. A man belonging to the
Muslim Liberation Front, for example.
Someone like Amos.
Yuri had provided me with a cellular all-purpose phone, along with all the necessary
gadgets to keep in contact with the world, such as a direct scrambled line. I called him around
lunchtime, during my daily walk along the never-ending breakers. I explained I wanted
Amos, and Yuri promised to take measures, whatever he meant by that.
I went back to my small, but expensively furnished boathouse, which was my residence for
the time being. It had been redecorated and looked very modern and comfy, with a
magnificent view over the Sound.
Rustling palm trees served as my decor and protected me from the fierce sunlight and it
was always cool and agreeable. I was still in swimsuit and changed into a more suitable outfit,
T-shirt and cotton slacks. I installed myself in one of the cane-bottomed chairs on the paved
terrace, overlooking the beach, and was amused by the regular light reflections, produced by
field glasses on the vigilant Mafia boat.
 I still needed a third party. It had to be an explosive one, the one who could set the fire, and
take the two of them in the clinch. My first, and thus best, idea was a female.
She had to be unscrupulous, physically attractive with the attitude of a nymphomaniac, as
she had to play on the male instincts of my adversaries. She should be smart enough to know
when to stop playing the violin, as it would promise to be a dangerous game. In short: she
must be worthy to a man like Tekin, who had it all.
Where was I to find such a person? My mind went over that rare species, you’ll only find
operating in the obscure world of the very powerful, the ones who lacked all moral principles
and got away with their victim ’s wealth, thereby provoking family quarrels and cracks. The
stuff tabloids made their living from.
To get my hands on this kind of woman, I ’d have to lure her from some powerful man,
and that wasn’t my idea of staying alive and in one piece.
But Tekin wouldn’t settle for less.
Still three weeks to go. I felt forlorn, and I was on the brink of having my wild idea flushed
away. But I couldn’t retreat at this phase.
Tekin was coming closer. I almost felt his presence, as if he was already in the islands. I
was too entangled with him, and it hurt physically knowing he was still on his feet, carrying
on his deadly business along. I couldn’t bear the idea that he would profit from all sides at the
outbreak of a possible war. That was simply too immoral.
My Muslim mentality couldn’t handle this sort of situation very well. There had to be good
and bad. Reward and punishment. That ’s what the Holy Book us told, and that ’s how men
had to live.
Tekin had hurt me at lot. I blamed him for the loss of my hand, my crippled sexuality, and
my disbelief in human nature. He was the personification of malice and he had to go. He had
to go fast. American newspapers and TV stations were thundering against the Arabs.
Pentagon war half truths was building up, and the Sixth Fleet was ready to go, standing by in
the Indian Ocean. Just one more spark and the world would blow up in one gigantic blue
flash.
I studied my body. I hadn’t been so often in the open, being afraid of sunstroke and the
island ’s wildlife. My hairless flesh was pale and looked unhealthy. I hadn’t gained much
weight since my arrival, and as I wasn’t by nature quite built as an athlete, I could easily pass
for a lanky woman, the boyish type who didn’t show the visible attributes of her gender.
As I had feared, Ahmed ’s torturing had lessened my sexual capacities. Every so often I
felt impotent and listless towards the other sex. It suited me fine in these secluded conditions,
but I wished it would end.
The doctors had assured me it was primarily a mental dysfunction, and with some
psychiatric help I would have my macho senses back in one piece.
With no woman in sight, I had no need for sex. I was relieved, as well, that I didn’t turn to
my own gender, which sometimes is a kind of reversed sex instinct.
I was sitting on my porch, having a light dinner of self-captured crab and mango, when I
saw the light. It all came together at once, as if it had been at the back of my head all that
time, just waiting for the right moment to shoot up.
It was an insane idea, but it was perfect in all its logic. I didn’t need any woman to do the
job. As always, I would rely on myself.
 I would be the perfect hooker.
I called Yuri. He wasn’t in his office, but his secretary was willing to put me through to
Pashkov. It was middle of the night in Saint Petersburg, but Pashkov sounded vivid and
heads-up.
“How can I help you, my dear friend?”
“I think I’ve found what I was looking for, sir.”

“That is marvelous news.”

“I will need a very first-rate specialist.”

“That can be arranged.”

“Someone who can turn a man into a woman.”

Now the other end of the line was dead for some seconds.

“Consider it done,” Pashkov decided, and I breathed more freely.

“I’ll call you back in an hour. Hang around.” I knew I ’d made the best choice with
Pashkov. The Mafia had a century’s long tradition of maneuvering along the sidelines. It had
built up the perfect know-how and I knew they had their own plastic surgery institutes and the
best specialists available. I started my transformation by clipping my beard and shaving most
of my hairy parts. I was ready when Pashkov phoned in again.
“My dear friend, I have made an appointment. My men will pick you up right away, so be
prepared.” He briskly cut off before I could thank him.
I had hardly dressed when I heard the muffled sound of an outboard motor, coming from
the small lagoon. They surely didn’t waste time.
I went outside, shut the door and headed for the boat. Two of my guards were waiting for
me. I looked back at my fading private moonlit bay until it was absorbed in the night. I had
turned another page.
The cruiser was waiting for my arrival, and as soon as I had climbed aboard, they throttled
up.
During the passage I was below, minding my own business. The crew didn’t meddle with
me, and kept me safely away from the upper deck. We crossed the Sound in about five hours,
on a smooth water surface, and arrived at Nassau Yacht Club at dusk. Even on arrival I was
more or less smuggled into a ready car.
Dr. Green was the owner of the largest private beauty institute on fashionable Bay Street.
He had inherited the clinic, and was the first to practice his profession not only for the rich,
but for the less wealthy classes as well.
This turned out to be a mistake, as the rich left him and the clinic faced severe financial
problems. Though, at the turn of the century, it miraculously recovered and went off like a
rocket. I estimated that might be the time when the Mob was called in. It probably had saved
the clinic by injecting more capital, but the result was that Dr. Green had perforce become
another obedient member of the Syndicate.
 Upon my arrival, I was invited to his office and he welcomed me in person. He was a tall,
handsome tanned figure in his forties, with a wild mop of black hair, a careful trimmed
mustache and gold rimmed glasses, which gave him the distinguished appearance his female
patients were fond of. He wasn’t dressed in the classic staff outfit, but wore an expensive,
shiny suit and looked more like a corporate manager than a chief physician.
His ocean blue eyes were vigilant and he observed me constantly with a professional look.
I felt uneasy with it, but the excellent espresso coffee was great and we talked casually
without mentioning the word ‘Mob’. Then, he started off with the request to take my shirt off.
He studied my upper body and obviously the sight didn’t please him greatly.
“What have you done to yourself?” he asked, in a rebuking tone, and I must have looked
bashful like one of his lady patients.
“Never mind,” he answered his own question. Again he swiveled around me, making
grumbling noises, then returned to his chair.
“You may put your clothes back on, please.” While I did, he had made an outline of what
seemed to be my body.
“I hear you want it done quickly. It must be temporarily, if I’ve got the picture right. Am I
correct so far?”
“You are, doctor. It ’s only meant for a couple of weeks.”
“Then we shouldn’t make much fuss about it. I propose blepharoplasty and cosmetic
treatment.”
With fast strokes, he marked some spots on his drawing. It sounded reassuring. I asked him
what blepharoplasty meant.
“That ’s eyelid surgery.Your eyes give away your gender. We’ll shorten your lids and
remove the bags, so you’ll have a much softer look. We can ’t do your face, it ’s too hairy.
You’ll have an imitation skin mask instead. We can do something to your lips. I think we'll do
the upper lip. The nose we can ’t do — we’ll use make-up. You have a boyish appearance, so
we can get by with a slight breast contouring. I presume you ’re not planning to show yourself
in the nude?”
“Not at all, doctor.”
“You’ll be a slender woman, and a lot of women will envy your body. It might be a good
idea if you smoke and drink a lot. It’ll cover your masculine voice timbre. Your real change,
though, will be your body language. Now, before we go on, I ’d like you to point out what
gender transformation truly means.”
He leaned back in his adjustable leather chair and twirled his pencil rapidly between his
fingers .He had long, muscled fingers that gave an impression of skilled trustfulness. He
might be a Mob man, but he was still a very keen surgeon.
He glared at a distant point over my head and started a routinely lecture.
“Our body is nothing more than the envelope of the great gift nature gave mankind, namely
our brains. Some of us have gift wraps so to say, which sometimes comes in handy. What we
call man and woman are descriptions of biological functions, which can be brought down to
the reproductive system. It ’s our brains that tell us who we really are. It may sound wild, but
it ’s not our sexual functions that make us male or female. A quarter of mankind lives in the
wrong body .If we could operate on the biological functions, we’d start a sexual revolution
that would involve the lives of millions of families and cultures. Nature doesn’t lose any sleep
over who’s to be a man or a woman .It’s our social and cultural behavior that makes the
difference. We can’t rig our brains. So, in short, you’re stuck with your nature and you can’t
do anything about it.”
He had my full attention, and I wasn’t as much reluctant about my awesome decision now.
You can act like a woman, but inside you’re still a man, and vice versa.
“So, you’re telling me that, it will always come to that one point: my brain will pick out
what gender I actually have?” I asked.
“You’ve got the idea,” he answered, and this encouraged him to go on.
“You know men have two kinds of chromosomes, whereas women have only one. These
mean men are better suited to have their gender swapped. You only have to cut out the female
kind.”
“So, you can’t cheat on your make believe sex,” I mused on it. “It means I’d rather not be
in the presence of women.”
“That’s correct, if you want to cheat on your sex. I’d advise you to stay away from them.
Stick with men, and I mean not transsexuals or transvestites. They’ll be enchanted by your
presence, I will guarantee this, but don’t be overconfident if things seem to work out fine.
There are limits.”
“I see. How can I deceive the men I’ll be dealing with?”
“After the operation, our cosmetics will take over, and you’ll have a full briefing on
femininity. Clothing, conduct and charm, that’s what you will be taught, the three grand ‘C’s.’
You’ll be a woman within boundaries.”
“That sounds great. When do we get to start?”
He got up. “I have suction at eleven. We’ll do it before.”
This was a man after my own heart. While walking down to the lounge, he explained that
the eyes would take some time to heal, but in the meanwhile, I’d have my education, so all
would work out fine.
Frankly, I still could hardly believe I’d be transformed in two weeks.
“You’ll have local anesthesia,” Dr. Green explained .There’s nothing to it. We’ll see about
proper medication to speed up the healing process.”
“I can deal with that. Let’s do it.”

“I’ll do the operation myself, with two of my distinguished colleagues. You seem to be of
significance to my clients.”

“I can’t waste time. I have to be ready in a week’s time.”

“I see. Don’t worry; you’ll be as feminine as can be.” An alluring prospect, but the good
doctor spoke from a professional viewpoint, and he was obviously proud of his skills.
I got my own private surgery room, most likely designed for the Mob’s friends only. It was
isolated from the rest of the compound, and fully high-tech equipped.
After the Revolution, technological evolution in the occupation zones had stumbled with
the drop off of American and Japanese information trade. Here, it had simply moved on. This
was the future Europe had lost twenty years ago.
 A staff of two female surgeons were waiting for us. I didn’t have to undress, and mounted
the surgery table with great expectations. Soft MUZAK and dimmed lighting expressed
comfort and consolation, and the triad worked concentrated and with experienced discretion.
I must have dozed off. When I woke up I was blind, and had a panicky reaction. Someone
started to talk on me in a muffled, distinguished female voice, and my anxiety faded away.
“Don’t worry, sir, do not touch your eyes please, the intervention has gone well.”
“When do I get to see again?”
“That’s up to Doc, but don’t worry, everything’s all right.” My eyes seemed to be oozing,
and my lips were on fire, but I stopped asking useless questions.
I got some pills to help me through the day and dropped off again.
In the afternoon, Dr. Green paid me a visit.
“You have your new looks, congratulations. We’ll remove the stitches tomorrow morning.
Your upper lip will be swollen for some time, but you can eat. By the way, I think you’ll have
some injections to your breasts and hips. You can use some fat in the right places.”
Before the next bout of itching came, the nurse was back with another pill and I sent the
Mafia a short prayer for its great management. I couldn’t have proceeded without their help.
The thin line between good and evil is sometimes very narrow, and you have to grab your
chances as they come.
After the stitches had been removed I looked into a hand mirror to meet an unfamiliar
image. My eyelids were pulled up, and seemed to be hanging on thin threads. My lips were
much fuller, and by and large, I looked like the bride of Frankenstein. My masculine nose
contrasted with the now smoother overall lines of my face, but it gave an intriguing touch. I
was also tearing excessively.
Doctor Green assured me it was just a matter of adaptation. Some transformed men started
to cry at the sight of their new ego, but you get used to it.
Within hours I was in the hands of Eve, the cosmetic specialist, a young brown woman
who had her own office, which she called ‘my lab’, filled with all that was needed to finish
off the job. It looked like a symbiosis of a hairstyle studio and a theater dressing room. To my
surprise Eve was older than I expected, and an even bigger surprise was that she actually was
a man, the result of her own experimental crafts.
“I can make you look however you want me to,” she, or he, explained. “If you want to be
the sexiest movie star, or some bitter spinster, that’s up to you.”
“That’s great,” I said. “I just want to look like some high class playgirl, specialized in the
fireworks. Sado stuff, you know.”
She looked me deliberately over. “Are you dead certain?” She had a scraggy voice, the
result of hormonal treatment.
I felt like some decadent eunuch from the days of the great dynasties, but I insisted on it,
and Eve was too professional to demur.
Suddenly she brightened up. “I think I see what you mean. It’s more a psychological
outlook you want to create, isn’t it? You want to look imperious. You’ll take advantage of
your knowledge of the male’s demons.”
“Exactly,” I said. I couldn’t have voiced it in a better way. Actually, she had handed me a
free basket full of ideas.
 “Let’s see.” She studied me and from time to time she produced huh-uh, hum-um and uh-
uh sounds. “I think we won’t have much trouble. I ’m glad you don’t want to be a dream
woman, which we can never produce. That’s God’s work, not ours.”
“It’s all in the mind,” I said, thinking of Dr. Green’s words.
“Absolutely, all we can do is creating a fair impression of the real thing. But in your case,
it’s much easier. Everyone can play sadomasochism, there’s no gender attached. It’s
fantasizing and faking all the way if correctly done. I won’t do a great deal to your
appearance; you’ll have to study yourself about SM techniques and its mental consequences.
Maybe I could lay my hands on a role model.”
“That would be great,” I said. I felt much relieved now. I didn’t like the way I had been
transformed. I looked ugly. Two big brown pupils reflected in the mirror, swollen lips in an
unshaven tanned face, and a ridiculous couple of imitation tits. This was’t the way I had
planned.
She saw the expression on my face. “I think we can manage with the skin mask. You’ll be
surprised how much it changes a person’s appearance.”
Things were speeding up, and now I was caught in a world I had no idea of before. Every
day I was taken by a new surprise. When they removed the eye stitches, I could stop the
tedious drops and pills at last. My eyes were still swollen, but curing rapidly. The skin mask
was an eye-opener. After they’d finished the depilating job, they had made a 3-D mold of my
head, and the next day it was ready. It was made of organic skin, pale and smooth and fitting
perfectly.
My new image was queer. They had ushered me to a womanly species with dark, curly
hair, inviting languorous red lips and that odd, high-bridged nose, which the good doctor had
softened by widening my nostrils.
The cosmetic specialists had done a great job. For the time being they peeled off the mask
again, as I had to make allowance for the growth of my beard.
With the help of protein injections and an overbalanced diet, I also gained some weight and
I was’t a living skeleton anymore.
“Maybe it’s better you don’t show too much body,” she reconsidered. “You should suggest
more than you’d show. That’s part of the role, you see. Let their fantasies work. Don’t explain
too much. On the other hand, don’t think your guy will eat from your hand, either. You know
why flirting women have to show their erogenous zones so explicitly? It’s because men don’t
know the art of body language.”
It sounded like blame and I didn’t go into it. Suggest more than you show, but show
enough to make a promising suggestion. The western game of love could be very
complicated. In my world, it were the parents who did the courting.
Next stage was my introduction to the world of make believe. I would be transformed into
a would-be woman. I went to school again. A middle-aged female expert introduced me into
the secrets of tarting up, the art of preening in minutes, how to dress, to walk, to sit. I think
she must have been a former beauty queen, but everyone looked great around here. She
started to fling me an eye-pencil, which I caught by putting my legs together.
“First lesson,” she said. “Spread your legs, you’re used to wearing skirts.”
Dr. Green was right. It was impossible to be a woman — the best I could do was to learn
how to act like one. Hard schooling was a must, and more and more my awe for women grew,
realizing how confusing it must be living in a man’s world. I learned all the tricks of the
female role stereotyping. I learned how to behave, not so challenging as men do in the hunt,
but smoothly, and willing to offer a listening ear. I had to learn how to dominate without
either pressure or compulsion. I learned how a woman could come through without the loss of
her personality, and it opened a whole new world to me. Vulnerability and sensitivity, against
harshness and indifference — that was how it worked.
The cosmetics specialist kept her word and brought a woman in from the sado-theater.
She was nothing I expected her to be. She was small, delicate and submissive .I couldn’t
help feeling crestfallen, as I had expected more or less a sort of cruel mistress, a virago loving
to humiliate males, as some punishment for her juvenile traumas. She sighed and her glance
was timid, but as she grew in her teacher’s job, I noticed a remarkable change in her attitude.
She became more and more exacting. Her voice grew powerful and her body sent signals of
promising events to come. I could see how it worked. It was simply the temporary power she
freely encountered with otherwise dominating men who, at the end, were willing to crawl at
her feet.
She was weird — some quirk of her brain must have developed in a natural way. It had
nothing to do with mental compensation or retaliation. She simply enjoyed playing with men
at her will. Maybe that was the way female Hitler’s and Stalin’s acted in this world.
We operated during the night, in a soundproof room behind a false wall of the broom
closet, scarcely furnished with a table, chairs and bed, and ill-lit by a single bulb. Afterward, I
heard it was a sort of hideaway if the police should raid the place, which had actually
occurred on two occasions.
She acted very bottled-up, and explained that only this way could she maintain her
position. It was a war of the sexes, and in this case the woman would win. She must hold all
the trumps, treating her subjects as puppets-on-a-string, always ahead of them.
“You’re coming on too strong,” she warned me during a rest-break. “You’ll loose your
benefits, if you act this tensely. Always stay cool and composed, never loose your leadership.
Keep in mind you’re a woman, and you’re facing a man who, in other circumstances, will try
to suppress you, believing it’s his divine right.”
I asked her why she didn’t wear the leather outfit, but she burst into laughter.
“I ’m not in the fetish market,” she said. “Some do need it, but it’s so cheap and ludicrous.
Don’t do it, you’ll be a laughing stock.”
“I wasn’t planning to,” I protested.
“You don’t need that stuff. Only if they insist on it, you can try it on. My clients know who
I am, and what they can expect from me.”
Eventually she left, and I didn’t regret it. It was a very tense world and in my opinion not
healthful, but on the other hand it kept some men off the streets.
I had a rough idea now about the nature of my SM act. It wouldn’t involve artificial
attributes. I would simply rely on my imagination.
After that exhausting pair of weeks I felt ready and self-confident. I hadn’t turned into a
woman, but I knew how to act like one and, most important of all, I knew how to handle a
man like Tekin. Or Amos, for that matter.
The last day came and I was invited into Dr. Green’s office. He congratulated me on my
progress.
 “You see how males have both a masculine and a feminine side?” he explained. “For most
males, it’s hard to acknowledge this natural fact. You seem to accept it very well.”
“Thank you, doctor,” I said, in my renewed voice, half an octave higher and coming from
the lips. I was dressed in a simple blouse, jeans and sandals and my grown out hair had been
styled. “I hope I don’t sound too much over the top.”
“Don’t worry, my friend. You’ll have your refinement off in a week if you don’t watch.
Remember: no full sun, and wear sunglasses all the time.”
I shook hands in a tight manner, then corrected myself and offered my hand to his assistant
very loosely. She gave me a volatile kiss, no strings attached.
Her lips neared my ear. “Your strength lies in your knowledge of male behavior. Use it.”
I gave her a conspiratorial wink and, accompanied by my stunned Mob guards, I left the
building, and nobody took a shot at me. Sunlight was heart lifting. I had sunglasses on, and
felt like some starlet, on her way to the audition that would alter her life. But the surgery was
still itching like hell.
 Chapter 27

I barely had time to redecorate my dwelling with a bunch of sprays, creams, perfumes in
the bathroom, women’s clothes in the wardrobe, fresh flowers, glossy magazines and some
romantic video’s laying about in the living room.
I found out I had trouble in dressing, as a woman does when she’s about to have an
important encounter. I couldn’t show much skin, and kept it simple, a loose white blouse, and
white slacks. It was’t entirely Bahamian style, but it masked my imperfections quite well.
Furthermore, I had cheap gilt thongs, showing my nails painted red, which ought to attract
someone who was in the game for fetishes.
My hands were hidden in long sleeves, and my fingernails painted to divert attention from
their masculine structure. The skin mask was holding perfectly, it didn’t crumple or tear. I had
learned to preen in a way that diverted attention from the rest of my body. Some feminine
attributes, such as fake pearls, gilded bracelets and earrings, had to complete my image. I
didn’t use rouge, as I had no desire to overdo it.
I recalled a great role model to help me through. I used Connie, with her way of walking,
talking and smoking. Her motley of masculine boldness and feminine craving for romance
came easily to me. Maybe Dr. Green was right after all. It was simply a question of choice,
which hidden side you wanted to express.
The bait ended up neatly in time. Amos was all sweaty when my guards delivered him.
They immediately took off to the boat again. I wished I had such great disciplined subjects.
My own ones had vanished for the sake of my cover-up.
I was ever so much aware that I was all alone with him now, and this would be my
challenge. I welcomed him on the stairs, which led from the small pier up to the terrace. I had
looked after drinks, liquor and non-alcoholic, from vodka to piña colada and squeezed lemon
juice. He took a fast glimpse at me, head to heels. I made him sit with his back to the beach,
so that he would keep his eyes on me instead of the scenery. He had obviously come in from
the cold north. He had his silk jacket hanging loose on his arm, his fashionable shirt untied,
and redundant perspiration was visibly hindering him. I offered him a drink and he took a gin-
tonic with plenty of ice. Not very Muslim-like.
“Would you like to have a shower first?” I asked, but he refused flatly.
He licked the salt off his lips. “Where’s Amir?”
“There’s no Amir,” I answered. “I ’m dealing the cards here.” My eyes, heavily made up,
were pinpointing at him. Never let go of your prey. Hypnotize him, rig his thinking on you.
He couldn’t resist leering at my body again, but I couldn’t make out what he was thinking. If I
were a real woman, I’d have sensed it.
Then he took a sip from his glass. “We had an appointment this morning,” he said, slightly
disillusioned.
I had a vague feeling this wouldn’t work after all. “I used Amir for safety reasons,” I said.
“He’s my agent. You’ll make the deals with me. Let me introduce myself. I ’m Gabrielle.”
“I had no idea a woman would handle our deals,” he said doubtfully. He drank his gin with
slow pulls, observing me watchfully. Maybe it was time to open the locked gate now.
 “I can handle much more than you know,” I said and made something of a seductive look
— at least, I was hoping I was.
“That’s all right,” he said. I saw him overlook his situation. Probably he was thinking that
a small hang-up wouldn’t hurt after all, and this chick might be fun.
He got up. “Maybe I’ll take that shower now.”
“I’ll show you the way.” I led him into the house. I tried to wiggle my butt, but did a poor
job. Nonetheless I heard him breathing heavily, though this could be the result of the heat.
“Amir told me you’re important to the case.” I was soft-soaping him, but he didn’t seem to
mind. I was only some lovebird, presenting no danger whatsoever, and he was unaware of
being trapped in a feminine artifice.
“What d ’you know about us?” he asked.
“Freshen up first, we’ll have lunch on the terrace and then I’ll tell you all about it.”
I went to the kitchen and slid the ready-made oven dishes into the microwave. The boys
had fixed a great salad and seafood bar with exotic fruit and native stuff. I prepared a table for
two, took the Champagne from the fridge, laced it with a shot of brandy and more ice cubes
and waited for Amos, smoking a cigarette from the corner of my mouth. The reflection in the
verandah window showed a fashionable, world-weary girl. Not your average upper class play
toy, but the sort Amos would accept in his own world. I liked my image and was coming to
enjoy this masquerade. Above all, my disguise seemed to be working properly. Amos had no
idea I was the same person who sat beside him on a swing in the Virginia country house
porch.
He came back, dressed in one of the kimonos that belonged to the proprietor, loosely
opened to the navel.
“I’ve borrowed the robe, if you don’t mind. It’s getting warm.” So to see, he had been
working out under the shower.
“Another drink?”
“Great. This food looks wonderful and I got the munchies.”
“It’s nothing special. If you’re hungry, go ahead.” I lit another cigarette and kept staring at
him. He ripped off a crab leg and ate and drank gluttonously.
“Would you like another drink?” I changed the subject to avoid more of that tedious stuff.
“Okay, thanks.” He observed my gestures. “So, what’s up?”
I explained the nature of my so-called group in vague terms. “We work with a South
African arms factory. Our group does both financing and delivery.”
He nodded. “I hear ya. Well, it’s none of my business. If you’re the right man, I mean,
person to light the fire, that’s fine for me.”
“The first delivery will be next week,” I went on, in form now. I took the Champagne from
the cooler and poured.
“Let’s drink to our deal,” I said, and we had a toast. The drinks made him quite relaxed
now, and he put his left foot on the opposite chair. His robe fell back to his thigh. I felt only
disgust at the sight of his erection.
“I think you’re wonderful,” he said. He sounded uptight.
 “You’re not bad, either.” I made a fist with my right hand, ready to knock him down if he
took one step toward me.
“I’ve never met a woman like you. You have a way with putting things where they belong
— no fuzz, no gas.”
That’s because I’m a man, you pathetic idiot.
I had an urge to pull him by the nose into the salad bowl, but I didn’t tell him that and just
gave him a furtive smile.
He put his foot back where it belonged.
“And I see a man with power,” I said, relieved now the nearing harassment had gone.
He stopped eating and wiped his mouth. He leaned slightly forward and our knees touched.
I managed not to withdraw.
“You like power?” he said in a low voice. His brown face was beading with sweat.
“I love a man with power. They’re so much sexier.”
“You gotta know what power truly means. It’s a sword, hanging over your head, ready to
drop and slice your neck.”
“I ’m not interested in the man’s neck; I ’m interested in his power. The man’s just a
trailer. When he disappears, his power is handed to another one. I ’m always on the look for
that trailer. I know when I see power.”
I felt silly and drank my Champagne to hide my embarrassment, but he didn’t perceive I
was pulling his leg.
“I like your attitude. We should work together on a more friendly base.”
“How much do you have?” I asked him.

“You mean, as in money?”

“I mean power.”

He lingered over it, teetering between lust and greed.

“I’ll tell you, if you tell me first.”

I tried to puzzle out what he meant by that. Apparently, greed had momentarily taken over.

“What do you want to know?”

“I’d like to know your connections, the way you’re doing business. After all, if we’re to be
partners, we’ll have to trust one another.”
I had to take care now; he was still cautious and obviously distrustful.

“Why don’t we finish our meal first and have another drink inside?” I proposed.

“Fine with me, you’re right and I apologize. I ’m your guest and this is a great meal.”

I took a bite of the salad and started on small talk about the island.
 He was back in the mood and after we had finished, he followed me inside. I switched on
the big screen TV-set.
“So we’re gonna watch TV? Okay, why not?” He plumped down in one of the stylish,
metal frame chairs, and opened his legs, unashamed.
I sat stiffly in the other chair and was playing with the remote, uninterested in the signals
he was making.
He made an open invitation. “Why don’t you dress in something lighter? It seems to me
the islanders usually don’t care about formalities.”
“I ’m allergic to sunlight,” I said.
“I understand. I’d like to see your eyes, though, if you don’t mind.”
Another critical situation. I quickly pointed at the screen.
“They’re holding the annual knighting,” I rattled, “it’s broadcast throughout the world.”
The ceremony had just ended. The newly knighted lucky dogs were now striding about
outside the King’s residence at New Providence. I looked out for Tekin, but couldn’t locate
him and, besides, they all looked alike in their ceremonial gear.
“That reminds me,” I said casually. “Someone will pay me a visit later on in the afternoon.
He’s with the Organization, so you’ll have all your answers then.”
He didn’t care, being too much obsessed by his fantasies. “I can wait, but I’d like to see
your eyes now. I ’m sure they’re gorgeous.”
He was definitely hitting on me — even I could see that. I had to bide more time for my
next visitor. I supposed if he really was an SM adept, he would enjoy this kind of tangible
flirtation.
“Why don’t you go for a swim first?” I proposed, with a promising smile. “I’ll show you
then.”
My adrenaline was working up. I’d like to wipe out his lecherous grin and smear it all over
the clean floor.
“That sounds like a great idea. Won’t you come along?”
“I ’m sorry, as I said, I ’have this allergic problem.”
“That’s a shame, living here, I mean. Can I swim in the buff?”
“Why not, the island is deserted. If you don’t count the iguanas.”
He got up and let his robe drop. For a while, he was proudly flaunting himself, waiting for
my admiration. This was the point when the play had to start. He was ready to be humiliated,
but I had no good mind to do it yet.
I produced a dainty look. “Go for your swim first — you need to cool down,” I said, in a
steady and neutral voice.
He sent me a false grin, haring away to dive into the swimming pool. He had a muscled
body, very masculine, and I wondered why on earth this man needed perverse sex. Maybe it
was nature’s way to tell him he was’t God, but only a vulnerable human, and that pride goes
hand in hand with humiliation. I picked up the phone and made a call to the International
Hotel at New Providence. I switched to my normal voice. Tekin’s secretary told me he was
attending a party thrown by the Governor and he was expected to be back at four p.m.
 “We have a mutual friend,” I explained, while watching Amos splashing about. “Tell
mister Tekin he’ll be picked up at four at the hotel’s entrance. The name is Halker. John
Halker.”
I heard no reaction from the other end of the line. She wrote the message neatly down,
evidently used to Tekin’s intrigues. I knew Tekin wouldn’t resist the temptation of such an
ultimatum. He would listen to my recorded voice over and over again, to the point where he
was dead certain about his adversary. In the meanwhile I still had to deal with a horny
American, who was ready to fool around.
Amos came back inside, dripping with sea water. His brown skin was coated with millions
of glistening water drops, and his body exuded health and sportsmanship. He didn’t care
about his nakedness and was absolutely shameless. My glances started to turn him on as soon
as he entered the room, making water puddles and reeking of salt and sweat.
I was sitting in my chair, in my opinion looking like a stern queen. He came to me, knelt,
embraced my left foot and started to lick my toes.
My first reaction was very a masculine one. I crooked my right toes and gave him a hard
blow to his right temple. He grunted, his head banged to the floor and he lay recumbent with
open arms, two meters of wounded nudity passed out.
I was saved by the bell. He’d be knocked out for at least an hour, I thought. What does an
SM mistress do in such situations? They bind their slaves.
That was a great idea. It gave me two gains, he wouldn’t be in my way as long as it took
and he’d be thinking it was part of the game. I descended the terrace to the boathouse, where
I found some rope.
I dragged Amos to the master bedroom, deliberating whether I would leave him naked or
dress him up, but then I chose the former. After all, he was merely a slave, and I guessed he’d
like to be treated like one. He had left his clothes on the bed and I searched them through, but
didn’t find any items that could throw more light on him.
After this unpleasant moment, I felt much better. I had come through an awkward time and
had endured something I was’t good at. But my teacher would be proud of me. Except for a
broken toenail, I had no visible traces of the fight and I was ready for Tekin now.
I switched the TV off and started to clean up the room, roamed the terrace and the kitchen.
When I was done, it was just about 4:00. I lingered on the terrace and prepared myself
mentally for my next challenge. My body was responding to the new threat and, as the clock
ticked away, my neck muscles started to contract, my stomach turned over and my nerves
were very much alive. I had a foreboding. Tekin was coming.
He came at 4:30 hours, in his own ship, a white-and-golden cruiser. To my surprise he was
chased by my own watchmen in their tiny tub, who evidently had been called back by some
watchdog. They kept a safe distance, but felt more at rest at the side of them now.
I took my binoculars and watched the crew lowering three red dinghies. Tekin got in the
third and last, dressed in a white fake captain’s uniform, assisted by two of his men. Only the
boat-swain’s whistle was lacking.
There he came, the fresh knight. Sir Tekin, proudly sitting bolt upright and looking like
royalty.
His armed watchdogs, eight of them, accompanied him to the beach. This I hadn’t
programmed in advance. He saw me standing at the banister and opened his mouth to utter
the obvious question. I held my breath.
 “Where’s Halker?”
“You’re coming alone, please.” I tried to put up a female voice, and somehow it did come
out, as my nerves played tricks on my vocal chords.
He stayed put at the dingy with two of his men, and let his party pass me without paying
heed to me. They routinely started to thoroughly screen the compound and the house. I
followed the men inside.
“You don’t have the right to come in here, you’ll be very sorry, you hear?”
They didn’t pay attention to my screams. I managed to stay one step ahead and blocked the
master bedroom by throwing myself at the door.
“You can’t come in here," I yelled like a fury. One of the men had second thoughts about
that and pushed me inattentively away.
I did what any bitter girl would do on such occasions and jumped on his back.
Another one came running in as he heard his partner yell, and started to laugh.
“Come on, man, leave the bitch. She’s loaded, don’t ya see.” My victim shook me off,
grumbling, but he didn’t open the bedroom door. It was simply unbelievable, but I had done
the trick. I had showed them the power of a desperate woman.
Tekin stood motionless, waiting for the green light. He was now at the base of the terrace,
but didn’t come near. He seemed to be at his ease though. It was actually a bit degrading to
know he was’t afraid of John Halker’s revenge.
Finally, the search party was finished. The men rejoined Tekin and waited for his decision.
To my relief, he send them back to the beach. I was with him alone now. He was still the
same old Tekin, despite his new knighthood. Always looking out and suspicious as hell. Just
now I that noticed he wore a bulletproof vest, but that wouldn’t be of much help.
“Okay, where’s Halker?” No greetings. He was’t much of a nobleman.
“He’s not here. He’ll be back later in the afternoon.”
“Who are you?” He didn’t recognize me. I was grateful for my great sunglasses.
“I’m Gabrielle, his girlfriend.”

That seemed to satisfy his curiosity and he followed me inside.

“John apologizes, but he can’t be back before 5:00, and he asked me to entertain you.”

Tekin let his eyes run over me. That was the second man who was eating me up with his
eyes, thinking of a cheap bite. Then he shrugged his shoulders. He stood with his back to the
terrace, which was his second error. He didn’t recognize his defenseless position.
“Please sit down, I’ll get some refreshments. What may I offer you?” Not my body, if you
please.
“Just water, thanks.”

I took a full ice water jug from the fridge and sprinkled a light sedative in his glass, enough
to weaken his wakefulness. When I came back, Tekin was ending a phone conversation.
He stowed his mobile, watched me pour the water, and took a sip.
 “How did you run into John?” He was obviously curious.
“We were on the loose in Nassau,” I answered vaguely. I was’t planning to seduce him, he
was much too repugnant, and I was’t in the right mood to fraternize with my sworn enemy.
He spotted my unwillingness. “You don’t seem to enjoy my company.”
“I ’m sorry. John told me so much about you. You’re a dangerous man, and I ’m here all
alone.”
It sounded like a ridiculous attempt to instigate his male instincts, but it seemed to work.
He relaxed and drank his water. He was obviously in a very good mood, being knighted and
all and this might work to my advantage.
Suddenly a smothered bang, followed by a curse, was clearly audible from the bedroom. It
had the looks that Amos had lost his temper and wanted to continue the foreplay.
The medication was working and Tekin didn’t’t pay attention to it. I managed to stay calm.
He bent over to me. “Gabrielle, tell me, what do you see in Halker?”
His question brought me back to my mission. I weighted my words. “He’s a nice man,” I
said and I meant this.
“I have a strange feeling that I’ve seen you before,” he went on inquisitively, wishing he
could catch a glimpse of my eyes.
I grimaced. “Maybe you have, I love parties. Maybe we’ve met at one or another.”
He took a glance at his gold watch.
“Look here, I can’t wait much long, I’ve a meeting later on. If he doesn’t arrive in half an
hour, I’ll be off again.”
All right then, show time.
I got up and said I’d like to slip into something comfortable, and from his expression I
noticed this prospect made him happy. He was a womanizer, and stealing Halker’s girlfriend
was undoubtedly a great challenge, and a nice way to kill time meanwhile.
I went to the bedroom and closed the door. Amos had managed to sit up, leaning against
the bed and looking very distressed.
I put my finger to my lips. “I ’m sorry, but we can’t go on for now. Our friend has arrived
and I think you ought to meet him.”
“As long as you free me from these damned knots, where in heaven did you learn this?”
“In service,” I answered and freed him. He dutifully started to dress.
“Don’t worry, we’ll go on when he’s gone,” I said. Then, to my own surprise and
embarrassment, I gave him a kiss on the cheek. That calmed him down and he followed me,
unaware of what was bound to be.
Tekin saw me coming, looked a bit surprised at not having a water nymph in sight, and
then his expression changed radically when he met Amos eye-to-eye.
He stood up slowly. “You...” His body seemed to shrink.
Amos’ mouth fell open but he remained speechless.
“I see you gentlemen have met before,” I said, in my best cheerful tone, but backed out
until I reached the steps to the swimming pool.
 Tekin gazed at me, bewildered. He looked for his bodyguards, and opened his mouth to cry
out, but before he was able to, Amos was on him in two steps, knocked him flat out, and held
him in a firm grip to the floor. Tekin’s face was twisted with hate and he started to hiss in
Turkish, which sounded to me like a collection of curses and spells.
“How the hell did you find me?” Amos snarled. “You won’t have me by the balls anymore,
asshole. We had a deal, remember? You fuckin’ bastard.”
Tekin couldn’t budge, he was’t Amos ’match, and kept quite, biding for the right time.
“What’s the matter, what are you doing?” I yelled, but not loud enough to alarm the two
bodyguards, who were smoking, their faces turned toward the boats.
Amos leered at me with a raged look .“He’s a fuckin ’geezer. He sold my ass to the
whites.”

I supposed he was referring to one of Tekin’s machinations.

“Please, don’t fight,” I wailed, still in my role of the frail girl, but looking out for an
opportunity to have them both. Tekin turned his grimacing face toward me, and suddenly I
could see his deep despair. He knew he was fighting a losing battle. A cornered man, facing
nearing death. I also knew his kind would prefer death to defeat and I would have to go full
steam ahead. Still, I wanted to know the truth first.
Tekin showed me the way. “He’s an undercover agent,” he groaned, on the verge of being
suffocated by Amos ’unyielding grip.
Amos peered at me, his face twitched with rave. “I ’m not, for Christ’s sake. The bastard
tried to steal my connections behind my back,” he snarled, “I’ve been on his tail for some
months now. He’s a fuckin’ war criminal.”
“He’s buying drugs and selling them for weapons,” Tekin pleaded for himself. I could
scarcely hear him, as his voice came smothering from under Amos’ arms.
“Shut up, motherfucker, you dog-ass.” Amos growled and tightening his grip and Tekin
held his tongue.
Time was short. I looked about the beach and perceived two men sauntering towards the
terrace. It was time to add fuel to the flames.
“Listen, Amos, Tekin’s my lover,” I shouted. Amos loosened his grip and gaped at me in a
sheepish way.
“What the fuck are ya telling me?”
“We’re working together to take Colombian traffic over and you’re in our way.”
“What?” gasped Tekin, but he produced only a smothered sound.
“The Elf’s a dead end,” I said in a rebuking tone. Tekin says you’re just a bunch of
mumbo-jumbo niggers.” I enjoyed my new found gift for using American slang. Amos ’eyes
narrowed, the animal was out now. He spit in Tekin’s face.
“You piece of shit,” he wheezed.
“Calm down, Amos, don’t listen to her, let’s talk about it,” Tekin whispered, holding his
temper by the skin of his teeth. He seemed to be as surprised as Amos was, and at the same
time so helpless, and this unknown side of his personality fascinated me.
 Amos tried to figure it out with a mixture of horror and repulsion. He knew he had to kill
somebody, and I hoped he’d pick Tekin.
“Let him go, please, Amos,” I begged in a thin voice. “I love him, I need him.”
That was the last straw. To my relief, Amos decided on the latter and started to strangle
Tekin in full rage. Tekin gasped and made weak gestures.
Then I noticed he had freed a hand and went for his pocket. I started to edge back.

“Look out, Amos, he’s going for his weapon,” I shouted in a strong voice.

Amos didn’t hear my changing timbre, being too twisted by his frenzy, but Tekin did. He
forgot his adversary for a second. His eyes popped out as Amos’ hard fingers pushed his
voice box to the point of breaking.
“You...” Tekin moaned. He had something in his hand now and it looked awfully deadly.
Yuri had supplied me with a most important detail about the Bluebird version 4.0. Its
development was’t fully on track yet. Due to political pressures, the designers had had to
ignore the fact that, in tropical conditions, it multiplied its freed energy a thousand fold.
I had gambled on Tekin’s way of thinking. I knew perfectly well he would love to go with
a bang, and when I saw a tiny pistol-shaped device in his hand, aiming at Amos ’back, I had
no desire to witness the destruction of both. I spun around, headed for the terrace and jumped
into the pool.
A bluish flash, followed by a tremendous heat, showed me the wild side effect burst of
Bluebird energy, like a giant nuclear-looking explosion.
I nose-dived into the water and felt my flesh burning. The water seemed to be boiling and,
while diving to the bottom; several pieces of the house came down with me. The tremendous
explosion thundered over me, the shock wave sweeping across the beach and rolling out the
sea, and when it had passed, I just had enough air to surface.
The site was a disaster. The house had disappeared completely, leaving nothing more than
a pile of burning wood and melting glass. A bluish haze mercifully hid the view. I tugged
myself out of the water and felt my back smoldering. My skin mask and my prosthesis were
gone, and I felt liquid flowing from my split lips.
“No more transplants, I ’m sick of it,” I mumbled. I started for the beach and passed the
two unfortunate guards lying at the foot of the steps, heavily burned and still smoldering. The
rest of the crew was running up and down, shouting and, without their leader, were no more
than a ludicrous bunch of pointless screw jacks.
I passed them, looking out for help. To my surprise the number of boats had increased.
Three fast cruisers seemed to board Tekin’s ship and several armed men were taking over
command. A motor launch was coming my way and in it sat a small, spectacled man in
Bermuda shorts who beckoned at me. At first, I had the impression that Pashkov was paying
me a visit, to give me a hearty welcome, but this one spoke American, with a heavy Yankee
accent.
“Hi there, John.”
“Hi,” I said, before I collapsed. If I couldn’t think of anything else, then this had definitely
been one of my worst off-days.
 I came to in the cabin of a fast moving luxury yacht. I heard the water streaming along its
hull. I was lying on my belly, my back in bandages.
Then I remembered the explosion. Again I had been injured, but this time I hadn’t made a
killing and I felt contented. They had patched me up nicely and I had kept my word to Jane. I
closed my eyes and let the waves rock me gently. We were on the open sea, and I wondered
where we going. It wouldn’t be Cat Island. That was too close, and too many questions would
be waiting there.
I heard someone coming in and opened my eyes. It was Pashkov’s likeness, except for one
detail. His fingers wrung into arthritic claws as he offered his hand in a shake.
“I ’m Peter. How d ’ya feel?”
“Very much alive. Thanks. Are you, by any chance, related to Pashkov?” I counter
questioned.

“He’s my brother. He has Russia, I have the States.”

It was that simple.

“Give him my regards.”

“Will do, kid. Now, are you ready to put down some answers?” He took a chair and sat
beside my bed .He had cunning twinkle in his eyes, not a man to be messed with.
“Shoot.”
“How did ya know about the black?”
I supposed he was referring to Amos. “I didn’t know. I just wanted him to be confronted
with Tekin.”
“You play hard ball. You could’ve been fried as well.” He took a cigar from a golden box.
“You mind if I bum a smoke?”
I didn’t, and he went on. “Amos was double crossing us. He worked for us and he worked
on his own. You can’t do both at the same time.”
That’s what he thought. “I know. He was a dreamer. He wanted to have his own piece of
land in Africa. I didn’t realize Tekin had figured that out, too. That was my mistake, but
anyway, I ’m still alive.”
“You bet you are. We’re heading for Florida. Someone’s waiting for you, kid.”
“I hope it’s not the Feds, Peter.”
“No pigs. We’re the masters of the sea, you see. You won’t go ashore. We’ll pick up
someone, and then you pick the place.” He blew crinkling cigar smoke into the air, watched it
eddy and then looked at me deliberately. I leaned back and tried to withhold an upcoming
nausea.
He asked me if I had the merchandise, too. I’d almost forget. The Mafia wouldn’t let me go
without it.

“I have. It’s safe and duty free.”

I held up my left hand. Pashkov didn’t catch my drift.

 “It’s buried in this hand. Courtesy of the late Tekin.”

Now he cleared up and sent another thick wisp to the ceiling. “Wonderful. We’ll have your
hand off in no time.”

“Don’t rush. I’ll need a new one, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure. We got this nice clinic. You won’t feel a thing.”

“That ’s settled, then. Tell me more about this situation. I think I ’m entitled to some
explanation, after everything I’ve been through.”
“Why not. Tekin was financed by some Wall Street big shots. You know, they lost their
marbles after the Arabs took over. One way or another, the black guy got in the way, as he
was aiming for the lines. They did some talking about working together, but Tekin wanted it
all.”
So that was his game. All that fuzz was just a matter-of-fact personal vendetta between two
would-be dictators at loggerheads, who wouldn’t mind setting the world on fire for their own
pleasures. And I had been just a minor headache, a minor obstacle in their path.
I was bitterly disappointed, but after all, why should I be? They were the sort of people
who made the world tick. They had lost and I ’d got my life back.
“Did you buy Bluebird 3.0 from Tekin?”
Peter had trouble with his hearing or preferred to switch topics, which in either case
answered my question sufficiently. He asked if I had a particular place to stay in mind.
“We’ve got our own witness protection program, you see. You just tell me where you
wanna live, and who you wanna be.”
This had crossed my mind too. I had the nasty feeling that the whole world was coming
after me, and frankly, that wouldn’t surprise me. “How about the States?” I proposed.
He took a long, meditative pull on his cigar.
“That can be arranged, kid. Maybe you’d think working in some friendly neighborhood.
You’ll have a nice, peaceful life somewhere in Smallville, U.S.A. I ’m sure you’ll be a hell of
a social worker. You see, since they can’t have the world, the rich have discovered how nice it
is to look after the poor. They've invested more money in schools, hospitals and welfare than
ever before. Maybe we’ll keep it that way. If they mind their own business, we’ll mind ours.
And the Bluebird can us help with that. No more wars. Let the Arabs stew in their own juice.”
And the rest of the world to the Mafia, I completed his consideration.
Anyway, it was something to think about.

Peter drew and cut a new cigar.

“You know, Johnny, why we trusted you to do the job? Let me tell ya. Your father was a
great man, that ’s for sure. You ’re his kid, so we reckon you’ll be in his seat one day and
we’ll both gain from it.”
So it turned out that my father had also had connections with the Mob. I had no intention to
ask in what way, but some way or the other, I wasn’t surprised by it. .It was just a new,
intriguing element to his complex personality. And I realized he had been my safe-conduct all
the way. Thanks a lot, Dad.
After Peter had left the cabin, I let my mind drift to Jane. If she was willing, we could get
go on together. Two makes four, the law of added value. Together we would be strong
enough to face our destiny.
The rolling of the waves had broken down. We seemed to have reached calm waters now. I
was anxious to know about our position and decided to climb on deck to watch what was
coming up.
I managed to get up, opened a closet and found an elegant seaman ’s outfit. I started to
dress and felt great, being a man again. After all, that ’s the way nature had in mind for me. I
clambered up the steps and saw dying sunshine plunge the world in mauve, cerise and puce
colors. It was telling me my sorrows were over.
A pleasant breeze cooled my burning skin and I watched the maneuvering of another yacht
coming near and throwing a line to us. It was one of those powerful speedboats, great for
escaping dogged pursuers.
The boats were locked and Peter came to fetch me.
“It ’s time to go, kid. Step over to your new life.”
They had fitted a small ladder between the decks. I just had to hop over.
“Thanks, Peter. I appreciate your concern.”

“No thanks, kid. Remember, you saved the world. And besides, you got something we can
use, it ’s business as well.”

I stepped over and in seconds the ladder was hauled in and Peter was gone.

I followed an officer down below. He invited me to stay in one of the cabins until the
captain dropped by.
There was another person waiting for me, Jane. Thanks to the caring Russians, she had
gained weight and she looked very able-bodied. For the first time I saw how cute she was,
dressed in a simple flower printed beach dress, demonstrating femininity all over I ’d never be
able to imitate in a million years.
The cabin had been sumptuously decorated by some expensive designer, with the best of
materials and had a double bed with satin sheets.
Jane was sitting at a dressing table, fixing her lips, not aware I had come by, and when she
turned her face to me, she first showed dismay and fear. Maybe she saw a monster instead of
a reborn man. Two successive plastic surgery operations had left their traces, and I must have
been unrecognizable to her.
“I ’m John, Jane, don ’t worry, I had a bit of a bad stroke.”
She didn’t move. Her lips began to quiver. I wasn’t sure what to do, so I just waited for her
to make an inviting gesture.
“Oh John, I recognize your voice, but not the rest of you anymore.”
I stood next to her and felt helpless. My feelings towards her were mixed, we had ever so
much to tell, and yet Tekin ’s ghost stood between us. Time would heal our wounds, but not
at this moment.
 She got up, wrapped her arms around me and buried her face in my neck. Her fingers made
my back burns come to life again, but I didn’t mind.
“I ’m glad it ’s all over,” I whispered. I breathed her body scent, touched her soft skin. I
felt something I hadn’t experienced before. A budding mingling of sex and tenderness, of
kindred souls clinched together.
We held each other for a long time, swaying with the waves. We would stay together this
time. I wouldn’t let her go, not for anything in the world.
Hindsight, Peter ’s idea wasn’t that off target after all. Together in some godforsaken nest,
living a quiet semi-detached bungalow life, raising a couple of children, and working for life
instead of death.
A place without nightmares. A place to grow old.

For God’s sake…

The End