again to contact the unit commander who’d assigned him to track Winston in the first place.
At least this time he had managed to reach the commander who listened impatiently to his account of how he had lost her.
“How was I to know she was going to jump aboard a jetliner to Europe?” he asked plaintively. “San Diego, Vegas, Tijuana, all right, but Europe? I tried getting hold of you, but you were nowhere to be found.”
The unit commander was not interested in his excuses. “You have your credentials in order?”
“Naturally.” He had several different collections of credentials in order, in fact, depending on which alias he chose to use.
“Do you think you can possibly catch up with her?”
The Small Man hesitated, but as he glanced out of the phone booth he caught sight of the man Winston had met in a nearby restaurant just before she embarked on her flight. He now had a small suitcase in his hand which he had not had before. The suitcase not only looked new but there was even a tag dangling from it that the man had neglected to remove after purchasing it. The Small Man had a sense of what this man was up to.
“Well, answer my question.” The unit commander had an imperious nature and infrequently abided undisciplined behavior.
“Yes,” the Small Man said, “I think I can catch up with her. There’s someone here who can lead me right to her.”
“Good then. Check in with me when you have her in contact again.”
The Small Man rung off and stepped out into the lounge. He was no longer so acutely conscious of the dreadful Muzak. He had David Whittier to concentrate on.
C H A P T E R
E i g h t
A t the first available opportunity, Harry slipped into the first-class lavatory and inspected the wallet and passport that he’d purloined from the man at Orly.
The wallet contained an interesting sum of money, in several currencies: U.S., French, Lebanese, British, Jordanian, and Libyan. The man traveled a lot, Harry thought, and his conclusion was borne out by the passport which was blurred with indecipherable stamps from a dozen or more countries in the Middle East and Europe. His name was Muhammed Ajai though Harry doubted very much whether it was the name his parents had given him at birth. The passport indicated also that his nationality was Palestinian.
Kayyim must have been responsible for the attack on him; how he had managed to get word to Ajai without physically leaving the plane was the thing Harry couldn’t figure out. Most likely there was a confederate aboard—another passenger or even one of the members of the flight crew—who not only passed on Kayyim’s command, but also pointed out the victim.
Kayyim would have realized by now that the attempt had failed and Harry suffered from no illusions that he wouldn’t try again. In Beirut he would have an easier time of it; there in a city already torn by warfare who would notice one more dead body?
Whatever happened, he prayed that Ellie could be kept out of it. Bad enough he was marked for murder; if she was linked with him in any way she would surely be marked as well.
From the air, Beirut looked peaceful enough. The endless blue skies and the bright summer sun combined to create a deceptive atmosphere of tranquility. One of the flight attendants was heard to remark that the airport had opened only the previous day after a week’s shutdown due to incessant shelling. For some people the very act of landing in a plane is bad enough; to know that somebody might be waiting to blow you to kingdom come once you actually got down, was even more disheartening.
But it was quiet on the airfield. It was quiet even for a normal airfield. That there was very little traffic was understandable; a country doesn’t get a lot of tourists and businessmen coming and going in the middle of a war—unless those businessmen happened to be selling weapons of death.
Here is where the shit hits the fan, Harry thought. Kayyim had been told that Harry was
At least this time he had managed to reach the commander who listened impatiently to his account of how he had lost her.
“How was I to know she was going to jump aboard a jetliner to Europe?” he asked plaintively. “San Diego, Vegas, Tijuana, all right, but Europe? I tried getting hold of you, but you were nowhere to be found.”
The unit commander was not interested in his excuses. “You have your credentials in order?”
“Naturally.” He had several different collections of credentials in order, in fact, depending on which alias he chose to use.
“Do you think you can possibly catch up with her?”
The Small Man hesitated, but as he glanced out of the phone booth he caught sight of the man Winston had met in a nearby restaurant just before she embarked on her flight. He now had a small suitcase in his hand which he had not had before. The suitcase not only looked new but there was even a tag dangling from it that the man had neglected to remove after purchasing it. The Small Man had a sense of what this man was up to.
“Well, answer my question.” The unit commander had an imperious nature and infrequently abided undisciplined behavior.
“Yes,” the Small Man said, “I think I can catch up with her. There’s someone here who can lead me right to her.”
“Good then. Check in with me when you have her in contact again.”
The Small Man rung off and stepped out into the lounge. He was no longer so acutely conscious of the dreadful Muzak. He had David Whittier to concentrate on.
C H A P T E R
E i g h t
A t the first available opportunity, Harry slipped into the first-class lavatory and inspected the wallet and passport that he’d purloined from the man at Orly.
The wallet contained an interesting sum of money, in several currencies: U.S., French, Lebanese, British, Jordanian, and Libyan. The man traveled a lot, Harry thought, and his conclusion was borne out by the passport which was blurred with indecipherable stamps from a dozen or more countries in the Middle East and Europe. His name was Muhammed Ajai though Harry doubted very much whether it was the name his parents had given him at birth. The passport indicated also that his nationality was Palestinian.
Kayyim must have been responsible for the attack on him; how he had managed to get word to Ajai without physically leaving the plane was the thing Harry couldn’t figure out. Most likely there was a confederate aboard—another passenger or even one of the members of the flight crew—who not only passed on Kayyim’s command, but also pointed out the victim.
Kayyim would have realized by now that the attempt had failed and Harry suffered from no illusions that he wouldn’t try again. In Beirut he would have an easier time of it; there in a city already torn by warfare who would notice one more dead body?
Whatever happened, he prayed that Ellie could be kept out of it. Bad enough he was marked for murder; if she was linked with him in any way she would surely be marked as well.
From the air, Beirut looked peaceful enough. The endless blue skies and the bright summer sun combined to create a deceptive atmosphere of tranquility. One of the flight attendants was heard to remark that the airport had opened only the previous day after a week’s shutdown due to incessant shelling. For some people the very act of landing in a plane is bad enough; to know that somebody might be waiting to blow you to kingdom come once you actually got down, was even more disheartening.
But it was quiet on the airfield. It was quiet even for a normal airfield. That there was very little traffic was understandable; a country doesn’t get a lot of tourists and businessmen coming and going in the middle of a war—unless those businessmen happened to be selling weapons of death.
Here is where the shit hits the fan, Harry thought. Kayyim had been told that Harry was
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