Tongues of Fire (36 page)

“Mr. Krebs?” a woman asked.

“Yes.”

“Communications. We've got something for you that just came in off the satellite. Do you want to come down here or have it piped up there?”

“I'll come down tomorrow.”

“It came in off the satellite, Mr. Krebs,” the woman said, sounding hurt.

He sighed. “Where's it from?”

“Cairo.”

“Okay. Pipe it up here.”

He touched a button on his desk. Static whispered from the speaker on the wall. A buzz saw cut in. It grew louder, and lost itself in a hurricane. Silence. Then from Cairo came the voice of Fairweather, very clear. Fairweather had been there for a year, as liaison to Egyptian Intelligence. He was good at it: The Egyptians like him. Fairweather gave a routing code, identified himself and addressed Krebs.

“I thought this might interest you so I'm sending it along upstairs,” he said. “It came last Tuesday at two-forty-one
A.M.
local time. No. Hold it a sec.” There was a pause. Paper rustled. “Okay. Forget I said that. Two-forty-one was when the message ended. It came in a little earlier, ten or fifteen minutes. I can't seem to lay my hands on the log. Anyway, we're eight hours different from you, ahead or behind, I can never get it straight.” Pause. He heard Fairweather, in a muffled voice, say, “What time is it in Virginia?” Another voice responded, but Krebs could not hear the words.

“All right,” Fairweather said. “I've got it now. Two-forty-one
A.M.
is six-forty-one
P.M.
your time. Got that? Six-forty-one. Anyway, I would have sent you this earlier, but I just heard about it. I've been diving down at Sharm el Sheikh. Fabulous. Eighty-five and sunny, day after day. I bet it's raining where you are.”

Krebs glanced out the window. It was. “But that's not why I called,” continued Fairweather. “I thought you'd want to hear what came in over the scrambler. It's unscrambled now, so I'll rescramble and send it to you. It's from Gillian Wells. She's out in the middle of nowhere. Kordofan, I think. We've got the exact coordinates around here someplace. I'll have a look while I punch this through.”

Whispers. Buzz saw. Hurricane. Silence.

Then a woman's voice. It was not as clear as Fairweather's, but Krebs recognized it immediately. He also heard the excitement in her tone, the urgency, which had not been lost on the journey into space and back.

“SU-Six to EC-One,” she said. “SU-Six to EC-One. Prepare to receive.” Krebs imagined reels of tape begining to spin in the cellars of the embassy in Cairo. “I'm in Kordofan, a few miles south of a wadi called the Bahr el Arab and about one hundred and twenty miles southwest of Muglad.”

Krebs jumped up and crossed the room in two steps. He stood beside the speaker on the wall. “I think I've picked up the trail of Isaac Rehv,” Gillian Wells said. “And if I'm right it means that Mr. Krebs has …” A high-pitched electronic wail smothered her voice. Krebs ran to the phone.

“The sound's no good,” he shouted into the mouthpiece. “Fix it.”

“One moment, Mr. Krebs,” said the woman from communications. He waited. The speaker wailed. “Mr. Krebs? The technician says that the problem is with the original transmission. There is nothing we can do. According to the logs it clears up after two minutes and thirty-three seconds.”

He hung up and looked at his watch. The red digits flashed away the seconds. When 127 of them had passed, the wailing faded and Gillian's voice came through, but much weaker than before. He stood by the speaker, so close that his ear touched the grille.

“… but before you can make sense out of it you need to know something about Mahdis in general. A Mahdi is a redeemer, in a way like a Messiah, except that he is not divine, but divinely guided. There have been other self-proclaimed Mahdis in the past. The most famous one, and this is important, led an uprising right here in the Sudan against the British in the 1880s: Chinese Gordon, the fall of Khartoum, all that. There are still many Mahdists in this country who believe he will return one day. Now he has. Not only that—he's appeared among the Baggara, who rode with the previous Mahdi and think of it as their finest hour. I met the Mahdi today, and he's very impressive. He looks just like a Baggara—that is, a kind of black and Semitic mixture—but I'm practically certain he is not one of them. First, I've got an informant in the tribe. Hurgas, he's called. The son of the omda. He says that the Mahdi was not born among the Baggara. He came to them, alone, as a boy. It's not easy to fix a definite date, but from what I can piece together, it must have been around the time that Rehv appeared in Muglad. Second, the Mahdi understands English. He's very careful to hide the fact, but there is no question about it.”

Krebs thought he heard her laugh, low and soft and far away. He pressed his ear against the speaker. There was a long pause, filled with static. When she spoke again her voice was much quieter. “Sorry. Thought I heard something. I'm not very far from the camp.” Another pause. “False alarm,” she went on, more quickly. “As for Rehv, there's no sign of him at all. If there's a photograph available it might help establish a physical resemblance. Wasn't there an immigration card? But I don't think there's much more time. The whole of the western Sudan is gathering around him, and he won't be able to stay here much longer. I'm going to remain in the area for a few more days, then return to Khartoum. If you have Rehv's photograph, send it there.” Static. Krebs felt the speaker vibrate against his ear. He waited.

Whispers. Buzz saw. Hurricane. Silence.

Then Fairweather, very loud. “Well, that's it. It's funny she didn't sign off. We'll keep our ears open for her on this end.” Fairweather said good-bye. Before the transmission was broken, Krebs heard Fairweather say to someone, “What's he trying to do? Hijack a whole country?” The speaker went dead.

No, Krebs thought. Isaac Rehv wanted Islam itself.

On the little screen Bugs Bunny drove a steamroller over Elmer Fudd.

Krebs sat down. At last. He pounded his fist on the desk. He had done it. They could not retire him now. Rehv was out there in the Sudan. It was his operation.

He picked up the telephone and tried Birdwell's office. Birdwell was his boss, in charge of the Middle Eastern section. No answer. He called communications. “Find Birdwell for me.” He hung up and waited.

He could not sit still. He rose and began to pace back and forth across the room. As he went by the video cassette player he snapped it off. A big orange carrot faded away.

He had been right all along. Not totally: There was no indication of a conspiracy, nothing to show that Rehv was not acting alone. Of course in the beginning, when the two Arabs had been killed in New York, there were others involved. Later he had seen the old prime minister. Perhaps the idea had come from him. After that Rehv had done it alone.

It was colossal. Rehv had found the core of the enemy's strength, the unifying power of its religion, and he had made it his own. Secretly: in a hidden, fertile corner of the Muslim world where he could plant his Mahdi and let him take root and grow, out of sight.

But why? Suddenly he thought: Maybe Rehv doesn't consider the Arabs his enemy at all. Maybe we're the enemy; we let Israel go down the drain. If that was the case, the implications were grim.

He picked up the telephone. “Haven't you got him yet?”

“Still trying, Mr. Krebs.”

“Christ.” He slammed down the phone.

It buzzed. He grabbed it. “Hello.”

“Ah, Krebs,” Birdwell said. “Working late right to the end?”

“Something's come up. We've got to meet.”

“No problem. I'll be in my office anytime after eight-thirty tomorrow. Just pop in.”

“That's not soon enough.”

Birdwell sighed in his ear. “I'm at dinner, Krebs.”

“Then I'll come over. Where are you?”

“The White House.”

Krebs drove through the rain. He listened to the radio. Three sports writers were talking about the end of the baseball strike. “It's been five years since hickory whacked horsehide,” one of them said. “What makes you think there'll still be an audience for baseball when they finally start winging the old pill in April? Mel?”

“There'll always be baseball fans,” Mel said. “Baseball is as American as—”

“I'm with Mel,” the third one said.

Krebs turned off the radio. The windshield wipers swept back and forth. The slick black miles rolled beneath him. He drove into Pennsylvania Avenue.

Two marines stood in front of the side gate. Except for the rain dripping from the peaks of their hats, they looked like figures in a wax museum. One of them proved he was alive by bending forward to look inside the car. Krebs pushed a button, and the window slid down.

“Yes sir?” the marine said.

“Krebs,” Krebs answered. “To see Colonel Birdwell.”

“Do you have some identification, sir?” Krebs showed him some identification. The marine took it into the guardhouse. He talked on a telephone, watching Krebs as he spoke. He came out. “Thank you, sir,” he said, handing Krebs the plastic card. “An escort will be right with you.”

Another marine stepped out of the shadows beyond the gate. “Mr. Krebs?”

“Yes.”

“Please follow me.”

“What about the car?”

“It will be parked for you in the visitors lot, sir.”

Krebs got out of the car and followed the marine through the gate and up a paved lane to the house. The rain felt cold on his bald head. They entered a door at the back and crossed a large hall. On the other side was a long corridor. At the end of it Krebs saw a dining room. A huge chandelier glittered from the ceiling. He heard faint laughter and the sounds of silver, crystal, and violins. The president was presiding over a long shining table. An oyster hung from his lips.

“This way, sir,” the marine said, and led him down a flight of stairs he had not seen, into the basement.

The basement was divided into offices. The marine opened the door to one of them. It was small and bare, except for a desk, two wooden chairs, and a photograph on the wall of the president and his dog. Krebs walked in and sat on one of the chairs. “Would you tell Colonel Birdwell I'm here?” he said.

“He has been informed,” the marine replied. “Thank you, sir.”

“What are you thanking me for?”

“Regulations, sir.” The marine closed the door and went away.

Krebs sat. After a while he moved to the other chair. Later he opened the drawers of the desk and looked inside. They were empty: not even a paper clip. From time to time he heard footsteps above his head. Doors closed. He sat.

The house grew very quiet. Krebs waited until one
A.M.
Then he walked out of the room. It was too important to wait any longer. He followed a dark corridor to a flight of stairs, thinking they were the stairs he had descended before. At the top was a closed door. Light glowed dimly through the crack at the bottom.

When he was halfway up he heard the president say, “You're an asshole.”

Krebs stood still. A woman said, “You're the asshole.” The president's wife. Krebs knew her voice from the fund-raising drive for crippled children on television. He went quietly back down the stairs.

Birdwell was waiting for him in the little office. He was sitting on one of the wooden chairs, wearing evening dress and smoking a cigar. Evening dress suited him. He was lean and tanned and looked ten years younger than Krebs, although he was the same age. “Looking for the red button, Krebs?”

“I went to the bathroom.”

“Careful where you go. Our leader's had a few too many tonight and he's in a warlike mood.” Birdwell blew a cone of smoke across the room and smiled at a thought that passed through his head. His mouth turned down in the way Krebs was used to seeing it. Birdwell looked at him. “Okay, Krebs. Let's have it.”

Krebs let him have it. Birdwell listened. He forgot about his cigar. He looked worried. When he had heard what there was to hear he said, “It's a hell of a thing.” He stuck his cigar in his mouth and sucked on it. The cigar had gone out. He threw it on the floor. “What are we going to do?”

“All we have to do is pass the word to the Sudanese government. If they can't handle it, the Palestinian government as well.”

Birdwell looked at him thoughtfully. “Maybe,” he said. He rose. “I'd better get him up. I wouldn't want this to be our little secret overnight.”

Of course not, Krebs thought. If anything went wrong, you'd be responsible. He stood up to go with Birdwell.

Birdwell shook his head. “It will probably be better if I handle this alone,” he said. “Unless you know him fairly well. Do you?”

“No.”

Birdwell turned to the door. “I'll have coffee sent down.”

“But I've been on this from the beginning,” Krebs said. “I know every detail.”

Birdwell laughed. “He wouldn't be able to cope with that. Let's hope he can get the gist of it.” He left.

Krebs sat down. He wondered if they would give him the South American section. The directorship had been vacant for a few months. Maybe they would let him skip a step, and promote him even higher: a sub-Cabinet post. He would have to buy a dinner jacket and go on a diet. And start running again. There had been a time when he could do one hundred push-ups with ease. How many could he do now? Fifty? Sixty? He felt very strong. He pulled off the jacket of his suit and got down on the floor. He did eight.

He waited for coffee. It never came. Later he laid his head on the desk.

A loud metallic bang startled him. He jerked awake and went into the corridor. A black charwoman stood in a pool of soapy water, an overturned tin pail at her feet. “Shit,” she said. She did not seem to notice him at all.