“Yes—what?”
“Yes, sayidi .”
“Better. And where the Fist of God was hidden—that was not known to our enemies?”
“No, sayidi , it is a secret.”
Khatib’s hand flashed out and caught the hanging man across the face.
“Monyouk, filthy monyouk , then how is it that this very morning at dawn, the enemy planes bombed it and destroyed our weapon?”
The prisoner opened his eyes wide, his shock overcoming his shame at the insult. Monyouk in Arabic is the man who plays the female role in a homosexual coupling.
“But that is not possible. No one but a few know about Al Qubai—”
“But the enemy knew. ... They have destroyed it.”
“Sayidi, I swear, this is impossible. They could never find it. The man who built it, Colonel Badri, disguised it too well. ...”
The interrogation had continued for a further half hour until its inevitable conclusion.
Khatib was interrupted from his reverie by the Rais himself.
“And who is he, our traitor?”
“The engineer, Dr. Salah Siddiqui, Rais.”
There was a gasp. The President nodded slowly, as if he had suspected the man all along.
“Might one ask,” said Hassan Rahmani, “who the wretch was working for?”
Khatib darted a look of venom at Rahmani and took his time.
“This he did not say, Sayid Rais .”
“But he will, he will,” said the President.
“Sayid Rais,” murmured Khatib, “I’m afraid I have to report that at this point of his confession, the traitor died.”
Rahmani was on his feet, protocol ignored. “Mr. President, I must protest. This shows the most amazing incompetence. The traitor must have had a link line through to the enemy, some way of sending his messages. Now we may never know.”
Khatib shot him a look of such pure hate that Rahmani, who had read Kipling as a boy in Mr. Hartley’s school, was reminded of Krait, the dust-snake who hissed “Beware, for I am death.”
“What have you to say?” asked the Rais. Khatib was contrite! “Sayid Rais, what can I say? The men who serve under me love you as their own father—nay, more. They would die for you. When they heard this traitorous filth pouring out ... there was an excess of zeal.”
Bullshit, thought Rahmani. But the Rais was nodding slowly. It was the sort of language he liked to hear.
“It is understandable,” the Rais said. “These things happen. And you, Brigadier Rahmani, who criticize your colleague, have you had any success?”
It was noticeable that Rahmani was not referred to as Rafeek , “Comrade.” He would have to be careful, very careful. “There is a transmitter, Sayid Rais , in Baghdad.”
He went on to reveal what Major Zayeed had told him. He thought of adding one last phrase—“One more transmission, if we can catch it, and I think we will have the sender”—but he decided it could wait.
“Then since the traitor is dead,” said the Rais, “I can reveal to you what I could not say two days ago.
The Fist of God is not destroyed, not even buried. Twenty-four hours before the bombing raid, I ordered it to be removed to a safer place.”
It took several seconds for the applause to die down as the inner circle expressed their admiration for the sheer genius of the leader.