Not to mention the fact that the safari jacket hid Wilhelmina in her shoulder harness.
The car was a long pearl-gray limo with tinted windows. Making a show of service, Wooten opened the rear door for Carter. "Your chariot awaits."
Carter tossed his suitcase in the back, then went to the front door on the passenger side. "The Arabs reserve the back seat for their womenfolk, I believe. The men always sit up in front."
"Right you are, mate. But we're not Arabs."
"Still, I wouldn't want to lose face among the locals." Carter climbed in the front seat.
Wooten slammed the back door. "Anything you say, Fletcher. You're the boss. That's what Greer told me, anyhow." He got behind the wheel, started the car, and drove off.
An eight-lane superhighway connected Dharbar Terminal to the seaport city of Al Khobaiq, the provincial capital and only real city of note. The impressively engineered ribbon of road had little traffic to speak of. A fraction of the population owned cars, but those few who did drove big twelve — and sixteen-cylinder tanks like the limo. It took a mighty motor to power a heavy vehicle with the air conditioner roaring at full blast.
The only speed limit was how fast a car could go. Wooten took brutal pleasure in manhandling the machine at high speeds over the roadway's long, banked curves. If he thought to make Carter nervous enough to request that he please slow down, he was crazy. The Killmaster was in a hurry himself.
The roadside was dotted with the burnt-out, ruined wrecks of crashed cars. "The Khobaiquis haven't quite gotten the hang of safe driving yet," Wooten said and grinned.
Nearing the city, they passed shapeless, black-clad figures, barefoot females leading mules and camels. In a land that jealously guarded its females, women were completely veiled.
They rolled through the rugged mountain ranges west of the city, which served to trap moisture blown in from the Gulf, accounting for the pale green scrub of the coast. Between the ridge and the city, the plain was covered by a sprawling shantytown, looking like a collage made from bits of rubbish, teeming with the desperately impoverished.
There was a potential trouble spot for the Emir, thought Carter. One of many.
Then they were in sight of the Gulf and the city fronting it, a city that had existed since the days of the frankincense trade over two thousand years ago.
Al Khobaiq looked like an illustration from Tales of the Arabian Nights. A dazzling cluster of white cubes, bristling with spiked domes and minaret spires. A cat's-cradle of telephone and power lines threaded the seaport.
A closer approach revealed the intricate detailing of broad market squares, souks, bazaars with countless tented booths offering their wares. If you wanted to look for Aladdin's lamp, that was the place to do it, thought Carter.
The harbor was crowded with boats of all types, from oil tankers to dhows, with their graceful triangular lateen sails, unchanged since the days when Sinbad set forth on his legendary voyages.
A closemouthed man, Wooten unbent enough to allow, "Quite a sight, huh, Fletcher?"
"Quite."
Unlike CIA men in mellower political climes, Greer was not attached to the U.S. embassy in Al Khobaiq. Ever since the original Iranian hostage crisis, the word had gone out to Islamic radicals that a sure source of American spies could be found at the local diplomatic mission.
Greer's cover job was a suitably vague position with a dealership supplying pricey consumer goods to wealthy Arabs and the PXs and commissaries operating in Petro Town near the oil fields.
Greer's office was located in the newly built business and governmental district north of the city proper, planted on a hillside some distance from the waterfront.
"The air's a whole hell of a lot cleaner up here," Wooten said. "You get the sea breezes but not the stink of the city."
The hilltop had been flattened and covered with concrete. Rising around the central square was a collection of modernistic office buildings that would have looked at home in any industrial park in the world. Surrounding them were parking lots crammed with cars, few of them American-made, Carter noted.
The construction was new, but it showed much pitting from wind-blown sand scouring the surfaces. Greer's office windows were sand-blasted to near opacity, spoiling what otherwise would have been a spectacular fourteenth-floor view of the city.
The office was standard issue. There was the same desk and furniture, lighting, neutral pastel walls, and mediocre abstract art that Carter had seen in scores of similar offices worldwide.
Greer was in his mid-thirties, with thinning brown hair, a round pink face, and a trim sandy mustache. He met with Carter while Wooten cooled his heels in the outer reception area.
After the ritualized formality of exchanging recognition codes, Greer said, "You're a heavy hitter, Mr. Fletcher."
"What makes you say that?" Carter asked.
"One of the emir's people called, asking if there was anything they could do to expedite your mission. Very impressive! I've been here for over eighteen months now, and I can't even get the undersecretary to the vizier to return my phone calls. By the way, he didn't say just what your mission is."
"Then I won't either," Carter said.
Greer was not offended. "All very hush-hush, hmmm? Fine. In that case, I'll ask no questions so you won't have to tell me any lies. Regional Control says I'm to extend full cooperation. You must rate pretty high in the Company, too. So, what can I do for you?"
"I'd like to talk to Howard Sale, please," Carter said.
Greer looked blank. "Who?"
"Howard Sale. He's the local dealer for Securitron. He supplied the security system for this layout."
"Oh, you mean Howie!" Greer smiled. "Sure, I know Howie! It just took me a minute to connect the name with the face. Howie Sale, sure! He's a green kid, but I like him. Haven't seen him since the fire."
"What fire?"
"There was a pretty bad fire in his office last week," Greer said. "I haven't seen Howie since then, so I thought he got recalled home by the Company. I don't mind telling you, it made me nervous. The fire, that is. I hope the system he installed in here doesn't short out and burn the place down."
"I'd really like to get hold of Howard Sale. Do you have his office address?"
"Sure. You won't have to go far, either. It's right across the square."
"I'd also like his home address. And the names of any of his friends and associates."
"Can't help you on that last," Greer said. "Howie's a one-man operation, and he held down that office by himself. As for who his friends might be, that's a mystery to me."
"Maybe you could ask around."
"I'll do that. As for his home address, I know he had bachelor quarters over in Petro Town. I can give them a call over there and nail it down for you if you'd like."
"I'd like," Carter said.
Ten
Carter paused at a pay phone in the lobby.
"You could have called for free from Greer's office," Wooten said.
"I'm trying to save the taxpayers a little money."
"Or maybe you didn't want Greer to listen in on the extension." Wooten hovered at Carter's back, craning his neck to see what number the Killmaster was calling.
"You don't mind if I make this a private call, do you?" Carter growled.
"Top-secret stuff, huh?" Wooten said. "Suit yourself." Shrugging, he shuffled a few paces away. "Lotsa luck on making your connection. The phone service isn't so hot around here."
Wooten was right. Working from memory, Carter punched the number Hawk had given him. Five frustrating minutes later, when he was half convinced that his memory might not be so hot anymore, he connected with Prince Hasan's answering service. Carter began in Arabic, but the voice on the other end of the line replied in English.