Free Dirty Harry 10 - The Blood of Strangers by Dane Hartman

nothing about Kayyim’s behavior to indicate he held any suspicions regarding Harry. In all the confusion last night, it was unlikely that anyone had gotten a good look at him or had associated him with the man who guarded the Libyan by day.
    However, there was no way for him to ignore the fact that this morning he had only one personal bodyguard. “I am afraid he is indisposed,” said Kayyim to account for the missing man.
    Connelly, who’d come down from San Francisco to handle Kayyim’s visit, assured him that additional men would be provided to make up for his absence.
    Turning to Harry, Connelly said, “Stay close to him. I want you up there on the podium with him.” He even went so far as to introduce Harry to Kayyim, using his alias.
    “Mr. Turner, I am so pleased,” Kayyim said, reaching out his hand. There was no hint of insincerity that Harry could detect in his voice.
    Because of security considerations, demonstrators protesting Kayyim’s donation to the state university system were shuttled aside and kept behind a police barrier. There they paraded with signs denouncing Qaddafi and the rectors who had agreed to the establishment of an Arab-American chair.
    In the middle of the campus green, a special stage had been erected the day before. Several hundred folding chairs were set out in front of it. City and campus policemen were everywhere but the dominant sound was the babble coming out of walkie-talkies.
    Way to the rear, there was an area measuring no more than twelve feet across for the press. It was there that Ellie Winston was directed, with a free-lance camera crew hired only a couple of hours previously. Her boss hadn’t been particularly happy to hear what she’d done, but on the other hand, he conceded that she might be on to something, and in any case, Kayyim was news, no matter what else happened with Harry Callahan and his ongoing investigation.
    At quarter to ten the scrupulously chosen audience, consisting mainly of city officials, trustees, and professors, filed onto the campus. With a minimum of confusion they took their seats and waited. And waited.
    Not until the security people had completed one final tour of the area were Kayyim and his hosts permitted to mount the podium.
    There were almost as many plainclothesmen on the podium as dignitaries. For this occasion, Kayyim chose to wear traditional dress: a keffiyah over his head and a long white flowing robe. There was no question he had a flair for the theatrical.
    Once the dignitaries had all seated themselves, the Provost rose to address the carefully screened audience. His remarks were practically inaudible until a technician adjusted the microphone. Even then, he had some difficulty because of the uproar the demonstrators were making at the other end of the campus.
    The idea, as Harry understood it, was to make this quick. Get on and off, so that there would be little opportunity for any embarrassing incident to occur. It was only because Kayyim had insisted on public ceremony as one of the criteria for the gift that this affair had been arranged at all. That Kayyim wanted it outdoors was regarded as an unwarranted intrusion into university business. But five million dollars was five million dollars.
    Having said his piece, the Provost gestured to Kayyim. In response, there was a flurry of polite applause.
    All this while Harry was scanning the crowd. His eyes were practiced at observing any suspicious movements though to anyone else they might appear perfectly innocent. There is a difference between the man reaching in his jacket for a gun and the man reaching in his jacket for a cigarette lighter, but that difference can often be subtle.
    Kayyim had not been speaking for longer than five minutes when Harry noticed a man of about thirty-five sitting six rows from the podium. He was nondescript, with a face devoid of all expression. He was dressed in a white sportscoat and had the air of a somewhat overworked Ph.D. candidate. He