The Icarus Agenda

Chapter 12

'Meen ir rdh-gill da?' said Evan, mind and body paralysed, straining, forcing himself to move casually as he asked Zaya who was the obese man who had spoken English.

'He says he is from the Mahdi,' Azra replied, standing between Yosef and Ahbyahd.

'What did he mean?'

'You heard him. He says you're someone named Kendrick.'

'Who's that?' asked Evan in English, addressing Anthony MacDonald, trying desperately to remain composed while adjusting not only to the sight of a man he had not seen in nearly five years, but to his very presence in that room. MacDonald! The fatuous society drunk from the British colony in Cairo! 'My name is Amal Bahrudi, what is yours?'

'You know damned well who I am!' shouted the Englishman, jabbing his index finger in the air, looking in turn at the four Arab councillors, especially Zaya Yateem. 'He's not Amal-whatever and he's not from the Mahdi! He's an American named Evan Kendrick!'

'I studied at two American universities,' said Evan, smiling, 'but no one ever called me a Kendrick. Other things, yes, but not Kendrick.'

'You're lying!'

'On the contrary, I'd have to say you're the liar if you claim to be working for the Mahdi. I was shown the photograph of every European in his—shall we say—confidential employ and you certainly were not among them. I would definitely remember because—shall we again say—you have a very distinctive face and figure.'

'Liar! Impostor! You work with Khalehla the whore, the enemy! Early this morning, before daybreak, she was on her way to meet you!'

'What are you talking about?' Kendrick glanced at Azra and Yosef. 'I've never heard of a Khalehla, either as an enemy or a whore, and before daybreak my friends and I were running for our lives. We had no time for dalliance, I assure you.'

'I tell you he's lying. I was there and I saw her! I saw all of you!'

'You saw us?' asked Evan, eyebrows arched. 'How?'

'I drove off the road—’

'You saw us and you did not help us?' broke in Kendrick angrily. 'And you say you're from the Mahdi?'

'He has a point, Englishman,' said Zaya. 'Why did you not help them?'

'There were things to learn, that's why! And now I have learned them. Khalehla… him!'

'You have extraordinary fantasies, that's what you have, whatever your name is, which I don't know. One, however, we can easily dispose of. We're on our way to Bahrain to meet the Mahdi. We'll take you with us. The great man will undoubtedly be delighted to see you again since you're so important to him.'

'I agree,' said Azra firmly.

'Bahrain?' roared MacDonald. 'How in hell are you going to get there?'

'You mean you don't know?' said Kendrick.

Emmanuel Weingrass, his slender chest heaving in pain from the most recent fit of coughing, stepped out of the car in front of the cemetery at Jabal Sa'ali. He turned to the driver, who held the door, and spoke reverently in an exaggerated British accent. 'I shall pray over my English ancestors, so few do, you know. Come back in an hour.'

'Howar?' asked the man, holding up one finger. 'Iss’a?' he repeated in Arabic, using the word for hour.

'Yes, my Islamic friend. It is a profound pilgrimage I make every year. Can you understand that?'

'Yes, yes, el sallah. Alláhoo Akbar!' answered the driver, rapidly nodding his head, saying that he understood prayers and that God was great. He also held money in his hand, more money than he had expected, knowing that even more could be his when he returned in an hour.

'Leave me now,' said Weingrass. 'I wish to be alone—Sibni fiháhlee.'

'Yes, yes!' The man closed the door, ran back to his seat, and drove away. Manny permitted himself a brief spasm, one vibrating cough compounding the previous one, and looked around to ascertain his bearings, then started across the cemetery to the stone house that stood in a field several hundred yards away. Ten minutes later he was ushered down to the basement where Israeli intelligence had set up its command post.

'Weingrass,' cried the Mossad officer, 'it's good to see you again!'

'No, it's not. You're never happy to see me or hear me on the telephone. You know nothing about the work you do, you're only an accountant—a miserly one at that.'

'Now, Manny, let's not start—’

'I say we start right away,' interrupted Weingrass, looking over at Ben-Ami and the five members of the Masada unit. 'Do any of you misfits have whisky? I know this zohlah doesn't,' he added, implying that the Mossad man was cheap.

'Not even wine,' replied Ben-Ami. 'It was not included in our provisions.'

'No doubt issued by this one. All right, accountant, tell me everything you know. Where is my son, Evan Kendrick?'

'Here, but that's all we know.'

'That's standard. You were always three days behind the Sabbath.'

'Manny—'

'Calm yourself. You'll have cardiac arrest and I don't want Israel to lose its worst accountant. Who can tell me more?'

‘I can tell you more!' shouted Yaakov, code name Blue. 'We should be at this moment—hours ago—studying the embassy. We have a job to do that has nothing to do with your American!'

'So, besides an accountant you have a hot-head,' said Weingrass. 'Anyone else?'

'Kendrick is here without sanction,' replied Ben-Ami. 'He was flown over under cover but is now left to his own devices. He's unacknowledged if caught."

'Where did you get that information?'

'One of our men in Washington. I don't know who or from what department or agency.'

'You'd need a telephone book. How secure is this phone?' asked Weingrass, sitting down at the table.

'No guarantees,' said the Mossad officer. 'It was installed in a hurry.'

'For as few shekels as possible, I'm sure.'

'Manny!'

'Oh, shut up.' Weingrass took a notebook out of his pocket, flipped through the pages and riveted his eyes on a name and a number. He picked up the phone and dialled. Within seconds he spoke.

'Thank you, my dear friend at the palace, for being so courteous. My name is Weingrass, insignificant to you, of course, but not to the great sultan, Ahmat. Naturally, I would not care to disturb his illustrious person, but if you could get word to him that I called, perhaps he might return a great favour. Let me give you a number, may I?' Manny did so, squinting at the digits on the phone. 'Thank you, my dear friend, and may I say, in respect, that this is a most urgent matter and the sultan may praise you for your diligence. Thank you, again.'

The once renowned architect hung up the telephone and leaned back in the chair, breathing deeply to stem the rattling echo erupting in his chest. 'Now we wait,' he said, looking at the Mossad officer. 'And hope that our sultan has more brains and money than you do… My God, he came back! After four years he heard me and my son has come back?'

'Why?' asked Yaakov.

'The Mahdi,' said Weingrass quietly, angrily, staring at the floor.

'The who?'

'You'll learn, hot-head.'

'He's not really your son, Manny.'

'He's the only son I ever wanted—' The telephone rang; Weingrass grabbed it, pulling it to his ear.

'Yes?'

'Emmanuel?'

'At one time, when we found ourselves in Los Angeles, you were far less formal.'

'Allah be praised, I'll never forget. I had myself checked when I got back here.'

'Tell me, you young stinker, did you ever get a passing grade for that economics thesis in your third year?'

'Only a B, Manny. I should have listened to you. You told me to make it far more complicated—that they liked complications.'

'Can you talk?' asked Weingrass, his voice suddenly serious.

'I can, but you may not. From this end everything's static. Do you understand?'

'Yes. Our mutual acquaintance. Where is he?'

'On his way to Bahrain with two other people from the embassy—there was supposed to be only one other but that was changed at the last minute. I don't know why.'

'Because there's a string leading to someone else, probably. Is that everyone?'

Ahmat paused briefly. 'No, Manny,' he said quietly. 'There's one other you must not interfere with or acknowledge in any way. She is a woman and her name is Khalehla. I tell you this because I trust you and you should know that she's there, but no one else must ever know. Her presence here must be kept as quiet as our friend's; her exposure would be a catastrophe.'

'That's a mouthful, young fellow. How do I recognize this problem?'

'I hope there'll be no cause for you to. She's hidden in the pilot's cabin, which will remain locked until they reach Bahrain.'

That's all you'll tell me?'

'About her, yes.'

'I've got to move. What can you do for me?'

'Send you on another plane. As soon as he can, our friend will call and tell me what's happening. When you get there, contact me; here's how.' Ahmat gave his private, scrambled telephone number to Weingrass.

'Must be a new exchange,' said Manny.

'It's no exchange,' said the young sultan. 'Will you be at this number?'

'Yes.'

'I'll call you back with the arrangements. If there's a commercial flight leaving soon, it would be easier all around to get you on it.'

'Sorry, can't do that.'

'Why not?'

'Everything has to be blind and deaf. I've got seven peacocks with me.'

'Seven…?'

'Yes, and if you think there'd be trouble—like catastrophes—try those highly intelligent birds feathered in blue and white.'

Ahmat, sultan of Oman, gasped. 'The Mossad?' he whispered.

'That's about it.'

'Holy shit!' exclaimed Ahmat.

The small six-passenger Rockwell jet flew northwest at thirty-four thousand feet over the United Arab Emirates and into the Persian Gulf on its eight-hundred-mile course to the sheikdom of Bahrain. A disturbingly quiet, confident Anthony MacDonald sat alone in the first row of two seats, Azra and Kendrick in the last row together. The door to the pilot's cabin was shut, and according to the man who had met them in the ‘stolen' garrison car and ushered them through the cargo area to the far end of Masqat's airfield and the plane, that door would remain shut until the passengers left the aircraft. No one was to see them; they would be met at Bahrain's International Airport in Muharraq by someone who would escort them through immigration.

Evan and Azra had gone over the schedule several times, and as the terrorist had never been to Bahrain, he took notes—primarily locations and their spellings. It was imperative to Kendrick that he and Azra separate, at least for an hour or so. The reason was Anthony MacDonald, the most unlikely of the Mahdi's agents. The Englishman might be a short cut to the Mahdi, and if he was, Evan would abandon the crown prince of terrorists.

'Remember, we escaped together from the Jabal Sham, and when you consider Interpol, to say nothing of the combined intelligence units from Europe and America, there'll be alerts out for us everywhere and with our photographs. We can't take the chance of being spotted together in daylight. After sundown the risk is less, but even then we must take precautions.'

'What precautions?'

'Buy different clothes to begin with; these have the mark of lower-class roughnecks, all right for the conditions in Masqat but not here. Take a taxi to Manamah, that's the city across the causeway on the big island, and get a room at the Aradous Hotel on the Wadi Al Ahd. There's a men's shop in the lobby; buy yourself a Western business suit and get a haircut at the barber's. Write it all down!'

'I am.' Azra wrote faster.

'Register under the name of—come to think of it, Yateem is a common name in Bahrain, but let's not take the chance.'

'My mother's name, Ishaad?'

'Their computers are too full. Use Farouk, everyone else does. T. Farouk. I'll reach you in an hour or two.'

'What will you be doing?'

'What else?' said Kendrick, about to tell the truth. 'Stay with the English liar who claims to work for the Mahdi. If by any chance he does and his communications broke down, the meeting tonight will be easily arranged. But frankly, I don't believe him, and if he's the liar I think, I have to learn who he is working for.'

Azra looked at the man he knew as Amal Bahrudi and spoke softly. 'You live in a more complicated world than I do. We know our enemies; we aim our weapons at them and try to kill them because they would kill us. Yet it appears to me that you cannot be sure, that instead of firing your guns in the heat of battle you must first concern yourselves over who is the enemy.'

'You've had to infiltrate and consider the possibility of traitors; the precautions aren't that much different.'

'Infiltration isn't difficult when thousands dress like we do, talk like we do. It's a matter of attitude; we assume the enemy's. As to traitors, we failed in Masqat, you taught us that.'

'Me?'

'The photographs, Bahrudi.'

'Of course. Sorry. My mind's on other things.' It was, but he could not do that again, thought Kendrick. The young terrorist was looking curiously at him. He had to remove any doubts. Quickly! 'But speaking of those photographs, your sister will have to provide proof that she's ripped out the entire treacherous business. I suggest other photographs. Corpses in front of a smashed camera, with taped statements that can be circulated—taped confessions, of course.'

'Zaya knows what to do; she's the strongest among us, the most dedicated. She won't rest until she's torn apart every room, searched every brother and sister. Methodically.'

'Words, poet!' admonished Evan harshly. 'Perhaps you don't understand. What happened in Masqat—what was carelessly permitted to happen—could affect our operations everywhere. If it gets out and goes unpunished, agents everywhere will be flocking to infiltrate us, worming their way inside to expose us with cameras and recordings!'

'All right, all right,' said Azra, nodding, unwilling to hear further criticism. 'My sister will take care of everything. I don't think she was convinced until she understood what you did for us in the Jabal Sham, saw what you could do on the telephone. She will quickly take the actions she must, I assure you.'

'Good! Rest now, angry poet. We've got a long afternoon and night ahead of us.'

Kendrick leaned far back in the seat as though prepared to doze, his half-closed eyes on the back of Anthony MacDonald's large balding head in the first row. There was so much to think about, so many things to consider that he had not had time to analyse, even try to analyse. Yet above everything, there was a Mahdi, the Mahdi! Not surrounding and starving out Khartoum and General Gordon in the late 1800s, but living and manipulating terror a hundred years later in Bahrain! And there was a complex chain that led to the monster; it was concealed, buried, professionally fashioned, but it was there! He had found a terrorist appendage, only a tentacle, perhaps, but part of the host body. The killer beside him could lead to the main conduit as each electric cable in a building ultimately leads to the central power source. Five calls are made, ten times Jive to unlisted numbers in Bahrain and only one can reach the Mahdi: Zaya Yateem, who knew whereof she spoke. Fifty calls, fifty telephone numbers—one among fifty unknown men or women who knew where the Mahdi was, who he was!

He had created an emergency the way Manny Weingrass had always told him to invent emergencies when dealing with potential clients who would not or could not communicate with each other. Tell the fast bozo that you have to have an answer by Wednesday or we're moving on to Riyadh. Tell the second clown we can't wait beyond Thursday because there's a hell of a job in Abu Dhabi that's ours for the asking.

This was not the same, of course, only a variation of the technique. The terrorist leaders at the embassy in Masqat were convinced an emergency existed for their benefactor, the Mahdi, since he had arranged for East Berlin's 'Amal Bahrudi' to bring one of them to Bahrain. Conversely, the forces of the Mahdi had been told on international television that an 'urgent message' had been sent out ‘to friends' and it required an 'immediate response'—emergency!

Manny, did I do it right? I have to find him, fight him—kill him for what he did to all of us!

Emmanuel Weingrass, mused Evan, his eyes beginning to close, the dead weight of sleep descending. Yet he could not prevent it; a quiet laugh echoed in his throat. He remembered their first trip to Bahrain.

'Now for Christ's sake, bear in mind that we're dealing with a people who run an archipelago, not a land mass bordering another land mass that both sides conveniently call a country. This is a sheikdom consisting of over thirty goddamned islands in the Persian Gulf. It's nothing you're going to measure in acreage, and they never want you to—that's their strength.'

'What are you driving at, Manny?'

' Try to understand me, you unread mechanic. You appeal to that sense of strength. This is an independent state, a collection of eruptions from the sea that protects the ports from the storms of the Gulf and is conveniently situated between the Qatar peninsula and the Hasa coast of Saudi Arabia, the latter extremely important because of the Saudi leverage.'

'What the hell has that got to do with a lousy island golf course? Do you play golf, Manny? I never could afford it.'

'Chasing a little white ball over a hundred acres of grass while the arthritis is killing you and your heart is blowing apart in frustration has never been my idea of a civilized pursuit. However, I know what we put into this lousy golf course.'

'What?'

'Remembrances of things past. Because it's a constant reminder of their present, a reminder to everyone. Their strength.'

'Will you come down from orbit, please?'

'Read the historical chronicles of Assyria, Persia, the Greeks and the Romans. Take a peek through the early drawings of the Portuguese cartographers and the logs of Vasco da Gama. At one time or another all these people fought for control of the archipelago—the Portuguese held it for a hundred years—why?'

'I'm sure you'll tell me.'

'Because of its geographical location in the Gulf, its strategic importance. For centuries it's been a coveted centre for trade and the financial repositories of trade—'

The much younger Evan Kendrick had sat up at that moment, now understanding what the eccentric architect was driving at. 'That's what's happening now,' he had interrupted, 'by leaps and bounds, money pouring in from all over the world.'

'As an independent state without fear of being conquered in today's world,' clarified Weingrass. 'Bahrain services allies and enemies alike. So our magnificent clubhouse on this lousy golf course will reflect its history. We'll do it with murals. A businessman looks up at the paintings above the bar and sees all these things pictured and thinks, Jesus, this is some place! Everybody wanted it! Look at the money they spent! He's now even more anxious to operate here. It's common knowledge that deals are made on golf courses, you young illiterate. Why do you think they want to build one?'

After they had built the somewhat grotesque clubhouse on the second-rate golf course, the Kendrick Group contracted for three banks and two government buildings. And Manny Weingrass was personally pardoned by one of the highest ministers for disturbing the peace at a cafe on the Al Zubara Road.

The drone of the jet bored into Evan's brain. His eyes were closed.

'I object to this subsidiary operation and I want the record to show it,' said Yaakov, code name Blue, of the Masada Brigade, as the seven men climbed into the jet at the far east end of Masqat's airfield. Emmanuel Weingrass immediately joined the pilot, strapping himself into the adjacent seat, coughing quietly, deeply, as he secured the belt. The Mossad officer had remained behind; he had work to do in Oman; his pistol was in the possession of the slender Ben-Ami, who kept it unholstered until the five-man unit had taken their seats in the aircraft.

'The record will show it, my friend,' replied Ben-Ami as the plane sped down the runway. 'Please try to understand that there are things we cannot be told for the good of all of us. We are the activists, the soldiers—and those who make the decisions are the high command. They do their job and we do ours, which is to follow orders.'

'Then I must object to a loathsome parallel,' said the unit member code name Grey. ' “Following orders” is not a phrase I find very palatable.'

'I remind you, Mr. Ben-Ami,' added code Orange. 'For the past three weeks we've trained for a single assignment, one we all believe we can accomplish despite profound doubts back home. We're ready; we're primed for it, and suddenly it's aborted without explanation and we're on our way to Bahrain hunting a man we don't know with a plan we've never seen.'

'If there is a plan,' said code Black. 'And not simply a debt owed by the Mossad to a disagreeable old man who wants to find an American, a Gentile “son” that isn't his.'

Weingrass turned around; the plane was climbing rapidly, the engines partially muted by the swift ascent. 'Listen to me, peaheads! he shouted. 'If that American has gone to Bahrain with a demented Arab terrorist, it means he's got a damn good reason. It probably hasn't occurred to you muscle-bound, intellectual crap shooters, but Masqat wasn't planned by those sub-human yo-yos playing with guns. The brains, if you'll pardon an obscure reference, are in Bahrain, and that's what he's after, who he's after!'

'Your explanation, if true,' said code White, 'does not include a plan, Mr. Weingrass. Or do we roll dice on that issue?'

'The odds may be worse, smart ass, but no, we don't. Once we've landed and set up shop, I'll be calling Masqat every fifteen minutes until we have the information we need. Then we have a plan.'

'How?' asked Blue angrily, suspiciously.

'We make it up, hot-head.'

The huge Englishman stood in rigid disbelief as the terrorist Azra started walking away with the Bahrainian official. The quiet man in uniform had met the Rockwell jet beyond the last maintenance hangar at the airport in Muharraq. 'Wait,' shouted MacDonald, glancing wildly at Evan Kendrick standing beside him. 'Stop! You can't leave me with this man. I told you, he's not who he says he is! He's not one of us!'

'No, he's not,' agreed the Palestinian, stopping and looking over his shoulder. 'He's from East Berlin and he saved my life. If you're telling the truth, I assure you he'll save yours.'

'You can't—'

'I must,' broke in Azra, turning to the official and nodding.

The Bahrainian, without comment either in his words or his expression, addressed Kendrick: 'As you can see, my associate is coming out of the hangar. He will escort you through another exit. Welcome to our country.'

'Azra!' screamed MacDonald, his voice drowned out by the roar of jet engines.

'Easy, Tony,' said Evan as the second Bahrainian official approached them. 'We're entering illegally and you could get us shot.'

'You! I knew it was you! You are Kendrick!'

'Of course I am, and if any of our people here in Bahrain knew you used my name, your lovely, besotted Cecilia—it is Cecilia, isn't it—would be a widow before she could ask for another drink.'

'By Christ, I don't believe it. You sold your firm and went back to America! I was told you'd become a politician of sorts!'

'With the Mahdi's help I might even become president.'

'Oh, my God!'

'Smile, Tony. This man doesn't like what he's doing and I wouldn't want him to think we're ungrateful. Smile, you fat son of a bitch!'

Khalehla, in tan slacks, a flight jacket and a visored officer's cap, stood by the tail of the Harrier jet watching the proceedings a hundred feet away. The young Palestinian killer called Blue had been ushered out; the American congressman and the incredible MacDonald were leaving with another uniformed man, who conveyed them through a maze of cargo alleyways that eluded immigration. This Kendrick, this apparent conformist with some terrible cause, was better than she thought. Not only had he survived the horrors of the embassy, something she had believed impossible nine hours ago and over which she had panicked, but he had now separated terrorist from terrorists' agent. What was on his mind? What was he doing?

'Hurry up!' she called to the pilot, who was talking to a mechanic by the starboard wing. 'Let's go!'

The pilot nodded, briefly throwing his arms up in despair, and the two of them headed towards the exit reserved for flight personnel. Ahmat, the youthful sultan of Oman, had pushed all the buttons at his considerable command. The three passengers on the jet were to be led to a stretch of the airport's lower-level concourse far behind the main terminal's taxi line where temporary taxi signs had been mounted on the pavement, each cab driven by a member of the Bahrainian secret police. None had been given any information, only a single order: Report the destination of each passenger.

Khalehla and the pilot said their brief goodbyes and both went their separate ways, he to the Flight Control Centre for his return-to-Masqat instructions, she to the designated area of the concourse where she would pick up the American and follow him. It would call for all the skill she had to stay out of sight while she followed Kendrick and MacDonald. Tony would spot her in an instant, and the obviously alert American might look twice and remember a dark, filthy street in the el Shari el Mish kwayis and a woman who held a gun in her hand. The fact that it had not been pointed at him but, instead, at four people in that street of garbage who had tried to rob her or worse, would not be readily believed by a man living on the edge of very real peril. Purpose and paranoia converged in the infinite reaches of a mind under severe stress. He was armed, and one exploding image could trigger a violent response. Khalehla did not fear for her life; eight years of training, including four years in the violent Middle East, had taught her to anticipate, to kill before she was killed. What saddened her was not only that this decent man should have to die for what he was doing but it was entirely possible that she could be his executioner. It was growing more possible by the minute.

She reached the area before the passengers from the Oman jet. The traffic on the Arrivals level was horrendous: cars with tinted windows; taxis; ordinary, nondescript vehicles; pickup trucks of all descriptions. The noise and the fumes were overpowering, the cacophony deafening under the low concrete ceiling. Khalehla found a shadowed enclave between two cargo bins and waited.

The first to emerge was the terrorist called Azra, accompanied by a uniformed official. The latter flagged a taxi, which sped up to the coarsely-dressed young man at the curb. He stepped inside and read from a piece of paper in his hand, giving the driver instructions.

Several minutes later the strange American and the unbelievable Anthony MacDonald walked out on the pavement.

Something was wrong! thought Khalehla instantly, without really thinking, merely observing. Tony was behaving like his once and former Cairo self! There was agitation in every movement of his huge body, wasted energy craving attention, his eyes bulging, his constantly changing facial expressions those of a drunk pleading for respect—all in counterpoint to the superb control necessary to a deep cover operator with a network of informers in a world-class volatile situation. It was all wrong!

And then it happened! As the taxi sped up to the curb, MacDonald suddenly rammed his enormous torso against the American, sending him out into the covered street in front of the rushing cab. Kendrick bounced off the bonnet, his body flung in mid-air into the racing traffic of the tunnel-like concourse. Brakes screeched, whistles blew, and the congressman from the ninth district of Colorado was impaled, curved around the shattered windscreen of a small Japanese car. Good God, he's dead! thought Khalehla, running out on the pavement. And then he moved—both arms moved as the American tried to push himself up, collapsing as he did so.

Khalehla raced to the car, surging through a knot of police and Bahrain's secret police who had converged on the scene, rupturing one immovable man's spleen with a vicious, accurate fist. She threw her body over the spastically moving Kendrick while removing the gun from her flight jacket. She spoke to the nearest uniformed man, the weapon angled at his head.

'My name is Khalehla and that's all you have to know. This man is my property and he goes with me. Pass the word and get us out of here or I'll kill you.'

The figure raced into the sterile room so agitated that he slammed the door behind him, nearly tripping in the darkness on his way to his equipment. Hands trembling, he brought his appliance to life.

Ultra Maximum Secure

No Existing Intercepts

Proceed

Something's happened! Breakthrough or breakdown, the hunter or the hunted. The last report speaks of Bahrain but without specifics, only that the subject was in a state of extreme anxiety demanding to be flown there immediately. Of course that assumes he either escaped from the embassy, was taken out by subterfuge or never went inside at all. But why Bahrain? Everything is too incomplete, as if the subject's shadow was obscuring events for his own reasons—a not unlikely possibility considering everything that's happened during the past few years and the subpoena powers of Congress and various special prosecutors.

What has happened? What's happening now? My appliances scream for information but I can't give them anything! To factor in a name without specific reference only spews forth encyclopaedic historical data long since inserted—and updated—by photoscan. Sometimes I think my own talents defeat me, for I see beyond factors and equations and find visions.

Yet he is the man! My appliances tell me that and I trust them.