The Icarus Agenda

Chapter 22

Herbert Dennison, White House chief of staff, closed the door of his private bathroom and reached for the bottle of Maalox which he kept in the right-hand corner of the marble counter. In precise sequence, he ingested four swallows of the chalklike liquid, knowing from experience that it would eliminate the hot flashes in his upper chest. Years ago in New York, when the attacks had begun, he had been so frightened that he could barely eat or sleep, so convinced was he that after surviving the hell of Korea he was going to die in the street of cardiac arrest. His then wife—the first of three—had also been beside herself, unable to decide whether to get him first to a hospital or to their insurance agent for an expanded policy. Without his knowing about it she accomplished the latter, and a week later Herbert bit the bullet and admitted himself to the Cornell Medical Center for a thorough examination.

Relief came when the doctors pronounced his heart as strong as a young bull's, explaining to him that the sporadic fits of discomfort were brought about by periodic spasms of excess acid produced, no doubt, by anxiety and tension. From that day forward, in bedrooms, offices, cars and briefcases, bottles of the white pacifying liquid were always available to him. Tension was a part of his life.

The doctors' diagnosis had been so accurate that over the years he could reasonably predict when, give or take an hour or two, the acid attacks would grip him. During his days on Wall Street they invariably came with wild fluctuations in the bond market or when he fought with peers who were continually trying to thwart him in his drive for both wealth and position. They were all pukey shits, thought Dennison. Fancy boys from fancy fraternities who belonged to fancy clubs that wouldn't spit on him, much less consider him for membership. Who gave a nun's fart? Those same clubs let in yids and niggers and even spies these days! All they had to do was speak like fairy actors and buy their clothes from Paul Stuart or some French faggot. Well, he had spat on them! He broke them! He had the gut instincts of a street fighter in the market and he had cornered so much, made so much that the fucking firm had to make him president or he would have walked out, taking millions with him. And he had shaped up that corporation until it was the sharpest, most aggressive firm on the Street. He had done so by getting rid of the whining deadwood and that stupid corps of so-called trainees who ate up money and wasted everybody's time. He had two maxims that became corporate holy writ: The first was: Beat last year's figures or beat feet out of here. The second was equally succinct: You don't get trained here, you get here trained.

Herb Dennison never gave a damn whether he was liked or disliked; the theory that the end justified the means suited him splendidly, thank you. He had learned in Korea that soft-nosed officers were often rewarded with GI caskets for their lack of harsh discipline and harsher authority in the field. He had been aware that his troops hated his proverbial guts to the point where he never dropped his guard against being fragmented by a US grenade, and whatever the losses, he was convinced they would have been far greater had the loosey-goosies been in charge.

Like the crybabies on Wall Street: 'We want to build trust, Herb, continuity…" Or: 'The youngster of today is the corporate officer of tomorrow—a loyal one.' Crap! You didn't make profits on trust or continuity or loyalty. You made profits by making other people money, that was all the trust and continuity and loyalty they looked for! And he had been proved right, swelling the client lists until the computers were ready to burst, pirating talent from other firms, making damn sure he got what he paid for or the new boys, too, were out on their backsides.

Sure, he was tough, perhaps even ruthless, as many called him both to his face and in print, and, yes, he had lost a few good people along the way, but the main thing was that in general he was right. He had proved it in both military and civilian life… and yet in the end, in both, the creeps had dumped him. In Korea the regimental CO had damned near promised him the rank of full colonel upon discharge; it never happened. In New York—Christ, if possible it was worse!—his name had been floated around as the newest member of the Board of Directors for Wellington-Midlantic Industries, the most prestigious board in international finance. It never happened. In both cases the old-school-tie fraternities had shot him down at the moment of escalation. So he took his millions and said Screw all of you!

Again, he had been right, for he found a man who needed both his money and his considerable talents: a senator from Idaho who had begun to raise his startlingly sonorous, impassioned voice, saying things Herb Dennison fervently believed in, yet a politician who could laugh and amuse his growing audiences while at the same time instructing them.

The man from Idaho was tall and attractive, with a smile that had not been seen since Eisenhower and Shirley Temple, full of anecdotes and homilies that espoused the old values of strength, courage, self-reliance and, above all—for Dennison—freedom of choice. Herb had flown down to Washington and a pact was made with that senator. For three years Dennison threw in all his energies and several million—plus additional millions from numerous anonymous men for whom he had made fortunes—until they had a war chest that could buy the papacy if it were more obviously on the market.

Herb Dennison belched; the chalky-white liquid pacifier was working, but not rapidly enough; he had to be ready for the man who would walk into his office in a matter of minutes. He took two more swallows and looked at himself in the mirror, unhappy at the sight of his progressively thinning grey hair that he combed straight back on both sides, the sharply defined parting on the left, the top of his head consistent with his no-nonsense image. Peering into the glass, he wished his grey-green eyes were larger; he opened them as wide as he could; they were still too narrow. And the slight wattle under his chin reinforced the hint of jowls, reminding him that he must get some exercise or eat less, neither of which appealed to him. And why, with all the goddamned money he paid for his suits, didn't he look more like the men in the ads his British tailors sent him? Still, there was about him an imposing air of strength, emphasized by his rigid posture and the thrust of his jaw, both of which he had perfected over the years.

He belched again and swallowed another mouthful of his personal elixir. Goddamn Kendrick, son of a bitch! he swore to himself. That nobody-suddenly-somebody was the cause of his anger and discomfort… Well, if he was to be honest with himself, and he always tried to be honest with himself, if not always with others, it was not the nobody/somebody by himself, it was the bastard's effect on Langford Jennings, President of the United States. Shit, piss, and vinegar! What did Langford have in mind? (In his thoughts Herb had actually pulled himself short, substituting 'the President' for 'Lang-ford', and that made him angrier still; it was part of the tension, part of the distance that White House authority demanded and Dennison hated it… After the inauguration and three years of calling him by his first name, Jennings had spoken quietly to his chief of staff during one of the inaugural balls, spoken to him in that soft, jocular voice that dripped with self-deprecation and good humour. 'You know I don't give a damn, Herb, but I think the office—not me, but the office—sort of calls for you to address me as “Mr. President”, don't you think so, too?' Damn! That had been that!)

What did Jennings have in mind? The President had casually agreed with everything Herb had proposed concerning the Kendrick freak, but the responses had been too casual, bordering on disinterest, and that bothered the chief of staff. Jennings's mellifluous voice sounded unconcerned, but his eyes did not convey any lack of concern at all. Every now and then Langford Jennings surprised the whole goddamned bunch of them at the White House. Dennison hoped this was not one of those frequently awkward times.

The bathroom telephone rang, its proximity causing the chief of staff to spill Maalox over his Savile Row jacket. Awkwardly he grabbed the phone off the wall with his right hand while turning on the hot water tap with his left and dousing a washcloth under the stream. As he answered he frantically rubbed the wet cloth over the white spots, grateful that they disappeared into the dark fabric.

'Yes?'

'Congressman Kendrick has arrived at the East Gate, sir. The strip search is in progress.'

The what?

'They're checking him for weapons and explosives—’

'Jesus, I never said he was a terrorist! He's in a government car with two Secret Service personnel!'

'Sir, you did indicate a strong degree of apprehension and displeasure—’

'Send him up here at once!'

'He may have to get dressed, sir.'

'Shit!'

Six minutes later a quietly furious Evan Kendrick was ushered through the door by an apprehensive secretary. Rather than thanking the woman, Evan's expression conveyed another message, more like Get out of here, lady, I want this man to myself. She left quickly as the chief of staff approached, his hand extended. Kendrick ignored it. 'I've heard about your fun and games over here, Dennison,' said Evan, his voice a low, icelike monotone, 'but when you presume to search a member of the House who's here at your invitation—that's what it had better be, you fucker; you don't give orders to me—you've gone too far.'

'A complete foul-up of instructions, Congressman! My God, how can you think anything else?'

'With you, very easily. Too many of my colleagues have had too many run-ins with you. The horror stories are rampant, including the one in which you threw a punch at the member from Kansas who, I understand, flattened you on the floor.'

'That's a lie! He disregarded White House procedures for which I'm responsible. I may have touched him, merely to keep him in place, but that's all. And that's when he took me by surprise.'

'I don't think so. I heard he called you a “two-bit major” and you went up.'

'Distortion. Complete distortion!' Dennison winced; the acid was erupting. 'Look, I apologize for the strip search—'

'Don't. It didn't happen. I accepted removing the jacket, figuring that was standard, but when the guard mentioned my shirt and trousers, my far brighter escorts moved in.'

'Then what the hell are you so uptight about?'

'That you even considered it, and if you didn't, that you've created a mentality here that would.'

'I could defend that accusation, but I won't bother. Now we're going into the Oval Office and, for Christ's sake, don't confuse the man with all that pro-Arab bullshit. Remember, he doesn't know what happened and it won't do any good trying to explain. I'll clarify everything for him later.'

'How do I know you're capable of that?'

'What?'

'You heard me. How do I know you're either capable or reliable?'

'What are you talking about?'

'I think you'd clarify whatever you want to clarify, telling him whatever you want him to hear.'

'Who the hell are you to talk to me this way?'

'Someone probably as rich as you are. Also someone who's getting out of this town, as I'm sure Swann told you, so your political benediction is meaningless to me—I wouldn't accept it in any event. You know something, Dennison? I think you're a bona fide rat. Not the cute Mickey Mouse variety, but the original animal. An ugly, scavenging, long-tailed rodent, who spreads a lousy disease. It's called nonaccountability.'

'You don't spare words, do you, Congressman?'

'I don't have to. I'm leaving.'

'But he isn't! And I want him strong, persuasive. He's taking us into a new era. We're standing tall again and it's about time. We're telling the crumbs of this world to shit or get off the pot!'

'Your expressions are as banal as you are.'

'What are you? Some fucking Ivy Leaguer with a degree in English? Get with it, Congressman. We're playing hardball here; this is if! People in this administration move their bowels or they're out. Got that?'

‘I’ll try to remember.'

'While you're at it, remember he doesn't like dissent. Everything's cool, got that? No waves at all; everybody's happy, got that?'

'You repeat yourself, don't you?'

'I get things done, Kendrick. That's the name of the hardball game.'

'You're a lean, mean machine, you are.'

'So we don't like each other. So what? It's no big deal—’

I've got that,' agreed Evan.

'Let's go.'

'Not so fast,' said Kendrick firmly, turning away from Dennison and walking to a window as if the office were his, not that of the President's man. 'What's the scenario? That is the term, isn't it?'

'What do you mean?'

'What do you want from me?' asked Kendrick, looking out at the White House lawn. 'Since you're doing the thinking, why am I here?'

'Because ignoring you would be counterproductive.'

'Really?' Kendrick turned again to face the White House's chief of staff. 'Counterproductive?'

'You've got to be acknowledged, is that clear enough? He can't sit on his ass and pretend you don't exist, right?'

'Oh, I see. Say that during one of his entertaining although not terribly enlightening press conferences, someone brings up my name, which is inevitable now. He can't very well say that he's not sure whether I play for the Jets or the Giants, can he?'

'You got it. Let's go. I'll shape the conversation.'

'You mean control it, don't you?'

'Call it what you like, Congressman. He's the greatest President of the twentieth century, and don't you forget it. My job is to maintain the status quo.'

'It's not my job.'

'The hell it isn't! It's all our jobs. I was in combat, young fella, and I watched men die defending our freedoms, our way of life. I tell you, it was a goddamned holy thing to see! And this man, this President, has brought those values back, those sacrifices we prize so much. He's moved this country in the right direction by the sheer force of his will, his personality', if you like. He's the best!'

'But not necessarily the brightest,' interrupted Kendrick.

'That doesn't mean shit. Galileo would have made a lousy Pope and a worse Caesar.'

'I suppose you've got a point.'

'I certainly do. Now the scenario—the explanation—is simple and all too damned familiar. Some son of a bitch leaked the Oman story and you want it forgotten as soon as possible.'

'I do?'

Dennison paused, studying Evan's face as if it were decidedly unattractive. 'That's based directly on what that jerk Swann told the chairman of the Joint Chiefs—’

'Why is Swann a jerk? He didn't leak the story. He tried to throw off the man who came to see him.'

'He let it happen. He was the CO of that operation and he let it happen and I'll see him hung.'

'Wrong past tense.'

'What?'

'Never mind. But just to make sure we're both using the same scenario, why do I want everything forgotten as soon as possible?'

'Because there could be reprisals against your lousy Arab friends over there. That's what you told Swann and that's what he told his superiors. You want to change it?'

'No, of course not,' said Kendrick softly. 'The scenario's the same.'

'Good. We'll schedule a short ceremony showing him thanking you on behalf of the whole damn country. No questions, just a restricted photo session and then you fade.' Dennison gestured to the door; both men started towards it. 'You know something, Congressman?' remarked the chief of staff, his hand on the knob. 'Your showing up like this has ruined one of the best whispering campaigns any administration could ask for—public relations-wise, that is.'

'A whispering campaign?'

'Yeah. The longer we kept quiet, deflecting questions on the basis of national security, the more people thought the President forced the Oman settlement all by himself.'

'He certainly conveyed that,' said Evan, smiling not unkindly, as if he admired a talent he did not necessarily approve of.

'I tell you he may not be an Einstein, but he's still a fucking genius.' Dennison opened the door.

Evan did not move. 'May I remind you that eleven men and women were murdered in Masqat? That two hundred others will have nightmares for the rest of their lives?'

'That's right!' replied Dennison. 'And he said it—with goddamned tears in his eyes! He said they were true American heroes, as brave as those who fought at Verdun, Omaha Beach, Panmunjom and Danang! The man said it, Congressman, and he meant it, and we stood tall!'

'He said it as he narrowed the options, making his message clear,' agreed Kendrick. 'If any one person was responsible for saving those two hundred and thirty-six hostages, it must have been him.'

'So?'

'Never mind. Let's get this over with.'

'You're a fruitcake, Congressman. And you're right, you don't belong in this town.'

Evan Kendrick had met the President of the United States only once. The meeting lasted for approximately five, perhaps six, seconds, during a White House reception for the freshmen congressmen of the chief executive's party. It had been mandatory for him to attend, according to Ann Mulcahy

O'Reilly, who practically threatened to blow up the office if Evan refused to go to the affair. It was not that Kendrick disliked the man, he kept telling Annie, it was just that he did not agree with a lot of things Langford Jennings espoused—perhaps more than a lot, maybe most. And in answer to Mrs. O'Reilly's question as to why he had run on the ticket, he could only reply that the other party did not stand a chance of being elected.

The predominant impression Evan had while briefly shaking hands with Langford Jennings in that reception line was more in the abstract than in the immediate, yet not totally so. The office was both intimidating and overwhelming. That a single human being could be entrusted with such awesome global power stretched any thinking man's mind to its limits. A miscue during some horrible miscalculation could blow up the planet. Yet… yet… despite Kendrick's personal evaluation of the man himself, which included a less than brilliant intellect and a proclivity for over-simplification as well as tolerance for such zealous clowns as Herbert Dennison, there was about Langford Jennings a striking image that was larger than life, an image that the ordinary citizen of the republic desperately longed for in the presidency. Evan had tried to understand the gossamer veil that shielded the man from closer scrutiny and had finally come to the conclusion that scrutiny itself was irrelevant compared to his impact. The same might be said of Nero, Caligula, any number of mad, authoritarian popes and emperors, and the ultimate villains of the twentieth century, Mussolini, Stalin and Hitler. Yet this man displayed none of the evil inherent in those others; instead, he conveyed a strong, pervasive trustworthiness that seemed to radiate from his inner self. Jennings was also blessed with a large, attractive physique, and a much larger belief, and the purity of his belief was everything to him. He was also one of the most charming, ingratiating men Kendrick had ever observed.

'Damn, it's good to meet you, Evan! May I call you Evan, Mr. Congressman?'

'Of course, Mr. President.'

Jennings came around the desk in the Oval Office to shake hands, gripping Kendrick's left arm as their hands clasped. 'I've just finished reading all that secret stuff about what you did, and I tell you, I'm so proud—'

'There were a lot of others involved, sir. Without them I'd have been killed.'

'I understand that. Sit down, Evan, sit, sit!' The President returned to his chair; Herbert Dennison remained standing. 'What you did, Evan, as a single individual, will be a textbook lesson for generations of young people in America. You took the whip in your hands and made the damn thing snap.'

'Not by myself, sir. There's a long list of people who risked their lives to help me—and several lost their lives. As I said, I'd be dead if it weren't for them. There were at least a dozen Omanis, from the young sultan down, and an Israeli commando unit that found me when I literally had only a few hours to live. My execution was already scheduled—’

'Yes, I understand all that, Evan,' interrupted Langford Jennings, nodding and frowning compassionately. 'I also understand that our friends in Israel insist that there must be no hint of their involvement, and our intelligence community here in Washington refuses to risk exposing our personnel in the Persian Gulf

The Gulf of Oman, Mr. President.'

'I'm on your side,' said Jennings, grinning his famous self-deprecating grin that had charmed a nation. 'I'm not sure I know one from the other but I'll learn tonight. As my hatchet cartoonists would balloon it, my wife won't give me my cookies and milk till I get it all straight.'

'That would be unfair, sir. It's a geographically complex part of the world for someone not familiar with it.'

'Yes, well, somehow I think even I might master it with a couple of grammar school maps.'

'I never meant to imply—'

'It's okay, Evan, it's my fault. I slip now and then. The main issue here is what do we do with you. What do we do, given the restrictions placed on us for the sake of protecting the lives of agents and subagents who are working for us in an explosive part of the globe?'

'I'd say those necessary restrictions call for keeping everything quiet, classified—’

'It's a little late for that, Evan,' broke in Jennings. 'National security alibis can only go so far. Beyond a certain point you arouse too much curiosity; that's when things can get sticky—and dangerous.'

'Also,' added Herbert Dennison, gruffly breaking his silence, 'as I mentioned to you, Congressman, the President can't simply ignore you. It wouldn't be the generous or patriotic thing to do. Now, the way I see it—and the President agrees with me—we'll schedule a short photo session here in the Oval Office, where you'll be congratulated by the President, along with a series of shots showing you both in what'll look like confidential conversation. That'll be consistent with the intelligence greyout required by our counter-terrorist services. The country will understand that. You don't tip off your tactics to those Arab scumballs.'

'Without a lot of Arabs I wouldn't have got anywhere, and you goddamned well know it,' said Kendrick, his angry eyes rigid on the chief of staff.

'Oh, we know it, Evan,' interrupted Jennings, his own eyes obviously amused by what he observed. 'At least I know it. By the way, Herb, I had a call from Sam Winters this afternoon and I think he has a hell of an idea that wouldn't violate any of our security concerns, and, as a matter of fact, could explain them.'

'Samuel Winters is not necessarily a friend,' countered Dennison. 'He's withheld a number of policy endorsements we could have used with Congress.'

'Then he didn't agree with us. Does that make him an enemy? Hell, if it does, you'd better send half the marine guards up to our family quarters. Come on, Herb, Sam Winters has been an adviser to presidents of both parties for as long as I can remember. Only a damn fool wouldn't accept calls from him.'

'He should have been routed through me.'

'You see, Evan?' said the President, his head askew, grinning mischievously. 'I can play in the sandbox but I can't choose my friends.'

That's hardly what I—’

'It certainly is what you meant, Herb, and that's okay with me. You get things done around here—which you constantly remind me of, and that's okay, too.'

'What did Mr. Winters—Professor Winters—suggest?' asked Dennison, the academic title spoken sarcastically.

'Well, he's a “professor”, Herb, but he's not your average run-of-the-mill teacher, is he? I mean, if he wanted to, I suppose he could buy a couple of pretty decent universities. Certainly the one I got out of could be his for a sum he wouldn't miss.'

'What was his idea?' pressed the chief of staff anxiously.

'That I award my friend, Evan, here, the Medal of Freedom.' The President turned to Kendrick. 'That's the civilian equivalent to the Congressional Medal of Honor, Evan.'

'I know that, sir. I neither deserve it nor want it.'

'Well, Sam made a couple of things clear to me and I think he's right. To begin with, you do deserve it, and whether you want it or not, I'd look like a mean chintzy bastard not awarding it to you. And that, fellas, I will not accept. Is that clear, Herb?'

'Yes, Mr. President,' said Dennison, his voice choked. 'However, you should know that although Representative Kendrick is standing unopposed for re-election to guarantee you a congressional seat, he intends to resign his office in the near future. There's no point, since he has his own objections, in focusing more attention on him.'

'The point, Herb, is that I won't be a chintzy bastard. Anyway, he looks as if he could be my younger brother—we could get mileage out of that. Sam Winters brought it to my attention. The image of a go-getting American family, he called it. Not bad, wouldn't you say?'

'It's not necessary, Mr. President,' rejoined Dennison, now frustrated, his hoarse voice conveying the fact that he could not push much farther. 'The Congressman's fears are valid.

He thinks there could be reprisals against friends of his in the Arab world.'

The President leaned back in his chair, his eyes fixed blankly on his chief of staff. 'That doesn't wash with me. This is a dangerous world, and we'll only make it more dangerous by knuckling under to such speculative crap. But in that vein I'll explain to the country—from a position of strength, not fear—that I won't permit full disclosure of the Oman operation for reasons of counter-terrorist strategy. You were right about that part, Herb. Actually, Sam Winters said it to me first. Also, I will not look like a chintzy bastard. It simply isn't me. Understood, Herb?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Evan,' said Jennings, the infectious grin again creasing his face. 'You're my kind of man. What you did was terrific—what I read about it—and this President won't stint! By the way, Sam Winters mentioned that I should say we worked together. What the hell, my people worked with you, and that's the gospel truth.'

'Mr. President—’

'Schedule it, Herb. I looked at my calendar, if that doesn't offend you. Next Tuesday, ten o'clock in the morning. That way we'll hit all the TV stations' nightly news, and Tuesday's a good night.'

'But Mr. President—' began a flustered Dennison.

'Also, Herb, I want the Marine Band. In the Blue Room. I'll be damned if I'll be a chintzy bastard! It's not me!'

A furious Herbert Dennison walked back to his office with Kendrick in tow for the purpose of carrying out the presidential order: Work out the details for the award ceremony in the Blue Room on the following Tuesday. With the Marine Band. So intense was the chief of staff's anger that his large, firm jaw was locked in silence.

'I'm really on your case, aren't I, Herbie?' said Evan, noting the bull-like quality of Dennison's stride.

'You're on my case and my name isn't Herbie.'

'Oh, I don't know. You looked like a Herbie back there. The man cut you down, didn't he?'

'There are times when the President is inclined to listen to the wrong people.'

Kendrick looked over at the chief of staff as they marched down the wide hallway. Dennison ignored the tentative greetings of numerous White House personnel heading in the opposite direction, several of whom stared wide-eyed at Evan, obviously recognizing him. 'I don't get it,' said Kendrick. 'Our mutual dislike aside, what's your problem? I'm the one being stuck where I don't want to be, not you. Why are you howling?'

'Because you talk too goddamned much. I watched you on the Foxley show and that little display in your office the next morning. You're counterproductive.'

'You like that word, don't you?'

'I've got a lot of others I can use.'

'I'm sure you do. Then again I may have a surprise for you.'

'Another one? What the hell is it?'

'Wait till we get to your office.'

Dennison ordered his secretary to hold all calls except those on Priority Red. She nodded her head rapidly in obedient acknowledgment, but in a cowed voice explained, 'You have more than a dozen messages now, sir. Nearly every one is an urgent callback.'

'Are they Priority Red?' The woman shook her head. 'What did I just tell you?' With these courteous words the chief of staff propelled the congressman into his office and slammed the door shut. 'Now, what's this surprise of yours?'

'You know, Herbie, I really must give you some advice,' replied Evan, walking casually over to the window where he had stood previously; he turned and looked at Dennison. 'You can be rude to the help as much as you like or as long as they'll take it, but don't you ever again put your hand on a member of the House of Representatives and shove him into your office as if you were about to administer a strap.'

'I didn't shove you!'

'I interpreted it that way and that's all that matters. You have a heavy hand, Herbie. I'm sure my distinguished colleague from Kansas felt the same way when he decked you on your ass.'

Unexpectedly, Herbert Dennison paused, then laughed softly. The prolonged deep chuckle was reflective, neither angry nor antagonistic, more the sound of relief than anything else. He loosened his tie and casually sat down in a leather armchair in front of his desk. 'Christ, I wish I were ten or twelve years younger, Kendrick, and I'd whip your tail—I could have done it even at that age. At sixty-three, however, you learn that caution is the better part of valour, or whatever it is. I don't care to be decked again; it's a little harder to get up these days.'

'Then don't ask for it, don't provoke it. You're a very provocative man.'

'Sit down, Congressman—in my chair, at my desk. Go on, go ahead.' Evan did so. 'How does it feel? You get a tingling in your spine, a rush of blood to your head?'

'Neither. It's a place to work.'

'Yeah, well, I guess we're different. You see, down the hall is the most powerful man on earth, and he relies on me, and to tell you the truth, I'm no genius, either. I just keep the booby hatch running. I oil the machinery so the wheels turn, and the oil I use has a lot of acidity in it, just like me. But it's the only lubricant I've got and it works.'

'I suppose there's a point to this,' said Kendrick.

'I suppose there is and I don't think you'll be offended. Since I've been here—since we've been here—everybody bows like gooks in front of me, saying all kinds of flattering things with big smiles—only with eyes that tell me they'd rather put a bullet in my head. I've been through it before; it doesn't bother me. But here you show up and you tell me to go fuck off. Now, that's really refreshing. I can deal with that. I mean I like your not liking me and my not liking you—does that make sense?'

'In a perverse sort of way, I suppose. But then you're a perverse man.'

'Why? Because I'd rather talk straight than in circles? Pointless lip service and ass-kissing drivel only waste time. If I could get rid of both, we'd all accomplish ten times what we do now.'

'Did you ever let anyone know that?'

'I've tried, Congressman, so help me God I've tried. And you know something? Nobody believes me.'

'Would you if you were they?'

'Probably not, and maybe if they did the booby hatch would turn into a registered loony bin. Think about it, Kendrick. There's more than one side to my perversity.'

'I'm not qualified to comment on that, but this conversation makes things easier for me.'

'Easier? Oh, that surprise you're going to lay on me?'

'Yes,' agreed Evan. 'You see, up to a point I'll do what you want me to do—for a price. It's my pact with the devil.'

'You flatter me.'

'I don't mean to. I'm not given to ass-kissing drivel, either, because it wastes my time. As I read you, I'm “counterproductive” because I've made some noise about several things I feel pretty strongly about and what you've heard goes against your grain. Am I right, so far?'

'Right on the tiny tin dime, kiddo. You may look different, but to me there's a lot of that stringy, long-haired protest crap in you.'

'And you think that if I'm given any kind of platform there might be more to come, and that really frosts your apricots. Right again?'

'Right in the fly's asshole. I don't want anything or anyone to interrupt his voice, his comments. He's taken us out of the pansy patch; we're riding a strong Chinook wind and it feels good.'

'I won't try to follow that.'

'You probably couldn't—’

'But basically you want two things from me,' continued Evan rapidly. 'The first is for me to say as little as possible and nothing at all that calls into question the wisdom emanating from this booby hatch of yours. Am I close?'

'You couldn't get closer without being arrested.'

'And the second is in what you said before. You want me to fade—and fade fast. How am I doing?'

'You've got the brass ring.'

'All right, I'll do both—up to a point. After this little ceremony next Tuesday, which neither of us wants but we lose to the man, my office will be flooded with demands from the media. Newspapers, radio, television, the weekly magazines—the whole ball of wax. I'm news and they want to sell their merchandise—’

'You're not telling me anything I don't know or don't like,' interrupted Dennison.

'I'll turn everything down,' said Kendrick flatly. 'I won't grant any interviews. I won't speak publicly on any issue, and I'll fade just as fast as I can.'

'I'd kiss you right now except that you mentioned something kind of counterproductive, like “up to a point”. What the hell does that mean?'

'It means that in the House I'll vote to my conscience, and if I'm challenged on the floor I'll give my reasons as dispassionately as I can. But that's in the House; off the Hill I'm not available for comment.'

'We get most of our PR flak off the Hill, not on it,' said the White House chief of staff reflectively. 'The Congressional Record and Cable's C-Span cameras don't put a dent in the Daily News and Dallas. Under the circumstances, thanks to that smooth son of a bitch Sam Winters, your offer is so irresistible I wonder what the price is. You have a price, I assume.'

'I want to know who blew the whistle on me. Who leaked the Oman story so very, very professionally.'

'You think I don't?' erupted Dennison, bouncing forward. 'I'd have the bastards deep-sixed fifty miles off Newport News in torpedo cans!'

'Then help me find out. That's my price, take it or take me replaying the Foxley show all over the country, calling you and your crowd exactly what I honestly think you are. A

bunch of bumbling Neanderthals faced with a complicated world you can't understand.'

'You're the fucking expert?'

'Hell, no. I just know that you're not. I watch and I listen and see you cutting off so many people who could help you because there's a zig or a zag in their stripes that doesn't conform to your preconceived pattern. And I learned something this afternoon; I saw it, heard it. The President of the United States talked to Samuel Winters, a man you disapprove of, but when you explained why you didn't like him, that he withheld endorsements that could help you with Congress, Langford Jennings said something that impressed the hell out of me. He said to you that if this Sam Winters disagreed with some policy or other, it did not make him an enemy.'

'The President frequently doesn't understand who his enemies are. He spots ideological allies quickly and sticks by them—sometimes too long, frankly—but often he's too generous to detect those who would erode what he stands for.'

'That's about the weakest and most presumptuous argument I've ever heard, Herbie. What are you shielding your man from? Diverse opinions?'

'Let's go back to your big surprise, Congressman. I like the topic better.'

'I'm sure you do.'

'What do you know that we don't that can help us find out who leaked the Oman story.'

'Essentially what I learned from Frank Swann. As head of the OHIO-Four-Zero unit, he was the liaison to the secretaries of Defense and State as well as the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, all of whom knew about me. He told me to rule them out as possible leaks, however—'

'Far out,' interrupted Dennison. 'They've got soft-boiled eggs all over their faces. They can't answer the simplest questions, which makes them look like prime idiots. Incidentally, they're not idiots and they've been around long enough to know what maximum-classified is and why it's there. What else?'

'Then apart from you, and frankly I rule you out only because my surfacing is about as “counterproductive” as your fractured grey cells could conjure, that leaves three other people.'

'Who are they?'

'The first is a man named Lester Crawford at the Central Intelligence Agency; the second the station chief in Bahrain, James Grayson. The last is a woman, Adrienne Rashad, who's apparently special property and operates out of Cairo.'

'What about them?'

'According to Swann they're the only ones who knew my identity when I was flown over to Masqat.'

'That's our personnel,' said Dennison pointedly. 'What about your people over there?'

'I can't say it's impossible, but I think it's remote. The few I reached, except for the young sultan, are so removed from any contact with Washington that I'd have to consider them last, if at all. Ahmat, whom I've known for years, certainly wouldn't for a lot of reasons, starting with his throne and, equally important, his ties with this government. Of the four men I spoke to on the telephone, only one responded and he was killed for it—undoubtedly with the consent of the others. They were frightened out of their skins. They didn't want anything to do with me, no acknowledgment of my presence in Oman whatsoever, and that included anyone they knew who did meet me and who might make them suspect. You'd have to have been there to understand. They all live with the terrorist syndrome, with daggers at their throats—and at the throat of every member of their families. There'd been reprisals, a son killed, a daughter raped and disfigured because cousins or uncles called for action against the Palestinians. I don't believe any of those men would have spoken my name to a deaf dog.'

'Christ, what kind of a world do those goddamned Arabs live in?'

'One in which the vast majority try to survive and make lives for themselves and their children. And we haven't helped, you bigoted bastard.'

Dennison cocked his head and frowned. 'I may have deserved that shot, Congressman, I'll have to think about it. Not so long ago it was fashionable not to like Jews, not to trust them, and now that's changed and the Arabs have taken their place in the scheme of our dislikes. Maybe it's all bullshit, who knows?… But what I want to know now is who sprung you out of the top secret woodwork. You figure it's someone from our ranks.'

'It has to be. Swann was approached—fraudulently approached, as it turns out—by a blond-haired man with a European accent who had in-depth data on me. That information could only have come from government files—my congressional background check probably. He tried to tie me in with the Oman situation but Swann firmly denied it, saying he had specifically turned me down. However, Frank had the impression that the man wasn't convinced.'

'We know about the blond spook,' broke in Dennison. 'We can't find him.'

'But he dug and found someone else, someone who confirmed either intentionally or unintentionally what he was tracking down. If we rule you out, and if we also rule out State, Defense and the Joint Chiefs, it has to be Crawford, Grayson or the Rashad woman.'

'Cross out the first two,' said the White House chief of staff. 'Early this morning I grilled Crawford right here in this office, and he was ready to challenge me to a game of Saigon roulette for even suggesting the possibility. As far as Grayson is concerned, I spoke to him in Bahrain five hours ago and he damned near had apoplexy thinking we even considered him the leak. He read the black-operations book to me as if I were the dumbest kid on the block who should be thrown into solitary for calling him on an unsecured line in foreign territory. Like Crawford, Grayson's an old line professional. Neither would risk throwing away his life's work over you, and neither could be tricked into doing it.'

Kendrick leaned forward in Dennison's chair, his elbows on the desk. He stared at the far wall of the office, a rush of conflicting thoughts racing through his mind. Khalehla, born Adrienne Rashad, had saved his life, but had she saved it only to sell him? She was also a close friend of Ahmat, who could be damaged by his association with her, and Evan had hurt the young sultan enough without adding a turned intelligence agent to the list. Yet Khalehla had understood him when he needed understanding; she was kind when he needed kindness because he was so afraid—both for his life and for his inadequacies. If she had been tricked into revealing him and he exposed her ineptness, she was finished in a job she intensely believed in… Yet if she had not been tricked, if for reasons of her own she had exposed him—then all he would expose was her betrayal. Which was the truth? Dupe or liar? Whichever it was, he had to find out for himself without the spectre of official scrutiny. Above all, dupe or liar, he had to know who she had contacted or who had contacted her. For only the 'who' could answer the 'why' he had been exposed as Evan of Oman. And that he had to learn! 'Then out of the seven of you, there's only one unaccounted for.'

'The woman,' agreed Dennison, nodding his head. ‘I’ll put her on a revolving spit over the hottest goddamn fire you ever saw.'

'No, you won't,' countered Kendrick. 'You and your people won't get near her until I give you the word—if I give it. And we're going to go one step farther. No one's to know you're flying her back here—under cover, I think is the term. Absolutely no one. Is that understood?'

'Who the hell are you—’

'We've been through this, Herbie. Remember next Tuesday in the Blue Room? With the Marine Band and all those reporters and television cameras? I'll have a great big platform to climb on if I want to and express a few opinions. Believe me, you'll be among the first targets, decked ass and all.'

'Shit! May the one being blackmailed be so bold as to ask why this female spook gets preferred treatment?'

'Sure,' replied Evan, his gaze settled on the chief of staff.

'That woman saved my life and you're not going to ruin hers by letting her own people know you've got her under your well-advertised White House shotgun. You've done enough of that around here.'

'All right, all right! But let's get one thing clear. If she's the sieve, you turn her over to me.'

'That'll depend,' said Kendrick, sitting back.

'On what, for Christ's sake?'

'On the how and the why.'

'More riddles, Congressman?'

'Not for me,' answered Evan, suddenly rising from the chair. 'Get me out of here, Dennison. Also, since I can't go home, either to my house in Virginia or even out to Colorado, without being swamped, can someone in this booby hatch rent me a lodge or a cabin in the country under another name? I'll pay for a month or whatever's necessary. I just want a few days to figure things out before I go back to the office.'

'It's been taken care of,' said the chief of staff abruptly. 'Actually, it was Jennings's idea—to put you on ice over the weekend in one of those sterile houses in Maryland.'

'What the hell is a sterile house? Please use language I can understand.'

'Let's put it this way. You're the guest of the President of the United States in a place no one can find that is reserved for people we don't want found. It dovetailed with my considered opinion that Langford Jennings should make the first public statements about you. You've been seen here, and as sure as rabbits have little rabbits the word'll get out.'

'You're the scenario writer. What do we say—what do you say, since I'm in isolation?'

'That's easy. Your safety. It's the President's primary concern after conferring with our counter-terrorist experts. Don't worry, our writers will come up with something that'll make the women cry into their handkerchiefs and the men want to go out and march in a parade. And since Jennings has the last word in these things, it'll probably include some whacked-up image of a powerful knight of the Round Table looking after a brave younger brother who carried out a joint, dangerous mission. Shit!'

'And if there's any truth to the reprisal theory,' added Kendrick, 'it'll make me a target.'

That'd be nice,' agreed Dennison, nodding again.

'Call me when you've made arrangements for the Rashad woman.'

Evan sat in a long leather chair in the study of the impressive sterile house on Maryland's Eastern Shore in the township of Cynwid Hollow. Outside, within the walls of the floodlit grounds, guards moved in and out of the lights as they patrolled every foot of the acreage, their rifles at the ready, their eyes alert.

Kendrick snapped off the third replay he had watched on television of President Langford Jennings's suddenly called press conference regarding one Congressman Evan Kendrick of Colorado. It was more outrageous than Dennison had projected, filled with gut-wrenching pauses accompanied by a constant series of well-rehearsed grins that so obviously conveyed the pride and the agony beneath the surface of the smile. The President once again said everything in general terms and nothing specific—except in one area: Until all proper security measures are in place I have asked Congressman Kendrick, a man we are all so proud of, to remain in protective seclusion. And with this request, I hereby give dire warning. Should cowardly terrorists anywhere make any attempt on the life of my good friend, my close colleague, someone I look upon no less than I would a younger brother, the full might of the United States will be employed by ground, sea and air against determined enclaves of those responsible. Determined? Oh, my God!

A telephone rang. Evan looked around trying to find out where it was. It was across the room on a desk; he swung his legs down and walked to the startlingly intrusive instrument.

'Yes?'

'She's flying over on military transport with a senior attaché from the embassy in Cairo. She's listed as a secretarial aide, the name's unimportant. The ETA is seven o'clock in the morning our time. She'll be in Maryland by ten at the latest.'

'What does she know?'

'Nothing.'

'You had to say something,' insisted Kendrick.

'She was told it was new and urgent instructions from her government, instructions that could be transmitted only in person over here.'

'She bought that nonsense?'

'She didn't have a choice. She was picked up at her flat in Cairo and has been in protective custody ever since. Have a lousy night, you bastard.'

'Thanks, Herbie.' Evan hung up the phone, both relieved and frightened by the prospect of tomorrow morning's confrontation with the woman he had known as Khalehla, a woman he had made love to in a frenzy of fear and exhaustion. That impulsive act and the desperation that led to it must be forgotten. He had to determine whether he was re-meeting an enemy or a friend. But at least there was now a schedule for the next twelve or fifteen hours. It was time to call Ann O'Reilly and, through her, contact Manny. It did not matter who knew where he was; he was the official guest of the President of the United States.