The Icarus Agenda

Chapter 25

Mitchell Jarvis Payton was a trim sixty-three-year-old academic who had been sucked into the Central Intelligence Agency thirty-four years before because he fitted a description someone had given to the personnel procurement division at the time. That someone had disappeared into other endeavours and no job had been listed for Payton, only the requirements—marked urgent. However, by the time his prospective employers realized that they had no specific employment for the prospect it was too late. He had been signed up by the Agency's aggressive recruiters in Los Angeles and sent to CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia, for indoctrination. It was an embarrassing situation as Dr Payton, in a rush of personal and patriotic fervour, had submitted his resignation, effective immediately, to the State education authorities. It was an inauspicious beginning for a man whose career would develop so auspiciously.

MJ, as he had been called for as long as he could remember, had been a twenty-nine-year-old associate professor with a doctorate in Arabian Studies from the University of California where he subsequently taught. One bright morning he was visited by two gentlemen from the government who convinced him that his country urgently needed his talents. What the specifics entailed they were not at liberty, of course, to disclose, but insofar as they represented the most exciting sphere of government service, they assumed that the position was overseas, in the area of his expertise. The young bachelor had leaped at the opportunity, and when faced with perplexed superiors in Langley, who wondered what to do with him, he adamantly suggested that he had cut his ties in LA because he had at least assumed that he would be sent to Egypt. So he had been sent to Cairo—we can't get enough observers in Egypt who understand the goddamned language. As an undergraduate he had studied American Literature, chosen because Payton did not think there was a hell of a lot of it. It was for this reason that an employment agency in Rome, in reality a CIA subsidiary, had placed him at the Cairo University as an Arabic-speaking instructor of American Literature.

There he had met the Rashads, a lovely couple who became an important part of his life. At Payton's first faculty meeting, he sat beside the renowned Professor Rashad, and in their pre-conference small-talk he learned that Rashad had not only gone to university in California, but had married a classmate of MJ's. A deep friendship blossomed, as did MJ's reputation within the Central Intelligence Agency. Through talents he had no idea he possessed, and which at times actually frightened him, he discovered that he was an exceptionally convincing liar. They were days of turmoil, of rapidly shifting alliances that had to be monitored, the spreading American penetration kept out of sight. He was able, through his fluent Arabic and his understanding that people could be motivated with sympathetic words backed up with money, to organize various groups of opposing factions who reported on each other's movements to him. In return, he provided funds for their causes—minor expenditures for the then sacrosanct CIA but major contributions to the zealots' meagre coffers. And through his efforts in Cairo, Washington averted a number of potentially explosive embarrassments. So, typically of the old-school-tie network in DC's intelligence community, if a good fellow did such a fine job where he was, forget the convergence of specific factors that made him good where he was and bring him back to Washington to see what he could do there. MJ Payton was the exception in a long line of failures. He succeeded James Jesus Angleton, the Grey Fox of clandestine operations, as the director of Special Projects. And he never forgot what his friend, Rashad, told him when he reached his ascendancy.

'You never could have made it, MJ, if you had married. You have the self-confidence of never having been manipulated.'

Perhaps.

Yet a test of manipulation had come full force to him when the headstrong daughter of his dear friends had arrived in Washington, as adamant as he had ever seen her. A terrible thing had happened in Cambridge, Massachusetts, and she was determined to devote her life—at least a part of her life—to lessening the fires of hatred and violence that were ripping her Mediterranean world apart. She never told 'Uncle Mitch' what had happened to her—she did not have to, really—but she would not take no for an answer. She was qualified; she was as fluent in English and French as she was in Arabic, and she was currently learning both Yiddish and Hebrew. He had suggested the Peace Corps and she had slammed her bag down on the floor in front of his desk.

'No! I'm not a child, Uncle Mitch, and I don't have those kinds of benevolent impulses. I'm concerned only with where I come from, where I was born. If you won't use me, I'll find others who will!'

'They could be the wrong others, Adrienne.'

'Then stop me. Hire me!'

‘I’ll have to talk to your parents—'

'You can't! He's retired—they're retired, and they live up north in Baltim-on-the-Sea. They'd only worry about me, and in their worrying cause problems. Find me translating jobs, or a floating consultant's position with exporters—certainly you can do that! Good God, Uncle Mitch, you were a small-time instructor at the university and we never said anything!'

'You didn't know, my dear—’

'The hell I didn't! The whispers around the house when a friend of Uncle Mitch's was coming and how I had to stay in my room, and then one night when suddenly three men came, all wearing guns on their belts, which I'd never seen—'

'Those were emergencies. Your father understood.'

'Then you understand me now, Uncle Mitch. I have to do this!'

'All right,' consented MJ Pay ton. 'But you understand me, young lady. You'll be put through a concentrated course in Fairfax, Virginia, in a compound that's not on any map. If you fail, I can't help you.'

'Agreed,' had said Adrienne Khalehla Rashad, smiling. 'Do you want to bet?'

'Not with you, you young tigress. Come on, let's go to lunch. You don't drink, do you?'

'Not really.'

'I do and I will, but I won't bet you.'

And it was good for Payton's wallet that he did not bet. Candidate No. 1344 finished the excruciating ten-week course in Fairfax, Virginia, at the head of her class. Women's liberation be damned, she was better than twenty-six men. But then, her 'Uncle Mitch' thought, she had a motive the others did not have: One half of her was Arab.

All that was more than nine years ago. But now on this Friday afternoon nearly ten years later, Mitchell Jarvis Payton was appalled! Field agent Adrienne Rashad, currently on duty in the West Mediterranean Sector, Cairo Post, had just called him from a pay telephone at the Hilton Hotel here in Washington! What in the name of God was she doing here? On whose authority was she removed from her post? All officers attached to Special Projects, especially this officer, had to have their orders cleared through him. It was incredible! And the fact that she would not come out to Langley but, instead, insisted on meeting him at an out-of-the-way restaurant in Arlington did not calm MJ's nerves. Especially after she said to him, 'It's absolutely vital that I don't run into anyone I know, or who might know me, Uncle Mitch.' Apart from the ominous tone of her statement, she had not called him Uncle Mitch in years, not since she was in college. His unrelated 'niece' was a troubled woman.

Milos Varak got off the plane at Durango, Colorado, and walked across the terminal to the counter of the car rental agency. He produced a false driver's licence and a correspondingly false credit card, signed the lease agreement, accepted the keys and was directed to the lot where the car awaited him. In his briefcase was a detailed map of lower southwest Colorado listing such things as the wonders of the Mesa Verde National Park as well as descriptions of hotels, motels and restaurants, the majority of which were found in and around such cities as Cortez, Hesperas, Marvel and, farther east, Durango. The least detailed area was a dot called Mesa Verde itself; the designation of 'town' did not apply. It was a geographical location more in people's minds than on the books; a general store, a barber shop, a small outlying private airport and a cafe called Gee-Gee's constituted its industry. One passed through Mesa Verde, one did not live there. It existed for the convenience of farmers, field hands and those inveterate travellers who invariably got lost by taking the scenic routes to New Mexico and Arizona. The anomaly of the airport was for the benefit of those dozen or so privileged landowners who had built estates for themselves in the back country and simply wanted it. They rarely, if ever, saw the stretch of road with the general store, the barber shop and Gee-Gee's. Their necessities were flown in from Denver, Las Vegas and Beverly Hills—thus the airport. The exception here was Congressman Evan Kendrick, who had surprisingly run for political office. He had made the mistake of thinking that Mesa Verde could produce votes, which it would have done if the election had been held south of the Rio Grande.

Varak, however, very much wanted to see that stretch of road the locals referred to as Mesa Verde, or just plain Verde, as Emmanuel Weingrass called it. He wanted to see how the men dressed, how they walked, what the stresses of field work had done to their bodies, their muscles, their posture. For the next twenty-four, or at most forty-eight, hours he would have to blend in. Milos had a job to do that in one sense saddened him beyond measuring the pain, but it was something he had to do. If there was a traitor to Inver Brass, within Inver Brass, Varak had to find him… or her.

After an hour and thirty-five minutes of driving, he found the cafe named Gee-Gee's. He could not go inside dressed as he was, so he parked the car, removed his jacket, and strolled into the general store across the street.

'Ain't seen you before,' said the elderly owner, turning his head as he stacked bags of rice on a shelf. 'Always nice to see a new face. You headin' for New Mex? I'll put you on the right road, no need to buy anythin'. I keep tellin' people that, but they always feel they got to part with cash when all they want is directions.'

'You're most kind, sir,' said Milos, 'but I'm afraid I must part with cash—not mine of course, my employer's. I'm to purchase several bags of rice. It was omitted from the delivery from Denver.'

'Oh, one of the biggies in the hills. Take what you like, son—for cash, of course. At my age I don't carry out.'

'I wouldn't think of it, sir.'

'Hey, you're a foreign fella', ain't cha?'

'Scandinavian,' replied Varak. 'I'm just temporary, filling in while the chauffeur is ill.' Milos picked up three bags of rice and carried them to the counter; the owner followed towards the cash register.

'Who you work for?'

'The Kendrick house, but he doesn't know me—’

'Hey, isn't that somethin' about young Evan? Our own congressman the heero of Oman! I tell ya, makes a man stand tall, like the President says! He come in here a couple a' times—three, four maybe. Nicest fella you'd want to meet; real down-to-earth, you know what I mean?'

'I'm afraid I've never met him.'

'Yeah, but if you're out there at the house, you know ol' Manny, that's for sure! A real pistol, ain't he? I tell ya, that crazy Jewish fella is somethin' else!'

'He certainly is.'

That'll be six dollars and thirty-one cents, son. Skip the penny if you ain't got it.'

'I'm sure I have—' Varak reached into his pocket, 'Does Mr… Manny come in here often?'

'Some. Maybe two, three times a month. Drives in with one of them nurses of his, then as soon as she turns her back, he splits over to Gee-Gee's. He's some fella. Here's your change, son.'

'Thank you.' Milos picked up the bags of rice and turned towards the door, but was suddenly stopped by the owner's next words.

'I figure those girls snitched on him, though, 'cause Evan must be gettin' a little stricter lookin' after his ol' pal, but I guess you know that.'

'Yes, of course,' said Varak, looking back at the man and smiling. 'How did you find out?'

'Yesterday,' replied the owner. 'What with all the fuss out at the house Manny got Jake's cab to bring him down to Gee-Gee's. I saw him so I went to the door and shouted to him about how great the news was, y'know. He yelled back something like “my sugar” or something, and went inside. That's when I saw this other car comin' real slow down the street with a guy talkin' on a telephone—you know, one of them car telephones. He parked across from Gee-Gee's and just stayed there watchin' the door. Then later he was on that telephone again and a few minutes after that he got out and went into Gonzalez's place. No one else had gone in, so that's when I figured he was keepin' tabs on Manny.'

'I'll tell them to be more careful,' said Milos, still smiling. 'But just to make sure we're talking about the same man, or one of them, what did he look like?'

'Oh, he was city, all right. Fancy duds and slick-down hair.'

'Dark hair, then?'

'No, sorta' reddish.'

'Oh, him?’ said Varak convincingly. 'Approximately my size.'

'Nope, I'd say a mite taller, maybe more than a mite.'

'Yes, of course,' agreed the Czech. 'I imagine we often think of ourselves as taller than we are. He's somewhat slender, or perhaps it's his height—’

'That's him,' broke in the owner. 'Not much meat on his bones, not like you, no sirree.'

'Then he was driving the brown Lincoln.'

'Looked blue to me, and big, but I don't know one car from another these days. All look the same, like unhappy bugs.'

'Well, thank you, sir. I'll certainly tell the team to be more discreet. We wouldn't want Manny upset.'

'Oh, don't worry about me tellin' him. Manny had a big operation and if young Evan thinks he needs closer watchin', I'm for it. I mean, ol' Manny, he's a pistol—Gee-Gee even waters his whisky when he can get away with it.'

'Thank you again. I'll inform the congressman of your splendid co-operation.'

'Thought you didn't know him.'

'When I meet him, sir. Goodbye.'

Milos Varak started the hired car and drove down the stretch of road, leaving behind the general store, the barber shop and Gee-Gee's cafe. A tall, slender man with neatly combed reddish hair and driving a large blue car. The hunt had begun.

'I don't believe it!' whispered Mitchell Jarvis Payton.

'Believe, MJ,' said Adrienne Rashad over the red-checked tablecloth at the rear of the Italian restaurant in Arlington. 'What did you really know about Oman?'

'It was a Four-Zero operation run by State and liaisoned by Lester Crawford, who wanted a list of our best people with the widest range of contacts in the southwest basin. That's all I knew. There may be others more qualified than you, but not where contacts are concerned.'

'You must have assumed the operation involved the hostages.'

'Of course, we all did, and to tell you the truth I was torn. Your friendship with Ahmat and his wife was no secret to me, and I had to assume that others also knew. You see, I didn't want to submit your name to Les, but your past work with Projects called for it and your ties to the royal family demanded it. Also, I realized that if I left you out for personal reasons and you ever learned about it, you'd have my head.'

'I certainly would have.'

'I'll confess to a minor sin, however,' said Payton, smiling a sad smile. 'When it was all over I walked into Crawford's office and made it clear that I understood the rules, but I must know that you were all right. He looked up at me with those fish eyes of his and said you were back in Cairo. I think it bothered him even to tell me that… And now you tell me that the whole damned operation was blown open by one of us! A Four-Zero strategy can't be unsealed for years, often decades! There are records going back to World War Two that won't see the light of day until the middle of the next century, if then.'

'Who controls those records, MJ, those files?'

'They're carted off to oblivion—stored in warehouses around the country controlled by government custodians with armed guards and alarm systems so high-tech they reach instantly back to Washington, alerting us here, as well as the Departments of State and Defense and the White House strategy rooms. Of course for the past twenty years or so, with the proliferation of sophisticated computers, most are stored in data banks with access codes that have to be coordinated between a minimum of three intelligence services and the Oval Office. Where original documents are considered vital, they're sealed and packed off.' Payton shrugged, his palms upturned. 'Oblivion, my dear. It's all foolproof, theft proof.'

'It obviously isn't,' disagreed the field agent from Cairo.

'It is when those records reach the level of security controls,' countered MJ. 'So I think you'd better tell me everything you know and everything the congressman told you. Because if what you say is true, we've got a bastard somewhere between the decision to go maximum and the data banks.'

Adrienne Khalehla Rashad leaned back in the chair and began. She withheld nothing from her once and always 'Uncle Mitch', not even the sexual accident that had occurred in Bahrain. 'I can't say I'm sorry, professionally or otherwise, MJ. We were both stretched and scared and, frankly, he's a hell of a decent man—out of his depth, but kind of fine, I guess. I reconfirmed it this morning in Maryland.'

'In bed?’

'Good Lord, no. In what he said, what he's reaching for. Why he did what he did, why he even became a congressman and now wants out as I've told you. I'm sure he's got warts all over him, but he's also got a good anger.'

'I think I detect certain feelings in my “niece” that I've wanted to see for a long, long time.'

'Oh, they're there, I'd be a hypocrite to deny them, but I doubt that there's anything permanent. In a way, we're alike. I'm projecting, but I think we're both too consumed with what we have to do, as two separate people, and only then interested in what the other wants. Yet I like him, MJ, I really do like him. He makes me laugh, and not just at him but with him.'

'That's terribly important,' said Payton wistfully, his smile and his gentle frown even sadder than before. 'I've never found anyone who could genuinely make me laugh… not with her. Of course, it's a flaw in my own make-up. I'm too damned demanding, and worse off for it.'

'You have no flaws, or warts,' insisted Rashad. 'You're my Uncle Mitch and I won't hear of it.'

'Your father always made your mother laugh. I envied them at times, despite the problems they faced. He did make her laugh.'

'It was a defence mechanism. Mother thought he could say “divorce” three times and she'd have to split.'

'Rubbish. He adored her.' Then as deftly as if they had not strayed from the Masqat crisis, Payton returned to it. 'Why did Kendrick insist on anonymity in the first place? I know you've told me, but run it by me again, will you?'

'You sound suspicious and you shouldn't be. It's a perfectly logical explanation. He intended to go back and take up where he left off five—six years ago. He couldn't do that with the baggage of Oman around his neck. He can't do it now because everyone wants his head, from the Palestinian fanatics to Ahmat and all those who helped him and are frightened to death that they'll be exposed. What's happened to him during the past two days proves that he was right. He wants to go back and now he can't. No one will let him.'

Again Payton frowned, the sadness gone, replaced by a cold curiosity that bordered on doubt. 'Yes, I understand that, my dear, but then you have only his word that he wanted to go back—wants to go back.'

'I believe him,' said Rashad.

'He may believe it himself,' offered the director of Special Projects. 'Now, as it were, having had second thoughts provoked by thinking things through.'

'That's cryptic as hell, MJ. What do you mean?'

'It may be a minor point, but I think it's worth considering. A man who wants to fade from Washington, really fade, and not open a law office or a public relations firm or some other such gratuity for the government service he sought, doesn't usually do battle with Pentagon heavyweights in televised committee hearings, or go on a Sunday network programme that reaches the broadest audience in the country, or hold a provocative personal press conference guaranteed to get wide exposure. Nor does he continue to be a bete noire on a select subcommittee for intelligence, asking hard questions that may not promote his name in the public's eyes but certainly circulates it around the capital. Taken collectively, those activities aren't the mark of a man anxious to leave the political arena or the rewards it can offer. There's a certain inconsistency, wouldn't you say?'

Adrienne Rashad nodded. 'I asked him about all that, at first accusing him of even wanting another on-the-scene testimonial from me, and suffering from a bad case of political ambition. He blew up, denying any such motives, insisting vehemently that he wanted only to get out of Washington.'

'Could these be his second thoughts?' suggested Payton. 'I ask it kindly because any sane person would have them. Say this very successful individual—and he's nothing if not an individualist; I've seen that for myself—gets a touch of our Potomac virus and tells himself to go for it, use all the marbles he's got, including what he did in Oman. Then he wakes up and thinks, “My God, what have I done? What am I doing here? I don't belong among these people!”… It wouldn't be the first time, you know. We've lost a great many good men and women in this city who came to that same conclusion—they didn't belong here. Most are fiercely independent people who believe in their judgments, generally borne out by success in one field or another. Unless they want power for the sheer sake of a driving ego—which your instincts about Kendrick would seem to dismiss and I trust your instincts—these people have no patience with the mazes of endless debate and compromise that are the by-products of our system. Could our congressman be someone like that?'

'Offhand, I'd say it's his profile to a capital P, but again it's only instinct.'

'So isn't it possible that your attractive young man—’

'Oh, come on, MJ,' interrupted Rashad. 'That's so antediluvian.'

'I substitute it for a term I refuse to use with my niece.'

'I accept your version of courtesy.'

'Propriety, my dear. But isn't it possible that your friend woke up and said to himself, “I've made a terrible mistake making a hero out of myself and now I've got to undo it”?'

'It would be if he was a liar, which I don't think he is.'

'But you do see the inconsistency of his behaviour, don't you? He's acted one way and then claims to be the opposite.'

'You're saying that he's protesting too much, and I'm saying that he isn't because he's not lying, either to himself or to me.'

'I'm exploring every avenue before we look for a bastard, who—if you're right—was contacted by another bastard, a blond-haired one… Did Kendrick tell you why he publicly took on the Pentagon as well as the entire defence industry, to say nothing of his less public but well-circulated criticisms of our own intelligence services?'

'Because he was in a position to say those things and he thought they should be said.'

'Just like that? That's his explanation?'

'Yes.'

'But he had to seek the positions that gave him the opportunity to speak in the first place. Good Lord, the Partridge Committee, then the Select Subcommittee for Intelligence; they're politically coveted chairs, to say the very least. For every one of those seats there are four hundred congressmen who'd sell their wives for the assignment. They don't just fall into a member's lap, they have to be worked for, fought for. How does he explain that?'

'He can't. They just fell into his lap. And rather than fighting for them, he fought to stay off them.'

'I beg your pardon?' exclaimed MJ Payton, astonished.

'He said that if I didn't believe him I should talk to his chief aide, who had to strong-arm him into taking the Partridge assignment, and then see the Speaker of the House himself, and ask that conniving old Irish bastard what Evan told him to do with his subcommittee. He didn't want either job but it was explained to him that if he didn't take them, he wouldn't have a damn thing to say about his successor in Colorado's ninth. That's important to him; it's why he ran for office. He got rid of one party sleaze-ball and didn't want another taking his place.'

Payton slowly leaned back in his chair, bringing his hand to his chin, his eyes narrowed. Over the years Adrienne Rashad had learned when to be silent and not interrupt her mentor's thinking. She did both now, prepared for any of several responses but not the one she heard. 'This is a different ball game, my dear. If I remember correctly, you told Kendrick that you thought he was being exhumed by someone who believed he deserved acclaim for what he did. It goes far deeper than that, I'm afraid. Our congressman is being programmed.'

'Good Lord, for what?'

'I don't know, but I think we'd better try to find out. Very quietly, very cautiously. We're dealing with something rather extraordinary.'

Varak saw the large dark blue car. It was parked off the winding, tree-lined road cut out of a forest several hundred yards west of Kendrick's house and it was empty. He had passed the congressman's impressive hedge-bound grounds, still under minor siege by a few obstinate, hopeful reporters with a camera crew, and intended to head north to a motel on the outskirts of Cortez. The sight of the blue vehicle, however, changed his mind. The Czech continued around the next bend and drove his car into a cluster of wild brush that fronted the trees. On the seat beside him was his attaché case; he opened it and took out the items he thought he might need, several imperative, several hopeful. He put them in his pockets, got out of the car, closed the door quietly and walked around the curve and back to the blue sedan. He approached the far door nearest the woods and studied the vehicle for traps—trips that would set off an alarm if someone tampered with the lock, or with pressure on the doors, even light beams that extended from the front to the rear spoked wheels activated by solid objects breaking the beams.

He found two out of three with one so serious that it told him something: there were secrets in that automobile far more valuable than clothes or jewelry or even confidential business papers. A row of tiny holes had been drilled and painted over along the lower frames of the windows; they were jets that released a nonlethal vapour that would immobilize an intruder for a considerable length of time. They had been conceived and perfected initially for diplomats in troubled countries where it was nearly as important to question assailants as to save lives. They could be set off by chauffeurs during an assault or by alarms when the car was unoccupied. They were now being marketed among the rich throughout the world, and it was said that the suppliers of the mechanisms could not keep up with the demand.

Varak looked around and quickly walked to the rear of the blue car, reached into his pocket and dropped to the ground in the vicinity of the exhaust. He crawled under the car and instantly went to work; less than ninety seconds later he emerged, stood up, and ran into the woods. The hunt had begun and the waiting began.

Forty-one minutes later he saw the tall slender figure walking down the road. The man was in a dark suit, his coat open, a waistcoat showing; his hair was neatly combed and more red than brown. Someone in charge, thought Milos, should be given a lesson in basic cosmetic tactics. One never permitted an employee to go out in the field with red hair; its as simply foolish. The man proceeded to unlock first the right front door, then rounded the bonnet and unlocked the driver's side. However, before opening it, he crouched out of sight where there was apparently a third release, stood up and climbed inside. He started the car.

The powerful engine coughed repeatedly, then suddenly there was a loud rattling from beneath the chassis and an expulsion of fumes followed by the sound of crashing metal. The silencer and exhaust pipe had blown apart, accompanied by an explosion of vapour on all sides of the car. Varak lowered himself, a handkerchief over his face, and waited for the clouds to disappear, clinging to the trees as they rose to the sky. Slowly, he stood up.

The driver, a surgical mask on his face and a gun in his hand, also watched the rising clouds as he spun repeatedly around in the seat checking every direction for an assault. None came, and his confusion was obvious. He picked up the car telephone, then hesitated and Milos understood. If the problem was a simple mechanical failure and he contacted his controls, say 30 or 300 or 3,000 miles away, he would be severely criticized. He replaced the phone and put the car into gear; the sound was so thunderous he stopped instantly. One did not call attention to such a vehicle anywhere, any time; one chose another alternative, like calling a garage and being towed in for a simple exterior repair. And yet…? So another period of waiting began. It lasted nearly twenty minutes; despite his red hair, the man was a professional. Apparently convinced that no attack was forthcoming, he cautiously got out of the car and walked to the rear. Gun in one hand, a torch in the other, he continued to look around in all directions as Varak crept silently forward in the undergrowth. The red-headed surveillance suddenly crouched, throwing the beam of light into the undercarriage. Milos knew he had only seconds to reach the edge of the road before the man discovered the heat-expanding plastic inserted in the exhaust or noticed the markings on the silencer made by the small, diamond-edged knife-saw. The moment came as Varak briefly parted the foliage eight feet from the crouching, peering man.

'Christ!' exploded the slender, well-dressed redhead, leaping back, spinning first to his right then to his left, his automatic levelled, his back now to Milos. The Czech raised a third item he had taken from his attaché case; it was a CO2-propelled dart gun. Once again he parted the leaves in front of him and quickly fired. The narcotic dart hit its mark, embedding itself in the back of the man's neck. The red-haired surveillance whipped violently around, dropping the torch as he desperately tried to reach behind him and rip out the offending needle. The more frenzied his movements the more rapidly the blood rushed to his head, rushing also the circulation of the serum. It took eight seconds; the man fell to the ground, struggling against the inevitable effects, finally lying immobile on the country road. Varak walked out of the woods and swiftly pulled the redhead back into them, returning for the man's gun and his light. He proceeded to search the man for undoubtedly false identification cards.

They were not false. The unconscious figure beneath him was a special agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Among his ID papers was the unit to which he had been assigned two months and ten days ago—one day after the meeting of Inver Brass at Cynwid Hollow, Maryland.

Milos removed the dart, carried the man out to the road and placed him behind the wheel of the blue car. He concealed the torch and the gun beneath the seat, closed the door and walked back to his rented car around the bend. He had to find a telephone and reach a man at the Federal Bureau in Washington.

'There's no information on that unit,' said Varak's contact at the FBI. 'It came down through administration circles, its origin in California, in San Diego, I think.'

'There's no California White House now,' objected Milos.

'But there's another “House”, in case you've forgotten.'

'What?'

'Before I go on, Checkman, we're going to need some data from you. It concerns an operation out of Prague that's gathering fruit over here. It's minor but irritating. Will you help us?'

'Certainly. I'll find out whatever I can. Now what is the house in San Diego, California, that can cause the Bureau to form a special unit?'

'Simple, Checkman. It belongs to the Vice President of the United States.'

It is agreed then. Congressman Evan Kendrick will be the next Vice President of the United States. He will become President eleven months after the election of the incumbent.

In silence, Varak hung up the phone.