The Icarus Agenda

Chapter 26

It had been five weeks since the calamitous ceremony in the White House's Blue Room, a calamity compounded by Ringmaster Dennison's incessant attempts to focus everyone's attention on the presenter of the Medal of Freedom award and not on the recipient. The conductor of the Marine Band had misread his instructions. Instead of playing a haunting pianissimo of 'America the Beautiful' under the President's peroration, he plunged into a fortissimo version of the 'Stars and Stripes', all but drowning out the chief of state. It was only when Congressman Kendrick stepped up to receive the award and express his thanks that the band struck the chords of the song in a low, swelling pianissimo, adding emotional impact to the recipient's self-effacing words. To the ringmaster's fury, Kendrick had refused to read the brief speech given to him by Dennison ten minutes before the ceremony, thus instead of extolling the President's 'secret but extraordinary assistance', he thanked all those he could not mention by name for saving his life and bringing about the solution of the Masqat crisis. This particular moment was embarrassingly punctuated by a loud whispered 'Shit!' from the ranks of Langford Jennings's aides on the platform.

The final insult to the ringmaster was brought about solely by himself. During the short photo session where no questions were permitted because of antiterrorist strategies, Herbert Dennison absently withdrew a small bottle of Maalox from his pocket and drank from it. Suddenly cameras were aimed at him, strobes exploding, as the President of the United States turned and glared. It was too much for the acid-prone chief of staff. He spilled the chalk-white liquid over his dark jacket.

At the end, Langford Jennings, his arm around Evan's shoulders, had walked out of the room and into the carpeted hallway. 'That went beautifully, Congressman!' exclaimed the President. 'Except for a certain asshole who's supposed to run these things.'

'He has a lot of pressure on him, sir. I wouldn't be too harsh.'

'On Herb?' said Jennings quietly, confidentially. 'And have to do what he does? No way… I gather he gave you something to read and you wouldn't do it.'

'I'm afraid he did and I wouldn't.'

'Good. It would have looked like a damned cheap set-up. Thanks, Evan, I appreciate it.'

'You're welcome,' said Kendrick to this large charismatic man who kept surprising him.

The ensuing five weeks had been as Evan thought they would be. The media clamoured for his attention. But he kept his word to Herbert Dennison and would continue to keep it. He refused all interviews, claiming simply that to accept one would make him feel obliged to accept all, and that would mean he could not adequately serve his constituency, a constituency, incidentally, he continued to hold. The November election in Colorado's ninth district was merely a ritual; under the circumstances the opposition could not even find a candidate. Yet in terms of the media, some were more succinct than others.

'You big son of a bitch,' had teased the acerbic Ernest Foxley of the Foxley show. 'I gave you your first break, your first decent exposure.'

'I don't think you understand,' Kendrick said. 'I never wanted any breaks, any exposure.'

After a pause the commentator replied. 'You know what? I believe you. Why is that?'

'Because I'm telling you the truth and you're good at what you do.'

'Thank you, young man. I'll pass the word and try to call off the hounds, but don't give us any more surprises, okay?'

There were no surprises to give anyone, thought Kendrick angrily, driving through the Virginia countryside in the early December afternoon. His house in Fairfax had become a virtual base of operations for Khalehla, the property given a large measure of sophistication by way of the Central Intelligence Agency's Mitchell Payton. The director of Special Projects had first ordered the construction of a high brick wall that fronted the grounds, admittance achieved through a wide white wrought-iron gate electronically operated. Surrounding the property an equally tall mesh fence was placed deep in the earth, the green metal so thick it would take an explosive, a blow torch or a furiously manipulated hacksaw to break through, the invading sounds heard easily by a unit of guards. Payton then had a continuously 'swept' telephone installed in Evan's study with extension lights in various other rooms that told whoever saw them to reach that instrument as quickly as possible. A communicating computer had been placed alongside the phone and was hooked up to a modem connecting it solely to the director's private office. When he had information he wanted Khalehla or the congressman to evaluate, it was immediately transmitted, all printouts to be shredded and burned.

In accordance with the President's publicly stated instructions, Special Projects had moved swiftly at the beginning and assumed responsibility for all security measures mounted to protect the hero of Oman from terrorist reprisals. Kendrick was impressed, initially because of the security arrangements. In the space of one hour after a presidential limousine had driven him away from the estate in Maryland, Mitchell Payton had total control of his movements, in a sense, of his life. The communications equipment came later, quite a bit later, the delay due to Khalehla's obstinacy. She had resisted the idea of moving into Kendrick's house, but after eighteen days of hotel living and numerous, awkward out-of-the-way meetings with Evan and her 'Uncle Mitch', the latter had put his foot down.

'Damn it, my dear, there's no way I can justify the cost of a safe house solely for one of my people, nor would I list the reason if I could, and I certainly can't install the equipment we need in a hotel. Also, I've passed the official word from Cairo to DC that you've resigned from the Agency. We can't afford you in the sector any longer. So I really don't think you have a choice.'

'I've been trying to convince her,' Kendrick had interrupted in the private room of a restaurant across the Maryland border. 'If she's worried about appearances I'll put it in the Congressional Record that my aunt's in town. How about an older aunt with a face lift?'

'Oh, you bloody fool. All right, I'll do it.'

'What equipment?' Evan asked, turning to Payton. 'What do you need?'

'Nothing you can buy,' answered the CIA director. 'And items only we can install.'

The next morning a telephone repair truck had drawn up at the house. It was waved on to the grounds by the Agency patrols, and men in telephone company uniforms went to work while over twenty stonemasons were completing the wall and ten others finishing the impenetrable fence. Linemen climbed successive poles from a junction box, pulling wires from one to another and sending a separate cable to Kendrick's roof. Still others drove a second truck around the rear drive and into the attached garage where they uncrated the computer console and carried it into the downstairs study. Three hours and twenty minutes later, Mitchell Payton's equipment was in place and functioning. That afternoon Evan had picked up Khalehla in front of her hotel on Nebraska Avenue.

'Hello there, Auntie?'

'I want a dead bolt on the guest room door,' she had replied, laughing as she threw her soft nylon bag into the rack behind the seat and climbed in.

'Don't bother, I never mess with older relatives.'

'You already have, but not now.' She had turned to him, adding with gentle yet firm sincerity, 'I mean that, Evan. This isn't Bahrain; we're in business together, not bed. Okay?'

'That's why you wouldn't move in before?'

'Of course.'

'You don't know me very well,' Kendrick had said after a few moments of silence in the traffic.

‘That's part of it.'

'Which leads me to a question I've wanted to ask you but I thought you might take it the wrong way.'

'Go ahead.'

'When you walked into that house in Maryland last month, among the first things you mentioned was Bahrain. Yet later you told me the house was wired, that anything we said would be heard. Why did you say it then?'

'Because I wanted the subject dispensed with as rapidly and as thoroughly as possible.'

'Meaning that others—people cleared to read the transcripts—would assume or suspect what happened.'

'Yes, and I wanted my position clear, which was not supine. My following statements were consistent.'

'Case closed,' said Evan, heading into the Beltway towards Virginia.

'Thanks.'

'By the way, I've told the Hassans all about you—sorry, not all, of course. They can't wait to meet you.'

'They're your couple from Dubai, aren't they?'

'Far more than a “couple”. Old friends from long ago.'

'I didn't mean it in a belittling sense. He's a professor, isn't he?'

'With luck he'll have a post at either Georgetown or Princeton next spring; there was a little matter of papers which we've managed to clear up. Incidentally, “small world” department, he reveres your father. He met him once in Cairo, so be prepared for a lot of reverence.'

'That'll pass quickly,' laughed Khalehla. 'He'll learn soon enough that I'm neither in his or Dad's league.'

'You can use a computer, though, can't you?'

'Well, yes, I can. I frequently have to.'

'I can't. Sabri's wife, Kashi, can't, and certainly he can't, so maybe you're way out of our league.'

'Flattery doesn't suit you, Evan. Remember the dead bolt on the door.'

They had arrived at the house, where Khalehla was warmly greeted by Kashi Hassan; an instant friendship was formed, as was a tradition among Arab women.

'Where's Sabri?' Kendrick had asked. 'I want him to meet Khalehla.'

'He's in your study, dear Evan. He's instructing a gentleman from the Central Intelligence Agency how to operate the computer in case of an emergency.'

It had been over three weeks since the Khalehla-Langley axis had been in full operation and they were no closer to learning anything new than they had been since the sterile house in Maryland. Scores of people who even might have had the slightest possible access to the Oman file were put under Payton's intelligence microscopes. Every step in the maximum-classified procedure was studied for flaws in personnel; none were found. The file itself was written by the State Department's Frank Swann in tandem with the Agency's Lester Crawford, the mechanics involving a single word processor, the typing done in shifts of 1,000 words per typist with all proper names omitted, inserted later solely by Swann and Crawford.

The decision to go to maximum classification had been reached by overview, on the basis of a summary without details, but with the highest recommendations of the Secretaries of State and Defense and the Joint Chiefs, as well as the Central Intelligence Agency. It was all accomplished without Kendrick's name or the identities or nationalities of other individuals or military units; the basic information had been submitted to the Select Committees of the Senate and the House for approval at the conclusion of the crisis sixteen months before. Both congressional approvals were instantly forthcoming; it was also assumed that the Washington Post press leak concerning an unknown American in Masqat had come from an indiscreet member of these committees.

Who? How? Why? They were back where they had started: By all the rules of logic and elimination, the Oman file was beyond reach, yet it had been stolen.

'There's something not logical,' Payton had pronounced. 'A hole in the system and we're missing it.'

'No kidding,' agreed Kendrick.

Payton's decision regarding Evan's sudden appointments to both the Partridge Committee and the Select Subcommittee for Intelligence had floored Kendrick. Neither the manipulative Partridge nor the equally manipulating Speaker of the House should be approached directly. Why not? Evan had objected. If he was the one being programmed, he had every right to confront those who were willing accessories.

'No, Congressman,' Payton had said. 'If they were blackmailed into appointing you, you can be sure they'll stonewall and send out alarms. Our blond European and whomever he works for will go farther underground. We don't stop them; we simply can't find them. I remind you, it's the “why” that concerns us. Why are you, a relatively apolitical freshman representative from an obscure district in Colorado, being pushed into the political centre?'

'It's died down a lot—’

'You don't watch television very much,' said Khalehla. 'Two cable networks did retrospectives on you last week.'

'What?'

'I didn't tell you. There was no point. It would only have made you angry.'

Kendrick lowered the Mercedes' window and stuck out his arm. The government mobile unit behind him was new and the turn in the country road ahead was halfway around a long wooded curve, the turn itself close to a blind one. He was warning his guards, and he supposed there was a minor irony in that… His thoughts returned to the 'lousy enigma', as he and Khalehla had come to call the whole elusive mess that had screwed up his life. Mitch Payton—it was now 'Mitch' and 'Evan'—had driven over from Langley the other evening.

'We're working on something new,' the director of Special Projects had said in the study. 'On the assumption that Swann's European had to reach a great many people in order to compile the information he had on you, we're assembling some data ourselves. It may offend you but we, too, are going back over your life.'

'How many years?'

'We picked you up when you were eighteen—the chances of anything before then having relevance is remote.'

'Eighteen? Christ, isn't anything sacred?'

'Do you want it to be? If so, I'll call it off.'

'No, of course not. It's just kind of a shock. You can get that sort of information?'

'It's nowhere near as difficult as people think. Credit bureau, personnel files and routine background checks do it all the time.'

'What's the point?'

'Several possibilities—realistically two, I suppose. As I mentioned, the first is our doggedly curious European. If we could put together a list of people he had to contact in order to learn about you, we'd be closer to finding him, and I think we all agree, he's the linchpin… The second possibility is something we haven't attempted. In trying to unearth the vanishing blond man and whoever's behind him, we've concentrated on the events in Oman and the file itself. We've restricted our microscopes to government oriented areas.'

'Where else would we look?' Kendrick had asked.

'Your personal life, I'm afraid. There could be something or someone in your own past, an event or people that you knew, an incident perhaps that galvanized friends or conceivably enemies who wanted to advance your position or—conversely—make you a target. And make no mistake, Congressman, you are a potential target, nobody's kidding about that.'

'But MJ,' broke in Khalehla. 'Even if we found people who either liked or hated him, they'd have to be Washington connected. Mr. Jones from Ann Arbor, Michigan—friend or enemy—couldn't just go to the max-classified data banks or the archives and say, “By the way, there's a certain file I'd like to have a copy of so I can mock up a fake memorandum for the newspapers.” I don't understand.'

'Neither do I, Adrienne—or should I call you “Khalehla”, which will take some getting used to.'

'There's no reason for you to call me Khalehla—’

'Don't interrupt,' said Evan, smiling. 'Khalehla's just fine,' he added.

'Yes, well, I really don't understand,' continued Payton. 'But as I told you, there's a hole in the system, a gap we've missed, and we have to try everything.'

'Then why not go after Partridge and the Speaker of the House?' pressed Kendrick. 'If I could do what I did in Masqat, they can't be so tough to break down.'

'Not yet, young man. The timing isn't right, and the Speaker's retiring.'

'Now I don't understand.'

'MJ means he's working on both,' Khalehla had explained.

Evan braked the Mercedes around the long curve in the Virginia woods and waited until he saw the mobile unit in his rearview mirror; he then turned right into the pasture road that was the back way to his house. The guards would admit him. He wanted to hurry now; it was why he had taken the short cut. Khalehla had called him at the office and told him Mitchell Payton's list had arrived over the computer printout. His past was about to be presented to him.

Milos Varak walked down the boarded path towards the enormous beach fronting the Hotel del Coronado three miles over the bridge from San Diego. He had worked diligently for weeks to find a crack through which he could penetrate the ranks of the Vice President of the United States. Most of the time was spent in Washington; the administration's Secret Service was not easily invaded. Until he found a man, a dedicated man, with a strong physique and a disciplined mind, but with an unacceptable avocation that if exposed would destroy his assets, as well as his career and undoubtedly his life. He was a well-compensated procurer for various high-ranking members of the government. He had been primed for his work by the elders of his family, who had spotted his potential and sent him to the finest parochial schools and through a major university—major but not rich for that image would be incorrect. The elders wanted a fine looking, upstanding, well-groomed young man placed in a position to dispense favours in return for certain accommodations. And what better favours were there than below a weak man's belt, and how better to reach accommodations than the knowledge thereof. The elders were pleased, had been pleased for a number of years. This man came from the Mafia; he was Mafia; he served the Mafia.

Varak approached the lone figure in a raincoat by the rocks of a jetty several hundred yards from the high, imposing wire fence of the Naval Air Station.

'Thank you so much for seeing me,' said Milos pleasantly.

'I thought you had an accent on the phone,' said the well-spoken, well-trained, dark-featured man. 'Are you a redbird courier? Because if you are, you've reached the wrong swallow.'

'A Communist? I'm the farthest thing from it. I'm so American your consiglieri could present me to the Vatican.'

'That's insulting, to say nothing of being totally inaccurate… You made several very stupid statements, so stupid that you provoked my curiosity, which is why I'm here.'

'For whatever reason, I'm grateful that you are.'

'The bottom line was pretty clear,' interrupted the Secret Service agent. 'You threatened me, sir.'

'I'm sorry you were offended, I never meant to threaten you. I merely said that I was aware of certain additional services you provided—'

'Stop being so polite—’

'There's no reason to be discourteous,' said Varak courteously. 'I simply wanted you to understand my position.'

'You don't have a position,' corrected the government man with emphasis. 'Our records are unblemished, if you get my point.'

The Czech shifted his feet in the sand and waited while the roar of a jet passing over from the Naval Air Station diminished in the sky. 'You're saying that there are no records and your point is that you won't discuss anything concrete because you think I may be wearing a recording device.' Varak unbuttoned his jacket, separating it. 'Be my guest, search me. Personally, I wouldn't care to have my voice on the same tape with yours… Please, go ahead. I will, of course, remove my weapon and hold it in my hand but I won't stop you.'

The White House guardian was sullen, hesitant. 'You're too accommodating,' he said, standing motionless.

'On the other hand,' added Milos quickly. 'We can dispense with this awkwardness if you'd just read something I've prepared for you.' The Czech released his jacket, reached into his pocket and pulled out several sheets of folded paper. He snapped them open and handed them to the Secret Service agent.

As the man read, his eyes narrowed and his lips parted, frozen into the start of a snarl; in seconds a reasonably strong and attractive face became ugly. 'You're a dead man,' he said quietly.

'That could be short-sighted, don't you think? Because if I am, surely so are you. The capos would descend like a pack of wild dogs while the dons, drinking their fine red wine as if it were your blood, waited to hear of your very unpleasant death. Records? What are those? Names, dates, times, locations—and correspondingly, opposite each entry, the results of your sexual merchandise, or rather, blackmailed into being results. Bills amended, contracts awarded, government projects voted up or down according to their allocations. I'd say it's quite a record. And where does it all lead back to? Let me guess. The most unlikely source one can imagine… An unpublished telephone number listed under a false name and address but located in the apartment of a member of the government's Secret Service.'

'Those girls are dead… The boys are dead—’

'Don't blame them. They had no more of a choice than you do now. Believe me, it's better to assist me than to oppose me. I have no interest in your extracurricular activities; you provide a service and if you didn't somebody else would for roughly the same results. All I want from you is information, and in exchange I'll burn every copy of those pages. Of course, you have only my word for it, but as I'm likely to call upon your expertise again, I'd be stupid to release them, and I assure you I'm not stupid.'

'Obviously not,' agreed the Mafia soldier, his voice barely audible. 'Why throw a gun' away when you can still use it?'

'I'm glad you understand my position.'

'What sort of information are you looking for?'

'It's innocuous, nothing that will upset you. Let's start with the FBI unit that's been assigned to the Vice President. Aren't you people doing your job? Do you need a special task force from the Bureau?'

'It hasn't anything to do with us. We're in place for protection. They're investigative.'

'You can't protect unless you investigate.'

'It's different levels. We come up with something, we turn it over to the Bureau.'

'What did you come up with that called for this unit?'

'We didn't,' answered the man. 'A couple of months ago a series of threats were made against Viper and—’

'Viper?'

'The Vice President.'

'It's not a very flattering code name.'

'It's not in general use, either. Just among the detail.'

'I see. Go on—these threats. Who made them?'

That's what the unit's all about. They're trying to find out because they're still being made.'

'How?'

'Phone calls, telegrams, paste-up letters—they come from different places, which keep the Feds in the air a lot tracing them down.'

'Without success?'

'Not yet.'

'Then they're a roving task force, here one day, somewhere else the next. Are their movements co-ordinated from Washington?'

'When Viper's there, sure. When he's out here, it's here, and when he's on the road it's wherever he's at. The unit's controlled by his personal stuff; otherwise too much time is wasted checking back and forth with DC.'

'You were out here five weeks ago, weren't you?'

'Around then, yes. We just got back ten days ago; he spends a lot of time out here. As he likes to say, the President covers the East and he covers the West, and he's got the better deal because he gets away from Funny Town.'

'That's a foolish statement for a Vice President to make.'

'That's Viper, but that's not to say he's a fool. He's not.'

'Why do you call him Viper?'

'As long as you want it straight I guess we don't like him, or the crowd he pals around with—especially out here. Those bastards treat us like Puerto Rican houseboys. The other afternoon one of them said to me, “Boy, get me another G and T.” I told him I'd better check with my superiors in the Secret Service to see if I was assigned to him.'

'Weren't you afraid the Vice—Viper—might take offence?'

'Christ, he doesn't mess with us. Like the Fed unit, we only answer to his staff chief.'

'Who's he?'

'Not he, she. We've got another code for her; it's not as good as Viper but it fits. We call her Dragon Bitch—Dame Bountiful in the logs, which she likes.'

'Tell me about her,' said Varak, the antennae of an adult lifetime picking up a signal.

'Her name's Ardis Vanvlanderen, and she came on board about a year ago replacing a hell of a good man who was doing a hell of a good job. So good he got a terrific offer from one of Viper's friends. She's in her forties and one of those tough executive ladies who looks like she wants to cut your balls off when you go into her office just because you're a male.'

'An unattractive woman, then?'

'I wouldn't say that. She's got a decent enough face and a foxy body, but it'd be hard to work up a letch for her unless you like the type. My guess is she screws by numbers.'

'Is she married?'

'There's a gonzo who comes around saying he's her husband but nobody pays much attention to him.'

'What does he do? What's his business?'

'He's Palm Springs social set. Stocks and bonds when they don't interfere with his golf, that's the way I read him.'

'That's significant money.'

'He's a heavy contributor and never misses a super bash at the White House. You know the type, wavy white hair and a big gut with lots of shiny teeth in a tuxedo; they always get their pictures taken dancing. If he could read a whole book through in English, they'd probably make him the ambassador to the Court of St James's—I take it back. With his money, half a book.'

Varak studied the Secret Service guard. The man was obviously relieved at being asked such innocuous questions. His answers were more complete than they had to be, bordering on the false confidentiality of gossip. 'I wonder why someone like that would send his wife out to work, even if it is for the Vice President.'

'I don't think he has anything to say about it. You don't send a sharp item like her anywhere she doesn't want to go. Besides, one of the maids told us she's wife number three or four, so maybe Vanvlanderen learned to let 'em hang loose and do their thing.'

'And you say she does it well?'

'Like I said, very sharp, very pro. Viper doesn't make a move without her.'

'What's he like?'

'Viper?' Suddenly another jet took off from the Naval Air Station, the roar of the engines thunderous. 'Viper's Viper,' said the Mafia plant when the earth-shaking noise had vanished. 'Orson Bollinger's a party glad hander with an insider's grasp of every fucking thing that goes on, and nothing goes on that doesn't serve the boys in the back rooms of California because they take care of him.'

'You're very astute.'

'I observe.'

'You do a great deal more than that. Only I'd suggest you be more cautious in the future. If I can find you, others might, too.'

'How? Goddamn you, how?'

'Diligence. And over the weeks watching for a mistake someone had to make. It could have been one of the others in your detail or something else—we're all human; none of us lives in a freezer—but it turned out to be you. You were tired, or perhaps you had that extra drink, or simply felt you were too secure. Whatever the reason, you made a phone call to Brooklyn, New York, obviously not the way you were supposed to make it, not from an untraceable pay telephone.'

'Frangie!' whispered the capo supremo.'

'Your cousin, Joseph “Fingers” Frangiani, second under-boss of the Ricci family in Brooklyn, inheritors of the Genovese interests. It was all I needed, amico.'

'You foreign low-life son of a bitch!'

'Don't waste obscenities on me… One last question, and why not be civil?'

'What?'' cried the furious man from the Mafia, his black eyebrows arched, his right hand instinctively reaching behind his jacket.

'Stop!' roared the Czech. 'One inch more and you're dead.'

'Where's your gun?' choked the agent, without a breath.

'I don't need it,' replied Varak, his eyes boring in on his would-be killer. 'And I'm sure you know that.'

Slowly, the Secret Service man brought his right hand in front of him. 'One question, that's all!' he said, his animus with himself reflected in his face. 'You've got one last question.'

'This Ardis Vanvlanderen. How was her appointment as the Vice President's chief of staff explained to you? Words must have been said, reasons given. After all, you're Bollinger's personal security and you worked well with her predecessor.'

'We're his security, not corporate executives. Explanations weren't required.'

'Nothing was said? It's an unusual position for a woman.'

'Plenty was said so we wouldn't miss the point, but no explanation. Bollinger called everybody together and told us how pleased he was to announce the appointment of one of the most talented executives in the country, someone who was assuming the job at such personal sacrifice that we should all thank the powers that be for her patriotism. The “her” was the first inkling we had that it was a woman.'

'Interesting phrase “powers that be”.'

'He talks that way.'

'And he doesn't make a move without her.'

'I don't think he'd dare. She's heavy metal and she keeps the house in order.'

'Whose order?'

'What?'

'Never mind… That's all for now, amico. Please be so kind as to leave first, will you? I'll call you if I need you.'

The Mafioso, the hot, ancestral blood of the Mediterranean rushing to his head, jabbed his index finger at the Czech and spoke in a hoarse voice. 'You'll stay out of my fucking life if you know what's good for you.'

'I hope to stay as far away from you as possible, Signore Mezzano—'

'Don't you call me a pimp!'

‘I’ll call you anything I like, but as to what's good for me, I'll be the judge of that. Now fila! Capisce?'

Milos Varak watched his reluctant informer walk over the sand in silent fury until the mezzano disappeared into the maze of beach accesses towards the hotel. The Czech let his mind wander… she came on board about a year ago; he's a heavy contributor; Viper doesn't make a move without her. It was thirteen months ago that Inver Brass had begun the search for a new Vice President of the United States, the incumbent considered a pawn of the President's unseen contributors—men who intended to run the country.

It was past four o'clock in the morning and Khalehla would not stop. She kept pressing Evan, changing cassettes on the recorder and repeating names over and over again, insisting that wherever he recognized anything at all he describe in detail everything he could remember. The computer printout from Mitchell Payton's office at the Central Intelligence Agency included 127 selected names with corresponding occupations, marriages, divorces and deaths. In each case the individual listed had either spent considerable time with Kendrick or had been present during a period of high activity and could conceivably have been instrumental in his academic or career decisions.

'Where the hell did he get these people?' asked Evan, pacing the study. 'I swear I don't remember half of them, and most of the other half are blurs except for old friends I'll always remember and none of them could be remotely connected with what's happening. Christ, I had three roommates in college, two others in graduate school and a sixth shared an apartment with me in Detroit when I worked in a lousy job over here. Later there were at least two dozen others I tried unsuccessfully to raise backing from for the Middle East and some of them are on that list—why, I don't know, but I do know all those lives are being lived in the suburbs with green lawns and country clubs and colleges they can barely afford for their kids. They have nothing to do with now.'

'Then let's go over the Kendrick Group again—’

'There is no Kendrick Group,' broke in Evan angrily. 'They were killed, blown away, drowned in concrete!… Manny and I are all that's left, you know that.'

'I'm sorry,' said Khalehla gently, sitting on the couch drinking tea. The printout was on the coffee table in front of her. 'I meant the dealings you had over here in the States while there was the Kendrick Group.'

'We've gone over them. There weren't that many—mostly in high-tech equipment.'

'Let's go over them again.'

'It's a waste of time but go ahead.'

'“Sonar Electronics, Palo Alto, California”,' read Khalehla, her hand on the printout. 'The representative was a man named Carew—'

'“Screw Carew”,' said Kendrick, chuckling. 'That was Manny's comment. We bought some sounding devices that didn't work, and they still wanted payment after we sent them back.'

'Drucker Graphics, Boston, the representative a G. R. Shulman. Anything?'

'Gerry Shulman, good man, good service; we worked with them for years. Never a problem.'

'Morseland Oil, Tulsa. The rep was someone named Arnold Stanhope.'

'I told you about him—them.'

'Tell me again.'

'We did preliminary surveying for them in the Emirates. They kept wanting more than they were willing to pay for, and since we were growing, we could afford to drop them.'

'Was there acrimony?'

'Sure, there always is when chisellers find out they can't do business as usual. But there wasn't anything silence couldn't cure. Besides they found some other jokers, a Greek outfit who caught on to them and delivered a survey that must have been made on the floor of the Oman Gulf.'

'Freebooters, every one of you,' said Khalehla, smiling and lowering her hand on the printout. 'Off Shore Investments, Limited, headquarters Nassau, the Bahamas, contact Ardis Montreaux, New York City. They funnelled a lot of capital to you—’

'Which we never touched because it was a sham,' interrupted Evan sharply. 'It better damn well say that there.'

'It says here, “Skip it”.'

'What?'

'I wrote it. It's what you said before, “Skip it”. What's Off Shore Investments, Limited?'

'Was,' corrected Kendrick. 'It was a high class boilerplate operation on the international scale—high class and international but still boilerplate. Build a company up with large Swiss accounts and hot air, then sell off and switch the assets, leaving the buyers with a balloon full of helium.'

'You got mixed up with something like that?'

'I didn't know it was something like that. I was a lot younger and impressed as hell that they wanted to list us as part of their structure… even more impressed with the money they banked for us in Zurich. Impressed, that is, until Manny said let's try to get some, just for the hell of it. He knew exactly what he was doing; we couldn't pull out two francs. Off Shore's signatures controlled all withdrawals, all assignments.'

'A dummy set-up and you were the dummies.'

‘That's it.'

'How did you get involved?'

'We were in Riyadh, and Montreaux flew over and conned me. I hadn't learned that there weren't any shortcuts—not that kind.'

'Ardis Montreaux. Ardis… That's an odd name for a man.'

'Because it's not a man—she's not a man. She's a lot tougher.'

'A woman?'

'Believe it.'

'With your innate scepticism she must have been very persuasive.'

'She had the words. She also wanted our heads when we pulled out; she claimed we were costing them millions. Weingrass asked her whose millions this time.'

'Perhaps we should—’

'Skip it,' Evan broke in firmly. 'She married an English banker and lives in London. She's faded.'

'How do you know?'

Showing minor embarrassment, Kendrick answered quickly and quietly. 'She called me a couple of times… as a matter of fact to apologize. Skip it.'

'Sure.' Khalehla went on to the next firm on the printout. As she spoke she wrote two words after Off Shore Investments, Limited. Check out.

Ardis Montreaux Frazier-Pyke Vanvlanderen, born Ardisolda Wojak in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, walked into the marble foyer of the suite at the Westlake Hotel in San Diego. She threw her sable stole over the back of a velour chair and raised her voice, her speech a cultivated mid-Atlantic, rather more nasal stage British than old-money American, but still afflicted with the harsh tones of Pittsburgh's Monongahela Slavic in the upper registers.

'Andy-boy, I'm home! We've got less than an hour to get up to La Jolla, so move it, sweetie!'

Andrew Vanvlanderen, heavyset with stark white wavy hair and dressed in a tuxedo, walked out of the bedroom, a drink in his hand. 'I'm ahead of you, babe.'

'I'll be ready in ten minutes,' said Ardis, peering into a foyer mirror and fingering the curls of her perfectly coiffed, frosted brown hair. She was closing in on fifty and of medium height but gave the impression of being younger and taller due to erect posture, a slender figure topped by generous breasts, and a well-co-ordinated face punctuated by large, penetrating green eyes. 'Why not call for the car, sweetie?'

'The car can wait. So can La Jolla. We've got to talk.'

'Oh?' The Vice President's chief of staff looked over at her husband. 'You sound serious.'

'I am. I had a call from your old boyfriend.'

'Which one, darling?'

'The only one who counts.'

'Good God, he called here?'

'I told him to—’

'That was dumb, Andy-boy, just plain dumb!' Ardis Vanvlanderen walked rapidly, angrily out of the foyer and down into the sunken living room. She sat in a red silk wing-backed chair and abruptly crossed her legs, her large eyes riveted on her husband. 'Take risks with money—on commodities or futures or your stupid horses or any goddamned thing you like, but not where I'm concerned! Is that understood, darling?'

'Listen, bitch—Dragon Bitch—with what I've paid out, if I want first-hand information I'm going to get it. Is that understood?'

'All right, all right. Cool off, Andy.'

'You start a rhubarb and then you tell me to cool it?'

'I'm sorry.' Ardis arched her neck back into her chair, breathing audibly through her open mouth, her eyes briefly closed. In seconds she opened them, levelled her head, and continued. 'Really, I'm sorry. It's been a particularly rotten Orson day.'

'What's Viper done now?' asked Vanvlanderen, drinking.

'Be careful with those names,' said his wife, laughing softly. 'We wouldn't want our all-American gorillas to learn they're being bugged.'

'What's Bollinger's problem?'

'He's feeling insecure again. He wants a written ironclad guarantee that he'll be on the ticket next July or we settle ten million on him in a Swiss account.'

Vanvlanderen coughed a swallow of whisky into his glass. 'Ten million?' he gasped. 'Who the fuck does that comedian think he is?'

'The Vice President of the United States with a few secrets in his skull,' replied Ardis. 'I told him we wouldn't accept anyone else but it wasn't good enough. I think he senses that Jennings doesn't consider him a world-beater and would let him go.'

'Our beloved telegenic wizard, Langford Jennings, hasn't a goddamned thing to say about it!… Is Orson right? Does Jennings dislike him?'

'Dislike's too strong. He just dismisses him, that's what I hear from Dennison.'

'That one's got to go. One of these days Herb's going to get more curious than we want him—’

'Forget him,' interrupted Mrs. Vanvlanderen. 'Forget Dennison and Bollinger and even your stupid horses. What did my straying, cat hunting old boyfriend have to say that was so important you had him call here?'

'Relax. He phoned from my Washington attorney's office; we share the same firm there, remember? But first, let's not forget Orson. Give him his guarantee. A simple sentence or two and I'll sign it. It'll make him happy and happy is better.'

'Are you crazy?' cried Ardis, bouncing forward in the chair.

'Not at all. To begin with, he'll be on the ticket or he'll just disappear… like former vice presidents usually do.'

'Oh, my,' said Ardis, drawing out the word my in admiration. 'You're my kind of fella, Andy-boy. You think so clearly, so succinctly.'

'Long years of learning, babe.'

'Now, what did mixed-up old dimples have to say? Who's after his sensitive skin now?'

'Not his, ours—'

'Which is his and don't you forget it. It's why I'm here, lover, why he introduced us and brought us together.'

'He wants us to know that the little group of deluded super people are moving into high gear. During the next three months their congressman will start getting editorials in progressively stronger papers. The theme will be “examining his positions” and he'll pass all the exams. The point, of course, is to create a ground swell. Our Cupid is worried, very worried. And to tell you the truth I'm sweating a few bullets myself. Those benevolent lunatics know what they're doing; this whole thing could get out of control. Ardis, we've got millions riding on the next five years. I'm goddamned worried!'

'Over nothing,' said his perfectly coiffed wife, getting out of her chair. She stood for a moment and looked at Vanvlanderen, her wide green eyes only partially amused. 'Since you figure to save ten million on Bollinger one way or the other—and my way is better, certainly safer, than any alternative—I think it's only reasonable that you bank an equal amount for me, don't you, darling?'

'Somehow I fail to see the overpowering reason.'

'It could be your undying love for me… or perhaps one of the more extraordinary coincidences of my career floating among the rich, the beautiful, the powerful and the politically ambitious, especially in the area of government largess.'

'How's that again?'

'I won't recite the litany of why we're all doing what we're doing, or even why I've cast my not inconsiderable talents with you, but I will now let you in on a little secret I've kept all to myself for, lo, these many weeks.'

'I'm fascinated,' said Vanvlanderen, putting his drink down on a marble table and closely observing his fourth wife. 'What is it?'

'I know Evan Kendrick.'

'You what?'

'Our brief association goes back a number of years, more than I care to dwell on, frankly, but for a few weeks we had something in common.'

'Outside the obvious, what?'

'Oh, the sex was pleasant enough but immaterial… to both of us. We were young people in a hurry with no time for attachments. Do you remember Off Shore Investments?'

'If he was part of that outfit, we can nail him with fraud! Certainly enough to take him out if he climbs on board. Was he?'

'He was, but you can't. He pulled out in loud moral indignation, which was the start of that house-of-cards collapse. And I wouldn't be too anxious to nail Off Shore's principals unless you're tired of me, sweetie.'

'You?'

'I was the main missionary. I recruited the components.'

‘I’ll be damned.' Vanvlanderen laughed as he picked up his drink and raised the glass to his wife. 'Those thieves sure as hell knew whom to hire for the right jobs… Wait a minute? You knew Kendrick well enough to sleep with the son of a bitch and you never said anything?'

'I had my reasons—’

'They better be damned good!' exploded the President's heavy contributor. 'Because if they're not, I may just break your ass, you bitch! Suppose he saw you, recognized you, remembered Off Shore and put two and two together and got four! I don't take those kinds of chances!'

'It's my turn to say “Relax”, Andy,' countered the contributor's wife. 'The people around a vice president aren't news or even newsworthy. When's the last time you can recall the name of any individual on a vice president's staff? They're a grey, amorphous group—presidents won't have it any other way. Besides, I don't think my name's even been in the papers except as “Mr. and Mrs. Vanvlanderen, guests at the White House.” Kendrick still thinks I'm Frazier-Pyke, a banker's wife living in London, and if you remember, although both of us were invited to the Medal of Freedom ceremony, you went alone. I begged off.'

'Those aren't reasons! Why didn't you tell me?'

'Because I knew what your reaction would be—take her out of the picture—when I realized I could be far more useful to you in it.'

'How, for Christ's sake?'

'Because I knew him. I also knew I had to get up to date on him, but not with some private investigating firm that could end up burning us later, so I took the official high road. The Federal Bureau of Investigation.'

'The threats against Bollinger?'

'They'll stop tomorrow. Except for one man who'll continue here on a special basis, the unit will be recalled to Washington. Those mocked-up threats were the paranoid fantasies of a harmless lunatic I invented who supposedly fled the country. You see, sweetie, I found out what I had to know.'

'Which is?'

'There's an old Israeli Jew named Weingrass whom Kendrick worships. He's the father Evan never had, and when there was the Kendrick Group he was called the company's “secret weapon”.'

'Munitions?'

'Hardly, darling,' laughed Ardis Vanvlanderen. 'He was an architect, a damned good one, and did pretty spectacular work for the Arabs.'

'What about him?'

'He's supposed to be in Paris, but he's not. He's living in Kendrick's house in Colorado, with no passport entry or any official immigration status.'

'So?'

'The soon-to-be-anointed congressman brought the old man back for an operation that saved his life.'

'So?'

'Emmanuel Weingrass is going to have a medical relapse that will kill him. Kendrick won't leave his side, and when it's over it'll be too late. I want the ten million, Andy-boy.'