The Icarus Agenda

Chapter 35

Varak raced around the corner to the service entrance and took the freight elevator up to his floor. He then walked rapidly to his rooms, unlocked the door and rushed to the sophisticated vertical recording equipment against the wall, somewhat startled to see that so much tape had been used. He ascribed it to various telephone calls received by Ardis Vanvlanderen. He flipped the switch that allowed dual transmission, tape and direct audio, put on the earphones and sat down to listen.

She left about an hour and a half ago.

She? Who?

A woman named Rashad, a counter terrorist expert. She's with a cross-over unit…

The Czech glanced at the spool of exposed tape. There were at least twenty-five minutes of recorded conversation on it! What was the former operations officer from Egypt doing in San Diego? It made no sense to Milos. She had resigned from the Agency; he had confirmed it. The quiet but official word out of Cairo and Washington was that she had been 'open to compromise'. He had assumed it was the Oman operation and entirely accepted her vanishing. She had to fade—but she had not! He listened further to the conversation taking place in the Vanvlanderen suite. Sundstrom was speaking.

He did it, didn't he, Ardis? That financial megalomaniac couldn't stand the possibility that a small group of benevolent misfits might replace his man with another who could cut off his pipeline to millions and probably would.

Then Ardis Vanvlanderen.

Eight hundred million, that's what he said. Eight hundred million for him alone, billions for all the rest of you… I didn't know a thing!

Varak was stunned. He had made two enormous errors! The first concerned the covert activities of Adrienne Khalehla Rashad, and difficult as it was for him to accept this error, he could do so, for she was an experienced intelligence officer. The second he could not accept! The false scenario he had presented to Inver Brass had been true! It had never occurred to him that Andrew Vanvlanderen would act independently of his wife. How could he? Theirs was a La Rochefoucauld marriage, one of convenience, of mutual benefit, certainly not of affection, to say nothing of love. Andy-boy had broken the rules. A bull in financial heat had crashed open the gates of his corral and raced into the slaughterhouse. Varak listened.

Another voice, another name. A man named Crayton Grinell. The tape rolled as the Czech concentrated on the words being spoken. Finally:

So now we have two crises. Our weak, ubiquitous Secretary of State is on his way to Cyprus to sign an agreement that could cripple the defence industry… The switch from Design Six to Design Twelve, Mediterranean, is confirmed.

Varak tore off the earphones. Whatever remained to be heard in the Vanvlanderen suite would be recorded. He had to move quickly. He got out of the chair and rushed across the room to the telephone. He picked it up and pressed the numbers for Cynwid Hollow, Maryland.

'Yes?'

'Sir, it's Varak.'

'What is it, Milos? What have you learned?'

'It's Sundstrom—’

'What?'

'That can wait, Dr Winters, something else cannot. The Secretary of State is flying to Cyprus. Can you find out when?'

'I don't have to find out, I know. So does everyone else who watches television or listens to the radio. It's quite a breakthrough—’

'When, sir?'

'He left London about an hour ago. There was the usual statement about bringing the world closer to peace and that sort of thing—’

'In the Mediterranean,’ interrupted Varak, controlling his voice. 'It will happen in the Mediterranean.'

'What will?'

'I don't know. A strategy called Design Twelve, that's all I heard. It will happen on the ground or in the air. They want to stop him.'

'Who does?'

'The contributors. A man named Grinell, Crayton Grinell. If I tried to break in and find out, they might take me. There are men outside the door and I cannot jeopardize the group. I certainly would never willingly disclose information, but there are drugs—’

'Yes, I know.'

'Reach Frank Swann at the State Department. Tell the switchboard to raise him wherever he is and use the phrase “crisis containment”.'

'Why Swann?'

'He's a specialist, sir. He ran the Oman operation for State.'

'Yes, I know that, but I might have to tell him more than I care to… There may be a better way, Milos. Stay on the line, I'm going to put you on hold.' Each ten seconds that went by seemed like minutes to Varak, then they were minutes! What was Winters doing? They did not have minutes to waste. Finally the spokesman for Inver Brass was back on the phone. 'I'm going to switch us to a conference call, Milos. Another will be joining us, but it's understood that neither of you is required to identify yourself. I trust this man completely and he accepts the condition. He's also in what you term “crisis containment” and has far greater resources than Swann.' There were two clicks over the line and Winters continued. 'Go ahead, gentlemen. Mr. A, this is Mr. B.'

'I understand you have something to tell me, Mr. A.'

'Yes, I do,' replied Varak. 'The circumstances are not relevant but the information is verified. The Secretary of State is in imminent danger. There are people who do not want him to attend the conference in Cyprus and they intend to stop him. They're employing a plan or a tactic called “Design Twelve, Mediterranean”. The individual who gave the order is named Grinell, a Crayton Grinell of San Diego. I know nothing about him.'

'I see… Let me phrase this as delicately as I can, Mr. A. Are you in a position to tell us the current whereabouts of this Grinell?'

'I have no choice, Mr. B. The Westlake Hotel. Suite 3C. I have no idea how long he'll be there. Hurry, and send firepower. He's guarded.'

'Will you do me the courtesy, Mr. A, of remaining on the line for a moment or two?'

'So you can trace this leg of the call?'

'I wouldn't do that. I've given my word.'

'He'll keep it,' interrupted Samuel Winters.

'It's difficult for me,' said the Czech.

‘I’ll be quick.'

A single click was heard and Winters spoke. 'You really didn't have a choice, Milos. The Secretary is the sanest man in the administration.'

'I'm aware of that, sir.'

'I can't get over Sundstrom! Why?'

'No doubt a combination of reasons, not least of which are his patents in space technology. Others may build the hardware but the government is the primary buyer. Space is now synonymous with defence.'

'He can't want more money! He gives most of it away.'

'But if the market slows down, so does production and therefore the experimentation—the last is a passion with him.'

Another click. 'I'm back, Mr. A,' said the third party. 'Everyone's alerted over in the Mediterranean, and arrangements have been made to pick up Grinell in San Diego, as quietly as possible, of course.'

'Why was it necessary for me to remain on the phone?'

'Because, quite frankly, if I hadn't been able to make the arrangements in San Diego,' said Mitchell Payton, 'I was going to appeal to your patriotism for further assistance. You're obviously an experienced man.'

'What kind of assistance?'

'Nothing that would compromise our understanding with regard to this call. Only to follow Grinell should he leave the hotel and call our go-between with the information.'

'What made you think I'm in a position to do that?'

'I didn't. I could only hope, and there were several things to do quickly, mainly the Mediterranean.'

'For your information, I'm not in such a position,' lied Varak. 'I'm nowhere near the hotel.'

'Then I may have made two mistakes. I mentioned “patriotism”, but by the way you speak, this may not be your country.'

'It is my country now,' said the Czech.

'Then it owes you a great deal.'

'I must go.' Varak hung up the phone and walked rapidly back to the tape machine. He sat down and clamped the earphones over his head, his eyes straying to the reel of tape. It had stopped. He listened. Nothing. Silence! In desperation he snapped a succession of switches up and down and left and right. There was no response with any of them… no sound. The voice-activated recorder was not functioning because the Vanvlanderen suite was empty! He had to move! Above everything he had to find Sundstrom! For the sake of Inver Brass, the traitor had to be killed.

Khalehla walked down the wide corridor towards the elevators. She had called MJ and after discussing the horror of Mesa Verde, played him the entire conversation with Ardis Vanvlanderen that she had recorded on the miniaturized equipment concealed in her black notebook. Both were satisfied; the grieving widow had left her grief behind in a sea of hysteria. It was apparent to both of them that Mrs. Vanvlanderen had known nothing about her dead husband's contract with the terrorists, but had learned about it after the fact. The sudden appearance of an intelligence officer from Cairo with the upside-down information she carried had been enough to send Ardis the manipulator right through the roof of her skull. Uncle Mitch had been true to form.

'Take five, Field Officer Rashad.'

'I'd like to take a shower and have a quiet meal. I don't think I've eaten since the Bahamas.'

'Order room service. We'll stand for one of your outrageous bills. You've earned it.'

'I hate room service. All those waiters who deliver food for a single female preen as though they're the answer to her sexual fantasies. If I can't have one of my grandmother's meals—’

'You can't.'

'Okay. Then I know a few good restaurants—’

'Go ahead. By midnight I'll have a list of every telephone number our distraught widow has called. Eat well, my dear. Get energy. You may be working all night.'

'You're too generous. May I call Evan, who with any luck could be my intended?'

'You may but you won't get him. Colorado Springs sent a jet to take him and Emmanuel to the hospital in Denver. They're airborne.'

'Thanks again.'

'You're welcome, Rashad.'

'You're too kind, sir.'

Khalehla pressed the button for the elevator, hearing the rumble in her stomach. She had not eaten since the meal on the Air Force jet, and that had been somewhat destroyed by the nervous enzymes produced by Evan's condition—the vomiting and all it signified… Dear Evan, brilliant Evan, dumb Evan. The risk-taker with more morals than suited his approach to life; she wondered briefly if he would have that same integrity if he had failed. It was an open question; he was a compulsively competitive man who looked somewhat arrogantly down from his perch of not having failed. And it was not hard to understand how he had fallen under the spell, or shell, of Ardis Montreaux in Saudi Arabia ten or twelve years ago. That girl must have been something, a flashy lady on a fast track with a face and a body to go with the course. Yet he had fled from the spider—that was her Evan.

She heard the ping of the bell and the elevator doors parted. Happily, it was empty; she stepped inside and pressed the button for the lobby. The panels closed and the machine started its descent only to slow down immediately. She looked up at the lighted numbers over the doors; the elevator was stopping at the third floor. It was simply a coincidence, she thought. MJ was sure that Ardis Vanvlanderen, proprietor of Suite 3C, would not dare leave the hotel.

The doors opened, and while her eyes remained disinterestedly straight ahead, Khalehla was relieved to peripherally see that the passenger was a lone man with light-coloured hair and what appeared to be immense shoulders that filled out his jacket to the point of almost stretching the fabric. Yet there was something strange about him, she thought. As one can when alone with a single human being in a small enclosure, she could sense a high level of energy emanating from her unknown companion. There was an atmosphere of anger or anxiety that seemed to permeate the small area. Then she could feel him looking at her, not the way men usually appraised her—furtively, with glances; she was used to that—but staring at her, the unseen eyes steady, intense, unwavering.

The doors closed as she casually grimaced to herself; it was the expression of someone who may have forgotten something. Again casually, she opened her bag as if to check for the possibly missing item. She exhaled audibly, her face relaxed; the item was there. It was. Her gun. The elevator began its descent as she glanced at the stranger.

She froze! His eyes were two orbs of controlled white heat, and the short, neatly combed hair was light blond. He could be no one else!. The blond European… he was one of them! Khalehla lurched for the panel as she yanked out her automatic, dropping her bag and pressing the emergency button. Beyond the doors, the alarm sounded as the elevator jerked to a stop and the blond man stepped forward.

Khalehla fired, the explosion deafening in the tight enclosure, the bullet passing over the intense stranger's head as it was meant to.

'Stop where you are!' she commanded. 'If you know anything about me, you know my next shot will go right into your forehead.'

'You are the Rashad woman,' said the blond man, his speech accented, his voice strained.

'I don't know who you are, but I know what you are. Scum-rotten, that's what you are! Evan was right. All these months, all the stories about him, the congressional committees, the coverage over the world. It was to set him up for a Palestinian kill! It was as simple as that!'

'No, you are wrong, wrong,' protested the European as the alarm bell outside kept up its abrasive ringing. 'And you must not stop me now! A terrible thing is about to happen and I've been in touch with your people in Washington.'

"Who? Who in Washington?'

'We don't give names—’

'Bullshit!'

'Please, Miss Rashad! A man is getting away.'

'Not you, Blondie—'

Where the blows came from and how they were delivered with such speed Khalehla would never know. For an instant there had been a blurring motion on her left, then a surging hand, as fast as any human hand she had ever seen, stung her right arm, followed by a counterclockwise twist of her right wrist, wrenching the weapon away. Where she might have expected her wrist to be broken it merely burned, as if briefly scalded by a splash of boiling water. The European stood in front of her holding the gun. 'I did not mean to harm you,' he said.

'You're very good, Scum-rotten, I'll give you that.'

'We are not enemies, Miss Rashad.'

'Somehow I find that hard to believe.' The elevator telephone rang from the box below the panel, its bell echoing off the four walls of the small enclosure. 'You're not getting out of here,' added Khalehla.

'Wait,' said the blond man as the ringing persisted. 'You saw Mrs. Vanvlanderen.'

'She told you that. So what?'

'She couldn't have,' broke in the European. 'I've never met her but I have taped her. She had visitors later. They talked about you—she and two other men, one named Grinell.'

'I never heard of him.'

'They're both traitors, enemies of your government, of your country, to be precise, as your country was conceived.' The telephone kept up its insistent ringing.

'Fast words, Mr. No Name.'

'No more words!' cried the blond man, reaching under his jacket and withdrawing a thin large black automatic. He flipped both weapons around, gripping the barrels, the handles extended towards Khalehla. 'Here. Take them. Give me a chance, Miss Rashad!'

Astonished, Khalehla held the guns and looked into the eyes of the European. She had seen that plea in too many eyes before. It was not the look of a man afraid to die for a cause, but furious about the prospect of not living to pursue it. 'All right,' she said slowly. 'I may or I may not. Turn around, your arms against the wall! Farther back, your weight on your hands!' The telephone was now a steady, deafening ring as the field officer from Cairo expertly ran her fingers over the body of the blond man, concentrating on the armpits, the indented shell of his waist and his ankles. There were no weapons on him. 'Stay there,' she ordered as she reached down and pulled out the telephone from the box. 'We couldn't open the panel for the phone!' she exclaimed.

'Our engineer is on his way, madam. He was on his dinner break but we've just located him. We apologize profusely. However, our indicators show no fire or—’

'I think we're the ones to apologize,' interrupted Khalehla. 'It was all a mistake—my mistake. I pushed the wrong button. If you'll just tell me how to make it work again, we'll be fine.'

'Oh? Yes, yes, of course,' said the male voice, suppressing his irritation. 'In the telephone box there's a switch…'

The lobby doors opened and the European immediately spoke to the formally dressed manager who was waiting for them. 'There is a business associate I was to meet here quite some time ago. I'm afraid I overslept—a long, trying flight from Paris. His name is Grinell, have you seen him?'

'Mr. Grinell and the distraught Mrs. Vanvlanderen left a few minutes ago with their guests, sir. I assume it was a memorial service for her husband, a fine, fine gentleman.'

'Yes, he, too, was an associate. We were to be at the service but we never got the address. Do you know it?'

'Oh, no, sir.'

'Would anybody? Would the doorman have heard any instructions to a taxi?'

'Mr. Grinell has his own limousine—limousines, actually.'

'Let's go,' said Khalehla quietly, taking the blond man's arm. 'You're becoming a little obvious,' she continued as they walked towards the front entrance.

'I may have failed, which is far more important.'

'What's your name?'

'Milos. Just call me Milos.'

'I want more than that. I've got the fire, remember?'

'If we can reach an acceptable accommodation, I'll tell you more.'

'You're going to tell me one hell of a lot more, Mr. Milos, and there won't be any more of those fast manoeuvres of yours. Your gun is in my bag, and mine is under my coat aimed at your chest.'

'What do we do now, Miss Supposedly Retired Central Intelligence Officer from Egypt?'

'We eat, you nosy bastard. I'm starved, but I'll pick up every morsel of food with my left hand. If you make a wrong move across the table, you'll never be able to have children, and not just because you're dead. Am I clear?'

'You must be very good.'

'Good enough, Mr. Milos, good enough. I'm half Arab and don't you forget it.'

They sat opposite each other in a large circular booth selected by Khalehla in an Italian restaurant two blocks north of the hotel. Varak had detailed everything he had heard over the earphones from the Vanvlanderen suite. 'I was shocked. I never thought for an instant that Andrew Vanvlanderen would act unilaterally.'

'You mean without his wife putting “a bullet in his head” and calling one of the others to “deep six” him in Mexico?'

'Exactly. She would have done it, you know. He was stupid.'

'I disagree, he was very bright, considering his purpose. Everything that was done to and for Evan Kendrick led to a logical jaremat thaár, Arabic for a vengeance kill. You provided that, Mr. Milos, starting with the first moment you met Frank Swann at the State Department.'

'Never with that intention, I assure you. I never thought it was remotely possible.'

'You were wrong.'

'I was wrong.'

'Let's go back to that first moment—in fact, let's go back over the whole damn thing!'

'There's nothing to go back over. I've said nothing of substance.'

'But we know far more than you think. We just had to unravel the string, as my superior put it… A reluctant freshman congressman is manipulated on to important congressional committees, positions that others would sell their daughters for. Then because of mysteriously absentee chairmen, he's on national television, which leads to more exposure, topped by the explosive, worldwide story about his covert actions in Oman, and ending up with the President awarding him the highest medal a civilian can get. The agenda is pretty clear, isn't it?'

'It was organized quite well, in my opinion.'

'And now there's about to be launched a national campaign to place him on the party ticket, in effect making him the next Vice President of the United States.'

'You know about that?'

'Yes, and it's hardly a spontaneous act on the part of the body politic.'

'I trust it will appear so.'

'Where are you coming from?' asked Khalehla, leaning over, picking at her veal dish with the left hand, her right out of sight under the table.

'I must tell you, Miss Rashad, that it pains me to watch you eating so awkwardly. I'm not a threat to you and I won't run.'

'How can I be sure of either? That you're not a threat and that you won't run?'

'Because in certain areas our interests are the same, and I am willing to work with you on a limited basis.'

'My God, what arrogance! Would Your Eminence be so kind as to describe these areas and the limits of your generous assistance?'

'Certainly. To begin with, the safety of the Secretary of State and exposing those who would have him killed as well as discovering why, although I think we can assume the reason. Then the capture of the terrorists who attacked Congressman Kendrick's houses with considerable loss of life, and confirming the Vanvlanderen connection—’

'You know about Fairfax and Mesa Verde?' Varak nodded. 'The blackout's total.'

'Which brings us to the limits of my participation. I must remain far in the background and will not discuss my activities except in the most general terms. I will, however, if it's necessary, refer you by code name to certain individuals in the government who will attest to my dependability in security matters here and abroad.'

'You don't think much of yourself, do you?'

Milos smiled cautiously. 'I really don't have an opinion. However, I come from a country whose government was stolen from the people, and made up my mind years ago what I would do with my life. I have confidence in the methods I've developed. If that's arrogance, so be it, and I apologize, but I don't think of it that way.'

Khalehla slowly pulled her right hand out from under the table and with her left picked up the bag at her side. She shoved her automatic into it and leaned back, shaking her hand to restore circulation. 'I think we can dispense with the hardware, and you're right, it's terribly awkward trying to cut meat with a left-handed fork while your other wrist is paralysed.'

'I was going to suggest that you order something simpler, perhaps an antipasto, or a dish you might eat with your fingers, but I didn't feel it was my place.'

'Do I detect a sense of humour behind that severe expression?'

'An attempt, perhaps, but I don't feel very humorous at the moment. I won't until I know the Secretary of State has arrived safely in Cyprus.'

'You alerted the proper people; there's nothing more you can do. They'll take care of him.'

'I'm counting on it.'

'Then to business, Mr. Milos,' said Khalehla, returning to her meal, again slowly, her eyes on Varak. 'Why Kendrick? Why did you do it? Above all, how did you do it? You tapped into sources that were supposedly untappable! You went in where no one should be able to go and ripped out secrets, stole a theft proof file. Whoever gave you those should be taken out and put in the field so he'd know what it's like to have no protection, to be naked without weapons in the dark streets of a hostile city.'

'Whatever assistance was given to me was rendered by a source who trusted me, who knew where I was coming from, as you phrased it.'

'But why?

‘I’ll give you a limited response, Miss Rashad, and speak only in general terms.'

'Hoorah for you. So give.'

'This country imperatively needs changes in an administration that will undoubtedly be re-elected.'

'Who says so other than the voters?'

'Off limits, except again, in general terms… although I shouldn't have to use even them. You've seen for yourself.'

Khalehla put down her fork and looked at the European. 'San Diego? Vanvlanderen? Grinell?'

'San Diego, Vanvlanderen and Grinell,' repeated the Czech quietly. 'To clarify further: Moneys obviously sent through Zurich and Beirut to the Baaka Valley for the purpose of eliminating a political contender, namely, Congressman Kendrick. And now an apparent attempt to stop a brilliant Secretary of State from attending a disarmament conference whose purpose is to reduce the proliferation—the production of space and nuclear weapons.'

'San Diego,' said Khalehla, leaving her food on the plate. 'Orson Bollinger?'

'An enigma,' replied Varak. 'What does he know? What doesn't he know? No matter, he's the rallying point, the funnel into an unbeatable administration. He has to be replaced, thus eliminating the people around him who order him to march to their drums.'

'But why Evan Kendrick?'

'Because he is now an unbeatable contender.'

'He'll never accept it; he'll tell you to go to hell. You don't know him, I do.'

'A man doesn't necessarily want to do what he must do, Miss Rashad. But he will do it if the reasons are made clear to him why he should.'

'You think that's enough?'

'I don't know Mr. Kendrick personally, of course, but I don't think there's another human being I've studied so closely. He's a remarkable man, yet so realistically modest about his achievements. He made a great deal of money out of an exploding Middle East economy then walked away from millions more because he was morally offended and emotionally distraught. He then entered the political arena for no other reason than to replace a—what did you call me?— scum-rotten, who was lining his pockets in Colorado. Finally, he went to Oman knowing he might not come back for he believed he could help in a crisis. That's not a man you take lightly. He may but you don't.'

'Oh, good Lord,' said Khalehla. 'I'm hearing a variation of my own words.'

'In support of his political advancement?'

'No, to explain why he wasn't a liar. But I should tell you there's another reason why he went back to Oman. It falls under the not too benevolent heading of a kill. He was convinced he knew who was behind the terrorists in Masqat: the same monster who'd been responsible for killing all seventy-eight people who made up the Kendrick Group, including wives and children. He was right; the man was executed according to Arabic law.'

'That's hardly a negative, Miss Rashad.'

'No, it isn't, but it somewhat alters the circumstances.'

'I'd prefer to think it adds a dimension of properly-sought justice, which further confirms our choice of him.'

'Our?'

'Off limits.'

'I repeat, he'll turn it down.'

'He will if he learns how he was manipulated. He may not if he's convinced he is needed.'

Khalehla again leaned back in the booth, studying the Czech. 'If I'm hearing correctly, you're suggesting something that's deeply offensive to me.'

'It shouldn't be.' Varak sat forward. 'No one can force a man to accept elective office, Miss Rashad, he has to seek it. Conversely, no one can force a political party's leading senators and congressmen to accept a new candidate, they must want him. It's true that circumstances were created to bring out the man, but we could not create the man; he was there to begin with.'

'You're asking me not to tell him about this conversation, not to tell him about you… Have you any idea how many weeks we've been looking for you?'

'Have you any idea how many months we looked for Evan Kendrick?'

'I don't give a damn! He was manipulated and he knows it. You can't hide, I won't let you. You've put him through too much. Dear friends killed, now possibly an old man who's been a father to him for fifteen years. All his plans shot to hell—too much!'

'I can't change what's happened, I can only grieve for my errors of judgment and no one will grieve more, but I ask you to think of your country, my country now. If we've helped to produce a political force, it was only because the force existed in his own right, with his own instincts. Without him, any number of perfectly decent men will be acceptable to the party leadership because they're familiar and comfortable, but they will not be a force… Do I make myself clear?'

'According to history, a Vice President once said that the office wasn't worth a “bucket of warm spit”.'

'Not these days, and certainly not in the hands of Evan Kendrick. You were obviously in Cairo when he appeared on television here—'

'I was in Cairo,' interrupted Khalehla, 'but we have an American channel—tapes, of course. I saw him and I've seen him here subsequently and repeatedly, thanks no doubt to your… agenda. He was very good, very intelligent and appealing.'

'Miss Rashad, he's unique. He's unbuyable and he speaks his mind and the country is taken with him.'

'Because of you.'

'No, because of him. He's done the things he's done, they weren't invented; he's said the things he's said, the words weren't provided. What can I tell you? I analysed over four hundred possibilities, using the most advanced computers, and one man stood out. Evan Kendrick.'

'You want nothing from him?'

'You say you know him. If we did, what do you think he'd do?'

'Turn you over to some anti-corruption committee and make damn sure you spent time in prison.'

'Exactly.'

Khalehla shook her head, her eyes closed. 'I'd like a glass of wine, Mr. Milos. I've got a few things to think about.'

Varak signalled a waiter and ordered two glasses of chilled Chablis, leaving the choice to the waiter's discretion. 'Among my many deficiencies,' said the Czech, 'is a lack of knowledge of wines beyond those of my country.'

'I don't believe that for an instant. You're probably a certified sommelier.'

'Hardly. I hear friends order specific vineyards and vintages and I marvel at them.'

'Do you really have friends? I think of you as rather an eminence grise.'

'Je comprends, but you're wrong. I live quite a normal life. My friends think I'm a translator, freelance, naturally, at home.'

'Bien,' said the agent from Cairo. 'That's how I began.'

'There's no office to contact, only an answering machine, which I can reach from wherever I am.'

'Me, too.'

The wine arrived and, after sipping, Khalehla spoke. 'He can't go back,' she said, as if speaking to herself, then partially including Varak. 'At least not for a few years, if then. Once the blackout's lifted there'll be a lot of hot blood running in the Baaka Valley.'

'I assume you're talking about the congressman?'

'Yes. The terrorists were caught, in a manner of speaking… There was a third and final attack several hours ago. It took place in Mesa Verde and was every bit as devastating as Fairfax.'

'Several hours …? Was Kendrick there?'

'Yes.'

'And?'

'He's alive, I'm told by seconds. But like Virginia, many of our personnel were killed.'

'I'm sorry… Weingrass was severely hurt, I gather. That's whom you were referring to when you mentioned an old man, wasn't it?'

'Yes. They're flying him to a hospital in Denver. Evan's with him.'

'The terrorists, please,' said Varak, his eyes boring into hers.

'All together there were nine of them. Eight are dead; one survived, the youngest.'

'And when the blackout's lifted, as you say, there will be hot blood in the Baaka. It's why Kendrick can't go back to that part of the world.'

'He wouldn't live forty-eight hours. There's no way to protect him from the crazies.'

'There is here and none better than the government's Secret Service. In these matters nothing is perfect, there is only the best.'

'I know.' Khalehla drank from her glass of wine.

'You understand what I'm saying, don't you, Miss Rashad?'

'I think so.'

'Let events run their natural course. There's a legitimate political action committee dedicated to supporting Congressman Kendrick for higher office. Let them work unencumbered and let the country respond—one way or the other. And if we're both right about the Vanvlanderens and the Grinells and the people they represent, let Evan Kendrick make up his own mind. Because even if we expose them and stop them, there are hundreds more who will take their places… A force is needed, a voice is needed.'

Khalehla raised her eyes from the wine. She nodded twice.