The Icarus Agenda

Chapter 38

The morning's headlines and related articles obscured all other news. The Secretary of State and his entire delegation had been brutally killed in a hotel in Cyprus. The Sixth Fleet was heading towards the island, all weapons and aircraft at the ready. The nation was transfixed, furious, and not a little frightened. The horror of some uncontrollable force of evil seemed to loom on the horizon, edging the country towards the brink of wholesale confrontation, provoking the government to respond with equal horror and brutality. But in a stroke of rare intuitive geopolitical brilliance, President Langford Jennings controlled the storm. He contacted Moscow, and the result of that communication had brought forth dual condemnations from the two superpowers. The monstrous event in Cyprus was labelled an isolated act of terrorism that enraged the entire world. Words of praise and sorrow for a great man came from all the capitals of the globe, allies and adversaries alike.

And on pages 2, 7 and 45, respectively, in the San Diego Union, and pages 4, 50 and 51 in the Los Angeles Times, were the following far less important wire service reports.

San Diego, 22 Dec.—Mrs. Ardis Vanvlanderen, chief of staff for Vice President Orson Bollinger, whose husband, Andrew Vanvlanderen, died yesterday from cardiac arrest, took her own life early this morning in apparent grief. Her body washed up on the beach in Coronado, death attributed to drowning. On his way to the airport, her attorney, Mr. Crayton Grinell, of La Jolla, had dropped her off at the funeral home for a last viewing of her husband. According to sources at the home, the widow was under severe strain and barely coherent. Although a limousine waited for her, she slipped out a side door and apparently took a taxi to the Coronado beach…

Mexico City, 22 Dec.—Eric Sundstrom, one of America's leading scientists and creators of highly complex space technology, died of a cerebral haemorrhage while on vacation in Puerto Vallarta. Few details are available at this time. A full report of his life and work will appear in tomorrow's editions.

San Diego, 22 Dec.—An unidentified man without papers, but carrying a gun, died of gunshot wounds on a back road south of the International Airport. Lt Commander John Demartin, a US Navy fighter pilot, picked him up, telling the police the man claimed to have been in an automobile accident. Due to the proximity of the private field adjacent to the airport, authorities suspect that the death may have been drug oriented…

Evan flew to San Diego on the first morning flight from Denver. He had insisted on seeing Manny at 6:00 am and would not be denied. 'You're going to be fine,' he had lied. 'And you're a horseshit artist,' Weingrass had shot back. 'Where are you going?' '… Khalehla. San Diego. She needs me.''… Then get the hell out of here! I don't want to see your ugly face another second. Go to her, help her. Get those bastards!'

The taxi from the airport to the hotel in the early traffic seemed interminable, the situation hardly relieved by the driver, who recognized him and kept up a flow of inane chatter laced with invective directed at all Arabs and all things Arabic.

'Every fuckin' one of 'em should be taken out and shot, right?'

'Women and children, too, of course.'

'Right! The brats grow up and the broads make more brats!'

'That's quite a solution. You might even call it final.'

'It's the only way, right'?'

'Wrong. When you consider the numbers and the price of ammunition, the cost would be too high. Taxes would go up.'

'No kiddin'? Shit, I pay enough. There's gotta be another way.'

'I'm sure you'll come up with one… Now, if you'll forgive me, I have some reading to do.' Kendrick returned to his copy of the Denver Post and the terrible news from Cyprus. And, either miffed or feeling he had been put down, the driver turned on the radio. Again, as in the newspapers, the coverage was almost exclusively about the abominable act of terrorism in the Mediterranean, on-site recordings and repeated interviews from world figures in various translated languages condemning the barbaric act. And as if death had to follow death, a stunned Evan heard the newscaster's words.

'Here in San Diego there was another tragedy. Mrs. Ardis Vanvlanderen, Vice President Bollinger's chief of staff, was found dead early this morning when her body washed up on the beach in Coronado, an apparent suicide…'

Kendrick shot forward on the seat… Ardis? Ardis Vanvlanderen …? Ardis Montreaux! The Bahamas… a dissolute minor player from Off Shore Investments of years ago said Ardis Montreaux had married a wealthy Californian! Good Christ! That was why Khalehla had flown to San Diego. Mitchell Payton had found the 'money whore'—Bollinger's chief of staff! The announcer went on to speculate on the new widow's grief, a speculation Kendrick thought suspect.

He walked across the hotel lobby and took the elevator to the fifth floor. Studying the numbered arrows, he started down the hall towards Khalehla's room both anxious and depressed—anxious to see her and hold her, depressed about Manny, about the wholesale slaughter in Cyprus, about so much, but mainly Emmanuel Weingrass, scheduled victim of murder. He reached the door and rapped four times, hearing the racing footsteps inside before he removed his hand. The door swung back and she was in his arms.

'My God, I love you,' he whispered into her dark hair, the words rushed. 'And everything's so rotten, so goddamned rotten!'

'Quickly. Inside.' Khalehla closed the door and returned to him, holding his face in her hands. 'Manny?'

'He's got somewhere between three and six months to live,' replied Evan, his voice flat. 'He's dying of a virus he couldn't possibly have got except through an injection.'

'The non-existent Dr Lyons," said Rashad, making a statement.

‘I’ll find him if it takes me twenty years.'

'You'll have all the help Washington can give you.'

'The news is rotten everywhere. Cyprus, the best man in the administration blown to bits—’

'It's tied in here, Evan. Here in San Diego.'

'What?'

Khalehla backed away and took his hand, leading him across the room to where there were two chairs, a small round table between them. 'Sit down, darling. I've got a lot to tell you that I couldn't tell you before. Then there's something you have to do… it's why I asked you to fly out here.'

'I think I know one of the things you're going to tell me,' said Kendrick, sitting down. 'Ardis Montreaux, the widow Vanvlanderen. I heard it on the radio; they say she committed suicide.'

'She did that when she married her late husband.'

'You came to see her, didn't you?'

'Yes.' Rashad nodded as she sat down at the table. 'You'll hear and read everything. There are tapes and transcripts of all of it; they were delivered to me an hour ago.'

'What about Cyprus?'

'The order came from here. A man named Grinell.'

'Never heard of him.'

'Few people have… Evan, it's worse than anything we could imagine.'

'You learned that from Ardis?… Yes, she was Ardis and I was Evan.'

'I know that. No, not from her; with her we only glimpsed the outline and that was frightening enough. Our main source is a man who was killed last night out by the airport.'

'For God's sake, who?'

'The blond European, darling.'

'What?' Kendrick fell back in the seat, his face flushed.

'He taped not only my interview but a subsequent conversation that blew the lid off the top. Except for Grinell we don't have names, but we can piece together a picture, like in a puzzle with blurred figures, and it's terrifying.'

'A government within the government,' said Evan quietly. 'Those were Manny's words. “The servants running the master's house.”'

'As usual, Manny's right.'

Kendrick got up from the chair and walked to a window, leaning against the sill and staring outside. 'The blond man, who was he?'

'We never learned, but whoever he was he died delivering us the information.'

'The Oman file. How did he get it?'

'He wouldn't tell me except to say that his source was a good person who supported you for higher political office.'

'That doesn't tell me anything!' shouted Evan, whipping around from the window. 'There has to be more!'

'There isn't.'

'Did he have any idea what they've done? The lives that were lost, the butchering!'

'He said he'd grieve over the errors of judgment more than anyone else. He didn't know that his grief would only last a couple of hours.'

'Goddamn it!' roared Kendrick at the walls of the room. 'What about this Grinell? Have they got him?'

'He's disappeared. His plane left San Diego for Tucson, Arizona. No one knew about it until morning. It was on the ground for about an hour then took off without filing a flight plan, that's how we found out.'

'Planes can collide that way.'

'Not if they patch into Mexican air traffic across the border.

MJ has an idea that Grinell's security may have spotted the federal vehicles waiting for him near his house in Lajolla.'

Evan returned to the table and sat down, a man exhausted, beaten. 'Where do we go from here?'

'Downstairs to the Vanvlanderen suite. Our European wanted you to look at something—photographs, actually. I don't know why, but he said the man was a Saudi and you might remember. Something about millions and an escape. We've secured the apartment. No one goes in or out under the national security statutes insofar as she was Bollinger's chief of staff and there could be confidential papers.'

'All right, let's go.'

They took the elevator down to the third floor and approached the doors of the Vanvlanderen apartment. The two armed, uniformed police officers in front nodded as the man on the left turned. He inserted the key and opened the door.

'It's an honour to meet you, Congressman,' said the officer on the right, impetuously extending his hand.

'A pleasure to meet you,' said Kendrick, shaking the hand and going inside.

'How does it feel being such a celebrity?' asked Khalehla, closing the door.

'Neither comfortable nor gratifying,' replied Evan as they walked across the marble foyer and down into the sunken living room. 'Where are the photographs?'

'He wasn't specific, only that they were in her office, and you should find ones taken in Lausanne and Amsterdam.'

'Over there,' said Kendrick, seeing a lighted desk lamp in a room to the left. 'Come on.'

They walked across the carpeted room into the study. Evan adjusted his eyes to the shadowed interior, then crossed to another lamp across the room and turned it on. The crisscrossing arrangement of photographs sprang into light.

'Good Lord, how do we start?' said Khalehla.

'Slowly and carefully,' answered Kendrick, quickly dismissing the panel on the left and concentrating on the right wall. 'This is Europe,' he said, his eyes roaming. 'That's Lausanne,' he added, focusing on two people in an enlarged snapshot with the Leman Marina in the background. 'It's Ardis and… no, it couldn't be.'

'What couldn't be?'

'Wait a minute.' Evan followed the pattern to the lower right, concentrating on another framed enlargement, the faces clearer. 'Lausanne, again. This is in the gardens of the Beau Rivage… Is it possible?'

'Is what?… He mentioned the Beau Rivage, the blond man, I mean. Also Amsterdam, the rose something-or-other.'

'The Rozengracht. Here it is.' Kendrick pointed at a photograph in which the two subjects' faces were even sharper, more distinct. 'My God, it's him!'

'Who?'

'Abdel Hamendi. I knew him years ago in Riyadh. He was a minister for the Saudis until the family caught him working on his own, making millions with false leases and ersatz contracts. He was to be publicly executed, but he got out of the country… They say he built a fortress for himself somewhere in the Alps near Divonne and went into a new brokering business. Armaments. I was told he's become the most powerful arms merchant in the world with the lowest profile.'

'Ardis Vanvlanderen mentioned Divonne on the second tape. It was a quick reference, but now it makes sense.'

Evan stepped back and looked at Khalehla. 'Our dead European's instincts were right. He didn't remember the details, but he saw the blood on Hamendi as surely as if it were coming out of that photograph… A government within the government dealing with a global brokerage house for all the illicit weapons in the world.' Kendrick suddenly frowned, his expression startled. 'Is it all tied in with Bollinger?’

'The European said there was no way to tell. What does he know or what doesn't he know? There's only one thing that's certain. He's the rallying point for the heaviest political contributors in the country.'

'My God, they're entrenched—’

'There's something else you should know. Ardis Vanvlanderen's husband was the one who made contact with the terrorists. He arranged for the attacks on your homes.'

'Jesus!' roared Evan. 'Why?'

'You,' answered Khalehla softly. 'You were the target; he wanted you killed. He acted alone—it's why his wife was murdered when the others found out; to cut off any ties to them—but they're all afraid of you. Starting next week there's going to begin a nationwide campaign to put you on the ticket replacing Bollinger as the new Vice President.'

'The blond European's people?'

'Yes. And the men around Bollinger can't tolerate that. They think you'll squeeze them out, reduce their influence to nothing.'

'I'm going to do more than that,' said Evan. 'I'm not going to squeeze them out, I'm going to rip them out… Cyprus, Fairfax, Mesa Verde—bastards! Who are they? Is there a list?'

'We can compile one with a great many names, but we don't know who's involved and who isn't.'

'Let's find out.'

'How?'

I'm going inside Bollinger's camp. They're going to see another Congressman Kendrick—one who can be bought off a national ticket.'

Mitchell Jarvis Payton stared out of the window from his desk in Langley, Virginia. There was so much to think about he could not think about Christmas, which was a minor blessing. He had no regrets about the life he had chosen but Christmas was a bit trying. He had two married sisters in the Midwest and assorted nieces and nephews to whom he had sent the usual presents appropriately purchased by his secretary of many years, but he had no desire to join them for the holiday. There was simply nothing much to talk about; he had been too long on the other side of the world for conversations about a lumberyard and an insurance firm and, of course, he could say nothing about his own work. Also the children, most of them grown up, were an unremarkable lot, not a scholar among them, and adamant in their collective pursuit of the good, stolid life of financial security. It was all better left alone. It was probably why he gravitated to his adopted niece, Adrienne Rashad—he had better get used to calling her Khalehla, he reflected. She was part of his world, hardly by any choice of his, but part of it, and outstanding. Payton wished for a moment that they were all back in Cairo, when the Rashads used to insist that he join them for their yearly Christmas dinner, complete with a brilliantly decorated tree and recordings of carols.

'Really, MJ,' Rashad's wife would explain. I’m from California, remember? I'm the light-skinned one!'

Where had those days gone? Would they ever come back? Of course not. He ate alone at Christmas.

Payton's red phone rang. His hand shot out, picking it up. 'Yes?'

'He's crazy,' yelled Adrienne-Khalehla. 'I mean he's nuts, MJ!'

'He's turned you down?'

'Get off it. He wants to go see Bollinger!'

'On what grounds?'

'To play a fink! Can you believe it?'

'I might if you'll be somewhat clearer—’

There was an obvious tugging at the telephone as several obscenities were hurled back and forth. 'Mitch, this is Evan.'

'I gathered that.'

I'm going inside.'

'Bollinger's?'

'It's logical. I did the same thing in Masqat.'

'You can win one and then lose one, young man. Once successful, twice burned. Those people play hardball.'

'So do I. I want them. I'll get them.'

'We'll monitor you—’

'No, it's got to be solo. They have what you people call equipment—eyes all over the place. I've got to play it out by myself, the point being that I can be persuaded to fade from politics.'

That's too big a contradiction from what they've seen of you, heard of you. It wouldn't work, Kendrick.'

'It will if I tell them part of the truth—a very essential part.'

'What's that, Evan?'

That I did what I did in Oman strictly out of self-interest. I was heading back to pick up the pieces, to make all that money I left behind. It's something they'd understand, they'd damn well understand.'

'Not good enough. They'll ask too many questions and want to confirm your answers.'

'None I can't answer,' broke in Kendrick. 'All part of the truth, all easily confirmed. I was convinced I knew who was behind the Palestinians and why—he'd used the same tactics on my company—the truth. I had connections with the most powerful men in the Sultanate and full government protection. Let them check with young Ahmat, he'd love to get that straightened out; his nose is still out of joint. Again, the truth, even when I was in the prisoner compound I was watched every minute by the police… My objective throughout was merely to get the information I knew existed to nail a maniac who called himself the Mahdi. The truth.'

'I'm sure there are gaps that can trip you up,' said Payton, writing notes he would later shred.

'Not one I can think of, and that's all that matters. I've heard the European's tape; they've got billions riding on the next five years and can't afford to weaken their status quo by one iota. It doesn't matter that they're wrong, but they see me as a threat to them, which under different circumstances I damn well would be—’

'What might those circumstances be, Evan?' interrupted the older man in Langley.

'What…? If I stayed in Washington, I imagine. I'd ride herd on every son of a bitch who plays loose with the government's coffers and figures out ways to get around the laws for a few million here and a few million there.'

'A veritable Savonarola.'

'No fanaticism, MJ, just a goddamned angry taxpayer who's sick and tired of all those screaming scare tactics designed to bleed the taxpayers for excessive profits… Where was I?'

'A threat to them.'

'Right. They want me out of the way and I'll convince them I'm ready to go, that I want nothing to do with this campaign to put me on the ticket… but I have a problem.'

'This, I assume, is the kicker?'

'I'm first and foremost a businessman, a construction engineer by training and profession, and the office of Vice President would provide me with a global posture I could never enjoy without it. I'm relatively young; in five years I'll still be in my forties and as a former Vice President I'd have financial backing and influence available to me all over the world. That's a very tempting prospect for an international builder who intends to return to the private sector… What do you think would be the reaction of Bollinger and his advisers, MJ?'

'What else?' said the director of Special Projects. 'You're imitating their own voices with just the right amount of ooze. They'll offer you a five-year shortcut with all the financial resources you need.'

'That's what I thought you'd say; that's what I think they'll say. But again, like any decent negotiator who's made a fair share of money in his day, I have another problem.'

'I can't wait to hear it, young man.'

'I need proof and I need it quickly so that I can firmly reject the political committee in Denver that's priming Chicago for next week. Reject it before it gets off the ground and possibly out of control.'

'And the proof you require is a general commitment of sorts?'

'I'm a businessman.'

'So are they. They won't put anything in writing.'

'That's negotiable among men of goodwill. I want a meeting-of-intent with the principals. I'll set forth my plans, vague as they are, and they can respond. If they can convince me that they're trustworthy, I'll act accordingly… And I think they'll be very convincing, but by then it won't matter.'

'Because you'll have the nucleus,' agreed Payton, smiling. 'You'll know who they are. I must say, Evan, it all sounds feasible, even remarkably so.'

'Just sound business practice, MJ.'

'However, I have a problem. At the outset, they'll never believe that you're going back over there. They'll think you're lying. The whole Middle East is too unstable.'

'I didn't say I was going back next week, I said “one day”, and God knows I wouldn't mention the Mediterranean. But I will talk about the Emirates and Bahrain, Kuwait and Qatar, even Oman and Saudi Arabia, all the places in the Gulf States where the Kendrick Group operated. They're as normal as they'll ever be, and as OPEC gets its act together again it'll be business and profits as usual. Like every West European construction outfit, I want part of the action and I want to be ready for it. I'm back in the private sector.'

'Good heavens, you're persuasive.'

'Business-wise, I'm not far off the mark, either… I've got the marbles, Mitch. I'm going in.'

'When?'

'I'm calling Bollinger in a few minutes. I don't think he'll refuse my call.'

'Not likely. Langford Jennings would burn his ass.'

'I want to give him several hours to gather his flock, at least the few he counts on. I'll ask for a meeting late this afternoon.'

'Make it in the evening,' corrected the CIA executive. 'After business hours, and be explicit. Say you want a private entrance away from his personnel and the press. It'll convey your message.'

'That's very good, MJ.'

'Sound business practice, Congressman.'

Lt Commander John Demartin, US Navy, was in jeans and a T-shirt, applying generous amounts of cleaning fluid over the upholstery of his car's front seat, trying with minimal success to remove the bloodstains. It was going to be a professional job, he concluded, and until it was done he would tell the kids he had spilled some cherry soda on the way home from the field. Still, the more he reduced the stains, the less it would cost—he hoped.

Demartin had read the report in the morning's Union identifying him by name and stating that the authorities believed the death of the wounded hitchhiker he had picked up was drug related; the pilot, however, was not convinced. He was not on speaking terms with any drug dealers that he knew of, yet he could not imagine that too many of them were so polite as to offer to pay for staining a car seat. He assumed that such men, if mortally wounded, would be in panic, not so controlled, so courteous.

Pressing down, Demartin scrubbed the back of the seat again. His exposed knuckles touched something, something sharp yet instantly flexible. It was a note. He pulled it out and read it, reading beneath the bloodstains.

Urgt. MX s'c'ty. Relay contct 3016211133 S-term

The last letters drifted off as if there had been no strength left to write them. The naval officer dragged himself out of the seat and stood in the driveway studying the note, then walked up the flagstone path to his front door. He went inside, proceeded into the living room and picked up the phone; he knew whom to call. Moments later a WAVE secretary put him through to the base's chief of intelligence.

'Jim, it's John Demartin—’

'Hey, I read about that crazy episode last night. What some fly boys won't do for a little grass… You're taking me up on the fishing Saturday?'

'No, I'm calling you about last night.'

'Oh? How come?'

'Jim, I don't know who or what that guy was, but I don't think he had anything to do with drugs. Then a few minutes ago I found a note creased into the seat where he was sitting. It's kind of bloody but let me read it to you.'

'Go ahead, I've got a pencil.'

The naval officer read the awkwardly printed words, letters and numbers. 'Does it make any sense?' he asked when he had finished.

'It… may,' said the intelligence chief slowly, obviously re-reading what he had written. 'John, describe what happened last night, will you? The article in the paper was pretty sketchy.'

Demartin did so, beginning with the observation that although the blond man spoke excellent English, he had a foreign accent. He ended with the hitchhiker's collapse in front of the fruit stand. 'That's it.'

'Do you think he knew how severely he was wounded?'

'If he didn't, I did. I tried not to stop for the telephone but he insisted—I mean, he pleaded, Jim. Not so much in words but with his eyes… I won't forget them for a long time.'

'But there was no question in your mind that he was coming back to the car.'

'None. I think he wanted to make a last call; even as he fell he reached up for the phone on the counter, but he was coming back.'

'Stay where you are. I'll call you right back.'

The pilot hung up and walked to a rear window overlooking the small pool and outside patio. His two children were splashing about and yelling at each other while his wife reclined in a lounge chair reading the Wall Street Journal, a practice for which he was grateful. Thanks to her, they were able to live somewhat beyond his salary. The phone rang; he returned to it. 'Jim?'

'Yes… John, I'll be as clear as I can and that's not going to be too clear. There's a fellow here on loan to us from Washington who's more familiar with these things than I am and this is what he wants you to do… Oh, boy.'

'What is it? Tell me?'

'Burn the note and forget about it.'

The CIA officer in the rumpled suit reached for the small yellow package of M&Ms, the telephone held to his left ear. 'You got all that?' asked Shapoff, otherwise known as Gingerbread.

'Yes,' replied MJ Payton, the word drawn out as if the information was both bewildering and startling.

'The way I read it, this guy, whoever he was, combined “urgent” with “maximum security”, reckoning that if he didn't make it this navy officer would have enough sense to call Base Security rather than the cops.'

'Which is exactly what he did,' agreed MJ.

'Then Security would reach the “relay contact” and deliver the message thinking it'd be channelled to the right people.'

'The message being that someone called code name S had been terminated.'

'We got an operation with a code-S?'

'No.'

'Maybe it's the Bureau or Treasury.'

'I doubt it,' said Payton.

'Why?'

'Because in this case the relay is the last stop. The message wouldn't have gone any farther.'

'How do you know that?'

'Area code three-zero-one is Maryland, and unfortunately I recognize the number. It's unlisted and very private.'

Payton leaned back in his chair, briefly understanding how alcoholics felt when they believed they could not get through the next hour without a drink, which meant a step away from reality. How ludicrously illogically logical! The voice heard by the ears of presidents, a man the nation's leaders knew had the nation's interests always in the forefront of his profound thinking, without fear, without favour, with constant objectivity… He had chosen the future. He had selected a little-known but outstanding congressman with a story to tell that would mesmerize the country. He had guided his anointed prince through the political labyrinth until the designated tyro emerged into the media sunlight, no longer a fledgling but a practitioner to be reckoned with. Then with the suddenness and audacity of a bolt of lightning, the story was told and the nation, indeed a large part of the world, was transfixed. A giant wave had been set in motion carrying the prince to a land he had never considered, a land of power, a royal house of awesome responsibility. The White House. Samuel Winters had broken the rules and, far worse, at an enormous loss of life. Mr. A had not dropped from the sky in a crisis. The blond European had worked solely for the august Samuel Winters.

The director of Special Projects picked up his phone and gently touched the numbers on his console. 'Dr Winters,' he said in response to the single word Yes. 'This is Payton.'

'It's been a terrible day, hasn't it, Doctor?'

'That's not a title I use any more. I haven't for years.'

'A shame. You were a fine scholar.'

'Have you heard from Mr. A since yesterday evening?'

'No… Although his information was tragically prophetic there'd be no reason for him to call me. As I told you, Mitchell, the man who employs him—a far more distant acquaintance than you—suggested he contact me… very much as you did. My reputation exceeds my presumed influence.'

'Through you I saw the President,' said Payton, closing his eyes at the old man's lies.

'Well, yes. The news you brought me was devastating, as was Mr. A's. In his case I naturally thought of you. I wasn't sure Langford or his people had the expertise that you did—’

'I obviously didn't have it,' interrupted MJ.

'I'm certain you did all you could.'

'Back to Mr. A, Dr Winters.'

'Yes?'

'He's dead.'

The gasp of breath was like an electric shock over the line. It was several seconds before Winters spoke, and when he did his voice was hollow. 'What are you saying?'

'He's dead. And someone known to you as code name S has been killed.'

'Oh, my God,' whispered the spokesman of Inver Brass, the whisper a tremulous echo of itself. 'How do you come by this… information?'

'I'm afraid that's privileged, even from you.'

'Damn you, I gave you Jennings! The President of the United States!'

'But you didn't tell me why, Doctor. You never explained to me that your overriding concern—your consummate concern—was the man you had chosen. Evan Kendrick.'

'No!' protested Winters, as close to a scream of denial as he could manage. 'You must not delve into such matters; they're not your business! No laws have been broken.'

'I'd like to think you believe that, but if you do, I'm afraid you're terribly wrong. When you contract the talents of someone like your European, you can't divorce yourself from his methods… As we've pieced it together they include political extortion through blackmail, the corruption of the legislative process, the theft of maximum classified documents and indirectly causing the death and maiming of numerous government personnel—and finally murder. Code name S was terminated,'

'Oh, dear God…!'

'That's who you were playing—’

'You don't understand, Mitchell, that's not the way things happened.’

'On the contrary, it's exactly the way they happened.'

'I know nothing about such things, you must believe that.'

'I do because you employed a skilled professional for results, not for giving you explanations.'

'“Employed” is too simplistic a term! He was a dedicated man who had his own mission in life.'

'So I was told,' interrupted Payton. 'He came from a country whose government had been stolen from its people.'

'What do you think is happening here?' said the leader of Inver Brass, his words now controlled but the depth of their meaning clear.

It was several moments before MJ replied, again with his eyes closed. 'I know,' he said softly. 'We're putting that together, too.'

'They killed the Secretary of State and the entire delegation in Cyprus. They have no conscience, no allegiance to anything but their own ever-expanding wealth and power… I want nothing, we want nothing!'

'I understand. You wouldn't get it if you wanted it.'

'That's why he was chosen, Mitchell. We found the extraordinary man. He's too perceptive to be fooled and too decent to be bought. In addition, he has the personal requisites to command attention.'

'I can't fault your choice, Dr Winters.'

'So where are we?'

'In a dilemma,' said Payton. 'But for the moment it's mine, not yours.'

7:25 pm San Diego. They held each other; Khalehla leaned back, touching his hair as she looked at him. 'Darling, can you do it?'

'You forget, ya anisa, I've spent most of my profitable life dealing with the Arab propensity for negotiation.'

'That was negotiating—exaggeration, of course—not lying, not sustaining a lie in front of people who'll be suspicious of everything you say.'

'They'll desperately want to believe me, that's two points for our side. Besides, once I see them and meet them, I don't really give a damn what they believe.'

'I wouldn't advise you to think that way, Evan,' said Rashad, lowering her hand and stepping away. 'Until we have them, which includes degrees of traceable evidence, they'll operate as usual—down and dirty. If they think for a moment that it's a trap, you could be found washed up on the beach, or maybe just not found at all, just out there somewhere in the Pacific.'

'As in the shark-infested shoals of Qatar.' Kendrick nodded, remembering Bahrain and the Mahdi. 'I see what you mean. Then I'll make it plain that my office knows where I am tonight.'

'It wouldn't happen tonight, darling. Down and dirty doesn't mean stupid. There'll be a mix in there—some legitimate staffers and probably a smattering of Bollinger's kitchen cabinet. Old friends who act as advisers—they're the ones you want to zero in on. Use that well-recognized cool of yours and be convincing. Don't let anything throw you.'

The telephone rang and Evan started towards it. ‘That's the car,' he said. 'Grey with tinted windows as befits the Vice President's residence in the hills.'

8:07 pm San Diego. The slender man walked rapidly through the terminal at San Diego's International Airport, a garment bag slung over his right shoulder, a black medical bag in his left hand. The automatic glass doors to the taxi area snapped back as he passed through on to the concrete pavement. He stood for a moment, then headed for the first cab in the line of taxis queued up for passengers. He opened the door as the driver lowered a tabloid newspaper.

'I assume you're available,' said the new fare curtly as he climbed in, throwing the carry-on across the seat and lowering his medical bag to the floor.

'No trips over an hour, mister. That's when I pack it in for the night.'

'You'll make it.'

'Where to?'

'Up in the hills. I know the way. I'll direct you.'

'Gotta have an address, mister. It's the law.'

'How about the California residence of the Vice President of the United States?' asked the passenger testily.

'It's an address,' replied the driver, unimpressed.

The taxi started off with a planned, mean-spirited jolt, and the man known briefly in southwest Colorado as Dr Eugene Lyons was slapped back into the seat. He was unaware of the insult, however, his anger clouding all normal perceptions. He was a man who was owed, a man who had been cheated!