“Jersey City,” replied the wild-eyed man with Kendrick’s hat on his head, “but my roots are in Warsaw! God’s holy Warsaw!”
“You were born in Poland, then.”
“Not exactly. In Newark.”
“But you saw Congressman Kendrick?”
“Positively. He was talking to a gray-haired man a couple blocks back outside a bus. Then when I shouted ‘Commando Kendrick, it’s him,’ they started running! I know! I got television sets in every room, including the toilet. I never miss anything!”
“When you say a couple of blocks back, sir, you’re actually referring to a corner two and a half streets from the Department of State, are you not?”
“You betcha!”
“We’re certain,” added the sincerely confidential newscaster looking into the camera, “that the authorities are checking State to see if any such person as our witness has described could be a part of this extraordinary rendezvous.”
“I chased them!” yelled the witness in baggy pants, removing Evan’s hat. “I got his hat! See, it’s the commando’s own hat!”
“But what did you hear, Mr. Bolaslawski? Back by the bus?”
“I tell you, things are not always what they seem! You can’t be too careful. Before they ran away, the man with gray hair gave Commando Kendrick an order. I think he had a Russian accent, maybe Jewish! The Commies and the Jews—you can’t trust ’em, you know what I mean? They never seen the inside of a church! They don’t know what the Holy Mass is—”
The television channel abruptly switched to a commercial extolling the virtues of an underarm deodorant.
“I surrender,” said Swan, forcibly taking his drink back from Evan and swallowing it whole. “Now I’m a mole. A Russian Jew from the KGB who doesn’t know what Mass is. Anything else you want to do for me?”
“No, because I believe you. But you can do something for me, and it’s in both our interests. I’ve got to find out who’s doing this to me, who’s done what you’re being blamed for, and why.”
“And if you do find out,” interrupted Swann, leaning forward, “you’ll tell me? That’s in my interest, my only interest right now. I’ve got to get off this hook and put someone else on it.”
“You’ll be the first to know.”
“What do you want?”
“A list of everyone who knew I went to Masqat.”
“That’s not a list, it’s a tight little circle.” Swann shook his head, not so much to be negative as to explain. “There wouldn’t have been that if you hadn’t said you might need us if it came down to something you couldn’t handle. I made it clear. We couldn’t afford to acknowledge you because of the hostages.”
“How tight is the circle?”
“Everything was verbal, you understand.”
“Understood. How tight?”
“Nonoperational was restricted to that unmitigated prick, Herbert Dennison, the ball-breaking White House chief of staff, then to the secretaries of State and Defense, and the chairman of the Joint Chiefs. I was the liaison to all four, and you can rule them out. They all had too much to lose and nothing to gain by your surfacing.” Swann leaned back in the booth, frowning. “The operational section was on a strict need-to-know basis. There was Lester Crawford at Langley. Les is the CIA’s analyst for covert activities in the area, and at the end his station chief in Bahrain was something-or-other Grayson—James Grayson, that’s it. He was kicking up a fuss about letting you and Weingrass out of his area, thinking the Company had gone nuts and was plowing right into one of those caught-in-the-act situations. Caught-In-the-Act, CIA, get it?”
“I’d rather not.”
“Then there were four or five on-scene Arabs, the best we and the Company have, each of whom studied your photograph but weren’t given your identity. They couldn’t tell what they didn’t know. The last two did know who you were; one was on the scene, the other here at OHIO-Four-Zero running the computers.”
“The computers?” asked Kendrick. “Printouts?”
“You were programmed only on his; you were zapped from the central unit. His name’s Gerald Bryce and if he’s the whistle-blower, I’ll turn myself in to the FBI as Mr. Bolaslawski’s Jewish mole for the Soviets. He’s bright and quick and a whiz with the equipment, no one better. He’ll run Cons Op someday if the girls leave him alone long enough to punch a clock.”
“A playboy?”
“Land sakes, Reverend, shall we go to vespers? The kid’s twenty-six and better-looking than he has a right to be. He’s also unmarried, and one hell of a cocksman—others talk about it; he never does. I think that’s why I like him. There aren’t too many gentlemen left in this world.”
“I like him already. Who was the last person, the one on the scene who knew me?”
Frank Swann leaned forward, fingering his empty glass, staring at it before raising his eyes to Kendrick. “I thought you might have figured that out for yourself.”
“What? Why?”
“Adrienne Rashad.”
“Doesn’t mean a thing.”
“She used a cover—”
“Adrienne …? A woman?” Swann nodded. Evan frowned, then suddenly opened his eyes wide, his brows arched. “Khalehla?” he whispered. The man from the State Department nodded again. “She was one of you?”
“Well, not one of mine, but one of us.”
“Christ, she got me out of the airport in Bahrain! That big son of a bitch MacDonald slammed me into the concourse traffic—I was damn near killed and didn’t know where I was. She got me out of there—how the hell she did it I don’t know!”
“I do,” said Swann. “She threatened to blow the heads off a few Bahrainian police unless they passed her code name up the line and got clearance to take you out. She not only got clearance but also a car from the royal garage.”
“You say she was one of us, but not one of you. What does that mean?”
“She’s Agency but she’s also special, a real untouchable. She has contacts all over the Gulf and the Mediterranean; the CIA doesn’t allow anyone to mess with her.”
“Without her my cover might have been blown at the airport.”
“Without her you would have been a target for every terrorist walking around Bahrain, including the Mahdi’s soldiers.”
Kendrick was briefly silent, his eyes wandering, his lips parted, a memory. “Did she tell you where she hid me?”
“She refused.”
“She could do that?”
“I told you, she’s special.”
“I see,” said Evan softly.
“I think I do, too,” said Swann.
“What do you mean by that?”
“Nothing. She got you out of the airport and roughly six hours later made contact.”
“Is that unusual?”
“Under the circumstances, you could say it was extraordinary. Her job was to keep you under surveillance and to immediately report any drastic moves on your part directly to Crawford at Langley, who was to reach me for instructions. She didn’t do that, and in her official debriefing, she omitted any reference to those six hours.”
“She had to protect the place where we were hiding.”
“Of course. It had to be royal, and nobody screws around with the Emir or his family.”
“Of course.” Kendrick again was silent and again he looked into the dark regions of the decrepit bar. “She was a nice person,” he said slowly, hesitantly. “We talked. She understood so many things. I admired her.”
“Hey, come on, Congressman.” Swann leaned over his empty glass. “You think it’s the first time?”
“What?”
“Two people in a hairy situation, a man and a woman, neither one knowing whether he or she’ll see another day or another week. So they get together, it’s natural. So what?”
“That’s offensive as hell, Frank. She meant something to me.”
“All right, I’ll be blunt. I don’t think you meant anything to her. She’s a professional who’s gon
e through a few black wars in her AOO.”
“Her what? Will you please speak English, or Arabic, if you like, but something that makes sense.”
“Area of Operations—”
“They used that in the newspapers.”
“Not my fault. If it was up to me, I’d neutralize every bastard who wrote those articles.”
“Please don’t tell me what ‘neutralize’ means.”
“I won’t. I’m only telling you that in the field we all slip now and then when we’re exhausted, or just plain scared. We take a few hours of secure pleasure and write it off as a long-overdue bonus. Would you believe we even have lectures on the subject for people we send out?”
“I believe it now. To be honest with you—the circumstances crossed my mind at the time.”
“Good. Write her off. She’s strictly Mediterranean and hasn’t anything to do with the local scene. For starters, you’d probably have to fly to North Africa to find her.”
“So all I’ve got is a man named Crawford in Langley and a station chief in Bahrain.”
“No. You’ve got a blond man with a Middle European accent operating here in Washington. Operating very deep. He got information somewhere and not from me, not from OHIO-Four-Zero. Find him.”
Swann gave Evan the standard private numbers at both his office and his apartment and rushed out of the dark, seedy bar as if he needed air. Kendrick ordered a rye from the heavy black waitress with the flaming red hair, and asked her where the pay telephone was, if it existed. She told him.
“If you slam it twice on the lower left corner, you’ll get your quarter back.” offered the woman.
“If I do, I’ll give it to you, okay?” said Evan.
“Give it to your friend,” replied the woman. “Crumbs in suits never leave no tips, white or black, makes no difference.”
Kendrick got up from the booth and walked cautiously to the dark wall and the phone. It was time to call his office. He could not put any more pressure on Mrs. Ann Mulcahy O’Reilly. Squinting, he inserted the coin and dialed.
“Congressman Kendrick’s—”
“It’s me, Annie,” broke in Evan.
“My God, where are you? It’s after five and this place is still a madhouse!”
“That’s why I’m not there.”
“Before I forget!” cried Mrs. O’Reilly breathlessly. “Manny called a while ago and was very emphatic but not loud—which I think means he’s as serious as he can be.”
“What did he say?”
“That you’re not to reach him on the Colorado line.”
“What?”
“He told me to say ‘allcott massghoul,’ whatever the hell that is.”
“It’s very clear, Annie.” Weingrass had said alkhatt mashghool, Arabic for ‘the line is engaged,’ a simple euphemism for tampered with, or tapped. If Manny was right, a trace could be lasered out and the origin of any incoming call identified in a matter of moments. “I won’t make any calls to Colorado,” added Evan.
“He said to tell you that when things calm down, he’ll drive to Mesa Verde and call me here and give me a number where you can reach him.”
“I’ll check back with you.”
“Now then, Mr. Superman, is it true what everyone’s saying? Did you really do all those things in Oman or wherever it is?”
“Only a few of them. They left out a lot of people who should have been included. Someone’s trying to make me out to be something I’m not. How are you handling things?”
“The standard ‘No comment,’ and ‘Our boss is out of town,’ ” answered O’Reilly.
“Good. Glad to hear it.”
“No, Congressman, it’s not good because some things can’t be handled standardwise. We can control the loonies and the press and even your peers, but we can’t control Sixteen Hundred.”
“The White House?”
“The obnoxious chief of staff himself. We can’t say ‘No comment’ to the President’s mouthpiece.”
“What did he say?”
“He gave me a telephone number you’re to call. It’s his private line, and he made sure I understood that less than ten people in Washington had it—”
“I wonder if the President’s one of them,” interrupted Kendrick only half facetiously.
“He claimed he is, and in point of fact he said it’s a direct presidential order that you call his chief of staff immediately.”
“A direct what?”
“Presidential order.”
“Will somebody please read those clowns the Constitution. The legislative branch of this government does not take direct orders from the executive, presidential or otherwise.”
“His choice of words was stupid, I grant you,” went on Ann O’Reilly quickly, “but if you’ll let me finish telling you what he said, you might be more amenable.”
“Go on.”
“He said they understood why you were keeping out of sight, and that they’d arrange an unmarked pickup for you wherever you say.… Now, may I speak as your elder here in Funny Town, sir?”
“Please.”
“You can’t keep on running, Evan. Sooner or later you’ll have to show up, and it’s better that you know what’s on their minds over there before you do. Like it or not, they’re on your case. Why not find out how they’re coming down? It could avoid a disaster.”
“What’s the number?”
22
Herbert Dennison, White House chief of staff, closed the door of his private bathroom and reached for the bottle of Maalox, which he kept in the right-hand corner of the marble counter. In precise sequence, he ingested four swallows of the chalklike liquid, knowing from experience that it would eliminate the hot flashes in his upper chest. Years ago in New York, when the attacks had begun, he had been so frightened that he could barely eat or sleep, so convinced was he that after surviving the hell of Korea he was going to die in the street of cardiac arrest. His then wife—the first of three—had also been beside herself, unable to decide whether to get him first to a hospital or to their insurance agent for an expanded policy. Without his knowing about it she accomplished the latter, and a week later Herbert bit the bullet and admitted himself to the Cornell Medical Center for a thorough examination.
Relief came when the doctors pronounced his heart as strong as a young bull’s, explaining to him that the sporadic fits of discomfort were brought about by periodic spasms of excess acid produced, no doubt, by stress. From that day forward, in bedrooms, offices, automobiles and briefcases, bottles of the white pacifying liquid were always available to him. Tension was a part of his life.
The doctors’ diagnosis had been so accurate that over the years he could reasonably predict when, give or take an hour or two, the acid attacks would grip him. During his days on Wall Street they invariably came with wild fluctuations in the bond market or when he fought with his peers, who were continually trying to thwart him in his drive for both wealth and position. They were all pukey shits, thought Dennison. Fancy boys from fancy fraternities who belonged to fancy clubs that wouldn’t spit on him, much less consider him for membership. Who gave a nun’s fart? Those same clubs let in yids and niggers and even spics these days! All they had to do was speak like fairy actors and buy their clothes from Paul Stuart or from some French faggot. Well, he had spat on them! He broke them! He had the gut instincts of a street fighter in the market and he had cornered so much, made so much that the fucking firm had to make him president or he would have walked out, taking millions with him. And he had shaped up that corporation until it was the sharpest, most aggressive firm on the Street. He had done so by getting rid of the whining deadwood and that stupid corps of so-called trainees who ate up money and wasted everybody’s time. He had two maxims that became corporate holy writ. The first was: Beat last year’s figures or beat feet out of here. The second was equally succinct: You don’t get trained here, you get here trained.
Herb Dennison never gave a damn whether he was liked or disliked; the th
eory that the end justified the means suited him splendidly, thank you. He had learned in Korea that soft-nosed officers were often rewarded with GI caskets for their lack of harsh discipline and harsher authority in the field. He had been aware that his troops hated his proverbial guts to the point where he never dropped his guard against being fragged by a U.S. grenade, and regardless of the losses, he was convinced they would have been far greater had the loosey-goosies been in charge.
Like the crybabies on Wall Street: “We want to build trust, Herb, continuity …” Or: “The youngster of today is the corporate officer of tomorrow—a loyal one.” Crap! You didn’t make profits on trust or continuity or loyalty. You made profits by making other people money, that was all the trust and continuity and loyalty they looked for! And he had been proved right, swelling the client lists until the computers were ready to burst, pirating talent from other firms, making damn sure he got what he paid for or the new boys, too, were out on their asses.
Sure, he was tough, perhaps even ruthless, as many called him both to his face and in print, and, yes, he had lost a few good people along the way, but the main thing was that on the percentages he was right. He had proved it in both military and civilian life … and yet in the end, in both, the pukeys had dumped on him. In Korea the regimental CO had damned near promised him the rank of full colonel upon discharge; it never happened. In New York—Christ, if possible it was worse!—his name had been floated around as the newest member of the Board of Directors for Wellington-Midlantic Industries, the most prestigious board in international finance. It never happened. In both cases the old-school-tie fraternities had shot him down at the moment of escalation. So he took his millions and said Screw all of you!
Again, he had been right, for he found a man who needed both his money and his considerable talents: a senator from Idaho who had begun to raise his startlingly sonorous, impassioned voice, saying things Herb Dennison fervently believed in, yet a politician who could laugh and amuse his growing audiences while at the same time instructing them.
The man from Idaho was tall and attractive, with a smile that had not been seen since Eisenhower and Shirley Temple, full of anecdotes and homilies that espoused the old values of strength, courage, self-reliance and, above all—for Dennison—freedom of choice. Herb had flown down to Washington and a pact was made with that senator. For three years Dennison threw all his energies and several million—plus additional millions from numerous anonymous men for whom he had made fortunes—until they had a war chest that could buy the papacy if it were more obviously on the market.