“Understood and arranged,” answered an old man who had worked with the Mossad, a certain impatient condescension creeping into his voice. “The police will be met outside and told it was a false alarm—a neighbor whose car had broken down and couldn’t reach us on the phone, that’s all.”
“I forgot,” said the director of Special Project quietly. “You’ve been here before.”
“I’ve been here,” agreed Manny, without comment.
“Wait a minute!” exclaimed Payton. “You said three were dead, but you’re talking to me, you’re all right.”
“The three were them, not us, Mr. CIA Incompetent.”
“What?… Jesus Christ!”
“He wasn’t much help. Try Abraham.”
“Please be clearer, Mr. Weingrass.”
“I had to kill them. But the fourth’s alive and under sedation. Get your experts out here before I kill him, too.”
29
The CIA station chief in the Bahamas, a short, deeply tanned man with broad features, maneuvered quickly from his office at the embassy on Queen Street. An armed escort was sent by the Nassau police to the Cable Beach Hotel, on the shores of Bay Road, where four uniformed officers rapidly accompanied a tall man with light brown hair and a striking olive-skinned woman from their suite on the seventh floor to a waiting vehicle in the efficiently emptied drive outside the imposing marble lobby. The hotel’s director of operations, an alert Scotsman named McLeod, had mapped out a route through the service corridors, where his most trusted security guards stood watch, to the brightly lighted entrance fronted by two enormous fountains sending floodlit sprays up into the dark sky. McLeod’s two assistants—an immense good-humored man with a booming laugh and the improbable name of Vernal, accompanied by an attractive young hostess—courteously explained to arrivals and departures that their delays would be brief. They persuasively explained while the five-man motorcycle unit swept the dramatically shadowed grounds. The station chief had personalized everything; favors were done for him. He knew by name everyone there was to know in the Bahamas. And they knew him. In silence.
Evan and Khalehla, shielded by the wall of police, climbed into the government vehicle, the CIA man in the front seat. Kendrick was beyond talking; Khalehla could only grip his hand, knowing only too well what he was experiencing. Clarity of thought eluded him; burning sorrow and a furious anger had replaced it. Tears had welled in his eyes over the deaths of Kashi and Sabri Hassan; he did not have to be told of the mutilations, he could easily, horribly imagine what they were. Yet those tears had been quickly, impulsively wiped away by a clenched fist. A reckoning was coming—that, too, was in his eyes, in the cores of his pupils. Fury.
“As you can understand, Congressman,” said the station chief, turning partially around in the seat beside the driver. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I can tell you that a plane from Holmstead Air Force Base in Florida is on its way to take you back to Washington. It should arrive about five or ten minutes after we get to the airport.”
“We know that,” said Khalehla pleasantly.
“It would have been here by now, but they said there’s rotten weather out of Miami and several commercial flights are on the same route. That probably means they wanted to stock up the aircraft properly for you, sir—I mean the two of you, of course.”
“That’s most kind of them,” said the field agent from Cairo, squeezing Evan’s hand, conveying the fact that he did not have to speak.
“If there’s anything you think you might have left behind at the hotel, we’ll gladly take care of it—”
“There’s nothing,” exclaimed Kendrick, whispering harshly.
“He means we’ve taken care of everything, thank you,” said Khalehla, pulling Evan’s hand against her leg and grasping it even more firmly. “This is obviously an emergency, and the Congressman has a great deal on his mind. May I assume we’ve been cleared through customs?”
“This parade is driving straight through the cargo gates,” replied the government man, glancing briefly, closely at Kendrick, then turning away as if he had unwittingly invaded another’s privacy. The rest of the trip was made in silence until the high steel gates of the cargo terminal swung open and the procession drove through over the tarmac to the end of the first runway. “The F-106 from Homestead should be landing soon,” said the station chief.
“I’m getting out.” Evan reached for the handle of the door and yanked it back. It was locked.
“I’d rather you didn’t, Congressman Kendrick.”
“Let me out of this car.”
“Evan, it’s his job.” Khalehla gently but firmly held Kendrick’s arm. “He has to go by the rules.”
“Do they include suffocating me?”
“I’m breathing fine—”
“You’re not me!”
“I know, darling. No one can be you right now.” Rashad angled her head and looked out the rear window, scanning the terminal’s buildings and the grounds. “Our status is as clean as it could be,” she said, turning back to the intelligence officer. “Let him walk. I’ll stay with him and so can the men.”
“A ‘clean status’? You’re one of us?”
“Yes, but you’ve already forgotten me, please.… The flight to Washington’s going to be rough enough.”
“Sure. We’re okay. The guy who made up this rule isn’t here. He just said, ‘Don’t let him out of that vehicle,’ in a very loud voice.”
“MJ can be extreme.”
“MJ …? Come on, let’s get some air. Release the doors, please, driver.”
“Thank you,” said Evan quietly to Khalehla. “And I’m sorry—”
“You don’t have a damn thing to be sorry about. Just don’t make a liar out of me and get shot. It could ruin my day.… Now, I’m sorry. It’s no time for dumb wisecracks.”
“Wait a minute.” Kendrick began to open the door then stopped, his face inches from hers in the shadows. “A few moments ago you said that no one could be me right now and I agree. But that said, I’m awfully glad you’re you. Right now.”
They walked in a brief Bahamian drizzle, talking quietly, the CIA officer a polite distance behind, the guards flanking them with ominously drawn side arms. Suddenly, from out of the cargo area a small dark sedan came racing across the field, its high-pitched engine screaming. The guards converged on Evan and Khalehla, shoving them to the ground, the CIA officer throwing himself over Kendrick and pulling the Rashad woman into his side. As quickly as the panic started, it stopped. There were rapid blasts of a two-note siren; the car was an airport vehicle. The leader of the motorcycle escort holstered his weapon and approached the uniformed man who climbed out of the small sedan. They talked quietly and the police officer returned to the stunned Americans, who were getting to their feet.
“There is an emergency telephone call for your friend, sir,” he said to the station chief.
“Patch it out here.”
“We have no such equipment.”
“I want something better than that.”
“I was told to repeat the letters ‘MJ.’ ”
“That’s better enough,” said Khalehla. “I’ll go with him.”
“Hey, come on,” countered the CIA man. “There are other rules, too, and you know them as well as I do. It’s a lot easier securing a single than a double. I’ll go and take four men. You stay here with the others and cover for me, okay? This is the meeting ground and you could have a nervous pilot on your hands looking for some special luggage, mainly you.”
The telephone was on the wall of a deserted warehouse. The call was transferred and the first words Kendrick heard from Mitchell Payton caused every muscle in his body to lock, his mind on fire.
“You’ve got to hear the worst. There was an assault on Mesa Verde—”
“Christ, no!”
“Emmanuel Weingrass is all right! He’s all right, Evan.”
“Is he hurt? Wounded?”
“No. In fact he did the wounding—
the killing. One of the terrorists is still alive—”
“I want him!” shouted Kendrick.
“So do we. Our people are on the way out there.”
“Mesa Verde was the terrorists’ backup for Fairfax, wasn’t it?”
“Unquestionably. But right now it’s also our only hope in tracking down the others. Whatever that survivor knows, he’ll tell us.”
“Keep him alive.”
“Your friend Weingrass has seen to it.”
“Strip him for cyanide.”
“It’s been done.”
“He can’t be left alone for a minute!”
“We know that.”
“Of course you do,” said Evan, closing his eyes, his face drenched with sweat and rain. “I’m not thinking, I can’t think. How’s Manny taking it?”
“With considerable arrogance, to be truthful.”
“That’s the first decent news I’ve heard.”
“You’re entitled to it. He was truly remarkable for a man of his age.”
“He was always remarkable … at any age. I’ve got to get out there. Forget Washington. Fly me directly to Colorado.”
“I assumed you would make that request—”
“It’s not a request, Mitch, it’s a demand!”
“Of course. It’s also the reason why your plane is delayed. The Air Force has punched up the fueling for Denver and points west and is clearing a flight plan above the commercial routes. The aircraft has a maximum speed of Mach two point three. You’ll be home in less than three hours, and remember, say nothing to anyone about Fairfax. Weingrass has already contained Mesa Verde.”
“How?”
“Let him tell you.”
“Do you really think you can keep everything quiet?”
“I will if I have to go to the President myself, and at this point I don’t think there’s any alternative.”
“How will you get past the palace guard?”
“I’m working on that. There’s a man I studied with years ago in my early life as a would-be historian. We’ve kept in touch in a casual way and he has a great deal of influence. I think you know the name. It’s Winters, Samuel Winters—”
“Winters? He’s the one who told Jennings to give me the Freedom Medal in that crazy ceremony.”
“I remembered. It’s why I thought of him. Have a good flight, and my love to my niece.”
Kendrick walked to the warehouse door where his police escort stood, two inside, two outside, their weapons leveled in front of them. Even the CIA’s station chief, who in the dim light looked as though he might be Bahamian himself, held a small revolver in his hand. “You people always carry those things?” asked Evan without much interest.
“Ask your friend who knew that the ‘status was clean,’ ” replied the intelligence officer, waving Kendrick through the door.
“You’re joking. She has one?”
“Ask her.”
“How did she get on the plane in the States? The metal detectors, then customs over here?”
“One of our little secrets, which isn’t so secret. A luggage or customs supervisor just happens to show up when we’re passing through and the detector is shut down for a couple of seconds, and with customs an immigration inspector is alerted as to what not to find.”
“That’s pretty loose,” said Kendrick, climbing into the official airport car.
“Not in nearby places like this. The supervisors not only work for us but they’re monitored. Farther away our equipment is waiting for us inside.” The station chief sat beside Evan in the backseat of the small sedan and the driver sped out to the runway.
The huge, sleek military jet known as the F-106 Delta Dart had arrived, its engines idling in a bass roar as Khalehla stood by a ramp of metal steps talking with an Air Force officer. It was only as he approached the two of them that Kendrick recognized the type of aircraft he was about to enter; it was not a calming recognition. The jet was similar to the one that had flown him to Sardinia over a year ago, the first leg on his journey to Masqat. He turned to the intelligence officer walking beside him and extended his hand.
“Thanks for everything,” he said. “I’m sorry I haven’t been more pleasant company.”
“You could have spit in my face and I’d still have been proud to meet you, Congressman.”
“I wish I could say I appreciate that … what is your name?”
“Call me Joe, sir.”
“Call me Joe.” A young man on the same type of aircraft a year ago had been called Joe. Was another Oman, another Bahrain in his future?
“Thank you, Joe.”
“We’re not quite finished, Mr. Kendrick. One of those AF boys with the rank of colonel or above has to sign a paper.”
The signer in question was not a colonel, he was a brigadier general and he was black. “Hello again, Dr. Axelrod,” said the pilot of the F-106. “It seems I’m your personal chauffeur.” The large man held out his hand. “That’s the way the powers that be like it.”
“Hello, General.”
“Let’s get one thing straight, Congressman. I was out of line last time and you handed it to me and you were right. But I’ll tell you now that if they transfer me to Colorado, I’ll vote for you in spades—don’t take that idiomatically.”
“Thanks, General,” said Evan, attempting to smile. “However, I won’t be needing any more votes.”
“That’d be a damn shame. I’ve been watching you, listening to you. I like the sweep of your wing and that’s something I know about.”
“I think you’re supposed to sign a paper.”
“I never got one in Sardinia,” said the general officer, accepting a letter of release from the CIA station chief. “You sure you’re gonna accept this li’l old document from an uppity goin’-on-fifty nigger in a general’s suit, Mr. Old School Tie?”
“Shut your mouth, boy, I’m half Paiute Indian. You think you’ve got problems?”
“Sorry, son.” The Air Force officer signed and his special cargo got on board.
“What happened?” asked Khalehla when they reached their seats. “Why did MJ call?”
His hands shaking, his voice trembling at the sudden enormity of it all, at the violence and the near death of Emmanuel Weingrass, he told her. There was a pained helplessness both in his eyes and in his halting, frightened spurts of explanation. “Christ, it’s got to stop! If it doesn’t, I’ll kill everyone I care for!” She could only grip his hand again and let him know that she was there. She could not fight the lightning in his mind. It was too personal, too soul-racking.
Thirty minutes into the flight, Evan convulsed and leaped out of his seat, racing up the aisle to the toilet. He retched, throwing up everything he had eaten in the last twelve hours. Khalehla ran behind him, forcing the narrow door open and grabbing his forehead, holding him, telling him to let it all out.
“Please,” coughed Kendrick. “Please, get out of here!”
“Why? Because you’re so different from the rest of us? You hurt but you won’t cry? You bottle it up until something’s got to give?”
“I’m not wild about pity—”
“You’re not getting it, either. You’re a grown man who’s gone through a terrible loss and nearly suffered a greater one—for you the greatest one. I hope I’m your friend, Evan, and as a friend I don’t pity you—I respect you too much for that—but I do feel for you.”
Kendrick stood up, grabbing paper towels from the dispenser, pale and visibly shaken. “You know how to make a guy feel terrific,” he said guiltily.
“Wash your face and comb your hair. You’re a mess.” Rashad walked out of the small enclosure past two uniformed and startled flight crew. “The damn fool ate some bad fish,” she explained without looking at either man. “Will one of you close the door, please?”
An hour passed; drinks were served by the Air Force attendants, followed by a microwaved dinner eaten heartily by the intelligence agent from Cairo but barely picked at by the Congressman
. “You need food, friend,” said Khalehla. “This beats the hell out of any commercial menu.”
“Enjoy.”
“How about you? You move it around but you don’t eat.”
“I’ll have another drink.”
Their heads snapped up with the piercing sound of a buzzer heard easily over the outside roar of the engines. For Evan it was déjà vu; a buzzer had sounded a year ago and he had been summoned to the flight deck. Now, however, the corporal who answered the intercom on the bulkhead walked back and spoke to Khalehla. “There’s a radio transmission for you, miss.”
“Thank you,” said Rashad, turning and seeing the alarm in Kendrick’s expression. “If it was anything important, they’d ask for you. Relax.” She made her way up the aisle, gripping the few well-separated seats for balance in the mild turbulence, and sat in the seat in front of the bulkhead. The crewman handed her the phone; the spiraling cord was more than adequate for the reach. She crossed her legs and answered. “This is Pencil Two, Bahamas. Who are you?”
“One of these days we’ve got to get rid of that garbage,” said Mitchell Payton.
“It works, MJ. If I’d used ‘Banana Two,’ how would you have responded?”
“I’d have called your father and told him you were a naughty girl.”
“We don’t count. We know each other.… What is it?”
“I don’t want to talk to Evan, he’s too upset to think clearly. You have to.”
“I’ll try. What’s the query?”
“I want your evaluation. The information you got from that fellow you went to see from the old Off Shore Investment crowd in Nassau—you’re convinced he’s reliable, aren’t you?”
“His information is, he isn’t, but he can’t hide if he lied for money. The man’s a floating drunk who lives off what’s left of his wits, which may have been more acute before his brain was soaked in gin. Evan showed him two thousand in cash and, believe me, he would have given away the secrets of the drug trade for it.”
“Do you recall exactly what he said about the woman Ardis Montreaux?”
“Certainly. He said that he kept track of the money whore, as he called her, because she owed him and one day he was going to collect.”