“Sixty?”
“Shut up, son. I can still give you a run for your money for that lovely girl.”
“Could it have been something the doctor gave you?” asked Khalehla, smiling warmly at the compliment.
“So what did he give? Nothing. He just took a little blood for his meshugenah laboratory and offered me some pills, which I told him I’d throw down the toilet. They were probably samples he got for nothing and then charges enough for a new wing on his fancy house.… Ciao, young things.”
The two of them watched as the old man walked through the archway into the living room, each step firmly planted ahead of the other as if he were summoning strength he did not feel. “Do you think he’s okay?” asked Evan when Weingrass was out of sight.
“I think he’s exhausted,” said Khalehla. “You try doing what he did tonight—forget sixty or eighty—try tomorrow.”
“I’ll look in on him every now and then.”
“We’ll take turns. That way we’ll both feel better without waking the nurses.”
“Which is another way of saying they’ll stay put and away from the windows.”
“I guess it is,” admitted Rashad. “But we’d still feel better, even if it’s on both counts.”
“Do you want another drink?”
“No, thanks—”
“I do.” Kendrick got up from the couch.
“I haven’t finished.”
“What?” Evan turned as Khalehla rose and stood in front of him.
“I don’t want a drink … but I do want you.”
In silence, Kendrick looked down at her, his eyes roving over her face, finally settling, staring into her eyes. “Is this pity? Be merciful to the confused man in pain?”
“You’ll get no pity from me, I told you that. I respect you too much, I told you that, too. As for the poor, confused man in pain, who’s pitying whom?”
“I didn’t mean it that way—”
“I know you didn’t. I’m just not sure how you meant it.”
“I told you before. I’m not looking for any fast action, not with you. If it’s all I can have, I’ll take it, but it’s not what I’m looking for.”
“You talk too goddamned much, Evan.”
“You evade too much. You told Manny that you weren’t evasive, but you are. For at least six weeks I’ve tried to get near you, tried to get you to talk about us, tried to break down that glass wall you’ve erected, but ‘No dice,’ says the bright lady.”
“Because I’m scared, damn you!”
“Of what?”
“Of both of us!”
“Now you’re the one who’s talking too much.”
“Well, you certainly didn’t talk last night. You think I didn’t hear you? Pacing up and down like an ape in a cage outside my door?”
“Why didn’t you open it?”
“Why didn’t you break it down?” They both laughed quietly, their arms encircling each other. “Do you want a drink?”
“No.… I want you.”
There was not the frenzy of Bahrain. There was urgency, of course, but it was the urgency of lovers, not of two desperate strangers grasping for release in a world gone crazy. Their world was not sane—they were all too aware of that—yet they had found a semblance of order between themselves, and the discovery was splendid and warm and suddenly filled with promise, where before there was only a void filled with uncertainty … each about the other.
It was as if both were insatiable. Climax was followed by quiet talk, and one or the other looked in on Emmanuel Weingrass, then more talk, bodies together, rushing once again for the fulfillment both craved. Neither could stop holding the other, pulling, weaving, rolling, until the sweet juices were exhausted … and still they could not let each other go until sleep came.
The earliest morning sun broke open the Colorado day. Drained but strangely at peace within the warm, temporary cave they had found for themselves, Evan reached for Khalehla. She was not there; he opened his eyes. She was not there. He elbowed himself up on the pillow; her clothes were draped on a chair and he breathed again. He saw that the doors to both his bathroom and the clothes closet were open, and then he remembered and laughed quietly, ruefully, to himself. The hero of Oman and the experienced intelligence agent from Cairo had gone to the Bahamas with one carry-on bag apiece, and in the rush of events had promptly left both either in a Nassau police car or on an Air Force F-106. Neither had noticed until after their first stampeded race for the bed, after which Khalehla had stated dreamingly.
“I bought an outrageous nightgown for this trip—more in hope than in realistic expectation-but I think I’ll put it on.” Then they had looked at each other, mouths gaped, eyes widened. “Oh, my God!” she cried. “Where the hell did we leave it? I mean them, the two of them!”
“Did you have anything incriminating in yours?”
“Only the nightie—it wasn’t right for Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm.… Oh, good Lord! A couple of real pros we are!”
“I never claimed to be one—”
“Did you have—”
“Dirty socks and a sex manual—more in hope than in realistic expectation.” They had fallen back into each other’s arms, the humor of the situation telling them something else about themselves. “You’d wear that nightgown for roughly five seconds before I tore it off and then you’d have to charge the government for the loss of personal property. I just saved the taxpayers at least six dollars.… Come here.”
One of them had checked on Manny; neither could remember which.
Kendrick got out of bed and went to his closet. He owned two bathrobes; one was missing so he went into his bathroom to make himself feel and look reasonably presentable. After a shower and a shave he applied too much cologne, but then, he reflected, it had not hurt him nearly twenty years ago in college with an air-head cheerleader. Had it been that long ago since impressions mattered to him? He put on his second bathrobe, walked out of the room and down the stone hallway to the arch. Khalehla was sitting at the heavy pine table with the black leather top in the living room, talking quietly into the telephone. She saw him and smiled briefly, concentrating on the person at the other end of the line.
“It’s all clear,” she said as Evan approached. “I’ll be in touch. Good-bye.” Khalehla got up from the table, the outsized bathrobe draped strikingly, revealingly around her body. She pulled the folds of fabric together and came to him, suddenly reaching out and placing her hands on his shoulders. “Kiss me, Kendrick,” she ordered gently.
“Aren’t I supposed to say that?”
They kissed until Khalehla understood that in another moment they would be heading back to the bedroom. “Okay, okay, Kong, I’ve got things to tell you.”
“Kong?”
“I wanted you to break down a door, remember?… Good heavens, you forget things.”
“I may be incompetent but I hope not inadequate.”
“You’re probably right about the first, but you’re definitely not inadequate, my darling.”
“Do you know how much I love to hear you say that?”
“What?”
“ ‘My darling’—”
“It’s an expression, Evan.”
“At this moment I think I’d kill if I thought you used it with anyone but me.”
“Please.”
“Have you? Do you?”
“You’re asking me if I just like to sleep around occasionally, aren’t you?” said Khalehla calmly, removing her arms from him.
“That’s pretty rough. No, of course not.”
“Since we’re talking and I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, let’s tackle this. I’ve had attachments, as you’ve had, and I’ve called several ‘darling,’ even ‘dearest,’ I suppose, but if you want to know the truth, you insufferable egotist, I’ve never called anyone ‘my darling.’ Does that answer your question, you rat.”
“It’ll do,” said Evan, grinning and reaching for her.
“No, please, Evan.
Talking is safer.”
“I thought you just gave me an order to kiss you. What changed?”
“You had to talk and I had to start thinking again.… And I don’t think I’m ready for you.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m a professional and I have work to do and if I’m screwed up with you—figuratively and literally—I can’t do it.”
“Again, why not?”
“Because, you idiot, I’m very close to being in love with you.”
“That’s all I’m asking for. Because I do love you.”
“Oh, those words are so easy, so facile. But not in my business, not in the world I live in. The word comes down: Have so-and-so killed, or let him be killed—whichever it is, it solves a multitude of problems.… And what happens if it turns out to be you … my darling. Could you do it if you were me?”
“Could it really ever come down to that?”
“It has; it might. It’s called third-party omission, as in what do I know, but they know what I’ll permit. You see, you’re one human being—terrific or despicable, depending on the point of view—and by giving you away we might save two hundred or four hundred people on a plane because ‘they’ couldn’t get you unless we gave you away before a flight.… Oh, my little world is filled with benignly neglected morality because all we deal with is malignant immorality.”
“Why stay in it? Why not get out?”
Khalehla paused, looking at him, her eyes unwavering. “Because we save lives,” she answered finally. “And every now and then something happens that reduces the malignancy, showing it for what it is, and peace is just a little closer. More often than not we’ve been a part of that process.”
“You’ve got to have a life beyond that, a life of your own.”
“Oh, I will one day, because one day I won’t be useful anymore, at least not where I want to be. I’ll be a known commodity—first you’re suspected, then you’re exposed and then you’re useless, and that’s when you’d better get out of town. My superiors will try to convince me I can be valuable in other posts; they’ll dangle the bait of a pension in front of me and a nice choice of sectors, but I don’t think I’ll bite.”
“According to that scenario, what will you do?”
“Good Lord, I speak six languages fluently and read and write four. Coupled with my background, I’d say my qualifications are ample for any number of jobs.”
“That sounds reasonable except for one thing. There’s a missing ingredient.”
“What are you talking about.”
“Me.… That’s what I’m talking about.”
“Oh, come on, Evan.”
“No,” said Kendrick, shaking his head. “No more ‘Oh, come on’ or ‘Please, Evan.’ I won’t settle for that. I know what I feel and I think I know what you feel and to disregard those feelings is both stupid and a waste.”
“I told you, I’m not ready—”
“I never thought I’d ever be ready,” interrupted Kendrick, his voice soft and flat. “You see, I’ve done some thinking, too, and I’ve been pretty harsh on myself. I’ve been selfish most of my life. I’ve always loved the freedom I have, to go and do what I’ve wanted to do—badly or well, it didn’t make much difference as long as I could do it. Self-sufficient, I guess is the term—self, self, self. Then you come along and blow the whole damn thing to pieces. You show me what I don’t have, and by showing me you make me feel like an idiot.… I have no one to share anything with, it’s as simple as that. No one I care for enough to run to and say ‘Look, I did it,’ or even ‘Sorry, I didn’t do it.’ … Sure, Manny’s there, when he’s there, but his own opinion notwithstanding, he’s not immortal. You said last night that you were scared … well, I’m the one who’s scared now, frightened beyond any fear I thought I’d ever experience. That’s the fear of losing you. I’m not much good at begging or groveling, but I’ll beg and grovel or do anything you like, but please, please, don’t leave me.”
“Oh, my God,” said Khalehla, closing her eyes, the tears rolling separately, slowly, down her cheeks. “You son of a bitch.”
“It’s a start.”
“I do love you!” She rushed into his arms. “I shouldn’t, I shouldn’t!”
“You can always change your mind in twenty or thirty years.”
“You’ve loused up my life—”
“You haven’t made mine any easier.”
“Very nice!” came the sonorous voice from the stone archway.
“Manny!” cried Khalehla, releasing Evan, pushing him away and looking over his shoulder.
“How long have you been there?” asked Kendrick harshly, snapping his head around.
“I came in on the begging and the groveling,” replied Weingrass in a scarlet bathrobe. “It always works, boy. The strong-man-on-his-knees bit. Never fails.”
“You’re impossible!” shouted Evan.
“He’s adorable.”
“I’m both, but keep your voices down, you’ll wake up the coven.… What the hell are you doing out here at this hour?”
“This hour is eight o’clock in Washington,” said Khalehla. “How are you feeling?”
“Ahnnh,” answered the old man, flicking the palm of his right hand as he walked into the living room. “I slept but I didn’t sleep, you know what I mean? And you clowns didn’t help, opening the door every five minutes, you also know what I mean?”
“It was hardly every five minutes,” said Khalehla.
“You’ve got your wristwatch, I’ve got mine.… So what did my friend Mitchell say? That’s the eight o’clock in Washington, if I’m not mistaken.”
“You’re not,” agreed the intelligence officer from Cairo. “I was about to explain—”
“Some explanation. The violins were in full vibrato.”
“Manny!”
“Shut up. Let her talk.”
“I have to leave—for a day, perhaps two.”
“Where are you going?” asked Kendrick.
“I can’t tell you that … my darling.”
31
Welcome to Stapleton Airport in Denver, ladies and gentlemen. If you need information regarding connecting flights, our personnel will gladly assist you inside the terminal. The time here in Colorado is five minutes past three in the afternoon.
Among the disembarking passengers spilling out of the exit ramp were five priests whose features were Caucasian but whose skin was darker than that of most Occidentals. They moved together and talked quietly among themselves, their English stilted, yet understandable. They might have been from a diocese in southern mainland Greece or from the Aegean islands, or possibly Sicily or Egypt. They might have been, but they were not. They were Palestinians and they were not priests. Instead, they were killers from the most radical branch of the Islamic jihad. Each held a small carry-on bag of soft black cloth; together they walked into the terminal heading for a newsstand.
“La!” exclaimed one of the younger Arabs under his breath as he picked up a newspaper and scanned the headlines. “Laish!”
“Iskut!” whispered an older companion, pulling the young man away and telling him to be quiet. “If you speak, speak English.”
“There is nothing! They still report nothing! Something is wrong.”
“We know something is wrong, you fool,” said the leader known throughout the terrorist world as Ahbyahd, the name meaning “the white-haired one” despite the fact that his close-cropped prematurely gray head was more salt-and-pepper than white. “That’s why we’re here.… Carry my bag and take the others to Gate Number Twelve. I’ll meet you there shortly. Remember, if anyone stops you, you do the talking. Explain that the others do not speak English, but don’t elaborate.”
“I shall give them a Christian blessing with the blood of Allah all over their throats.”
“Keep your tongue and your knife to yourself. No more Washingtons!” Ahbyahd continued across the terminal, glancing around as he walked. He saw what he had to find and approached a
Travelers Aid courtesy desk. A middle-aged woman looked up at him, smiling pleasantly at his obviously bewildered expression.
“May I help you, Father?”
“I believe this is where I was instructed to be,” replied the terrorist humbly. “We have no such fine accommodations on the island of Lyndos.”
“We try to be of service.”
“Perhaps you have a … a notice for me—further instructions, I’m afraid. The name is Demopolis.”
“Oh, yes,” said the woman, opening the top right-hand drawer of the desk. “Father Demopolis. You’re certainly a long way from home.”
“The Franciscan retreat, an opportunity of a lifetime to visit your splendid country.”
“Here we are.” The woman pulled out a white envelope and handed it to the Arab. “It was delivered to us around noontime by a charming man who made a most generous contribution to Travelers Aid.”
“Perhaps I may add my gratitude,” said Ahbyahd, feeling the small hard, flat object in the center of the envelope as he reached for his billfold.
“Oh, no, I wouldn’t hear of it. We’ve been paid handsomely for such a little thing as holding a letter for a man of the cloth.”
“You are very kind, madam. May the Lord of Hosts bless you.”
“Thank you, Father. I appreciate that.”
Ahbyahd walked away, quickening his steps, veering to a crowded corner of the airport terminal. He tore open the envelope. Taped to the blank card inside was a key to a storage locker in Cortez, Colorado. Their weapons and explosives had been delivered on schedule, as well as money, articles of clothing, an untraceable rented automobile, alternate passports of Israeli origin for nine Maronite priests, and airline tickets to Riohacha, Colombia, where arrangements had been made to fly them to Baracoa, Cuba, and points east. Their rendezvous for the trip home—home yet not home, not the Baaka; that was not home!—was a highway motel near the airport in Cortez; a flight the next morning would take them to Los Angeles, where nine holy men would be “assistance pre-cleared” on Avianca for Riohacha. Everything had gone according to schedule—schedules worked out once the amazing offer had reached the Baaka Valley in Lebanon: Find him. Kill him. Bring honor to your cause. We’ll give you everything you need, but never our identities. Yet had those so precise schedules, those so precious gifts, borne fruit? Ahbyahd did not know; he could not know and it was why he had called a relay telephone number in Vancouver, Canada, demanding that new and lethal supplies be included in the Cortez delivery. It had been nearly twenty-four hours since the attack on the house in Fairfax, Virginia, and close to eighteen hours after the storming of the hated enemy’s home in Colorado. Their mission had been conceived as a combined assault that would stun the Western world with blood and death, avenging the brothers who had been killed, proving that the ultimate security ordered by the President of the United States for a single man was no match for the skills and the commitments of a dispossessed people. Operation Azra demanded the life of an ordained American hero, an impostor who had claimed to be one of them, who had broken bread and sorrow with them, and who finally had betrayed them. That man had to die, along with all who surrounded him, protected him. A lesson had to be taught!