“Very savvy and very hidden. One might almost say bureaucratically obscured.”
“Speaking of which, I’m two floors above the grieving widow.”
“Her office has been alerted. She’s been told to expect your call.”
“Then I’ll straighten up and go to work. Incidentally, I had to buy a few things to dress the part, but I’ll be damned if I’ll pay for them. Let’s say they’re not me; they’re a little on the severe side.”
“I thought, considering Mrs. Vanvlanderen’s past associations, you might be somewhat more chic.”
“Well, they’re not that severe.”
“I didn’t think so. Call me when it’s over.”
Khalehla hung up the phone, looked at it for a moment, then reached down for her purse on the floor. She opened it and took out a sheet of notepaper on which she had written Evan’s telephone number in Mesa Verde. Seconds later she dialed.
“The Kendrick residence,” said a woman’s voice Khalehla recognized as belonging to one of the nurses.
“May I speak with the Congressman, please? This is Miss Adrienne of the State Department.”
“Sure, hon, but you’ll have to hang on while I get him. He’s outside saying good-bye to that nice young Greek.”
“Who?”
“I think he’s Greek. He knows a lot of people the Congressman knew over in Arabia or wherever he was.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The priest. He’s a young priest from—”
“Get Evan away!” screamed Khalehla, lurching to her feet. “Yell for the guards! The others are out there! They want to kill him!”
33
It had been so simple, thought Ahbyahd, watching from the woods across from the despised enemy’s huge house. A sincere and pleasant young priest whose papers were in order and, of course, who had no weapons on him, bearing greetings from friends of the great man. Who could refuse him a brief audience, this innocent religious from a distant land unaware of the formalities attached to calling upon great men? His initial rejection had been countermanded by the enemy himself; the rest was up to a highly inventive believer. What remained was up to all of them. They would not fail.
Their young comrade was walking out of the house! He was shaking hands with the loathsome “Amal Bahrudi” under the watchful eyes of the guards in business suits and carrying automatic weapons. The believers could only estimate the size of the guard force; it was a minimum of twelve men, conceivably more inside. With the love of Allah the first assault would remove a large block of them, killing most and severely wounding the rest beyond functioning.
Their comrade was being escorted down the circular drive to the automobile, courteously parked on the road beyond the tall hedges. Only moments now. And the beloved Allah looked favorably upon them! Three more guards appeared, bringing the total in front of the house to seven. Do your work, our brother! Drive accurately!
The comrade reached the automobile; he bowed his head politely, making the sign of the cross, and once again shook hands, now with his single escort concealed from the others by the hedges. He then opened the door and briefly coughed, supporting himself on the back of the seat as his right arm reached down over the fabric. Suddenly, with the swiftness and assurance of a true believer, he spun around gripping a double-edged blade in his hand and plunging it into the guard’s throat before the government man could see what was happening. Blood erupting, the guard fell as the terrorist grabbed the weapon and the body simultaneously, dragging the corpse across the road and into the overgrowth at the edge of the woods. He looked over in Ahbyahd’s direction, nodded, and raced back to the car. Ahbyahd, in turn, snapped his fingers and signaled the brothers behind him hidden among the trees. The three men crept forward, dressed, as the white-haired one, in paramilitary clothing and gripping light-framed submachine guns, grenades clipped to their field jackets.
The English-speaking killer behind the wheel started the engine, shifted the car into gear, and drove slowly, casually, toward the left entrance of the circular drive. Then abruptly, with the motor suddenly roaring at its highest pitch, he swung the vehicle sharply to the right and into the entrance while he reached below the dashboard and flipped a switch. Opening the door, he aimed the car over the large front lawn toward the milling guards talking with the Congressman and leaped out of the racing automobile onto the gravel. As he hit the ground he heard a woman’s screams through the cacophony of the thundering engine and the roars of the government patrols. One of the nurses had come running out the front door yelling incoherently; at the sight of the driverless onrushing automobile, she turned and screamed again, now at Kendrick, who was nearest the stone entrance.
“Get away!” she shrieked, repeating words she had obviously heard only moments before. “They want to kill you!”
The Congressman raced toward the heavy door, grabbing the woman by the arm and propelling her in front of him as the guards opened fire at the empty metal monster surging crazily out of control, veering now into the side of the house toward the sliding glass doors of the veranda. Inside, Evan crashed his shoulder into the door, slamming it shut. That action and the thick steel-reinforced panel of the door saved their lives.
The explosions came like thunderous successive combustions from some massive furnace, shattering windows and walls, firing curtains and drapes and furniture. Out in front of the house the seven guards from the Central Intelligence Agency fell, pierced by shards of glass and metal sent flying by ninety pounds of dynamite lashed to the undercarriage of the automobile’s engine. Four were dead, heads and bodies riddled; two were barely alive, blood streaming out of eyes and chests. One, his left hand no more than a bleeding stump, had summoned rage, his weapon on automatic fire as he lurched across the lawn toward the priestly-collared terrorist, who was laughing insanely, his submachine gun spitting fire. Both men killed each other in the chill of the brisk Colorado day under the blinding Colorado sunlight.
Kendrick lunged up against the stone wall in the hallway, pressing himself into the bulging rock design. He looked down at the nurse. “Stay where you are!” he ordered as he inched his way toward the corner of the living room. Smoke was billowing everywhere, carried by the breezes through the shattered windows. He heard the shouts outside; the guards from their flanking positions around the house were converging, professionals covering one another as they moved into new positions. Then there were four detonations one after the other—grenades! These were followed by other voices screaming in Arabic. “Death to our enemies! Death to a great enemy! Blood will be answered by blood!” Repeated bursts from automatic weapons broke out from different directions. Two other grenades exploded, one thrown through the smashed windows directly into the living room, blowing apart the far wall. Evan spun around for the protection of the stone, then as the debris settled, he shouted.
“Manny! Manny? Where are you? Answer me!”
There was no reply, only the seemingly perverted, steady ringing of the telephone. The gunfire outside escalated to deafening proportions, burst upon burst, bullets ricocheting off rock, thumping into wood, screeching wildly through the air. Manny had been on the porch, the porch with glass doors! Kendrick had to get out there. He had to! He rushed into the smoke and fire of the living room, shielding his eyes and his nostrils, when suddenly a figure flew into the shattered front windows, crashing through the fragments of glass. The man rolled on the floor and sprang to his feet.
“Ahbyahd!” screamed Evan, paralyzed.
“You!” roared the Palestinian, his weapon leveled. “My life has glory! Glory! Beloved Allah be praised! You bring me great happiness!”
“Am I worth it to you? So many killed? So many butchered? Am I really worth it? Does your Allah demand so much death?”
“You can speak of death?” shrieked the terrorist. “Azra dead! Yaakov dead! Zaya killed by Jews from the skies over the Baaka! All the others … hundreds, thousands—dead! Now, Amal Bahrudi, such a clever traitor, I take
you to hell!”
“Not yet!” came the voice, half whispered, half shouted from the archway leading to the porch. The words were accompanied by two loud, reverberating gunshots that momentarily drowned out the rapid fire outside. Ahbyahd, the white-haired one, arched back under the impact of the powerful weapon, a portion of his skull blown away. Emmanuel Weingrass, his face and shirt drenched with blood, his left shoulder pressed into the interior of the arch, slid to the floor.
“Manny!” yelled Kendrick, racing over to the old architect, kneeling down and lifting his upper body off the hard floor. “Where are you hit?”
“Where wasn’t I?” replied Weingrass throatily, with difficulty. “Check the two girls! When … everything started they went to the windows.… I tried to stop them. Check them, goddamn you!”
Evan looked over at the two bodies on the porch. Beyond them, the sliding doors were no more than frames bordering sharp, pointed fragments of thick glass. The car bomb had done its work; there was little left of two human beings but shredded skin and blood. “There’s nothing to check, Manny. I’m sorry.”
“Oh, you call yourself a God in your fucking heaven!” screamed Weingrass, tears welling in his eyes. “What more do you want, you fraud!” The old man collapsed into unconsciousness.
Outside, the gunfire stopped. Kendrick prepared for the worst, wrenching the .357 Magnum out of Manny’s hand, wondering briefly who had given it to him, instantly knowing it was Gee-Gee Gonzalez. He gently lowered Weingrass and stood up. He walked cautiously into the smoldering living room, and was suddenly assaulted by the stench of wet smoke—water was showering out of the ceiling sprinklers.
A gunshot! He dropped to the floor, his eyes darting in all directions, followed by his weapon.
“Four!” shouted a voice from beyond the shattered windows. “I count four!”
“One went inside!” yelled another. “Approach and fire at any goddamn thing that moves! Christ, I don’t want our body count! And I also don’t want one of these motherfuckers to walk out alive! Do you understand me?”
“Understood.”
“He’s dead!” yelled Evan with what voice he had left. “But there’s another, a wounded man in here. He’s alive and he’s severely wounded and he’s one of us.”
“Congressman? Is that you, Mr. Kendrick?”
“It’s me, and I never want to hear that title again.” Once more the telephone started ringing. Evan got to his feet and headed wearily toward the charred pine desk, drenched by the separated sprays from the sprinklers. Suddenly, he saw the nurse who had saved his life walk hesitantly around the stone arch of the hallway. “Stay out of here,” he said. “I don’t want you to go out there.”
“I heard you say there was someone wounded, sir. That’s what I’m trained for.”
The telephone kept ringing.
“Him, yes. Not the others. I don’t want you to see the others!”
“I’m no spring chicken, Congressman. I did three tours of duty in ’Nam.”
“But these were your friends!”
“So were countless others,” said the nurse, no comment in her voice. “Is it Manny?”
“Yes.”
The telephone kept ringing.
“After your call, please reach Dr. Lyons, sir.”
Kendrick picked up the phone. “Yes?”
“Evan, thank Christ! It’s MJ! I just heard from Adrienne—”
“Fuck off,” said Kendrick, disconnecting the line and dialing Information.
At first the room spun around, then faraway thunder grew louder and bolts of lightning crashed into his mind. “Would you please repeat that, Operator, so I’m absolutely clear about what you’ve just said.”
“Certainly, sir. There’s no listing for a Dr. Lyons in Cortez or the Mesa Verde district. In fact, there’s no one named Lyons—L-y-o-n-s—in the area.”
“That was his name! I saw it on the clearance from the State Department!”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Nothing.… Nothing!” Evan slammed down the phone, and no sooner had he done so than it started ringing again. “Yes?”
“My darling! Are you all right?”
“Your fucking MJ blew it! I don’t know how many are dead and Manny’s shot up like a slaughtered pig! He’s not only half gone but he doesn’t even have a doctor!”
“Call Lyons.”
“He doesn’t exist!… How did you know about here?”
“I spoke to the nurse. She said a priest was there and, darling, listen to me! We found out only minutes ago that they were traveling as priests! I reached MJ and he’s beside himself. He’s got half of Colorado moving in, all federals and sworn to secrecy!”
“I just told him to take a hike.”
“He’s not your enemy, Evan.”
“Who the hell is?”
“For God’s sake, we’re trying to find out!”
“You’re a little slow.”
“And they’re very fast. What can I tell you?”
Kendrick, his hair drenched and his body soaked from the sprinklers, looked over at the nurse, who was ministering to Weingrass. Her eyes were filled with tears, her throat holding back her hysteria from the sight of her friends on the veranda. Evan spoke softly. “Tell me you’re coming back to me. Tell me it’s all going to end. Tell me I’m not going mad.”
“I can tell you all of those things, but you have to believe them. You’re alive and that’s all that matters to me right now.”
“What about the others who aren’t alive? What about Manny? Don’t they count?”
“Manny said something last night that impressed me very much. We were talking about the Hassans, Sabri and Kashi. He said we will each remember them and mourn for them in our own ways … but it must come later. To some that may sound cold, but not to me. He’s been where I’ve been, my darling, and I know where he’s coming from. None are forgotten, but for the moment we must forget them and do what we have to do. Does that make sense to you … my darling?”
“I’m trying to make sense out of it. When are you coming back?”
“I’ll know in a couple of hours. I’ll call you.”
Evan hung up the phone as the multiple sounds of sirens and approaching helicopters grew louder, all centering on an infinitesimal spot of the earth erroneously called Mesa Verde, in Colorado.
“It’s a perfectly lovely apartment,” said Khalehla softly, walking through the marble foyer toward the sunken living room of the Vanvlanderen suite.
“It’s convenient,” offered the new widow, a handkerchief gripped in her hand as she closed the door and joined the intelligence officer from Cairo. “The Vice President can be quite demanding, and it was either this or having to run another house when he’s in California. Two houses are a bit much—his and mine. Do sit down.”
“Are they all like this?” asked Khalehla, sitting in the armchair designated by Ardis Vanvlanderen. It was across from the large, imposing brocade sofa; the lady of the house was quick to establish the pecking order of the seating arrangements.
“No, actually, my husband had it remodeled to our taste.” The widow brought the handkerchief briefly to her face. “I suppose I should get used to saying ‘my late husband,’ ” she added, lowering herself sadly on the couch.
“I’m so sorry, and to repeat what I said, I apologize for intruding at such a time. It’s unconscionable, and I made that clear to my superiors, but they insisted.”
“They were right. Affairs of state must go on, Miss Rashad. I understand.”
“I’m not sure I do. This interview could have taken place at least tomorrow morning, in my opinion. But, again, others think otherwise.”
“That’s what fascinates me,” said Ardis, smoothing the black silk of her Balenciaga dress. “What can be so vitally important?”
“To begin with,” replied Khalehla, crossing her legs and removing a wrinkle from her dark gray suit, acquired by way of San Diego’s Robinson’s. “What we talk about must rema
in between ourselves. We don’t want Vice President Bollinger unduly alarmed.” The agent from Cairo took out a notebook from her black purse and smoothed her dark hair, which was pulled back and knotted in a severe bun. “As I know you’ve been told, I’m posted overseas and was flown back for this assignment.”
“I was told that you’re an expert in Middle East affairs.”
“That’s a euphemism for terrorist activities. I’m half Arab.”
“I can see that. You’re quite beautiful.”
“You’re very beautiful, Mrs. Vanvlanderen.”
“I get by as long as I don’t dwell upon the years.”
“I’m sure we’re close in age.”
“Let’s not dwell on that, either.… What is this problem? Why was it so urgent that you see me?”
“Our personnel who work the Baaka Valley in Lebanon have uncovered startling and disturbing information. Do you know what a ‘hit team’ is, Mrs. Vanvlanderen?”
“Who doesn’t?” answered the widow, reaching for a pack of cigarettes on the coffee table. She extracted one and picked up a white marble lighter. “It’s a group of men—usually men—sent out to assassinate someone.” She lit the cigarette; her right hand almost imperceptibly trembled. “So much for definitions. Why does it concern the Vice President?”
“Because of the threats that were made against him. The reason for the unit you requested from the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
“That’s all over,” said Ardis, inhaling deeply. “It turned out to be some kind of psychotic crank who probably didn’t even own a gun. But when those filthy letters and the obscene phone calls started coming in, I felt we couldn’t take chances. It’s all in the report; we chased him through a dozen cities until he got on a plane in Toronto. For Cuba, I understand, and it serves him right.”
“He may not have been a crank, Mrs. Vanvlanderen.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you never found him, did you?”
“The FBI worked up a very complete profile, Miss Rashad. He was determined to be mentally deranged, some kind of classic case of schizophrenia with overtones of a Captain Avenger complex or something equally ridiculous. He was essentially harmless. It’s a closed book.”