“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 P.M. 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 Arabic 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 toward it. “That’s the limousine,” he said. “Gray with tinted windows, as befits the Vice President’s residence in the hills.”
8:07 P.M. San Diego. The slender man walked rapidly through the terminal at San Diego’s international airport, a garment two-suiter 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 onto 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 carryon 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!
39
The introductions were brief and Kendrick had the distinct impression that not all the names or titles were entirely accurate. As a result, he studied each face as if he were about to commit it to a canvas he was incapable of painting. Khalehla had been right, the seven-man council was a mix but not as difficult to discern as she thought. A staffer making thirty to forty thousand dollars a year did not dress or behave like someone who spent such sums on a weekend visit to Paris … or Divonne. He judged that the staff was in the minority: three official aides versus four outside advisers—the kitchen cabinet from California.
Vice President Orson Bollinger was a man of medium height, medium build, medium middle age, and afflicted with a medium high voice that fell between the narrow parameters of being dismissable and convincing. He was … well, medium, the ideal second in command as long as Number One was in eminent good health and vigor. He was vaguely perceived as a toady who might just possibly rise to the occasion, but only possibly. He was neither a threat nor a stupid man. He was a political survivor because he understood the unwritten rules of the also-ran. He greeted Congressman Evan Kendrick warmly and led him into his impressive private library, where his “people” were assembled, sitting in various leather armchairs and dark leather couches.
“We’ve canceled our Christmas festivities here,” said Bollinger, sitting in the most prominent chair and indicating that Evan should sit beside him, “in deference to dear Ardis and Andrew. Such a terrible tragedy, two such magnificently patriotic people. She simply couldn’t live without him, you know. You’d have to have seen them together to understand.”
Nods and impatient grunts of agreement came from around the room. “I understand, Mr. Vice President,” interjected Kendrick sadly. “As you may know, I met Mrs. Vanvlanderen a number of years ago in Saudi Arabia. She was a remarkable woman and so very sensitive.”
“No, Congressman, I didn’t know that.”
“It’s immaterial, but of course not to me. I’ll never forget her. She was remarkable.”
“As, indeed, is your request for a meeting this evening,” said one of the two official aides sitting on the couch. “We’re all aware of the Chicago movement to challenge the Vice President, and we understand that it may not have your endorsement. Is that true, Congressman?”
“As I explained to the Vice President this afternoon, I didn’t hear about it until a week ago.… No, it doesn’t have my endorsement. I’ve considered other plans that do not concern further political pursuits.”
“Then why not simply declare your noncandidacy?” asked a second aide from the same couch.
“Well, I guess things are never as simple as we’d like them to be, are they? I’d be less than candid if I said I wasn’t flattered by the proposal, and during the past five days my staff did some fairly extensive polling, both regionally and among the party leadership. They’ve concluded that my candidacy is a viable prospect.”
“But you just said you had other plans,” interrupted a heavy-set man in gray flannels and a gold-buttoned navy blue blazer … not an aide.
“I believe I said that I’ve considered other plans, other pursuits. Nothing’s finalized.”
“What’s your point, Congressman?” asked the same staffer who had suggested that Evan declare his noncandidacy.
“That could be between the Vice President and me, couldn’t it?”
“These are my people,” offered Bollinger unctuously, smiling benignly.
“I understand that, sir, but my people are not here … perhaps to guide me.”
“You don’t look or sound like someone who needs a hell of a lot of guidance,” said a short, compact adviser-contributor from a leather chair unflatteringly large for his small frame. “I’ve seen you on television. You’ve got some pretty strong opinions.”
“I couldn’t change those any more than a zebra could change his stripes, but there may be mitigating circumstances why they should remain privately held beliefs rather than publicly expressed ones.”
“Are you trading horses?” asked a third contributor, this a tall, lanky man in an open shirt and deeply tanned features.
“I’m not trading anything,” objected Kendrick firmly. “I’m attempting to explain a situation that hasn’t been clarified and I think it damn well should be.”
“No need to get upset, young fella,” said Bollinger earnestly, frowning at his large suntanned adviser. “It’s not a demeaning choice of words, you know. ‘Trading’ is intrinsic to our great democratic contract. Now, what’s this situation that should be clarified?”
“The Oman crisis.… Masqat and Bahrain. The basic reason why I’ve been singled out for higher political office.” Suddenly it was apparent that the Vice President’s people all thought they were going to be given information that might wash away
the Oman myth, vitiate the potential candidate’s strongest appeal. All eyes were riveted on the Congressman. “I went to Masqat,” continued Evan, “because I knew who was behind the Palestinian terrorists. He used the same tactics on me, driving my company out of business and robbing me of millions.”
“You wanted revenge, then?” suggested the heavyset adviser in the gold-buttoned blazer.
“Revenge, hell, I wanted my company back—I still want it. The time will come fairly soon now and I want to head back to pick up the pieces, to make up for all those profits I left behind.”
The fourth contributor, a florid-faced man with a distinct Boston accent, leaned forward. “You goin’ back t’ the Middle East?”
“No, to the Persian Gulf states—there’s a difference. The Emirates, Bahrain, Qatar, Dubai, they’re not Lebanon or Syria or Qaddafi’s Libya. The word out of Europe is that construction’s starting up all over again and I intend to be there.”
“You sold your company,” said the tall, suntanned contributor with the open shirt, his speech laconic but precise.
“At a forced sale. It was worth five times what I was paid. But that’s not too large a problem for me. Up against West German, French and Japanese capital, I may have a few problems at the beginning, but my contacts are as extensive as anyone else’s. Also …” Kendrick played out his scenario with understated conviction, touching on his relationships with the royal houses and ministers of Oman, Bahrain, Abu Dhabi and Dubai, mentioning the protection and the assistance, including private transportation, provided him by the governments of Oman and Bahrain during the Masqat crisis. Then, as abruptly as he began, he stopped. He had drawn the impending picture sufficiently for their imaginations; more might be too much.
The men in the library looked at one another, and with an almost imperceptible nod from the Vice President, the heavyset man in the navy blue blazer spoke. “It strikes me that your plans are pretty well solidified. What would you want with a job that pays a hundred and fifty thou a year and too many chicken dinners? You’re not a politician.”
“Considering my age, the time factor could be attractive. Five years from now I’ll still be in my forties, and the way I read things, even if I started tomorrow over there it would take me two, perhaps three, years to be in full operation, and I could be shy a year there—there are no guarantees. But if I go the other way and actively seek the nomination, I might actually get it—that’s no reflection on you, Mr. Vice President. It’s merely the result of the media treatment that I’ve been given.”
When several others began speaking at once, Bollinger held up his hand, barely inches above the arm of his chair. It was enough to quiet them. “And, Congressman?”
“Well, I think it’s pretty obvious. There’s no question in anyone’s mind that Jennings will win the election, although he may have problems with the Senate. If I were fortunate enough to be on the ticket, I’d go from the House to the vice presidency, spend my time and come out with more international influence—and, quite frankly, resources—than I could ever hope to have otherwise.”
“That, Congressman,” cried an angry young third aide from a straight-backed chair next to his colleagues on the couch, “is blatantly using the trust of public office for personal profit!”
There was a mass lowering and straying of the contributors’ eyes. “If I didn’t think you impetuously misspoke yourself because you don’t understand,” said Evan calmly, “I’d be extremely offended. I’m stating an obvious fact because I want to be completely open with Vice President Bollinger, a man I deeply respect. What I mentioned is the truth; it goes with the office. But in no way does that truth take away from the energy or the commitment I’d give to that office while serving it and the nation. Whatever rewards might come from such a position, whether in the form of publishing, corporate boardrooms or golf tournaments, they wouldn’t be given to a man who took his responsibilities lightly. Like Vice President Bollinger, I couldn’t operate that way.”
“Well said, Evan,” commented the Vice President softly while looking harshly at the impulsive aide. “You’re owed an apology.”
“I apologize,” said the young man. “You’re right, of course. It all goes with the office.”
“Don’t be too apologetic,” admonished Kendrick, smiling. “Loyalty to one’s boss isn’t anything to be sorry about.” Evan turned to Bollinger. “If he’s a black belt, I’m getting out of here fast,” he added, breaking the momentary tension with laughter.
“He plays a mean game of Ping-Pong,” said the older aide on the left of the couch.
“He’s very creative keeping score,” said the oldest staffer on the right. “He cheats.”
“At any rate,” continued Evan, waiting until the grins—mostly forced—had left the assembled faces. “I meant it when I said I wanted to be completely frank with you, Mr. Vice President. These are the things I have to think about. I’ve lost four, almost five years, of a career—a business—I worked extremely hard to develop. I was short-circuited by a mad killer and forced to sell because people were afraid to work for me. He’s dead and things have changed; they’re getting back to normal, but the European competition is heavy. Can I do it by myself or should I actively campaign for the ticket and, if I succeed, have certain guarantees that result from holding the office? On the other hand, do I really want to spend the additional years and the enormous amounts of time and energy that go with the job?… These are questions only I can answer, sir. I hope you understand.”
And then Kendrick heard the words he had hoped beyond hope to hear—hope in this case far more meaningful than in his statement to Bollinger.
“I know it’s late for your staff, Orson,” said the tall, lanky man in the open shirt that set off his suntanned flesh, “but I’d like to talk a little further.”
“Yes, certainly,” agreed the Vice President, turning to his aides. “These poor fellas have been up since dawn, what with the dreadful news about Ardis and all. Go home, boys, and have Christmas with your families—I brought all the wives and kids out here on Air Force Two, Evan, so they could be together.”
“Very thoughtful, sir.”
“Thoughtful, hell. Maybe they all have black belts.… You’re dismissed, troops. Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve, and if I remember correctly, the next day’s Christmas. So unless the Ruskies blow up Washington, I’ll see you in three days.”
“Thank you, Mr. Vice President.”
“You’re very kind, sir.”
“We can stay, if you wish,” said the oldest, as each successively got out of his chair.
“And have you mauled by your two associates?” asked Bollinger, grinning at the expressions of the others. “I wouldn’t hear of it. On your way out, send in the butler. We might as well have a brandy while we solve all the world’s problems.”
See-No-Evil, Speak-No-Evil, and Hear-No-Evil left the room, programmed robots reacting to a familiar marching tune. The man in the gold-button navy blue blazer leaned forward in his chair, his stomach making it difficult for him. “You want to talk frankly, Congressman? Real frank and real honest? Well, we’re going to do that.”
“I don’t understand, Mr.… I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”
“Cut the hoss-shit!” exclaimed the florid Bostonian. “I’ve heard better crap from the ward heelers in Southie.”
“You may fool the pols in D.C.,” said the small man in the too-large chair, “but we’re businessmen, too, Kendrick. You’ve got something to offer and maybe—just maybe—we’ve got something to offer.”
“How do you enjoy southern California, Congressman?” The tall man with the open shirt and the outstretched legs spoke loudly as a butler entered the room.
“Nothing, nothing,” exclaimed Bollinger, addressing the tuxedoed servant. “Never mind. Leave us.”
“I’m sorry, sir, I have a message for you,” said the butler, handing the Vice President a note.
Bollinger read it; his face at first grew red, then rapi
dly paled. “Tell him to wait,” he ordered. The butler left the room. “Where were we?”
“At a price,” said the man from Boston. “That’s what we’re talkin’ about, isn’t it, Congressman?”
“That’s a little blunt,” answered Evan. “But the term is in the realm of possibility.”
“You should understand,” said the small man with the pinched face, “that you passed through two separate powerful detectors. You may get sick from the X rays, but you don’t have any recording machines on you.”
“They’d be the last things I’d want.”
“Good,” said the tall man, getting out of the chair as if solely to impress the others with his formidable height and his image as the tanned, rugged yachtsman or whatever he was; strength was the message. He sauntered to the fireplace mantel—High Noon in the Town of Corruption, thought Kendrick. “We caught your leeward drift about German, French and Japanese capital. How steep are the waves in open water?”
“I’m afraid I’m not a sailor. You’ll have to be clearer.”
“What are you up against?”
“Financially?” asked Evan, pausing, then shaking his head in dismissal. “Nothing I can’t handle. I can commit seven to ten million, if I have to, and my lines of credit are extensive … but, of course, so are the interest rates.”
“Suppose lines of credit were established without those kinda burdens?” said the man familiar with the ward heelers of South Boston.
“Gentlemen,” interrupted Bollinger sharply, getting out of his chair as those seated did also in deference to his obviously imminent departure. “I understand that I have an urgent matter to attend to. If you need anything, feel free to ask for it.”
“We won’t be long, Mr. Vice President,” said Kendrick, knowing why Bollinger had to distance himself from whatever ensuing conversation took place; deniability was the byword. “As I mentioned, this is a problem that only I can properly resolve. I just wanted to be open with you.”