The Secret Service man crossed to an intercom console built into the wall next to the mirrored bar. Frowning in thought, he pressed the three numbers he had been given on the boat.
‘Yes, Cottage?’ answered a soft male voice.
‘Your boy’s asleep again.’
‘Good, we’re ready for him.’
‘I’ve got to inquire,’ said the well-spoken capo. ‘Why did we bring him to in the first place?’
‘Medical procedure, not that it’s any of your business.’
‘I wouldn’t take that attitude, if I were you. We are owed and you’re the debtors.’
‘All right. Without a medical history there are acceptable and unacceptable limits of dosage.’
‘Two moderate applications rather than a single excessive one?’
‘Something like that. Our doctor is very experienced in these things.’
‘If he’s the same one, keep him out of sight. He’s on Kendrick’s death list… And send down your Hispanics, I’m not contracted for hauling bodies.’
‘Certainly. And don’t concern yourself about that doctor. He was on another list.’
‘MJ, he’s still not back and it’s three-fifteen in the morning!’ cried Khalehla into the phone. ‘Have you learned anything?’
‘Nothing that makes sense,’ replied the director of Special Projects, his voice thin and weary. ‘I haven’t called you because I thought you were getting some rest.’
“Don’t lie to me, Uncle Mitch. You’ve never had a problem telling me to work all night. That’s Evan out there!’
‘I know, I know… Did he mention anything to you about meeting someone in Balboa Park?’
‘No, I don’t think he knows what it is or where it is.’
‘Do you?’
‘Of course. My grandparents live here, remember?’
‘Do you know a place called The Balthazar?’
‘It’s a coffeehouse for hotheads, Arab hotheads to be exact, students mostly. I was there once and never went back. Why do you ask?’
‘Let me explain,’ said Payton. ‘After your call several hours ago, we reached Bollinger’s house—as Kendrick’s office, of course—saying we had an urgent message for him. We were told he’d left around nine o’clock, which contradicted your information that he hadn’t returned by eleven; at best it’s a thirty-minute drive from the Vice President’s home to your hotel. So I contacted Gingerbread—Shapoff—he’s terribly good in these situations. He tracked everything down including the driver of Evan’s car. Our congressman asked to be let off at Balboa Park, so Gingerbread did his thing and “rustled up the neighbourhood”, as he phrased it. What he learned can be put in two enigmatic conclusions. One: a man fitting Evan’s description was seen walking in Balboa Park. Two: a number of people inside The Balthazar have stated that this same man wearing dark glasses entered the establishment and stood for a long time by the cardamom coffee machines before going to a table.’
‘Mitch,’ screamed Khalehla. ‘I’m looking at his dark glasses now! They’re on the bureau. He sometimes wears them during the day so he won’t be recognized, but never at night. He says they draw attention at night and he’s right about that. That man wasn’t Evan. It’s a set-up. They’re holding him somewhere!’
‘Hardball,’ said Payton quietly. ‘We’ll have to get into the game.’
Kendrick opened his eyes as a person does who is unsure of where he is or what condition he is in or even whether he is awake or still asleep. There was only bewilderment, clouds of confusion swirling about in his head, and a numbness caused by frightening uncertainty. A lamp was on somewhere, its glow washing the beamed ceiling. He moved his hand, lifting his right arm off the unfamiliar bed in the unfamiliar room. He studied both hand and arm, then suddenly, swiftly he raised his left arm. What had happened? He swung his legs off the bed and unsteadily stood up, equal parts of terror and curiosity gripping him. Gone were the thick corduroy trousers and the coarse black denim shirt. He was dressed in his own clothes! In his navy blue suit, his congressional suit, as he frequently and humorously referred to it, the suit he had worn to Bollinger’s house! And his white shirt and striped regimental tie, all freshly cleaned and laundered. What had happened? Where was he? Where was the well-appointed rustic cabin with the all-electric appliances and the recessed mirrored bar? This was a large bedroom he had never seen before.
Slowly, regaining balance, he moved about the strange surroundings, a part of him wondering if he was living a dream or had just lived one previously. He saw a pair of tall, narrow French doors; he walked rapidly over and opened them. They led out to a small balcony large enough for a couple to have coffee on but no more than that; a miniature round table and two wrought-iron chairs had been placed for such a ritual. He stood in front of the waist-high railing and looked out over the darkened grounds, dark except for a practically nonexistent moon and the parallel lines of amber lights that branched off in various directions… and something else. Far in the distance, lit up by the dim wash of floodlights, was a fenced area not unlike an immense wire cage. Within it there appeared to be blocks of massive machinery, some of it jet black and glistening, others chrome or silver, equally shimmering in the dull, cloud-covered moonlight. Evan concentrated on the sight, then turned his head to listen; there was a steady uninterrupted hum, and he knew he had found the answer to a question that had confused him. He did not have to see the signs that read: DANGER High Voltage; they were there. The wire-enclosed machinery were components of a huge generator undoubtedly fed by giant underground tanks of fuel, and fields of photovoltaic cells to capture the solar energy of the tropic sun.
Below the balcony was a sunken brick patio, the drop twenty-five feet or more which meant a twisted ankle or a broken leg if a person tried to leave that way. Kendrick studied the exterior walls; the nearest drainpipe was at the corner of the structure, far out of reach, and there were no vines that could be scaled, only sheer stucco… Blankets? Sheets! Tied firmly together, he could handle a drop of eight to ten feet! If he hurried … He suddenly stopped all movement, ended all thoughts of racing into the room and to the bed, as a figure appeared walking down an amber-lit path on the right, a rifle strapped over his shoulder. He raised his arm, a signal. Evan looked to the left; a second man was signalling back, patrols acknowledging each other. Kendrick pulled his watch up to his eyes, trying to read the second hand in the dull night light. If he could time the sentries’ co-ordinates, have everything prepared… Again he was forced to stop what plans his desperation created. The bedroom door opened, and the reality that was, was now confirmed.
‘I thought I heard you moving around,’ said the Secret Service man from the ranks of the Mafia.
‘And I should have realized the room was bugged,’ said Evan, coming in from the balcony.
‘You keep getting things wrong, Congressman. This is a guest room in the main house. You think these people would listen in on their guests’ private conversations or their perfectly natural indulgences together?’
‘I think they’d do anything. Otherwise, how did you know I was up?’
‘Easy,’ answered the Mafioso, crossing to the bureau against the far right wall and picking up a small flat object from the top. ‘One of these. They’re provided for people with infants. My sister in New Jersey won’t go anywhere without them—they come in pairs. Plug it in one room, then plug it in another room and you can hear the child screaming. Let me tell you, her children scream a lot. You can hear them in Manhattan.’
‘Very enlightening. When did I get my clothes back?’
‘I don’t know. The Hispanics took care of you, not me. Perhaps you were raped and don’t know it.’
‘Again, enlightening… Have you any idea what you’ve done, what you’re involved in? You’ve abducted a not-unknown holder of government office, a member of the House of Representatives.’
‘Good Lord, you make it sound like snatching the maitre d’hotel at Vinnie’s Pasta Palace.’
‘You’re not amusing—’
‘You are,’ interrupted the guard, removing his automatic from a shoulder holster. ‘You’re also on call, Congressman. You’re wanted downstairs.’
‘Suppose I refuse the invitation?’
‘Then I blow a hole through your stomach and kick a corpse down the stairs. Whichever, I really don’t care. I’m being paid for a service, not a guaranteed delivery. Take your choice, hero.’
The room was a naturalist’s nightmare. The heads of slain animals hung from the white stucco walls, their false eyes reflecting the panic of impending death. Skins of leopard, tiger and elephant were the upholstery, neatly stretched and brass-tacked over chairs and couches. If nothing else, it was an assertion of the power of man’s bullet over unsuspecting wildlife, and not so much imposing as sad, as sad as the hollow triumphs of the victors.