‘How’s “protective seclusion”?’ asked Swann, sounding weary. ‘I’ve been to several of those places when we’ve interrogated defectors. I hope you’ve got one with stables or at least two pools, one inside, naturally. They’re all alike; I think the government buys them as political payoffs for the rich who get tired of their big houses and want to buy new ones gratis. I hope somebody’s listening. I don’t have a pool any more.’
‘There’s a croquet lawn, I’ve seen that.’
‘Small time. What have you got to tell me? Am I any closer to getting off the hook?’
‘Maybe. At least I’ve tried to take some heat off you… Frank, I’ve got to ask you a question and we can both say anything we like, use any names we like. There’s no tap on the phone here now.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘Dennison.’
‘And you believed him? Incidentally, I couldn’t care less if this transcript’s given to him.’
‘I believe him because he has a clue as to what I’m going to say and wants to put a couple of thousand miles between the administration and what we’re going to talk about. He said we’re on an “override”.’
‘He’s right. He’s afraid of some loose cannon hearing your words. What is it?’
‘Manny Weingrass, and through him linkage to the Mossad—’
‘I told you, that’s a no-no,’ broke in the deputy director. ‘Okay, we’re really on override. Go ahead.’
‘Dennison told me that the Oman file lists the cargo on the plane from Bahrain to Andrews Air Force Base on that last morning as consisting of me and an old Arab in Western clothing who was a subagent for Consular Operations—’
‘And who was being brought over here for medical treatment,’ interrupted Swann. ‘After years of invaluable cooperation our clandestine services owed Ali Saada and his family that much.’
‘You’re sure that was the wording?’
‘Who would know it better? I wrote it.’
‘You? Then you knew it was Weingrass?’
‘It wasn’t difficult. Your instructions relayed by Grayson were pretty damned clear. You demanded—demanded, mind you—that an unnamed person accompany you on that plane back to the States—’
‘I was covering for the Mossad.’
‘Obviously, and so was I. You see, bringing someone in like that is against the rules—forget the law—unless he’s on our books. So I put him on the books as someone else.’
‘But how did you know it was Manny?’
‘That was the easiest part. I spoke to the chief of the Bahrainian Royal Guards, who was assigned as your covert escort. The physical description was probably enough, but when he told me that the old bastard kicked one of his men in the knee because he let you stumble getting into the car to the airport, I knew it was Weingrass. His reputation, as they say, has always preceded him.’
‘I appreciate your doing that,’ said Evan softly. ‘Both for him and for me.’
‘It was the only way of thanking you that I could think of.’
‘Then I can assume that no one in Washington intelligence circles knows that Weingrass was involved in Oman.’
‘Absolutely. Forget Masqat, he’s a nonperson. He’s just not among the living over here.’
‘Dennison didn’t even know who he was—’
‘Of course not.’
‘He’s being followed, Frank. Out in Colorado, he’s under someone’s surveillance.’ ‘Not ours.’
Eight hundred and ninety-five feet due north of the sterile house on the waters of Chesapeake Bay was the estate of Dr Samuel Winters, honoured historian and for over forty years friend and adviser to presidents of the United States. In his younger days the immensely wealthy academic was considered an outstanding sportsman; trophies for polo, tennis, skiing and sailing lined the shelves of his private study attesting to his former skills. Now there remained for the ageing educator a more passive game that had been a minor passion with the Winters family for generations, initially making its appearance on the lawn of their mansion in Oyster Bay during the early twenties. The game was croquet, and whenever any member of the family built a new property, among the first considerations was a proper lawn for the very official course that never deviated from the 40—y 75-foot dimensions prescribed by the National Croquet Association in 1882. So one of the sights that caught the eye of a visitor to Dr Winters’ estate was the croquet lawn to the right of the enormous house above the waters of the Chesapeake. Its charm was enhanced by the many pieces of white wrought-iron furniture that bordered the course, areas of respite for those studying their next moves or having a drink.
The scene was identical with the croquet course at the sterile house 895 feet to the south of Winters’ property, and it was only fitting that it should be, for all the land upon which both mansions stood originally belonged to Samuel Winters. Five years ago—with the silent resurrection of Inver Brass—Dr Winters had quietly donated the south estate to the United States government for use as a ‘safe’ or ‘sterile’ house. In order to deter the amiably curious and divert hostile probes by potential enemies of the United States, the transaction was never revealed. According to the property records filed in the Town Hall of Cynwid Hollow, the house and grounds still belonged to Samuel and Martha Jennifer Winters (the latter deceased), and for it the family’s accountants annually paid the inordinately high shoreline taxes, refunded secretly by a grateful government. If any of the curious, friendly or unfriendly alike, inquired into the activity at this aristocratic compound, they were invariably told that it never stopped, that cars and caterers carried and cared for the great and the near great of the academic world and industry, all representing the varied interests of Samuel Winters. A squad of strong young gardeners kept the place immaculate and also served as staff, seeing to the needs of the constant stream of visitors. The image conveyed was that of a multi-millionaire’s multipurpose think tank in the countryside—far too open to be anything but what it purported to be.
To maintain the integrity of that image, all bills were sent to Samuel Winters’ accountants, who promptly paid them with duplicates of these payments forwarded to the historian’s personal lawyer, who, in turn, had them hand-delivered to the Department of State for covert reimbursement. It was a simple arrangement and beneficial to all concerned, as simple and as beneficial as it was for Dr Winters to suggest to President Langford Jennings that Congressman Evan Kendrick might simply benefit from a few days out of the media limelight at the ‘safe house’ south of his property, since there was no activity there at the time. The President gratefully concurred; he would have Herb Dennison take care of the arrangements.
Milos Varak removed the large, anti-impedance earphones from his head and shut down the electronic console on the table in front of him. He swung his chair to the left, snapped a switch on the nearby wall and instantly heard the quiet gears that lowered the directional dish on the roof. He then got out of the chair and wandered aimlessly around the sophisticated communications equipment in the soundproof studio in the cellars of Samuel Winters’ house. He was alarmed. What he had overheard on the telephone intercept from the sterile house was beyond his understanding.
As the State Department’s Swann so unequivocally confirmed, no one in the Washington intelligence community was aware of Emmanual Weingrass. They had no idea that ‘the old Arab’ who had flown back from Bahrain with Evan Kendrick was Weingrass. In Swann’s words, his ‘thank you’ to Evan Kendrick for the congressman’s efforts in Oman was to get Weingrass secretly out of Bahrain and with equal secrecy into the United States by using a disguise and a cover. The man and the cover had bureaucratically disappeared; Weingrass was virtually a ‘nonperson’. Also, Swann’s deception was mandatory because of Weingrass’s Mossad connection, a deception thoroughly understood by Kendrick. In point of fact, the congressman himself had taken extreme measures to conceal the presence and the identity of his elderly friend. Milos had learned that the old man had been entered into the hospital under the name of Manfred Weinstein, and put in a room in a private wing with its own secluded entrance, and that upon release he had been flown to Colorado in a private jet to Mesa Verde.
Everything was private; Weingrass’s name was never recorded anywhere. And during the months of his convalescence the irascible architect only infrequently left the house and never for places where the congressman was known. Damn! thought Varak. Except for Kendrick’s close personal circle that excluded everyone but a trusted secretary, her husband, an Arab couple in Virginia and three overpaid nurses whose generous salaries included total confidentiality, Emmanuel Weingrass did not exist!
Varak walked back to the console table, disengaged the Record button, rewound the tape and found the words he wanted to hear again.