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.
‘Not ours…’ Whose?
That question was what alarmed Varak. The only people who knew that there was an Emmanuel Weingrass, who had been told how much that old man meant to Evan Kendrick, were the five members of Inver Brass. Could one of them—?
Milos did not want to think any more. At the moment it was too painful for him.
Adrienne Rashad was snapped awake by the sudden turbulence encountered by the military aircraft. She looked across the aisle in the dimly lit cabin with its less-than-first-class accommodation. The attach้ from the embassy in Cairo was obviously upset—afraid, to be precise. Yet the man was experienced enough with such transport to bring along a comforting friend, specifically an outsized leather-bound flask which he literally ripped out of his briefcase and drank from until he was aware that his ‘cargo’ was looking at him. Sheepishly he held up the flask towards her. She shook her head and spoke over the sound of the jet engines. ‘Just potholes,’ she said.
‘Hey, pals!’ cried the voice of the pilot over the intercom. ‘Sorry about the potholes but I’m afraid this weather’s unavoidable for about another thirty minutes or so. We have to stick to our channel and away from commercial routes. You should have flown the friendly skies, buddies. Hang on!’
The attach้ drank once again from the flask, this time longer and more fully than before. Adrienne turned away, the Arab in her telling her not to observe a man’s fear, the Western woman in her makeup saying that as an experienced military flier she should allay her companion’s fear. The synthesis in her won the argument; she smiled reassuringly at the attach้ and returned to her thoughts that had been broken off by sleep.
Why had she been so peremptorily ordered back to Washington? If there were new instructions so delicate that they could not be put on scramblers, why hadn’t Mitchell Payton called her with at least a clue? It wasn’t like ‘Uncle Mitch’ to permit any interference with her work unless he told her something about it. Even with the Oman mess last year, and if ever there was a priority situation that was it, Mitch had sent sealed instructions to her by diplomatic courier telling her without explanation to co-operate with the State Department’s Consular Operations no matter how offended she might be. She had, and it had offended her, indeed. Now out of the blue she had been ordered back to the States, virtually incommunicado, without a single word from Mitchell Payton.
Congressman Evan Kendrick. For the past eighteen hours his name had rolled across the world like the sound of approaching thunder. One could almost see the frightened faces of those who had been involved with the American, looking up at the sky wondering if they should run for cover, run for their lives under the threat of the impending storm. There would be vendettas against those who had aided the interfering man from the West. She wondered who had leaked the story—no, ‘leaked’ was too innocuous a word—who had exploded the story! The Cairo papers were filled with it, and a quick check confirmed that throughout the Middle East Evan Kendrick was either a holy saint or a hideous sinner. Canonization or an agonizing death awaited him depending upon the stance of those judging him, even within the same country. Why? Was it Kendrick himself who had done this? Had this vulnerable man, this improbable politician who had risked his life to avenge a terrible crime decided after a year of humility and self-denial to strike out for a political prize? If so, it was not the man she had known so briefly yet so intimately fourteen months ago. With reservations but not regret she remembered. They had made love—improbably, frenetically, perhaps inevitably under the circumstances—but those transient moments of splendid comfort were to be forgotten. If she had been brought back to Washington because of a suddenly ambitious congressman, they had never existed.
* * *
Chapter 24
Kendrick stood by the windows overlooking the wide, circular drive in front of the sterile house. Dennison had called him well over an hour ago with word that the plane from Cairo had landed and the Rashad woman been taken to a waiting government car; she was on her way to Cynwid Hollow under escort. The chief of staff wanted Evan to know that the CIA case officer had strenuously objected when she was not permitted to make a telephone call from Andrews Air Force Base.
‘She kicked up a stink and refused to get in the car,’ Dennison had complained. ‘She said she hadn’t heard directly from her superiors and the Air Force could go pound sand. Goddamned bitch! I was on my way to work and they reached me on the limo phone. You know what she said to me? “Who the hell are you?” That’s what she said to me! Then to twist the knife, she holds the phone away and asks out loud, “What’s a Dennison?”.’
‘It’s that modest low profile you keep, Herb. Did anybody tell her?’
‘The bastards laughed! That’s when I told her she was under the President’s orders and she either got in that car or she could spend five years in Leavenworth.’
‘It’s a men’s prison.’
‘I know that. Heh! She’ll be there in an hour or so. Remember, if she’s the sieve I get her.’
‘Maybe.’
‘I’ll get a presidential order!’
‘And I’ll read it on the nightly news. With footnotes.’
‘Shit!’
Kendrick had started to leave the window for another cup of coffee when a nondescript grey car appeared at the base of the circular drive. It swept around the curve and stopped in front of the stone steps, where an Air Force major swiftly got out of the far backseat. He walked rapidly round and opened the curbside door for his official passenger.
The woman Evan had known as Khalehla emerged into the morning sunlight, squinting at the brightness, disturbed and unsure. She was hatless, her dark hair hanging to her shoulders over a white jacket above green slacks and low-heeled shoes. Under her right arm she clutched a large white handbag. As Kendrick watched her the memory of that late afternoon in Bahrain came back to him. He recalled the shock he had felt when she walked through the door of the bizarre royal bedroom amused that he had raced back for the cover of the bed sheet. And how, despite his panic, bewilderment and pain—or perhaps adding to all three—he had been struck by the cool loveliness of her sharply defined Euro-Arabian face and the glare of intelligence in her eyes.
He had been right; she was a striking woman who carried herself erect, almost defiantly, even now as she walked towards the massive door of the sterile house where inside she would face the unknown. Kendrick observed her dispassionately; there was no rush of remembered warmth in his reaction to her, only cold, intense curiosity. She had lied to him that late afternoon in Bahrain, lied both by what she said and what she did not say. He wondered if she would lie to him again.
The Air Force major opened the door of the enormous living room for Adrienne Rashad. She walked in and stopped, standing motionless, staring at Evan by the window. There was no astonishment in her eyes, just that frigid glare of intellect.
‘I’ll be going,’ said the Air Force officer.
‘Thank you, Major.’ The door closed and Kendrick stepped forward. ‘Hello, Khalehla. It was Khalehla, wasn’t it?’
‘Whatever you say,’ she replied calmly.
‘But then it isn’t Khalehla, is it? It’s Adrienne—Adrienne Rashad.’
‘Whatever you say,’ she repeated.
‘That’s a little redundant, isn’t it?’
‘And all this is very stupid, Congressman. Did you have me flown back here to give you another testimonial? Because if you did, I won’t do it.’
‘Testimonial? That’s the last thing I want.’
‘Good, I’m glad for you. I’m sure the representative from Colorado has all the endorsements he needs. So there’s no need for someone whose life and the lives of a great many colleagues depend on anonymity to step forward and add to your swelling cheers.’
‘That’s what you think? I want endorsements, cheers?’
‘What am I to think? That you took me away from my work, exposed me to the embassy and the Air Force, probably crippled a cover I’ve developed over the past several years just because I went to bed with you? It happened once, but I assure you it will never happen again.’
‘Hey, wait a minute, bright lady,’ protested Evan. ‘I wasn’t looking for any fast action. For Christ’s sake, I didn’t know where I was or what had happened, or what would happen next. I was scared stiff, and knew I had things to do that I didn’t think I could do.’