| of State. ‘But since you don’t want me to know who you are, am I to infer that one of those options might find me back in San Diego?’ ‘Quite possibly, but I must emphasize the questionable part. I’m being frank with you.’ ‘So were your friends at Bollinger’s house.’ ‘I’m sure they were and so were you.’ ‘Did you have to do it?’ ‘Do what?’ ‘Kill an old man.’ ‘We had nothing to do with that! Besides, he’s not dead.’ ‘He will be.’ ‘So will we all one day… It was a gratuitously stupid act, as stupid as her husband’s incredible financial manipulations in Zurich. We may be many things, Congressman, but we’re not stupid. However, we’re wasting time. The Vanvlanderens are gone and whatever happened is buried with them. The erstwhile “Dr Lyons” will never be seen again—’ ‘I want him!’ Kendrick broke in. ‘But we got him and he got the maximum penalty a court can impose.’ ‘How can I be sure of that?’ ‘How can you doubt it? Could the Vice President, could any of us tolerate the association? We deeply regret what’s happened to Mr. Weingrass, but we had absolutely nothing to do with it. I repeat, the doctor and the Vanvlanderens are gone. It’s all a closed book, can you accept that?’ ‘Was it necessary to drug me and bring me out here to convince me?’ ‘We couldn’t very well leave you in San Diego saying the things you were saying.’ ‘Then what are |
stood inside the airport fence inches from the metal links. She wore gently flared white slacks and a tapered, dark green silk blouse, the blouse creased by the leather strap of her handbag. Long dark hair framed her face; her sharp attractive features were obscured by a pair of large designer sunglasses, her head covered by a wide-brimmed white sun hat, the crown circled by a ribbon of green silk. At first she seemed to be yet another traveller from wealthy Rome or Paris, London or New York. But a closer look revealed a subtle difference from the stereotype; it was her skin. Its olive tones, neither black nor white, suggested northern Africa. What confirmed the difference was what she held in her hands, and only seconds before had pressed against the fence: a miniature camera, barely two inches long and with a tiny bulging, convex, prismatic lens engineered for telescopic photography, equipment associated with intelligence personnel. The seedy, run-down truck had swerved out of the warehouse parking lot; the camera was no longer necessary. She grabbed the handbag at her side and slipped it out of sight. ‘Khalehla!’ shouted an obese, wide-eyed, bald-headed man running towards her, pronouncing the name in Arabic, ‘Ka-lay-la.’ He was awkwardly carrying two suitcases, the sweat drenching his shirt and penetrating even the black, pinstripe suit styled in Savile Row. ‘For God’s sake, why did you drift off? ‘That dreadful queue was simply too boring, darling,’ replied the woman, her accent an unfathomable mixture |
