'Anything you can part with. It's a long, terrible trip back and I hate flying. It frightens me.'
Evan Kendrick and Emmanuel Weingrass sat next to each other in the armchairs in Hassan's living room. They waited for their instructions from a harried, bewildered American ambassador, who was permitted to make contact only by telephone. It was as though the two old friends had never been apart—the oft-times bewildered student and the strident teacher. Yet the student was the leader, the shaker; and the teacher understood.
'Ahmat must be up in space with relief,' said Evan, drinking brandy.
'A couple of things are keeping him grounded.'
'Oh?'
'Seems there's a group that wanted to get rid of him, send him back to the States because they thought he was too young and inexperienced to handle things. He called them his arrogant merchant princes. He's bringing them to the palace to straighten them out.'
'That's one item. What else?'
'There's another bunch who wanted to take things in their own hands, blow up the embassy if they had to, anything to get their country back. They're machine-gun nuts; they're also the ones who were recruited by Cons Op to get you out of the airport.'
'What's he going to do about them?'
'Not a hell of a lot unless you want your name shouted from the minarets. If he calls them in, they'll scream State Department connections and all the crazies in the Middle East will have another cause.'
'Ahmat knows better. Let them alone.'
'There's a last item and he's got to do it for himself. He's got to blow that boat out of the water, and kill every one of those filthy bastards.'
'No, Manny, that's not the way. The killing will just go on and on—’
'Wrong!' shouted Weingrass. 'You're wrong! Examples must be made over and over again until they all learn the price they have to pay!' Suddenly the old architect was seized by a prolonged, echoing, rattling cough that came from the deepest, rawest cavities of his chest. His face reddened and the veins in his neck and forehead were blue and distended.
Evan gripped his old friend's shoulder to steady him. 'We'll talk about it later,' he said as the coughing subsided. 'I want you to come back with me, Manny.'
'Because of this? Weingrass shook his head defensively. 'It's just a chest cold. Lousy weather in France, that's all.'
'I wasn't thinking of that,' lied Kendrick, he hoped convincingly. 'I need you.'
'What for?'
'I may be going into several projects and I want your advice.' It was another lie, a weaker one, so he added quickly, 'Also I want to completely redesign my house.'
'I thought you just built it.'
'I was involved with other things and wasn't paying attention. It's terrible; I can't see half the things I was supposed to see, the mountains and the lakes.'
'You never were any damned good reading exterior schematics.'
'I need you. Please.'
'I have business in Paris. I've got to send out money. I gave my word.'
'Send mine.'
'Like a million?'
'Ten, if you like. I'm here and not in some shark's stomach… I'm not going to beg you, Manny, but please, I really do need you.'
'Well, maybe for a week or two,' said the irascible old man. 'They need me in Paris, too, you know.'
'Gross profits will drop all over the city, I know that,' replied Evan softly, relieved.
