'Oh, Christ, Manny. Why?'
'It's time for you to go.'
'I don't want to go.'
'You must! You have a meeting in the morning, already two hours ahead of us.'
'I can skip it. I've skipped one or two others.'
'One, and at great harm to my well-being. Your jet is waiting at the airfield in Mesa Verde. You'll be in Washington in four hours.'
As he swam through the water, each length faster than the last, he thought of Oversight's morning conference, admitting to himself that he was glad Manny had insisted he return to the capital. The subcommittee's meetings had fascinated him—fascinated him, angered him, astonished him, appalled him, but most of all fascinated him. There were so many things going on in the world that he knew nothing about, both for and against the interests of the United States. But it wasn't until his third meeting that he understood a recurring error in his colleagues' approach to the witnesses from the various intelligence branches. The mistake was that they would look for flaws in the witnesses' arguments for carrying out certain operations when what they should have been questioning were the operations themselves.
It was understandable, for the men who were paraded in front of Oversight to plead their cases—exclusively men, which should have been a clue—were soft-spoken professionals from a violent clandestine world who played down the melodrama associated with that world. They delivered their esoteric jargon quietly, swelling the heads of those listening. It was heady stuff to be a part of that global underground, even in a consulting capacity; it fed the adolescent fantasies of mature adults. There were no Colonel Robert Barrishes among these witnesses; instead, they were a stream of attractive, well-dressed, consistently modest and moderate men who appeared before the subcommittee to explain in coldly professional terms what they could accomplish if moneys were provided, and why it was imperative for the nation's security that it be done. More often than not the question was: Can you do it? Not whether it was right, or even if it made sense.
These lapses of judgment occurred often enough to disturb the congressman from Colorado who had briefly been part of that savage, violent world the witnesses dealt with. He could not romanticize it; he loathed it. The terrible, breathless fear that was part of the terrifying game of taking and losing human life in shadows belonged to some dark age where life itself was measured solely by survival. One did not live in that kind of world; one endured it with sweat and with hollow pains in the stomach, as Evan had endured his abrupt exposure to it. Yet he knew that world went on; inhabitants of it had saved him from the sharks of Qatar. Nevertheless, during the coming sessions he probed, asking harsher and harsher questions. He understood that his name was being quietly, electrically, emphatically bounced around the halls of Congress, the Central Intelligence Agency, even the White House. Who was this agitator, this troublemaker? He did not give a damn; they were legitimate questions and he would ask them. Who the hell was sacrosanct? Who was beyond the laws?
There was a commotion above him, wild gestures and shouts he dimly perceived through the water rushing past his face in the pool. He stopped at mid-length and shook his head while treading water. The intruder was Sabri, but it was a Sabri Hassan he rarely saw. The ever calm middle-aged PhD from Dubai was beside himself, fiercely trying to control his actions and his words, but only barely succeeding.
'You must leave!' he shouted as Evan cleared his ears of water.
'What… what?
'Oman! Masqat! The story is on all the channels, all the stations! There are even photographs of you dressed as one of us—in Masqat! Both the radio and the television keep interrupting programmes to report the latest developments! It was just released within the past few minutes; newspapers are holding up their late morning editions for further details—’
'Jesus Christ!' roared Kendrick, leaping out of the pool as Sabri threw a towel around him.
'The reporters and the rest of those people will undoubtedly be here in a matter of minutes,' said the Arab. 'I took the phone off the hook and Kashi is loading our car—forgive me, the car you most generously provided us—’
'Forget that stuff!' yelled Evan, starting towards the house. 'What's your wife doing with the car?'
'Putting in your clothes, enough for several days if necessary. Your own car might be recognized; ours is always in the garage. I
