me? I run the goddamn place; who has the right? Am I a fucking “aggie” in the game of marbles?'
'Ahmat, I don't know about these things. I only knew I had to get there.'
'And I'm incidental? Wasn't I to be trusted?… Of course not, I'm an Arab!'
'Now that's bullshit. You were being protected.'
'From what? An American-Israeli cover-up?'
'Oh, for Christ's sake, stop it! I didn't know anything about a Mossad agent at the embassy until you just told me. If I did I would have told you! And while we're at it, my sudden young fanatic, I had nothing to do with the refugee camps or marching families into them under guns—'
'You all did!' shouted the sultan of Oman. 'One genocide for another, but we had nothing to do with the other! Out!'
The line went dead. A good man and a good friend who had been instrumental in saving his life was gone from his life. As were his plans to return to a part of the world he dearly loved.
Before he showed himself in public, he had to find out what had happened and who had made it happen and why! He had to start somewhere and that somewhere was the State Department and a man named Frank Swann. A frontal assault on State was, of course, out of the question. The minute he identified himself alarms would go off and insofar as his face was seen repeatedly, ad nauseam, on television and half Washington was searching for him, his every move had to be carefully thought out. First things first: how to reach Swann without Swann or his office knowing it. His office? Evan remembered. A year ago he had walked into Swann's office and spoken to a secretary, giving her several words in Arabic so as to convey the urgency of his visit. She had disappeared into another office and ten minutes later he and Swann were talking in the underground computer complex. That secretary was not only efficient but also exceedingly protective, as apparently were most secretaries in serpentine Washington. And since that protective secretary was very much aware of one Congressman Kendrick whom she had spoken to a year ago, she just might be receptive to another voice also protective of her boss. It was worth a try; it was also the only thing he could think of. He picked up the phone, dialled the 202 area code for Washington, and waited for the hoarse manager of The Three Bears motel to come on the line.
'Consular Operations, Director Swann's office,' said the secretary.
'Hi, this is Ralph over in ID,' began Kendrick. 'I've got some news for Frank.'
‘Who’s this?'
'It's okay, I'm a friend of Frank's. I just want to tell him that there may be an inter-division meeting called for later this afternoon—’
'Another one? He doesn't need that.'
'How's his schedule?'
'Overworked! He's in conference until four o'clock.'
'Well, if he doesn't want to be put on the grill again maybe he should have a short day and drive home early.'
'Drive? Him? He'll parachute into the jungles of Nicaragua but he won't take chances in Washington traffic.'
'You know what I mean. Things are a little jumpy around here. He could be put on the spit.'
'He's been on it since six this morning.'
'Just trying to help out a buddy.'
'Actually, he's got a doctor's appointment,' said the secretary suddenly.
'He does?'
'He does now. Thanks, Ralph.'
'I never called you.'
'Of course not, sweetie. Someone in ID was just checking schedules.'
Evan stood in the crowd waiting for a bus at the corner of Twenty-first Street within clear sight of the entrance to the Department of State. After speaking to Swann's secretary, he had left the cabin and driven rapidly up to Washington, stopping briefly at a shopping mall in Alexandria, where he bought dark
