Fairfax, Virginia, at the head of her class. Women's liberation be damned, she was better than twenty-six men. But then, her 'Uncle Mitch' thought, she had a motive the others did not have: One half of her was Arab.
All that was more than nine years ago. But now on this Friday afternoon nearly ten years later, Mitchell Jarvis Payton was appalled! Field agent Adrienne Rashad, currently on duty in the West Mediterranean Sector, Cairo Post, had just called him from a pay telephone at the Hilton Hotel here in Washington! What in the name of God was she doing here? On whose authority was she removed from her post? All officers attached to Special Projects, especially this officer, had to have their orders cleared through him. It was incredible! And the fact that she would not come out to Langley but, instead, insisted on meeting him at an out-of-the-way restaurant in Arlington did not calm MJ's nerves. Especially after she said to him, 'It's absolutely vital that I don't run into anyone I know, or who might know me, Uncle Mitch.' Apart from the ominous tone of her statement, she had not called him Uncle Mitch in years, not since she was in college. His unrelated 'niece' was a troubled woman.
Milos Varak got off the plane at Durango, Colorado, and walked across the terminal to the counter of the car rental agency. He produced a false driver's licence and a correspondingly false credit card, signed the lease agreement, accepted the keys and was directed to the lot where the car awaited him. In his briefcase was a detailed map of lower southwest Colorado listing such things as the wonders of the Mesa Verde National Park as well as descriptions of hotels, motels and restaurants, the majority of which were found in and around such cities as Cortez, Hesperas, Marvel and, farther east, Durango. The least detailed area was a dot called Mesa Verde itself; the designation of 'town' did not apply. It was a geographical location more in people's minds than on the books; a general store, a barber shop, a small outlying private airport and a cafe called Gee-Gee's constituted its industry. One passed through Mesa Verde, one did not live there. It existed for the convenience of farmers, field hands and those inveterate travellers who invariably got lost by taking the scenic routes to New Mexico and Arizona. The anomaly of the airport was for the benefit of those dozen or so privileged landowners who had built estates for themselves in the back country and simply wanted it. They rarely, if ever, saw the stretch of road with the general store, the barber shop and Gee-Gee's. Their necessities were flown in from Denver, Las Vegas and Beverly Hills—thus the airport. The exception here was Congressman Evan Kendrick, who had surprisingly run for political office. He had made the mistake of thinking that Mesa Verde could produce votes, which it would have done if the election had been held south of the Rio Grande.
Varak, however, very much wanted to see that stretch of road the locals referred to as Mesa Verde, or just plain Verde, as Emmanuel Weingrass called it. He wanted to see how the men dressed, how they walked, what the stresses of field work had done to their bodies, their muscles, their posture. For the next twenty-four, or at most forty-eight, hours he would have to blend in. Milos had a job to do that in one sense saddened him beyond measuring the pain, but it was something he had to do. If there was a traitor to Inver Brass, within Inver Brass, Varak had to find him… or her.
After an hour and thirty-five minutes of driving, he found the cafe named Gee-Gee's. He could not go inside dressed as he was, so he parked the car, removed his jacket, and strolled into the general store across the street.
'Ain't seen you before,' said the elderly owner, turning his head as he stacked bags of rice on a shelf. 'Always nice to see a new face. You headin' for New Mex? I'll put you on the right road, no need to buy anythin'. I keep tellin' people that, but they always feel they got to part with cash when all they want is directions.'
'You're most kind, sir,' said Milos, 'but I'm afraid I must part with cash—not mine of course, my employer's. I'm to purchase several bags of rice. It was omitted from the delivery from Denver.'
'Oh, one of the biggies in the hills. Take what you like, son—for cash, of course. At my age I don't carry out.'
'I wouldn't think of it, sir.'
'Hey, you're a foreign fella', ain't cha?'
'Scandinavian,' replied Varak. 'I'm just temporary, filling in while the chauffeur is ill.' Milos picked up three bags of rice and carried them to the counter; the owner followed towards the cash register.
'Who you work for?'
'The Kendrick house, but he doesn't know me—’
'Hey, isn't that somethin' about young Evan? Our own congressman the heero of Oman! I tell ya, makes a man stand tall, like the President says! He come in here a couple a' times—three, four maybe. Nicest fella you'd want to meet; real down-to-earth, you know what I mean?'
