to speak in the first place. Good Lord, the Partridge Committee, then the Select Subcommittee for Intelligence; they're politically coveted chairs, to say the very least. For every one of those seats there are four hundred congressmen who'd sell their wives for the assignment. They don't just fall into a member's lap, they have to be worked for, fought for. How does he explain that?'
'He can't. They just fell into his lap. And rather than fighting for them, he fought to stay off them.'
'I beg your pardon?' exclaimed MJ Payton, astonished.
'He said that if I didn't believe him I should talk to his chief aide, who had to strong-arm him into taking the Partridge assignment, and then see the Speaker of the House himself, and ask that conniving old Irish bastard what Evan told him to do with his subcommittee. He didn't want either job but it was explained to him that if he didn't take them, he wouldn't have a damn thing to say about his successor in Colorado's ninth. That's important to him; it's why he ran for office. He got rid of one party sleaze-ball and didn't want another taking his place.'
Payton slowly leaned back in his chair, bringing his hand to his chin, his eyes narrowed. Over the years Adrienne Rashad had learned when to be silent and not interrupt her mentor's thinking. She did both now, prepared for any of several responses but not the one she heard. 'This is a different ball game, my dear. If I remember correctly, you told Kendrick that you thought he was being exhumed by someone who believed he deserved acclaim for what he did. It goes far deeper than that, I'm afraid. Our congressman is being programmed.'
'Good Lord, for what?'
'I don't know, but I think we'd better try to find out. Very quietly, very cautiously. We're dealing with something rather extraordinary.'
Varak saw the large dark blue car. It was parked off the winding, tree-lined road cut out of a forest several hundred yards west of Kendrick's house and it was empty. He had passed the congressman's impressive hedge-bound grounds, still under minor siege by a few obstinate, hopeful reporters with a camera crew, and intended to head north to a motel on the outskirts of Cortez. The sight of the blue vehicle, however, changed his mind. The Czech continued around the next bend and drove his car into a cluster of wild brush that fronted the trees. On the seat beside him was his attache case; he opened it and took out the items he thought he might need, several imperative, several hopeful. He put them in his pockets, got out of the car, closed the door quietly and walked around the curve and back to the blue sedan. He approached the far door nearest the woods and studied the vehicle for traps—trips that would set off an alarm if someone tampered with the lock, or with pressure on the doors, even light beams that extended from the front to the rear spoked wheels activated by solid objects breaking the beams.
He found two out of three with one so serious that it told him something: there were secrets in that automobile far more valuable than clothes or jewelry or even confidential business papers. A row of tiny holes had been drilled and painted over along the lower frames of the windows; they were jets that released a nonlethal vapour that would immobilize an intruder for a considerable length of time. They had been conceived and perfected initially for diplomats in troubled countries where it was nearly as important to question assailants as to save lives. They could be set off by chauffeurs during an assault or by alarms when the car was unoccupied. They were now being marketed among the rich throughout the world, and it was said that the suppliers of the mechanisms could not keep up with the demand.
Varak looked around and quickly walked to the rear of the blue car, reached into his pocket and dropped to the ground in the vicinity of the exhaust. He crawled under the car and instantly went to work; less than ninety seconds later he emerged, stood up, and ran into the woods. The hunt had begun and the waiting began.
Forty-one minutes later he saw the tall slender figure walking down the road. The man was in a dark suit, his coat open, a waistcoat showing; his hair was neatly combed and more red than brown. Someone in charge, thought Milos, should be given a lesson in basic cosmetic tactics. One never permitted an employee to go out in the field with red hair; its as simply foolish. The man proceeded to unlock first the right front door, then rounded the bonnet and unlocked the driver's side. However, before opening it, he crouched out of sight where there was apparently a third release, stood up and climbed inside. He started the car.
The powerful engine coughed repeatedly, then suddenly there was a loud rattling from beneath the chassis and an expulsion of fumes followed by the sound of crashing metal. The silencer and exhaust pipe had blown apart, accompanied by an explosion of vapour on all sides of the car. Varak lowered himself, a handkerchief over his face, and waited for the clouds to disappear, clinging to the trees as they rose to the sky. Slowly, he stood up.
