'We're working on something new,' the director of Special Projects had said in the study. 'On the assumption that Swann's European had to reach a great many people in order to compile the information he had on you, we're assembling some data ourselves. It may offend you but we, too, are going back over your life.'
'How many years?'
'We picked you up when you were eighteen—the chances of anything before then having relevance is remote.'
'Eighteen? Christ, isn't anything sacred?'
'Do you want it to be? If so, I'll call it off.'
'No, of course not. It's just kind of a shock. You can get that sort of information?'
'It's nowhere near as difficult as people think. Credit bureau, personnel files and routine background checks do it all the time.'
'What's the point?'
'Several possibilities—realistically two, I suppose. As I mentioned, the first is our doggedly curious European. If we could put together a list of people he had to contact in order to learn about you, we'd be closer to finding him, and I think we all agree, he's the linchpin… The second possibility is something we haven't attempted. In trying to unearth the vanishing blond man and whoever's behind him, we've concentrated on the events in Oman and the file itself. We've restricted our microscopes to government oriented areas.'
'Where else would we look?' Kendrick had asked.
'Your personal life, I'm afraid. There could be something or someone in your own past, an event or people that you knew, an incident perhaps that galvanized friends or conceivably enemies who wanted to advance your position or—conversely—make you a target. And make no mistake, Congressman, you are a potential target, nobody's kidding about that.'
'But MJ,' broke in Khalehla. 'Even if we found people who either liked or hated him, they'd have to be Washington connected. Mr. Jones from Ann Arbor, Michigan—friend or enemy—couldn't just go to the max-classified data banks or the archives and say, “By the way, there's a certain file I'd like to have a copy of so I can mock up a fake memorandum for the newspapers.” I don't understand.'
'Neither do I, Adrienne—or should I call you “Khalehla”, which will take some getting used to.'
'There's no reason for you to call me Khalehla—’
'Don't interrupt,' said Evan, smiling. 'Khalehla's just fine,' he added.
'Yes, well, I really don't understand,' continued Payton. 'But as I told you, there's a hole in the system, a gap we've missed, and we have to try everything.'
'Then why not go after Partridge and the Speaker of the House?' pressed Kendrick. 'If I could do what I did in Masqat, they can't be so tough to break down.'
'Not yet, young man. The timing isn't right, and the Speaker's retiring.'
'Now I don't understand.'
'MJ means he's working on both,' Khalehla had explained.
Evan braked the Mercedes around the long curve in the Virginia woods and waited until he saw the mobile unit in his rearview mirror; he then turned right into the pasture road that was the back way to his house. The guards would admit him. He wanted to hurry now; it was why he had taken the short cut. Khalehla had called him at the office and told him Mitchell Payton's list had arrived over the computer printout. His past was about to be presented to him.
Milos Varak walked down the boarded path towards the enormous beach fronting the Hotel del Coronado three miles over the bridge from San Diego. He had worked diligently for weeks to find a crack through which he could penetrate the ranks of the Vice President of the United States. Most of the time was spent in Washington; the administration's Secret Service was not easily invaded. Until he found a man, a dedicated man, with a strong physique and a disciplined mind, but with an unacceptable avocation that if exposed would destroy his assets, as well as his career and undoubtedly his life. He was a well-compensated procurer for various high-ranking members of the government. He had been primed for his work by the elders of his family, who had spotted his potential and sent him to the finest parochial schools and through a major university—major but not rich for that image would be incorrect. The elders wanted a fine looking, upstanding,
