'We're his security, not corporate executives. Explanations weren't required.'
'Nothing was said? It's an unusual position for a woman.'
'Plenty was said so we wouldn't miss the point, but no explanation. Bollinger called everybody together and told us how pleased he was to announce the appointment of one of the most talented executives in the country, someone who was assuming the job at such personal sacrifice that we should all thank the powers that be for her patriotism. The “her” was the first inkling we had that it was a woman.'
'Interesting phrase “powers that be”.'
'He talks that way.'
'And he doesn't make a move without her.'
'I don't think he'd dare. She's heavy metal and she keeps the house in order.'
'Whose order?'
'What?'
'Never mind… That's all for now, amico. Please be so kind as to leave first, will you? I'll call you if I need you.'
The Mafioso, the hot, ancestral blood of the Mediterranean rushing to his head, jabbed his index finger at the Czech and spoke in a hoarse voice. 'You'll stay out of my fucking life if you know what's good for you.'
'I hope to stay as far away from you as possible, Signore Mezzano—'
'Don't you call me a pimp!'
‘I’ll call you anything I like, but as to what's good for me, I'll be the judge of that. Now fila! Capisce?'
Milos Varak watched his reluctant informer walk over the sand in silent fury until the mezzano disappeared into the maze of beach accesses towards the hotel. The Czech let his mind wander… she came on board about a year ago; he's a heavy contributor; Viper doesn't make a move without her. It was thirteen months ago that Inver Brass had begun the search for a new Vice President of the United States, the incumbent considered a pawn of the President's unseen contributors—men who intended to run the country.
It was past four o'clock in the morning and Khalehla would not stop. She kept pressing Evan, changing cassettes on the recorder and repeating names over and over again, insisting that wherever he recognized anything at all he describe in detail everything he could remember. The computer printout from Mitchell Payton's office at the Central Intelligence Agency included 127 selected names with corresponding occupations, marriages, divorces and deaths. In each case the individual listed had either spent considerable time with Kendrick or had been present during a period of high activity and could conceivably have been instrumental in his academic or career decisions.
'Where the hell did he get these people?' asked Evan, pacing the study. 'I swear I don't remember half of them, and most of the other half are blurs except for old friends I'll always remember and none of them could be remotely connected with what's happening. Christ, I had three roommates in college, two others in graduate school and a sixth shared an apartment with me in Detroit when I worked in a lousy job over here. Later there were at least two dozen others I tried unsuccessfully to raise backing from for the Middle East and some of them are on that list—why, I don't know, but I do know all those lives are being lived in the suburbs with green lawns and country clubs and colleges they can barely afford for their kids. They have nothing to do with now.'
'Then let's go over the Kendrick Group again—’
'There is no Kendrick Group,' broke in Evan angrily. 'They were killed, blown away, drowned in concrete!… Manny and I are all that's left, you know that.'
'I'm sorry,' said Khalehla gently, sitting on the couch drinking tea. The printout was on the coffee table in front of her. 'I meant the dealings you had over here in the States while there was the Kendrick Group.'
'We've gone over them. There weren't that many—mostly in high-tech equipment.'
'Let's go over them again.'
'It's a waste of time but go ahead.'
'“Sonar Electronics, Palo Alto, California”,' read Khalehla, her
