'Not in nearby places like this. The supervisors not only work for us but they're monitored. Farther away our equipment is waiting for us inside.' The station chief sat beside Evan in the back seat of the small car and the driver sped out to the runway.
The huge, sleek military jet known as the F-106 Delta Dart had arrived, its engines idling in a bass roar as Khalehla stood by a ramp of metal steps talking with an Air Force officer. It was only as he approached the two of them that Kendrick recognized the type of aircraft he was about to enter; it was not a calming recognition. The jet was similar to the one that had flown him to Sardinia over a year ago, the first leg on his journey to Masqat. He turned to the intelligence officer walking beside him and extended his hand.
'Thanks for everything,' he said. 'I'm sorry I haven't been more pleasant company.'
'You could have spat in my face and I'd still have been proud to meet you, Congressman.'
'I wish I could say I appreciate that… what is your name?'
'Call me Joe, sir.'
'Call me Joe.' A young man on the same type of aircraft a year ago had been called Joe. Was another Oman, another Bahrain in his future?
'Thank you, Joe.'
'We're not quite finished, Mr. Kendrick. One of those AF boys with the rank of colonel or above has to sign a paper.'
The signer in question was not a colonel, he was a brigadier general and he was black. 'Hello again, Dr Axelrod,' said the pilot of the F-106. 'It seems I'm your personal chauffeur.' The large man held out his hand. 'That's the way the powers that be like it.'
'Hello, General.'
'Let's get one thing straight, Congressman. I was out of line last time and you handed it to me and you were right. But I'll tell you now that if they transfer me to Colorado, I'll vote for you in spades—don't take that idiomatically.'
'Thanks, General,' said Evan, attempting to smile. 'However, I won't be needing any more votes.'
'That'd be a damn shame. I've been watching you, listening to you. I like the sweep of your wing and that's something I know about.'
'I think you're supposed to sign a paper.'
'I never got one in Sardinia,' said the general officer accepting a letter of release from the CIA station chief. 'You sure you're gonna accept this li'l old document from an uppity goin'-on-fifty nigger in a general's suit, Mr. Old School Tie?'
'Shut your mouth, boy, I'm half Paiute Indian. You think you've got problems?'
'Sorry, son.' The Air Force officer signed and his special cargo got on board.
'What happened?' asked Khalehla when they reached their seats. 'Why did MJ call?'
His hands shaking, his voice trembling at the sudden enormity of it all, at the violence and the near death of Emmanuel Weingrass, he told her. There was a pained helplessness both in his eyes and in his halting, frightened spurts of explanation. 'Christ, it's got to stop! If it doesn't, I'll kill everyone I care for!' She could only grip his hand again and let him know that she was there. She could not fight the lightning in his mind. It was too personal, too soul-racking.
Thirty minutes into the flight, Evan convulsed and leaped out of his seat, racing up the aisle to the toilet. He retched, throwing up everything he had eaten in the last twelve hours. Khalehla ran behind him, forcing the narrow door open and grabbing his forehead, holding him, telling him to let it all out.
'Please,' coughed Kendrick. 'Please, get out of here!'
'Why? Because you're so different from the rest of us? You hurt but you won't cry? You bottle it up until something's got to give?'
'I'm not wild about pity—'
'You're not getting it, either. You're a grown man who's gone through a terrible loss and nearly suffered a greater one—or you the greatest one. I hope I'm your friend, Evan, and as a friend I don't pity you—I respect you too much for that—but I
