do feel for you.'
Kendrick stood up, grabbing paper towels from the dispenser, pale and visibly shaken. 'You know how to make a guy feel terrific,' he said guiltily.
'Wash your face and comb your hair. You're a mess.' Rashad walked out of the small enclosure past two uniformed and startled flight crew. 'The damn fool ate some bad fish,' she explained without looking at either man. 'Will one of you close the door, please?'
An hour passed; drinks were served by the Air Force attendants, followed by a microwaved dinner eaten heartily by the intelligence agent from Cairo but barely picked at by the congressman. 'You need food, friend,' said Khalehla. 'This beats the hell out of any commercial menu.'
'Enjoy.'
'How about you? You move it around but you don't eat.'
'I'll have another drink.'
Their heads snapped up with the piercing sound of a buzzer heard easily over the outside roar of the engines. For Evan it was deja vu; a buzzer had sounded a year ago and he had been summoned to the flight deck. Now, however, the corporal who answered the intercom on the bulkhead walked back and spoke to Khalehla. 'There's a radio transmission for you, miss.'
'Thank you,' said Rashad, turning and seeing the alarm in Kendrick's expression. 'If it was anything important, they'd ask for you. Relax.' She made her way up the aisle, gripping the few well-separated seats for balance in the mild turbulence, and sat in the seat in front of the bulkhead. The crewman handed her the phone; the spiralling cord was more than adequate for the reach. She crossed her legs and answered. 'This is Pencil Two, Bahamas. Who are you?'
'One of these days we've got to get rid of that garbage,' said Mitchell Payton.
'It works, MJ. If I'd used “Banana Two”, how would you have responded?'
'I'd have called your father and told him you were a naughty girl.'
'We don't count. We know each other… What is it?'
'I don't want to talk to Evan, he's too upset to think clearly. You have to.'
'I'll try. What's your query?'
'I want your evaluation. The information you got from that fellow you went to see from the old Off Shore Investment crowd in Nassau—you're convinced he's reliable, aren't you?'
'His information is, he isn't, but he can't hide if he lied for money. The man's a floating drunk who lives off what's left of his wits, which may have been more acute before his brain was soaked in gin. Evan showed him two thousand in cash and, believe me, he would have given away the secrets of the drug trade for it.'
'Do you recall exactly what he said about the woman, Ardis Montreaux?'
'Certainly. He said that he kept track of the money-whore, as he called her, because she owed him and one day he was going to collect.'
'I mean her marital status.'
'Of course I remember, but Evan told you over the phone, I heard him.'
'Tell me yourself. No mistakes can be made.'
'All right. She divorced the banker, Frazier-Pyke, and married a wealthy Californian from Sun Francisco named Von Lindemann.'
'He was specific about San Francisco?'
'Not actually. He said, “San Francisco or Los Angeles”, I think. But he was very specific about California, that was the point. Her new husband was a Californian and terribly rich.'
'And the name—try to recall precisely. You're certain it was Von Lindemann?'
'Well… yes. We met him in a booth at the junkanoo and there was a steel band, but yes, that was the name. Or if it isn't exact, it's certainly close enough.'
'Banco!' cried Payton. 'Close enough, my dear. She married a man named Vanvlanderen, Andrew
