strangers grasping for release in a world gone crazy. Their world was not sane, they were all too aware of that, yet they had found a semblance of order between themselves, each for the other, and the discovery was splendid and warm and suddenly filled with promise, where before there was only a void filled with uncertainty… each for the other.
It was as if both were insatiable. Climax was followed by quiet talk, and one or the other looked in on Emmanuel Weingrass, then more talk, bodies together, rushing once again for the fulfilment both craved. Neither could stop holding the other, pulling, weaving, rolling, until the sweet juices were exhausted… and still they could not let each other go until sleep came.
The earliest morning sun broke open the Colorado day. Drained but strangely at peace within the warm, temporary cave they had found for themselves, Evan reached for Khalehla. She was not there; he opened his eyes. She was not there. He elbowed himself up on the pillow; her clothes were draped on a chair and he breathed again. He saw that the doors to both his bathroom and the clothes cupboard were open and then he remembered and laughed quietly, ruefully, to himself. The hero of Oman and the experienced intelligence agent from Cairo had gone to the Bahamas with one carry-on bag apiece, and in the rush of events had promptly left both either in a Nassau police car or on an Air Force F-106. Neither had noticed until after their first stampeded race for the bed, after which Khalehla had stated dreamingly,
'I bought an outrageous nightgown for this trip—more in hope than in realistic expectation—but I think I'll put it on.' Then both had looked at each other, mouths gaped, eyes widened. 'Oh, my God!' she cried. 'Where the hell did we leave it? I mean them, the two of them!'
'Did you have anything incriminating in yours?'
'Only the nightie—it wasn't right for Rebecca of Sunny-brook Farm… Oh, good Lord! A couple of real pros we are!'
'I never claimed to be one—'
'Did you have—'
'Dirty socks and a sex manual—more in hope than in realistic expectation.' They had fallen back into each other's arms, the humour of the situation telling them something else about themselves. 'You'd wear that nightgown for roughly five seconds before I tore it off and then you'd have to charge the government for the loss of personal property. I just saved the taxpayers at least six dollars… Come here.'
One of them had checked on Manny; neither could remember which.
Kendrick got out of bed and went to his closet. He owned two bathrobes; one was missing so he went into his bathroom to make himself feel and look reasonably presentable. After a shower and a shave he applied too much cologne, but then, he reflected, it had not hurt him nearly twenty years ago in college with an empty-headed cheerleader. Had it been that long ago since impressions mattered to him? He put on his second bathrobe, walked out of the room and down the stone hallway to the arch. Khalehla was sitting at the heavy pine table with the black leather top in the living room, talking quietly into the telephone. She saw him and smiled briefly, concentrating on the person at the other end of the line.
'It's all clear,' she said as Evan approached. ‘I’ll be in touch. Goodbye.' Khalehla got up from the table, the outsized bathrobe draped strikingly, revealingly around her body. She pulled the folds of fabric together and came to him, suddenly reaching out and placing her hands on his shoulders. 'Kiss me, Kendrick,' she ordered gently.
'Aren't I supposed to say that?'
They kissed until Khalehla understood that in another moment they would be heading back to the bedroom. 'Okay, okay, Kong, I've got things to tell you.'
'Kong?'
'I wanted you to break down a door, remember?… Good heavens, you forget things.'
'I may be incompetent but I hope not inadequate.'
'You're probably right about the first, but you're definitely not inadequate, my darling.'
'Do you know how much I love to hear you say that?'
'What?'
'“My darling”--'
'It's an expression, Evan.'
