omitting any reference to government officials making contact with terrorists. Scapegoats, dead ones, will be found. Washington can't afford to do otherwise; foreign policy would be in a shambles.'
'And Bollinger?' Once again Sundstrom sat back in his chair.
'Officially, if the scapegoats are sufficiently convincing, he could be taken, as you say here, off the hook… That's officially, not where we are concerned.'
'That's an interesting statement, if not an illuminating one, Mr. Varak,' said Winters. 'Would you mind clarifying?'
'Not at all, sir. Although I must return to Chicago, I've made arrangements with certain personnel at the telephone company in San Diego to provide me with records of every call placed to Bollinger's residence, his office and each member of his staff. They will state all initiating numbers and times, including pay phones and their locations. Unless I'm mistaken, we'll have enough ammunition, if only circumstantial, to persuade the Vice President to gracefully remove himself from the ticket.'
The last car sped out of the drive as Samuel Winters hung up the telephone in the ornate, tapestried living room and joined Varak at the large front window.
'Which one is it?' said the Czech, staring out at the disappearing vehicle.
'I think you'll know before it's morning in California… The helicopter will be here in a few minutes. The jet's cleared for takeoff at four-thirty in Easton.'
'Thank you, sir. I trust we haven't made all these arrangements for nothing.'
'Your case was very strong, Milos. Whoever it is won't dare place a call. He or she will have to appear in person. Is everything set at the hotel?'
'Yes. My driver at the airport in San Diego will have the keys to the service entrance and the suite. I'll use the freight elevator.'
'Tell me,' said the aristocratic white-haired historian. 'Is it possible the scenario you presented to us this afternoon could be right? Could Andrew Vanvlanderen actually have made contact with the Palestinians?'
'No, sir, it's not possible. His wife would never permit it. She'd have killed him herself if he tried. Complicated arrangements of that sort could be traced, with difficulty of course, but she'd never take the chance. She's too professional.'
In the distance, over the waters of Chesapeake Bay, the chopping sounds of a helicopter's rotors could be heard. They grew louder.
Khalehla dropped her bag on the floor, threw the two boxes and the three shopping bags on the bed and followed them, shoving the bags aside as her head hit the bulge of the pillows. She had asked 'Gingerbread' Shapoff to drop her off at a department store so she could buy some clothes, since those she owned were either in Cairo or Fairfax or in a Bahamian police car or on a US Air Force jet.
'Fiddle-dee-dee,' she said in a weary imitation of Scarlet O'Hara as she stared at the ceiling. 'I'd like to think about everything tomorrow,' she continued to herself out loud, 'but, goddamn it, I can't.' She sat up and reached for the hotel telephone, studying the instructions and dialling the appropriate numbers to reach Payton in Langley, Virginia.
'Yes?'
'MJ, don't you ever go home?'
'Are you home, my dear?'
'I don't know where it is any longer, but I'll let you in on a secret, Uncle Mitch.'
'Uncle…? Good heavens, you must want a pony ride. What is it?'
'Home may end up being with a certain mutual friend of ours.'
'My, you have made progress.'
'No, he did. He even talked about twenty or thirty years.'
'Of what?'
'I don't know. A real home and babies and things like that, I guess.'
'Then let's bring him out alive, Adrienne.'
