walking through the marble foyer towards the sunken living room of the Vanvlanderen suite.
'It's convenient,' offered the new widow, a handkerchief gripped in her hand as she closed the door and joined the intelligence officer from Cairo. 'The Vice President can be quite demanding and it was either this or having to run another house when he's in California. Two houses are a bit much—his and mine. Do sit down.'
'Are they all like this?' asked Khalehla, sitting in the armchair designated by Ardis Vanvlanderen. It was opposite the large, imposing brocade sofa; the lady of the house was quick to establish the pecking order of the seating arrangements.
'No, actually my husband had it remodelled to our taste.' The widow brought the handkerchief briefly to her face. 'I suppose I should get used to saying “my late husband”,' she added, lowering herself sadly on the couch.
'I'm so sorry, and to repeat what I said, I apologize for intruding at such a time. It's unconscionable and I made that clear to my superiors, but they insisted.'
'They were right. Affairs of state must go on, Miss Rashad. I understand.'
'I'm not sure I do. This interview could have taken place at least tomorrow morning, in my opinion. But, again, others think otherwise.'
'That's what fascinates me,' said Ardis, smoothing the black silk of her Balenciaga dress. 'What can be so vitally important?'
'To begin with,' replied Khalehla, crossing her legs and removing a wrinkle from her dark grey suit acquired by way of San Diego's Robinsons. 'What we talk about must remain between ourselves. We don't want Vice President Bollinger unduly alarmed.' The agent from Cairo took out a notebook from her black purse and smoothed her dark hair which was pulled back and knotted in a severe bun. 'As I know you've been told, I'm posted overseas and was flown back for this assignment.'
'I was told that you're an expert in Middle East affairs.'
'That's a euphemism for terrorist activities. I'm half Arab.'
'I can see that. You're quite beautiful.'
'You're very beautiful, Mrs. Vanvlanderen.'
'I get by as long as I don't dwell upon the years.'
'I'm sure we're close in age.'
'Let's not dwell on that, either… What is this problem? Why was it so urgent that you see me?'
'Our personnel who work the Baaka Valley in Lebanon have uncovered startling and disturbing information. Do you know what a “hit team” is, Mrs. Vanvlanderen?'
'Who doesn't?' answered the widow, reaching for a pack of cigarettes on the coffee table. She extracted one and picked up a white marble lighter. 'It's a group of men—usually men—sent out to assassinate someone.' She lit the cigarette; her right hand almost imperceptibly trembled. 'So much for definitions. Why does it concern the Vice President?'
'Because of the threats that were made against him. The reason for the unit you requested from the Federal Bureau of Investigation.'
'That's all over,' said Ardis, inhaling deeply. 'It turned out to be some kind of psychotic crank who probably didn't even own a gun. But when those filthy letters and the obscene phone calls started coming in, I felt we couldn't take chances. It's all in the report; we chased him through a dozen cities until he got on a plane in Toronto. For Cuba, I understand, and it serves him right.'
'He may not have been a crank, Mrs. Vanvlanderen.'
'What do you mean?'
'Well, you never found him, did you?'
'The FBI worked up a very complete profile, Miss Rashad. He was defined as mentally deranged, some kind of classic case of schizophrenia with overtones of a Captain Avenger complex or something equally ridiculous. He was essentially harmless. It's a closed book.'
'We'd like to reopen it.'
'Why?'
