passenger was a lone man with light-coloured hair and what appeared to be immense shoulders that filled out his jacket to the point of almost stretching the fabric. Yet there was something strange about him, she thought. As one can when alone with a single human being in a small enclosure, she could sense a high level of energy emanating from her unknown companion. There was an atmosphere of anger or anxiety that seemed to permeate the small area. Then she could feel him looking at her, not the way men usually appraised her—furtively, with glances; she was used to that—but staring at her, the unseen eyes steady, intense, unwavering.
The doors closed as she casually grimaced to herself; it was the expression of someone who may have forgotten something. Again casually, she opened her bag as if to check for the possibly missing item. She exhaled audibly, her face relaxed; the item was there. It was. Her gun. The elevator began its descent as she glanced at the stranger.
She froze! His eyes were two orbs of controlled white heat, and the short, neatly combed hair was light blond. He could be no one else!. The blond European… he was one of them! Khalehla lurched for the panel as she yanked out her automatic, dropping her bag and pressing the emergency button. Beyond the doors, the alarm sounded as the elevator jerked to a stop and the blond man stepped forward.
Khalehla fired, the explosion deafening in the tight enclosure, the bullet passing over the intense stranger's head as it was meant to.
'Stop where you are!' she commanded. 'If you know anything about me, you know my next shot will go right into your forehead.'
'You are the Rashad woman,' said the blond man, his speech accented, his voice strained.
'I don't know who you are, but I know what you are. Scum-rotten, that's what you are! Evan was right. All these months, all the stories about him, the congressional committees, the coverage over the world. It was to set him up for a Palestinian kill! It was as simple as that!'
'No, you are wrong, wrong,' protested the European as the alarm bell outside kept up its abrasive ringing. 'And you must not stop me now! A terrible thing is about to happen and I've been in touch with your people in Washington.'
'Who? Who in Washington?'
'We don't give names—’
'Bullshit!'
'Please, Miss Rashad! A man is getting away.'
'Not you, Blondie—'
Where the blows came from and how they were delivered with such speed Khalehla would never know. For an instant there had been a blurring motion on her left, then a surging hand, as fast as any human hand she had ever seen, stung her right arm, followed by a counterclockwise twist of her right wrist, wrenching the weapon away. Where she might have expected her wrist to be broken it merely burned, as if briefly scalded by a splash of boiling water. The European stood in front of her holding the gun. 'I did not mean to harm you,' he said.
'You're very good, Scum-rotten, I'll give you that.'
'We are not enemies, Miss Rashad.'
'Somehow I find that hard to believe.' The elevator telephone rang from the box below the panel, its bell echoing off the four walls of the small enclosure. 'You're not getting out of here,' added Khalehla.
'Wait,' said the blond man as the ringing persisted. 'You saw Mrs. Vanvlanderen.'
'She told you that. So what?'
'She couldn't have,' broke in the European. 'I've never met her but I have taped her. She had visitors later. They talked about you—she and two other men, one named Grinell.'
'I never heard of him.'
'They're both traitors, enemies of your government, of your country, to be precise, as your country was conceived.' The telephone kept up its insistent ringing.
'Fast words, Mr. No Name.'
'No more words!' cried the blond man, reaching under his jacket and withdrawing a thin large black automatic. He flipped both weapons around, gripping the barrels, the handles extended towards Khalehla. 'Here. Take them. Give me a chance, Miss Rashad!'
