Astonished, Khalehla held the guns and looked into the eyes of the European. She had seen that plea in too many eyes before. It was not the look of a man afraid to die for a cause, but furious about the prospect of not living to pursue it. 'All right,' she said slowly. 'I may or I may not. Turn around, your arms against the wall! Farther back, your weight on your hands!' The telephone was now a steady, deafening ring as the field officer from Cairo expertly ran her fingers over the body of the blond man, concentrating on the armpits, the indented shell of his waist and his ankles. There were no weapons on him. 'Stay there,' she ordered as she reached down and pulled out the telephone from the box. 'We couldn't open the panel for the phone!' she exclaimed.
'Our engineer is on his way, madam. He was on his dinner break but we've just located him. We apologize profusely. However, our indicators show no fire or—’
'I think we're the ones to apologize,' interrupted Khalehla. 'It was all a mistake—my mistake. I pushed the wrong button. If you'll just tell me how to make it work again, we'll be fine.'
'Oh? Yes, yes, of course,' said the male voice, suppressing his irritation. 'In the telephone box there's a switch…'
The lobby doors opened and the European immediately spoke to the formally dressed manager who was waiting for them. 'There is a business associate I was to meet here quite some time ago. I'm afraid I overslept—a long, trying flight from Paris. His name is Grinell, have you seen him?'
'Mr. Grinell and the distraught Mrs. Vanvlanderen left a few minutes ago with their guests, sir. I assume it was a memorial service for her husband, a fine, fine gentleman.'
'Yes, he, too, was an associate. We were to be at the service but we never got the address. Do you know it?'
'Oh, no, sir.'
'Would anybody? Would the doorman have heard any instructions to a taxi?'
'Mr. Grinell has his own limousine—limousines, actually.'
'Let's go,' said Khalehla quietly, taking the blond man's arm. 'You're becoming a little obvious,' she continued as they walked towards the front entrance.
'I may have failed, which is far more important.'
'What's your name?'
'Milos. Just call me Milos.'
'I want more than that. I've got the fire, remember?'
'If we can reach an acceptable accommodation, I'll tell you more.'
'You're going to tell me one hell of a lot more, Mr. Milos, and there won't be any more of those fast manoeuvres of yours. Your gun is in my bag, and mine is under my coat aimed at your chest.'
'What do we do now, Miss Supposedly Retired Central Intelligence Officer from Egypt?'
'We eat, you nosy bastard. I'm starved, but I'll pick up every morsel of food with my left hand. If you make a wrong move across the table, you'll never be able to have children, and not just because you're dead. Am I clear?'
'You must be very good.'
'Good enough, Mr. Milos, good enough. I'm half Arab and don't you forget it.'
They sat opposite each other in a large circular booth selected by Khalehla in an Italian restaurant two blocks north of the hotel. Varak had detailed everything he had heard over the earphones from the Vanvlanderen suite. 'I was shocked. I never thought for an instant that Andrew Vanvlanderen would act unilaterally.'
'You mean without his wife putting “a bullet in his head” and calling one of the others to “deep six” him in Mexico?'
'Exactly. She would have done it, you know. He was stupid.'
'I disagree, he was very bright, considering his purpose. Everything that was done to and for Evan Kendrick led to a logical jaremat thaar, Arabic for a vengeance kill. You provided that, Mr. Milos, starting with the first moment you met Frank Swann at the State Department.'
'Never with that intention, I assure you. I never thought it was remotely possible.'
