'Don't bother, I can manage,' said Varak, walking around the bonnet. He opened the door and climbed in. 'If I soil your car I'll gladly pay—’
'Let's worry about that in a month of Tuesdays.' The naval officer shifted into gear and raced off as the Czech replaced his unseen automatic in the holster.
'You're very kind,' said Milos, digging a scrap of paper out of his pocket and removing his pen, writing brief words and numbers in the darkness.
'You're very hurt, pal. Hang on.'
'Please, I must find a telephone. Please!'
The fucking insurance can wait, buddy.'
'No, not insurance,' stammered Varak. 'My wife. She expected me hours ago… She has psychological problems.'
'Don't they all?' said the pilot. 'Do you want me to make the call?'
'No, thank you very much. She would interpret that as a crisis far worse than it is.' The Czech arched back in the seat, grimacing.
'There's a fruit stand about a mile down the road. I know the owner and they have a phone.'
'I can't thank you enough.'
'Take me to dinner when you get out of the hospital.'
The perplexed owner of the fruit store handed Varak the phone as the naval officer watched, concerned for his damaged passenger. Milos dialled the Westlake Hotel. 'Room Fifty-one, if you please?'
'Hello, hello?' cried Khalehla from out of a deep sleep.
'Do you have an answer for me?'
'Milos?'
'Yes.'
'What's wrong?'
‘I'm not terribly well, Miss Rashad. Do you have an answer?'
'You're hurt!'
'Your answer.’
'Green light. Payton will back off. If Evan can get the nomination, it's his. The race is on.'
'He's needed more than you'll ever know.'
'I don't know that he'll agree.'
'He has to! Keep your line free. I'll call you right back.'
'You are hurt!'
The Czech depressed the bar on the phone and immediately redialled.
'Yes?'
'Sound Man?'
'Prague?'
'How are things progressing?'
'We'll be done in a couple of hours. The typist's got the earphones on and is pounding away… She's rough on all-night overtime.'
'Whatever the cost, it's… covered.'
'What's wrong with you? I can barely hear you.'
'A slight cold… You'll find ten thousand in your studio mailbox.'
'Yes, come on, I'm not a thief.'
'I roll high, remember?'
'You really don't sound right, Prague.'
'In the morning, take everything to the Westlake, Room
