nothing.'
'I'm going to do more than that,' said Evan. 'I'm not going to squeeze them out, I'm going to rip them out… Cyprus, Fairfax, Mesa Verde—bastards! Who are they? Is there a list?'
'We can compile one with a great many names, but we don't know who's involved and who isn't.'
'Let's find out.'
'How?'
I'm going inside Bollinger's camp. They're going to see another Congressman Kendrick—one who can be bought off a national ticket.'
Mitchell Jarvis Payton stared out of the window from his desk in Langley, Virginia. There was so much to think about he could not think about Christmas, which was a minor blessing. He had no regrets about the life he had chosen but Christmas was a bit trying. He had two married sisters in the Midwest and assorted nieces and nephews to whom he had sent the usual presents appropriately purchased by his secretary of many years, but he had no desire to join them for the holiday. There was simply nothing much to talk about; he had been too long on the other side of the world for conversations about a lumberyard and an insurance firm and, of course, he could say nothing about his own work. Also the children, most of them grown up, were an unremarkable lot, not a scholar among them, and adamant in their collective pursuit of the good, stolid life of financial security. It was all better left alone. It was probably why he gravitated to his adopted niece, Adrienne Rashad—he had better get used to calling her Khalehla, he reflected. She was part of his world, hardly by any choice of his, but part of it, and outstanding. Payton wished for a moment that they were all back in Cairo, when the Rashads used to insist that he join them for their yearly Christmas dinner, complete with a brilliantly decorated tree and recordings of carols.
'Really, MJ,' Rashad's wife would explain. I’m from California, remember? I'm the light-skinned one!'
Where had those days gone? Would they ever come back? Of course not. He ate alone at Christmas.
Payton's red phone rang. His hand shot out, picking it up. 'Yes?'
'He's crazy,' yelled Adrienne-Khalehla. 'I mean he's nuts, MJ!'
'He's turned you down?'
'Get off it. He wants to go see Bollinger!'
'On what grounds?'
'To play a fink! Can you believe it?'
'I might if you'll be somewhat clearer—’
There was an obvious tugging at the telephone as several obscenities were hurled back and forth. 'Mitch, this is Evan.'
'I gathered that.'
I'm going inside.'
'Bollinger's?'
'It's logical. I did the same thing in Masqat.'
'You can win one and then lose one, young man. Once successful, twice burned. Those people play hardball.'
'So do I. I want them. I'll get them.'
'We'll monitor you—’
'No, it's got to be solo. They have what you people call equipment—eyes all over the place. I've got to play it out by myself, the point being that I can be persuaded to fade from politics.'
That's too big a contradiction from what they've seen of you, heard of you. It wouldn't work, Kendrick.'
'It will if I tell them part of the truth—a very essential part.'
'What's that, Evan?'
That I did what I did in Oman strictly out of self-interest. I was heading back to pick up the pieces, to make all that money I left behind. It's something they'd understand, they'd damn well understand.'
