Saudi Arabia, all the places in the Gulf States where the Kendrick Group operated. They're as normal as they'll ever be, and as OPEC gets its act together again it'll be business and profits as usual. Like every West European construction outfit, I want part of the action and I want to be ready for it. I'm back in the private sector.'
'Good heavens, you're persuasive.'
'Business-wise, I'm not far off the mark, either… I've got the marbles, Mitch. I'm going in.'
'When?'
'I'm calling Bollinger in a few minutes. I don't think he'll refuse my call.'
'Not likely. Langford Jennings would burn his ass.'
'I want to give him several hours to gather his flock, at least the few he counts on. I'll ask for a meeting late this afternoon.'
'Make it in the evening,' corrected the CIA executive. 'After business hours, and be explicit. Say you want a private entrance away from his personnel and the press. It'll convey your message.'
'That's very good, MJ.'
'Sound business practice, Congressman.'
Lt Commander John Demartin, US Navy, was in jeans and a T-shirt, applying generous amounts of cleaning fluid over the upholstery of his car's front seat, trying with minimal success to remove the bloodstains. It was going to be a professional job, he concluded, and until it was done he would tell the kids he had spilled some cherry soda on the way home from the field. Still, the more he reduced the stains, the less it would cost—he hoped.
Demartin had read the report in the morning's Union identifying him by name and stating that the authorities believed the death of the wounded hitchhiker he had picked up was drug related; the pilot, however, was not convinced. He was not on speaking terms with any drug dealers that he knew of, yet he could not imagine that too many of them were so polite as to offer to pay for staining a car seat. He assumed that such men, if mortally wounded, would be in panic, not so controlled, so courteous.
Pressing down, Demartin scrubbed the back of the seat again. His exposed knuckles touched something, something sharp yet instantly flexible. It was a note. He pulled it out and read it, reading beneath the bloodstains.
Urgt. MX s'c'ty. Relay contct 3016211133 S-term
The last letters drifted off as if there had been no strength left to write them. The naval officer dragged himself out of the seat and stood in the driveway studying the note, then walked up the flagstone path to his front door. He went inside, proceeded into the living room and picked up the phone; he knew whom to call. Moments later a WAVE secretary put him through to the base's chief of intelligence.
'Jim, it's John Demartin—’
'Hey, I read about that crazy episode last night. What some fly boys won't do for a little grass… You're taking me up on the fishing Saturday?'
'No, I'm calling you about last night.'
'Oh? How come?'
'Jim, I don't know who or what that guy was, but I don't think he had anything to do with drugs. Then a few minutes ago I found a note creased into the seat where he was sitting. It's kind of bloody but let me read it to you.'
'Go ahead, I've got a pencil.'
The naval officer read the awkwardly printed words, letters and numbers. 'Does it make any sense?' he asked when he had finished.
'It… may,' said the intelligence chief slowly, obviously re-reading what he had written. 'John, describe what happened last night, will you? The article in the paper was pretty sketchy.'
Demartin did so, beginning with the observation that although the blond man spoke excellent English, he had a foreign accent. He ended with the hitchhiker's collapse in front of the fruit stand. 'That's it.'
'Do you think he knew how severely he was wounded?'
'If he didn't, I did. I tried not to stop for the telephone but he insisted—I mean, he pleaded, Jim. Not so much in words but with his eyes… I won't forget them for a long
