Swann blinked. 'That's going some distance for my Praetorian Guard, Ivy-the-terrible. Why so far, Ivy?'
'It's what he said, Frank. And also what I had to write down because I couldn't understand him.'
'Let's have both.'
'He said his business concerned the problem you're involved with—'
'Nobody knows what I'm—forget it. What else?'
'I wrote it down phonetically. He asked me to say the following: “Ma efham zain.” Does that make any sense to you, Frank?'
Stunned, Deputy Director Swann again shook his head, trying to clear his mind further, but needing no further clearance for the visitor five floors above. The unknown congressman had just implied in Arabic that he might be of help. 'Get a guard and send him down here,' Swann said.
Seven minutes later the door of the office in the underground complex was opened by a marine sergeant. The visitor walked in, nodding to his escort as the guard closed the door.
Swann rose from his desk apprehensively. The 'congressman' hardly lived up to the image of any member of the House of Representatives he had ever seen—at least in Washington. He was dressed in boots, khaki trousers and a summer hunting jacket that had taken too much abuse from the spattering of campfire frying pans. Was he an ill-timed joke?
'Congressman—?' said the deputy director, his voice trailing off for want of a name as he extended his hand.
'Evan Kendrick, Mr. Swann,' replied the visitor, approaching the desk and shaking hands. 'I'm the first term man from Colorado's ninth district.'
'Yes, of course, Colorado's ninth. I'm sorry I didn't—’
'No apologies are necessary, except perhaps from me—for the way I look. There's no reason for you to know who I am—’
'Let me add something here,' interrupted Swann pointedly. 'There's also no reason for you to know who I am, Congressman.'
'I understand that, but it wasn't very difficult. Even newly-arrived representatives have access—at least the secretary I inherited does. I knew where to look over here, I just needed to refine the prospects. Someone in State's Consular Operations—'
'That's not a household name, Mr. Kendrick,' interrupted Swann again, again with emphasis.
'In my house it was once—briefly. Anyway, I wasn't just looking for a Middle East hand, but an expert in Southwest Arab affairs, someone who knew the language and a dozen dialects fluently. The man I wanted would have to be someone like that… You were there, Mr. Swann.'
'You've been busy.'
'So have you,' said the congressman, nodding his head at the door and the huge outer office with the banks of computers. 'I assume you understood my message or else I wouldn't be here.'
'Yes,' agreed the deputy director. 'You said you might be able to help. Is that true?'
'I don't know. I only knew I had to offer.'
'Offer? On what basis?'
'May I sit down?'
'Please. I'm not trying to be rude, I'm just tired.' Kendrick sat down; Swann did the same, looking strangely at the freshman politician. 'Go ahead, Congressman. Time's valuable, every minute, and we've been concerned with this “problem”, as you described it to my secretary, for a few long, hairy weeks. Now I don't know what you've got to say or whether it's relevant or not, but if it is, I'd like to know why it's taken you so long to get here.'
'I hadn't heard anything about the events over in Oman. About what's happened—what's happening.'
'That's damn near impossible to believe. Is the Congressman from Colorado's ninth district spending the House recess at a Benedictine retreat?'
'Not exactly.'
