Authors: Robert Ludlum
Kendrick lunged up against the stone wall in the hallway, pressing himself into the bulging rock design. He looked down at the nurse. “Stay where you are!” he ordered as he inched his way toward the corner of the living room. Smoke was billowing everywhere, carried by the breezes through the shattered windows. He heard the shouts outside; the guards from their flanking positions around the house were converging, professionals covering one another as they moved into new positions. Then there were four detonations one after the other—
grenades
! These were followed by other voices screaming in Arabic. “
Death to our enemies! Death to a great enemy! Blood will be answered by blood!
” Repeated bursts from automatic weapons broke out from different directions. Two other grenades exploded, one thrown through the smashed windows directly into the living room, blowing apart the far wall. Evan spun around for the protection of the stone, then as the debris settled, he shouted.
“Manny!
Manny?
Where
are
you?
Answer
me!”
There was no reply, only the seemingly perverted, steady ringing of the telephone. The gunfire outside escalated to deafening proportions, burst upon burst, bullets ricocheting off rock, thumping into wood, screeching wildly through the air. Manny had been on the porch, the porch with glass doors! Kendrick had to get out there. He
had
to! He rushed into the smoke and fire of the living room, shielding his eyes and his nostrils, when suddenly a figure flew into the shattered front windows, crashing
through the fragments of glass. The man rolled on the floor and sprang to his feet.
“
Ahbyahd!
” screamed Evan, paralyzed.
“
You!
” roared the Palestinian, his weapon leveled. “My life has glory!
Glory!
Beloved Allah be
praised
! You bring me
great
happiness!”
“Am I
worth
it to you? So many killed? So many butchered? Am I really
worth
it? Does your Allah demand so much death?”
“You can speak of
death
?” shrieked the terrorist. “Azra dead! Yaakov dead! Zaya killed by Jews from the skies over the Baaka! All the others … hundreds, thousands—
dead
! Now,
Amal Bahrudi
, such a clever traitor, I take you to
hell
!”
“Not
yet
!” came the voice, half whispered, half shouted from the archway leading to the porch. The words were accompanied by two loud, reverberating gunshots that momentarily drowned out the rapid fire outside. Ahbyahd, the white-haired one, arched back under the impact of the powerful weapon, a portion of his skull blown away. Emmanuel Weingrass, his face and shirt drenched with blood, his left shoulder pressed into the interior of the arch, slid to the floor.
“
Manny!
” yelled Kendrick, racing over to the old architect, kneeling down and lifting his upper body off the hard floor. “Where are you hit?”
“Where wasn’t I?” replied Weingrass throatily, with difficulty. “Check the two girls! When … everything started they went to the windows.… I tried to stop them. Check them,
goddamn
you!”
Evan looked over at the two bodies on the porch. Beyond them, the sliding doors were no more than frames bordering sharp, pointed fragments of thick glass. The car bomb had done its work; there was little left of two human beings but shredded skin and blood. “There’s nothing to check, Manny. I’m sorry.”
“Oh, you call yourself a
God
in your fucking
heaven
!” screamed Weingrass, tears welling in his eyes. “What more do you want, you
fraud
!” The old man collapsed into unconsciousness.
Outside, the gunfire stopped. Kendrick prepared for the worst, wrenching the .357 Magnum out of Manny’s hand, wondering briefly who had given it to him, instantly knowing it was Gee-Gee Gonzalez. He gently lowered Weingrass and stood up. He walked cautiously into the smoldering living room, and was suddenly assaulted by the stench of wet smoke—water was showering out of the ceiling sprinklers.
A
gunshot
! He dropped to the floor, his eyes darting in all directions, followed by his weapon.
“
Four!
” shouted a voice from beyond the shattered windows. “I count four!”
“One went inside!” yelled another. “Approach and fire at any goddamn thing that moves!
Christ
, I don’t want our body count! And I also don’t want one of these motherfuckers to walk out
alive
! Do you
understand
me?”
“Understood.”
“He’s dead!” yelled Evan with what voice he had left. “But there’s another, a wounded man in here. He’s alive and he’s severely wounded and he’s one of us.”
“
Congressman?
Is that you, Mr. Kendrick?”
“It’s me, and I never want to hear that title again.” Once more the telephone started ringing. Evan got to his feet and headed wearily toward the charred pine desk, drenched by the separated sprays from the sprinklers. Suddenly, he saw the nurse who had saved his life walk hesitantly around the stone arch of the hallway. “Stay out of here,” he said. “I don’t want you to go out there.”
“I heard you say there was someone wounded, sir. That’s what I’m trained for.”
The telephone kept ringing.
“
Him
, yes. Not the others. I don’t want you to see the others!”
“I’m no spring chicken, Congressman. I did three tours of duty in ’Nam.”
“But these were your
friends
!”
“So were countless others,” said the nurse, no comment in her voice. “Is it Manny?”
“Yes.”
The telephone kept ringing.
“After your call, please reach Dr. Lyons, sir.”
Kendrick picked up the phone. “Yes?”
“Evan, thank
Christ
! It’s MJ! I just heard from Adrienne—”
“Fuck off,” said Kendrick, disconnecting the line and dialing Information.
At first the room spun around, then faraway thunder grew louder and bolts of lightning crashed into his mind. “Would you please repeat that, Operator, so I’m absolutely clear about what you’ve just said.”
“Certainly, sir. There’s no listing for a Dr. Lyons in Cortez
or the Mesa Verde district. In fact, there’s no one named Lyons—L-y-o-n-s—in the area.”
“That was his
name
! I saw it on the clearance from the State Department!”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Nothing.…
Nothing!
” Evan slammed down the phone, and no sooner had he done so than it started ringing again. “
Yes?
”
“My darling! Are you all
right
?”
“Your fucking MJ
blew
it! I don’t know how many are dead and Manny’s shot up like a slaughtered pig! He’s not only half gone but he doesn’t even have a doctor!”
“Call Lyons.”
“He doesn’t
exist
!… How did you know about here?”
“I spoke to the nurse. She said a priest was there and, darling,
listen
to me! We found out only minutes ago that they were traveling as priests! I reached MJ and he’s beside himself. He’s got half of Colorado moving in, all federals and sworn to secrecy!”
“I just told him to take a hike.”
“He’s not your enemy, Evan.”
“Who the hell
is
?”
“For God’s sake, we’re trying to find
out
!”
“You’re a little slow.”
“And they’re very fast. What can I tell you?”
Kendrick, his hair drenched and his body soaked from the sprinklers, looked over at the nurse, who was ministering to Weingrass. Her eyes were filled with tears, her throat holding back her hysteria from the sight of her friends on the veranda. Evan spoke softly. “Tell me you’re coming back to me. Tell me it’s all going to end. Tell me I’m not going mad.”
“I can tell you all of those things, but you have to believe them. You’re alive and that’s all that matters to me right now.”
“What about the others who aren’t alive? What about Manny? Don’t they count?”
“Manny said something last night that impressed me very much. We were talking about the Hassans, Sabri and Kashi. He said we will each remember them and mourn for them in our own ways … but it must come later. To some that may sound cold, but not to me. He’s been where I’ve been, my darling, and I know where he’s coming from. None are forgotten, but for the moment we must forget them and do what we have to do. Does that make sense to you … my darling?”
“I’m trying to make sense out of it. When are you coming back?”
“I’ll know in a couple of hours. I’ll call you.”
Evan hung up the phone as the multiple sounds of sirens and approaching helicopters grew louder, all centering on an infinitesimal spot of the earth erroneously called Mesa Verde, in Colorado.
“It’s a perfectly lovely apartment,” said Khalehla softly, walking through the marble foyer toward the sunken living room of the Vanvlanderen suite.
“It’s convenient,” offered the new widow, a handkerchief gripped in her hand as she closed the door and joined the intelligence officer from Cairo. “The Vice President can be quite demanding, and it was either this or having to run another house when he’s in California. Two houses are a bit much—his
and
mine. Do sit down.”
“Are they all like this?” asked Khalehla, sitting in the armchair designated by Ardis Vanvlanderen. It was across from the large, imposing brocade sofa; the lady of the house was quick to establish the pecking order of the seating arrangements.
“No, actually, my husband had it remodeled to our taste.” The widow brought the handkerchief briefly to her face. “I suppose I should get used to saying ‘my late husband,’ ” she added, lowering herself sadly on the couch.
“I’m
so
sorry, and to repeat what I said, I apologize for intruding at such a time. It’s unconscionable, and I made that clear to my superiors, but they insisted.”
“They were right. Affairs of state must go on, Miss Rashad. I understand.”
“I’m not sure I do. This interview could have taken place at least tomorrow morning, in my opinion. But, again, others think otherwise.”
“That’s what fascinates me,” said Ardis, smoothing the black silk of her Balenciaga dress. “What can be so vitally important?”
“To begin with,” replied Khalehla, crossing her legs and removing a wrinkle from her dark gray suit, acquired by way of San Diego’s Robinson’s. “What we talk about must remain between ourselves. We don’t want Vice President Bollinger unduly alarmed.” The agent from Cairo took out a notebook from her black purse and smoothed her dark hair, which was pulled back and knotted in a severe bun. “As I know you’ve been told, I’m posted overseas and was flown back for this assignment.”
“I was told that you’re an expert in Middle East affairs.”
“That’s a euphemism for terrorist activities. I’m half Arab.”
“I can see that. You’re quite beautiful.”
“You’re
very
beautiful, Mrs. Vanvlanderen.”
“I get by as long as I don’t dwell upon the years.”
“I’m sure we’re close in age.”
“Let’s not dwell on that, either.… What
is
this problem? Why was it so urgent that you see me?”
“Our personnel who work the Baaka Valley in Lebanon have uncovered startling and disturbing information. Do you know what a ‘hit team’ is, Mrs. Vanvlanderen?”
“Who doesn’t?” answered the widow, reaching for a pack of cigarettes on the coffee table. She extracted one and picked up a white marble lighter. “It’s a group of men—usually men—sent out to assassinate someone.” She lit the cigarette; her right hand almost imperceptibly trembled. “So much for definitions. Why does it concern the Vice President?”
“Because of the threats that were made against him. The reason for the unit you requested from the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
“That’s all over,” said Ardis, inhaling deeply. “It turned out to be some kind of psychotic crank who probably didn’t even own a gun. But when those filthy letters and the obscene phone calls started coming in, I felt we couldn’t take chances. It’s all in the report; we chased him through a dozen cities until he got on a plane in Toronto. For Cuba, I understand, and it serves him right.”
“He may not have been a crank, Mrs. Vanvlanderen.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you never found him, did you?”
“The FBI worked up a very complete profile, Miss Rashad. He was determined to be mentally deranged, some kind of classic case of schizophrenia with overtones of a Captain Avenger complex or something equally ridiculous. He was essentially harmless. It’s a closed book.”
“We’d like to reopen it.”
“Why?”
“Word from the Baaka Valley is that two or more hit teams have been dispatched over here conceivably to assassinate Vice President Bollinger. Your crank may have been the point, wittingly or unwittingly, but nevertheless, the point.”
“The ‘point’? What are you talking about? I can’t even understand your language except that it sounds preposterous.”
“Not at all,” said Khalehla calmly. “Terrorists operate on the principle of maximum exposure. They will frequently announce an objective, a target, well in advance of execution. They do this in many ways, many variations.”
“Why would terrorists want to kill Orson—Vice President Bollinger?”
“Why did you think the threats against him should be taken seriously?”
“Because they were
there
. I could do no less.”
“And you were right,” agreed the intelligence officer, watching the widow crushing out her cigarette and reaching for another, which she promptly lighted. “But to answer your question, should the Vice President be assassinated, there’s not only a void on a political ticket assured of reelection, but considerable destabilization.”
“For what purpose?”
“Maximum exposure. It would be a spectacular kill, wouldn’t it? Even more so, as the record would show that the FBI had been alerted and then withdrawn, outsmarted by superior strategy.”
“
Strategy?
” exclaimed Ardis Vanvlanderen. “
What
strategy?”
“A psychotic crank who wasn’t a crank at all but a strategic diversion. Pivot attention on a harmless crank, then close the book while the real killers move into place.”