MJ, as he was called for as long as he could remember, had been a twenty-nine-year-old associate professor with a doctorate in Arabian Studies from the University of California, where he subsequently taught. One bright morning he was visited by two gentlemen from the government who convinced him that his country urgently needed his talents. What the specifics entailed they were not at liberty, of course, to disclose, but insofar as they represented the most exciting sphere of government service, they assumed that the position was overseas, in the area of his expertise. The young bachelor had leaped at the opportunity, and when faced with perplexed superiors in Langley, who wondered what to do with him, he adamantly suggested that he had cut his ties in L.A. because he had at least assumed that he would be sent to Egypt. So he had been sent to Cairo (We can’t get enough observers in Egypt who understand the goddamned language). As an undergraduate he had studied American literature, chosen because Payton did not think there was a hell of a lot of it. It was for this reason that an employment agency in Rome, in reality a CIA subsidiary, had placed him at the Cairo University as an Arabic-speaking instructor of American literature.
There he had met the Rashads, a lovely couple who became an important part of his life. At Payton’s first faculty meeting he sat beside the renowned Professor Rashad, and in their pre-conference small talk he learned that Rashad had not only gone to graduate school in California but had married a classmate of MJ’s. A deep friendship blossomed, as did MJ’s reputation within the Central Intelligence Agency. Through talents he had no idea he possessed, and which at times actually frightened him, he discovered that he was an exceptionally convincing liar. They were days of turmoil, of rapidly shifting alliances that had to be monitored, the spreading American penetration kept out of sight. He was able, through his fluent Arabic and his understanding that people could be motivated with sympathetic words backed up with money, to organize various groups of opposing factions who reported on each other’s movements to him. In return, he provided funds for their causes—minor expenditures for the then sacrosanct CIA but major contributions to the zealots’ meager coffers. And through his efforts in Cairo, Washington averted a number of potentially explosive embarrassments. So, typical of the old-school-tie network in D.C.’s intelligence community, if a good fellow did such a fine job where he was, forget the convergence of specific factors that made him good where he was and bring him back to Washington to see what he could do there. M.J. Payton was the exception in a long line of failures. He succeeded James Jesus Angleton, the Gray Fox of clandestine operations, as the director of Special Projects. And he never forgot what his friend Rashad told him when he reached his ascendancy.
“You never could have made it, MJ, if you had married. You have the self-confidence of never having been manipulated.”
Perhaps.
Yet a test of manipulation had come full force to him when the headstrong daughter of his dear friends had arrived in Washington, as adamant as he had ever seen her. A terrible thing had happened in Cambridge, Massachusetts, and she was determined to devote her life—at least a part of her life—to lessening the fires of hatred and violence that were ripping her Mediterranean world apart. She never told “Uncle Mitch” what had happened to her—she did not have to, really—but she would not take no for an answer. She was qualified; she was as fluent in English and French as she was in Arabic, and she was currently learning both Yiddish and Hebrew. He had suggested the Peace Corps and she had slammed her purse down on the floor in front of his desk.
“No! I’m not a child, Uncle Mitch, and I don’t have those kinds of benevolent impulses. I’m concerned only with where I come from, where I was born. If you won’t use me, I’ll find others who will!”
“They could be the wrong others, Adrienne.”
“Then stop me. Hire me!”
“I’ll have to talk to your parents—”
“You can’t! He’s retired—they’re retired, and they live up north in Baltim-on-the-Sea. They’d only worry about me, and in their worrying cause problems. Find me translating jobs, or a floating consultant’s position with exporters—certainly you can do that! Good God, Uncle Mitch, you were a small-time instructor at the university and we never said anything!”
“You didn’t know, my dear—”
“The hell I didn’t! The whispers around the house when a friend of Uncle Mitch’s was coming and how I had to stay in my room, and then one night when suddenly three men came, all wearing guns on their belts, which I’d never seen—”
“Those were emergencies. Your father understood.”
“Then you understand me now, Uncle Mitch. I have to do this!”
“All right,” consented M.J. Payton. “But you understand me, young lady. You’ll be put through a concentrated course in Fairfax, Virginia, in a compound that’s not on any map. If you fail, I can’t help you.”
“Agreed,” had said Adrienne Khalehla Rashad, smiling. “Do you want to bet?”
“Not with you, you young tigress. Come on, let’s go to lunch. You don’t drink, do you?”
“Not really.”
“I do and I will, but I won’t bet you.”
And it was good for Payton’s wallet that he did not bet. Candidate No. 1344 finished the excruciating ten-week course in Fairfax, Virginia, at the head of her class. Women’s liberation be damned, she was better than twenty-six men. But then, her “Uncle Mitch” thought, she had a motive the others did not have: one half of her was Arab.
All that was more than nine years ago. But now on this Friday afternoon nearly ten years later, Mitchell Jarvis Payton was appalled! Field agent Adrienne Rashad, currently on duty in the West Mediterranean Sector, Cairo Post, had just called him from a pay telephone at the Hilton Hotel here in Washington! What in the name of God was she doing here? On whose authority was she removed from her post? All officers attached to Special Projects, especially this officer, had to have their orders cleared through him. It was incredible! And the fact that she would not come out to Langley but, instead, insisted on meeting him at an out-of-the-way restaurant in Arlington did not calm MJ’s nerves. Especially after she said to him, “It’s absolutely vital that I don’t run into anyone I know, or who might know me, Uncle Mitch.” Beyond the ominous tone of her statement, she had not called him Uncle Mitch in years, not since she was in college. His unrelated “niece” was a troubled woman.
Milos Varak got off the plane at Durango, Colorado, and walked across the terminal to the counter of the car rental agency. He produced a false driver’s license and a correspondingly false credit card, signed the lease agreement, accepted the keys and was directed to the lot where the car awaited him. In his briefcase was a detailed map of lower southwest Colorado listing such things as the wonders of the Mesa Verde National Park and the descriptions of hotels, motels, and restaurants, the majority of which were found in and around such cities as Cortez, Hesperus, Marvel and, farther east, Durango. The least detailed area was a dot called Mesa Verde itself; the designation of “town” did not apply. It was a geographical location more in people’s minds than on the books; a general store, a barbershop, a small outlying private airport and a cafe called Gee-Gee’s constituted its industry. One passed through Mesa Verde, one did not live there. It existed for the convenience of farmers, field hands, and those inveterate travelers who invariably got lost by taking the scenic routes to New Mexico and Arizona. The anomaly of the airport was for the benefit of those dozen or so privileged landowners who had built estates for themselves in the backcountry and simply wanted it. They rarely, if ever, saw the stretch of road with the general store, the barbershop and Gee-Gee’s. Their necessities were flown in from Denver, Las Vegas and Beverly Hill—thus the airport. The exception here was Congressman Evan Kendrick, who had surprisingly run for political office. He had made the mistake of thinking that Mesa Verde could produce votes, which it would have done if the election had been held south of the Rio Grande.
Varak, however, very much wanted to see
that stretch of road the locals referred to as Mesa Verde, or just plain Verde, as Emmanuel Weingrass called it. He wanted to see how the men dressed, how they walked, what the stresses of field work had done to their bodies, their muscles, their posture. For the next twenty-four or, at most, forty-eight hours he would have to melt in. Milos had a job to do that in one sense saddened him beyond measuring the pain, but it was something he had to do. If there was a traitor to Inver Brass, within Inver Brass, Varak had to find him … or her.
After an hour and thirty-five minutes of driving he found the cafe named Gee-Gee’s. He could not go inside dressed as he was, so he parked the car, removed his jacket, and strolled into the general store across the street.
“Ain’t seen you before,” said the elderly owner, turning his head as he stacked bags of rice on a shelf. “Always nice to see a new face. You headin’ for New Mex? I’ll put you on the right road, no need to buy anythin’. I keep tellin’ people that, but they always feel they got to part with cash when all they want is directions.”
“You’re most kind, sir,” said Milos, “but I’m afraid I must part with cash—not mine, of course, my employer’s. It’s most coincidental, but I’m to purchase several bags of rice. It was omitted in the delivery from Denver.”
“Oh, one of the biggies in the hills. Take what you like, son—for cash, of course. At my age I don’t carry out.”
“I wouldn’t think of it, sir.”
“Hey, you’re a foreign fella, ain’t cha?”
“Scandinavian,” replied Varak. “I’m just temporary, filling in while the chauffeur is ill.” Milos picked up three bags of rice and carried them to the counter; the owner followed toward the cash register.
“Who you work for?”
“The Kendrick house, but he doesn’t know me—”
“Hey, isn’t that somethin’ about young Evan? Our own congressman the heero of Oman! I tell ya, makes a man stand tall, like the President says! He come in here a couple a times—three, four maybe. Nicest fella you’d want to meet; real down-to-earth, you know what I mean?”
“I’m afraid I’ve never met him.”
“Yeah, but if you’re out there at the house, you know oI’ Manny, that’s for sure! A real pistol, ain’t he? I tell ya, that crazy Jewish fella is somethin’ else!”
“He certainly is.”
“That’ll be six dollars and thirty-one cents, son. Skip the penny if you ain’t got it.”
“I’m sure I have—” Varak reached into his pocket. “Does Mr.… Manny come in here often?”
“Some. Maybe two, three times a month. Drives with one of them nurses of his, then as soon as she turns her back, he splits over to Gee-Gee’s. He’s some fella. Here’s your change, son.”
“Thank you.” Milos picked up the bags of rice and turned toward the door, but was suddenly stopped by the owner’s next words.
“I figure those girls snitched on him, though, ’cause Evan must be gettin’ a little stricter lookin’ after his oI’ pal, but I guess you know that.”
“Yes, of course,” said Varak, looking back at the man and smiling. “How did you find out?”
“Yesterday,” replied the owner. “What with all the fuss out at the house Manny got Jake’s cab to bring him down to Gee-Gee’s. I saw him, so I went to the door and shouted to him about how great the news was, y’know. He yelled back something like ‘My sugar,’ or something, and went inside. That’s when I saw this other car comin’ real slow down the street with a guy talkin’ on a telephone—you know, one of them car telephones. He parked across from Gee-Gee’s and just stayed there watchin’ the door. Then later he was on that telephone again and a few minutes after that he got out and went into Gonzalez’s place. No one else had gone in, so that’s when I figured he was keepin’ tabs on Manny.”
“I’ll tell them to be more careful,” said Milos, still smiling. “But just to make sure we’re talking about the same man, or one of them, what did he look like?”
“Oh, he was city, all right. Fancy duds and slick-down hair.”
“Dark hair, then?”
“No, sorta reddish.”
“Oh, him?” said Varak convincingly. “Approximately my size.”
“Nope, I’d say a mite taller, maybe more than a mite.”
“Yes, of course,” agreed the Czech. “I imagine we often think of ourselves as taller than we are. He’s somewhat slender, or perhaps it’s his height—”
“That’s him,” broke in the owner. “Not much meat on his bones, not like you, no sirree.”
“Then he was driving the brown Lincoln.”
“Looked blue to me, and big, but I don’t know one car from another these days. All look the same, like unhappy bugs.”
“Well, thank you, sir. I’ll certainly tell the team to be more discreet. We wouldn’t want Manny upset.”
“Oh, don’t worry about me tellin’ him. Manny had a big operation, and if young Evan thinks he needs closer watchin’, I’m for it. I mean, oI’ Manny, he’s a pistol—Gee-Gee even waters his whisky when he can get away with it.”
“Thank you again. I’ll inform the Congressman of your splendid cooperation.”
“Thought you didn’t know him.”
“When I meet him, sir. Good-bye.”
Milos Varak started the rented car and drove down the stretch of road leaving behind the general store, the barber shop, and Gee-Gee’s café. A tall, slender man with neatly combed reddish hair and driving a large blue sedan. The hunt had begun.
“I don’t believe it!” whispered Mitchell Jarvis Payton.
“Believe, MJ,” said Adrienne Rashad over the red-checkered tablecloth at the rear of the Italian restaurant in Arlington. “What did you really know about Oman?”
“It was a Four-Zero operation out of State and liaisoned by Lester Crawford, who wanted a list of our best people with the widest range of contacts in the southwest basin. That’s all I knew. There may be others more qualified than you, but not where contacts are concerned.”
“You had to assume the operation involved the hostages.”
“Of course, we all did, and to tell you the truth I was torn. Your friendship with Ahmat and his wife was no secret to me, and I had to assume that others also knew. You see, I didn’t want to submit your name to Les, but your past work with Projects called for it and your ties to the royal family demanded it. Also, I realized that if I left you out for personal reasons and you ever learned about it, you’d have my head.”
“I certainly would have.”
“I’ll confess to a minor sin, however,” said Payton, smiling a sad smile. “When it was all over, I walked into Crawford’s office and made it clear that I understood the rules but I had to know that you were all right. He looked up at me with those fish eyes of his and said you were back in Cairo. I think it bothered him even to tell me that … And now you tell me that the whole damned operation was blown open by one of us! A Four-Zero strategy can’t be unsealed for years, often decades! There are records going back to World War Two that won’t see the light of day until the middle of the next century, if then.”
“Who controls those records, MJ, those files?”
“They’re carted off to oblivion—stored in warehouses around the country controlled by government custodians with armed guards and alarm systems so high-tech they reach instantly back to Washington, alerting us here, as well as the departments of State and Defense and the White House strategy rooms. Of course, for the past twenty years or so, with the proliferation of sophisticated computers, most are stored in data banks with access codes that have to be coordinated between a minimum of three intelligence services and the Oval Office. Where original documents are considered vital, they’re sealed and packed off.” Payton shrugged, his palms upturned. “Oblivion, my dear. It’s all foolproof, theftproof.”
“It obviously isn’t,” disagreed the field agent from Cairo.
“It is, when those records reach the level of security controls,” countered MJ
. “So I think you’d better tell me everything you know and everything the Congressman told you. Because if what you say is true, we’ve got a bastard somewhere between the decision to go maximum and the data banks.”
Adrienne Khalehla Rashad leaned back in the chair and began. She withheld nothing from her once and always Uncle Mitch, not even the sexual accident that had occurred in Bahrain. “I can’t say I’m sorry, professionally or otherwise, MJ. We were both stretched and scared and, frankly, he’s a hell of a decent man—out of his depth, but kind of fine, I guess. I reconfirmed it this morning in Maryland.”
“In bed?”
“Good Lord, no. In what he said, what he’s reaching for. Why he did what he did, why he even became a congressman and now wants out, as I’ve told you. I’m sure he’s got warts all over him, but he’s also got a good anger.”
“I think I detect certain feelings in my ‘niece’ that I’ve wanted to see for a long, long time.”
“Oh, they’re there, I’d be a hypocrite to deny them, but I doubt that there’s anything permanent. In a way, we’re alike. I’m projecting, but I think we’re both more consumed with what we have to do, as two separate people, than in what the other wants. Yet I like him, MJ, I really do like him. He makes me laugh, and not just at him but with him.”
“That’s terribly important,” said Payton wistfully, his smile and his gentle frown even sadder than before. “I’ve never found anyone who could genuinely make me laugh … not with her. Of course, it’s a flaw in my own makeup. I’m too damned demanding, and worse off for it.”
“You have no flaws, or warts,” insisted Rashad. “You’re my Uncle Mitch and I won’t hear of it.”
“Your father always made your mother laugh. I envied them at times, despite the problems they faced. He did make her laugh.”
“It was a defense mechanism. Mother thought he could say ‘divorce’ three times and she’d have to split.”
The Icarus Agenda Page 46
