'Mitch,' screamed Khalehla. 'I'm looking at his dark glasses now! They're on the bureau. He sometimes wears them during the day so he won't be recognized, but never at night. He says they draw attention at night and he's right about that. That man wasn't Evan. It's a set-up. They're holding him somewhere!'
'Hardball,' said Payton quietly. 'We'll have to get into the game.'
Kendrick opened his eyes as a person does who is unsure of where he is or what condition he is in or even whether he is awake or still asleep. There was only bewilderment, clouds of confusion swirling about in his head, and a numbness caused by frightening uncertainty. A lamp was on somewhere, its glow washing the beamed ceiling. He moved his hand, lifting his right arm off the unfamiliar bed in the unfamiliar room. He studied both hand and arm, then suddenly, swiftly he raised his left arm. What had happened? He swung his legs off the bed and unsteadily stood up, equal parts of terror and curiosity gripping him. Gone were the thick corduroy trousers and the coarse black denim shirt. He was dressed in his own clothes! In his navy blue suit, his congressional suit, as he frequently and humorously referred to it, the suit he had worn to Bollinger's house! And his white shirt and striped regimental tie, all freshly cleaned and laundered. What had happened? Where was he? Where was the well-appointed rustic cabin with the all-electric appliances and the recessed mirrored bar? This was a large bedroom he had never seen before.
Slowly, regaining balance, he moved about the strange surroundings, a part of him wondering if he was living a dream or had just lived one previously. He saw a pair of tall, narrow French doors; he walked rapidly over and opened them. They led out to a small balcony large enough for a couple to have coffee on but no more than that; a miniature round table and two wrought-iron chairs had been placed for such a ritual. He stood in front of the waist-high railing and looked out over the darkened grounds, dark except for a practically nonexistent moon and the parallel lines of amber lights that branched off in various directions… and something else. Far in the distance, lit up by the dim wash of floodlights, was a fenced area not unlike an immense wire cage. Within it there appeared to be blocks of massive machinery, some of it jet black and glistening, others chrome or silver, equally shimmering in the dull, cloud-covered moonlight. Evan concentrated on the sight, then turned his head to listen; there was a steady uninterrupted hum, and he knew he had found the answer to a question that had confused him. He did not have to see the signs that read: DANGER High Voltage; they were there. The wire-enclosed machinery were components of a huge generator undoubtedly fed by giant underground tanks of fuel, and fields of photovoltaic cells to capture the solar energy of the tropic sun.
Below the balcony was a sunken brick patio, the drop twenty-five feet or more which meant a twisted ankle or a broken leg if a person tried to leave that way. Kendrick studied the exterior walls; the nearest drainpipe was at the corner of the structure, far out of reach, and there were no vines that could be scaled, only sheer stucco… Blankets? Sheets! Tied firmly together, he could handle a drop of eight to ten feet! If he hurried … He suddenly stopped all movement, ended all thoughts of racing into the room and to the bed, as a figure appeared walking down an amber-lit path on the right, a rifle strapped over his shoulder. He raised his arm, a signal. Evan looked to the left; a second man was signalling back, patrols acknowledging each other. Kendrick pulled his watch up to his eyes, trying to read the second hand in the dull night light. If he could time the sentries' co-ordinates, have everything prepared… Again he was forced to stop what plans his desperation created. The bedroom door opened, and the reality that was, was now confirmed.
'I thought I heard you moving around,' said the Secret Service man from the ranks of the Mafia.
'And I should have realized the room was bugged,' said Evan, coming in from the balcony.
'You keep getting things wrong, Congressman. This is a guest room in the main house. You think these people would listen in on their guests' private conversations or their perfectly natural indulgences together?'
'I think they'd do anything. Otherwise, how did you know I was up?'
'Easy,' answered the Mafioso, crossing to the bureau against the far right wall and picking up a small flat object from the top. 'One of these. They're provided for people with infants. My sister in New Jersey won't go anywhere without them—they come in pairs. Plug it in one room, then plug it in another room and you can hear the child screaming. Let me tell you, her children scream a lot. You can hear them in Manhattan.'
'Very enlightening. When did I get my clothes back?'
'I don't know. The Hispanics took care of you, not me. Perhaps you were raped and don't know it.'
'Again, enlightening… Have you any idea what you've done, what you're involved in? You've abducted a not-unknown holder of government office, a member of the House of Representatives.'
'Good Lord, you make it sound like snatching the maitre d'hotel at Vinnie's Pasta Palace.'
'You're not amusing—’
'You are,' interrupted the guard, removing his automatic from a shoulder holster. 'You're also on call, Congressman. You're wanted downstairs.'
'Suppose I refuse the invitation?'
'Then I blow a hole through your stomach and kick a corpse down the stairs. Whichever, I really don't care. I'm being paid for a service, not a guaranteed delivery. Take your choice, hero.'
The room was a naturalist's nightmare. The heads of slain animals hung from the white stucco walls, their false eyes reflecting the panic of impending death. Skins of leopard, tiger and elephant were the upholstery, neatly stretched and brass-tacked over chairs and couches. If nothing else, it was an assertion of the power of man's bullet over unsuspecting wildlife, and not so much imposing as sad, as sad as the hollow triumphs of the victors.
The Secret Service guard had opened the door, gestured for Kendrick to go inside, and then closed it, remaining in the hallway. Once the initial effect of the room wore off, Evan realized that a man was seated at a large desk, only the back of his head visible. Several moments after the door closed, as if to make certain they were alone, the man turned around in the swivel chair.
'We've never met, Congressman,' said Crayton Grinell in his soft, pleasant lawyer's cadence, 'and discourteous as it may appear, I prefer to remain nameless… Please, sit down. There's no reason to be more uncomfortable than necessary. It's why your clothes were returned to you.'
'I gather they served their purpose in a place called Balboa Park.' Kendrick sat down in a chair in front of the desk; the seat was covered with leopard skin.
'Providing us with options, yes,' agreed Grinell.
'I see.' Evan suddenly recognized the distinctive voice he knew he had heard before. It was on the blond European's tape recording. The man in front of him was the vanished Crayton Grinell, the attorney responsible for wholesale death in Cyprus, killer of the Secretary of State. 'But since you don't want me to know who you are, am I to infer that one of those options might find me back in San Diego?'
'Quite possibly, but I must emphasize the questionable part. I'm being frank with you.'
'So were your friends at Bollinger's house.'
'I'm sure they were and so were you.'
'Did you have to do it?'
'Do what?'
'Kill an old man.'
'We had nothing to do with that! Besides, he's not dead.'
'He will be.'
'So will we all one day… It was a gratuitously stupid act, as stupid as her husband's incredible financial manipulations in Zurich. We may be many things, Congressman, but we're not stupid. However, we're wasting time. The Vanvlanderens are gone and whatever happened is buried with them. The erstwhile “Dr Lyons” will never be seen again—'
'I want him!' Kendrick broke in.
'But we got him and he got the maximum penalty a court can impose.'