“Did you call the Governor to confirm my bona fides?” he asked.
She nodded.
“And did they tell you I was in your chain of command?”
“Yes.”
He bobbed his huge head. It reminded her of the spring-mounted heads of those stuffed puppies in the back windows of cars. She started to giggle, clamped down on it. She had a public image to maintain. She was still her father’s daughter, even if she’d killed him.
“Are you all right?” Casaday asked, frowning irritably.
She sipped iced water from a cut-crystal goblet. “I’m fine.”
“The first thing I need to know is, where the hell are those bozos from the DEA?”
“They’re gone,” she said, drawing pictures in the ring of condensation the base of the glass had left on the table.
Casaday’s shades almost fell off. “Gone? Where the hell have they gone off to?”
“Bob said they went to Ankara. In Turkey.”
“I know where Ankara is. Jesus Christ. Whatever possessed those morons to —”
He stopped, swung his head full to bear on her. She still couldn’t see his eyes, but she could feel their awful pressure. “Bob said. Bob who?”
“Belew. J. Robert Belew.” She smiled faintly. “To use your phrase, I guess you could say he’s with the embassy too.”
“I guess not!” Casaday exploded. “What the hell did that crazy cowboy sonofabitch have to do with this investigation?”
“He was with us from the outset. He was the one who got us this far.” Why am I defending him? she wondered. He abandoned me. Like every other man I’ve… cared for. Yet he had never promised more than he had delivered, and he had delivered, in his own way, quite a lot.
Casaday had gone dead pale beneath his Southeast Asia Incipient Cancer Tan. “What did you say?” he asked.
“He was with us from Amsterdam on. He was our CIA contact. He took charge of the team, after Saxon and Hamilton messed up two straight grabs on Meadows.”
Casaday took a deep breath and shook his head. “I don’t know how the fuck stupid you are. Belew is not with Central Intelligence. He had nothing to do with this case. Nothing.”
She was glad of his rudeness, his masculine contempt; it helped her pull together. “Mr. Casaday, I am handling this case under contract to the Drug Enforcement Agency. DEA was satisfied with his credentials. It was neither my place nor my right to question his assignment to the team. Now, I would appreciate it very much if you would retract calling me stupid.”
“Christ, is this bimbo for real?” Casaday murmured under this breath.
A wind began to rise out of the Chao Phrya breeze like Godzilla from Tokyo Harbor. Parasols whipped on their staffs, women cried out as their skirts flew up, a waiter exclaimed as his tray was sucked from his hands in a clatter of breaking china.
O. K. Casaday’s tie wound itself around his throat, seemed to be dragging him up out of his chair. It was not tight enough to strangle him, but try as he might, he could force no air into his lungs.
“I am not a bimbo, Mr. Casaday,” Mistral said, smiling sweetly. “I am a fully accredited agent of the United States government. I am also an ace. Now, would you like to apologize for your rude and completely uncalled-for personal remarks, or shall I leave you breathless until you lose whatever brain cells you may have remaining?”
Casaday started frantically nodding his head, then shook it just as vehemently. One of the parasol spokes above him gave with a musical ping.
“Which, Mr. Casaday? Does that mean you’ll apologize?”
He mouthed the word yes.
The whirlwind stopped. The parasol quit flapping. Casaday fell back into his chair. Immediately he began tearing at his necktie.
Mistral waited primly until he’d cleared himself an airway. “You had something to say to me, I believe?”
A tendril of wind brushed his face. “Yes! I apologize! I’m sorry. Jesus. Believe me, I’m sorry. I take back everything I said about you.”
“Very good, Mr. Casaday. I will probably find it unnecessary to file a sexual-harassment complaint against you when I return to Washington. Now, please explain the situation concerning Mr. Belew to me.”
“Belew is what we call a cowboy. He’s ex-Special Forces, served several tours in ’Nam during the war. Since then he’s done a lot of contract work all over the world, for Central intelligence and freelance.”
“He seems eminently qualified,” she murmured. “I see no reason anyone should have questioned his credentials.”
“He’s a nut, Ms. Carlysle. He thinks he’s the last knight in shining armor and he still sees communists under the bed. More to the point, he is not currently in the employment of the CIA. He has no authorization.”
There was a time, not long past, when she would have crumpled under the weight of Casaday’s revelations. Now she was … amused. I’m beginning to heal, she thought. She knew who had helped her begin the process.
Helen Carlysle lifted the rose from her lap and twirled its thorny stem in her fingers. “The last knight. Yes, Mr. Casaday, I can see why you would have contempt for him.”
“Yeah,” he said, believing she agreed with his assessment. “He was playing some kind of zany game of his own. He was never on this case. And now — please don’t do anything rash here, Ms. Carlysle — now you’re off it too.”
She looked at him.
He pushed a yellow Western Union slip across the table at her. “You’ll find one just like this waiting for you at the front desk. It’s from the Governor, and it confirms what I’ve said.
“Go on back home and spend your paycheck, Ms. Carlysle. Or enjoy beautiful Bangkok a few more days — just as long as you don’t start asking any questions. With all due respect for your professional qualifications — and believe me, I do respect them — you’re out of your depth in the phase this game has entered now.”
He shook his head. “So are Heckle and Jeckle from the DEA. I wonder what on earth happened to those dipshits, anyway?”
At Ankara Customs the neat, swarthy men in tan uniforms and peaked caps that seemed as wide as their shoulders glanced at Saxon’s and Hamilton’s passports and the holders open to show their DEA shields and murmured, “Please follow us.”
The Americans exchanged glances. Saxon shrugged. They followed. Saxon muttered, “We have nothing to worry about. It’s all in the bag; we’re DEA,” to his partner out of the side of his mouth. Hamilton hitched the shoulder strap of his overnight bag up higher on his shoulder and did not look convinced.
They were led to a small room. Though there were only two people in it, it seemed pretty well full already. The man in civilian clothes, fedora, and dark sunglasses didn’t take up much space, but the dude standing beside him — in baggy cloth-of-gold pants, blue-and-red vest over hairy bare chest, and an enormous turban on his head — definitely constituted a crowd of one. Especially since his hygiene seemed a little on the questionable side; it was close in here.
“Check out this geek with the sofa cushion on his head,” Saxon said from the corner of his mouth. He had made a little trip to the bathroom just before landing, and he was feeling fine. Hamilton shushed him frantically.
“I am Colonel Nalband,” the man in civilian clothes said. “This is Yaralanmaz, our Turkish national ace. His name means ‘invulnerable.’”
Yaralanmaz nodded his extensively turbaned head. “We’re honored,” Hamilton said.
“Yeah,” Saxon said, grinning hugely. “Honored.”
His grin shattered when the two uniforms started dipping gloved hands into the pockets of his off-white jacket. “Hey! What the fuck’s going on here? We’re DEA, damn it. This is bogus, man. Completely bogus.”