of the State Department. He was the only person running on the pavement.
The designated situation room in the underground complex at the Department of State was labelled OHIO-Four-Zero. Translated it meant 'Oman, maximum alert'. Beyond the metal door rows of computers clacked incessantly, and every now and then a machine - having instantaneously crosschecked with the central data bank - emitted a short high-pitched signal announcing new or previously unreported information. Intense men and women studied the printouts, trying to evaluate what they read.
Nothing. Zero. Madness!
Inside that large, energized room was another metal door, smaller than the entrance and with no access to the corridor. It was the office of the senior official in charge of the Masqat crisis; at arm's length was a telephone console with links to every seat of power and every source of information in Washington. The current proprietor was a middle-aged deputy director of Consular Operations, the State Department's little known arm of covert activities. His name was Frank Swann, and at the moment - a high noon that held no sunlight for him - his head with its prematurely grey hair lay on his folded arms on the top of the desk. He had not had a night's sleep for nearly a week, making do with only such naps as this one.
The console's sharp hum jarred him awake; his right hand shot out. He punched the lighted button and picked up the phone. 'Yes?... What is it?' Swann shook his head and swallowed air, only partially relieved that the caller was his secretary five storeys above. He listened, then spoke wearily. ' Who? Congressman, a congressman? The last thing I need is a congressman. How the hell did he get my name?... Never mind, spare me. Tell him I'm in conference - with God, if you like - or go one better and say with the secretary.'
'I've prepared him for something like that. It's why I'm calling from your office. I told him I could only reach you on this phone.'
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.'