I made no attempt to rise to my feet, as I lay next to the lapping water on the slanted ramp. The reddish dirty bag rope dangled from my right hand. When I’d been out in the pier-end restaurant with Shawna, neither she nor any of the members of the Dwarfs, really had much to do with the Western White House machinations, except for Gularte and now Bob Elwell. In thinking about what Paul had said in guiding me, with respect to the ‘sinking of the Porsche,’ as my mind always went to in thinking about the incident, and my ever more strange meetings with Mardian, I’d come to realize that having certain information could risk the person who had the information. The White House’s level of power was so great that just a hint that somebody might need to be ‘taken care of’ at a lower level, particularly when things were falling apart all over, could be a terminal kind of discussion, or instruction, or order.

I was cold to my core. The canvas sack dangled against my leg, water cascading its way through the rough canvas threads. Whatever was inside the sack was soaked through unless somehow water repellant in some other way. Mardian had no trouble believing the package would be destroyed by the smallest of explosives, even the pound of C-4 I’d been saddled with wouldn’t have left much of the car to be recognizable if and when the wreck finally surfaced. There was little doubt in my mind that Butch wouldn’t be after the Porsche first thing in the morning. His enthusiasm had been most evident when he’d talked about it.

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