The Icarus Agenda: A Novel

  “Yes, it is, because it’s directly in line with what I made clear when I walked in here. I want a written guarantee of anonymity. I was never here. I never saw you, and I never talked to you. Send a memo up to the Secretary of State. Say you had a phone call from a political ally of mine in Colorado mentioning my name and telling you that with my background you should get in touch with me. You rejected the approach, believing it was just another politician trying to make mileage out of the State Department—that shouldn’t be difficult for you.” Kendrick pulled out a notepad from his jacket pocket and reached over, picking up Swann’s pencil. “Here’s the address of my attorney in Washington. Have a copy delivered to him by messenger before I get on the plane at Andrews. When he tells me it’s there, I’ll get on board.”

  “Our mutual objective here is so clear and so clean I should be congratulating myself,” said Swann. “So why don’t I? Why do I keep thinking there’s something you’re not telling me?”

  “Because you’re suspicious by nature and profession. You wouldn’t be in that chair if you weren’t.”

  “This secrecy you’re so insistent on—”

  “Apparently so are you,” Kendrick broke in.

  “I’ve given you my reason. There are two hundred thirty-six people out there. We’re not about to give anyone an excuse to pull a trigger. You, on the other hand, if you don’t get killed, have a lot to gain. What’s your reason for this secrecy?”

  “Not much different from yours,” said the visitor. “I made a great many friends throughout the whole area. I’ve kept up with a lot of them; we correspond; they visit me frequently—our associations are no secret. If my name surfaced, some zealots might consider jaremat thaár.”

  “Penalty for friendship,” translated Swann.

  “The climate’s right for it,” added Kendrick.

  “I suppose that’s good enough,” said the deputy director without much conviction. “When do you want to leave?”

  “As soon as possible. There’s nothing to straighten out here. I’ll grab a cab, go home and change clothes—”

  “No cabs, Congressman. From here on until you get to Masqat you’re listed as a government liaison under an available cover and flying military transport. You’re under wraps.” Swann reached for his phone. “You’ll be escorted down to the ramp where an unmarked car will drive you home and then on to Andrews. For the next twelve hours you’re government property, and you’ll do what we tell you to do.”

  Evan Kendrick sat in the backseat of the unmarked State Department car staring out the window at the lush foliage along the Potomac. Soon the driver would veer to the left and enter a long wooded corridor of Virginia greenery five minutes from his house. His isolated house, he reflected, his very lonely house, despite a live-in couple who were old friends and the discreet, though not excessive, procession of graceful women who shared his bed, also friends.

  Four years and nothing permanent. Permanency for him was half a world away where nothing was permanent but the constant necessity of moving from one job to the next, finding the best quarters available for everyone, and making sure that tutors were available for his partners’ children—children he wished at times were his; specific children, of course. But for him there had never been time for marriage and children; ideas were his wives, projects his offspring. Perhaps this was why he had been the leader; he had no domestic distractions. The women he made love to were mostly driven like himself. Again, like himself, they sought the temporary exhilaration, even the comfort, of brief affairs, but the operative word was ‘temporary.’ And then in those wonderful years there was the excitement and the laughter, the hours of fear and the moments of elation when a project’s results exceeded their expectations. They were building an empire—a small one, to be sure—but it would grow, and in time, as Weingrass insisted, the children of the Kendrick Group would go to the best schools in Switzerland, only a few hours away by air. “They’ll become a boardroom of international menschen!” Manny had roared. “All that fine education and all those languages. We’re rearing the greatest collection of statesmen and stateswomen since Disraeli and Golda!”

  “Uncle Manny, can we go fishing?” a young spokesman would invariably implore, wide-eyed conspirators behind him.

  “Of course, David—such a glorious name. The river is only a few kilometers away. We’ll all catch whales, I promise you!”

  “Manny, please,” one of the mothers would invariably object. “Their homework.”

  “That work is for home—study your syntax. Whales are in the river!”

  All that was permanence for Evan Kendrick. And suddenly it had all been shattered, a thousand broken mirrors in the sunlight, each fragment of bloody glass reflecting an image of lovely reality and wondrous expectations. All the mirrors had turned black, no reflections anywhere. Death.

  “Don’t do it!” screamed Emmanuel Weingrass. “I feel the pain as much as you. But don’t you see, it’s what they want you to do, expect you to do! Don’t give them—don’t give him—that gratification! Fight them, fight him! I will fight with you. Show me your posture, boy!”

  “For whom, Manny? Against whom?”

  “You know as well as I do! We’re only the first; others will follow. Other ‘accidents,’ loved ones killed, projects abandoned. You will allow that?”

  “I simply don’t care.”

  “So you let him win?”

  “Who?”

  “The Mahdi!”

  “A drunken rumor, nothing more.”

  “He did it! He killed them! I know it!”

  “There’s nothing here for me, old friend, and I can’t chase shadows. There’s no fun any longer. Forget it, Manny, I’ll make you rich.”

  “I don’t want your coward money!”

  “You won’t take it?”

  “Of course I’ll take it. I simply don’t love you anymore.”

  Then four years of anxiety, futility and boredom, wondering when the warm wind of love or the cold wind of hate would blow across the smoldering coals inside him. He had told himself over and over again that when the fires suddenly erupted, for whatever reason, the time would be right and he would be ready. He was ready now and no one could stop him. Hate.

  The Mahdi.

  You took the lives of my closest friends as surely as if you had installed that conduit yourself. I had to identify so many bodies—the broken, twisted, bleeding bodies of the people who meant so much to me. The hatred remains, and it’s deep and cold and won’t go away and let me live my life until you’re dead. I have to go back and pick up the pieces, be my own self again and finish what all of us were building together. Manny was right. I ran away, forgiving myself because of the pain, forgetting the dreams we had. I’ll go back and finish now. I’m coming after you, Mahdi, whoever you are, wherever you are. And no one will know I was there.

  “Sir? Sir, we’re here.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “This is your house,” said the marine driver. “I guess you were catching a nap, but we have a schedule to keep.”

  “No nap, Corporal, but, of course, you’re right.” Kendrick gripped the handle and opened the door. “I’ll only be twenty minutes or so.… Why don’t you come in? The maid’ll get you a snack or a cup of coffee while you wait.”

  “I wouldn’t get out of this car, sir.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’re with OHIO. I’d probably get shot.”

  Stunned, and halfway out of the door, Evan Kendrick turned and looked behind him. At the end of the street, the deserted tree-lined street without a house in sight, a lone car was parked at the curb. Inside, two figures sat motionless in the front seat.

  For the next twelve hours you’re government property, and you’ll do what we tell you to do.

  * * *

  The silhouetted figure walked rapidly into the windowless sterile room, closed the door, and in the darkness continued to the table where there was the small brass lamp. He turned it on and we
nt directly to his equipment that covered the right wall. He sat down in front of the processor, touched the switch that brought the screen to life, and typed in the code.

  Ultra Maximum Secure

  No Existing Intercepts

  Proceed

  He continued his journal, his fingers trembling with elation.

  Everything is in motion now. The subject is on his way, the journey begun. I cannot, of course, project the obstacles facing him, much less his success or failure; I only know through my highly developed “appliances” that he is uniquely qualified. One day we will be able to factor in more accurately the human quotient, but that day is not yet here. Nevertheless, if he survives, lightning will strike—my projections make that clear from a hundred different successfully factored options. The small circle of need-to-know officials have been alerted through ultra max modem communications. Child’s play for my appliances.

  3

  The estimated flying time from Andrews to the U.S. Air Force base in Sicily was seven hours plus. Arrival was scheduled for 5:00 A.M., Rome time—eight o’clock in the morning in Oman, which was four to five hours away depending on the prevailing Mediterranean winds and whatever secure routes were available. Takeoff into the Atlantic darkness had been swift in the military jet, a converted F-106 Delta with a cabin that included two adjacent seats in the rear with tray tables that served as both miniature desks and surfaces for food and drink. Swiveled lights angled down from the ceiling, permitting those reading to move the sharp beams into the areas of concentration, whether they were manuscript, photographs or maps. Kendrick was fed the pages from OHIO-Four-Zero by the man on his left, one page at a time, each given only after the previous page was returned. In two hours and twelve minutes, Evan had completed the entire file.

  He was about to start at the beginning again when the young man on his left, a handsome, dark-eyed member of OHIO-Four-Zero, who had introduced himself simply as a State Department aide, held up his hand.

  “Can’t we take time out for some food, sir?” he asked.

  “Oh? Sure.” Kendrick stretched in his seat. “Frankly, there’s not a hell of a lot here that’s very useful.”

  “I didn’t think there would be,” said the clean-cut youngster.

  Evan looked at his seat companion, for the first time studying him. “You know, I don’t mean this in a derogatory sense—I really don’t—but for a highly classified State Department operation, you strike me as being kind of young for the job. You can’t be out of your twenties.”

  “Close to it,” replied the aide. “But I’m pretty good at what I do.”

  “Which is?”

  “Sorry, no comment, sir,” said the seat companion. “Now, how about that food? It’s a long flight.”

  “How about a drink?”

  “We’ve made special provisions for civilians.” The dark-haired, dark-browed young man smiled and signaled the Air Force steward, a corporal in a bulkhead seat facing aft; the attendant rose and came forward. “A glass of white wine and a Canadian on the rocks, please.”

  “A Canadian—”

  “That’s what you drink, isn’t it?”

  “You’ve been busy.”

  “We never stop.” The aide nodded to the corporal, who retreated to the miniature galley. “I’m afraid the food is fixed and standard,” continued the young man from OHIO. “It’s in line with the Pentagon cutbacks … and certain lobbyists from the meat and produce industries. Filet mignon with asparagus hol-landaise and boiled potatoes.”

  “Some cutbacks.”

  “Some lobbyists,” added Evan’s seat companion, grinning. “Then there’s a dessert of baked Alaska.”

  “What?”

  “You can’t overlook the dairy boys.” The drinks arrived; the steward returned to a bulkhead phone where a white light flashed, and the aide held up his glass. “Your health.”

  “Yours, too. Do you have a name?”

  “Pick one.”

  “That’s succinct. Will you settle for Joe?”

  “Joe it is. Nice to meet you, sir.”

  “Since you obviously know who I am, you have the advantage. You can use my name.”

  “Not on this flight.”

  “Then, who am I?”

  “For the record, you’re a cryptanalyst named Axelrod who’s being flown to the embassy in Jiddah, Saudi Arabia. The name doesn’t mean much; it’s basically for the pilot’s logs. If anyone wants your attention, he’ll just say ‘sir.’ Names are sort of off limits on these trips.”

  “Dr. Axelrod?” The corporal’s intrusion made the State Department’s aide blanch.

  “Doctor?” replied Evan, mildly astonished, looking at “Joe.”

  “Obviously you’re a Ph.D.,” said the aide under his breath.

  “That’s nice,” whispered Kendrick, raising his eyes to the steward. “Yes?”

  “The pilot would like to speak with you, sir. If you’ll follow me to the flight deck, please?”

  “Certainly,” agreed Evan, pushing up the tray table while handing ‘Joe’ his drink. “At least you were right about one thing, Junior,” he mumbled to the State Department man. “He said ‘sir.’ ”

  “And I don’t like it,” rejoined “Joe,” quietly, intensely. “All communications involving you are to be funneled through me.”

  “You want to make a scene?”

  “Screw it. It’s an ego trip. He wants to get close to the special cargo.”

  “The what?”

  “Forget it, Dr. Axelrod. Just remember, there are to be no decisions without my approval.”

  “You’re a tough kid.”

  “The toughest, Congress— Dr. Axelrod. Also, I’m not ‘Junior.’ Not where you’re concerned.”

  “Shall I convey your feelings to the pilot?”

  “You can tell him I’ll cut both his wings and his balls off if he pulls this again.”

  “Since I was the last on board, I didn’t meet him, but I gather he’s a brigadier general.”

  “He’s brigadier-bullshit to me.”

  “Good Lord,” said Kendrick, chuckling. “Interservice rivalry at forty thousand feet. I’m not sure I approve of that.”

  “Sir?” The Air Force steward was anxious.

  “Coming, Corporal.”

  The compact flight deck of the F-106 Delta glowed with a profusion of tiny green and red lights, dials and numbers everywhere. The pilot and co-pilot were strapped in front, the navigator on the right, a cushioned earphone clipped to his left ear, his eyes on a gridded computer screen. Evan had to bend down to advance the several feet he could manage in the small enclosure.

  “Yes, General?” he inquired. “You wanted to see me?”

  “I don’t even want to look at you, Doctor,” answered the pilot, his attention on the panels in front of him. “I’m just going to read you a message from someone named S. You know someone named S?”

  “I think I do,” replied Kendrick, assuming the message had been radioed by Swann at the Department of State. “What is it?”

  “It’s a pain in the butt to this bird, is what it is!” cried the brigadier general. “I’ve never landed there! I don’t know the field, and I’m told those fucking Eyetals over in that wasteland are better at making spaghetti sauce than they are giving approach instructions!”

  “It’s our own air base,” protested Evan.

  “The hell it is!” countered the pilot as his co-pilot shook his head in an emphatic negative. “We’re changing course to Sardinia! Not Sicily but Sardinia! I’ll have to blow out my engines to contain us on that strip—if, for Christ’s sake, we can find it!”

  “What’s the message, General?” asked Kendrick calmly. “There’s usually a reason for most things when plans are changed.”

  “Then you explain it—no, don’t explain it. I’m hot and bothered enough. Goddamned spooks!”

  “The message, please?”

  “Here it is.” The angry pilot read from a perforated sheet of paper. “ ‘Swit
ch necessary. Jiddah out. All M.A. where permitted under eyes—’ ”

  “What does that mean?” interrupted Evan quickly. “The M.A. under eyes.”

  “What it says.”

  “In English, please.”

  “Sorry, I forgot. Whoever you are you’re not what’s logged. It means all military aircraft in Sicily and Jiddah are under observation, as well as every field we land on. Those Arab bastards expect something and they’ve got their filthy psychos in place, ready to relay anything or anyone unusual.”

  “Not all Arabs are bastards or filthy or psychos, General.”

  “They are in my book.”

  “Then it’s unprintable.”

  “What is?”

  “Your book. The rest of the message, please.”

  The pilot made an obscene gesture with his right arm, the perforated paper in his hand. “Read it yourself, Arab lover. But it doesn’t leave this deck.”

  Kendrick took the paper, angled it toward the navigator’s light, and read the message. Switch necessary. Jiddah out. All M.A. where permitted under eyes. Transfer to civilian subsidiary on south island. Routed through Cyprus, Riyadh, to target. Arrangements cleared. ETA is close to Second Pillar el Maghreb best timing possible. Sorry. S. Evan reached out, holding the message over the brigadier general’s shoulder and dropped it. “I assume that ‘south island’ is Sardinia.”

  “You got it.”

  “Then, I gather, I’m to spend roughly ten more hours on a plane, or planes, through Cyprus, Saudi Arabia and finally to Masqat.”

  “I’ll tell you one thing, Arab lover,” continued the pilot. “I’m glad it’s you flying on those Minnie Mouse aircraft and not me. A word of advice: Grab a seat near an emergency exit, and if you can buy a chute, spend the money. Also a gas mask. I’m told those planes stink.”

  “I’ll try to remember your generous advice.”

  “Now you tell me something,” said the general. “What the hell is that ‘Second Pillar’ Arab stuff?”