The Icarus Agenda: A Novel

  In accord with the President’s publicly stated instructions, Special Projects had moved swiftly at the beginning and assumed responsibility for all security measures mounted to protect the hero of Oman from terrorist reprisals. Kendrick was impressed, initially because of the security arrangements. In the space of one hour after a presidential limousine had driven him away from the estate in Maryland, Mitchell Payton had total control of his movements—in a sense, of his life. The communications equipment came later, quite a bit later, the delay due to Khalehla’s obstinacy. She had resisted the idea of moving into Kendrick’s house, but after eighteen days of hotel living and numerous awkward out-of-the-way meetings with Evan and her Uncle Mitch, the latter had put his foot down.

  “Damn it, my dear, there’s no way I can justify the cost of a safe house solely for one of my people, nor would I list the reason if I could, and I certainly can’t install the equipment we need in a hotel. Also, I’ve passed the official word from Cairo to D.C. that you’ve resigned from the Agency. We can’t afford you in the sector any longer. So I really don’t think you have a choice.”

  “I’ve been trying to convince her,” Kendrick had interrupted in the private room of a restaurant across the Maryland border. “If she’s worried about appearances, I’ll put it in the Congressional Record that my aunt’s in town. How about an older aunt with a face-lift?”

  “Oh, you bloody fool. All right, I’ll do it.”

  “What equipment?” Evan asked, turning to Payton. “What do you need?”

  “Nothing you can buy,” answered the CIA director. “And items only we can install.”

  The next morning a telephone-repair truck had drawn up to the house. It was waved onto the grounds by the Agency patrols, and men in telephone-company uniforms went to work while over twenty stonemasons were completing the wall and ten others were finishing the impenetrable fence. Linemen climbed successive poles from a junction box, pulling wires from one to another, and sending a separate cable to Kendrick’s roof. Still others drove a second truck around the rear drive and into the attached garage where they uncrated the computer console and carried it into the downstairs study. Three hours and twenty minutes later, Mitchell Payton’s equipment was in place and functioning. That afternoon Evan had picked up Khalehla in front of her hotel on Nebraska Avenue.

  “Hello there, Auntie?”

  “I want a dead bolt on the guest room door,” she had replied, laughing as she threw her soft nylon bag into the rack behind the seat and climbed in.

  “Don’t bother, I never mess with older relatives.”

  “You already have, but not now.” She had turned to him, adding with gentle yet firm sincerity. “I mean that, Evan. This isn’t Bahrain; we’re in business together, not bed. Okay?”

  “That’s why you wouldn’t move in before?”

  “Of course.”

  “You don’t know me very well,” Kendrick had said after a few moments of silence in the traffic.

  “That’s part of it.”

  “Which leads me to a question I’ve wanted to ask you but I thought you might take it the wrong way.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “When you walked into that house in Maryland last month, among the first things you mentioned was Bahrain. Yet later you told me the house was wired, that anything we said would be heard. Why did you say it then?”

  “Because I wanted the subject dispensed with as rapidly and as thoroughly as possible.”

  “Meaning that others—people cleared to read the transcripts—would assume or suspect what happened.”

  “Yes, and I wanted my position clear, which was not supine. My following statements were consistent.”

  “Case closed,” said Evan, heading into the Beltway toward Virginia.

  “Thanks.”

  “By the way, I’ve told the Hassans all about you—sorry, not all, of course. They can’t wait to meet you.”

  “They’re your couple from Dubai, aren’t they?”

  “Far more than ‘a couple.’ Old friends from long ago.”

  “I didn’t mean it in a belittling sense. He’s a professor, isn’t he?”

  “With luck he’ll have a post at either Georgetown or Princeton next spring; there was a little matter of papers that we’ve managed to clear up. Incidentally, ‘small world’ department, he reveres your father. He met him once in Cairo, so be prepared for a lot of reverence.”

  “That’ll pass quickly,” laughed Khalehla. “He’ll learn soon enough that I’m neither in his or Dad’s league.”

  “You can use a computer, though, can’t you?”

  “Well, yes, I can. I frequently have to.”

  “I can’t. Sabri’s wife, Kashi, can’t, and certainly he can’t, so maybe you’re way out of our league.”

  “Flattery doesn’t suit you, Evan. Remember the dead bolt in the door.”

  They had arrived at the house, where Khalehla was warmly greeted by Kashi Hassan; an instant friendship was formed, as was a tradition among Arabic women.

  “Where’s Sabri?” Kendrick had asked. “I want him to meet Khalehla.”

  “He’s in your study, dear Evan. He’s instructing a gentleman from the Central Intelligence Agency how to operate the computer in case of an emergency.”

  It had been over three weeks since the Khalehla-Langley axis had been in full operation, and they were no closer to learning anything new than they were since the sterile house in Maryland. Scores of people who even might have had the slightest possible access to the Oman file were put under Payton’s intelligence microscopes. Every step in the maximum-classified procedure was studied for flaws in personnel; none were found. The file itself was written by the State Department’s Frank Swann in tandem with the Agency’s Lester Crawford, the mechanics involving a single word processor, the typing done in shifts of a thousand words per typist with all proper names omitted, inserted later solely by Swann and Crawford.

  The decision to go to maximum classification was reached by overview, a summary without details, but with the highest recommendations of the secretaries of State and Defense and the Joint Chiefs, as well as the Central Intelligence Agency. It was all accomplished without Kendrick’s name or the identities or nationalities of other individuals or military units; the basic information had been submitted to the select committees of the Senate and the House for approval at the conclusion of the crisis fifteen months ago. Both congressional approvals were instantly forthcoming; it was also assumed that the Washington Post press leak concerning an unknown American in Masqat had come from an indiscreet member of these committees.

  Who? How? Why? They were back where they had started from: by all the rules of logic and elimination, the Oman file was beyond reach, yet it had been stolen.

  “There’s something not logical,” Payton had pronounced. “A hole in the system and we’re missing it.”

  “No kidding,” Kendrick had agreed.

  Payton’s decision regarding Evan’s sudden appointments to both the Partridge Committee and the Select Subcommittee for Intelligence had floored Kendrick. Neither the manipulative Partridge nor the equally manipulating Speaker of the House should be approached directly. Why not? Evan had objected. If he was the one being programmed, he had every right to confront those who were willing accessories.

  “No, Congressman,” Payton had said. “If they were blackmailed into appointing you, you can be sure they’ll stonewall and send out alarms. Our blond European and whoever he works for will go further underground. We don’t stop them; we simply can’t find them. I remind you, it’s the ‘why’ that concerns us. Why are you, a relatively apolitical freshman representative from an obscure district in Colorado, being pushed into the political center?”

  “It’s died down a lot—”

  “You don’t watch television very much,” Khalehla had said. “Two cable networks did retrospectives on you last week.”

  “What?”

  “I didn’t tell you. There was no point. It wo
uld only have made you angry.”

  Kendrick lowered the Mercedes’s window and stuck out his arm. The government mobile unit behind him was new and the turn in the country road ahead was halfway around a long wooden curve, the turn itself close to a blind one. He was warning his guards, and he supposed there was a minor irony in that.… His thoughts returned to the “lousy enigma,” as he and Khalehla had come to call the whole elusive mess that had screwed up his life. Mitch Payton—it was now “Mitch” and “Evan”—had driven over from Langley the other evening.

  “We’re working on something new,” the director of Special Projects had said in the study. “On the assumption that Swann’s European had to reach a great many people in order to compile the information he had on you, we’re assembling some data ourselves. It may offend you, but we, too, are going back over your life.”

  “How many years?”

  “We picked you up when you were eighteen—the chances of anything before then having relevance is remote.”

  “Eighteen? Christ, isn’t anything sacred?”

  “Do you want it to be? If so, I’ll call it off.”

  “No, of course not. It’s just kind of a shock. You can get that sort of information?”

  “It’s nowhere near as difficult as people think. Credit bureaus, personnel files and routine background checks do it all the time.”

  “What’s the point?”

  “Several possibilities—realistically two, I suppose. As I mentioned, the first is our doggedly curious European. If we could put together a list of people he had to reach in order to learn about you, we’d be closer to finding him, and I think we all agree, he’s the linchpin.… The second possibility is something we haven’t attempted. In trying to unearth the vanishing blond man and whoever’s behind him, we’ve concentrated on the events in Oman and the file itself. We’ve restricted our microscopes to government-oriented areas.”

  “Where else would we look?” Kendrick had asked.

  “Your personal life, I’m afraid. There could be something or someone in your own past, an event, or people that you knew, an incident perhaps that galvanized friends or conceivably enemies who wanted to advance your position—or conversely—make you a target. And make no mistake, Congressman, you are a potential target, nobody’s kidding about that.”

  “But, MJ,” broke in Khalehla. “Even if we found people who either liked him or hated him, they’d have to be Washington-connected. Mr. Jones from Ann Arbor, Michigan—friend or enemy—couldn’t just go to the max-classified data banks or the archives and say, ‘By the way, there’s a certain file I’d like to have a copy of so I can mock up a fake memorandum for the newspapers.’ I don’t understand.”

  “Neither do I, Adrienne—or should I call you ‘Khalehla,’ which will take some getting used to.”

  “There’s no reason for you to call me Khalehla—”

  “Don’t interrupt,” said Evan, smiling. “Khalehla’s just fine,” he added.

  “Yes, well, I really don’t understand,” continued Payton. “But as I told you, there’s a hole in the system, a gap we’ve missed, and we have to try everything.”

  “Then why not go after Partridge and the Speaker of the House?” pressed Kendrick. “If I could do what I did in Masqat, they can’t be so tough to break down.”

  “Not yet, young man. The timing isn’t right, and the Speaker’s retiring.”

  “Now I don’t understand.”

  “MJ means he’s working on both,” Khalehla had explained.

  Evan braked the Mercedes around the long curve in the Virginia woods and waited until he saw the mobile unit in his rearview mirror; he then turned right into the pasture road that was the back way to his house. The guards would admit him. He wanted to hurry now; it was why he had taken the shortcut. Khalehla had called him at the office and told him Mitchell Payton’s list had arrived over the computer printout. His past was about to be presented to him.

  Milos Varak walked down the boarded path toward the enormous beach fronting the Hotel del Coronado three miles over the bridge from San Diego. He had worked diligently for weeks to find a crack through which he could penetrate the ranks of the Vice President of the United States. Most of the time was spent in Washington; the administration’s Secret Service was not easily invaded. Until he found a man, a dedicated man, with a strong physique and a disciplined mind, but with an unacceptable avocation that if exposed would destroy his assets, as well as his career and undoubtedly his life. He was a well-compensated procurer for various high-ranking members of the government. He had been primed for his work by the elders of his “family,” who had spotted his potential and sent him to the finest parochial schools and through a major university—major but not rich, for that image would be incorrect. The elders wanted a well-groomed, fine-looking, upstanding young man placed in a position to dispense favors in return for certain accommodations. And what better favors were there than below a weak man’s belt, and how better to reach accommodations than the knowledge thereof. The elders were pleased, had been pleased for a number of years. This man came from the Mafia; he was Mafia; he served the Mafia.

  Varak approached the lone figure in a raincoat by the rocks of a jetty several hundred yards from the high, imposing Cyclone fence of the Naval Air Station.

  “Thank you so much for seeing me,” said Milos pleasantly.

  “I thought you had an accent on the phone,” said the well-spoken, well-trained, dark-featured man. “Are you a redbird courier? Because if you are, you’ve reached the wrong swallow.”

  “A Communist? I’m the furthest thing from it. I’m so American your consiglieri could present me to the Vatican.”

  “That’s insulting, to say nothing of being totally inaccurate.… You made several very stupid statements, so stupid that you provoked my curiosity, which is why I’m here.”

  “For whatever reason, I’m grateful that you are.”

  “The bottom line was pretty clear,” interrupted the Secret Service agent. “You threatened me, sir.”

  “I’m sorry you were offended, I never meant to threaten you. I merely said that I was aware of certain additional services you provided—”

  “Stop being so polite—”

  “There’s no reason to be discourteous,” said Varak courteously. “I simply wanted you to understand my position.”

  “You don’t have a position,” corrected the government man with emphasis. “Our records are unblemished, if you get my point.”

  The Czech shifted his feet in the sand and waited while the roar of a jet passing over from the Naval Air Station diminished in the sky. “You’re saying that there are no records and your point is that you won’t discuss anything concrete because you think I may be wearing a recording device.” Varak unbuttoned his jacket, separating it. “Be my guest, search me. Personally, I wouldn’t care to have my voice on the same tape with yours.… Please, go ahead. I will, of course, remove my weapon and hold it in my hand, but I won’t stop you.”

  The White House guardian was sullen, hesitant. “You’re too accommodating,” he said, standing motionless.

  “On the other hand,” added Milos quickly. “We can dispense with this awkwardness if you’d just read something I’ve prepared for you.” The Czech released his jacket, reached into his pocket and pulled out several sheets of folded paper. He snapped them open and handed them to the Secret Service agent.

  As the man read, his eyes narrowed and his lips parted, frozen into the start of a snarl; in seconds a reasonably strong and attractive face became ugly. “You’re a dead man,” he said quietly.

  “That could be shortsighted, don’t you think? Because if I am, surely so are you. The capos would descend like a pack of wild dogs while the dons, drinking their fine red wine as if it were your blood, waited to hear of your very unpleasant death. Records? What are those? Names, dates, times, locations—and correspondingly, opposite each entry, the results of your sexual merchandise, or rather, blackmailed into being
results. Bills amended, contracts awarded, government projects voted up or down according to their allocations. I’d say it’s quite a record. And where does it all lead back to? Let me guess. The most unlikely source one can imagine.… An unpublished telephone number listed under a false name and address but located in the apartment of a member of the government’s Secret Service.”

  “Those girls are dead.… The boys are dead—”

  “Don’t blame them. They had no more of a choice than you do now. Believe me, it’s better to assist me than to oppose me. I have no interest in your extracurricular activities; you provide a service that if you didn’t somebody else would for roughly the same results. All I want from you is information, and in exchange I’ll burn every copy of those pages. Of course, you have only my word for it, but as I’m likely to call upon your expertise again, I’d be stupid to release them, and I assure you I’m not stupid.”

  “Obviously not,” agreed the Mafia soldier, his voice barely audible. “Why throw a gun away when you can still use it.”

  “I’m glad you understand my position.”

  “What sort of information are you looking for?”

  “It’s innocuous, nothing that will upset you. Let’s start with the FBI unit that’s been assigned to the Vice President. Aren’t you people doing your job? Do you need a special task force from the Bureau?”

  “It hasn’t anything to do with us. We’re in place for protection. They’re investigative.”

  “You can’t protect unless you investigate.”

  “It’s different levels. We come up with something, we turn it over to the Bureau.”

  “What did you come up with that called for this unit?”

  “We didn’t,” answered the man. “A couple of months ago a series of threats were made against Viper and—”

  “Viper?”

  “The Vice President.”