The Icarus Agenda: A Novel

  “Whatever assistance was given to me was rendered by a source who trusted me, who knew where I was coming from, as you phrased it.”

  “But why?”

  “I’ll give you a limited response, Miss Rashad, and speak only in general terms.”

  “Hooray for you. So give.”

  “This country imperatively needs changes in an administration that will undoubtedly be reelected.”

  “Who says so other than the voters?”

  “Off limits, except again, in general terms … although I shouldn’t have to use even them. You’ve seen for yourself.”

  Khalehla put down her fork and looked at the European. “San Diego? Vanvlanderen? Grinell?”

  “San Diego, Vanvlanderen and Grinell,” repeated the Czech quietly. “To clarify further: monies obviously sent through Zurich and Beirut to the Baaka Valley for the purpose of eliminating a political contender—namely, Congressman Kendrick. And now an apparent attempt to stop a brilliant Secretary of State from attending a disarmament conference whose purpose is to reduce the proliferation—the production—of space and nuclear weapons.”

  “San Diego,” said Khalehla, leaving her food on the plate. “Orson Bollinger?”

  “An enigma,” replied Varak. “What does he know? What doesn’t he know? Regardless, he’s the rallying point, the funnel into an unbeatable administration. He has to be replaced, thus eliminating the people around him who order him to march to their drums.”

  “But why Evan Kendrick?”

  “Because he is now an unbeatable contender.”

  “He’ll never accept it; he’ll tell you to go to hell. You don’t know him, I do.”

  “A man doesn’t necessarily want to do what he must do, Miss Rashad. But he will do it if the reasons are made clear to him why he should.”

  “You think that’s enough?”

  “I don’t know Mr. Kendrick personally, of course, but I don’t think there’s another human being I’ve studied so closely. He’s a remarkable man, yet so realistically modest about his achievements. He made a great deal of money out of an exploding Middle East economy, then walked away from millions more because he was morally offended and emotionally distraught. He then entered the political arena for no other reason than to replace a—what did you call me?—a scum-rotten, who was lining his pockets in Colorado. Finally, he went to Oman knowing he might not come back, for he believed he could help in a crisis. That’s not a man you take lightly. He may but you don’t.”

  “Oh, good Lord,” said Khalehla. “I’m hearing a variation of my own words.”

  “In support of his political advancement?”

  “No, to explain why he wasn’t a liar. But I should tell you there’s another reason why he went back to Oman. It falls under the not too benevolent heading of a kill. He was convinced he knew who was behind the terrorists in Masqat: the same monster who’d been responsible for killing all seventy-eight people who made up the Kendrick Group, including wives and children. He was right; the man was executed according to Arabic law.”

  “That’s hardly a negative, Miss Rashad.”

  “No, it isn’t, but it somewhat alters the circumstances.”

  “I’d prefer to think it adds a dimension of properly sought justice, which further confirms our choice of him.”

  “Our?”

  “Off limits.”

  “I repeat, he’ll turn it down.”

  “He will if he learns how he was manipulated. He may not if he’s convinced he is needed.”

  Khalehla again leaned back in the booth, studying the Czech. “If I’m hearing correctly, you’re suggesting something that’s deeply offensive to me.”

  “It shouldn’t be.” Varak sat forward. “No one can force a man to accept elective office, Miss Rashad; he has to seek it. Conversely, no one can force a political party’s leading senators and congressmen to accept a new candidate; they must want him.… It’s true that circumstances were created to bring out the man, but we could not create the man; he was there to begin with.”

  “You’re asking me not to tell him about this conversation, not to tell him about you.… Have you any idea how many weeks we’ve been looking for you?”

  “Have you any idea how many months we looked for Evan Kendrick?”

  “I don’t give a damn! He was manipulated and he knows it. You can’t hide, I won’t let you. You’ve put him through too much. Dear friends killed, now possibly an old man who’s been a father to him for fifteen years. All his plans shot to hell—too much!”

  “I can’t change what’s happened, I can only grieve for my errors of judgment and no one will grieve more, but I ask you to think of your country, my country now. If we’ve helped to produce a political force, it was only because the force existed in his own right, with his own instincts. Without him, any number of perfectly decent men will be acceptable to the party leadership because they’re familiar and comfortable, but they will not be a force.… Do I make myself clear?”

  “According to history, a Vice President once said that the office wasn’t worth a ‘bucket of warm spit.’ ”

  “Not these days, and certainly not in the hands of Evan Kendrick. You were obviously in Cairo when he appeared on television here—”

  “I was in Cairo,” interrupted Khalehla, “but we have an American channel—tapes, of course. I saw him and I’ve seen him here subsequently and repeatedly, thanks no doubt to your … agenda. He was very good, very intelligent and appealing.”

  “Miss Rashad, he’s unique. He’s unbuyable and he speaks his mind and the country is taken with him.”

  “Because of you.”

  “No, because of him. He’s done the things he’s done, they weren’t invented; he’s said the things he’s said, the words weren’t provided. What can I tell you? I analyzed over four hundred possibilities, using the most advanced computers, and one man stood out. Evan Kendrick.”

  “You want nothing from him?”

  “You say you know him. If we did, what do you think he’d do?”

  “Turn you over to some anticorruption committee and make damn sure you spent time in prison.”

  “Exactly.”

  Khalehla shook her head, her eyes closed. “I’d like a glass of wine, Mr. Milos. I’ve got a few things to think about.”

  Varak signaled a waiter and ordered two glasses of chilled Chablis, leaving the choice to the waiter’s discretion. “Among my many deficiencies,” said the Czech, “is a lack of knowledge of wines beyond those of my country.”

  “I don’t believe that for an instant. You’re probably a certified sommelier.”

  “Hardly. I hear friends order specific vineyards and vintages and I marvel at them.”

  “Do you really have friends? I think of you as rather an éminence grise.”

  “Je comprends, but you’re wrong. I live quite a normal life. My friends think I’m a translator, free-lance, naturally, at home.”

  “Bien,” said the agent from Cairo. “That’s how I began.”

  “There’s no office to contact, only an answering machine, which I can reach from wherever I am.”

  “Me, too.”

  The wine arrived and, after sipping, Khalehla spoke. “He can’t go back,” she said, as if speaking to herself, then partially including Varak. “At least not for a few years, if then. Once the blackout’s lifted there’ll be a lot of hot blood running in the Baaka Valley.”

  “I assume you’re talking about the Congressman?”

  “Yes. The terrorists were caught, in a manner of speaking.… There was a third and final attack several hours ago. It took place in Mesa Verde and was every bit as devastating as Fairfax.”

  “Several hours …? Was Kendrick there?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “He’s alive, I’m told, by seconds. But like Virginia, many of our personnel were killed.”

  “I’m sorry.… Weingrass was severely hurt, I gather. That’s whom you were referring to whe
n you mentioned an old man, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes. They’re flying him to a hospital in Denver. Evan’s with him.”

  “The terrorists, please,” said Varak, his eyes boring into hers.

  “All together there were nine of them. Eight are dead; one survived, the youngest.”

  “And when the blackout’s lifted, as you say, there will be hot blood in the Baaka. It’s why Kendrick can’t go back to that part of the world.”

  “He wouldn’t live forty-eight hours. There’s no way to protect him from the crazies.”

  “There is here and none better than the government’s Secret Service. In these matters nothing is perfect, there is only the best.”

  “I know.” Khalehla drank from her glass of wine.

  “You understand what I’m saying, don’t you, Miss Rashad?”

  “I think so.”

  “Let events run their natural course. There’s a legitimate political action committee dedicated to supporting Congressman Kendrick for higher office. Let them work unencumbered and let the country respond—one way or another. And if we’re both right about the Vanvlanderens and the Grinells and the people they represent, let Evan Kendrick make up his own mind. Because even if we expose them and stop them, there are hundreds more who will take their places … A force is needed, a voice is needed.”

  Khalehla raised her eyes from the wine. She nodded twice.

  36

  Kendrick walked along Denver’s Seventeenth Street toward the Brown Palace Hotel barely aware of the light snow that was floating down from the night sky. He had told the cabdriver to let him off several blocks away; he wanted to walk; he had to clear his mind.

  The doctors at the Denver General had patched Manny up, relieving Evan by explaining that the wounds, although messy, consisted mainly of embedded fragments of glass and metal. The loss of blood was considerable for a man of his age but not critical; it would be replaced. The bewilderment started when Kendrick took one of the doctors aside and told him about Weingrass’s concerns that the cancer had returned. Within twenty minutes all of Manny’s tests had been electronically transmitted from Washington, and the chief oncologist had spoken to the D.C. surgeon who had operated on the old architect. Then about two hours into his four-hour stay at the hospital, a technician had arrived from some laboratory or other and conferred quietly with another doctor. There had been a mild flurry of activity and Evan was asked to leave the room while various samples were taken from Manny’s body. An hour after that the chief of pathology, a thin man with inquisitive eyes, approached Kendrick in the waiting room.

  “Congressman, has Mr. Weingrass been out of the country recently?”

  “Not within the past year, no.”

  “Where was that?”

  “France … Southwest Asia.”

  The doctor’s eyebrows had arched. “My geography’s not very good. Where is Southwest Asia?”

  “Is this necessary?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Oman and Bahrain.”

  “He was with you?… Excuse me, but your exploits are common knowledge.”

  “He was with me,” answered Evan. “He’s one of the people I couldn’t thank publicly because it wouldn’t be in his interest.”

  “I understand. We have no press office here.”

  “Thank you. Why do you ask?”

  “Unless I’m mistaken, and I could be, he’s infected with a—let’s say a virus—that to the best of my knowledge is indigenous to central Africa.”

  “That couldn’t be.”

  “Then perhaps I’m wrong. Our equipment is among the finest in the West, but there’s better. I’m having lung tissue and blood samples sent to the CDC in Atlanta.”

  “The what?”

  “Centers for Disease Control.”

  “Disease?”

  “It’s just a precaution, Mr. Kendrick.”

  “Have them flown there tonight, Doctor. There’ll be a jet waiting at Stapleton Airport within the hour. Tell Atlanta to go to work the minute your findings arrive—I’ll pay whatever the cost even if they have to stay there around the clock.”

  “I’ll do what I can—”

  “If it would help,” said Evan, not sure whether he was bluffing or not, “I’ll have the White House call them.”

  “I don’t think that will be necessary,” said the pathologist.

  As he left the hospital, having said good night to a heavily sedated Manny, he remembered the vanished Dr. Lyons of Mesa Verde, the physician without an address or a telephone but with full government clearance to be presented to a congressman and/or his staff. What clearance? Why was clearance necessary?… Or was it simply a very impressive document, a device for slipping into the private world of one Evan Kendrick? He decided to say nothing to anyone. Khalehla would know better what to do.

  He approached the Brown Palace and was suddenly aware through the falling snow of the colored lights on the Christmas decorations extending across the wide avenue from the old classic structure to the new south tower. Then he heard the strains of a carol filling the street. Deck the halls with boughs of holly, fa-la-la-la-la … la-la-la-la. Merry Christmas from the legacy of Masqat, he thought.

  “Where the hell have you been?” shouted M.J. Payton, causing Khalehla to hold the telephone away from her ear.

  “Having dinner.”

  “He’s there! Our blond European is in the hotel!”

  “I know. I had dinner with him.”

  “You what?”

  “As a matter of fact, he’s here in my room now. We’re going over what we know. He’s not what we thought.”

  “Damn you, Adrienne! Tell that son of a bitch Mr. B would like to talk to Mr. A!”

  “Good God, you were the one?”

  “Cap it, Rashad! Put him on the line.”

  “I’m not sure he’ll agree.” The agent from Cairo again had to pull the phone away. She turned to Varak. “A Mr. B would like to talk to Mr. A.”

  “I should have known,” said the Czech, getting out of the chair. He walked to the bedside telephone as Khalehla relinquished it and moved away. “Greetings again, Mr. B. Nothing has changed, you understand. No names, no identities.”

  “What does my niece call you? Mind you, she’s my niece.”

  “She calls me by the erroneous name of Milos.”

  “Meelos? Slavic?”

  “American, sir.”

  “I forgot, you made that clear.”

  “The Secretary of State, please?”

  “He’s arrived in Cyprus.”

  “I’m relieved.”

  “We all are, if, indeed, there was cause for alarm to begin with.”

  “The information was accurate.”

  “Unfortunately, we haven’t been able to confirm it at our end. Grinell wasn’t at the hotel and he hasn’t shown up at his residence.”

  “He’s with the Vanvlanderen woman.”

  “Yes, we know. According to a desk clerk, there were several others with them both. Any ideas?”

  “Grinell’s guards, according to the information I received. I mentioned to you that there were men with him, that you should be prepared.”

  “Yes, you did.… Do we work together?”

  “From a distance.”

  “What have you got to offer?”

  “Proof of certain things I’ve told Miss Rashad,” replied Varak, thinking of the edited tapes and transcripts he would provide the intelligence officer—edited so that Eric Sundstrom would remain an anonymous conspirator; a dead man did not need an identity. “Perhaps nothing more, but it’s the core of what you need.”

  “It will be gratefully accepted.”

  “However, there’s a price, Mr. B.”

  “I don’t make payments—”

  “Of course you do,” broke in the Czech. “You do so all the time.”

  “What is it?”

  “As long as my demands require a complicated explanation, I’ll let Miss Rashad tell you in her own wo
rds. I’ll reach her tomorrow and we’ll communicate through her. If your answer is positive, I will arrange for the delivery of my material to you.”

  “And if it’s not?”

  “Then I’d advise you to weigh the consequences, Mr. B.”

  “Let me speak to my niece, if you please.”

  “As you wish.” Varak turned to Khalehla and handed her the telephone as he headed back to his chair.

  “I’m here,” said Rashad.

  “Just answer yes or no, and if you can’t answer, stay silent for a second or two. All right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you safe?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would his material help us?”

  “Yes—emphatically.”

  “Just ‘yes’ is sufficient, Agent Rashad.… He’s obviously staying at the hotel—do you think he’ll remain there?”

  “No.”

  “Has he given you any information as to how he got the Oman file?”

  “No.”

  “Lastly, can we live with his demands?”

  “We’re going to— Sorry to break the rules.”

  “I see,” said the astonished director of Special Projects. “You will explain that extraordinary and extraordinarily insubordinate statement to me, won’t you?”

  “We’ll talk later.” Khalehla hung up the phone and turned to Varak. “My superior’s upset.”

  “With you or with me? It wasn’t difficult to imagine the gist of his questions.”

  “With both of us.”

  “Is he really your uncle?”

  “I’ve known him for over twenty years and that’s enough about him. Let’s talk about you for a moment. It wasn’t difficult to imagine a couple of his questions to you, either.”

  “Only a moment, please,” insisted the Czech. “I really must leave.”

  “You told him that Grinell was with the Vanvlanderen woman and that the others were Grinell’s guards.”

  “I did.”

  “Yet you told me that there were two men in the Vanvlanderen suite and that the guards were outside.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Who was that other man, and why are you protecting him?”