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 went 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.
The Icarus Agenda
Chapter 3
The estimated flying time from Andrews to the US Air Force base in Sicily was seven hours plus. Arrival was scheduled for 5 am, 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 both as miniature desks and surfaces for food and drink. Swivelled 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 is 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 provision for civilians.' The dark-haired, dark-browed young man smiled and signalled 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 cut-backs… and certain lobbyists from the meat and produce industries. Filet mignon with asparagus hollandaise and boiled potatoes.'
'Some cut-backs.'
'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 PhD,' 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 funnelled 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. 'Inter-service 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 at 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 page of paper. ' “Switch necessary. Jiddah out. All MA where permitted under eyes—”'
'What d
oes that mean?' interrupted Evan quickly. 'The MA 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 towards the navigator's light, and read the message. 'Switch necessary. Jiddah out. All MA 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. 5.' 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?'
'Do you go to church?' asked Evan.
'You're damned right I do. When I'm home I make the whole damn family go—no welching on that, by Christ. At least once a month, it's a rule.'
'So do the Arabs, but not once a month. Five times a day. They believe as strongly as you do, at least as strongly, wouldn't you say? The Second Pillar of el Maghreb refers to the Islamic prayers at sundown. Hell of an inconvenience, isn't it? They work their Arab asses off all day long, mostly for nothing, and then it's sundown. No cocktails, just prayers to their God. Maybe it's all they've got. Like the old plantation spirituals.'
The pilot turned slowly in his seat. His face in the shadows of the flight deck startled Kendrick. The brigadier general was black. 'You set me up,' said the pilot flatly.
'I'm sorry. I mean that; I didn't realize. On the other hand you said it. You called me an Arab-lover.'
Sundown. Masqat, Oman. The ancient turbo-jet bounced on to the runway with such force that some of the passengers screamed, their desert instincts alert to the possibility of fiery oblivion. Then with the realization that they had arrived, that they were safe, and that there were jobs for the having, they began chanting excitedly. Thanks be to Allah for His benevolence! They had been promised rials for servitude the Omanis would not accept. So be it. It was far better than what they had left behind.
The suited businessmen in the front of the aircraft, handkerchiefs held to their noses, rushed to the exit door, gripping their briefcases, all too anxious to swallow the air of Oman. Kendrick stood in the aisle, the last in line, wondering what the State Department's Swann had in mind when he said in his message that 'arrangements' had been cleared.
'Come with me!' cried a be-robed Arab from the crowd forming outside the terminal for Immigration. 'We have another exit, Dr Axelrod.'
'My passport doesn't say anything about Axelrod.'
'Precisely. That is why you are coming with me.'
'What about Immigration?'
'Keep your papers in your pocket. No one wants to see them. I do not want to see them!'
'Then how—'
'Enough, ya Shaikh. Give me your luggage and stay ten feet behind me. Come!'
Evan handed his soft carry-on suitcase to the excited contact and followed him. They walked to the right, past the end of the one-storeyed brown and white terminal, and headed immediately to the left towards the tall wire fence beyond which the fumes from dozens of taxis, buses and trucks tinted the burning air. The crowds outside the airport fence were racing back and forth amidst the congested vehicles, shrieking admonishments and screeching for attention, their robes flowing. Along the fence for perhaps 75 to 100 feet, scores of other Arabs pressed their faces against the metal links, peering into an alien world of smooth asphalt runways and sleek aircraft that was no part of their lives, giving birth to fantasies beyond their understanding. Ahead, Kendrick could see a metal building, the airfield warehouse he remembered so well, recalling the hours he and Manny Weingrass had spent inside waiting for long overdue equipment promised on one flight or another, often furious with the customs officials who frequently could not understand the forms they had to fill out which would release the equipment—if, indeed, the equipment had arrived.
The gate in front of the warehouse's hangarlike doors was open, accommodating the line of freight containers, their deep wells filled with crates disgorged from the various aircraft. Guards with attack dogs on leashes flanked the customs conveyor belt that carried the freight inside to anxious suppliers and retailers and the ever-present, ever-frustrated foremen of construction teams. The guards' eyes constantly roamed the frenzied activity, in their hands repeating machine pistols. They were there not merely to maintain a semblance of order amid the chaos and to back up the customs officials in the event of violent disputes, but essentially to look out for weapons and narcotics being smuggled into the sultanate. Each crate and thickly-layered box was examined by the snarling, yelping dogs as it was lifted on to the belt.
Evan's contact stopped; he did the same. The Arab turned and nodded at a small side gate with a sign in Arabic above it. Stop. Authorized Personnel Only. Violators Will Be Shot. It was an exit for the guards and other officials of the government. The gate also had a large metal plate where a lock would normally be placed. And it was a lock, thought Kendrick, a lock electronically released from somewhere inside the warehouse. The contact nodded twice more, indicating that on a signal Evan was to head for the gate where 'violators will be shot'. Kendrick frowned questioningly, a hollow pain forming in his stomach. With Masqat under a state of siege, it would not take much for someone to start firing. The Arab read the doubt in his eyes and nodded for a fourth time, slowly, reassuringly. The contact turned and looked to his right down the line of freight containers. Almost imperceptibly, he raised his right hand.
Suddenly, a fight broke out beside one of the containers. Curses were shrieked as arms swung violently and fists pounded.
'Contraband!'
'Liar!'
'Your mother is a goat, a filthy she-goat!'
'Your father lies with whores! You are a product!'
Dust flew as the grappling bodies fell to the ground, joined by others who took sides. The dogs began barking viciously, straining at their leashes, their handlers carried forward towards the melee. All but one handler, one guard; and the signal was given by Evan's contact. Together they ran to the deserted personnel exit.
'Good fortune, sir,' said the lone guard, his attack dog sniffing menacingly at Kendrick's trousers as the man tapped the metal plate in a rapid code with his weapon. A buzzer sounded and the gate swung back. Kendrick and his contact ran through, racing along the metal wall of the warehouse.
In the parking lot beyond stood a broken-down truck, the tires apparently only half inflated. The engine roared as loud reports came from a worn exhaust pipe. 'Besuraa!' cried the Arab contact, telling Evan to hurry. 'There is your transport.'
'I hope,' mumbled Kendrick, his voice laced with doubt.
'Welcome to Masqat, Shaikeh—whoever.'
'You know who I am,' said Evan angrily. 'You picked me out in the crowd! How many others can do that?'
&nbs
p; 'Very few, sir. And I do not know who you are, I swear by Allah.'
'Then I have to believe you, don't I?' asked Kendrick, staring at the man.
'I would not use the name of Allah if it were not so. Please. Besuraa!'
'Thanks,' said Evan, grabbing his case and running towards the truck's cab. Suddenly the driver was gesturing out the window for him to climb into the back under the canvas that covered the bed of the ancient vehicle. The truck lurched forward as a pair of hands pulled him up inside.
Stretched out on the floorboards, Kendrick raised his eyes to the Arab above him. The man smiled and pointed to the long robes of an aba and the ankle-length shirt known as a thob which were suspended on a hanger in the front of the canvas-topped trailer; beside it, hanging on a nail, was the ghotra headdress and a pair of white balloon trousers, the street clothes of an Arab and the last items Evan had requested of the State Department's Frank Swann. These and one other small but vital catalyst.
The Arab held it up. It was a tube of skin-darkening gel, which when generously applied turned the face and hands of a white Occidental into those of a Middle-Eastern Semite whose skin had been permanently burnished by the hot, blistering, near-equatorial sun. The dyed pigment would stay darkened for a period of ten days before fading. Ten days. A lifetime—for him or for the monster who called himself the Mahdi.
The woman stood inside the airport fence inches from the metal links. She wore gently flared white slacks and a tapered, dark green silk blouse, the blouse creased by the leather strap of her handbag. Long dark hair framed her face; her sharp attractive features were obscured by a pair of large designer sunglasses, her head covered by a wide-brimmed white sun hat, the crown circled by a ribbon of green silk. At first she seemed to be yet another traveller from wealthy Rome or Paris, London or New York. But a closer look revealed a subtle difference from the stereotype; it was her skin. Its olive tones, neither black nor white, suggested northern Africa. What confirmed the difference was what she held in her hands, and only seconds before had pressed against the fence: a miniature camera, barely two inches long and with a tiny bulging, convex, prismatic lens engineered for telescopic photography, equipment associated with intelligence personnel. The seedy, run-down truck had swerved out of the warehouse parking lot; the camera was no longer necessary.
The Icarus Agenda Page 4
