The Icarus Agenda

by Ludlum, Robert

  Through the haze and the terrible pain, Evan knew it was the moment to react. He forced a smile across his burning lips, his light blue eyes centering on the blurred figure above. 'A sane man,' he coughed in agony. 'Please, get me up, get them away from me before I see them all in hell.'

  'Amal Bahrudi speaks?' asked the unknown man, reaching out with his hand. 'Let him up.'

  'No!' roared the sergeant-terrorist, plunging down and pinning Kendrick's shoulders. 'There's no sense in what you say! He is who he says he is because of a scar that does not exist? Where's the sense in that, I ask you?'

  'I will know if he lies,' replied the figure above, slowly coming into focus for Kendrick. The gaunt face was that of a man in his early twenties, with high cheekbones and intense, dark, intelligent eyes flanking a sharp, straight nose. The body was slender, bordering on thin, but there was a supple strength in the way he crouched and held his head. The muscles of his neck stood out. 'Let him up,' repeated the younger terrorist, his voice casual but no less a command for that. 'And instruct the others to gradually stop their chanting—gradually, you understand—but then keep talking among themselves. All must appear normal, including the incessant arguing, which you don't have to encourage.'

  The angry subordinate gave Evan a last shove into the floor, widening the cut in his shoulder so severely that new blood burst out on to the concrete. Then the surly man got to his feet, turning to the crowd to carry out his orders.

  'Thank you,' said Evan, breathless, trembling and getting to his knees, wincing at the pain he felt everywhere, conscious of the bruises on his face and body, aware of the hot lacerations where his flesh had been punctured—again seemingly everywhere. 'I would have joined Allah in a minute.'

  'You still may, which is why I won't bother to stem your bleeding.' The young Palestinian shoved Kendrick against the wall, into a sitting position, his legs stretched out on the floor. 'You see, I have no idea whether you're really Amal Bahrudi or not. I acted on instinct. From the descriptions I've heard, you could be he, and you speak an educated Arabic, which also fits. In addition, you withstood extreme punishment when a gesture of submission on your part would have meant you were prepared to deliver the information demanded of you. Instead, you reacted with defiance, and you must have known that at any moment you could have been strangled… That is not the way of an infiltrator who values his life here on earth. It is the way of one of us who will not harm the cause for, as you remarked, it's a holy cause. And it is. Most holy.'

  Good God! thought Kendrick, assuming the cold expression of a dedicated partisan. How wrong you are! If I had thought—if I'd been able to think… Forget it! 'What will finally convince you? I tell you now I shall not reveal things I shouldn't.' Evan paused, his hand covering the swallow in his throat. 'Even to the point where you may resume the punishment and strangle me, if you like.'

  'Both are statements I would expect,' said the intense slender terrorist, lowering himself to crouch in front of Evan. 'You can, however, tell me what it is you came here for. Why were you sent to Masqat? Whom were you told to find? Your life depends on your answers, Amal Bahrudi, and I'm the only one who can make that decision.'

  He had been right. In spite of the odds he had been right!

  Escape. He had to escape with this young killer in a holy cause.

  The Icarus Agenda

  Chapter 7

  Kendrick stared at the Palestinian as if, indeed, the eyes held the meaning of a man's soul, although Evan's own eyes were too swollen to betray anything other than overwhelming physical pain… The remaining taps are in the flushing mechanisms of the toilets: Dr Amal Faisal, contact to the sultan.

  'I was sent here to tell you that among your people in the embassy there are traitors.'

  'Traitors?' The terrorist remained motionless in his crouching position in front of Evan; beyond a slight frown there was no reaction whatsoever. 'That's impossible,' he said after several moments of intensely studying 'Amal Bahrudi's' face.

  'I'm afraid it's not,' contradicted Kendrick. 'I saw the proof.'

  'Consisting of what?'

  Evan suddenly winced, grabbing his wounded shoulder, his hand instantly covered with blood. 'If you won't stop this bleeding, I will!' He started to push himself up against the stone wall.

  'Stay put!' commanded the young killer.

  'Why? Why should I? How do I know you're not part of the treason—making money out of our work?'

  'Money…? What money?'

  'You won't know that until I know you have the right to be told.' Again Evan pressed himself against the wall, his hands on the floor, trying to rise. 'You talk like a man but you're a boy.'

  'I grew up quickly,' said the terrorist, shoving his strange prisoner down again. 'Most of us have over here.'

  'Grow up now. My bleeding to death will tell neither of us anything.' Kendrick ripped the blood-soaked shirt away from his shoulder. 'It's filthy,' he said, nodding at the wound. 'It's filled with dirt and slime, thanks to your animal friends.'

  'They're not animals and they're not friends. They are my brothers.'

  'Write poetry in your own time, mine's too valuable. Is there any water in here—clean water?'

  'The toilets,' answered the Palestinian. 'There's a sink on the right.'

  'Help me up.'

  'No. What proof? Who were you sent to find?'

  'Fool!' exploded Evan. 'All right. Where is Nassir? Everyone asks, Where is Nassir?'

  'Dead,' replied the young man, his expression without comment.

  'What?'

  'A marine guard jumped him, took his weapon and shot him. The marine was killed instantly.'

  'Nothing was said—'

  'What could be said that was productive?' countered the terrorist. 'Make a martyr out of a single American guard? Show one of our own to have been overcome? We don't parade weakness.'

  'Nassir?' asked Kendrick, hearing a rueful note in the young killer's voice. 'Nassir was weak?'

  'He was a theoretician and not suited to this work.'

  'A theoretician?' Evan arched his brows. 'Our student is an analyst?'

  'This student can determine those moments when active involvement must replace passive debate, when force takes over from words. Nassir talked too much, justified too much.'

  'And you don't?'

  'I'm not the issue, you are. What proof of treason do you have?'

  'The woman, Yateem,' replied Kendrick, answering the former question not the current one. 'Zaya Yateem. I was told she was—’

  'Yateem a traitor?' cried the terrorist, his eyes furious.

  'I didn't say that—’

  'What did you say?'

  'She was reliable—'

  'Far more than that, Amal Bahrudi!' The young man grabbed the remaining cloth of Evan's shirt. 'She is devoted to our cause, a tireless worker who exhausts herself beyond any of us at the embassy!'

  'She also speaks English,' said Kendrick, hearing still another note in the terrorist's voice.

  'So do I!' shot back the angry, self-proclaimed student, releasing his prisoner within their prison.

  'I do, too,' said Evan quietly, glancing over at the numerous groups of inmates, many of whom were looking at them. 'May we speak English now?' he asked, once more studying his bleeding shoulder. 'You say you want proof, which, of course, is beyond my providing, but I can tell you what I've seen with my own eyes—in Berlin. You yourself can determine whether or not I'm telling you the truth—since you're so adept at determining things. But I don't want any of your brother animals understanding what I say.'

  'You're an arrogant man under circumstances that do not call for arrogance.'

  'I am who I am—’

  'You've said that.' The terrorist nodded. 'English,' he agreed, switching from Arabic. 'You spoke of Yateem. What about her?'

  'You assumed I meant she was the traitor.'

  'Who dares—’

  'I meant quite the opposite,' insisted Kendrick, wincing, and gripping his s
houlder with greater force. 'She's trusted, even extolled; she's doing her job brilliantly. After Nassir, she was the one I was to find.' Evan gasped in pain, an all too easy reflex, and coughed out his next words. 'If she had been killed… I was to look for a man who's called Azra—if he was gone, another with grey streaks in his hair known as Ahbyahd.'

  'I am Azra! cried the dark-eyed student. 'I am the one called Blue!'

  Bingo, thought Kendrick, staring hard at the young terrorist, his eyes questioning. 'But you're here in this compound, not at the embassy—’

  'A decision of our operations council,' broke in Azra. 'Headed by Yateem.'

  'I don't understand.'

  'Word reached us. Prisoners had been taken and held in isolation—tortured, bribed, broken one way or another into revealing information. It was decided that the strongest among us on the council should also be taken—to provide leadership, resistance!'

  'And they chose you? She chose you?'

  'Zaya knew whereof she spoke. She is my sister, I her blood brother. She is as certain of my dedication as I am of hers. We fight together to our deaths, for death is our past.'

  Jackpot! Evan arched his neck, his head falling against the hard concrete wall, his pained eyes roaming across the ceiling with the naked bulbs encased in wire. 'So I meet my vital contact in the most impossible place possible. Allah may have deserted us after all.'

  'To hell with Allah!' exclaimed Azra, astonishing Kendrick. 'You'll be released in the morning. There is no scar across your throat. You'll be free.'

  'Don't be so sure of that,' said Evan, wincing again and again grabbing his shoulder. 'To put it plainly, that photograph of me was traced to a jihad cell in Rome and the scar is now questioned. They're searching Riyadh and Manamah for my early dental and medical records. If any were overlooked, if any are found, I'll be facing an Israeli hangman… However, that's not your concern, nor mine at the moment, frankly.'

  'At least your courage matches your arrogance.'

  'I told you before,' snapped Kendrick, 'write poems in your own time. If you are Azra, brother of Yateem, you need information. You have to know what I saw in Berlin.'

  'The evidence of treason?'

  'If not treason, utter stupidity, and if not stupidity, unforgivable greed which is no less than treason.' Evan started once more to rise, pressing his back against the wall, his hands against the floor. This time the terrorist did not stop him. 'Damn you, help me!' he cried. 'I can't think like this. I have to wash away the blood, clear my eyes.'

  'Very well," said the man called Azra haltingly, his expression conveying his intense curiosity. 'Lean on me,' he added without enthusiasm.

  'I only meant you to help me up,' said Kendrick, yanking his arm away once he was on his feet. 'I'll walk by myself, thank you. I don't need assistance from ignorant children.'

  'You may need more assistance than I'm prepared to offer—’

  'I forgot,' interrupted Evan, lurching, making his way awkwardly towards the row of four toilets and the sink. 'The student is both judge and jury, as well as the right hand of Allah whom he sends to the devil!'

  'Understand this, man of faith,' said Azra firmly, staying close to the arrogant, insulting stranger. 'My war is not for or against Allah, Abraham or Christ. It is a struggle to survive and live like a human being despite those who would destroy me with their bullets and their laws. I speak for many when I say, Enjoy your faith, practise it, but do not burden me with it. I have enough to contend with just trying to stay alive if only to fight one more day.'

  Kendrick glanced at the angry young killer as they neared the sink. 'I wonder if I should be talking to you,' he said, narrowing his swollen eyes. 'I wonder if perhaps you are not the Azra I was sent to find.'

  'Believe it,' replied the terrorist. 'In this work, accommodations are made between people of many stripes, many different purposes, all taking from each other for very selfish reasons. Together we can accomplish more for our individual causes than we can separately.'

  'We understand each other,' said Kendrick, no comment in his voice.

  They reached the rusted metal sink. Evan turned on the single tap of cold water at full force, then, conscious of the noise, reduced the flow as he plunged his hands and face into the stream. He splashed the water everywhere over his upper body, dousing his head and chest and repeatedly around the bleeding wound in his shoulder. He prolonged the bathing, sensing Azra's growing impatience as the Palestinian shifted his weight from foot to foot, knowing that the moment would come. The remaining taps are in the flushing mechanisms of the toilets. The moment came.

  'Enough!' exploded the frustrated terrorist, gripping Kendrick's unharmed shoulder and spinning him away from the sink. 'Give me your information, what you saw in Berlin! Now! What is this proof of treason… or stupidity… or greed? What is it?'

  'There has to be more than one person involved,' began Evan coughing, each cough more pronounced, more violent, his whole body trembling. 'As people leave they take them out—' Suddenly, Kendrick bent over, clutching his throat, lurching for the first toilet to the left of the filthy sink. 'I'm retching!' he cried, grabbing the edges of the bowl with both hands.

  'Take what out?'

  'Films!' spat out Evan, his voice directed towards the area around the toilet's handle. 'Films smuggled out of the embassy!… For sale!'

  'Films? Photographs?'

  'Two rolls. I intercepted them, bought them both! Identities, methods—'

  Nothing further could be heard in the enormous concrete terrorist cell. Ear-shattering bells erupted; deafening sounds signalling an emergency reverberated off the walls as a group of uniformed guards rushed in, weapons levelled, eyes frantically searching. In seconds they spotted the object of their search; six soldiers bolted forward towards the row of toilets.

  'Never!' screamed the prisoner known as Amal Bahrudi. 'Kill me, if you wish, but you will learn nothing, for you are nothing!'

  The first two guards approached. Kendrick lunged at them, hurling his body at the stunned soldiers, who thought they were rescuing an infiltrator about to be killed. He swung his arms and smashed his fists into the confused faces.

  Mercifully, a third soldier hammered the stock of his rifle into the skull of Amal Bahrudi.

  All was darkness but he knew he was on the examining table in the prison laboratory. He could feel the cold compresses on his eyes and ice packs over various parts of his body; he reached up and removed the thick, wet compresses. Faces above him came into focus—bewildered faces, angry faces. He had no time for them!

  'Faisal!' he choked, speaking Arabic. 'Where is Faisal, the doctor?'

  'I am down here by your left foot,' answered the Omani physician in English. 'I'm sponging out a rather strange puncture wound. Someone bit you, I'm afraid.'

  'I can see his teeth,' said Evan, now also speaking English. 'They were like those of a saw-toothed fish only yellow.'

  'Proper diets are lacking in this part of the world.'

  'Get everyone out, Doctor,' interrupted Kendrick. 'Now. We've got to talk—now!'

  'After what you did in there I doubt they'd leave and I'm not even sure I'd let them. Are you crazy? They came to save your life and you tore into them, fracturing one man's nose and breaking apart another's bridgework.'

  'I had to be convincing, tell them that—no, don't. Not yet. Get them out. Tell them anything you like but we've got to talk. Then you have to reach Ahmat for me… How long have I been here?'

  'Nearly an hour—’

  'Christ! What time is it?'

  'Four-fifteen in the morning.'

  'Hurry! For God's sake, hurry!'

  Faisal dismissed the soldiers with calming words, reassuring them, explaining that there were things he could not explain. As the last guard went out of the door, he paused, removed his automatic from its holster and handed it to the doctor. 'Should I aim this at you while we talk?' asked the Omani after the soldier had left.

  'Before sunrise,' said Kendrick
, pushing away the ice packs and sitting up, painfully swinging his legs over the table. 'I want a number of guns aimed at me. But not as accurately as they might be.'

  'What are you saying? You can't be serious.'

  'Escape. Ahmat has to arrange an escape.'

  'What? You are crazy!'

  'Never saner, Doctor, and never more serious. Pick two or three of your best men, which means men you completely trust, and set up some kind of transfer—’

  'Transfer?'

  Evan shook his head and blinked his eyes, the swelling still apparent although reduced by the cold compresses. He tried to find the words he needed for the astonished doctor. 'Let me put it this way. Somebody's decided to move a few prisoners from here to somewhere else.'

  'Who would do that? Why?'

  'Nobody! You make it up and do it, don't explain. Do you have photographs of the men inside?'

  'Of course. It's normal arrest procedure, although the names are meaningless. When they're given, they're always false.'

  'Let me have them, all of them. I'll tell you whom to choose.'

  'Choose for what?'

  'The transfer. The ones you're moving out of here to some place else.'

  'To where? Really, you're not making sense.'

  'You're not listening. Somewhere along the way, a back street or a dark road outside the city, we'll overpower the guards and escape.'

  'Overpower…? We?'

  'I'm part of the group, part of the escape. I'm going back in there.'

  'Complete madness!' exclaimed Faisal.

  'Complete sanity,' countered Evan. 'There's a man inside who can take me where I want to go. Take us where we have to go! Get me the police photographs and then reach Ahmat on the triple-five number. Tell him what I've told you, he'll understand… Understand, hell! It's what that Ivy League juvenile delinquent had in mind from the beginning!'