'That man is Evan Kendrick,' he said simply.
Bewilderment gave way to astonishment. Except for Samuel Winters, the others leaned forward, beyond the glare of the brass lamps, to study the magnified figure on the screen. Varak continued. 'These photographs were taken by a case officer of the CIA with a Four-Zero clearance whose assignment was to keep Kendrick under surveillance wherever possible. She did a remarkable job.'
'She?' Margaret Lowell arched her brows in approval.
'A Middle East specialist. Her father's Egyptian, herm other an American from California. She speaks Arabic fluently and is used extensively by the Agency in crisis situations over there.'
'Over there?' whispered Mandel, stunned. 'What was he doing over there?'
'Just a minute,' said Logan, his dark eyes boring into Varak's. 'Stop me if I'm wrong, young man, but if I remember correctly, there was an article in the Washington Post last year suggesting that an unknown American had interceded in Masqat at the time. A number of people thought that it might have been the Texan Ross Perot, but the story never appeared again. It was dropped.'
'You're not wrong, sir. The American was Evan Kendrick and with pressure from the White House the story was killed.'
'Why? He could have made enormous political mileage out of it—if indeed his contribution led to the settlement.'
'His contribution was the settlement.'
'Then I certainly don't understand,' remarked Logan quietly as he looked at Samuel Winters.
'No one does,' said the historian. 'There's no explanation, just a buried file in the archives that Milos managed to obtain. Apart from that document, there's nothing anywhere to indicate a connection between Kendrick and the events in Masqat.'
'There's even a memo to the Secretary of State disavowing any such connection,' interrupted Varak. 'It does not reflect well on the congressman. In essence, it suggests that he was a self-serving opportunist, a politician who wished to further himself by way of the hostage crisis because he had worked in the Arab Emirates and especially Oman, and was trying to insert himself for publicity purposes. The recommendation was not to touch him for the safety of the hostages.'
'But they obviously did touch him!' exclaimed Sundstrom. 'Touch him and use him! He couldn't have got in there if they hadn't; all commercial flights were suspended. Good Lord, he must have been flown over under cover.'
'And just as obviously he's no self-serving opportunist,' added Margaret Lowell. 'We see him here in front of our eyes and Milos tells us he was instrumental in bringing the crisis to an end, yet he's never uttered a word about his involvement. We'd all know about it if he had.'
'And there's no explanation?' asked Gideon Logan, addressing Varak.
'None acceptable, sir, and I've gone to the source.'
'The White House?' said Mandel.
'No, the man who had to be aware of his recruitment, the one who ran the nerve centre here in Washington. His name is Frank Swann.'
'How did you find him?'
'I didn't, sir. Kendrick did.'
'But how did you find Kendrick?' pressed Margaret Lowell.
'Like Mr. Logan, I, too, remembered that story of an American in Masqat that was so abruptly dropped by the media. For reasons I can't really explain I decided to trace it—probably thinking it might involve someone highly placed, someone we should consider if there was any credence to the story." Varak paused, a slight, uncharacteristic smile creasing his lips. 'Frequently, the most obvious security measures trip up those wishing to be secure. In this case it was the Department of State's entrance logs. Since the killings several years ago, all visitors without exception must sign in and sign out, passing through metal detectors. Among the thousands who did so during the time of the hostage crisis was the unlikely name of a freshman congressman from Colorado seeing a Mr. Swann. Neither meant anything to me, of course, but our computers were better informed. Mr. Swann was the State Department's foremost expert on Southwest Asia, and the congressman was a man who had made his wealth in the Emirates, Bahrain and Saudi Arabia. In the panic of the crisis, someone had forgotten to remove Kendrick's name from the logs.'
'So you went to see this Swann,' said Mandel, removing his steel-rimmed glasses.
'I did, sir.'
'What did he tell you?'
'That I was completely mistaken. That they had rejected
Kendrick's offer to help because he had nothing to contribute. He added that Kendrick was only one of dozens of people—people who had worked in the Arab Emirates—who had made similar offers.'
'But you didn't believe him,' broke in Margaret Lowell.
'I had a very good reason not to. Congressman Kendrick never signed out after his visit to the State Department that afternoon. It was Wednesday, 11 August and his name is nowhere in the departure logs. He was obviously taken out by special arrangement, which normally signifies the start of a cover, usually a deep cover.'
'Consular Operations,' said Sundstrom. 'State's covert link to the CIA.'
'A reluctant but necessary compromise,' added Winters. 'Toes get stepped on in the dark. Needless to say, Mr. Varak pursued his inquiries at both State and Langley.'
'The hero of Oman revealed,' said Gideon Logan softly, staring at the figure on the screen. 'My God, what a hook!'
'A crusading congressman above reproach,' chimed in Mandel. 'A proven foe of corruption.'
'A man of courage,' said Mrs. Lowell, 'who risked his life for two hundred Americans he couldn't have known and sought nothing for himself-'
'When he could have had anything he wanted,' completed Sundstrom. 'Certainly anything in politics.'
'Tell us everything you've learned about Evan Kendrick, if you will, Mr. Varak,' said Winters as he and the others reached for their lined yellow pads.
'Before I do so,' replied the Czech, a slight hesitancy in his voice, 'I must tell you that I flew out to Colorado last week and encountered a situation I can't fully explain at this time. I'd rather say so now. An elderly man is living in Kendrick's house on the outskirts of Mesa Verde. I've learned that his name is Emmanuel Weingrass, an architect with dual citizenship in both Israel and the United States, and that he had major surgery a number of months ago. Since then he has been convalescing as the congressman's guest.'
'What's the significance?' asked Eric Sundstrom.
'I'm not sure there is any, but three facts are worth noting. First, as nearly as I can determine, this Weingrass appeared out of nowhere shortly after Kendrick's return from Oman. Second, there's obviously a close relationship between the two of them, and third—somewhat disturbing—the old man's identity, as well as his presence in Mesa Verde, is a closely guarded but poorly kept secret. Weingrass himself is the offender here; whether through age or by nature he's quite gregarious among the workmen, especially the Hispanics.'
'That's not necessarily against him,' said Logan, smiling.
'He could have been part of the Oman operation,' offered Margaret Lowell. 'And that's not negative, either.'
'Hardly,' agreed Jacob Mandel.
Sundstrom spoke again. 'He must have considerable influence with Kendrick,' he said, writing on his pad. 'Wouldn't you say, Milos?'
'I would assume so. My only point is that I want you to know when I don't know something.'
'I'd say he's an asset,' stated Samuel Winters. 'From any point of view. Proceed, Mr. Varak.'
'Yes, sir. Knowing that nothing must leave this room, I've prepared the congressman's dossier for slide projection.' The Czech pressed the remote control unit and the dual photographs of the disguised Kendrick on the violence-ridden streets in Masqat were supplanted by a typewritten page, the letters large, the lines triple-spaced. 'Each slide,' continued Varak, 'represents approximately a quarter of a normal page; all negatives, naturally, were destroyed in the laboratory downstairs. I've done my best to study the candidate as thoroughly as possible, but I have omitted certain points that might interest some of you. So do not hesitate to question me on them. I
will watch you, and if each in turn will nod his head when you've finished reading and making your notes, I will know when to advance the slide… For the next hour or so, what you will see is the life of Congressman Evan Kendrick—from his birth to last week.'
With each slide Eric Sundstrom was the first to nod his head. Margaret Lowell and Jacob Mandel vied for the honour of being last, but then they made nearly as many notes as did Gideon Logan. The spokesman, Samuel Winters, made almost none; he was convinced.
Three hours and four minutes later, Milos Varak snapped off the projector. Two hours and seven minutes after that moment, the questions ended and Varak left the room.
'To paraphrase our friend out of context,' said Winters, 'a nod from each of you signifies consent. Shake your head if it's negative. We'll start with Jacob.'
Slowly, pensively, one by one the members of Inver Brass nodded their consent.
'It is agreed, then,' continued Winters. 'Congressman Evan Kendrick will be the next Vice President of the United States. He will become President eleven months after the election of the incumbent. The code name is Icarus, to be taken as a warning, a fervent prayer that he will not, like so many of his predecessors, try to fly too close to the sun and crash into the sea. And may God have mercy on our souls.'
The Icarus Agenda
Chapter 17
Representative Kendrick from Colorado's Ninth Congressional District sat at his office desk watching his stern-faced secretary as she kept chattering away about priority mail, House agendas, pre-floor position papers and social functions he really must attend, his chief aide's judgment notwithstanding. Her lips opened and closed with the rapidity of machine-gun fire, the nasal sounds emanating not much lower in the decibel count.
'There, Congressman, that's the schedule for the week.'
'It's really something, Annie. But can't you simply send out a blanket letter to everyone saying I've got a social disease and don't want to infect any of them?'
'Evan, stop it,' cried Ann Mulcahy O'Reilly, a very determined middle-aged veteran of Washington. 'You're being sloughed off around here and I won't have it! You know what they're saying here on the Hill? They say you don't give a damn, that you spent a bundle of money just to meet girls as rich as yourself.'
'Do you believe that, Annie?'
'How the hell could I? You never go anywhere, never do anything. I'd praise the saints if you got caught naked in the Reflection Pool with the biggest tootsie in Washington! Then I'd know you were doing something.'
'Maybe I don't want to do anything.'
'Damn it, you should! I've typed your views on a dozen issues and they're light years better than those of 80 per cent of the clowns here, but nobody pays any attention.'
'They're buried because they're not popular, Annie; I'm not popular. They don't want me in either camp. The few who notice me on both sides have pinned so many labels on me they cancel themselves out. They can't pigeonhole me sot hey bury me, which isn't very difficult because I don't complain.'
'God knows I don't agree with you a lot of the time, but I know a mind at work when I see it… Forget it, Congressman. What are your replies?'
'Later. Has Manny called?'
'I put him off twice. I wanted to get in my session with you.'
Kendrick leaned forward, his light blue eyes cold, bordering on anger. 'Don't ever do that again, Annie. There's nothing so important to me as that man in Colorado.'
'Yes, sir.' O'Reilly lowered her eyes.
'I'm sorry,' said Evan quickly, 'that wasn't called for. You're trying to do your job and I'm not much help. Sorry, again.'
'Don't apologize. I know what you've been through with Mr. Weingrass and what he means to you—how often did I bring your work to the hospital? I had no right to interfere. On the other hand, I am trying to do my job and you're not always the most co-operative boss on the Hill.'
'There are other hills I'd rather be on—’
'I'm aware of that, so we'll cross out the social functions; you'd probably do yourself more harm than good anyway.' Ann O'Reilly got out of the chair and placed a folder on Kendrick's desk. 'But I think you should look at a proposal from your senatorial colleague from Colorado. I think he wants to chop off the top of a mountain and put in a reservoir. In this town, that usually means a lake followed by high-rise condominiums.'
'That transparent son of a bitch,' said Evan, whipping open the folder.
'I'll also get Mr. Weingrass on the phone for you.'
'Still Mr. Weingrass?' asked Evan, turning over pages. 'You won't relent? I've heard him tell you to call him Manny dozens of times.'
'Oh, now and then I do, but it's not easy.'
'Why? Because he yells?'
'Mother of God, no. You can't take offence at that if you're married to a two-toilet Irish detective.'
'Two-toilet—?' Kendrick looked up.
'An old Boston expression, but no, it's not the yelling.'
'What, then?'
'A whimsy of humour he keeps repeating. He keeps saying to me over and over—especially when I call him by his first name—“Kid,” he says, “I think we've got a vaudeville act here. We'll call it Manny's Irish Annie, what do you say?” And I say, “Not a hell of a lot, Manny,”' and he says, “Leave my friend, the animal, and fly away with me. He'll understand my undying passion,” and I say to him that the TT cop doesn't understand his own.'
'Don't tell your husband,' offered Kendrick, chuckling.
'Oh, but I did. All he said was that he'd buy the airline tickets. Of course, he and Weingrass got drunk a couple of times—’
'Got drunk? I didn't even know they'd met.'
'My fault—to my undying regret. It was when you flew to Denver about eight months ago—'
'I remember. The state conference, and Manny was still in the hospital. I asked you to go see him, take him the Paris Tribune.'
'And I brought Paddy with me during the evening visiting hours. I'm no centrefold, but even I'm not walking these streets at night, and the TT cop's got to be good for something.'
'What happened?'
'They got along like a shot and a beer. I had to work late one night that week and Paddy insisted on going to the hospital himself.'
Evan shook his head slowly. 'I'm sorry, Annie. I never knew. I didn't mean to involve you and your husband in my private life. And Manny never told me.'
'Probably the Listerine bottles.'
The what?'
'Same colour as light Scotch. I'll get him on the phone.'
Emmanuel Weingrass leaned against the formation of rock on top of a hill belonging to Kendrick's 30-acre spread at the base of the mountains. His short-sleeved checked shirt was unbuttoned to the waist as he took the sun, breathing the clear air of the southern Rockies. He glanced at his chest, at the scars of the surgery, and wondered for a brief moment whether he should believe in God or in Evan Kendrick. The doctors had told him—months after the operation and numerous post-op checkups—that they had cut out the dirty little cells that were eating his life away. He was clean, they pronounced. Pronounced to a man who, on this day, on this rock, was eighty years of age with the sun beating down on his frail body. Frail and not so frail, for he moved better, spoke better—coughed practically not at all. Yet he missed his Gauloise cigarettes and the Monte Cristo cigars he enjoyed so much. So what could they do? Stop his life a few weeks or months before a logical ending?
He looked over at his nurse in the shade of a nearby tree next to the ever-present golf cart. She was one of the round-the-clock females who accompanied him everywhere, and he wondered what she would do if he propositioned her while leaning casually against the boulder. Such potential responses had always intrigued him but generally the reality merely amused him.
'Beautiful day, isn't it?' he called out.
'Simply gorgeous,' was the reply.
'What do you say we take all our clothes off and really enjoy it?'
The nurse's expression did not change for an instant. Her re
sponse was calm, deliberate, even gentle. 'Mr. Weingrass, I'm here to look after you, not give you cardiac arrest.'
'Not bad. Not bad at all.'
The radio telephone on the golf cart hummed; the woman walked over to it and snapped it out of its recess. After a brief conversation capped with quiet laughter, she turned to Manny. 'The congressman's calling you, Mr. Weingrass.'
'You don't laugh like that with a congressman,' said
Manny, pushing himself away from the rock. 'Five'll get you twenty it's Annie Glocamorra telling lies about me.'
'She did ask if I'd strangled you yet.' The nurse handed the phone to Weingrass.
'Annie, this woman's a letch!'
'We try to be of service,' said Evan Kendrick.
'Boy, that girl of yours gets off the phone pretty damned quick.'
'Forewarned, forearmed, Manny. You called. Is everything all right?'
'I should only call in a crisis?'
'You rarely call, period. That privilege is almost exclusively mine. What is it?'
'You got any money left?'
'I can't spend the interest. Sure. Why?'
'You know the addition we built on the west porch so you got a view?'
'Of course.'
'I've been playing with some sketches. I think you should have a terrace on top. Two steel beams would carry the load; maybe a third if you went for a glass-blocked steam bath by the wall.'
'Glass-blocked…? Hey, that sounds terrific. Go ahead.'
'Good. I've got the plumbers coming out in the morning. But when it's done, then I go back to Paris.'
'Whatever you say, Manny. However, you said you'd work up some plans for a gazebo down by the streams, where they merge.'
'You said you didn't want to walk that far.'
'I've changed my mind. It would be a good place for a person to get away and think.'
'That excludes the owner of this establishment.'
'You're all heart. I'm coming back next week for a few days.'
'I can't wait,' said Weingrass, raising his voice and looking over at the nurse. 'When you get here, you can take these heavy-breathing sex maniacs off my hands!'
The Icarus Agenda Page 29
