'Sure, boss. Anything you say, boss!'
As the guard started shouting to the driver the Czech joined the rush of activity and began running towards the outsized car.
'Thanks!' cried the passing chauffeur, seeing Varak's uniform. 'He goes on at the last minute!'
Milos raced around the boot of the car to the street side, yanked open the back door, and leaped inside to a jump seat. He sat rigid, staring at the puffed face of the astonished Eric Sundstrom. 'Hello, Professor,' he said softly.
'It was a trap—you set a trap for me!' screamed the scientist in the dark shadows of the car. 'But you don't know what you're doing, Varak! We're on the edge of a breakthrough in space! So many wondrous things to learn! We were wrong—Inver Brass is wrong! We must go on!'
'Even if we blow up half the planet?'
'Don't be an ass!' cried Sundstrom, pleading. 'Nobody's going to blow up anything! We're civilized people on both sides, civilized and frightened. The more we build, the more fear we instil—that's the world's ultimate protection, don't you see?'
'You call that civilized?'
'I call it progress. Scientific progress! You wouldn't understand, but the more we build the more we learn.'
'Through weapons of destruction?'
'Weapons…? You're pitifully naive! “Weapons” is merely a label. Like “fish” or “vegetables”. It's the excuse we employ to fund scientific advancement on a scale that would be otherwise prohibitive! The bigger bang for the buck theory is obsolete—we have all the bang we'll ever need. It's in the delivery systems—orbital guidance and hookups, directional lasers that can be refracted in space to pinpoint a manhole cover from thousands of miles above.'
'And deliver a bomb?'
'Only if someone tries to stop us,' answered the scientist, his voice strained as if the mere prospect was enough to summon his fury. Then that fury broke. His cherubic features suddenly turned into the grotesque components of some monstrous gargoyle. 'Research, research, research!' he cried, his strident speech like the squeals of a furious pig. 'Let no one dare stop us! We're moving into a new world where science will rule all civilization! You're meddling with a political faction that understands our needs. You can't be tolerated! Kendrick is dangerous! You've seen him, heard him… he'd hold hearings, ask stupid questions, obstruct our progress!'
'That's what I thought you'd say.' Varak slowly reached beneath the uniform to the fold of his jacket. 'Do you know the universal penalty for treason, Professor?'
'What are you talking about?' His hands trembling, his heavy body shaking as the sweat rolled down his face, Sundstrom edged towards the door. 'I've betrayed no one… I'm trying to stop a terrible wrong, a horrible mistake committed by misguided lunatics! You've got to be stopped, all of you! You cannot interfere with the greatest scientific machine the world has ever known!'
In the shadows Varak withdrew his automatic; a reflection of light beamed up from the barrel into Sundstrom's eyes. 'You've had months to say those things; instead you were silent while the others trusted you. Through your betrayal lives were lost, bodies mutilated… you're filth, Professor.'
'No!' screamed Sundstrom, crashing into the door, his trembling fingers hitting the handle as the door swung out, the scientist's rotund body following in frenzied panic. Milos fired; the bullet seared into Sundstrom's lower spine as the traitor fell to the asphalt shrieking. 'Help me, help me! He's trying to kill me! Oh, my God, he shot me!… Kill him, kill him!' Varak fired again, his aim now steady, the bullet accurate. The back of the scientist's skull blew apart.
In seconds, amid screams of confusion, gunfire was returned from the hangar. The Czech was hit in the chest and left shoulder. He sprang out of the street side door, rolling on the ground, over and over again directly behind the limousine until he reached the opposite curb. In pain, he crawled above it, scrambling on his hands and knees into the darkness of the tall grass that was the border of an auxiliary airstrip. He almost did not make it; from all directions there were the sounds of sirens and racing engines. The entire security force was converging on Hangar Seven, as across the street the guard and Grinell's chauffeur closed in on the limousine, firing repeatedly into the vehicle. Varak was hit again. An aimless ricochet, a wild shot, burned its way into his stomach. He had to get away! His business was not concluded!
He turned and started running through the tall grass, ripping first the uniformed jacket off, then stopping briefly to remove the trousers. Blood was spreading through his shirt, and his legs grew unsteady. He had to conserve his strength! He had to get across the field and reach a road, find a telephone. He had to!
Searchlights. From a tower behind him! He was back in Czechoslovakia, in prison, racing across the compound to a fence and freedom. A beam swung close, and as he had done in that prison outside Prague, he lurched to the ground and lay motionless until it passed. He struggled to his feet, knowing he was growing weaker but could not stop. In the distance there were other lights—streetlights! And another fence…! Freedom, freedom.
Straining every muscle, grip by grip, he scaled the fence only to confront coiled barbed wire at the top. It did not matter. With what seemed like his last vestige of strength, he propelled himself over, shredding his clothes and his flesh as he dropped to the ground. He lay there breathing deeply, alternately holding his stomach and his chest. Go on! Now!
He reached the road; it was one of those unkempt narrow thoroughfares that frequently surround airports, no real estate development because of the noise. Still, cars sped by, shortcuts known to natives. Awkwardly, unsteadily, he walked on to it, holding up his arms at an approaching vehicle. The driver, however, was having no part of him. He swung to the left and raced by. Moments later a second car approached from his right; he stood as straight as he could and raised one hand, a civilized signal of distress. The car slowed down; it stopped as the Czech reached into his holster for his gun.
'What's the problem?' asked the man in a naval uniform behind the wheel. The gold wings signified that he was a pilot.
‘I’m afraid I've had an accident,' replied Varak. 'I drove off the road a mile or so back and no one has stopped to help me.'
'You're pretty smashed up, pal… Climb in and I'll get you to the hospital. Jesus, you're a mess! Come on, I'll give you a hand.'
'Don't bother, I can manage,' said Varak, walking around the bonnet. He opened the door and climbed in. 'If I soil your car I'll gladly pay—’
'Let's worry about that in a month of Tuesdays.' The naval officer shifted into gear and raced off as the Czech replaced his unseen automatic in the holster.
'You're very kind,' said Milos, digging a scrap of paper out of his pocket and removing his pen, writing brief words and numbers in the darkness.
'You're very hurt, pal. Hang on.'
'Please, I must find a telephone. Please!'
The fucking insurance can wait, buddy.'
'No, not insurance,' stammered Varak. 'My wife. She expected me hours ago… She has psychological problems.'
'Don't they all?' said the pilot. 'Do you want me to make the call?'
'No, thank you very much. She would interpret that as a crisis far worse than it is.' The Czech arched back in the seat, grimacing.
'There's a fruit stand about a mile down the road. I know the owner and they have a phone.'
'I can't thank you enough.'
'Take me to dinner when you get out of the hospital.'
The perplexed owner of the fruit store handed Varak the phone as the naval officer watched, concerned for his damaged passenger. Milos dialled the Westlake Hotel. 'Room Fifty-one, if you please?"
'Hello, hello?' cried Khalehla from out of a deep sleep.
'Do you have an answer for me?'
'Milos?'
'Yes.'
'What's wrong?'
‘I'm not terribly well, Miss Rashad. Do you have an answer?'
'You're hurt!'
'Your answer.’
'Green light. Payton will b
ack off. If Evan can get the nomination, it's his. The race is on.'
'He's needed more than you'll ever know.'
'I don't know that he'll agree.'
'He has to! Keep your line free. I'll call you right back.'
'You are hurt!'
The Czech depressed the bar on the phone and immediately redialled.
'Yes?'
'Sound Man?'
'Prague?'
'How are things progressing?'
'We'll be done in a couple of hours. The typist's got the earphones on and is pounding away… She's rough on all-night overtime.'
'Whatever the cost, it's… covered.'
'What's wrong with you? I can barely hear you.'
'A slight cold… You'll find ten thousand in your studio mailbox.'
'Yes, come on, I'm not a thief.'
'I roll high, remember?'
'You really don't sound right, Prague.'
'In the morning, take everything to the Westlake, Room Fifty-one. The name of the woman is Rashad. Give it only to her.'
'Rashad. Room Fifty-one. I've got it.'
'Thank you.'
'Listen, if you're in trouble, let me know about it, okay? I mean if there's anything I can do—’
'Your car's at the airport, somewhere in Section C,' said the Czech, hanging up. He lifted the phone for the last time and dialled again. 'Room Fifty-one,' he repeated.
'Hello?'
'You will receive… everything in the morning.'
'Where are you? Let me send help!'
'In the… morning. Get it to Mr. B!'
'Goddamn you, Milos, where are you?'
'It doesn't matter… Ask Kendrick. He may know.'
'Know what?'
'Photographs… The Vanvlanderen woman… Lausanne, the Leman Marina. The Beau Rivage—the gardens. Then Amsterdam, the Rozengracht. In the hotel… her study. Tell him! The man is a Saudi and things happened to him… millions, millions!' Milos could hardly talk; he had so little breath. Go on… go on! Escape… millions!'
'What the hell are you talking about?'
'He may be the key! Don't let anyone remove the photographs… Contact Kendrick. He may remember!' The Czech lost control of his movements; he swung the telephone back on to the counter missing the cradle, then fell to the ground in front of the fruit stand on a back country road beyond the airport in San Diego. Milos Varak was dead.
The Icarus Agenda
Chapter 38
The morning's headlines and related articles obscured all other news. The Secretary of State and his entire delegation had been brutally killed in a hotel in Cyprus. The Sixth Fleet was heading towards the island, all weapons and aircraft at the ready. The nation was transfixed, furious, and not a little frightened. The horror of some uncontrollable force of evil seemed to loom on the horizon, edging the country towards the brink of wholesale confrontation, provoking the government to respond with equal horror and brutality. But in a stroke of rare intuitive geopolitical brilliance, President Langford Jennings controlled the storm. He contacted Moscow, and the result of that communication had brought forth dual condemnations from the two superpowers. The monstrous event in Cyprus was labelled an isolated act of terrorism that enraged the entire world. Words of praise and sorrow for a great man came from all the capitals of the globe, allies and adversaries alike.
And on pages 2, 7 and 45, respectively, in the San Diego Union, and pages 4, 50 and 51 in the Los Angeles Times, were the following far less important wire service reports.
San Diego, 22 Dec.—Mrs. Ardis Vanvlanderen, chief of staff for Vice President Orson Bollinger, whose husband, Andrew Vanvlanderen, died yesterday from cardiac arrest, took her own life early this morning in apparent grief. Her body washed up on the beach in Coronado, death attributed to drowning. On his way to the airport, her attorney, Mr. Crayton Grinell, of La Jolla, had dropped her off at the funeral home for a last viewing of her husband. According to sources at the home, the widow was under severe strain and barely coherent. Although a limousine waited for her, she slipped out a side door and apparently took a taxi to the Coronado beach…
Mexico City, 22 Dec.—Eric Sundstrom, one of America's leading scientists and creators of highly complex space technology, died of a cerebral haemorrhage while on vacation in Puerto Vallarta. Few details are available at this time. A full report of his life and work will appear in tomorrow's editions.
San Diego, 22 Dec.—An unidentified man without papers, but carrying a gun, died of gunshot wounds on a back road south of the International Airport. Lt Commander John Demartin, a US Navy fighter pilot, picked him up, telling the police the man claimed to have been in an automobile accident. Due to the proximity of the private field adjacent to the airport, authorities suspect that the death may have been drug oriented…
Evan flew to San Diego on the first morning flight from Denver. He had insisted on seeing Manny at 6:00 am and would not be denied. 'You're going to be fine,' he had lied. 'And you're a horseshit artist,' Weingrass had shot back. 'Where are you going?' '… Khalehla. San Diego. She needs me.''… Then get the hell out of here! I don't want to see your ugly face another second. Go to her, help her. Get those bastards!'
The taxi from the airport to the hotel in the early traffic seemed interminable, the situation hardly relieved by the driver, who recognized him and kept up a flow of inane chatter laced with invective directed at all Arabs and all things Arabic.
'Every fuckin' one of 'em should be taken out and shot, right?'
'Women and children, too, of course.'
'Right! The brats grow up and the broads make more brats!'
'That's quite a solution. You might even call it final.'
'It's the only way, right'?'
'Wrong. When you consider the numbers and the price of ammunition, the cost would be too high. Taxes would go up.'
'No kiddin'? Shit, I pay enough. There's gotta be another way.'
'I'm sure you'll come up with one… Now, if you'll forgive me, I have some reading to do.' Kendrick returned to his copy of the Denver Post and the terrible news from Cyprus. And, either miffed or feeling he had been put down, the driver turned on the radio. Again, as in the newspapers, the coverage was almost exclusively about the abominable act of terrorism in the Mediterranean, on-site recordings and repeated interviews from world figures in various translated languages condemning the barbaric act. And as if death had to follow death, a stunned Evan heard the newscaster's words.
'Here in San Diego there was another tragedy. Mrs. Ardis Vanvlanderen, Vice President Bollinger's chief of staff, was found dead early this morning when her body washed up on the beach in Coronado, an apparent suicide…'
Kendrick shot forward on the seat… Ardis? Ardis Vanvlanderen …? Ardis Montreaux! The Bahamas… a dissolute minor player from Off Shore Investments of years ago said Ardis Montreaux had married a wealthy Californian! Good Christ! That was why Khalehla had flown to San Diego. Mitchell Payton had found the 'money whore'—Bollinger's chief of staff! The announcer went on to speculate on the new widow's grief, a speculation Kendrick thought suspect.
He walked across the hotel lobby and took the elevator to the fifth floor. Studying the numbered arrows, he started down the hall towards Khalehla's room both anxious and depressed—anxious to see her and hold her, depressed about Manny, about the wholesale slaughter in Cyprus, about so much, but mainly Emmanuel Weingrass, scheduled victim of murder. He reached the door and rapped four times, hearing the racing footsteps inside before he removed his hand. The door swung back and she was in his arms.
'My God, I love you,' he whispered into her dark hair, the words rushed. 'And everything's so rotten, so goddamned rotten!'
'Quickly. Inside.' Khalehla closed the door and returned to him, holding his face in her hands. 'Manny?'
'He's got somewhere between three and six months to live,' replied Evan, his voice flat. 'He's dying of a virus he couldn't possibly have got except through an injection.'
'The non-exi
stent Dr Lyons," said Rashad, making a statement.
‘I’ll find him if it takes me twenty years.'
'You'll have all the help Washington can give you.'
'The news is rotten everywhere. Cyprus, the best man in the administration blown to bits—’
'It's tied in here, Evan. Here in San Diego.'
'What?'
Khalehla backed away and took his hand, leading him across the room to where there were two chairs, a small round table between them. 'Sit down, darling. I've got a lot to tell you that I couldn't tell you before. Then there's something you have to do… it's why I asked you to fly out here.'
'I think I know one of the things you're going to tell me,' said Kendrick, sitting down. 'Ardis Montreaux, the widow Vanvlanderen. I heard it on the radio; they say she committed suicide.'
'She did that when she married her late husband.'
'You came to see her, didn't you?'
'Yes.' Rashad nodded as she sat down at the table. 'You'll hear and read everything. There are tapes and transcripts of all of it; they were delivered to me an hour ago.'
'What about Cyprus?'
'The order came from here. A man named Grinell.'
'Never heard of him.'
'Few people have… Evan, it's worse than anything we could imagine.'
'You learned that from Ardis?… Yes, she was Ardis and I was Evan.'
'I know that. No, not from her; with her we only glimpsed the outline and that was frightening enough. Our main source is a man who was killed last night out by the airport.'
'For God's sake, who?'
'The blond European, darling.'
'What?' Kendrick fell back in the seat, his face flushed.
'He taped not only my interview but a subsequent conversation that blew the lid off the top. Except for Grinell we don't have names, but we can piece together a picture, like in a puzzle with blurred figures, and it's terrifying.'
'A government within the government,' said Evan quietly. 'Those were Manny's words. “The servants running the master's house.”'
'As usual, Manny's right.'
Kendrick got up from the chair and walked to a window, leaning against the sill and staring outside. 'The blond man, who was he?'
The Icarus Agenda Page 65
